Close to the Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regimen Book 2) Read online

  Close to the Colours

  Martin McDowell

  Published in 2013 by FeedARead.com Publishing – Arts Council funded

  Copyright © The author as named on the book cover.

  First Edition

  The author has asserted their moral right under the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified

  as the author of this work.

  All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  Dedication

  To my wife, children, and grandchildren,

  who are so indulgent of my odd obsession!

  Acknowledgements

  A History of the Peninsular War.

  Volume One 1807 -1800

  by Sir Charles Oman

  The Waterloo Companion

  by Mark Adkin

  Wellington at War in the Peninsula

  1808 -1814

  An Overview and Guide

  by Ian C. Robertson

  An Atlas of the Peninsular War

  by Ian Robertson

  The 50th (Queen’s Own) Regiment of Foot

  – the ‘Dirty Half Hundredth”, so called because of the black facings and cuffs on their uniforms. In this book, the narrative for 105th describes their part in the battles of Rolica, Vimeiro and Corunna, where they held the centre of the British line.

  The 28th (North Gloucestershire) Regiment of Foot

  – the “Slashers”. The regiment earned its nickname in the American War of Independence in 1775, when they slashed their way through high grass with their bayonets to reach George Washington's troops. The narrative for the 105th describes their role during the Retreat to Corunna.

  Novels by the same author

  Worth Their Colours – the 105th in the Sicily Campaign of 1806 to 1808

  A Question of Duty – a novel set within the war at sea 1809/1810

  Contents

  Chapter 1 - First Steps

  Chapter 2 - Frst Encounters

  Chapter 3 - A Field of French Ruin

  Chapter 4 - A Triumph Discarded

  Chapter 5 - March and Counter March

  Chapter 6 - Retreat

  Chapter 7 - Each day, that follows another!

  Chapter 8 - Corunna

  Chapter 9 - From Noon till Sunset

  Chapter 10 - Home Shores

  Chapter 11 - Homecoming

  Chapter 12 - A Question of Letters

  Chapter One

  First Steps

  Henry George Aloysius Carr; Captain, Light Company, 105th Foot, as he would introduce himself, sat rigid, being engulfed as he was, in a world of noise and tumult, his acute trepidation edging ever closer towards outright panic. He clung to any fixed point that presented itself, as he sat wedged between his Senior Lieutenant, Nathaniel Drake and the gunwale of a ship’s longboat. This he found to be sturdy enough, but insufficiently high to engender any comforting peace of mind, as he anxiously judged the sights and sounds that came all too powerfully to his eyes, ears and skin. All around was a world filled with spray, surf and shouts, this acted out on a sea all too obviously angry at so many craft crowding and marring its surface, all with the temerity to chance the power of full Atlantic rollers, these being the last reminders of a violent August storm. The craft were purposed to land on a shore that could barely be seen through the murk of mist and spray and it seemed to all there afloat, riding perilously forward on the heaving waves, that their vessels were far too small to survive upon the white billows that reared up, intimidatingly beyond head height, to create a full surf that plunged onward, eager to crash against the narrow sands of this small fraction of the Portuguese coast.

  Speech was impossible, so Carr contented himself by seeking what comfort he could against his state of peril, by transferring his right hand to inside his tunic, to either touch the latest letter from his secret beloved, Jane Perry, or finger her medallion, warm on his chest. This last had been given by her, equally secretly, as they marched off to a different war back in the summer of 1806, two years earlier, almost to the month. His thoughts landed momentarily on that indelible moment, but were soon brought back to reality as the longboat gave a sudden lurch to the left and he heard the feet of the sailor, standing in the stern, shift to give better purchase on the steering oar. He heard a shout from above him, but it was lost, unintelligible, in the roar of the surf, now alarmingly even nearer and larger, posing a threat even greater than before, to swamp their laden and all too vulnerable longboat. The oarsmen in the bows rowed frantically to keep their vessel stern on to the waves and Carr looked forward and leftwards to see the result of failure; a longboat had broached sideways in the surf and rolled over, the now useless oars appearing from the white water as would the flailing legs of a stricken insect, to then be joined by the bobbing heads of the spilled occupants. A second malignant wave surged over the top of all, taking it from view.

  Joe Pike took a gulp of seawater and opened his eyes to see a green and white world of water and froth. He opened his eyes wider in panic and gulped seawater again. He was sure he was sinking, his kit and weapon were dragging him down, but something, something unknown, was dragging him up. He instinctively kicked upwards and his face just broke the surface, just long enough for him to take a gulp of precious air, before the sea covered his face again, but he was being pulled to some form of safety. His head broke the surface again to see the face of his messmate, John Davey, Chosen Man, shouting some instruction, which he heard only on the second time.

  “Hang on to this, boy. Don’t let go. Get your arm behind it.”

  Davey pulled Joe to the turtle shape of the upturned boat and indicated the safety rope that ran in loops along its side. Joe Pike spat out water and gulped some air.

  “John, where’s Tom? Have you seen him?”

  Davey spoke between his own gasps for air and between choking up water from his own lungs.

  “No, don’t know.”

  Davey, holding his own section of rope, seized the shoulder tab of another soldier and pulled him to the boat’s side, just as he had for Pike.

  “Keep hold of this, mate, don’t let go. This boat’s wood, ‘twon’t sink, and it’ll get pushed in.”

  He paused as a wave cascaded over them, then he shook his head to clear it of water.

  “Long as we hold onto it, we’ll be alright. Grab any of the lads that you can.”

  Several, both soldiers and boat crew, had divined this for themselves, that this would be the most likely method to secure their own survival and so, they too, clung to the ropes and oars, which would at least keep them afloat. However, for Tom Miles himself, entombed within the upturned boat, his was a world of utter blackness and noise, the noise of panicking men, their screaming and their spluttering, also the surf pounding on the rolling hull above and the sound of foul language circulating in his own head. His evil temper gave weight to the words he shouted, easily heard, even above the pounding surf.

  “Shuddup! Shuddup, the bloody lot of you.”

  Within this black world, what he felt holding him secure gave the weight of truth to his next shouted order, now that his angry shouts had silenc
ed the panicking men trapped with him.

  “Reach up, find a seat, anything you can. There’s plenty above you can get your fingers round.”

  Water, imprisoned like themselves, slopped noisily against the sides, but Miles, his foul temper keeping his head clear enough to focus to good effect on the peril that they were in, had more to say.

  “Check on anyone near you, get them to speak.”

  Tom Miles had no rank, but his infamous, belligerent character gained him immediate attention whenever he spoke. He heard mumbling from somewhere in the darkness, then a shout.

  “There’s Mick here, Tom, he’s out, not movin’, but not sunk”

  “What’s keepin’ him up?”

  A pause.

  “His musket’s caught under somewhere. The sling’s holding him up. Lucky sod.”

  Miles ignored the judgment.

  “Right, all of youse hold tight and we’ll get pushed in. Soon as you feels sand under your feet, get under and out.”

  Then came another thought, its clarity again born of the anger with his own predicament.

  “Not the beachside, t’other, then the boat won’t be dumped on top of you. With ground under your feet, you’ll get out. Just hold on and wait.”

  A crashing wave thrust the side of the boat against them out of the darkness, but it did, at least, mean that they were being pushed in. However, extra help was at hand. Sailors, on shore, had immediately seen the stricken longboat and lines were snaking out for John Davey and two others to secure them to the rope loops and soon they were being hauled in. The first to feel sand under his feet was the giant Ezekiel Saunders, the tallest in the Regiment, therefore unexpectedly, being so tall and muscular, a member of the Light Company. Simply by virtue of his surprising agility and prowess as a marksman, Saunders was not taken as a Grenadier.

  “I can feel the bottom, lads, not too long now.”

  Now, so close to the shore, the surf had substantially eased and the incongruous shape of the upturned long boat had created a place of calm behind it. Soon all could feel sand beneath their feet and, having ducked under the longboat’s side, were wading away and to the shore, their sodden kit hanging off them at all angles. Suddenly, from around the longboat, came a torrent of foul language. Davey looked at Joe Pike; he didn’t need to look back as each waded ashore.

  “I think Tom’s alright.”

  Tom Miles had more to say.

  “Where’s that bloody sailor as couldn’t keep this boat straight?”

  Davey replied without looking back.

  “You’ve probably just walked on top of him, not too many sailors’ve come up out with any of us.”

  Miles involuntarily lifted his feet to examine the water for human remains, but saw none and looked angrily at John Davey. However, Chosen Man Davey, being both a messmate and filemate with Tom Miles had a licence with him that no others had, even those of higher rank. This time he did turn to look at him.

  “Now come up out of the water, you soft sod, and let’s see what’s missin’, you, me, and the boy.”

  The boy, Joe Pike, the third filemate with Miles and Davey, had sagged down to his knees onto the wet sand, the now exhausted surf still lapping at his feet. Despite his young years and athletic build, his time in the cold Atlantic and his panic whilst gasping for breath, had taken its toll, but soon his innate strength asserted itself and he regained his feet. At this point both his section Lieutenant, Mr. Drake and his Company Captain, Mr. Carr, arrived on the scene. The distinctive blond figure of Joe Pike had told Carr that the overturned boat had involved members of his own Light Company, but he spoke immediately to John Davey.

  “Casualties, Davey?”

  John Davey came to the attention, at the “order arms”, his soaked Baker rifle erect beside his left leg.

  “Can’t say, Sir, other than there’s one, Michael Maguire, as’ve took a blow to his head, Sir. He’s over there, Sir, with the other lads as was spilled out.”

  Davey’s right arm jerked up to indicate the correct direction, just enough for the purpose, before returning to the attention. Carr gave the prone figure a quick glance, before turning to Drake.

  “Ned, get Ellis to call the roll as soon as they’re ashore, all that are going to get ashore that is.”

  Nathanial Drake saluted and ran off to find Company Sergeant Ellis. Carr took the moment to pull off his own boots and empty them of water, using the shoulder of the erect Davey for balance.

  “Bad business, Davey”

  “Sir.”

  “Thank that order from Major O’Hare, helping you to stay afloat. No packs nor knapsacks, just cartridge box, bayonet and an empty water canteen.”

  “Amen to that, Sir.”

  “Tell that to Chaplain Prudoe. He’ll be pleased.”

  “I’ll do that, Sir, when I see him.”

  Carr did not discern the note of doubt contained in Davey’s voice, but, boots replaced, he regained his own feet and looked further up the beach. A parade of the Light Company was forming, with Sergeant Ethan Ellis smoothing out the folds of the Company Roll.

  “Get your men up to Ellis, now, Davey. Let’s see what we’ve got. Our orders are to get on picket as soon as we’ve landed, up over the dunes there. That’s why we’re first ashore.”

  Davey saluted and, as Carr sloshed away, he turned to his sodden and dishevelled shipmates.

  “Right. All of us, up the beach. Ellis is calling the Roll.”

  He looked at the prone shape of Maguire, being ministered unto by Saunders.

  “Dead?”

  “No, John, but he’s spark out. Don’t know what damage’ve been done, can’t tell.”

  “Well, bring him up with the rest of us, ‘fore the tide washes him away.”

  For Saunders, that was a single-handed job. He seized Maguire’s white crossbelts, hauled him to his feet, and then dropped him over his shoulder. Carrying both their weapons he strode up the beach, over the hard sand, to follow the others, all in various degrees of forlorn and dishevelment.

  Ethan Ellis was not a large man, but many said that he had not been born, rather quarried and not “finished”. Fierce of eye, with a countenance grim as wet granite, he ran the Light Company and, not surprisingly, he and Miles were natural enemies and the first thing he noticed was that Miles was without his shako.

  “Miles! You’m without your headgear.”

  Miles, feeling hard done by and with some right on his side, replied in kind.

  “Now just how much of a surprise is that, seein’ as I’ve just been dumped out of a boat and spent nigh on ten minutes under’n”

  Ellis had enough experience to know when to pick a fight with any soldier and let Miles retort go unanswered, at least regarding that issue, but he had a reserve.

  “Then get yourself down to the water’s edge and get one! There’s any number swillin’ about down there, and see if you can find one what’s right, not the first what you comes to.”

  Miles shot a malignant look at Ellis, having been ordered to retrace the steps that he had just taken to get himself up there, but he returned to the water’s edge to seek what he needed. There was little in the existence of Tom Miles that particularly mattered to him, apart from keeping alive, but one thing that did rise within him above the common was the fact that he was Light Infantry. In his mid-twenties, as far as he could calculate, he was naturally fit, wiry, cunning and aggressive. Within the persona that was Private Tom Miles, his status in an elite company was of no minor importance and so his search amongst the washed up kit, was for a shako with the distinctive Light Infantry hunting horn badge. One was found and eagerly seized, Miles hoping that it was his own, but it was too small. Annoyed and disgusted he threw it back into the water and was forced to try on several others of all three types, Line, Light and Grenadier, that were there, determined for good fit, for he was enough of a veteran soldier to know that kit had to be secure, or it would chafe and annoy over the long hard roads to come. One was found that did
fit, but it had the plain George III badge with a large V in the centre, the shako of a Line Company of the 5th Foot. In foul temper he returned to his Company; Ellis having now just finished calling the roll.

  Captain Carr awaited Ellis’ report. He had heard very few names that were not answered and hope grew within him that the overturned boat had been but the one single mishap to befall his company. Ellis came to him and saluted.

  “Three, Sir, not including Maguire, who may be beyond it, Sir.”

  Carr nodded.

  “Thank you, Sergeant. Now get the men to present arms.”

  Ellis turned and bellowed the order. Five remained at the attention; they had lost their firearm. Carr walked forward to the first.

  “Musket or Baker?”

  “Musket, Sir.”

  Carr asked the same to each of the remaining four. The answer was the same, meaning that no man issued with a Baker rifle had lost their precious weapon, it being treasured as much more accurate than a musket and therefore a lifesaver in any open skirmish. More than half his Company now had one, provided at the personal expense of their Colonel, Bertram Lacey. Carr nodded.

  “Sergeant, detail a Corporal to take these back and obtain five muskets, there must be some spares lying somewhere. Maguire’s for one.”

  He then raised his voice.

  “About face, skirmish order.”

  His command executed a smart “about face” and then broke up, to spread both left and right into their “files”, which meant thirty columns of three men, five yards between the columns, five yards between the three ranks. Carr looked both left and right to check the alignment, feeling pleased that his men had completed the formation in the briefest of times. Lieutenant Drake was in front of Carr’s Number 1 Section, on his right hand, Lieutenant Shakeshaft’s Number 2 stood before that on his left. Shakeshaft was the Junior Lieutenant of the Company. And new! The closest file on Carr’s immediate right was made up of Chosen Man Davey, with Joe Pike five yards behind him and Tom Miles, still incensed about his shako, five yards behind Pike in the final rank. Carr drew his sword and motioned his men forward. Motion only, because when advancing into the unknown, shouted orders were kept to a minimum and, in response, his command slogged their way up the soft sand of the featureless dune.