Sergeant Darrowfield held up his open haversack to the first of the Grenadier Company’s wives. Mrs Howell was a plump woman with a red face and thick white arms. Although she was not yet thirty, her dark hair was already streaked with grey and made her look much older. Se hesitated for a moment, and then shut her eyes and reached into the bag. For a moment she rummaged, feeling the bunched-up balls of paper, and then finally her hand seized one and pulled it out. She handed it to the bespectacled Corporal Bower. He was the company clerk and so able to read. He was also unmarried and so had no personal interest.
‘Not go,’ he said solemnly.
‘Oh God,’ gasped Mrs Howell. ‘Oh my good God, no. My poor babies, and my poor Tom.’ She was sobbing, but kept her eyes closed. Tom Howell took her by the shoulders and led her off. His own eyes were moist.
Mary Murphy stepped up quickly, rubbing her hands together nervously. Young and bright, she reached in and pulled out a slip.
‘Not go,’ said Bower once again. Mary shrieked and there were moans from the crowd because she was well liked.
No one wanted to be next. Finally Sally Dobson took her chance.
‘Go,’ read Bower for the first time. She let her breath out in relief. There were smiles now. Mrs Dobson had been with the company longer than anyone else and it was a relief to know that she would be one of the six wives going with the grenadiers. They and the rest of the battalion would embark in three hours. Those wives who received the slips with their fatal ‘Not go’ would be left on the dock.
‘Why didn’t we do this last night?’ whispered Hanley to Pringle and Williams as they watched the next wife steadying herself to take her chance. ‘At least it would have given them time for a proper farewell.’ Wickham had ordered his lieutenant to oversee the ballot, ensuring that everything was fair. In truth the sergeants had done it all, but he had dutifully watched. He was dreading having to face any of the unlucky wives, not knowing how he could answer their pleas.
‘Time is the last thing they need. How would it make anything better?’ Billy said quietly.
‘But still, this seems so callous.’ Hanley had begun sketching the scene, but had stopped. It was simply too emotional.
‘If we gave them time, the men whose wives lost out might well run,’ Pringle replied.
‘Desert?’ Hanley was shocked. The regiment had not lost any men since he had joined and the idea had never really occurred to him.
‘Wouldn’t you?’ asked Williams. Hanley was surprised at this acceptance, even approval, of a breach of discipline from a man who took duty so seriously. Pringle hushed them into silence, however, before he could say any more.
So the melancholy scene progressed. There was fear before each choice, then joy or utter horror depending on the result. Gradually the places were filled. Molly Richards was fortunate and there was little joy at her success. Ill tempered, known as a gossip and believed to be a thief, the big Irishwoman was unpopular. To make matters worse she taunted the others with her luck, especially poor Mary Howell, who once again burst into tears. Several of the other wives began to yell back and Pringle feared that a fight was only moments away. Fortunately Sergeant Probert stepped in to break them up and little Jacky Richards managed to lead his exultant wife away.
Jenny Hanks was not part of the ballot. Pringle had seen to this, persuading Wickham and the adjutant to count her still as Dobson’s daughter. There could easily have been resentment if a wife of a few days had been given the same chance as everyone else. Since Sally was going, Jenny would now go as well.
Finally, the lt was finished. Williams and Hanley stayed to support Pringle as he gave each of the unlucky wives written proof of their status. In theory this should oblige their home parish to provide them with enough to buy a roof over their heads and food. In reality few parishes welcomed a new burden. Nor did it do much to help them on the journey, often long, back to their homes. A few had families who might choose to help them. For most the prospects were uncertain and scarcely good. They did not know when their husbands would return, if indeed they ever did, and some would come back blind, limbless or crippled with just the most meagre of pensions to stave off starvation. For the wives there would be months, perhaps years, of waiting and never knowing, with the poorhouse or prostitution hovering like spectres waiting to claim them.
Officers’ wives were permitted to follow them on campaign unless the commander of their regiment or the entire army expressly forbade it. No such order had been given, but as was usual there would also be no official assistance for any who chose to go. Space was at a premium on the transport ships, and none could be spared for useless mouths.
MacAndrews had been rather glad when the adjutant had informed him of this and of the colonel’s resolution not to make any exceptions. The major had made a formal request for his family to accompany him, hoping to get this very response.
‘I suppose you are pleased, MacAndrews,’ said his wife afterwards.
‘A battle is no place for a woman, let alone a wee girl like Jane.’
‘We had not proposed actually to fight in any battles. And your daughter is not so “wee” as all that. Whenever you get all Scotch on me I know you’re being devious. We have followed you everywhere before.’
‘To garrisons, not a war.’
‘And weren’t those dangerous enough?’ He could not deny that. Esther noticed his eyes moisten slightly, and almost regretted reviving the old dark memories. She looked away for a moment, before she continued, trying to lighten the tone. ‘So, are you tired of me already?’
Alastair put his arms around her and kissed her. They stayed holding each other for a long time before he spoke.
‘You know better than to ask that.’ He kissed her hair. ‘These last two years were some of the hardest of my life. Since you came back it has been . . .’ He struggled for words, so instead kissed her again. There was no need for more words for a while.
‘I am not sanguine of success,’ he said at last.
‘For the regiment?’ asked his wife.
‘For the expedition. There are many risks and it could well end in a disaster. The regiment should do well, but that does not mean everyone else will.’ He decided not to mention his doubts about Moss. There was no sense in unnecessary alarm, although their commander seemed both rash and careless. ‘At the least it will be dangerous.’
‘Dangers are everywhere. I might fall from my horse or sicken and die even if I stay with your dull sister in Inverness. So might Jane. The French are civilised, so it is not as if you are dealing with savages who take no prisoners. If you are captured then I will be with you. I had better after last time. Can’t have you running off with some Frenchwoman!’
MacAndrews smiled. ‘But if I should fall, where would you be?’
‘By your side, and at least I will know that I have done whatever can be done. Better that than getting a letter and wonderig if I could have made a difference. You are not usually so morbid.’
‘And Jane?’ he asked. ‘There may be sights no young girl should have to see.’
‘It will be an adventure. She will learn more than if she sits and sews in Inverness.’
‘I have done my best.’ His wife sniffed at that. ‘There is no berth for either of you. You cannot come, my dear, and there is nothing I can do to alter that.’
‘Yet if we could, would you permit it?’ There was something precise in her tone which alarmed him.
‘It is impossible for you to go.’ Perhaps saying that firmly would make it true, but years of experience had made him cautious about underestimating Esther’s ingenuity and determination.
‘You are my husband, my lord and master. If you tell me I shall not do a thing then I must obey.’ Their past life suggested no such thing, but she was looking him straight in the eye and very nearly appeared to be sincere. ‘If you forbid it then that is that. So I must ask whether you would permit Jane and me to join you in Spain if I could devise the means of getting there.’
MacAndrews knew that there must be a catch. Yet he had been an officer for more than two decades, and one of the first and most important lessons he had learnt was never to issue an order that he knew would not be obeyed.
‘In such a case, of course you may come,’ he said. For the life of him he could not imagine how she would manage it, and yet his certainty wavered. He hoped that he had not just made a grave mistake.
On 29th June 1808, at three in the afternoon, the 106th went on board the ships allocated to them. The band did not play, but a pathetic group of women and children stood on the harbour-side and waved last farewells to their men. A few were mute, but Mrs Howell wailed and the two children clinging to her skirts sobbed with her. Mary Murphy held her baby tightly in her arms and hushed his cries. Her face was taut, but she somehow held back her own tears, wanting her husband to know that she was strong and would be waiting for him when he returned. Yet despair clawed at her, as an image of her Jim lying dead kept coming into her mind.
Jim Murphy clung on just as tightly to the side of the ship, his eyes fixed on his wife and tiny son. Private Howell had already gone below decks, unable to cope. So had Richards and his wife Molly, the latter no longer so keen to revel in her good fortune, for she was already nauseous with the ship’s gentle motion. Williams stood beside Murphy and tried to think of something to say. The ship’s captain was bellowing at the soldiers to go below and get out of the damned way. Hamish put his hand lightly on the Irish private’s shoulder, unable to find any words. Dobson came up on Murphy’s other side and passed him a bottle. The sergeants had inspected the Grenadier Company to check that none were sneaking alcohol on board, but somehow the veteran managed to produce brandy. Williams could not think how, and it made him realise how much he still did not understand about the lives of the soldiers. A volunteer was always an outsider. Still, much as he loathed drunkenness, he was for once glad that Dobson was providing the redcoat’s most common comfort.
Seven companies of the battalion were crammed into emptied gun decks of HMS Hasdrubal, an old sixty-four long since past its best days. MacAndrews took the grenadiers and One and Two Companies on the Corbridge, a smaller merchantmen hired for the purpose. It was even more cramped and had evidently been much employed hauling coal, for the dust ore erywhere. They were the only ‘cargo’ apart from a pair of engineer officers. The Light Dragoons and the Gunners were carried in other ships.
On the evening tide, the little flotilla set sail. Winds that held the main fleet in the bay off Cork were in their favour, and in less than a week they had joined the other ships, only to spend almost as long again at anchor. There was no opportunity to go on shore and officers and men alike suffered. Pringle had taken to his cot almost as soon as he had gone on board, and stirred little after that. Williams was almost as bad, but showed some signs of recovering while they were off Cork. Hanley more quickly found his sea legs, as did Redman, adding to his sense of superiority over Williams and creating an almost benevolent attitude in him. The ship’s captain was a gruff Yorkshireman and ordered all ranks to remain off deck for all but an hour a day. Only once did he invite MacAndrews and the three captains to a meagre meal. They supplied the drink.
On 12th July the entire fleet, including the vessels containing the 106th, set sail for Spain and war.