“Right, good. Now, you’re dismissed. I’ve a mind for some more sleep. The motion of the waves and having so little to do, can at any time send me off to the Land of Nod, I'm finding. All I have to do is close my eyes.”
“Same here, funny that, but I’ll take a turn on the deck. Perhaps to think of a few more embarrassing anecdotes for your post wedding celebrations.”
He rose from the cot and left, leaving Carr to himself on the crude structure, unfortunately not quite long enough for a full stretch.
Ten days later both were descending the gangplank at Weymouth, their usual port of both arrival and embarkation, both carrying a large carpet portmanteau. However, both did not leave immediately, instead they assembled their wounded, 23 in all.
“Men. You have your pay?”
Answers to the affirmative came from all.
“Good, if you choose, get yourselves to Taunton, and we’ll see what can be done. Both Captain Drake and I will approach the local Pension Board. We make no promises, but we will try.”
A Sergeant of Grenadiers stepped forward. He was missing a foot and leaning heavily on his crutch.
“Jem Nicholls, Sir. I’m sure we’re all grateful for anything you can do.”
Carr nodded.
“See you all at Taunton barracks. We’ll do our best.”
With that, Carr and Drake took themselves to a local Ostler where two horses were hired and then, with their portmanteaux bouncing behind them, they were soon on the straight road to Dorchester. They did not give a glance to Maiden Castle, off high to their left, and it was with impatience that they found an Inn for the night at Ilminster; so near, yet so far from Taunton. However, their impatience did not prevent some forethought, this coming from Drake.
“We can’t just bounce up, out of the dawn! We’ve had no time to send any word, at all.”
Carr rose and left the room.
“I think I know what will serve.”
He rummaged in his portmanteau to find paper and pencil, with which he wrote a hasty note, then out to the pump room, where he placed two guinea coins on the bar, with the note beneath and then he looked squarely at the Innkeeper.
“These guineas, if you can get this message to a house in Cheddon Fitzpaine, just beyond Taunton. To get there early next morning.”
The Innkeeper placed a large hand over both coins, and then picked up the note.
“My son, Sir. He’ll see ‘tis done. Does the house have a name?”
“Yes. Fynings Court. It’s written on the note.”
Carr looked at the Innkeeper steadily and received a steady, trustworthy look back. He nodded to the Innkeeper and returned to his room. Both slept soundly and were only partially wakened at around 4.00 am, by the sound of iron shod hooves on the cobblestones in the yard below their window, this slight wakening caused by the subconscious fear that all infantrymen have of the surprise arrival of enemy cavalry. The sun had just left the horizon as they took the Taunton road, both now in their greatcoats against the late October weather. Carr paid the Turnpike and they made good progress along the good road, soon to cross the Bristol Turnpike that ran into Taunton itself, but they were going beyond, to the North. The spirits of both rose as the familiar sights of Cheddon Fitzpaine were passed, one by one, to finally take the known and familiar turning for the road that would lead past the longed for gates. They arrived at the ornate construction, already open and both entered to find an already attentive Groom to take their horses. Carr spoke, not looking at the man, but gazing at the imposing Tudor façade of Fynings Court.
“Get these back to the Ostler in Ilminster.”
The forehead was knuckled and Carr followed Drake to the door. He was already there when the door opened and Cecily came flying out with all the speed that her condition would allow. Their embrace was fierce but brief, as Drake disengaged himself to examine the now very prominent state of her pregnancy. She was closely followed by Jane, who with much more decorum walked up to Carr, but there the decorum ended, as all four hands were joined, and both looked at each other with a depth of affection that blanked out all other sounds and all other people. Finally, Jane spoke.
“Henry!”
Carr could only mange a choked laugh, such was the tightness in his throat, then he finally managed to bring his vocal cords under control.
“Jane!”
Now she smiled.
“You look terrible, but then you always do when you come back from that dreadful place!”
“Then you need feeding, much and often!”
This last from Lady Constance Fynings, who had been standing nearby, unnoticed in the circumstances and so now she spoke further.
“All is ready! You only have to come inside.”
Carr released Jane’s hands and he walked over to Lady Constance, to then bring his heels together and bow over her hand.
“Lady Constance. I cannot thank you enough for all that you have done.”
“Nonsense! Right’s right, you know.”
Carr smiled.
“You know, I heard that not so long ago from an Irish Sergeant.”
“Well, good for him! Now, inside all of you, this is not the best of weather for such as Cecily.”
Servants had long picked up their portmanteaus and so all went inside where they found a large table covered in hot breakfast food. Drake was already at table and stuffing a napkin into the top of his tunic. After engorging themselves, for both men the rest of the day was spent in close company of she who mattered most, each couple never more than arms length from the other. Sat by the fire, Jane raised the subject of their wedding, by tugging at his arm.
“You’ve a job to do!”
Carr pulled himself out of his half wakeful state.
“And what’s that?”
“You must go to the Bishop of Bath and Wells, to get a Licence.”
He was now fully awake and more than a little concerned.
“Licence?”
Lady Constance was sat opposite and raised her head from her embroidery.
“Yes. Our local Vicar is refusing to read the Banns.”
Carr looked at her, plainly much puzzled, but she answered immediately.
“Yes. On the grounds that you are not resident in this Parish.”
Carr sat bolt upright.
“But this is the home barracks of my Regiment! Of course this is my residence. Does he expect me to have the Banns read in a town called Badajoz, on the border?”
“He doesn’t see it that way, I’m afraid, and I suspect some influence. Malign influence from some quarter! Did you know that Jane’s Father is back in England, having been sent home by Wellington, and with him that odious man Tavender. The latter on leave. He came here asking to see Jane. I threatened to put the dogs on him!”
Carr stared at her, his concern obvious as Lady Constance continued.
“Yes, he did. It’s no secret that Jane’s Father wishes her to marry this Tavender. Appalling notion! They’ve been here now for about three days."
Drake was now paying full attention.
“Marry Tavender! Ughh, but God’s Truth, that must have been a fast passage!”
Lady Constance turned to him.
“The Tavenders have their own yacht! ”
Drake subsided and returned his head to Cecily’s shoulder, but Jane was tugging at Carr’s arm.
“But it’s all right! Lady Constance is a personal friend of the Bishop and the paper is there, now, waiting. You have only to go and collect it.”
“Then what?”
Jane looked at Lady Constance, who answered.
“Give it to my Vicar. Fynings Court has its own Church and I’ve drummed up a Vicar acquaintance of mine. Retired, but not long.”
Jane tugged his arm again.
“So there you are. It’s all right. No need to worry!”
But Carr did. The destructive influence of General Perry and the scheming of Lucius Tavender were thoroughly uppermost in his mind, borne of the
past and supported by recent events. However, at dinner they met the retired Vicar and a more cheerful and jovial man it would be difficult to imagine and he lifted the spirits of all, even those of Carr, which required the most elevation. However, eventually the good wine and the good company and the fact that he could now gaze, to the edge of embarrassment, at Jane as much as he liked, buoyed him up. When the women had withdrawn and the port and nuts were circulating, the Vicar, him being the Reverend James Pendlebury, made things clear.
“Get the Licence to me soonest. That will not be difficult, for I am residing here as long as I’m required. I then, with that authority, enter the forthcoming marriage in the Register, to be completed on the day. That happy day!”
He raised his glass, to find it empty.
“Oh dear, that will never do.”
He pointed along the table.
“Captain Drake. The port lies with you.”
The port was slid down the table, via Carr and the bucolic Cleric poured himself another measure. The full glass was raised and acknowledged by Drake and Carr. The remaining time over which the three were alone together, was occupied by Carr and Drake forming an attentive audience to the Vicar’s stories from Parishes of the past, which pleased both Drake and Carr to be returned, via his cheerful discourse, to the peaceful world of an English Parish. When they rejoined the ladies, they played a few games of backgammon, before retiring and Carr won every time, to find himself condemned by Jane.
“You’re too good. You’re horrid! I hate you!”
Yet, the two found the time and the space for a quiet moment alone. Little was said, because too much time was spent gazing into the eyes of the other whilst their hands were joined together. However when the servants began their rounds to close down the house, Jane did say one thing.
“What my Father said about you in his letter was terrible! I’m going to write a reply and you’ll have to help me write it.”
Carr could only nod his thanks before he raised her right hand and kissed it, then each departed to their room.
The following day, Carr was back by Noon from his errand. The paper was handed to the beaming Pendlebury, who read it fully and pronounced all to be well.
“Right! Off to the Fyning’s Register of Hatches, Matches and Despatches!”
He then beetled off to the nearest door that led to the Church and Carr looked at Drake, both laughing.
“Right, we’ve had our lazy day. We must see about the Militia.”
He threw Drake his greatcoat.
“We start at the barracks.”
Two good horses soon carried then back across the Bristol Turnpike and soon after that, the low, grey, flat walls of Taunton barracks could be seen, up on its slight hill, built and designed as much to keep rebellion out, as brutal soldiery in. They rode through the familiar gate arch, the sturdy gates pinned back, for them both to dismount and hitch their horses to a ring. Drake looked through a window then gazed down the empty Square.
“Not much about!”
“Let’s try the Colonel’s Office. There may be someone there.”
He was correct. An old Sergeant, easily middle-aged, managed to raise himself at the sight of a Major’s uniform and salute.
“Sirs. How can I help?”
“We’re just back from the Peninsula. The 105th has suffered some casualties and need replacements, so I need to see the Colonel of the Militia. Can you help with that?”
The Sergeant was still standing at an odd angle, plainly from some old wound.
“Please sit, Sergeant.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
He did, then he opened a drawer to extract a large Register.
“This is the Muster Roll, Sir. As we speak we have a Company of 145. The Colonel is the Honourable Ambrose Brockenhust, he’s our local MP and the Major is St John Slade. They have been in command for about 18 months, Sir, since Colonel Brockenhurst became our MP.”
He opened the Register at the correct page, turned it around, and pushed it across to Carr. The pages were well kept with a full entry there for each name, their date of birth, their Parish, their rank in the Militia and the type of Company, Light, Line or Grenadier. There was even a number underlined against each name, choosing from 1, 2, or 3, which were beside each name.
Carr was curious.
“What does this number mean?”
“How good they are at musket drill, Sir.”
“Who decides and instructs?”
“I do, Sir.”
“Hardly any on three! If that’s the best?”
“It is, Sir. I’m sorry to say.”
“Why?”
“Not my place to say, Sir.”
“But you instruct?”
“I use up all the cartridges allowed me, Sir.”
Carr nodded, understandingly. Saying too much could lose him his position. Carr returned to the first subject.
“If all your books are like this, Sergeant, then no-one can have any complaint!”
He looked fully at him.
“You’ve seen service!”
“Yes Sir. The American Wars. I was lucky to get home, Sir. A lot of the lads didn’t.”
“No indeed, Sergeant. We can only hope that they ended up with a halfway decent life for themselves. Back over there.”
“Yes Sir. And I served with your Colonel Lacey, Sir.”
“Oh really. What’s your name?”
“Jordan, Sir. Colour Sergeant I was.”
Carr smiled.
“When we get back I’ll mention you to him.”
“Thank you, Sir. But the Militia, Sir, they meet on Saturdays, as Militia they get off work, and Wednesdays, so you’ve got a bit of luck. They’ll be outside the walls at 9 o’ clock tomorrow.”
“Is there any possibility of my meeting Colonel Brockenhurst today?”
“You’ll be lucky with that, Sir. Being an MP and all, he moves about a lot. Staying at various houses of his important acquaintances.”
Carr nodded.
“Until tomorrow, then. Meanwhile, can I see all the books of the Militia?”
“Why yes, Sir.”
Jordan rose and walked jerkily to a large drawer, from which he drew three ledgers. He brought them over in his arms, then placed each on the desk, after naming each.
“That’s the Record of Pay, Sir, that’s the Requisitions of Supplies and that is the Record of Training, Sir. What the Militia have done over the past years. A kind of diary.”
“How long have you been in charge of these books, Jordan?”
“Six years, Sir. I was lucky to get this job, Sir. My education swung it for me.”
“Very well, Jordan, give me some time with them.”
“As you say, Sir. You are welcome to use this desk, Sir. About now I take myself off for something to eat.”
Carr nodded, but by now he was well into the books, especially the Muster Roll. Drake left him to it and walked out of the Office with Jordan.
“Oh, Sir. I think you should know, Sir, that some of your wounded are now here. That barrack room there, Sir.”
Jordan pointed across the square, saluted, and walked on. Drake crossed the square and entered, into a long corridor, this with windows facing onto the square on one side and doors on the other to the individual barrack rooms. He entered the first to find almost a dozen men, sat at the tables, and all rose when they saw him.
“Sit down men. Are you those that shipped back with us from Weymouth?”
It was Sergeant Jem Nicholls who answered, as he had at Weymouth.
“Yes Sir, but not all. Many took their pay and their chances in the towns, Sir. We came on here, rememb’rin’ what you said, Sir. That you may be able to help.”
Drake studied the dozen. The most visible wounds were to the face, three having lost an eye, two of these with severe facial disfigurements. Three had empty sleeves pinned across their tunics, but he noticed that all could stand.
“How many of you have done the 20 years?”
None raised their hands, meaning none were entitled to the Army Pension,
“How many of you can no longer march?”
Six raised their hands, five with missing limbs but one had a cloth bound around both eyes.
“How many of you can still load a musket?”
Eight of the dozen raised their hands.
“You may be needed to help train the Militia. You’ll be paid. Meanwhile, who amongst you can write?”
One raised his hand.
“Good. I want you to write down all your names and what skills you have, gained before they joined the army. Can you do that?”
The man came to the attention.
“I can, Sir.”
“Right. I’ll see you all tomorrow. Tomorrow we meet the Militia.”
He saluted and left, worried on both issues, both the fate of the wounded and quality of the Militia.
oOo
The morning fog was still lapping at the base of the barracks hill as the Militia began to arrive. In clumps of three or four, they strolled up the track to form larger groups across the parade ground, where. Jordan limped around each group, seemingly checking each for uniform, weapon and equipment. Carr and Drake stood back in the shadow of the gatehouse, watching all as it evolved. Stood with them in the gatehouse were four of the wounded from Spain, selected earlier by Drake, who was the first to comment on the arriving Militia.
“They look smart enough.”
Carr was unmoved.
“But not tough enough. They look like a bunch of young lads all met up for a jolly.”
Suddenly all changed; Jordan was stood in the centre of the square, yelling at the top of his voice.
“Form parade! Form parade!”
In less than a minute all was quiet, still, and orderly, each man at ‘ordered arms’, their musket grounded beside their right leg. There were even three Officers stood before the first rank, plainly mere boys in their late teens. The change had come about because two Officers, each on a splendid, well groomed horse, were walking their mounts up the track. Jordan was stood waiting at the far end of the parade from where they would arrive and, as the two came within yards of the first rank, he gave his first order.
“Present arms!”
In a smooth and impressive rhythm the whole parade brought their muskets up to the ‘present arms’, the metal of the barrel just touching their noses. The two riders acknowledged the salute and Jordan gave his next order.
The Plains of Talavera Page 43