Worth Their Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regiment.)

by Martin McDowell

  “He is that, and a good friend of mine. An old comrade, you see. We saw some action together, against The Colonists. Have you seen any, action that is, there’s no mention here?”

  “Yes Sir, but not on the same scale as yourself. In the Irish Rebellion of ’98, with the 6th Foot.”

  “Hmm, yes. A bad business, rebellions, as was that one. It always gets nasty, bad things are done which shouldn’t be part of soldiering. You’d agree?”

  “Yes Sir. I saw things at the end of that affair that I hope not to see again.”

  “Amen to that.”

  The candles arrived to be placed at either end of the desk and Lacey continued.

  “So, down to business. We haven’t told off Officers to their companies yet, I need to form an opinion of what I have. The main game, as we speak, is to train, both the men and their Officers. You know what we are, a collection of all sorts, even for a Battalion of Detachments”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “The best I have are the men from the 9th; they were Norfolks. They’ve only just dried out, but they’re all good soldiers and they know their business. You know about that sorry business, do you?

  “Yes Sir. General Livermore told me.”

  “I wouldn’t have a hope of making the battalion fit for the field without them. The rest are Militia and recruits, both good and bad.”

  He changed the subject to Carr himself.

  “I understand that you spent some time with the King’s Royals. A high ranking Regiment, but clearly you aren’t with them now.”

  “No Sir. It’s a long story, but it was with them that I learnt how to serve as an effective Officer. Them, and the 6th, my first Regiment, taught me all I know about soldiering. I’ll do my best, Sir.”

  The words seemed to chime with Lacey. His head rose and he gave a ghost of a smile, for the first time.

  “I’m sure you will. That’s good, I’m pleased. I need Officers who at least know the Drill Book, and battle experience is a bonus. Too many of my Officers are Militia. They’re keen and they know the book, but when it comes to facing a determined foe like the French, veterans too; who knows?”

  “No Sir. When it comes to that, we can all only hope to do our duty.”

  “Well said, Carr. Well said. Right, you can stay in barracks for now, until we find you a billet. The Sergeant will explain what that means. Once again, welcome.”

  They shook hands again, and Lacey called the Sergeant. Outside, Carr set off around the Parade Ground, following two soldiers who carried his bags. He carried his sword.

  oOo

  By now the recruits were entering their barrack rooms, carrying their collection of “whites”, just issued. Most had never possessed so many clothes before, but one, Percival Sedgwicke, mouth no longer throbbing, merely swollen, remarked to himself the coarseness of the cloth, very similar to Naval canvas, even the shirt and drawers. Upon entering the barrack room, he was struck, mortified, by three things, the smell, the noise, and the lack of privacy. Each barrack room was designed to hold a fifth of a company, 20 men maximum and in some cases also their families. Sergeants and a small proportion of the men were allowed to marry, but in this case that seemed to have been exceeded. This one room, an area no bigger than a small church and not so high, contained the living space of about 50 souls, of all ages, sexes, and sizes. There were few windows and these high up on the walls, with, unsurprisingly, only one open; it was November, after all. Consequently the place stank worse than a stable; of bodies, tobacco smoke, damp, urine, soap, and candle wax. In the centre were four plain, wooden, trestle tables, sitting at which were all kinds of occupants, gambling, talking, mending, making and playing.

  The hubbub of adult conversation was punctuated by the cries of children and the arguments of anyone. Privacy barely existed. All around the sides were large cubicles that really did resemble the bays of a stable. Some had a rope hanging between the dividing posts and some of these had a blanket draped over the rope to provide some level of seclusion, but plainly, few bothered. Sedgwicke found himself staring in shock at the naked back of a large, middle-aged matron who was washing both herself and her children within their family area.

  John Davey followed Sedgwicke in. To him all was familiar; simply on a larger scale. Large families, such as that from which he had sprung, lived in just this fashion. You lived cheek by jowl with your parents, brothers, sisters, and sometimes uncles and aunts and you just made the best of it. The Room Sergeant seized the shoulder of both him and Sedgwicke and shoved them in the direction of a vacant cubicle.

  “You two, in there. Clean it up, and I’ll be back to inspect.”

  Both entered their new home. It was about five yards by four, formed from rough wooden boards that in places had been worn smooth by use. The floor was on two levels, the inside half was a platform three boards high that was covered by two straw mattresses. Davey immediately began to make good use of the many pegs and single shelf. Sedgwicke looked forlornly around, unsure of what to do next, and when not doing that, he cast anxious, even suspicious glances at his new acquaintance. Davey saw his confusion and took him in hand. His pathetic appearance drained away any level of impatience that he could have harboured against his hopeless “stablemate.” He had no experience of his character, they had exchanged no words on the march and so he genuinely felt sorry for him.

  “Come on now, Parson, this is how it is, and you’ve got to make the best of it. Hang your clothes on those pegs there, and use that shelf for what won’t hang up, like your plate and mug and such. There, that’s fine. Now, let’s get the mattresses out, and try to clean the place up. There’ll be some food soon, I think they must have some kind of evening meal.”

  Davey dragged out the mattresses and looked around for some kind of broom. He saw one and fetched it, a large “witches” broomstick, made of twigs and a rough pole and gave it to Sedgwicke. He looked at it and then ineffectually started to use it, but progress was made. Davey, meanwhile brushed off the dirt, straw and waste from both mattresses, then he found a cloth and dusted all round, sides, shelves and corners, removing the cobwebs. With the place clean, he looked to himself. He found an unused bowl, went to the row of buckets on one of the tables and half filled the bowl. Returning, he stripped himself naked and began to wash, using the bar of mutton fat soap they had been issued with, modestly choosing to face inwards. He then shaved. Sedgwicke was mortified with embarrassment. On the march, by a stream, they had made space between each other, but this! This was outside of any of the civilised standards that had governed his life so far. Davey finished, dried himself and put on his drill whites. By contrast Sedgwicke now looked filthy and unkempt. Davey’s attention returned to his messmate.

  “For the love of God, Parson, you’ve got to clean yourself up. The Sergeant will be back soon and you’ll be in for more trouble, and I’d have thought that you’d had enough of that for one day. There’s still water in those buckets. Get yourself clean and get into uniform.”

  Sedgwicke obeyed, again only after a fashion. He obtained a measure of water for himself, took the bowl off to the furthest corner, took off most of his clothes, washed and shaved and then, gingerly, and with great distaste, donned the coarse shirt, thick woollen hose and breeches. Just in time, for the Sergeant then returned and looked around.

  “Hmm, that’ll do. And see it’s kept that way!”

  He then turned to shout across the room, voice rising even above the general hubbub.

  “Dan. Over here!”

  A ranker detached himself from the press of bodies all around and came at the Sergeant’s call.

  “You two. What’re you called?”

  They introduced themselves.

  “Parson.”

  “John Davey.”

  “Parson? What sort of name is that?”

  “Its what I was, and it’s what people call me.”

  “Right, sounds fair. Now. This is Dan Smith. He’ll show you what’s what and how to keep out of the
Officer’s line of sight. Do like he says, and you’ll be alright. Don’t and you watch out. Watch out from me, an’ all!”

  With that, he left. Dan began his instruction.

  “That’s Sarn’t Hill, Obediah Hill. He’s not too bad, his bark’s worse than his bite. Now, you’ve got yourselves clean, but there’s two things. Your boots and your hair. You’ve been given gaiters. They’re clean, but your boots are dirty. It’ll show. Candle grease and soot will do for that. Second, rankers is required to wear their hair in a tight pigtail. In some Regiments, it has to be greased down with wax and soap, and powdered with flour. None’s been told to do this yet, so we be waitin’ to see what the Officers want. Us bein’ Detachments, they might not insist on that. “Eres hopes. It feels ‘orrible and takes ages to do, and I’ve known men get summat wrong with their scalp and their hair falls out. So, clean your boots and just pull each other’s hair back, and tie it with the bit of black ribbon you’ve been given. Right, I’ll leave you to it, then.”

  With that he returned to the bustling bosom of his own family.

  “Right, Parson.” Davey said cheerily. He was trying hard not to let the Parson’s dour and miserable countenance affect his own good spirits. He was in a warm, dry place, amidst what seemed to be decent folk. All he needed now was food.

  “I’m for doing my boots, then some sleep. Perhaps some food will arrive meantime. We’ll leave the hair business until later, perhaps morning. Does that suit?”

  Sedgwicke nodded once in glum agreement. For one, this place was terrible, for two, the idea of another man grooming his hair and he doing likewise, was utterly repugnant. In addition by a man from such a lower social order, that being a gypsy in this case, he felt sure. Davey then left and travelled around the room. He returned with a large spoon of candlewax, covered in soot, took himself and his boots over to one of the tables and set about his task. Sedgwicke slumped down to sit on one of the mattresses.

  Meanwhile, in another barrack room, the twin of Davey’s and Sedgwicke’s, Joe Pike was settling in with Tom Miles. Tom had, until now, occupied a cubicle all alone, but now Joe had been billeted with him. Tom set about cleaning, organising and giving Joe his instructions, mostly about how he should not, in any way, disturb Tom.

  “Now, you uses the pegs furthest from me. That way, when our kit gets wet, yours won’t drip on mine. Your eating kit goes at your end of the shelf, furthest from mine, so that it don’t get muddled up. Even on campaign you still always uses your own plate, spoon, and such. And your boots and gaiters, always down your end. Boots smell bad enough, so keep yours away from me. I’ll smell my own. Oh, yes, and …..”

  His instructing tailed off in mid sentence, he noticed movement. He looked to see that very many of the younger females therein were moving to their part of the room.

  “Who’s your friend, Tom?”

  “B’aint no friend of mine. Just a messmate so far. His name’s Joe. But there he is. He can speak, ask him!”

  Joe spoke. “My name’s Joe Pike, and I’m pleased to meet you.”

  The pleasant and formal greeting was met with a flash of her eyes and a sway of her hips.

  “I’m very pleased to meet you, Joe.”

  Their interlocutor was a dark eyed, dark haired woman, who looked mid-twenties and in other circumstances of place and clothing could have been taken for a beauty. As it was, her hair was scruffy, but it could be described as “arranged”; thick and lustrous, it tumbled to her shoulders. Also her clothing was worn, patched and mended. Her bare feet added to the impression of poverty just sufferable, as did the poorly clothed toddler at her right hip, cradled crudely in the large shawl that draped from her left shoulder down and across, with her arms subconsciously steadying and rocking the sleeping child. A warm smile was sent in Joe’s direction.

  “Be you a Volunteer, Joe?”

  Miles answered.

  “Yes, he is, damn fool.”

  Another female now joined the conversation, she the exact opposite of the first. She was middle aged and, frankly, burly. Powerful arms and shoulders bulged at a blouse too tight, from which points it then stretched across her ample bosom. Her hair was tied back, and out of the way. However, her face was comely and kindly, but now her voice was heavy with sarcasm, its tone and cadence marked her as a “Past Mistress” in such exchanges. If the Room Sergeant was the King of the room, Nelly Nichols was its Queen.

  “’An of course, you didn’t volunteer, Tom Miles. Oh no, gaol sweepings is how you ended up with the King’s shilling!”

  “I b’aint no gaol sweepings. I did volunteer, but that don’t mean I don’t regret it.”

  Joe joined in.

  “Actually, I suppose I can say that I didn’t volunteer. I had a drink with the Recruiting Sergeant that he bought me, and when I had finished, I found a shilling at the bottom. I could say I was tricked.”

  Now it was Tom’s turn for sarcasm.

  “Hadn’t you heard of that one! Oldest recruiting trick in the British Army. Damn fool!”

  “Well, I’ll tell the truth. I wasn’t angry, nor even upset. I was cold, wet, hungry and tired. I’d spent weeks on the road and got little work, of any kind. The Army got me out of that, at least.”

  The younger woman quickly came to Joe’s support.

  “There you are, Tom, he was tricked and that makes him less of a fool volunteer than you! Now Joe. If you needs any cleaning and mending done, you just come over my way. Molly Dixon’s my name.”

  This accompanied by a beaming smile and another swing of her hips, but the older bridled fiercely at the idea and she somehow became wider and taller.

  “He don’t need no help from a doxy like you! You come and …….”

  “Who are you calling a doxy? You fat baggage!”

  “You. Three husbands and not widowed once! Just moved on by common consent. There’s a gypsy, new, I’ve heard, in the next room as would suit you, if another move is needed. Joe here needs proper help, and you’ve got that one to care for. My three is now growed, and can help out.”

  Molly was fashioning a reply, but a glaring look, clenched fists and lowering gesture that narrowed the gap between them, made her think better of it. Her face was her fortune, even if it as yet remained in the future, and she knew it. She turned her back and took herself and her child away.

  “Now then, Joe. I’m the one you come to. Nelly Nicholls is my name. I’m a Mother, too, and if you’ve got one, don’t forget to write to her.”

  “Yes, Mrs Nicholls. I do have a Mother and I do thank you for your kind offer of help.”

  “Lord love him, Mrs Nicholls he says. Mrs! I’m in the next bay. Just come over when the need comes.”

  She too, with Grenadier strides, took herself back to her family.

  Meanwhile, Tom Miles was in a state of near apoplexy. He had been in the Army more years than he could count and never had one woman offered to help him with his domestics. Now here was a raw recruit, not been in barracks one day, having two women fighting over who should be doing his washing, cleaning, mending and suchlike! He fixed Joe with a look that could have carried lightning bolts, eyes narrowed, mouth working above a clenched jaw and fingers opening and closing. Joe just returned the look, innocent and blank. Tom let out a healing curse.

  “Lord love us and save us!”

  He returned to arranging his kit and bedding, although most things were thrown rather than placed.

  All was suddenly interrupted. The Sergeant had entered their room, with a burdened Kitchen Orderly.

  “Foods up! Left over stew and potatoes for the recruits and their escorts. Bread, cheese, onions and smallbeer for the rest.”

  The Orderly approached the nearest table and set his two baskets of the latter on its surface. The Sergeant added the small cauldron of stew. Joe reacted first and reached for his pewter plate.

  “Come on, Tom. There’s hot stew. Potatoes too, I ‘spect. We need to be quick.”

  Tom gathered his own plate and spoon
and pushed the boy forward, but in a way neither rough nor vengeful.

  “Its stew alright, boy. But don’t expect it to be anything like your Mother makes.”

  oOo

  As this meal was starting, so was another but in a different place. It was just before 7 o’ clock and all the Officers, save those on duty, had gathered in the Officer’s Quarters, a collection of rooms accessed by only one door from the parade ground. Now they were moving out of a small social room to table, which they could see, long and plain, but well polished. The Dining Room itself was one of the largest rooms in the building, but as cheerless as any other. Each Officer, as they passed, placed an empty glass of what had been very agreeable sherry on the small table just behind the door. Colonel Lacey took the head of the table, on his right a sturdy Officer of medium height found his seat. This Officer carried the epaulettes of a Major on his uniform, him being the Senior Major, then, on down the table, a mixture of Captains, Lieutenants and Ensigns. To the Colonel’s left came the Junior Majors and then the same mixture, 30 in all around the table, gathered for the Evening Dinner. The tableware was plain and sturdy, such as would be used on campaign, the only decoration some evergreens in a vase. As the soup was served to each Officer, Colonel Lacey rang for the table’s attention by tapping his knife against a large wine glass. The silence was instant, all realised the direction it came from.

  “Gentlemen. Good Evening. We welcome here this evening a new member to The Mess. Captain Carr, please stand, if you would”.

  Carr eased back his chair, then stood, looking both up and down the table.

  “This is Captain Henry Carr. He has been sent down to us from Horse Guards. Captain Carr is an experienced Officer, who has seen action against the French. I look upon him as a valuable addition to the Battalion. I’m sure that I can rely on you all to make him welcome and greet him as a Brother Officer. Captain Carr, I formally welcome you to this Battalion.”