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

by Martin McDowell

  “We heard all about your exploits, Colonel. Well done, well done indeed.”

  “Thank you, your Highness.”

  “You have to call me, Sir. I’m in military uniform, that of some high rank or other. I’m not sure which.”

  He turned back to Livermore.

  “What am I Livermore? In the Army, that is?”

  “You are a Colonel in Chief, Sir. Of a number of Regiments.”

  The Prince returned his attention to Lacey.

  “There you are, Lacey. A Colonel in Chief, no less.”

  He paused and resumed his tipsy grin.

  “Yes. As I say. Very well done indeed. Maida gave me an excuse to celebrate for at least two weeks.”

  He leaned back and raised his voice.

  “We gave ‘em one Hell of towelling. That’s what I say.”

  “Yes Sir.”

  “And Scilla. The defence of Scilla. They got more than they bargained for there, too. Am I right.”

  “Yes Sir, absolutely right, but that defence was conducted by my Second, Major O’Hare, just behind me here.”

  The Prince’s face fell a little at being ever so slightly contradicted, but he nevertheless peered around Lacey and said “Well done Major”. O’Hare, already at stiff attention, could do no more than mumble, “Thank you, Sir” past his erect sword.

  “Now then, Lacey. We are calling you the 105th The Prince of Wales Wessex Regiment. Does that suit?”

  He left no room for an answer.

  “We would have called you some kind of Somerset, but it seems that Somerset is rather full. How many, Livermore?”

  “Two, Your Highness. The 13th and the 40th. Not to mention the Yeomanry.”

  “There you are Lacey. Full. So, you are to be the 105th Regiment. The Prince of Wales Wessex Regiment. Now, when this is done, I want to meet all your Officers and get all the details of what we did. Maida and Scilla. All the details, mind. In that tent over there.”

  He pointed to an open fronted tent off to the side.

  “I’ve provided some refreshments. When you march off, you’ll stop on The Mall, I’ve made arrangements for your men, but I want you to bring your Officers back.”

  “Yes Sir. Thank you, Sir. They’ll be greatly honoured.”

  “Right. Let’s get these Colours handed over, then get on with the interesting stuff. Is all ready on your side?”

  “Yes Sir. The Colour Party is formed behind me.”

  “Good. I think we have the right ones. Emerald green, yes. Chosen by my wife, so I regard myself as blameless. Now, if you’ll stand aside, we’ll get this done.”

  Lacey saluted then marched off to stand beside O’Hare and draw his sword. He nodded to Gibney.

  “Colour Party. Atten shun!”

  No movement, they already were.

  “Colour Party. By the left. Forward march.”

  He allowed them to take five paces.

  “Colour Party. Halt.”

  Meanwhile, the two Majors had uncased the Colours. One was a huge Union Flag with a laurel circle in the centre that contained the Roman Numerals CV. The other also held a Union Flag, but only as a minor part, confined to the top corner next to the flagstaff. Its colour was bright green, and in the centre was a circle of myrtle leaves, a shrub common in Calabria, and in its centre, also the numerals CV. The Prince took this first, the Regimental Colour, from the nearest Major and carried it, needing two hands, to the nearest Ensign. The Ensign dropped to one knee to minimise the lift that the Prince would need to give to the standard in order to drop it into the cup of the plain leather holder. On one knee he proffered the cup with his left hand and, with his right, guided the base of the shaft into the cup. The Prince, well experienced, then held the shaft steady whilst the Ensign took the shaft just below the cloth with his right hand and rose to his feet and came to the attention.

  The Prince then turned and obtained the King’s Colour, the Union Flag and took it to the second Ensign. He also had dropped to one knee and was holding the cup forward. The process was repeated, but the Ensign had difficulty in standing and simultaneously retaining hold of the Colour. His right side was weak and he grimaced in pain and the standard lurched from the vertical. The Prince raised his own hands, but Jed Deakin, Colour Sergeant beside the Ensign, seized the shaft with his left hand and returned it upright. The Prince was shocked and the Ensign speechless with embarrassment and the pain besides, but Deakin spoke up.

  “Humble apologies, Your Highness, but our Ensign hasn’t quite recovered from his wound, yet, Sir.”

  The Prince looked at the Ensign, now thoroughly red, compared to the bright pink that he was just seconds ago. The Prince’s face showed no little sympathy.

  “What is your name, Ensign?”

  “Rushby. Sir.”

  “And where did you get your wound?”

  “Escaping from Scilla. Sir.”

  “Were you the last one out?”

  “So I’m told, Sir. But I was unconscious at the time, Sir, slung over the shoulder of one of our men. It was he that got me out. Sir.”

  “Was that your only wound?”

  “No Sir. That was my second. I was wounded just after Maida, Sir.”

  “Well, I can think of no-one more fitting to carry the King’s Colour. Have you a secure hold now?”

  “Yes Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

  The Prince of Wales turned to Colonel Lacey.

  “All done, Colonel. You’re a Line Regiment now. March your men away.”

  The last syllable was long drawn out and almost covered Lacey’s reply, who then turned once more to Gibney, and nodded.

  “Colour Party, left wheel.”

  The four, with their Colours, swung through 90 degrees.

  “Colour Party. By the left. March.”

  The Colour Party began their journey to the end of the column that had remained patiently at attention in four ranks. Lacey, O’Hare and Simmonds followed and seamlessly picked up the step. More orders rang out and the whole parade changed face and stood ready to march away. The Colour Party and the Senior Officers came to a halt at the end facing The Mall. The final order rested with Colonel O’Hare.

  “105th Regiment. By the left, quick march.”

  The band struck up a marching tune, “Ye Sons of Albion” and, with Colours released and flying, the 105th marched away and onto The Mall. Good chance would have it that this was the side where the spectators and families had been allowed to gather and the music from the band had competition from their cheers and shouts, all being accompanied by the waving of hats and handkerchiefs.

  oOo

  They didn’t go far. The marching off was merely for ceremonial purposes and the men, at least, had spotted a trestle table with kegs of rum, and further on, that which was most wished for, pay desks with their own Regimental Purser or his Clerks ensconced thereto. The parade halted and broke up, the men falling out into St James Park. Gibney was left in charge with the other NCO’s, as the Officers returned the way they had come, and the Colours were furled and left with the Colour Sergeants. This was the men’s chance for celebration and their families and well-wishers soon came the short distance down The Mall to join them. Families long parted were reunited amidst scenes of deepest joy and emotion. Many a son and daughter now measured their height against that of their Father and all were now some way further up to his shoulder, in some cases past, but more poignantly, hands were held and faces gazed into.

  John Davey was sat on a fence rail with Miles, Peters, Stiles, Pike and Mary, all being entertained by Deakin holding out the King’s Colour. The Regimental Colour was equally on display closeby and all took no small pride to see the word “Maida”, in a scroll to the right of the centre design. Tom Miles alone felt the need for a sour word.

  “One battlehonour. Don’t measure up at all to the list of the old Ninth.”

  However, he was quickly told to “shut his gob”, mostly by the women, and if he wanted to spread some misery, then he had bette
r “bugger off somewhere else”, but the rum cheered them all and also they sat contentedly waiting their turn at the Pay Table. Percy Sedgwicke was seen by Jed Deakin walking through the assembly, looking for someone perhaps, but certainly looking forlorn.

  “Parson! Come and sit with us. Have you got your rum? Be ‘ee lookin’ for someone?”

  “Yes to the first, was and found to the second.”

  “Well, come and sit with us for a while. Somehow we’ve got extra.”

  Deakin tipped a tot extra into Sedgwicke’s cup, causing his spirits to rise, but he couldn’t dismiss the image of his sister, just departed, who had given him money, but who could barely bring herself to look at him, he in his common soldier’s uniform. Deakin broke in upon his depressed thoughts.

  “This’ll cheer you up, Parson. Now we’n a Regiment, we’ll get a Chaplin. He’ll be lookin’ for assistants, I shouldn’t wonder.

  Deakin was right. Better cheer did arrive in the complex world of Sedgwicke. He looked cheerfully at Deakin, drank more rum, and also felt it.

  John Davey was taking the time to examine the look of his Chosen Man stripe when he heard a voice that caught his breath.

  “Hello, John. It’s me.”

  Davey turned and there was Molly and “Tilly, and a baby cradled at Molly’s hip. She was wearing a plain dress, well made and of good cloth, her lovely hair shiny and well kempt. The doxy was gone. She looked a well set wife and mother. Davey allowed his rifle to fall in the direction of Joe Pike, but it was Mary who caught it just in time. Davey himself was up and embracing Molly with his left arm, having lifted up ‘Tilly to cradle her in the crook of the other, but mostly he was looking at the baby held up to him by Molly.

  “This is John. I named him after you, ‘cos you weren’t around to say. He were born Christmas ‘fore last. That makes him 15 month old. He looks like you, ‘specially so according to your Mother.”

  Davey was lost for words, and for some time, but Molly said no more, and ‘Tilly clung to his neck. Eventually he found some words to say.

  “Did you get my letters. Parson wrote them. Did you get my pay? And did you get the note, you know, the note signed by Colonel Lacey?”

  “Yes we did, and it’s all safe, and the bank advanced money on the strength of it, but nothin’s been done with it yet. You’ll have to decide. Your Mother’s thinkin’ of a smallholding, that’ll grow food and make some money. She says you can always build a shelter or house on your own land. That’ll come of its own time. But it’s up to you. You won it. I hope it weren’t too hard!”

  “Ah, no Molly. He fell over at the first punch!”

  “I don’t bet. I’ll get the story from someone else.”

  But she said no more, Davey had taken them all in his arms.

  oOo

  The fare provided in the tent was sumptuous; all the delicacies of English cuisine, plus a few French, and certainly French wine, shipped through Portugal. The crowd was a mixture; immediate friends and family of the Officers, few of these being of any high social standing, but also many were there being of self described high society, the latter particularly wishing to rub shoulders with the principal socialite in all the land. They, and they were many, had drifted back with the Prince’s arrival. Himself was in his element, a full glass of chilled Chablis, a piece of quail pie, and victorious soldiers able to give him the full details of what had been done, how, and by whom. What’s more, details described by soldiers highly mindful of his personage, and who, therefore, would hold back no answer to his searching questions. He had interrogated both Lacey and O’Hare regarding the tactics and dispositions, and now he was looking for details. His eyes fell on the wounded Ensign, stood with two other Officers, and concluded that a wounded man must have been in the thick of it and so over he went.

  Carr, Drake, and Rushby immediately noticed the imposing and colourful figure that was heading in their direction and so their own conversation ceased immediately and all came to the attention.

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen, forgive my intrusion but you must allow me to ask regarding what we did in the Maida campaign. You were at both the battle and the siege, I take it?”

  Drake, being more at home in titled company, was the first to recover and fashion an answer.

  “Yes Sir. We are all Light Company, and so we were at both.

  “Light Company, you say? So, let me see if memory serves, you were under Kempt?”

  “Yes Sir. That’s correct.”

  “And you saw them off with two volleys?”

  “Well, Sir. Two would have done it, but we got off three.”

  “Three! Ha. Well, stap me and sink me! But did you blast ‘em? Send ‘em tumbling back?”

  “Why, yes Sir. I’d say that was about the best description of what actually happened as any I’ve heard, Sir.”

  “It is? You really don’t say? My, but didn’t we do well. And what of Scilla?”

  “Captain Carr here, Sir. He’s our Commanding Officer. He knows more of the details, Sir. He commanded the rearguard out of the castle and personally rescued one of our Officers who was wounded.”

  Carr cleared his throat and took a gulp of wine.

  “Well Sir, we fought them all the way as they closed in, from the mountains down to the last boat. But we made them pay, Sir. For every yard. I can safely tell you that.”

  The Prince changed the subject.

  “Your Colonel tells me that some of your Company were armed with rifles, Baker or some such.”

  “Yes Sir. About 36 had Bakers, bought by our own Colonel, Sir. They proved invaluable, more than once we gave the French a nasty surprise. Twice, for instance, we forced them to abandon their guns with accurate rifle fire. It was a major factor, as you can imagine. And French grenades were highly useful, too, in our hands, when they were scaling the walls.”

  “Bakers” you say. That we must remember and make enquiries. Would you recommend them for Light Infantry?”

  “Oh, yes Sir. Beyond question. They give you a very valuable advantage, Sir, in the skirmishing prior to the main line versus line engagement, and even during that. You can open fire before they do.”

  “Bakers. Right. Got that Thresher?”

  He turned around to half face a stone-faced Major, stood behind the Prince to hold his glass or furnish him with more quail pie.

  “Now, back to Maida, what of the other flank, the left, where things got a mite anxious?”

  Drake answered again.

  “I’m afraid we can provide no detail, Sir. We remained on the right. But……”

  He looked around.

  “That tall Officer there, Sir.”

  He pointed to Carravoy stood just outside the tent in the close company of D’Villiers and both their families.

  “He is Captain of our Grenadiers, Sir. He was on that side and it was his men that formed the new front when the Voltiguers threatened to get around our flank, Sir. He was shoulder to shoulder with the men, Sir. Part of the whole thing.”

  Something in the Prince’s mind now told him that there was a better place to be. He took a mouthful of his pie, grinned with bulging cheeks, raised his glass to them all, sipped from it, then left, making a bee-line for Carravoy and his ensemble. Rushby visibly relaxed.

  “God, I thought he was going to mention the flag. I’ve never felt so mortifyingly shown up. Toppling the standard.”

  It was Carr who spoke.

  “Well, you can put that thought right out of your head. I’ve heard of able bodied Ensigns who let the damn thing tumble onto the King’s head. The King! You have a honourable wound and what flag falling there was I didn’t notice. I thought it was all part of the business of handing over. So dwell on it no more. That’s an order. You’re a hero of Maida and the siege of Scilla, wounded twice. Go and find some girls to boast about it to. That’s another order. I don’t doubt that if you walk outside this tent, then they’ll find you. Go.”

  Rushby went, face alight, in much better humour, and the
two remaining looked at each other, but it was Carr who spoke again, predicating his words with a long sigh.

  “Are your people, here?”

  “No. Too far, too little notice, but they may get in this evening. Rushby’s are though. Yours?”

  “No. As you say, too far.”

  He took a deep breath.

  “Suddenly it’s damn stuffy in here. Let’s get outside and pray that his Royal Highness doesn’t delay us here too long. There can’t be much more that anyone can tell him about our brush with Johnny. Pray he departs soon.”

  It was Drake who replied.

  “Food first!”

  “Oh, yes. Food.”

  They both filled their plates and took them to eat in the open air. The space they found for themselves was close to where the Prince of Wales was grilling Carravoy and D’Villiers before the enthralled and deeply honoured audience of their immediate families. Drake finished first and returned for more. In his absence Carr’s attention came suddenly to an approaching female figure that he instantly recognised as Cecily Fynings. She was alone. He gave his plate to a passing servant and came to the attention, but she broke that by holding out her hands, which he took without thinking, but the absence of Jane Perry disabled his thoughts. He stood silent, but she soon compensated.

  “Henry. It’s lovely to see you, but you’ve got thinner, and brown, and you’ve another wound. It’s plain you’ve not been taking care of yourself.”

  Carr had recovered.

  “Hello Cecily, it’s wonderful to see you. Are you looking for Nat? He’s gone for food. He should return in the time it takes for him to pile his plate high for a second time, so I’m afraid he should be quite a while.”

  She laughed and looked at him, but he refrained from the question he longed to ask. Then she answered what was unspoken.

  “Jane couldn’t come. Her Father forbade her. Your Regiment, and you in particular, I’m told, are high on his list of persona non grata. She was forced to remain in Taunton. But, be assured Henry, she dearly wanted to come.”

  Her hand went into her purse. It emerged with a folded letter, pure cream, high quality paper, held closed by a neat red seal.