Family of the Empire

by Sheelagh Kelly

  Apart from the fact that this was a small market town, as was Pontefract, there were few other similarities. Probyn noted that the air was fresher here, untainted by coal dust, and there was a very different character to the streets and buildings. The magnificent Georgian mall past which he marched now bespoke great affluence.

  As at home, a number of the local populace had gathered to watch the soldiers parade, but here it seemed that everyone of them had black hair and pink cheeks. In small groups they gathered around a square that had as its centrepiece a tall Doric column surmounted by a statue. Whom it represented Probyn did not care, having more interest in the flesh and blood creatures who emerged from Dooly’s Hotel to stand and watch, glass in hand. Glancing briefly at them to examine the mood, he observed that though some might look odd, their expressions were for the most part benign. It was also comforting to note that there were a number of pretty girls amongst the crowd.

  Called to a halt and paraded in the square, he took further stock, glancing at each of the streets that branched off it. In contrast to the subtle Georgian edifices around the corner this part of town held rows of shops and public houses. Nary a brick in sight, the stone frontages were painted in every garish colour imaginable, emerald green, puce and purple, custard yellow being a particular favourite.

  Then, with the band playing, it was off again, marching along another street, taking a left wheel at St Brendan’s – the second church of this name he had seen – and along yet another elegant Georgian mall.

  Again, as in Pontefract, Birr had its castle, but this one was obviously lived in, its well-kept outer walls extending all along this road.

  The band played on, more people came out of the shops and houses to watch. After passing a third church called St Brendan’s the troops came to a little stone bridge over the river and yet another St Brendan’s which Probyn now recognized as the starting point, realizing that he had completed a circuit of the town and was now heading out of it the way he had come. Upon reaching the barracks a mile up the road it came as something of an annoyance to find that these were situated only five minutes from the railway station and the purpose of their march had simply been to exhibit them before the townspeople. But still, he had been pleasantly surprised to find such an air of gentility instead of the mud hovels he had been expecting.

  The garrison, too, was far larger than he had imagined, its limestone fortress accommodating two thousand men, besides a considerable amount of land outside for reviews and such. It boasted, too, excellent entertainment facilities, a library and reading room and, Probyn was to learn, dances were often held in the gymnasium, the rest of the soldiers’ needs being met in the village of Crinkle just outside the gates which had several pubs and shops. At first impression, the people had a quiet way about them – indeed he had not noticed just how loudly-spoken were his Yorkshire friends until measured against different folk – but this was not to be mistaken for aloofness. From the outset they were exceptionally friendly and welcoming, many of them letting a room in their homes to soldiers’ families, and forcing Probyn quickly to revise his opinion of the Irish.

  Once settled in at Crinkle Barracks he found he was to be posted to a new company. Any hope that this meant an end to his association with Melody was quickly dashed – he seemed fated to have the Irish youth forever at his side – but having grown used to Mick’s ways this did not displease him too much. Neither did he grumble that the rest of the platoon remained virtually unaltered, with Wedlock still its corporal. Better the devils one knew. One beneficial change was that Jessop and Oliver, who had erstwhile cramped Probyn’s style, were no longer amongst them, allowing him to assume a more dominant role. Havron did not like this one bit, though as yet had made no move to overthrow his rival. It was doubtful that he ever would, for over the months Probyn had come to read the characters in his platoon very well and recognized that, despite vociferous grumblings, Havron was a posturer who had never carried out one single threat. Hence Probyn continued to practise his leadership skills on his roommates, adapting to his new status with relish, and hoping Lieutenant Fitzroy would be suitably impressed.

  Though far from delighted to be presented almost immediately with another boring round of gymnastics and drill, within days he was uplifted to have the serious business of musketry added to his schedule, welcoming the opportunity to draw praise from his officer.

  To get to the range involved a two mile march through the rain which had remained constant since they arrived on Irish soil, though today there was little grumbling to be heard, all keen to learn how to put their rifles to good use. The intense quietude of the Irish countryside, broken only by the cawing of jackdaws, was now invaded by two hundred thudding boots and boyish exclamations.

  In high spirits, the Londoner Queen called out as they marched, ‘Permission to sing, Corp!’ One had to seek Wedlock’s consent over anything, however trivial.

  Wedlock threw a morose answer over his shoulder. ‘Your singing is like a duck farting.’

  ‘I was only arstin,’ muttered Queen, highly offended.

  ‘Arse tin. Would that be a receptacle you put your bum in?’ quipped Probyn, incurring a ripple of laughter.

  Rook piped up. ‘Melody’s a good singer, Corp! Can he start us off?’

  ‘I hope he’s a better singer than he is a soldier,’ replied Wedlock, which served as permission.

  Melody looked self-conscious but, after brief decision, broke into a marching song, the others joining in quickly, their lusty voices carrying over the fields of newborn lambs.

  From a village church a bell tolled; drowned out by the choristers it went unheeded. Their tempo unbroken, the soldiers proceeded along the road, maintaining their sturdy theme. Up ahead was an elderly woman, bent and beshawled, a basket over her arm. From his position in one of the front ranks, Probyn had been aware of her for some time as, due to her painful slowness, the company made great strides in closing the gap that separated them. She was now only thirty yards ahead. Suddenly, at the tolling of the bell, she came to a halt and, to his amazement, lowered herself to her knees in the middle of the wet road and began to pray! So taken aback was he by this that it affected the rhythm of his marching, causing the man behind to tread on his heel, and consequently throwing those in subsequent ranks out of step. Their chorus fractured, there was much swearing. Just as quickly, Probyn righted himself but was unsure what to do. The old lady was directly in their path! He cast an anxious glance at Wedlock but it was apparent the corporal was uncertain what to do either for he looked back at the musketry sergeant who was leading the company behind. Some of the rear ranks were still singing, unaware of the obstacle. Only just in time did Wedlock scream an order for them to cease forthwith and in the same breath gave instruction for them to, ‘Halt!’ thereby sparing the devout matriarch from being trampled asunder.

  Mere feet away from her kneeling form, Probyn stood and gaped as the old lady, seemingly oblivious to the intruding army behind her, continued to pray, a rosary gripped between her hands.

  ‘’Tis the Angelus,’ explained Mick under his breath at Probyn’s look of incomprehension.

  Even his whisper, thought Probyn, came as too loud an encroachment on this intensely religious moment. With the singers silenced, their boots motionless, the countryside was once more as quiet as the grave, but for the uncomfortable shuffling behind him and the patter of rain on their hats.

  Eventually the woman finished her prayers and, with discomforted movements, struggled to her feet. Wedlock rushed forth to lend a hand.

  From the folds of the black shawl that was draped about her ancient head she thanked him with a silent dignified nod, then moved leisurely aside leaving the road clear for them to pass. An order was shouted and the embarrassed soldiers were once again on their way, leaving as quietly as their boots allowed.

  For some moments Probyn remained affected by the spirituality of the moment, and indeed of the countryside around him. Only when others had spoken first,
did he add his voice to theirs, asking Melody, ‘What did you mean, the Angelus?’

  ‘Here in Ireland, when ye hear the bell ye drop everything and pray,’ replied Mick.

  Probyn remained thoughtful, others were less civil.

  ‘We’d better thank heaven you’re not so holy then, Melody,’ remarked Corporal Wedlock. ‘You’d never get anything bloody done at all if you were always on your knees.’

  However moved he had been by the episode, Probyn was quick to put it aside on arrival at the rifle range, concentrating instead on mechanical matters. After illustrating how to load the ammunition, the sergeant instructor came along the line showing each how to hold their guns correctly, shifting and tugging them into the correct firing position. Eager to excel, Probyn pre-empted any instruction, brought the rifle up to his chin, narrowed his eyes and stared along the barrel to the target beyond, anticipating a word of commendation as the sergeant passed him by. He was therefore much chastened to receive worse treatment than many of the others, the sergeant roughly altering every aspect of his pose and chivvying him with the comment: ‘It’s not a bloody pea-shooter, laddy! Fire it like that and you’ll smash all your teeth out.’

  Once satisfied that every man was holding his gun correctly, the sergeant instructed them to fire individually, starting with Melody. Mick aimed at the target and squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. He squeezed again, harder. There was a loud report and the recoil sent him staggering backwards which everyone treated as a huge joke. Determined to do better when it came to his turn, Probyn braced himself, held the rifle as firmly as he could, fixed his eye on the target and pulled the trigger – and was amazed at the intensity of the blow that was delivered to his shoulder.

  Such shame! But he was not to stand alone in this. One by one the would-be sharp-shooters were to undergo identical disgrace, apart from Havron who, amazingly, was the only one to hit the target first time round, and by the end of that first session every man’s shoulder was aching and bruised from the constant recoil and no one in the platoon except Havron had managed to puncture a bullseye.

  Back in barracks, everyone demanded to know the secret of Havron’s success. This, it transpired, was as a result of a temporary job with a gamekeeper which had lasted only until the employer had discovered his assistant’s inclination for poaching the stock he was meant to be guarding.

  Irked with his own lacklustre performance, Probyn sat apart, directing his anger into removing mud from his uniform, and trying to ignore the bouquets that were heaped on one so undeserving. In the end though his vexation got the better of him. ‘Well I suppose it’s just as well he’s good at summat because he sure as heck doesn’t know how to clean his boots!’

  There were jeers at such an obvious display of envy.

  Probyn tried to defend himself against the accusation of sour grapes. ‘Look at the mud on ’em! You won’t be so quick to congratulate him when he gets us all a beasting for him being dirty on parade. Get ’em cleaned, Havron!’

  ‘Go bugger yourself,’ said Havron.

  Queen delivered a smiling rebuke. ‘Praise where it’s due, Pa.’

  ‘I’ll give him praise when he deserves some!’ retorted the other, brushing furiously.

  ‘You mean, when I get the award for best shot in the company?’ goaded Havron.

  Probyn tried to adopt a temperate air. ‘If you win best shot, Havron, I’ll be the first to congratulate you, so long as you pay the same diligence to your boots!’

  However, he was determined that there would be no need for any grovelling congratulation, for he himself was going to win the accolade.

  From then on every ounce of determination was channelled into winning the trophy. By the end of the week, the musketry instructor had begun to knock them into some sort of shape and Probyn had become much more confident, and proficient enough, he hoped, to win the badge for best shot in the company when that time came.

  Apart from musketry and bayonet practice, there was more marching – five, ten, fifteen miles a day – which meant that every night Probyn went to bed exhausted. Nevertheless it did not prevent this virile young man from wondering, in the brief seconds before he fell asleep, when he was to be granted an opportunity for the extra-curricular activities he craved.

  But alas it seemed unlikely that he would be allowed to investigate the town’s female populace in the foreseeable future as during his second week in Ireland the company, plus three others, was on the march again to be quartered at Portumna, County Galway. Set at the northern end of a huge lough, it was a charming little town with fragments of a Dominican priory and a castle, and the countryside was most picturesque, the hedgerows bright with yellow gorse and white blossom. Notwithstanding this, it was a difficult march, the road rising most of the way and terminating in a large hill which had first to be got up before coming down the other side. Furthermore, there were to be similar marches throughout their stay here. With so much demanded of them it was inevitable that grumbles of exploitation should arise.

  ‘’Tis atrocious the way they’re treating us!’ complained Mick as, after another round trip of twenty miles along the banks of the Shannon and only a cup of tea and a biscuit for refreshment, they were ordered to set up firing positions. ‘How can I be expected to hit a target with my arms like jelly after lugging this pack around all day?’

  ‘Shush, Corp’s coming,’ warned a breathless Probyn, fighting his own weariness and wafting at the cloud of midges that encircled his head.

  ‘To hell with him!’ Mick scratched uncomfortably at his crotch, looking a picture of misery. ‘I don’t give a shit whether he hears me or not.’

  ‘I did hear you, Melody,’ barked Wedlock. ‘And if you’re not careful you’ll be travelling another twenty miles on the end of my boot. What did you expect to be doing, having a bloody picnic? Do you think in a war the enemy’s going to say, oh, hang on don’t fire yet ’cause that chappie’s just having a rest before he fires his gun? Jump to it!’

  Amid much bad-feeling, the soldiers did all that was asked of them, grovelling on their bellies over flood plains dotted with bullrushes, seeking out an imaginary enemy, but as firing practice came to an end and they were instructed to march immediately back to their quarters there were rumblings of dissension, men vowing that they would refuse to move an inch until they had had some relaxation.

  ‘Well, moaning will do us no good at all!’ Shoving the last item into his pack, Probyn stood with a look of resolution on his face. ‘I’m off to get permission to stay here and do some fishing.’

  ‘Fat chance!’ scoffed Havron.

  ‘We’ll see.’ Probyn strode off towards Corporal Wedlock.

  He was back amongst them within thirty seconds.

  ‘Told you!’ Havron, his face dark with mutiny, began to prepare for the homewards trek.

  ‘Off, are you?’ said Probyn lightly. ‘Oh well, we’ll bring you some fish back.’

  ‘You mean you talked him round?’ Mick was amazed at his friend’s powers. ‘What the devil did ye say to him?’

  Probyn adopted a grim expression. ‘I said, listen to me, Wedlock, if you don’t stop driving these men like slaves you’re going to have a mutiny on your hands. He said, you really think so? I said, I do, and what’s more I’ll be first in line to smack you in the gob—’

  ‘You never!’ Bumby’s jaw dropped.

  Mick dealt him a disparaging shove. ‘He’s codding yese, ye soft arse.’

  Bumby shoved him back. ‘I knew that – and stop scratching your balls!’

  Probyn laughed. ‘I hardly had to say a word, the corp beat me to it and said we can stay for two hours as long as we fetch him a salmon. I nearly dropped!’

  Thumping the messenger on the back, the young soldiers wasted no further time and pelted off to hire fishing boats and tackle. All of a sudden their exhaustion appeared completely to have vanished.

  Happy at his success, Probyn called for others to accompany him.

  Instead, Mick la
y back on the damp grass. ‘I think I’ll just catch up on some sleep, if ye don’t mind.’

  Probyn scoffed. ‘I thought it was too good to be true you getting yourself up on a morning.’ Melody had risen before anyone else all this week; the lack of sleep showed in his looks.

  ‘If only you knew,’ murmured Mick out of earshot and, with a testy slap at the midge that hovered whining around his ear, closed his eyes in despair.

  Probyn and others set off to wander leisurely across a lush sprawl of meadow carpeted in dandelions and on towards a bay where sand martins dived and swooped above glittering water, skimming the surface for mayflies. Today, washed in sunlight, its trees and hedgerows bursting into leaf, the landscape gleamed like an emerald. A far cry from the wild forbidding country he had witnessed from the train window.

  The remainder of the afternoon was pronounced absolutely splendid and the entire mood had been transformed by the time they made their way back to their quarters with bagsful of freshwater mussels and a respectable haul of fish. But the crowning moment was yet to come. Ever on the look out, Probyn was first to spot the three girls who stood chatting by a horse-drawn cart some way ahead. Tapping Mick on the arm he began to walk more briskly twixt the blackthorn hedgerows, eager to be first to reach the quarry. But others had seen the colleens now and in a mad rush they charged up the road in pursuit. Alarmed, Probyn strove to beat them.

  Hearing the rapid thud of boots one of the girls turned and, her face portraying fright, alerted her companions and all tried to scramble into the cart, but it was too late for they were instantly encompassed by a host of red tunics and muddy leering faces.

  Not as swift as some, Probyn had to fight and jostle his way to the centre of the pack. ‘Eh, don’t frighten poor lasses, give them room. Look, you’re scaring t’hoss too!’

  But his plea was taken as a ruse and he was persistently shoved aside.

  ‘Push off, I saw ’em first. Eh, do you want to come behind that bush wi’ me, sweetheart?’ Ingham certainly knew how to court a lady.