oOo
Other envelopes were in transit around the barracks, one of vital interest for all, one of specific interest for just one. The former rested on the desk of Colonel Lacey. It was addressed to himself, with “confidential” written on the quality paper, sealed with red wax, and that imprinted with the seal of the Horse Guards. He picked up his plain, workaday paper knife and used it to extract the contents. The heavy vellum paper opened reluctantly, then he scanned down over the usual opening blandishments to read what he knew it would contain.
Colonel William Lacey: Officer Commanding 5th Detachments.
You are to prepare your command for embarkation at Weymouth on the 20th April 1806. In future correspondence your battalion will be referred to as the 5th Provisional Regiment. Further orders will be conveyed via General Perry.
It stopped there; no indication of destination, just the simple order. One more month, less with embarkation preparations, to get them up to standard. Too many were still green, too many were still too slow.
On the other side of the wall, in the Mess anteroom another envelope was being opened, of equal quality, but this time by Lieutenant D’Villiers. The contents of his letter were equally disturbing but whilst Lacey’s produced anxiety, D’Villiers’ produced disappointment. His parents had failed to find him a Commission. It was proving difficult. Money was not the problem, it was the fact that he was recently in the Militia, he had no experience, and Commanding Officers were being careful about who they took into their Regiments. Fighting was in the offing, not society balls. On top of that, there were few vacancies, most Regiments were reaching full muster and, on top of that, an exchange was impossible, no-one wanted to exchange into a Detachment Battalion. Anxious times these may be, but young Officers saw the chance of advancement on the field of battle and were more than content to remain in Regiments where they were likely to see it.
Both left their discarded covers where they lay and then passed each other in the corridor, each bearing their own letter. Such was the anxiety that the letters had raised in the mind of each that no salutes were exchanged. Lacey was looking for O’Hare, D’Villiers for Carravoy. Lacey found O’Hare first, sat in his own Office.
“It’s come, Padraigh. Orders. We are to embark on the 20th April, it doesn’t say where, but it’s plainly overseas. They are calling us the 5th Provisionals. We are remaining together.”
O’Hare consulted a calendar.
“Four weeks, four days.”
“Yes. Start making preparations. We need transport and we need supplies, all the usual, flints, dry food, boots, spare equipment, …..”
O’Hare interrupted. He could both see and hear the anxiety this had raised within his Colonel.
“Yes Sir. I’ll see to it. I’ve done it before.”
Lacey stopped, and grew calm.
“Yes. Yes, of course. I’ll leave it with you.”
He paused.
“We haven’t had enough time, Padraigh. Do you think that they’re anything close to ready?”
“They’re not bad, they won’t disgrace us. Only the real thing will tell, of course, but we still have some time. We’ll keep working.”
Whilst Lacey’s state of agitation decreased, that of D’Villiers did the opposite as he searched for Carravoy. Eventually he found him.
“Damnable news, Carravoy. No luck with a transfer. My people have contacted God knows who and got nowhere. Damn this half baked Battalion, damn my luck, and above all damn him!” and he jabbed his finger in the direction of Lacey’s Office.
Carravoy grinned and tried to look re-assuring.
“Don’t take it so bad, D’Villiers. There’s still time, we’re still stuck here with no orders for anywhere, so don’t give up all hope. It can still happen.”
D’Villiers dropped his arms, one hand still holding the letter and he fumed, his face screwed with anger and unfamiliar frustration . Still holding the letter, he stalked off.
The next day saw D’Villiers state of agitation increase. The notice for embarkation appeared on the Mess noticeboard, with the date underlined, also their new title; 5th Provisional Battalion. Next to that was a notice that drill and practice were to be stepped up and, at the foot of that, the notification that the battalion were off on four days manoeuvres in three days time. All Officers to prepare themselves for life in the field. His misery was complete; days under canvas, marching, drilling, lousy food, little wine, dirty clothes and linen. He slouched off to consult Carravoy on what to pack in two paltry portmanteaus, which he knew, as a mere Lieutenant, were his sole allowance for the baggage train.
oOo
On the dawn of the due day the Battalion paraded, all men with full packs and equipment, greatcoats rolled and strapped on the top of their packs. It began to rain, and then, for the number of occasion that no-one knew, for all had lost count, the battalion once more shouldered arms and marched out through the barrack gate. The baggage train had assembled outside and, as the last company quit the gate, they joined on, under the command of Quartermaster Sergeant Sleightman, his command of carts and mules almost doubling the length of the marching column. Sedgwicke was grateful, he rode beside the driver, well back in the wagon under the sheltering canvas. This time, however, he could quickly see that the destination was not out onto the practice moors, this time was on into the town, through it and up into the hills to the West.
Carr was entitled to ride a horse, being a Captain, but he elected not to. He preferred to march in front of the company where he could at least talk to Drake and, wearing his greatcoat, there was less of him exposed to the rain, rather than up on a horse. However, it was Drake as usual who did most of the talking, mostly about his dearest sweetheart Cecily, how she could ride a horse, embroider wonderfully and sweetly play the piano. Behind them there was no singing and little talk. Soon full packs were digging into shoulders, besides the other straps of knapsacks full of biscuit, water bottles full to the brim and cartridge boxes full with their maximum sixty.
The observer with an eye for detail would have noticed that some of the Light Company carried a musket shorter by nine inches than the majority, also that they carried a bayonet more resembling a short sword. Any with a keener eye for smaller detail would have noticed that the Sergeants of the Light Company also carried a rifle, not the standard spearlike “Badge of Office”; the halberd, as with Sergeants of the other battalion companies. Two weeks previously Lacey had summoned Carr and Drake to the Armoury and showed them the contents of three long boxes. His words to them were brief and to the point.
“Three dozen new Baker Rifles, Carr. Bought at my own expense. You remember I told you to identify your best shots. Well, here’s their weapon. With their rifled barrel, this musket is accurate at 200 yards. They go to your best marksmen.”
Carr had consulted Drake and Ellis, but both agreed with him. He decided to give one to each file, not to the best shot, but to the one prepared to learn the use of the new weapon. The Baker was slower and more intricate to load, it could use the standard paper cartridges, but, for full accuracy, the ball needed to be wrapped in a piece of leather to ensure it gripped the rifling inside the barrel. When Ellis presented the Baker to their file, Tom Miles refused point blank, saying he could hit most things with what he already had, and Joe Pike felt he had only just mastered one weapon and he didn’t fancy having to learn a second. John Davey, on the other hand, very much liked the look of the new weapon. It was well made with a walnut stock, a flintlock whose oiled click sounded of precision manufacture, but, most appealingly, it had a front and back sight. He took it on, and when practising on the range on straw dummies he was impressed with the level of accuracy. He was more than content with his choice and so now he carried one out into the wilds to the West, the high moorland, ignoring the quips that came from his marching comrades about “that new short-arse bundook”.
Their march took them up and up, leaving behind the first signs of the Spring that was breaking out on the lowlands
. Cultivation fell behind them, neat fields became moorland, divided, if at all, by stonewalls and wind blown hedges. The rain ceased, but after the rain came the wind, not cold, but sweeping up the slopes, in off the Bristol Channel. It blew the clouds off to the East, and the Westering sun, now revealed, edged across to the grave of the day within a reddening sky. At the opposite end of the widening heavens, a half moon grew out of the thickening dark.
The time had come to make camp. Veterans scuttled about, doing the necessary and shouting bad tempered instructions to those new to the game, those who should be doing what was “bloody obvious”, the verdict and opinion of those already with the knowledge. Officers’ servants pitched their tents and arranged the camp tables and chairs to create at least a modicum of comfort and civilisation, whilst the said Officers looked to the arrangements of the camp and the preparations of the men. However, all were wet and most welcome of all, was the starting of good campfires made from wood gathered from the many hedges and copses that occupied this high terrain of West Somerset. Rations were issued and the camp kettles set upon the fires and soon came the equally welcome aroma of cooking.
Tom Miles thought that he knew it all, but was both surprised and pleased with the shelter that John Davey quickly fashioned from poles and branches gathered nearby. A sloping shelter for the three of them, which would, as John Davey put it,
“Keep off any more rain and, even if no more came, the morning dew could give you a soaking, just the same.”
Miles made some comment about “thieving poachers tricks”, but he recognised a good addition to the small number of comforts that their open camp afforded. Many tried to dry their jackets, but taking them off just brought a chill and so they were put back on and left to dry in place. Not so for the Officers. They at least, had one change of clothing and so all took advantage of this, leaving their servants to dry the day’s wet casualties as best they may. This gave rise to several washing lines being strung up, hoping for the continuance of the drying wind.
One of the more onerous additions to a soldier’s life caused by field manoeuvres was sentry duty. It broke up precious sleep and took men away from the comfort of their billets. The first sentry duty fell to the Grenadier Company and Carravoy went about placing his men, 20 paces apart, establishing a rota with his Sergeants for the men and a rota with his Lieutenants for inspection of the sentry lines. Gradually the camp settled to stillness and a degree of quiet. The one benefit of field manoeuvres was the absence of drill and the strict cleaning of uniforms and so, their hunger satisfied, the men lay or sat in their mess groups, waiting for full dark and time for sleep. Miles, Pike, and Davey lay or sat under their improvised shelter. Miles, knowing himself the veteran thought he would have to teach the other two from scratch, but it was plain that both knew as much, perhaps even more, about living out in the open. However, what he did know was what a soldier needed to add to these country skills and he made sure that each placed their clean and dry equipment in a set way, so that it could be easily found if “some enemy comes sneakin”. Miles fell to musing about their lot.
“Just think, Davey, you could be in Australia by now if Boney weren’t kickin’ up over the water. Instead, you’m up ‘ere trying to keep warm and dry, and cuddlin’ that fancy bundook.”
“From what I hear about Australia, there’s no problem with warm and dry, and if there’s any cuddlin’ down there it’s with some sheep or somesuch. I think I got the best of it, ‘specially with my Molly and me now paired up”.
A short silence settled, but Davey resumed.
“There’s the rumour that we’re off, sometime next month. It’s got to be abroad, hasn’t it?”
Miles replied authoritatively.
“Can’t be nothin’ else. On a ship and off somewhere. Could be years.”
“What happens to families?”
“Some families comes with us. We draws lots, about ten per company, so the odds aren’t good. Also, those as follows must be of some use. They ‘as to be able to cook, fetch, and carry, and care for the wounded. So even if a family’s drawn out, not all can come.”
“So, even if my Molly’s drawn out, we’d have to leave at least 'Tilly behind?”
“I’d say so. Sorry John, the answer’s yes. You’d do well to be thinkin’ of what she could do. I has to say this, John, but this an’ all could come. With her reputation of a string of husbands, she could be turned out of barracks into the Poor House, after we’n gone, without your knowin’. You b’aint church married. You’d best be thinkin’ of where she could go. You can have some pay sent to her, there is that. I don’t recommend barrack life with us away. 'Tis like prison, they’n forgotten, poor food and nuthin’ to do all day. And they could be turfed out if a new battalion arrives. If you ‘as family, try to get her and 'Tilly over to them; and send ‘em money. If they stays in barracks, the Army docks yer pay anyway. That’s the best way.”
In the half-light from the dying fire, Tom could see Davey nodding.
“That’s good advice, Tom. I do have family, over Devizes way. They’ll care for her, take her and ‘Tilly in. And I’ll send my pay. I’ll see what can be done.”
Tom turned to Joe.
“You Joe, what do you think you’d be doin’? If you weren’t ‘ere?”
He got no reply. Joe was wrapped in his greatcoat, head on his pack, sound asleep, the sleep borne of both innocence and inexperience. The last to settle to sleep were the Officers, these being able to maintain their society in the dark, as they had tables, chairs, and, most importantly, a candle! Carr and Drake, closeted in their tent, were both sat at the table, Carr reading, Drake writing.
“What’s the book?”
“A book of poems, “Poems on Various Subjects” by one Samuel Taylor Coleridge.”
“Any good?”
“Well, it’s not exactly a good read, and I don’t think this chap is the happiest fellow in the world at present. He rumbles on about lots of stuff. Most of the titles begin with the word “effusion”. I wish he’d have left most of them in the bottle! ”
“And yet you persist in reading it. May I enquire as to its source? No, don’t tell me, I’m sure I can guess. One Jane Perry, fondest daughter of our beloved General.”
Carr grinned, thoroughly found out.
“Yes, it came the other day. I’m reading it out of politeness, actually. I mean it’s very likely that I will be questioned on it, next time we meet.”
“Yes, nothing more certain, and I’d better make a note of your opinion, to be sure that it is conveyed accurately to her.”
He made a show of writing on a spare piece of paper.
“Rumbles on……. lots of stuff……..not the happiest fellow ……. left in the bottle. Got it. ”
“And you are doing what? Exactly.”
“Writing to Cecily.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“Yesterday.”
“And you’re writing to her today? Has anything noteworthy happened between then and now, that justifies so urgent a letter?”
“Well, not exactly, but, well, you know, absence makes the heart grow fonder, and all that.”
Both grinned and returned to their occupations, Carr out of duty, or so he would say, but Drake out of something much more uplifting.
The camp was asleep, except the sentries and their patrolling Officers. As the night turned through its small hours the half moon strengthened above the trees, giving an eerie half-light. Carravoy took his turn inspecting the sentries, satisfied when each time he heard the correct challenge and the correct reply to his own response. The routine was becoming monotonous when suddenly a shot rang out, behind and to the left.
“What the Devil? Who fired?
“Me Sir. Wilkins.”
Carravoy had passed him, three sentries ago. He ran back.
“What on earth for? What did you see?”
“A shape, Sir. It ran across my front, right to left, but it was holdin’ aloft what loo
ked like clothes, Sir. Could be some locals tryin’ to rob the camp.”
“You definitely saw something?”
“Yes Sir, as I just described.”
“Right, well done. You kept alert. There’s nothing we can do now, just wait till morning, and then see what can be seen. Reload and keep alert.”
“Yessir.”
Carravoy passed the rounds onto one of his Lieutenants and morning came. What was discovered was a dismantled clothesline, with the contents strewn on the damp earth. Carravoy walked forward to investigate, then stopped. The prints in the damp earth were confusing. He gave an order.
“One of Carr’s hard bargains, Davey I think, used to be a poacher. Get him over, see what he can make of this.”
Davey was summoned and approached the scene. He gave it but one glance.
“Deer, Sir, of some sort. Came through here, hit the clothes line and took off that way, past the sentry.”
Carravoy turned to the servant.
“What’s missing?”
“Some breeches, Sir.”
“Whose?”
“Mr D’Villiers’, Sir.”
D’Villiers had been standing by as a casual observer, but now he took an especially keen interest. His recent bad temper, still bubbling, quickly came again to the surface.
“Dammit, Simpson. I’ll have you flogged for this. This leaves me with just one pair. Flogged, and returned to the ranks!”
Simpson looked at Carravoy, his face showing all the anxiety he felt. Carravoy looked at D’Villiers, but said nothing, only shifting his gaze when Davey spoke up.
“I think I can help, Sir.”
“How?”
“Deer are slow grazers, Sir. Once they find what they want, they generally stay a while. He could still be near, Sir. I say he, I suspect the deer came through and his antlers got tangled with the washing. I can probably trail it, at least to find out, Sir.”
“Right, get to it. Take whoever you need, but we move in an hour.”
“Sir.”
Worth Their Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regiment.) Page 23