oOo
The next day was Sunday and its laws and traditions were obeyed. Whilst the men were confined to barracks there was no drill and Officers’ privileges allowed a visit to the town, with orders to return in time for evening Church Parade. It was Drake who provided the driving force.
“I think, as we are here, that we take a walk up there.”
Both Carr and Rushby looked at Drake in puzzlement, but all was made clear when they saw that he was pointing to the top of The Rock.
“We should get you, Barnaby, you and your sketchbook, up to the top. To make a recording, as it were. Parade back here in five minutes.”
The walk to the town was short and the town itself quaint and charming; narrow walls, gleaming white, leaned in upon narrow cobbled streets, shaded and cool, with the inhabitants themselves providing the enhancing colour; bright dresses, scarves, hats and sashes. Finding the way to the top was easy, it was simply a question of taking any road that led uphill and soon they were on the single road to the summit. Several Gibraltarians, mindful of the attractions to visitors of reaching the top, had set up a donkey station where the ascent became steep and their Spanish keepers, on spying the three Officers, began, with gestures and blandishments, to try to steer them to where the animals were tethered.
“Senors! Subirse les burros. Montar a burro a la cima. Trez pesos.”
Drake turned to the others, but they continued walking.
“I think he wants us to ride a donkey to the top. Should we, do you think?”
It was Carr who replied.
“I won’t hear of it. We’re Light Company!”
The climb was indeed steep and the mood became more sombre as the white dust road continued up the hill to a summit that seemed to remain stubbornly the same distance away. However, their mood soon lightened as, from some way off, they spied two red coated Officers, descending the track, each mounted on their own donkey. It was Rushby who stopped, his eyesight being perfect, and exclaimed his conclusion.
“I do believe, yes, yes it is, I’m sure, Lieutenant D’Villiers and Captain Carravoy.”
A careful look from their own eyes confirmed the same for Drake and Carr. Without a word all three stopped, the better to study the spectacle. The comedy grew as the distance lessened. D’Villiers was doing his best to maintain a dignified seat in the saddle, but the absence of stirrups was making that impossible. The rapid gait of the donkey was throwing him around at all angles, whilst he tried to control the animal with the reins, this being made more difficult with the donkey being eager to return, it knowing that this direction took it back to food, drink and rest. D’Villiers attempted manipulation of the reins was, in fact, superfluous, the keeper was running alongside holding the bridle of each. D’Villiers was clinging on, with nothing to cling on to.
But the picture created by D’Villiers was one of sedate dignity compared to what was happening to Carravoy. His legs were longer than the donkey was tall, consequently he was required to lift his feet off the ground, making it necessary that his knees stuck either up or out at an absurd angle, depending on which way he felt precarious. He was also holding the reins, but his anxiety over his position made his elbows stick out to improve his balance. Thus looking for the entire world as though his legs and arms were wings and the donkey was about to fly. All three stood regarding the display, but it was Carr, as his character dictated, whose expression and stance most conveyed the feeling of farcical disdain; arms folded, head to one side, slightly smiling. Both Grenadiers pretended not to notice their three watchers, but Carr soon put a stop to that.
“Any thoroughbred in that mount of yours, d’you think, Carravoy? He’s managing a most elegant trot! Some dressage, post ride, perhaps?”
Carravoy looked over with eyes that could have melted stone, but made no reply, which was just as well, for they were being bounced around so much that speech was impossible. Only when they had passed did the three allow themselves to laugh out loud, which caused D’Villiers’ head to turn, his expression as angry as the thorough shaking passing up through his body to his jaw would allow.
When the comedy show had turned a corner and was out of sight, they continued on to make the summit and all agreed it was worth the climb. The view was absolutely breathtaking on that bright blue day; they could see the far mountains of the Spanish interior and the corresponding peaks of Africa, equally clear across the white flecked Mediterranean. Rushby lost no time in sketching, while Carr and Drake picked out the details. Their three transports were out in the bay, tiny in the anchorage below, idling around their anchors. Their prize now stood alone at the quayside, the Ipheion having been moved to the repair dock and she was now a peculiar sight compared to her seagoing appearance, there was a conspicuous gap where her foremast should have been. Whilst Rushby hurried into his second sketch, with ambitions for a third, Carr and Drake stood above the view, saying little, each with a foot on the stone kerb. The grandeur of what was before them occupying their thoughts, giving birth to a sombre mood. It was some time before either spoke.
“Here’s why you joined the Army, Nat. Most live a lifetime back home and never see the likes of this. Memorable don’t do it justice.”
“I’ll not argue, Henry, but unlike them, we go on to who knows what? In two weeks we could be in a battle. There’s not many back home that would accept this, knowing what could come just a while later.”
“You’re right, Nat, but that’s our lot and I’ll settle for it. I’m not afraid, we punch our weight. No one’s going to roll over us.”
“Have you any idea where we’re going? Now that we’re here in Gibraltar?”
“Naples or Egypt would be my choice. Which of the two, it’s impossible to say.”
He turned to Rushby.
“How goes with the sketching, Barnaby? We daren’t be late for Church Parade.”
“Five more minutes, and I’m done. I say, this really is the most stunning place. Thanks for bringing me up here.”
“Bringing you, Barnaby. Nonsense. Sooner or later, you’d have got your own self up here. Your artistic temperament would have driven you on and up, I feel most sure.”
The trip back down was a pleasant stroll, although the gradient turned it more into a long stride lope than what could be termed a walk. They were not late for Church Parade, they took their place with time to spare and the service was well conducted by a Naval Chaplain. However, upon returning to the barrack room, they found waiting for them a tall Grenadier, bearing a letter.
“Captain Carravoy said that I was to give you this, Sir.”
Carr took the letter, expressed his thanks and returned the salute. Inside he opened and read the letter. He looked at Drake.
“The Grenadiers are challenging us to a cricket match!”
oOo
The following day Carr paraded his Light Company early.
“The Grenadiers want to play us at cricket. We must respond. To lose is one thing, to not even manage to enter the field is quite another. Us three Officers will play, naturally, and can I count on you, Ellis and Fearnley?”
His two Sergeants nodded, apprehension growing in their faces and Carr returned to his men.
“That’s five. We need eleven. Six more, so any volunteers, any who’ve played before?”
John Davey’s hand went up.
“Where have played, then, Davey?”
“Only on the Village Green, Sir. Estate against the Village, but I’ll give it a go, Sir.”
“Good man. Five more needed.”
Another hand went up.
“Me too, Sir. Same kind of thing.”
“Well done, Parker, that’s seven.”
He looked along the ranks. There was no more movement. Joe Pike spoke up.
“Beggin’ your pardon, Sir, but I’m not sure what this cricket thing is.”
“Put simply, Pike, someone throws a ball at you and you hit it away with a bat, enough to give you time to run to another point, called a wicket. You ha
ve to do that more times than the opposition. So, that’s explained that; consider yourself on the team.”
Pike stood nonplussed. Carr made another note, then regarded the ranks some more.
“Right, never mind those of you that think you can hit a ball with a bat. Are there any good throwers and catchers? If you threw a stone, would you hit what you had thrown at?
Two more hands went up.
“Jones and Steel, good, only one more needed. What about you, Miles?”
“Beggin’ your pardon, Sir, but this game you describe be well outside of anything I’ve ever done. There weren’t much room for cricket in the stews of Bristol. I’d rather not, Sir.”
Another hand went up. John Byford, as near to a Gentleman Ranker as the Company had. A good soldier, but never inclined to draw attention to himself.
“You can include me, Sir. I played at school.”
“Right, good. That’s the team. It’s firing range this morning, then Officer’s choice, which is cricket this afternoon and evening.”
After the midday meal, the teams assembled on the field beside the Parade Ground. A wicket was chosen and measured, then 22 pairs of army boots walked all over it in an effort to improve the surface, which done, the creases were blancoed on. White range posts were sent out to mark the boundary and the wickets were assembled. Captains Heaviside and Reynolds had been recruited as Umpires and so Carr and Carravoy took themselves in their direction for the toss. Before that ritual it was agreed that leg before wicket would constitute dismissal. Carr lost the toss, Carravoy elected to bat and for the first time ever they shook hands. As Carr placed his field he soon noticed that they had an audience, a large one, navy, army, and civilian.
D’Villiers and a Grenadier Sergeant came to the crease and things began badly for the Lights. Rushby volunteered to open the bowling, along with Jones and, the delivery being regulation underarm, he found any amount of speed or turn very difficult to generate. D’Villiers and his Sergeant monotonously slogged Rushby, in particular, to all parts of the field and soon the Grenadiers were on 42 for no loss. Carr put himself on at the other end with no different outcome. However, things looked up slightly for the Lights when D’Villiers made a slog too far, right down Byford’s throat and he was out; caught. Carravoy came in and Carr decided to look for another bowler, but he had no idea who to ask. Instead he called for volunteers and Drake thought that he should offer himself.
Drake managed a quicker ball, but Carravoy and his Sergeant were clearly both adept batsmen and the score ticked on, but Carr’s men were getting quicker around the field. With the score on 72, Carravoy called for a chancy run, which proved to be too much case, and his Sergeant was run out, Drake taking the throw and knocking off the bails. Carr clapped and encouraged his men, but the third wicket proved to be a bloody affair for the Lights, Carravoy being joined by another Sergeant, and they soon passed the 100, then soon to 130. Time to change the bowling again, so Carr threw the ball to Steel.
“See what you can do.”
Byford came forward with some advice to Steel.
“Pitch it at his legs, try to tie him up a bit, and get some more fielders on the leg side. He might get a mite frustrated and sky one, or go for chancy runs.”
Carr listened and nodded to Steel. The advice had some effect. Carravoy, in particular, being tall, struggled with Steel’s faster and more accurate bowling and one crept through to nudge Carravoy’s leg stump and dislodge a bail. He was out, but he felt more than satisfied with his innings; a half century, and the Grenadiers on 161 for three. In came a Corporal and the pair kept the score moving. Straight balls, even down the leg side were giving them little problem, runs were added. Time for another change. Carr looked at Byford.
“Anything you can do?”
Byford nodded and took the ball. Holding it in the tips of his fingers he was able to impart some spin. He sent five balls spinning to the off side which cost some runs, but the sixth he kept straight and it met the Corporal’s left leg. Had it not, it would have hit the wicket.
“Howzat?”
Heaviside lugubriously lifted a finger. 182 for four. There followed a succession of Grenadier rankers. None could be described as sophisticated batsmen, more agricultural, but each added to the score. Carr rotated Byford, Steel and also Jones, who proved to be fast and accurate, but the score ticked on, reaching 252 for eight. Another change, perhaps?
“Davey. You want to try?”
Davey took the ball, and looked at it. It was very much battered and bruised, a veteran of many games. He paced back to his mark and waited. Reynolds dropped his hand and Davey ran up to deliver the first full toss of the afternoon. The ball took the shoulder of the bat and flew to the astonished Rushby, who grasped it in front of this face, as much for self preservation as to dismiss the batsman. Last man in. Byford came on at the other end and, at the cost of two more runs, bowled the last man. Grenadiers: 254 all out. A formidable total.
Carr hefted his bat, and looked at Drake. No words were necessary. There was a distinct danger of huge embarrassment. They walked out to polite, if not solid, applause and Carr took guard. Carravoy opened the bowling and, whilst he was not difficult to hit, he was consistently on the wicket. Carravoy clearly knew his cricket and his field placings made runs difficult to come by. Nevertheless, the score was moving as Carr and Drake hit the ball into the spaces. Things changed when a very large Grenadier came on at the other end and achieved the fastest pace on the ball of the day. Drake was clean bowled for 18. Rushby came on, hit a few and then perished, mishitting a ball that skied off to be caught at deep fine leg. The Lights were 41 for two. Ellis joined Carr at the crease, looking even more apprehensive than when he first knew he was on the team. Carr advised him to block a few, get his eye in and then see what he could manage. What he managed was to get out second ball, leg before wicket.
Fearnley took Ellis’ bat as they crossed over and arrived at the crease. One ball to survive from the giant Grenadier, but not only did he survive it, for, either by luck or judgement, he glanced it past his legs for three runs. 44 for three. Carr was on strike and Carravoy had given the ball to another Grenadier to bowl, but the smug look that was growing on Carravoy’s face was there for all to see. Carr went to Fearnley.
“We’ve got to hit some runs, Sergeant. Hit the damn thing. Do or die!”
Carr returned to his crease and practiced what he preached. He took a swing at everything and so did Fearnley. Fortune favoured the brave and the score moved on, despite dropped catches, near run outs, bails failing to fall and turned down appeals. 82 for three and Carravoy was becoming irritated. Victory looked certain, but not the desired crushing defeat. However, his spirits revived during the next over. Carr took a mighty swing and was caught at deep mid wicket. Two balls later Fearnley was clean bowled. Byford joined Davey at the wicket, the score on 84 for five.
Byford soon demonstrated himself to be the most cultured cricketer at the crease so far, for either side. Davey plainly had a good eye, but it was more strength and timing than technique, but Byford, with great economy, dealt with all that was dealt to him, defending the dangerous balls, despatching the bad. Whilst Davey bludgeoned whatever he hit and trusted to good fortune with what he missed, Byford played into the gaps, kept the strike and moved the score on. It was a genuine cricketer’s performance. The score moved on, not quickly, but the scorers were regularly troubled. 156 for five, then Davey’s luck ran out. An attempted haymaker went straight off the edge of the bat for him to be caught at gulley. Parker took his bat as they crossed.
“Just keep it village green, Parker. Nothing else for it.
Parker proved to just of Davey’s ilk, but without his luck, nevertheless he hit a handy 18 before being clean bowled. Jones and Steel proved to be no more than bowlers with a bat in their hand and scored few, but Byford was edging the total upward. To Carravoy’s great frustration he was keeping the strike and scoring regularly. Jones stayed with him for a while, before being s
tumped and Steel lasted a little longer before edging a catch with the last ball of an over. Last man in; Joe Pike. Carr had a quick word before a very uneasy Joe advanced out to face the fray.
“We’re 201 for nine, Pike.”
Joe looked bemused. His Captain may as well have been speaking Latin.
“I can’t see us winning, but we’ve not been shamed. Just do your best and get what you can.”
Pike marched forward, the last batsman of the day, carrying his bat as though it were a musket with bayonet fixed. Carravoy saw little threat but saw enough to put himself back on, also his large, fast, Grenadier. Byford was playing everything, the weak link lay with Pike. The same took guard, but he was told by Heaviside that he was stood square in front of his stumps and must move. It was the good Captain who lined him up with the middle stump in order to receive the next ball. Carravoy bowled. The result was a clean, ferocious crack, heard before the ball sped back between Carravoy and the wicket to speed on for four runs. The next two balls produced much the same result, a four and two, Byford urging Pike on for the second run. The last three balls brought a four, a two, and another four. Pike was driving the ball back up the wicket with perfect timing and precision. Carravoy had been hit for 20 runs. Byford leaned on his bat and grinned. The large Grenadier was back on against him. Byford blocked the first, hit the next for two, then could only manage a single. Pike was back on strike, so Carravoy set his field placings to cover almost all of the “vee” either side of the wicket, to stop any drive, leaving no one behind the batsman. Pike hit the first hard and clean. It penetrated the field but was stopped. Only a single. Byford back on strike, and the last ball of the over brought two. Byford went to Joe, who now had strike.
“Well hit, lad, but he’s going to stop you. Anything you hit back at the bowler they’ll stop and he’ll bowl it straight, wanting you to drive. Try to hit something off to the side where there are few fielders. Don’t hold your bat so square, give it a bit of an angle.”
Worth Their Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regiment.) Page 32