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

  Worth Their Colours

  by

  Martin McDowell

  Published in 2014 by FeedARead.com Publishing

  Copyright © Martin McDowell 2014

  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.

  To my wife, Doreen, and family, Amy and Steven.

  Derision not withstanding, for all the books

  I buy on the Napoleonic Wars

  Ackowlegments

  “The Battle of Maida – Fifteen Minutes of Glory”, by Richard Hopton.

  Published by Pen and Sword

  “Redcoat – The British Soldier in the Age of Horse and Musket”, by Richard Holmes.

  Published by Harper Collins

  “Marching with Sharpe”, by B.J. Bluth

  Published by Harper Collins

  The History of the British Army – Vols. 5 & 6

  J.W. Fortescue

  27th (Inniskillings) Regiment of Foot –

  The story in this book of the 5th Provisionals at the Battle of Maida, is based on the deeds of the 27th Foot. This good Regiment successfully fought the forces of Napoleon from Maida, through The Peninsula, to Waterloo, where, holding their square because of the threat of cavalry, they were practically wiped out by cannonfire. The cover picture of this book is a depiction of this. There is a memorial erected to them on the battlefield.

  “It is impossible, by any description, to do justice to the conduct of the men.”

  General Sir William Beresford, in his Despatch to General Lord Wellington on the Battle of Albuera, 16 May 1811

  Contents

  Chapter 1 - From all Walks and Stations

  Chapter 2 - Arrival

  Chapter 3 - A Soldier’s Life

  Chapter 4 - A Soldier’s Trade

  Chapter 5 - Change upon Change

  Chapter 6 – Orders: both large and small.

  Chapter 7 - Of Texts and Privateers

  Chapter 8 - Laurels and Celebrations

  Chapter 9 – The Field of Maida

  Chapter 7 - Of Orders and Volunteers

  Chapter 8 - Scilla

  Chapter 9 - An Active Garrison

  Chapter 10 - Full Siege

  Chapter 11 - A Righteous Outcome

  Chapter One

  From all Walks and Stations

  English rain! Closer to mist than honest rainfall, bleak and dank, it folded grey and cold across the tired green of the late Autumn Wiltshire Downs. Like starlings in their daydone swarm, more flying than falling on a bullying wind, thick closing curtains were hung across the hills and slopes of the wide and rolling landscape, but, once hung, they were then quickly drawn out into thin veils that poised, shifted, sagged, and then lifted, to reveal small details, soon lost again as stars in a ragged sky. The wind blew holes in the layers of murk. A battered copse showed itself, desperately hanging onto its shivering leaves, then a winding chalkstone wall with sheep huddled in its lee, then a low hedgerow almost leafless, pierced by a lopsided gate. Real winter had come early to 1805. Neither sky nor scenery gave any cheer, nor was any gained from the trudging, hunched figures inching along a distant chalk track.

  Coloured more grey than white, it would eventually feel its way through the mist and rain, to run over the slopes and high pasture, then on down into a harbouring valley which gave at least minimal shelter from the gusting wind. Their stubborn progress slowly revealed a pattern in the shape: six figures, in two lines of three, maintained themselves either side of a central single file of 12 or so. The six slowly became identified as soldiers, a stovepipe shako covering a head hunched into a greatcoat collar, below that a knapsack, alongside this, the conspicuous butt of a reversed musket, muzzle down against the rain. These six walked with the easy marching gait of men used to many miles rather than few, thumbs tucked into straps and fastenings, but their charges, whose status soon became apparent, walked with feet only, although carrying no burden. Their hands were fixed before them as would be for bound prisoners.

  Corporal Jedediah Deakin, first in the right-hand column, looked back at his command. His eyes dwelt not a second on his five comrades, but several of his prisoners were showing all the signs of unfit men being asked to do what they did little of. The cold and the march, three days old, were taking them through tiredness, to exhaustion and beyond. He had enough campaign experience to have seen men simply fall out of rank and give all up by the roadside. His orders were to deliver twelve men from Devizes Assize to Taunton Barracks and some were in no good state. All had been given good boots and a greatcoat to help them through their journey, but this was a bad march for men unused to fifteen miles a day, a daily soaking, and poor food.

  A small stone structure grew out of the rain and mist, a shepherd’s hut just off the track with the door firm shut, but smoke spilling from somewhere in the roof. Deakin gave three blows on the door, which soon opened so that he could feel a moment of warmth on his face, but it was soon gone, away in the wind. Around the door appeared first a cudgel, then the fingers of a large and filthy hand complete with black and torn fingernails. This was followed by the brown and wrinkled face of a man of indeterminable age, framed by hat, smock and whiskers, a cold, clay pipe jutting challengingly at Deakin. Both stared, waiting for the other to speak, but Deakin was a Corporal after all and he used the initiative that was his.

  “How far to some shelter, mate? Farm or something?”

  “On down, two mile or more, Downgate Farm, they got a barn. No reason why she shouldn’t let ‘ee use it. Can ‘ee pay?”

  “If it’ll serve. Two mile you say?”

  “Right. Stay on the track and it’ll come.”

  With that the conversation ended, the cudgel withdrew and the door closed. Deakin turned to his fellow escorts.

  “Two miles, and that’s the end for today. There’ll be a barn for rent.”

  Private Tom Miles had slept more of the nights of his 25 years out of a bed than in. He had heard all and was not content.

  “You spend that coin, Jed, and there’s less left for us. What’s wrong with a blanket behind a wall like last night?”

  “You take a look at them prisoners, Tom, some is like to arrive more dead than alive, more like died, ‘specially the Parson. I’ve been given twelve prisoners to get to barracks, and my stripes be worth more to me than coin in your pocket. Tonight we take’s shelter.”

  One hour more all but ended the feeble light, but it brought them to the first farm off the high downland, made up of squat, blue stone buildings, closed up to confront weather worse than even this day had brought. Its grey thatch was now showing over the fold of the downland, giving the first sign of comfort in a day best ended, this added to by curling smoke from a thick chimney. Deakin led his men into the yard, ignoring the sentry dogs that approached to set up an indignant barking, but they yet retained a healthy distance, intimidated by the group of large, dark figures. Deakin detached himself from the halted column and approached the door, but it opened before
he could knock. A harsh, but female voice spoke from a large, bound, upright, bundle that now filled the doorway, framed in firelight from within and holding high a candle lantern.

  “Soldiers? You’ll be seeking shelter, but don’t think ‘ee’s welcome. I seen too many like ‘ee through here to bid thee welcome.”

  “Peace, Mother, ‘tis too bad a night to take so ill with anyone. ’Sides we’ve coin to pay. Fivepence each, for the night, and all found. Sounds fair?”

  “Six would be better. There’s no farm on now for some miles.”

  “Then ‘tis behind the walls for us, Mother, like last night. Five, or we move on.”

  The bundle heaved and gave vent to a deep sigh.

  “How many?”

  “Eighteen.”

  A pause, the maths was not beyond her.

  “There’s a barn behind the house. It’s dry, with a fireplace for lambing and wood at the back. Good enough for 6d, I’m thinking, with a bowl of stew each, and bread?”

  “You could sweet talk a Quartermaster, Mother. It’ll serve nicely, and we do thank you.”

  “Enough from you and away round. Take this lantern, I’m fair chilled from this talk with thee. I’m back in. The food’ll come soon as ‘tis warmed.”

  However, she stayed long enough to make an knowledgeable examination of the men filing past, but learned little in the gloom, except that some were prisoners, hands bound, with a rope from the hands of each man to the neck of the man in front. A good soul, not inexperienced in either tragedy or the ways of Assize Courts, the misery of their slumped and lurching figures chilled her the equal of the keening wind.

  The barn loomed dark and solid, the blue lias stonework glistening wet even in the poor light of the lantern, but the door was sound and well made and swung inside with the lifting of the bar. Inside was no warmth and the smell of generations of sheep, but the wind and rain no longer beat and blew on the shoulders of the hunched figures that entered through the low, but welcome door. The lantern showed the fireplace and the kindling. Deakin gave his orders.

  “Harry, get the fire going. Pat, secure the door, then release the prisoners. Tom, make sure there’s no other way out of here, then you’re on first sentry. Loaded, bayonet fixed, hammer down. You two,” gesturing to the last two of his command, “get some wood from round the back.”

  Private Harry Stiles made a fire appear in the fireplace with a rapidity that cheered them all, through the simple expedient of pouring the powder from a cartridge onto the kindling and then pouring another into the priming pan of his musket. He then released the hammer with its flint onto the steel of the “frizzen”; the striking plate. The burning powder was then tipped onto the fire and the “firepower” of the two charges quickly ignited the kindling, to which some dry logs were added. The light from the burning fire made the lantern redundant and Deakin blew out its candle. The rest of the wood arrived, not too damp, and all gathered or shuffled to feel the first of its warmth. Haybales were dragged over and most began the business of repairing the damage done from the day’s march, now past.

  The soldiers, from habit formed from many marches and campaigns, began to shed themselves of their knapsacks, to open, but not remove, greatcoats and clean their weapons of any dirt or damp. It was a scene they had created for themselves countless times before and there was comfort in its familiarity. They had reached their evening billet, which meant the day was ended, this day’s duty was finished.

  One that did not attend to any improvement of his affairs was the ex-Reverend Percival Sedgwicke. He slumped onto the floor, as close to the fire as he could get, subsumed in abject misery. He was numbingly tired in both body and mind, and hungry, as only one can be who is accustomed to filling his belly as least twice a day. He’d had nothing for days but army biscuit and water. His legs ached and his feet pained. The lyle stockings, as worn by one of his ex-calling, had soon worn away in the new boots and large blisters soon followed. Now he waited for one of the coarse soldiers to release his bonds, being the last on the tether.

  The stew arrived, brought by a young lad, who disappeared at the instant of setting down a black iron cauldron, a sack of bread, and a variety of crude, earthen, dishes. Not enough for eighteen together, there would have to be two sittings. Lance-Corporal Patrick Mulcahey, one of many Irishmen in the British Army, at last reached Sedgwicke. A gentle Irishman, slow to condemn, he turned him over to release his wrists. Raised a Catholic, he addressed the cleric using the title that he had used all his life to men of a religious calling.

  “Come on now, Father, we can’t have this, this won’t do at all. Sit up now, up against this bale, and I’ll get you some stew.”

  He turned to the soldier carrying the food around the gathering.

  “John, give me some for the Father quick. He’s fair done in. Needs something hot inside him soon, now.”

  A bowl was prepared, a large lump of coarse clap bread torn off the huge loaf, and brought to the Parson. Mulcahey tried to be cheerful.

  “There now, Father. Get that inside of youse, it’ll make all the difference, now.”

  Sedgwicke sat up, saw the food, then fell perplexed as to how he would eat it, there was no spoon. It smelt wholesome; an impression that could not be spoilt by appearance, for it was too dark. Mulcahey again administered unto his needs.

  “Here Father, borrow this spoon. I’ve got two. We often have more than one, it’s handy. Easy to come by when you’re soldiering. Dead men have no needs, if you take my meaning.”

  Oh Lord, dead men! The words hit Sedgwicke like a hammerblow, piercing a mind already numb with exhaustion and still reeling with the growing shock of his present circumstances. Tired as it was, his mind worked on it. He was now in the same Army. Previously death had come into his life as an issue of salvation. His close conjunction with death in this form was something new and not far from terrifying.

  The stew revived him, its heat before its nourishment, but what was revived anew was his misery. Always jealous of his status, the misery was compounded by the realisation that, only days ago, all in the barn, including the soldiers, would have been at his bidding. Now he was their’s to command, forced to enter the Army by a Judge who demolished his comfortable life in less than the time it took to eat a good dinner. He was now branded a felon, one of the “King’s hard bargains”. The thought rose vividly, that just days ago, he was riding around his scattered Parish in his favourite state, one of moderate intoxication, being greeted by his equals and respectfully acknowledged by all the lesser members of his flock that he encountered.

  He had been the Parish Vicar for over ten years, his first posting, for he was still a relatively young man, early-thirties, if neither strong nor sound of wind. He had graduated from the Ecumenical College at a lowly level, but the unfashionable and difficult Parish of Chorlton Sage on the high Wessex Plains had become vacant. None wanted it and so when he put himself forward, the Bishop welcomed the solving of the problem and the position became Sedgwicke’s. It was a Parish hard to minister, scattered hamlets sunk in deep and sheltering valleys, many of them some distance from the small church. He fulfilled the job well enough at first, but, with an adequate income and few expenses, a little luxury came into his life, especially a taste for good wine. This grew from a requirement to a necessity, which eventually governed and shaped his life, a life unrestrained by any female influence. Zealous not so much for his Faith, more the social power and standing it afforded, both his cold and over bearing character and the bleak isolation of the high downlands of Wiltshire quickly repelled any prospective wife. Two, in fact, had attempted to generate a more then affable acquaintance, their parents having looked upon him as a possible suitor of sufficient income and social position, but his scarecrow figure and argumentative hautiness, killed any affection before it could influence either’s affairs.

  Almost equalling his requirement for good wine, with no woman in his life, his attention fixed on the young women of his Parish. Too much and to
o often for Mothers, Fathers, and even husbands, on whom he called, hands would stroke and fondle. Casually, yet intimately, such as would produce angry looks from outraged, angry, but helpless parents and relations. They soon learned to send the young women away when he arrived in the village, or stand between them until she could make an excuse and affect an escape. They knew how useless it was to complain, nor to try to bar him from their threshold, for the Vicar had connections, something very absent in their lives. Rising out of the common herd to complain to the local Constable about a Cleric could cost them both their tenancy and their employment. This rendered him safe from his conduct being the possible cause of any fall from grace, if that ever occurred to him, for he could see neither harm nor crime within it.

  Even his laggard performance as the Spiritual Leader of his scattered flock gave no cause for concern; hangdog and hungover at Matins, slurred and swaying come Evensong. Problems arose, however, as his income did not quite run to accommodate his expanding toping habits and it became more difficult to place bottles on the table for both luncheon and dinner and also make one available to fortify his evenings.

  An annual event within the Diocese was dinner at Grangemore Manor, the country seat of the Duke and Duchess of that title. Sedgwicke attended every one, with high expectation that grew with the years. The food was sumptuous, more so the wine but, on the last occasion, more so again the silver cutlery. This year the place next to him, for some reason, was vacant, and over the course of the evening the full placing found its way into his copious cassock pockets. Within the next week he had taken half to the pawnbroker at Warminster. However, this worthy proprietor, being of the Jewish persuasion, knew nothing of English Heraldry; a portcullis, with coiled chains either side, surmounted by a lion rampant. He did not notice that this design, on each item of the cutlery, also matched the carefully painted inn sign hanging just down the road, swinging above the door of the Grangemore Arms.