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

by Martin McDowell

  “You know, Carr, it is my understanding that in some parts of the Americas they have such a thing as a square dance. Perhaps you should take yourself over there, you might learn a thing or two.”

  Luckily, Cecily had moved off to talk to friends, only Drake heard. As Tavender walked away, Carr made to follow him, but Drake seized his arm.

  “I’m going to hit him.”

  “No you are not. The last thing you need is another duel. Look, over there. There’s Jane Perry, with Carravoy. He’s talking to her, no doubt being as insufferable as ever, talking about some staggering achievement of his, but she is looking at you. Get yourself over there, “Sir”, and get her out of it.”

  Carr saw Jane and immediately his mood changed. Then he grinned at Drake’s reverse use of rank, something so rarely mentioned between them.

  “Go on, Henry. Forward march. The cause is hers.”

  Carr looked at him and received no further words, just a nod of Drake’s head. He looked again and Jane Perry was still studying him. Squaring his shoulders, he crossed the floor. He decided that it would be best to be as civil as possible. He began with greetings.

  “Miss Perry. Charles. Excuse me, Charles, but I wonder if you would allow me a quiet word with Miss Perry? There is something I would ask her to do for me, whilst we are abroad.”

  Carravoy turned and showed his irritation, partly at who was asking, but mostly at the idea that Jane Perry could be taken from his company, he felt he was doing rather well and building a good impression. However, habit and breeding did not allow his irritation to show within the effortless superiority of his voice.

  “I’d like to, Carr, but you see, the thing is, her Father the General, has required me to keep you, away, from her, for the rest of the evening. Nothing I can do. General’s orders, so goodbye!”

  Jane Perry had heard all and it was her turn for irritation.

  “I’ll make any necessary excuses to my Father, Captain Carravoy, I will ensure that you are blameless. I know what Captain Carr wishes to speak to me about, and I also wish it to be finalised.”

  With that she took Carr’s arm and began walking, almost pulling Carr, who quickly followed. Carravoy was not done.

  “This could go hard on you, Carr.”

  But it was Jane Perry who turned to answer.

  “The choice is mine, Lord Carravoy, not his!”

  She was taking the lead, and she drew him to an alcove behind the colonnade that ran down one side. She turned to him and lowered her face, but raised her eyes to his and placed her hand upon his forearm.

  “We haven’t much time. Father will send out a search party, I’m sure. What was it you wanted?”

  “Only to seek your permission to write to you, whilst I’m away.”

  He placed his hand on hers. The dam burst.

  “When you’re away, it’s good to have someone to think of and better still, to know that they’re thinking of you. For me, that’s you. It matters to any soldier, especially this one, to have someone special to them back home, perhaps waiting, and someone that he can say things to, even from a long way away, and even if it reaches them long after the time. When I’m out there, wherever it is, when I’m writing, I can picture you, and ……….

  She halted his rush of words by squeezing his forearm.

  “Hush, you’re wasting time. Yes, of course you can write, and I will write to you, but you mustn’t send it to my home. Father will almost certainly intercept. Is there anything that we can do instead?”

  Carr’s face screwed up in thought. He formed an answer.

  “In the barracks there will be a Deputy Purser left behind to look after the financial affairs. I can write to you, care of him. He will receive a great deal of mail, any extra letter won’t make much difference. Wait a month, then letters may start to arrive.”

  “Yes, but don’t address them to Jane Perry, rather Jane Emily, that’s one of my middle names.”

  He smiled and she giggled at the conspiracy, but it was short lived. The General had found them, informed by an Aide de Camp who had spied their whereabouts.

  “Jane! Come, we’re leaving. Come, this instant, if you please!”

  Jane looked at Carr and saw a warm smile and eyes that she saw smile for the first time. She withdraw her arm and said ‘Goodbye” which Carr returned, then away to her Father’s side, then to be swallowed up in his retinue. Carr followed her fair hair through the varied light of the ballroom and then she was gone. He took himself off to find Drake and Cecily, his spirits at their highest for some time.

  oOo

  Back in the several rooms of the barracks, the mood was more sombre. All had a four-day march to prepare for and old soldiers prepared and the new ones copied and listened. Boots were checked and hose mended, pack straps tried and adjusted to spread the load that would be their burden throughout the long marching days. There was little humour, just fond looks and fond touches between wives and husbands, children and fathers. Of course, not all families were staying behind and so they, too, made their preparations, particularly the families Nicholls and Mulcahey; they were all adjusting their straps and buckles like the veterans they were. If there was any cheer, it was amongst these old hands, all born up with the excitement of a new life in the offing, a major change, and if not one for the better, well, no matter.

  Not so Molly Dixon and John Davey. With ‘Tilly on his knee he was using the last few minutes before lights out to explain his plans. Having packed and arranged all his kit ready for the immediate parade in the morning, he had placed before Molly a leather purse and an envelope, but it was Molly who was doing the talking.

  “But I wants to come down to Weymouth with ‘ee, John.”

  “That’s no good, Molly, ‘twon’t serve. It’s a four day walk. Think of the time and money it’ll take to get you back, even to here. When I go, you go on.”

  As anxious as she, his instructions became rambling and fretful.

  “There’s the money, Molly, all I have and some borrowed. Far Devening is the place, and the man you need is Reverend Blackmore. That’s the letter; I got Parson to write it for me and I’ve signed it. It says that you are my wife and it asks him to take you to my Mother’s cottage and explain what has happened to me. If you get yourself to Devizes and go to the Matthews Corn Chandler’s in Devizes, they’ve always got wagons going out that way and they’ll give you a ride to the exact place. I’ve been to the Purser and he’s goin’ to send on my pay to the Reverend where you can collect it. Parson says he’ll help me write to you, and I’ll send it to the Reverend and he’ll help you read it. There’s two things more that will convince my Mother to take you in. One’s this.”

  He removed a leather wristband from his left wrist. It had a chased design on the outer surface.

  “She’ll know it comes from me because it was my Father’s. The other’s this,” and he pushed across a thin silver ring. “I made it from a shilling, I bored out a hole, then filed it down. You wear this, and it’ll at least look as though we’re some kind of married.”

  Molly took the ring and tried it on the third finger. It was loose, and she turned it around her finger, but it stayed.

  “Don’t worry about that, Mother will fatten you up!”

  Molly reached across the table, got her forearm around his neck and kissed him, then everyone kissed everyone else, Davey, ‘Tilly and Molly. Lights out came and all made ready for bed. When the candles were robbed of their flame, many a husband and wife lay together in intimacy for the last time, but many also lay awake, both wife and children in the crook of each arm.

  oOo

  Reveille came too soon and also the end of their last meal. Too soon also, came the order to parade outside and all took themselves across the parade ground to their familiar positions. There all stood to wait, arms grounded, hands either grasping the muzzle of their musket or making last adjustments to their kit and pack straps. Another grey day, some blue sky and another “Channel wind”. A band had ar
rived and were tuning up, their discordant notes adding to the general hubbub of conversation, shouted orders, and horses hooves and harness. Sergeant Major Gibney, now, since marching orders, appointed Senior Sergeant Major, called the parade to attention. The familiar orders rang out and led by the band, as yet silent, they marched out of the gate for the last time, Grenadiers behind the band, then the Light Company, then the Companies by numbers. Outside was the Supply Train and the families that were to go, the familes of the rankers on foot, those of officers in carriages, mostly closed or hooded for comfort. Those staying lined the route down into the town and as the soldiers marched through, there were many shouts of “Goodbye and good luck”, terminated by the name of the soldier that it was wished upon, this accompanied by the tearful and vigorous waving of hats and handkerchiefs.

  All too soon the road was empty, all that could be seen were the backs of the camp followers as they brought up the rear behind the supply train. As the column passed the first buildings of the town the band struck up the tune of “Kemp’s Jig” in marching time, as much to clear the route as to add to the drama of the occasion. At the sound of the martial music the good citizens of Taunton, such as were near, brought themselves to the edge of the road, to watch and cheer the fine sight. Carr marched on foot, at the head of his Company, Drake just behind to his right, Rushby to his left. He could see Colonel Lacey up ahead, on horseback with his Majors, the first of the battalion behind the band, but nothing else could he see but the backs of the last rank of the Grenadiers and the passing faces off to the sides. Soon the gaps between the buildings grew larger, the town was falling behind and the cheering now came from individual voices, but one individual voice stood out, from the left, one he recognised from all others.

  “Henry.”

  He turned and there she was, her face both smiling and tearful framed in a blue bonnet trimmed with white small lace, her coat decorated across with mauve coloured bands, her hands in matching gloves. It was one of those hands that was waving him across to the side of the road for she was keeping pace with the parade. Irregular as it was, still carrying his erect sword, he took a swerving course across to her. She spoke.

  “No one knows I’m down here. Here, take this, it will bring you luck.”

  He looked down and in her hand was a silver medallion complete with chain. There was no time for an examination, he took it and thrust it into his pocket. The chain still dangled out, but she corrected that.

  “Thank you. It’s …..I’ll …… keep it close…..and wear it, always.”

  “It’ll bring you luck. Don’t forget to write, and don’t forget to come back!”

  Then, scandalously, she kissed his cheek, waved, and was gone. He felt a wet tear remaining on the side of his face.

  All this had not gone unnoticed in the front rank of his company and the comments came forward.

  “One there to come back for, eh, Sir?”

  Drake took charge,

  “Silence in the ranks, there,” but all were wearing broad grins.

  oOo

  The band had long past fallen out from the column, but they had added their shouts of good luck and good fortune as the column marched on by. After that, the day passed to the accompaniment of 1,000 pairs of feet, or more. Old hands were glad at the return of winter weather, not too cold, but above all not too warm. For a public parade their stocks were required and it was not long before sweat trickled down inside collars and the hated stiff leather began to chafe all it touched. All were mostly sombre and grave, there was little conversation, minds were elsewhere, if not with families left behind, then with their possible destination, the subject of what talk there was.

  Deakin and Halfway were marching together in Number 3 Company, both thinking over in their different ways the meaning of Captain Heaviside’s brief Christian homily to his men, prior to their outward march. “Upon this rock I will build my church; and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it. Matthew: 6. Verse 18.”

  “What do you think he was goin’ on about, Ned?’

  “Blessed if I know. It meant something to him, if not to me. If he takes comfort, then he can spout all he likes, long as it don’t cause him to volunteer us for any double dangerous doings when the bullets starts to fly. When’s the first stop, do ‘ee reckon?”

  “Two hours more.”

  “How much water you got?”

  “Full canteen.”

  “Right, then we’ve spare for a bit of a wet.”

  With that he pulled a red kerchief from his pocket, wetted it, and shared it with his friend to cool and clean their faces.

  Campaign habits were soon resurrected. They loosened their stocks and reset the straps that criss-crossed their chests and shoulders. Soon after they changed their muskets to a different shoulder.

  However, one amongst them felt more reason for cheer than all others. For the first time since entering the barracks, all those months ago, Seth Tiley was looking upon the outside world. He had expected by now to be bound behind a wagon, but no. Perhaps he had been forgotten, perhaps no one thought of it, but here he was now, in his Grenadier uniform, his packs and equipment spread over his huge frame, marching free with all the others. He knew that they were ship bound and, once aboard, he was an army prisoner forever; which was just how he saw it. Years to him constituted a lifetime and these final days marching presented him with his only chance. The cunning that had seen him through his malevolent life so far, now told him that night would present his best and really only, chance. The battalion had a deadline to meet, then to board ship. If he escaped now, none could be spared to search for him. He marched on, keeping step and keeping counsel with himself and making plans; once he was away, what was his best course? One thing was prominent in his mind, the further South he was taken, the lower his chances. He would be trapped against the sea when the Provosts began their search and he knew his height and bulk pointed him out from most others.

  The first halt brought the most welcome order, “Remove stocks”. Once removed, some, the new recruits especially, thought of throwing them away, what use would they be abroad, but the likes of Tom Miles, Ned Deakin, and Toby Halfway counselled otherwise, “If they calls for a parade for some foreign bigwig, and you don’t have, it’ll be a flogging” and so they were stored down into their packs. Using the break, whilst sat with Drake at the side of the road, Carr studied the medallion. He had glanced at it on the march, but now was the chance for a careful examination. The front showed St. George slaying his dragon but the engraving on the reverse was the subject of long study, “To Henry, from Jane.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A medallion, from Jane Perry.”

  “Well, that’s that, then. Exchanging medallions and suchlike means that you are practically engaged. On which subject, I have some news.”

  “Which is?”

  “Cecily and I are engaged. Unofficially, that is. We’ve told no one. You’re the first and I’ve only told you now, being as we are now on our outward march. Couldn’t tell you earlier, you being such a blabbermouth.”

  Carr grinned. “My dear fellow, my heartiest congratulations. Do you anticipate any opposition, parentwise, that is?”

  “I’d say not, we get on fine, but we won’t spring the news until I get a Captaincy. It isn’t the pay, coming from a family calling itself “Honourable” does have its pecuniary advantages, but a higher rank will all add to my chances. Don’t you think?”

  “Yes, my dear chap. Absolutely.”

  “May I see?”

  Carr handed the medallion across. Drake looked at the front, but thought better of examining the back.

  “St George. Patron Saint of soldiers. You’d better put it on now. Losing it and not being able to produce it on our return, spells catastrophe. No explanation possible.”

  Carr obeyed. He loosened his collar, put the chain over his head and let the medallion slip down the front of his neck. It’s bulk felt cold against his chest, but it soon warmed
.

  oOo

  The day’s march ended and camp was made in fields beside the road. Some Officers took themselves off to any local town or village that had an Inn which could provide a more comfortable billet, Carravoy and D’Villiers included, but this did not apply to either Carr, Drake, nor Rushby. One thing the manuals said and Carr agreed, was, “Stay with your men, share their hardships”, and so he was touring the campfires of the Light Company, having sent Drake and Rushby off on their own tour, asking after the men’s welfare, giving help and guidance where he could, sharing a cup of tea when offered, and answering their questions, all except the important one; “Where are we going, Sir?”

  Seth Tiley welcomed the fall of the sun and the dismissal off the road. He had quickly made his own fire and camp arrangements on the very edge of the area occupied by the Grenadiers. He had no messmates. Those who had approached him, impressed with his defiance at the flogging, were quickly spurned and all quickly learned that he was best left alone. Those that he shared his rations with had learned to give him his share and then leave him. This suited him well, as he chewed his ration of boiled beef and ate all he could, unlike those around him who knew to eke out their rations. He planned to leave all behind and food was best inside his stomach, not weighty around his shoulders. Stealing and sheep killing would provide for his future needs. A mist fell with the dark and he knew his chance had come. As dark grew thicker, hastened by the mist, “Lights Out”, came and he unrolled his greatcoat and smeared its back and arms with mud. He threw on grass and sweepings to stick over that, then he lay still and waited, covered by the greatcoat; camouflaged side in, clean side out.

  His position was deliberately close to the sentry line, sufficient to let him know when an Officer had made his rounds. Past midnight he heard a challenge, the reply came and he took this as his time. Sentries would know that they now had time to themselves and heads would go down into collars, minds more concerned about the cold; why be watchful, they were still in England? He doused the last glow of his fire, shed his red jacket and lay on the ground, covering his head, shoulders, and back with his mudcaked greatcoat, then he slowly crawled forward, aiming to bisect the point between two sentries. The mist helped, he made no noise, moving inch by inch, and anyone looking across would think him a shape on the rough ground. Finally, he was confident that the mist and dark were hiding him and he moved more quickly. Further on still he stood up, donned the greatcoat and was gone, running and stumbling in a direction that he thought was back North, away from the sea and, above all, away from this hated life as a soldier. The luck that had given him the mist held further. He came across an isolated cottage, smashed his way in, pummelled the occupants until either senseless or paralysed with terror and stole what food there was and any useful clothing. Seth Tiley, thief, thug and footpad, was back on the road.