sentence, as he spotted the women climbing down from one of the carts and two beginning to fight. ‘Oh, the stupid bitches.’ He sighed. His apology was half-hearted, as he finished fixing the harness and strode off to deal with this latest outrage. Sally noticed that Mrs MacAndrews was struggling to conceal a grin.
Kidwell wanted to get moving. The 106th, along with the rest of the Reserve Division, was not due to set out until ten o’clock, but he and the other regimental quartermasters intended to hurry the baggage on so that the trudging pace of the bullocks would not hold up the main column when it followed. At dawn, they had begun to marshal the baggage trains, but it was still 8.30 before they were ready. For a short while, it was almost peaceful as they waited for the train ahead of them to move off. Sally Dobson settled comfortably, wrapped in one blanket and sitting on another to soften the hard edge of a wooden box filled with ship’s biscuit.
The baggage columns ahead at last began to move, and Kidwell signalled to his own carts to follow them along the road. The rain began at almost the same moment, feeding the mud which already lay inches deep all along the rutted and churned road. The quartermaster breathed a sigh of relief and urged his own mule on, and then cursed once again as he saw that the redcoats were having trouble making the teams of the big wagons move. They yelled, struck at the animals’ rumps with the butts of their muskets, and then reversed the weapons to prod with their bayonets. Nothing happened. They jabbed harder, drawing blood, and the beasts finally lurched forward, bellowing in protest.
‘Where’s Jenny?’ Sally Dobson had sudden realised that her daughter was nowhere in the wagon. ‘Oh, Mrs Rawson, have you seen my Jenny?’
‘Perhaps she is on the front cart?’ The fastidious Mrs Rawson put down the dog in its basket to lean out and peer forward.
Sally was becoming agitated. ‘Can you see her? Oh, where is Mrs Hanks? Where is my little girl?’
The other wives took up the shout, while the sergeant’s wife tried to calm her friend. ‘Private Hanks is with her,’ she said. One or two of the married men had been permitted to help their wives prepare for the move. All had then returned to duty, but because of his wife’s condition, Captain Pringle had told Hanks to stay with the wagons until he was sure that Jenny was secure. ‘She cannot come to harm.’
For some reason the carts of the regiment in front of the 106th stopped, and they too were forced to halt.
‘Our Sal,’ said Sally to her younger daughter, named after her, but always called Sal by the family. ‘Get down and go and find your sister.’ The ten-year-old, happy to be doing something, scrambled down, putting her feet between the spokes of one of the big wheels and jumping, in spite of Mrs Rawson’s call to be careful. The girl splashed happily through the puddles, running past each cart and looking for Jenny.
Sally leaned precariously from the top of the great mound of crates at the front of the wagon and watched the child go. ‘Oh, Mrs Rawson, I will not rest until I have Jenny beside us.’ She spotted another of the company’s wives in the cart ahead. The pretty Mrs Murphy had drawn her shawl tightly around her, cradling her baby in her arms and singing softly to him. Not one of the wives chosen by lot in the summer, Mary Murphy had somehow managed to find passage on board a ship and had got to Portugal, eventually walking all the way to Almeida to find the regiment there.
‘Oh, Mrs Murphy!’ Sally’s voice was strong in spite of a persistent cough which had troubled her for years. ‘Have you seen Mrs Hanks?’ Mary shook her head, but stood up, and tried to help by looking.
Esther and Jane MacAndrews, drawn by the noise, stopped to talk to Sally, although found more coherent explanation from the sergeant’s wife. They split up, the daughter riding to the front of the column to search,
Kidwell wanted to get moving. The 106th, along with the rest of the Reserve Division, was not due to set out until ten o’clock, but he and the other regimental quartermasters intended to hurry the baggage on so that the trudging pace of the bullocks would not hold up the main column when it followed. At dawn, they had begun to marshal the baggage trains, but it was still 8.30 before they were ready. For a short while, it was almost peaceful as they waited for the train ahead of them to move off. Sally Dobson settled comfortably, wrapped in one blanket and sitting on another to soften the hard edge of a wooden box filled with ship’s biscuit.
The baggage columns ahead at last began to move, and Kidwell signalled to his own carts to follow them along the road. The rain began at almost the same moment, feeding the mud which already lay inches deep all along the rutted and churned road. The quartermaster breathed a sigh of relief and urged his own mule on, and then cursed once again as he saw that the redcoats were having trouble making the teams of the big wagons move. They yelled, struck at the animals’ rumps with the butts of their muskets, and then reversed the weapons to prod with their bayonets. Nothing happened. They jabbed harder, drawing blood, and the beasts finally lurched forward, bellowing in protest.
‘Where’s Jenny?’ Sally Dobson had sudden realised that her daughter was nowhere in the wagon. ‘Oh, Mrs Rawson, have you seen my Jenny?’
‘Perhaps she is on the front cart?’ The fastidious Mrs Rawson put down the dog in its basket to lean out and peer forward.
Sally was becoming agitated. ‘Can you see her? Oh, where is Mrs Hanks? Where is my little girl?’
The other wives took up the shout, while the sergeant’s wife tried to calm her friend. ‘Private Hanks is with her,’ she said. One or two of the married men had been permitted to help their wives prepare for the move. All had then returned to duty, but because of his wife’s condition, Captain Pringle had told Hanks to stay with the wagons until he was sure that Jenny was secure. ‘She cannot come to harm.’
For some reason the carts of the regiment in front of the 106th stopped, and they too were forced to halt.
‘Our Sal,’ said Sally to her younger daughter, named after her, but always called Sal by the family. ‘Get down and go and find your sister.’ The ten-year-old, happy to be doing something, scrambled down, putting her feet between the spokes of one of the big wheels and jumping, in spite of Mrs Rawson’s call to be careful. The girl splashed happily through the puddles, running past each cart and looking for Jenny.
Sally leaned precariously from the top of the great mound of crates at the front of the wagon and watched the child go. ‘Oh, Mrs Rawson, I will not rest until I have Jenny beside us.’ She spotted another of the company’s wives in the cart ahead. The pretty Mrs Murphy had drawn her shawl tightly around her, cradling her baby in her arms and singing softly to him. Not one of the wives chosen by lot in the summer, Mary Murphy had somehow managed to find passage on board a ship and had got to Portugal, eventually walking all the way to Almeida to find the regiment there.
‘Oh, Mrs Murphy!’ Sally’s voice was strong in spite of a persistent cough which had troubled her for years. ‘Have you seen Mrs Hanks?’ Mary shook her head, but stood up, and tried to help by looking.
Esther and Jane MacAndrews, drawn by the noise, stopped to talk to Sally, although found more coherent explanation from the sergeant’s wife. They split up, the daughter riding to the front of the column to search,
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