oOo
Dusk was changing the light as Davey, with Miles, Pike and Mary in attendance, washed himself in a large tub of clean water. Everything ached, but he had enough in him to return thanks to all those who came to shout their congratulations. His prize money rested in its leather bag on the trestle besides the tub. It wasn’t long before Obediah Hill came along, carrying another, which he dropped onto the table besides the original.
“Ten pounds, 16 shillings, and eight pence. Your share of the hat going round. All the lads threw in. That was some fight, Davey, many said they hadn’t never seen the like. Mr Carr put in £5, saying somethin’ about sharin’ his winnings. So, what happens now, to the money, I mean?”
Davey tried to reply, still out of breath.
“I sends it to my Molly, she’s with my Mother. I’ve got a letter, it was waitin’ here when we came back. Our local Vicar wrote it. She reached my Mother’s, the child too.”
Hill looked anxious.
“Are you going to send it all.?”
“Yes. This makes it up to 40 guineas.”
“John. Forgive me saying this. But it that wise? You wants to send 40 guineas to Molly Dixon! And you reckon she’ll be back there, with the money to greet you when we reaches home? I’m sorry John, but that’s the question.”
Davey bridled at the words, not severely, but he didn’t like what was being implied.
“Yes, I do reckon she’ll be there. That’s what it’s all about. With that money, I can make a good home for her, “Tilly and me. I trust her.”
“Your decision, John, I meant no offence, I just think it needed sayin’, is all. If you’m fully sure, this is my advice. You could, through the Purser, send it back with a letter of credit, that only you can cash when you gets home, if you produce a receipt, signed here by the Colonel. That’ll keep it safe from any twisted courier and safe for only you.”
“What if I’m killed. She won’t be able to get the money as my wife because we aren’t church married. If I’m killed, then she can still get the money if she gets that letter of credit signed by the Colonel. That will allow the bearer to draw on the battalion’s account. She can find him when the battalion returns. That’s what I want, and that’s what we’ll do.”
Hill could see that Davey was unmoveable.
“I hope you’re right John, and, well, good luck to you all the same.”
The next day saw Davey enter the Purser’s tent, down through a corridor of cheering wellwishers. He handed over the prize money and obtained a receipt and a Letter of Credit. This he took to the Colonel’s tent and waited an hour for Lacey to see him. Lacey studied both.
“Where do these go?”
“The receipt I keep, Sir. The Letter of Credit I’m sendin’ to my wife, Sir. You may find yourself signin’ it again to release the money, Sir, when we gets back home.”
Lacey nodded, drew the pen from the inkwell and added his signature to both.
“There you are, Davey. A good performance yesterday. Well done.”
“Thank you, Sir,”
Davey took one pace back, saluted and left.
Lacey returned to his correspondence. One letter demanded his attention before that of all others. It was in a heavy paper cover, sealed with the stamp of their new Commander, General Henry Fox. He opened it and read to halfway down, when he allowed all the breath to leave his body. The orders read;
“….. to prepare three companies from your command for embarkation to the fortress of Scilla, there to form the garrison. Command will be a Major and a Second, chosen by yourself.”
Lacey threw the letter across to O’Hare, who was taking his ease at the tent entrance. After O’Hare had read the letter, Lacey posed the big question.
“Who do I send?”
“It has to be our best, Sir. The Grenadiers, The Lights, and Number Three.
“Will you take command?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll give you George Simmonds as Second. He knows all about castles and sieges and such. You can have Gibney too. Oh, and some storemen. Sedgwicke seems fairly competent. And Pearson, too, as the Senior.”
oOo
Chapter Twelve
An Active Garrison
The collection of soldiers emerging from the castlegate, were plainly in holiday mood. Those beyond earshot, needed only to observe the antics and horseplay, whilst those within hearing, would draw their own conclusions from the shouts and hoots of laughter. Evidently, some of the garrison were off to their favoured “sbara” in the town, off duty and out for enjoyment. They progressed ingloriously along the causeway, close to the many fishing craft drawn up on the beach to their left, the proud crafts’ painted eyes mystically glaring forward from their bows, their stare made more intense by the contrast between the fierce black and white of the eye and the bright reds, blues, and greens of the rest of the hull. The local fishermen gave the capering soldiers less than a glance, as they worked or lounged, mending nets or discussing tomorrows fishing ground after this day’s fishing in The Straits. The day had been good, proven by the baskets of fish being carried up to the town along both sides of the causeway, for fish were also coming onto the causeway from the other side, landed from the boats that called the alternative beach their home.
Another group of soldiers followed, through the same gates that had not been shut for a year, a fact made plain by the build up of pebbles and shingle against their lower sections, which would need some serious shovelling should the time come again when they needed closing against the arrival of another determined foe. This group was less raucous and had an observer been told that these were family men, they would not have been surprised. Steady and sober, they turned right at the end of the causeway to take the streets that led through the town up to the family encampment. A close observer would have noticed full haversacks on many, enough rations for a family. This had given the men cause for cheer equal to that of the preceding group, although it gave rise to nothing as demonstrative as those previous. A supply ship had just arrived, her bowsprit emerging from behind the seaward castle wall, barely moving to the onset of the regular, harmless waves.
The workday done, soon the town square would fill with its civilian inhabitants, themselves come to spend the back end of the day relaxing, taking a drink of wine outside the sbarra, talking to friends and watching what came. There was nothing special about the day, but some of a garrison of soldiery, containing many who looked to the town for entertainment to break the drudgery of duty and drill in an ancient stone castle, usually livened up most evenings. Usually there was music and dancing of the traditional kind, and many of the soldiers had learned the steps and moves over the past months, their red jackets adding both contrast and colour to the dancing lines of men, women, boys and girls. As the family men passed on up through the town it was clear that this evening would be no different, the drums, fifes, whistles and fiddles were all gathering, and it was common, and this evening was no exception, to see redcoat musicians amongst the accompaniment.
Deakin, Halfway and Davey were amongst the second group, certainly counting themselves as “family men”, and with them Joe Pike, who considered himself as thoroughly “attached”. Tom Miles was with neither. He was on sentry on the seaward battlements, displaying an aggrieved scowl to match that of the lowering battlements that he was guarding. The four “providers” passed the last of the town and took the well defined path up to the family tents, just out of the town and up the slope. The criss-cross of deep and well worn tracks evidenced the length of their stay over the past many months, as did the many additions to the tents; stone walls, pig pens, chicken runs and kitchen gardens, even a cow. Nor did any family members now sit on the ground, rough and robust furniture now civilised the entrance to all the family tents, and even most of those tents that were inhabited solely by male soldiery. Bridie Deakin, as she now called herself, greeted her men and then her main man with a kiss. She cooked for them all, and all took their ease on the stools and
benches, handing across the rations just landed, salt pork, fresh biscuit and flour, dried peas and beans, and even potatoes. The supply ship had been very welcome. All sat in the late afternoon sunshine, enjoying the cool breeze. It was August, 1807.
However, the ship had not proved to be so welcome to the Commanding Officer, Major Padraigh O’Hare. She had brought despatches from another new Army Commander, General Sherbrooke, with disturbing news, such that O’Hare had called his Second and his three Captains to his quarters for a conference. They were in the highest room in the castle, light and airey, with the sound of the lapping waves joining the bright sunlight that entered the open window. O’Hare wasted no time on pleasantries; Major Simmonds and Captains Carr, Carravoy and Heaviside listened intently.
“The French have re-invaded. They have taken several towns, including Catanzarro, and the Calabrian insurrection after our victory at Maida is now largely suppressed. If they are determined to clear us out also, well, the Neopolitan Army and the Masse’ will hold them up, but eventually they will reach here. There may be two strands to their assault. There is a rumour that they will start with Reggio. That makes sense, a quick gain to deprive us of a port, and gain one themselves, rather than belabour their way down to here, fighting across the hills, to slowly close on us. I’m saying when they come, not if, and they’ll take Reggio; I can’t bring myself to trust any Neopolitan Army to resist a long siege down there.”
Simmonds spoke up.
“They held out at Gaeta, that fortress North of Naples.”
“Only with our best support. General Sherbrooke says nothing about making such an effort with them, nor us, for that matter. His silence speaks volumes. Without orders we can only assume that we do the best we can, and then withdraw. Gaeta notwithstanding, the Neapolitan Army has done nothing since of much military note. We have to assume that the French will push them aside and then they will reach here, and then we will be under siege. What’s your assessment? You first, George.”
Major George Simmonds, the siege and fortification specialist, placed the fingers of both hands to cover his mouth. He took a breath, removed his fingers and spoke.
“Well, we’ve rebuilt the damage that we inflicted, and it’s better than before, in my opinion. What gives me greatest comfort is the stairway we’ve cut in the rock down to the beach facing The Strait. We can both receive supplies, reinforcements and evacuate out of the enemy’s direct field of fire. However, what we did, so can they. A battery of 24 pounders will eventually reduce the defences of this place to make it untenable, then it’s our decision; how much of a fight do we want to put up? For how long?”
O’Hare turned to Carravoy.
“Charles?”
“I think that Major Simmonds is most accurate in his assessment, Sir. I’ve nothing to add apart from to emphasise the question that when defeat is inevitable, the weighty decision is; how long do we attempt to hold out?”
“Henry?”
“I say we make them pay; for every foot of rampart. We put up a fight and show them that we don’t give in when a bunch of ladders are thrown down before us. It’s about creating respect, Sir, and making them worried, afraid, for the next time they’re faced with a red coat.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“Well, Sir, they came at us at Maida as though we were nothing. To advance without even firing a volley, as though the mere sight of their bayonets would make us turn and run, shows me that they hold us in contempt. I say that we hold this place to the absolute last point of expediency, to show them that when they see redcoats it means that what comes next will be hard and costly. Wherever and whenever, we show them just how good we are. This is just a small incident at the start a long war, Sir.”
O’Hare looked down and smiled slightly at this firebrand speech. Carravoy looked astonished, shocked at so outward a show of feeling. Heaviside’s face showed no change, neither did that of Major Simmonds. O’Hare continued.
“As you say, possibly, but is this place tenable? Can we make a stand here, with a chance of evacuation, having dealt the French a bloody nose? I say yes. Any disagreement?”
All four shook their heads, but Carr with enthusiasm, Carravoy resignedly, face down. O’Hare did not fail to notice.
“Right. I will now reply to General Sherbrooke informing him that we are prepared to withstand a siege, we’ll put up a fight, to quote Captain Carr, but I’ll also point out that left to our own devices evacuation is inevitable. However, we are prepared to do stay here and do as much damage to the French as we can. Any comments?”
Carr spoke.
“No Sir. None from me.”
The other three allowed silence to convey their acquiescence.
“Right. From now on we are preparing for a siege. Major Simmonds, what’s to be done?”
“First is to prepare sandbags. We cannot have enough. Firstly, to pile behind the battlements to give them weight when the shot begins to strike. That’ll also stop chunks of stone flying back into the castle. Any left over, go to the gate, for when the time comes that we are thoroughly locked in. Next, is the obvious, to check our stores and weapons and set up secondary magazines closer to the battlements where we will be returning fire. If I had my way, we’d demolish the houses opposite to give us a bigger field of fire, but my guess is that that would not be very politic. Relations with the locals at present are good.”
“The first two, yes. The last, no, as you yourself have deduced. These people will be in for enough misery as it is, without us blowing up their homes. To still keep the Masse’ on our side, and local support, is worth more than a few feet added to any glacis. So, we start with shoring up the battlements, any bastion first, or both together?”
The question was directed at Simmonds.
“Both together, left and right. The French will start by attacking both.
Through the rest of August and through September the daily activity was to be the winching of bags and sacks, full of sand, up to the embrasures atop the two bastions. As the stack of sandbags grew higher, so did the tension, for the work on the battlements sent an obvious message to both townsfolk and garrison. It was reinforced by both fact and rumour that came over the mountains of French preparations to the North and their being seen in closer and closer locations. September turning into October saw the Masse’ in almost continuous conflict, skirmishing with the French as they probed into the hills, and the Masse’ themselves trying to impede the French by blocking passes and tearing down bridges and revetments. A telegraph semaphore erected on the seaward side of the castle gave O’Hare daily communication with General Serbrooke, but the news coming into the Castle showed the inexorable French build up of men and material to begin the siege. October saw the first storm in The Strait, closing communication, and this forced O’Hare’s decision. He issued an Order of the Day. It read simply: “10th October. All dependants and relations of the British Garrison are to prepare for evacuation, weather permitting, on the 13th October. Signed Major P. O’Hare. Officer Commanding.
Gloom spread through the camp, and not a little through the town, relationships had spread beyond British soldier exclusively with British female, but stoicism was the only possible response and tents were struck, livestock sold and half grown vegetables pulled up prematurely and examined for any worth. On the morning of the 13th, soldiers and their families, all burdened, progressed into the town and onto the beaches. One large transport awaited their arrival, 5 minutes’ sailing away, lifting and leaning on the choppy sea, mercifully the good side of “rough”, in no way stormy, but nevertheless, not calm. With the state of the sea, the local fishermen had volunteered their craft to take the women and children off the beach and out to the waiting transport. All were grateful, their local skills and knowledge would make everything safer and speedier.
The soldiers and their families waited and parted when their turn came, affection and sadness obvious amongst all, but shown at different levels of intensity. Jed and Bridie Deakin, hel
d hands for a second or two, kissed and smiled gently whilst their comrades lifted in the children, lifted high to prevent their getting wet, then Bridie herself climbed the short ladder. However, Joe Pike and Mary OKeefe clung together until the very last second, she crying and him doing his best to re-assure.
“I came back last time, didn’t I?”
Eventually, the last act was the last boat slanting under shortened sail out to the transport. All soldiers involved were allowed to the uppermost battlement and watched as the transport turned into the wind and set only cautious sail to take them back across The Straits. White handkerchiefs waved from the decks for almost an hour, until a bank of rain tracked in from the South West and hid all but the white sails, turning them to a ghostly grey. Jed Deakin looked at Joe Pike as they pulled themselves away from the battlements.
“Well, that’s it for family life, at least for a while. Back to messmate livin’ and cookin’. And sleepin’.” He placed his hand on Joe’s shoulder and eased him away.
oOo
French cannonfire, both grape and solid, was stripping the roof off the hovel that served as a shepherd’s hut on the Aquile Ridge, the last high ground to the East, that topped the hills leading down to Scilla. Slate and timber were falling down upon the defending soldiers, whilst the thick walls were proving more durable to the light mountain guns, but plaster and mortar falling off their insides told their own story that these also would not last long. The hut was the centre point of a defensive line of hedges, embankments and stonewalls that through November and December had held the French away from a sight of Scilla, but now they were mounting a serious assault, evidently soon to be successful. The hut was drawing fire, and its continued occupation would only mean death or injury for any defenders. Carr shouted orders to the few occupants remaining as another solid shot sailed through the roof and out the other side.
Worth Their Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regiment.) Page 51