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

by Martin McDowell

  The gales of laughter redoubled all round. Miles looked up, the water still dribbling down his face and he drew upon the few words of Italian he knew.

  “Grazi, Mother, Grazi. Arrivederci.”

  The woman and children waved as the boat was launched and the soldiers waved back, but the gesture was unaccompanied by any cheerfullness, rather accompanied wholly by sorrow; more sad civilians uprooted by war.

  On the new steps at the rear of the castle, Storeman Sedgwicke looked down upon the strange events with curiousity, but he reached no conclusion regarding what it was about. He quickly turned away to give his attention to the last few barrels and sacks; his head ached, as did his body, and he was mortally tired. Storeships had been arriving, which had determined the hours of his working, not by the hours of day or night, but by the tide and the vagiaries of the wind. Thus working through the night and by lamplight, had been common. Not only did he have to carry the supplies into the main store, but also some up the stone steps to the secondary magazines level with the high battlements. He had been working all the previous night, and his brain could not be cudgelled into further analysis of what he saw below on the beach. Some lightly wounded men, those with at least halfway sound arms and legs were providing aid to both himself and Pearson, but Pearson had not half the capability of any of them. The last stores were brought in, then came the decision on which would go further up. Boxes of small mortar shells, the heaviest, were the most obvious, so himself and two soldiers took two boxes between the three of them, Sedgwicke in the rear. The twisting stairway was carefully negotiated and then they were out in the blast of the wind that existed at that height. Still keeping single file the boxes were lugged into the store behind the battlement, the walkway being now very constricted by the sandbags, then they emerged back once more to repeat their journey. One of the soldiers looked over the battlements to the hills beyond.

  “Here comes our company, Parson. Johnny Frog in all his glory.”

  Sedgwicke followed his gaze, but that did not take in all that there was to see. He had to shift his view from side to side, for all around the circumference of the semi-circle of his view could be seen blue columns emerging from the trees and woods that covered the high ridges. Also, equally dense columns emerged from the grey mist that blurred the horizon to the South-West.

  oOo

  The Lights were on dawn “stand-to” in their houses, peering through the slowly lightening gloom towards where an attack may materialise, if at all. Several loaded muskets were ready to hand, propped against the wall. No-one spoke, all were concentrating on the small patch of ground revealed by their loop-hole or window slit. Footsteps sounded behind them, but no-one turned to the sound, so intent were they on what lay beyond the fortified wall of their house, but they did turn at the sound of Captain Carr’s voice.

  “Miles. Pike.”

  Both lowered their muskets and turned. Captain Carr was carrying two Baker Rifles.

  “From now on, I want you using these, they’re both from casualties. They’re too useful to be left idle. If you’ve any problems, ask Davey.”

  Both took the rifles and Pike examined his carefully, but Miles had a question.

  “Beg pardon, Sir, but we’ve heard that the French have taken Reggio. Any truth in that, Sir?’

  “Yes, I’m afraid there is. They took it on the 2nd; too damn easily from what I hear.”

  “It’s February now, is it Sir?”

  “Yes Miles, Spring’s on its way, but I think that the only heat we’re going to get in here, will be coming to us from 200 yards out there!”

  “Yes, Sir, but we’ll hold ‘em off, Sir.”

  Carr smiled and nodded, then left. Miles returned to his window slit.

  “Reggio. Pity. I sort of liked that place.”

  “Ah, right. That’s where you crooked that stallholder!”

  Shapes appeared in the half dark, but they soon removed their fingers from within their trigger guards. Masse’ were coming in whilst the half dawn still hid them from the French. This had been their routine for more than a week. Each day they heard the sound of skirmishing up in the woods, as the Masse’ bickered with the most advanced French. Each night also was punctuated by shots, but now the British recognised these as French muskets, the Charleville had a lighter bark than theirs, being smaller bore and longer. In the dark the Masse’ did their work with long sharp knives.

  The morning wore on, from breakfast to midday meal, then Pike, at the window turned to his resting companions.

  “There’s something going on.”

  Davey, prone on the floor, spoke from under the bandana covering his eyes.

  “How’d you know?”

  “There’s a lot more firing. Has been for some minutes. And look, all the Masse’ are coming back, some are wounded.”

  All in the room that were either lying on the floor or sat against the wall, bounded up to their positions. Ellis came through the door and shouted.

  “Stand to.”

  He left immediately to go elsewhere, almost embarrassed by the needless order. All around the perimeter the Masse’ were retiring in, none walking, all running, which told all that this was serious. Cannonfire sounded, but it came to them as echoes, its origins and targets impossible to judge, but what mattered to the soldiers at their loopholes and firing posts was that nothing was hitting them.

  O’Hare and Simmonds up on the highest point of the battlements, looking for developments, both using spyglasses, O’Hare to the hills, Simmonds to the plains further around to the right. Both saw lines of blue coated infantry, but only O’Hare saw field artillery that was accompanying the attack on Carr’s ridge front, but none elsewhere, and he took note of the size of the guns. The French field artillery was of a heavier calibre that the British, eight pounds rather than six, and the French had advanced them as far as they dared in front of their infantry. From there they were employed for counter battery fire against the castle, rather than the houses and barricades that were the objectives of their infantry.

  “George, what do you judge to be the distance of those pieces before Carr’s sector?’

  “Two hundred and fifty, give or take.”

  “I agree. I want our batteries up here to concentrate on the infantry. Get a message to Carr to get his rifles up to his upper windows and do what he can against their gunners. You’d agree?”

  “I would and consider it done.”

  O’Hare screwed his face as he raised his glass to his eye once again.

  “You know, I’m of a mind to say that this fellow doesn’t know what he’s about.”

  Simmonds didn’t enquire who O’Hare was referring to, but dashed off a note which was handed to a runner who sped down the steps with equal haste. Soon Ellis was re-appearing in the downstairs room of Miles, Pike, and Davey.”

  “You three, and anyone else with a Baker. Get upstairs. Captain’s orders.”

  The three identified, plus another, ran up to the bedrooms that faced out to the oncoming French. Ellis was with them and he indicated the loopholes.

  “Look out through these. You can make out their cannon. Pick off the gunners. Never mind the infantry, get the Frogs that man those guns.”

  Miles was not convinced.

  “But those cannon aren’t aimin’ at us, it’s the infantry that’s comin’ for us. Who takes care of them?”

  “You obey orders, Miles, or I’ll see you swing. The infantry’ll be taken care of.”

  Miles lifted the unfamiliar Baker through the nearest loophole. Davey had adjusted his sight for him.

  “Swing, will I? I don’t know how he can tell unless he looks along the gunbarrel same time as I!”

  It was Davey who replied.

  “Just get those gunners, Tom. They’m the danger, either now or later.”

  Davey pulled the trigger and brought his rifle in to begin a rapid reload. Miles looked along the sights and lined the foresight with the backsight and a French gunner about to use a ramr
od. He pulled the trigger. Through the thinning smoke Miles saw the gunner cling to the muzzle of his gun, without the ramrod, and slump to the ground to lie prone beneath the barrel. He raised his eyebrows in delighted surprise and began his own reload.

  All around the perimeter the firing lines waited, soldiers and Masse’, two deep or three, many with spare loaded muskets. Heaviside stood at a barricade, D’Villiers at his side, the former quoting from the Bible, the latter barely able to speak.

  “Is not the Lord gone out before thee? Judges, Chapter Four, verse fourteen.”

  “Y’yes Sir. But, will our men stand, Sir? There seem to be thousands of French.”

  “He will not fail thee, neither forsake thee: fear not, neither be dismayed. Deuteronomy, Chapter 31, verse 8.

  He turned to look fully upon D’Villiers.

  “And neither will our men, Lieutenant, properly led.”

  He climbed up besides those men and judged the distance to the advancing French. Then he shouted to all, near and far.

  “Right, men, we’ll give them 50 more yards then give them some more of what they got at Maida. Aim low men, better to blow off a toe than nothing at all!”

  His men grinned and chuckled at the grim, but familiar humour, then they heard what they had expected in the first place.

  “Let no man's heart fail because of him; thy servant will go and fight with this Philistine. First Samuel, Chapter 17, verse 32.”

  Heads shook in amused disbelief, mouths that were set in a grim line managed a smile, and fingers flexed around the stocks of their muskets and many checked again the priming in the pan. Heaviside stepped down and returned to D’Villiers. When close to him, he leaned forward and whispered.

  “Draw your sword, Lieutenant, and stand up alongside your men. Let them see that you are there. At fifty yards open fire, you give the order.”

  D’Villiers drew his ornate and expensive sword and did as required. Meanwhile, his friend, Lord Charles Carravoy was awash with a mixture of emotions; fear again, but also some determination; this time they suffer. Carravoy looked at Ameshurst, stood with his men, all at the make ready, and then at Gibney stood where Berkeley should have been. The sight of the absence of Berkeley and presence of Gibney gave a final push to Carravoy’s competing emotions. Gibney was closest, and carrying his musket he sidled over to Carravoy.

  “Beggin you pardon, Sir. But when do you want us to open fire, Sir? At what range? And will you give the order, Sir?”

  Carravoy’s reply was to ignore Gibney and shout, at the top of his lungs.

  “At under 100 yards we will open fire. Take your orders from me.”

  From somewhere came a shout.

  “We’ll give ‘em some back for Porticello, Sir.”

  Carravoy ignored it. He was intent upon the approaching French. He was both impressed and intimidated by their perfect alignment, their regular step to the beat of their drums. In addition, their fine uniform and the bravery of their Officers, advancing out in front, sword moving as they marched, but fear arrived within him again as the sound of their massed drums grew louder. Suddenly, from behind him he heard the roar of their own artillery from the castle and the unmistakable whine of grape whistling overhead to fling men backward to the earth as though they were discarded dolls. Carr and Heaviside, observing similar before their own positions, shared the same thought, as though linked by telepathy.

  “They can have some more of that, before we open fire.”

  O’Hare looked at all before and told himself, “So far, so good.”

  He was indeed content. The French artillery fire against the castle was wholly ineffective, firstly because the battlements were new and reinforced, secondly because so few cannon could maintain a high rate of fire, such was the toll exacted amongst the gunners from the accurate fire from Carr’s riflemen. He continued to watch, then smoke billowed from Carravoy’s position, then the sound of the volley came to him. Seconds later came the same from Heaviside and Carr. Ranks of Frenchmen were swept down as if by a giant hand and the punishment continued as the volleys by ranks crashed out. The French stood it for a minute, their Officers urging them on, some with their shakoes on the ends of their swords as they danced before their battered ranks. But to no avail, first the centre fell back, then those before Carr and Carravoy. The British muskets ceased, then his heart missed a beat. The Masse’ leapt over the barriers to pour forward after the fleeing French, there were some redcoats amongst them, but mercifully few. He turned to his bugler.

  “Sound recall, loud as you can.”

  The notes rang out and the redcoats stopped, but not the Masse’, barely a few stopped on seeing the redcoats halt at the sound of the recall. He put his glass to his eye and swept across the landscape, then he saw what he dreaded, French cavalry trotting forward in perfect formation, mercifully not a massed Brigade, but enough to do severe damage. He could only hope that the recall would save some. The Masse’ were now split in two waves. Some, blood up, were pursuing the French killing as many as they could reach, others, perhaps with less revenge in their hearts but certainly more prudence, had pursued as far as they felt the risk allowed. These had stopped and were making their way back, but for those far out, there was now little hope. In two squadrons, fanning out on either side, the French charged, not a headlong gallop, more a cold blooded canter. The slower speed would still catch the Masse’, and give more time for a precise and fatal blow. These had now realized their danger and were running back, dropping their weapons to aid their flight, but now many were being ridden down, the French Dragoons choosing their blow carefully, either a chop down onto the back of the neck or to just overtake and send a backhand swing back into the face.

  O’Hare saw a Masse’ Commander, Di Ui, he thought, rallying those closest to the British into some kind of firing line. He succeeded in establishing some kind of order, but his failure to achieve a perfect line was of more benefit, what he achieved was a solid block of men that could at least make their way back to the barricades. The Dragoons saw this obvious target and charged for it. The result was casualties on both sides, Masse’ killed with swords, and Dragoons by musket fire, and bodies in Dragoon blue and colourful Masse’ civilian marked the surviving Masse’s passage back to the British lines. The French had inflicted severe casualties on the Masse’, and lost men themselves doing it, these to be added to those lost in their main attack. O’Hare resignedly called the day a draw, but allowed in favour of the British.

  oOo

  Lieutenant Barnaby Rushby closed his greatcoat collar against the rain that was an infrequent event for this part of Calabria, but it was falling and it was wet. It was coming through a hole in the roof that hadn’t been there when he first came on duty, but the roof didn’t have his attention. He was looking for but hoping not to see the dreaded black dot. He had been told that if you could see it rise a little at the top of its trajectory, then you had half a second to get out of the way, because a cannonball was coming straight at you. He could be seen peering anxiously through the narrow firing slit of a top window of the house his section occupied. He waited for gaps in the smoke that shrouded the French gunline, through which to see the feverish activity exhibited by the French artillerymen, who were creating “black dots” for the opposing British as fast as they could.

  If O’Hare’s conclusion that the French Commander did not know what he was about was correct, in the days that followed he showed that he had learned his lesson. His field artillery had been pulled back out of musket range and ordered to concentrate on the houses and barricades from which the British and the Masse’ had taken such a heavy toll of the attack the previous day. The heavy, Naval thunder of newly arrived siege guns added to the weight of shot now sent against the flimsy houses and temporary barricades. The British and Masse’, holding their positions, had no choice but to sit and take it or withdraw. The guns in the castle could not reach their French counterparts to give either aid or succour. The worst of the punishment came on the L
ight Infantry sector, where the French had placed their siege guns, up the slope to give greater range.

  Carr and Drake were in discussion of their plight in the upstairs room next to Rushby’s, when a shot came in through the outside wall at such velocity that it went out the back, having punched a neat hole in both walls. Both looked at each other, final realisation now shared between them.

  “Get your men out and behind the baricades. They are more able to resist shot. All of them, and maintain a watch from there. Rushby’s to hold the next row of houses. I’m off to see the Major.”

  Carr found O’Hare and Simmonds observing all from their usual high vantage point intent on the action before them. Carr coughed politely. O’Hare turned and beckoned him forward.

  “I know what you are going to tell me, Captain, that we can no longer hold the outer perimeter of houses. It just causes us casualties with no gain. Moving on from there, I’m of the growing opinion that the whole town itself is untenable. If we withdraw from the outer houses, do we move back into them when the French attack again? I think not; that may well involve us in costly street fighting. I believe it is time to withdraw to the castle. Your opinion?”

  “Total agreement, Sir. It’s why I came.”

  Carr thought his reply, especially the last addition, sounded a trifle insolent. He added another “Sir”.

  O’Hare said nothing, so Carr continued.

  “I’ve pulled half my company back to the second line of houses, Sir, the rest are maintaining a watch from the barricades.”

  “Very prudent, Captain. I’ve just issued an order exactly to that effect. You and it must have crossed over, but I’m glad you’re here, as my unofficial liaison Officer. I will withdraw at night, but the castle won’t hold us all, us and the Masse’, who are still almost twice our number. Resisting a siege is a job for soldiers and artillerymen, not irregulars. They will add little to the defence, but add to the evacuation when it comes and add to the food and water we need brought to us. Also, if the castle does fall quickly, the Masse’ will be captured and we all now know what the French do to civilians who take up arms against them. They have to be taken off, so I’m sending a semaphore for transports to cross over tomorrow. Please convey this to Mr Sciarpa and ask him to be ready.”