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

by Martin McDowell

  “En avant, mes enfants.”

  Dim shapes ran off to both sides, many men, as was told by the heavy sound of military boots on cobblestones. Carravoy halted and the Masse’ began to retire, backwards, their faces to the threat. He soon joined them.

  “Prêt vos mousquets. Tire’”

  A volley erupted from the far side of the square. The muzzle flash threw a brief silhouette of Carravoy and his men onto the walls of their side of the square. Several Masse’ grunted and fell, two were picked up by their comrades and both were dragged and carried away. Carravoy felt a blow on the outside of his right thigh, but he kept on running, shouting “Retreat.” He and his Masse’ ran on up the road and sunk gratefully into the reeds. Shouts and shots came from both sides, Berkeley and Ameshurst were still in action, but the sound was coming closer and then muzzle flashes told Carravoy that they also were now in retreat. Minutes passed and Grenadiers began to reach them, breathing heavily from their fast run back. Carravoy was about to question them, when cannon roared out from the main entrance to the town; more than one, and grapeshot whistled down the main road, at chest height. Rather than risk troops in a night action with the Masse’, the French were traversing the area with cannonfire, barrels at zero elevation.

  Carravoy waited and waited and more of his Grenadiers returned in one’s and two’s. Eventually Lieutenant Ameshurst came in, bringing in about a dozen of his men. Carravoy seized his arm.

  “What happened?”

  “On our side, Sir, we got in and did some damage, knocked a few over certainly, but I can only say that the French reacted with astonishing rapidity, Sir. Within minutes we were facing whole companies of them. We had no choice but to fight our way out. Has Berkeley returned, Sir?”

  “No.”

  Ameshurst raised his voice, above the cannonfire.

  “Any here from Two Section?”

  An answer came from the dark.

  “Yes, Sir. Miller here, Sir.”

  “What of Lieutenant Berkeley?”

  “Can’t say, Sir. The last I saw of him he was organising a rearguard. He sent us back, Sir. That’s all I know.”

  oOo

  As Carravoy was re-gathering his men, Carr was leading his forward. Close to the town they came up to a Masse’, kneeling on the prone shape of a French sentry, blood from the sentry’s gaping throat soaking the collar of his uniform and glinting in the weak light from the town. Carr took his centre column straight in, the two borrowed files of Lights leading the way on either side, filing quickly on from position to position, the remaining two files and a menacing group of Masse’ just behind. Many of the Masse’ irregulars began to copy the simple tactics of Carr’s men as they advanced rapidly forward. A group of French soldiers emerged from a house to be quickly pounced on and silently dispatched. Carr shouted to his first two files.

  “First two files. Hold here. Cover us when we come back.”

  Carr and the Masse’ ran on and he soon saw their target building just as the sounds of Drake and Rushby’s attacks came to him. The building was easily identified, it had the highest windows, all showing dim candlelight. Carr, with his six remaining men and the Masse’ ran on and reached the door, finding it fully open, both door wings, and populated by a group of astonished French soldiers, unloading a wagon. Carr didn’t break stride but ran straight in, leaving the doomed French Storemen to be dispatched by the Masse’ irregulars. Inside were more French who were quickly shot or pounced upon by the eager and vengeful Masse; Carr himself felled an open mouthed French Officer, amazed to see red uniforms bursting into his warehouse at gone midnight. Carr looked for the best place to begin his fire. Barrels could be seen in the torchlight and some were smashed in to reveal brandy and some kind of oil. The contents were thrown together over some sacks that seemed to contain clothing, and Carr placed his sack of cartridges on top as did his two fellow incendiaries with theirs. The three of them broke open several cartridges, then one of the soldiers sparked two cartridges in the pan of his musket and tipped the fizzing powder onto the highly combustible pile. The result was an instant and violent conflagration that spread quickly across the warehouse, feeding on the contents of other smashed in barrels.

  “Time to go.”

  Carr both pushed and motioned his men out and back around the building, ignoring the cries of wounded Frenchman left at the doorway, with the contents now well alight, blazing inside with flames now issuing through the lower building windows. Carr, his Lights and the Masse’ sprinted back the way they had come.

  Miles, Davey and Pike held their position at the corner where Carr had placed them. Three more redcoats of the other file showed dimly across the street at the far corner. The garrison was coming to life, light showed in all windows around, and voices shouting in French were increasingly being heard. A light came on in the window behind Joe Pike, but Tom Miles had been giving the doors and windows of their closest buildings his full attention. He fired his grenade, waited for the short fuse to burn to the casing, then hurled the black sphere through the window. The loud explosion was followed by screams and then the door opened. Miles shot the first Frenchman to emerge, then smashed forward with the butt of his musket. Joe Pike fired through the door as Miles fixed his bayonet, but no more came forth. Miles shouted across the road.

  “You lot. Get your grenades in through those windows. Anyone in there, get ‘em dead!”

  The three did as they were bid and the three explosions went off in quick succession, starting a fire. Davey looked on into the town, in the direction where Captain Carr and his men had disappeared. The rapidly spreading fire in the target building began to illuminate the streets around them and several figures could be seen. The three opposite were firing up the street to their right, but there was nothing off to Miles’ left. From somewhere a bugle sounded recall. Davey spoke urgently.

  “Tom, looks like they’re comin’ back. Get loaded, and you Joe. We could be needed.”

  The six of them spread across the road as Carr came up with his six and the Masse’.

  “My six, form up.”

  Soon there were twelve across the road, and the Masse’, seeing what was happening, stopped and filled the gaps and a solid line soon formed. The French had quickly recovered, good Officers gathering men to mount a counterattack, and one group, at the charge and many in number, came directly after Carr. They were silhouetted perfectly by the burning building.

  “Present. Fire!”

  More than five dozen muskets were emptied at the pursuing group, causing many to stagger and tumble as they ran into the heavy volley. The French stopped. What else was down that dark street? Carr motioned all back to their first point of entry. Once out, on either side he saw Drake and Rushby’s sections forming their own firing line. The Masse’ were joining on where they could, thoroughly enjoying themselves; they knew how to fight, these Inglesi! Carr waited. An explosion erupted from somewhere in the town. Rushby’s section fired a volley. Carr counted the seconds of one minute. No more French appeared.

  “Job done, boys. Time for the off!”

  oOo

  The atmosphere at the Officer’s conference was as cold as the January wind sighing around the battlememts outside their high room. Carravoy sat head down, hands gripping the table edge, head lifting in ill temper, whilst Carr, untypically, sat erect and alert. Simmonds and Heaviside remained upright and stone faced. All knew of the loss of the Grenadiers and the loss of an experienced Officer, but their commiserations on his return had done little to raise the spirits of Carravoy. Frankly, he found them patronising, especially those from Carr.

  “Don’t let it get you down, Charles. It sounds as though you hit a whole battalion of those damned Voltigeurs. That’s why we wish each other luck. We have to resign ourselves to this from time to time, or give up the game.”

  “You attend to your affairs, Carr, and I’ll attend mine.”

  The frostiness still pervaded, but O’Hare was moving on.

  “What
is your assessment of the Masse’ for holding a prepared position? You first, Carr.”

  “I have every confidence, Sir. They understand the principles of a firing line well enough and can load as fast as a trained soldier. If we integrate them within our companies, Sir, that is, they fight as small groups alongside our men, then I see no problem, Sir.”

  “Carravoy?”

  “Mine behaved as a disorganised rabble that ran at the first threat. However, I’ll admit they are keen to fight, and, as Carr suggests, in small groups alongside our men, there are grounds for confidence.”

  “Any other comments?”

  Carr spoke again.

  “They are excellent nightfighters, Sir. They would control the area between our lines and those of the French, giving us warning of any night attack, and the Masse’ themselves are very adept at night raids. That’ll keep the French on edge, and awake!”

  At last some humour. Heaviside and Simmonds each managed a half smile.

  “Good, because I am withdrawing to the town. Our perimeter will be in three sectors; Carr facing Favazinna and the Aquile Ridge, Heaviside in the centre, Carravoy facing the Reggio road. We’ll use the Masse in both the ways you describe, Carr. Talk to Sciarpa, will you? You two seem to have “hit it off” well enough.”

  Carravoy became even more sour. Barely audible, he mumbled.

  “One damn brigand with another.”

  Carr heard, but let it go. O’Hare was closing the meeting.

  “Get off now, the three of youse Captains. Tour the town and decide on your sections. Heaviside, yours is the largest , Carravoy, yours to be the smallest.”

  It was the only reference that O’Hare made to Carravoy’s defeat, but it rankled with Carravoy the most.

  Carr took himself directly to the house when Sciarpa had his headquarters. The Masse’ Commander, and others, greeted him with loud shouts and waving arms.

  “Saluti, Capitano Carr, Saluti.”

  He then pressed a glass of fierce spirit onto Carr. He had one of his own, so Carr had no choice but to down the appalling liquid in unison. This time there was an interpreter and Carr had no trouble explaining to Sciarpa what O’Hare wanted the Masse’ to do. Sciarpa grinned contentedly and nodded vigorously. With all in place, Carr left to go, but Sciarpa stood up and held his sleeve.

  “Il mio buono compagno, comrade, Di Ui, dice, he say, altro Ufficiale, other Officer, he is fool, buffoon.”

  Carr bridled to the criticism of a fellow British Officer, however, resigned to his mission, he nodded slightly, but made no reply, and left.

  oOo

  Deakin and Halfway were leading a squad of men up the slope from the town, none carried any packs or haversacks, just “weapons and water”, but many carried axes and billhooks.

  “How far back did Heaviside say we had to take down these trees from the houses, Jed?”

  “Hush! I’m countin’”

  Deakin had reached 200, that being long exaggerated paces, each of which to him meant a yard.

  “Right, we’ll start with this one. Any up to here is cut down. Captain Heaviside wants a 200 yard field of fire, that’s to here. A time to break down, and a time to build up. Ecclesiasticus, 3, 3, is what he said.”

  He placed his hand on the trunk of a mature olive tree and looked up through the bare branches at an iron grey sky, such as to subdue and chill even the lightest spirit amongst them but all were heavy that day. He took off his coat and hefted his axe. Halfway was nearby.

  “It do seem too much of a sin to cut down trees as prime as these. What if we was to cut down fruit trees as good as these, back home?”

  Deakin made no reply, but swung his axe to make the first connection with the hard wood. Soon it was felled, and Deakin straightened up to ease his back, then to see Sergeant Major Gibney marching up.”

  “Right, thee’s started.”

  “Yes, Sar’ Major.”

  “Well, see that what thee’s felled, gets burnt. A felled tree’s better cover than one in place and growin’. But take what thee’ can for firewood.”

  “Yes, Sar’ Major.”

  Davey, Pike, and Miles were engaged on a similar task of destruction. Their’s was the noisiest; smashing out window frames, ripping up floorboards and nailing layers of them across the window opening, but leaving a narrow horizontal gap for a musket. Upstairs, in the few periods of quiet, could be heard other Lights picking loopholes in the walls.

  Miles turned to Davey, who was holding a floorboard in place for Miles to nail up.

  “Be that thee? Whimperin’?”

  “What have I got to whimper about, besides havin’ to spent too much time in the company of the likes of you!”

  “Well I can hear whimperin’ and I hears more and more of it, the more of these boards we rips up.”

  Davey looked down through the spaces between the joists. It wasn’t bare earth, it was ceiling laths with plaster pushed up between.

  “There’s a cellar down there.”

  Miles met his gaze.

  “Might have a few bottles, but how d’you get in? There’s no door outside. Try the scullery.”

  They took themselves to the furthest back room with its tubs and sink and searched for a trapdoor. They could see nothing obvious in the room, but they opened a cupboard and its floor was a trapdoor. Miles pulled at the ring handle and the door came up. Davey found what they next wanted.

  “Here. Here’s a candle.”

  This was ignited from Mile’s tinder box, and the yellow light of the candle showed narrow stairs down. Davey ventured down with Miles in close attendance, the candle held forward and down. The whimpering turned to crying. Reaching the bottom of the stairs showed the source. A collection of women and children were cowering in the corner; what they took to be the Mother, a Grandmother, and four of their children including two girls in their late teens. Even in the far gloom they could see that they were all filthy and unkempt, the remains of food scattered around and half empty sacks of supplies close by. Miles reacted first.

  “For Christ’s sake Mother, what the Hell are you playin’ at? You should be long gone, up into the hills. When the Frenchers find you, well, I’ve seen what they do. Don’t stay here, for the love of the Livin’ God.”

  All was, of course, wholly unintelligible to the cowering and terrified women and children. Miles turned to Davey, whose face showed deep concern even in the poor light of the candle.

  “What’s to be done?”

  Davey’s reply was immediate.

  “They can’t stay here. When it starts, this place could be burnt down. If they do stay and the French find ‘em, well, we’ve seen it.”

  He paused and thought.

  “They can’t go now to the hills. The French have closed in.”

  He thought again.

  “Is there a fishing boat still on the beach?”

  It was Miles’ time to think.

  “I recall seein’ a couple, still fishin’ and sellin’ to us.”

  “Right, let’s get them to the beach.”

  He raised his voice to a shout.

  “Joe, get down here. The door’s in the scullery. Bring some lads with you. ”

  A muffled reply filtered down, but soon the thumping of heavy boots told that Joe and others were on their way. Davey motioned the group of civilians to come forward. They had calmed down, clearly the soldiers meant them no harm, they were redcoats and had they meant any harm, it would have been done by now, but none moved. The Mother pointed to the Grandmother and advancing the candle showed that she couldn’t stand, she was crippled, hence their hiding, not fleeing. Joe appeared down the stairs. Miles turned away from regarding the family.

  “Joe, get a chair down here. We’ve got to get the old dear out. She can’t walk.”

  Joe called back up the stairs and a small chair was passed down. The frail old woman was lifted onto it and carried to the stairs, then passed up, almost horizontal. Davey posed the question.

  “How�
�d they get her down here in the first place?”

  “What’s that bloody matter? Down’s easier than up. A boat off the beach is what matters now, and quicker the better.”

  All processed down to the beach, carrying the old woman at shoulder height as though she were some kind of religious relic. They came onto the shingle and were relieved to see a boat still there, stern swinging with the waves, half in and half out of the churning water. The crew were there unloading fish, hard at work. The soldiers carried the woman down to the boat.

  “How do we make these understand?”

  “Well, Tom, you’re good at sign language. Start signin’!”

  The fishermen looked up at their approach and stopped work. Miles went up to the first. He pointed vigorously to the civilians, then to the shingle, then made an expansive gesture out over the waves. The fisherman looked at Miles as if he was a lunatic, then one of the girls came forward, laughing, stood besides Miles, and began to speak. It was a short conversation, soon concluded and happily. The fisherman motioned the party to the boat and all the family were helped aboard, many hands, both fisher and soldier lifting up the Grandmother, still in her chair. Miles, Davey, Pike and the others turned to go when the old woman began to talk furiously, at the same time pointing at Miles and motioning him back to the boat.

  “What’s she want?”

  “Well, go back down there and find out.”

  Miles went forward, reached the boat and looked up at the wizened, but now kindly face. She began genuflecting down at him whilst reciting weighty Catholic prayers. Miles indulgently remained looking up until a shower of water came down over him, thrown from a tiny glass bottle, and the names Frances of Paola and Saint Gaetano were loudly intoned. Tom Miles, now in temper, raised his hand to his forehead. All the soldiers were laughing loudly, which didn’t improve his mood, but John Davey knew the significance.

  “Leave it Tom, don’t wipe it off. She’s just blessed you. I think she just made you her Godson!”