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

by Martin McDowell

  “Does anyone know what happened to Rushby? He was in no position to move, as I remember. Things did get a bit out of hand.”

  Shaking heads were the reply, but at that moment Rushby walked in.

  “Are you alright, Rushby?” asked Carr, “I’m afraid you got a bit abandoned last night. Where did you wake up?”

  “On Major O’Hare’s sofa, as it happens. My uniform was there with me, and it seemed the right thing to bring myself here.”

  “No damage, or anything?”

  “Well, now you mention it, I’ve got some frightful chafing under my arms, sort of like rope burns. Odd.”

  All smiled and settled into grateful silence, but each had racked up their opinion of Major O’Hare another notch. The silence pervaded until the Sergeant Clerk came into the hallway and tacked a notice onto the board, the hammering of the tacks reverberating around the inside of skulls that were aching quite enough.

  “What’s that?” asked someone, and Rushby replied, “I’ll go see.” He did, and on his on his return,

  “There will be a full dress parade, late afternoon. The men will be given leave until midnight, but Officers to remain on duty. There’s a list there of those who are to remain in the barracks, and those who are to patrol the town.”

  Someone down the table was the first to react.

  “Leave for the men? That’s rare, even for a few hours out. What’s the “old man” about, do you think?’

  By now Carravoy and D’Villiers had made their appearance and were settling into their places as the question was posed. Carravoy was not slow to give his opinion, which was not in any way softened by the hangover he was nursing.

  “Namby pamby, I call it, and we’ve got to act nursemaid all evening whilst the rankers go out on a spree. The man’s a fool! A dolt! I’ll bet a dozen claret that more than a score desert. Twenty. Who’ll take?

  Carr looked across,

  “Please don’t mention claret or anything as such this morning, Carravoy, but I’ll take you up.”

  “And I’ll have some of that,” added Drake.

  “Done.”

  oOo

  The word quickly circulated around the barracks. Leave till midnight for those that wanted it, after inspection on a full parade. It was unspoken, but fully understood, that those who failed the inspection would be confined to barracks. All kit and uniform was carefully checked and polished and at 3.00pm the whole battalion paraded in immaculate scarlet, white, and black. Order arms, shoulder arms, and present were completed with immaculate precision and the inspection began; Lacey, O’Hare, Simmonds, and Gibney forming the inspection party. Very few went into Gibney’s notebook and at the end of the inspection, Lacey turned to Gibney.

  “Good turnout, Gibney. Dismiss the parade.”

  Gibney peeled off his usual immaculate salute.

  “Yes Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

  The parade was dismissed and all took themselves back to their rooms to shed the unwanted parts of their parade uniform. Then slowly, but then in greater numbers, the men issued from the doors of the barrackrooms, onto the parade ground and turned towards the gate, then queued at the table where the Clerk Sergeant entered their names, by Company, into a register of those taking leave. However, many remained in barracks; almost all family men who saw no cause to spend their limited family funds on a night’s drinking. John Davey was one; for one reason he had no money, having spent all correcting the ‘figgy duff’ fiasco, and for another the domestic warmth of Molly and “Tilly suited him far better. Inevitably, stronger friendship bonds had been made with other similar families and he was well content to sit at table with Molly, with her arm through his, keeping an eye on the children and yarning with new friends. All those remaining had made their choice for similar reasons. All save one; Seth Tiley sat alone at a table and nursed his anger. An attempted deserter already, to him leave was denied.

  Percival Sedgewicke, on the other hand, had received replenishing funds from home and family, specifically his sister and he had the choice; he could go out into town and he decided he would. Firstly, to experience independence after such a long time and secondly, he could get drink, as much as he liked. So out he went, into the arch, gave his name, through the gate and onto the barracks road, then he found himself followed by much of the escort party that had brought him there as a prisoner, weeks ago; Deakin, Mulcahey, Miles, Stiles and Peters, with Joe Pike added to the jovial crew. Toby Halfway was remaining with his family.

  “How now, Parson,” called out Tom Miles, “Off for a drink? You’d best get yourself off to the far side of town, this here’s the rough end, and if I knows it right, that’ll show before the night’s done.”

  Mulcahey caught up with Sedgwicke, stopped him, and added his own advice.

  “He’s right there, Father. Get to the main turnpike, turn left, take the long straight road to the church and there’s a couple of Inns there that’ll serve you; and you’ll keep out of trouble. That Miles is right, there’ll be some shenanigans, most like, and he’s most like to start it, if I knows him with drink inside him. Remember now, Father, get up to the Church and use the Inns there. Take good care now, and we’ll see you later.”

  Sedgwicke nodded and took the advice. Mulcahey watched him go and then caught up with the others.

  “Where to first, me bhoys? The Bush is just up here.”

  Miles, more animated than usual even for him and certainly more in high spirits than the others, replied.

  “I’m for a couple and then a doxey. I don’t mind payin’ for a couple of hours. After that, I’ll drink out the time.”

  Deakin couldn’t resist the comment,

  “I’m damn sure your brains be more inside your breeches than up in your head. You sort yourself, I’m for a good drink.”

  “’T’aint too often that we’m allowed near women and I means to get near as I can, whilst I can.”

  Stiles spoke up, “There’s women in barracks.”

  Deakin replied, “Ah, and ‘ee don’t touch if ‘ee knows what’s good for thee. That John Davey were lucky. I’ve heard of killin’ over such as that.”

  He turned back to Tom Miles.

  “An’ who’ll watch over the boy?” said Deakin, thumbing towards Joe Pike.

  “He’s a soldier now, he can watch for himself. How often do we get leave into a town? ‘Tain’t something I can remember. Can you?”

  “You’re not wrong, but ‘tain’t somethin’ that I be goin’ to question.”

  They entered The Bush, the first Inn encountered. Joe was confined to pints, whilst the rest drank quarts. Jed Deakin bought the first round and began the first subject.

  “Well, we’n all in third Company, bar these two “elite” troops, one with the humour of a fox in a chicken run, and the other that’s goin’ to start shavin’ any day now!”

  He jerked his thumb in the direction of Tom Miles and Joe Pike. He continued.

  “But there’s no complainin’ from me. I don’t relish the idea of having to break in a new set of messmates, and old Holy Joe will do for me.”

  Tom Miles, to the surprise of no one, took umbrage.

  “Is it my fault I’m handy on me pins and can hit most things inside 100 yards? How much choice do we get?

  Deakin pushed a full quart in front of him.

  “Cease yer bellyaching and get yerself around that. Here’s to the Lights!”, and he waved his own tankard in Miles’s direction. Miles scowled and drank. After two, he kept to his plan and took himself out to comb the seediest parts of the seedier end of town, to find the requirements of his desires. The rest settled to an evening’s drinking. Deakin carefully monitored Joe Pike’s consumption, but before long, a bleary look came over him and out of him came incongruous sentences concerned with the quality of the carpentry of the table and a girl called Miss Jasmine. He was humoured and indulged for both, and it wasn’t long before the conversation around the table turned to their own battalion circumstances. Stiles threw out the qu
estion to no one on the table in particular.

  “How do we reckon to that caper last night? Officers roamin’ round, drunk as Lords.”

  Peters took it up.

  “Ah, if Lords they be, but I saw none like that, but I saw they two sparks Carr and Drake. Couldn’t hardy barely stand, they was, proppin’ each other up. Officer class? I’d question. That’s a good ‘un for they two.”

  Deakin lowered his tankard.

  “Well, I fails to see why we should hold that against ‘em. Drake’s old Norfolks, and that’ll do for me. Carr I like, more by the day. I don’t see why they shouldn’t come out on New Year’s and wish their men Happy New Year. I calls that building a good spirit and I knows that helps, when there’s balls and bullets in the air.”

  Peters replied, developing his theme.

  “Well, ‘tain’t something I feels at ease with. I like’s us here, and them there. They gives the orders and we does the job. It’s clean and simple, with no awkward feelings.”

  “Well, hold there a bit. Just what is it that ails thee, seeing ‘em drunk, or them wishing you a Happy New Year?”

  “Both, I d’reckon. Them there, and us here. We takes care of our own, and from each other we gets all the wishin’ that I d’need.”

  Mulcahey had listened and delivered his verdict.

  “Well, I’m inclined to give a man the benefit of the doubt that wishes me well for the season. Captain Heavside did the same for all of us, but, of course, he was sober. As for the question of getting drunk, well, we’re well to talk, sat here drinkin’ quarts. I pass no judgment, and on top of that, Peters, it’s your shout!”

  All laughed and pushed their tankards in his direction. Peters gave a mock scowl and took himself up to the bar. Mulcahey continued.

  “If there’s an Officer I am impressed with, it’s our present dear Colonel. We’ve all been in action and knows that what matters is having a lot of what he’s tryin’ to put into us. That range practice yesterday was close to standard. A few more weeks and we’ll be as close to that of any regiment I’ve served in, and that includes the 88th; and what a gang of fightin’ berserkers they be!”

  Stiles leaned towards him, a friendly arm around his shoulders and speaking in a mock Irish accent.

  “And, of course, O’Hare is as foine an Oirish gentleman as ever walked this God’s Kingdom!’

  Mulcahey smiled indulgently.

  “Just so. You have the very right of it.”

  Deakin returned to the exchange.

  “Ah, you Irish, ‘tis always the best from your Emerald Isle, even though you lives on nothin’ but potatoes and sheep’s bollocks, and sleeps on one side of the bed leavin’ your cow to eat the other!”

  All laughed, none louder than Mulcahey, and Peters returned with the refilled tankards. For about half an hour the conversation continued in similar light-hearted vein, until Miles returned, to the surprise of all, the more so because he was accompanied by a young lady of the required occupation.

  “This is Suzette. I’ve brought her here, because she said she wanted a drink in the better end of town.”

  Better end of town? All stood, Pike was hauled up by Deakin, and Mulcahey fetched her a chair, but their table was full with them all, so Suzette and Miles settled on the next table up.

  “I wants a gin,” was the request made to Miles and he took himself off to the bar. The quintet looked along their table to regard Suzette. Peters broke the short silence.

  “Suzette, now that’s not a name I’d call local.”

  “No, ‘tis French. My Mother be French, she done raised I Chard way, and I’ve ended up over ‘yer.”

  Each clenched their jaws to prevent themselves laughing. If there was ever an absence of French influence in anyone’s speech and upbringing, then this was it. Deakin was first to recover.

  “Well, we’re all pleased to meet you, Suzette, and we hope Tom takes good care of you.”

  Suzette was sat with her back to the window, looking into the room. Miles returned with his own drink and a double gin for Suzette. Sitting opposite, he drank his quickly, anxious for her to do likewise, so that the important business could begin elsewhere. Miles said little, other than to maintain a leery sparkle in his eye, but he soon noticed that she was looking at him less and less, and beyond him more and more. On top of that, also with growing frequency, smiling coquettishly in that direction. Miles turned to see four apparently farming men, sat at their own table. The two nearest him were eyeing Suzette lewdly and lining up shiny shillings at the end of their table, facing Suzette. The score had got to six and, as he watched, a seventh was added. He turned to Suzette to find her picking up her bag and preparing to leave.

  “Where be you goin’?”

  “I think I’ve just had a better offer, than thy half crown. A girl has to do the best for herself, and over thur’ be better.”

  Miles placed one hand on the table, the better to lever himself round. He looked back at Suzette, who was just easing herself out from behind the table. Miles rose and reached the four men in less than a second. He scooped up the shillings, opened the coat of the nearest and threw them inside.

  “You keep your eyes off my doxey and go find your own! Take your money and bugger off! I got her. And paid for!”

  The four men were all, indeed, local farmers and had the weight and muscle that went with their occupation. The one with the shillings down his coat stood up, put a meaty hand on Miles’ face and pushed hard. Miles lurched back to collide with his table.

  “It’s you that’s buggering off, bloodyback! We think the young lady would now like to spend her time with us.”

  This was said just as Suzette crossed with Miles, he going one way, she the other. Miles response was to pick up a chair and hurl it in the direction of the four doxey stealers, then follow the chair into the fray, both his mood and limbs primed for combat. All four were still recovering from the chair when Miles reached the speaker, seized his coat and headbutted him perfectly onto the point of his nose. Blood spurted copiously. Suzette screamed and ran out the door, crying “Murder.” Miles was kicking and punching for all he was worth, but against the other three it was a losing battle, he was lighter than any of them and sinking under a rain of blows. He was almost on the floor when the other five reached him in his peril. Not unfamiliar with brawling and street fighting, the four, minus Joe Pike who stood in confusion, quickly despatched Miles’s three assailants. That done, again as their experience taught them, they did not to press home their victory by inflicting more damage, but hastened to make a speedy getaway. The barely conscious Miles was hoisted between Stiles and Peters, his arms around their shoulders. In this formation, Deakin in the lead, with Mulcahey and Joe Pike bringing up the rear, they made a quick exit through the door. Experience again told them to get off the road and so they turned the first corner, to collide, almost, with two patrolling Officers.

  “Halt. The lot of you. We’ve just seen a woman, running across this road, yelling murder. What do you know?”

  Deakin recognised neither Officer, but he took the lead in making a response.

  “Murder, Sir? We knows nuthin’ about no murder, Sir. We’ve just come down the road and turned in here, Sir, hopin’ this is a way back to the barracks.”

  The Officer looked at Deakin in the light of his candle lantern and then shone it on Miles.

  “What’s the matter with him.”

  “Bad beer, Sir. We’m all feeling a bit queezy, Sir. Bad choice of pub, Sir. Right, lads?”

  Vigorous nodding and words of agreement came from all around. Peters gave a gulp and lurched towards the gutter as though about to vomit. The Officer didn’t hesitate.

  “Very well. On your way. Get him back quick.”

  “Sir. Yes Sir. Thank you, Sir. Quick as possible.”

  Coincident with this, Percival Sedgwicke was also rolling and stumbling, though in his case, through a churchyard, the one that had formed his navigation point. He had indeed found an Inn c
lose by and had entered. The Landlord looked at him suspiciously, but Sedgwicke’s cultured accent satisfied him partly, but what mostly did eased any suspicion was the new crown that Sedgwicke placed on the bar and asked for the best bottle of red wine in the house. Not unfamiliar with “gentlemen rankers”, although Sedgwicke looked anything like the kind of “gay dog” who spent money freely, a glass and a bottle were handed over. There followed a second and half a third. This was not fully imbibed because at that point of consumption Sedgwicke started singing hymns and quoting psalms and so he had to go. With one drayman’s hand he lifted Sedgwicke, took him to the door and propelled him out.

  Thus Sedgwicke found himself in the churchyard, wondering, through an alcoholic haze, which was the best way to go. The churchyard was dimly lit by the light from nearby windows, these in houses that pushed up to the low church wall. Tombstones dark and brooding, silhouetted like broken teeth, crowded up from all sides. He couldn’t see any kind of gateway, lychgate or otherwise, but what he did notice was the now familiar uniform of a fellow soldier, dull pink in the poor light, he being sat on a raised grave close to the church wall. Sedgwicke approached, his choice of words and diction remaining cultured.

  “Excuse me, I wonder, I seem to be somewhat lost. By any chance can you point me back towards the barracks?”

  The soldier looked up and Sedgwicke could see that he wasn’t annoyed, nor likely to rob him, just very puzzled at being disturbed.

  “No need, plenty of time yet. Sit down, have a drink.”

  He thrust a bottle up towards Sedgwicke. He recognised that it was not a wine bottle; an impression confirmed when he sampled the contents and found them to be the now well favoured rum. He needed no further bidding to take a seat beside this generous drinking companion, who began the conversation.

  “Who might you be?”

  “Percival Sedgwicke. They call me Parson.”