More Sport for our Neighbours

by Ronald McGowan

  “So long as they are all settled somewhere, Mr Bennet, I can rest easy. You are no help, to be sure, especially since we do not know how long we may count on your presence.”

  Kitty herself could not seem to make her mind up.

  “It was terrible. She could never do such a thing. She was sure she should hate it. She did not mind at all, and was sure the costumes were very beautiful, in the Grecian taste.”

  Many years of matrimony have taught me when I am wasting my breath, so now I sat back and tried not to feel what the Germans call Schadenfreude at the sight of my daughter shuffling about, red-faced and red-shouldered, constantly hitching up her gown and attempting to ape the contortions of the two married ladies as they ‘struck their attitudes’.

  I am aware that this sort of thing is much caressed among certain circles who pride themselves on what they believe to be a Classical education. Or rather, that it had been at one time. The celebrated Lady Hamilton had been well known for such exhibitions, but she could scarcely be held up as the ideal model for a gentleman’s daughter. This provincial gathering was following a fashion rather behind the times, as was only to be expected.

  When the performance ended, and the ladies appeared encouraged by the copious applause to attempt another such, I decided it was time to take a hand, and rose from my seat.

  “Come, Kitty, my dear, you have delighted us enough. It is time to give another young lady a chance.”

  As I had calculated, this announcement brought no shortage of young volunteers, all eager to demonstrate their prowess on the keyboard, or the harp or some other instrument. One young lady even produced a curious sort of small bagpipe, which was greeted with enthusiasm by the company.

  This concluded all interest the evening may have held, as far as I could see, and I was very glad when Colonel Lambton beat a fairly early retreat, under the pressing necessity of ‘military hours’.

  The military hours were welcome, but I had no great expectations of the military beds that awaited us, nor of the military breakfast that was served on the morrow. I have always considered it wisest to expect disappointment, and have rarely been let down.

  Sunday was as flat as it is in most cities, I dare say, though not as dour as I have heard it described in some of the non-conformist communities of the interior. Church going took up the morning, of course. Newcastle has no cathedral, but St. Michael’s is a fine, large church, in a striking situation, with views down to the river.

  Those views formed our amusement for the afternoon, when we were conducted, en famille, along the quayside, where a thriving market was transacting, so that Kitty and Mrs Bennet, who must have passed several days now without spending money, were able to indulge themselves in such ribbons and fripperies as could no longer be done without.

  Colonel Lambton kept his arm linked with his young wife throughout, and never failed of pointing out new sights, to Mrs Lambton quite as much as to us.

  I remarked on this uxorious devotion, to which he replied.

  “I always hold hands with Mrs Lambton whenever we pass a market, or indeed, a shop. I have found it pays, for if I leave go, she will buy something.”

  Chapter Twenty-one : From Tyne to Wear

  We had been warned to be ready for an early start on Monday, and made haste to join the convoy assembling in the yard.

  We might just as well have taken our time, for all we could do was stand there viewing the chaos and confusion as, first, two carts arrived and all sorts of unfamiliar gear was piled on them under the orders of a burly corporal. It was then taken off again and redistributed at the orders of an even burlier sergeant.

  “I see you’re getting used to army life,” remarked Colonel Lambton, emerging from a comfortably late breakfast, “hurry up so you can wait is how the British army operates, I fear. I have a pressing appointment with the Lord Lieutenant – for whom I shall no doubt have to wait when I get there - or I should at least keep you company. I will have some coffee and rolls sent out to you, however in the meantime. Thank you so much for the pleasure of your company over the weekend, and pray give Mrs Wickham my regards.”

  His appointment did not prove pressing enough to prevent elaborate courtesies in the farewell line on both sides before he left us. Mrs Lambton did not put in an appearance.

  I found that the long stand in the fresh air had given me an appetite, and positively salivated at the thought of coffee and rolls. We were not to enjoy more than their smell, however, for all the packing seemed at last - possibly under the influence of their commanding officer’s gaze - to have been accomplished, including the stowage of our own bags, and we were now approached by a rather diminutive figure in a red coat adorned with an unlikely amount of gold braid.

  “Gentleman volunteer, that is to say, Acting Ensign Washington at your service, sir. I have orders to convey you and your family to Sunderland Camp and conduct you to Captain Wickham as soon as may be. Would you care to come this way, sir?”

  He led us to the first of the carts, where a clean, white sheet had been draped over something nameless in the cargo, artfully arranged so that it resembled a bench seat, complete with backrest.

  “If the ladies would care to sit here, sir, I think that they will find it quite comfortable. I selected the softest sacks I could find for cushions, and I have personally tested them. You will be right at the front of the column, so there should be no trouble with dust. I can find you a horse, sir, should you wish to ride with me, or perhaps you would care to sit on the box, next to the driver?”

  “I think, for now, I had best stay with the ladies, lest they might become nervous without me, but perhaps I might take you up on your offer of a mount later in the journey. How long do you think we shall be on the road?”

  “Oh, it should take three hours or so, barring mishaps. So much depends on how long we have to stop for crossing traffic. But you will see that for yourself, sir, as we go along. Perhaps it might be best if we made a start?”

  “You are in command, I believe, Mr. Washington.”

  “Oh! So I am, to be sure! Then permit me to assist the ladies to their seats and we shall be off.”

  We rattled down to the quayside and over the bridge, an antique affair, much encumbered by shops and other buildings, so that the road in the centre barely left room for two carts to pass each other. I remember seeing pictures of London Bridge similarly burdened, before it was cleared of its mediaeval accretions in the last age. The Romans, I believe, always built their bridges low down by the waterside, preferably where the river was narrowest and the depth was least. I should not call the River Tyne at this point either particularly narrow nor noticeably shallow, but I dare say they made the best of things, as we all do.

  There was, at any rate, a long slow climb up the southern bank, which gave me the opportunity to twist round on my seat and enquire of the ladies how they were finding their improvised sofa.

  “The cushions are surprisingly comfortable” said Mrs Bennet, “which is just as well, as the springs on this conveyance leave much to be desired.”

  “I cannot help feeling that we are about to fall off at any moment,” objected Mary, sitting bolt-upright, her hands clutching at the blanket on which she reposed, “there are no sides to this wagon, nor anything to hold on to.”

  Kitty merely coughed.

  I could not help but agree that the situation of the ladies did appear rather precarious. Neither their improvised seat, nor the cart itself were really wide enough for the three of them abreast, and Mrs Bennet, in the middle was taking up as much room as the two girls had between them.

  Mr Washington had so far spent his time cantering up and down the column, and I made sure to hail him when next he passed us.

  “Mr Washington,” may I take you up on your offer of a horse? Then, perhaps, one of the ladies may take my place on the box? I believe that we shall all be more comfortable thus.”

  “Certainly, sir,” was the young man’s reply, followed immediately by a stentor
ian, “Column! Halt!”

  I could not help thinking it might have sounded rather more imperious if his voice had not broken after the second syllable, but it had the desired effect.

  A rather, elderly, somewhat starved-looking horse was then led up from the rear, such a horse as one might expect in an infantry regiment so far down the line, looking very much a descendant of the famous Rosinante. It was perched upon this beast’s back that I had the pleasure of observing the comedy of Mr Washington helping Kitty down from her perch, so that her mother might descend to ride on the box with the driver, a thing which could never be countenanced for an unmarried young lady.

  It was obvious that the young officer was sorely perplexed as to where to put both his hands and his eyes, while equally determined not to lose this chance of inspiring the young lady’s gratitude. The pink colours which rose to his cheeks would have done credit to a Boucher or a Fragonard, while his mumbled acceptance of Kitty’s thanks was barely audible.

  I made out something like “My pleasure, Miss, that is to say not a pleasure, but an honour…but pleasure, too, of course, but….”

  The rest was lost in blushes.

  Out of pure, disinterested, pity, I suggested that we ride together at the head of the column, where he could point out the sights of his native county. I had thought of asking him to ride alongside the ladies and perform the same office for them, but it would obviously have been too comical, and I am not by nature a cruel man.

  “Tell me, Mr Washington,” I asked him as we rode past the marching infantrymen, “is yours not an unfortunate choice of surname for an officer in the British Army?”

  “You are not the first person to make that observation, Mr Bennet,” he replied. “But it is worse than that. My father was a great opponent of the American War, and christened me George by way of protest, even though it was all over ten years and more before I was born. I have two brothers who insist on being called Frank and Jeff, although their real names are Franklin and Jefferson. I had to endure many a ribbing in the officers’ mess when I first joined the regiment, but now they are all gone to Spain, and the few of us who are left are much more of a band of brothers. Yet I refuse to be ashamed of my name. Why should I? There have been Washingtons in County Durham since Norman William first crossed the Tees, and had we but time, it would only be a few miles out of our way today to show you our family seat, at Washington Hall. The American president came from a very minor branch of the family, down in Sussex, or some such equatorial region.”

  I could not help smiling to myself.

  “I am glad to see, Mr Washington, that you can wax eloquent on a subject dear to your heart. I was beginning to think that your conversation was limited to ‘ums’ and ‘ers’ and ‘excuse mes’. But I mean no offense, and hope you will take none.”

  “A volunteer, not even a regular ensign, would not last long in a regiment of Light Infantry if he were much given to taking offence, sir, and I intend to make my way. Captain Wickham is very good to me, and says he will recommend me for a regular commission when our present assignment is complete.”

  He seemed to take courage from mention of his ancestry, and continued with barely a hesitation –

  “Tell me, sir, is it true what they say, that you are Mrs Wickham’s father?”

  “It is quite true, yes.”

  “And the young ladies are her sisters?”

  Again, I replied in the affirmative.

  “I should have known, they are so pretty, and so charming. Mrs Wickham is the darling of the regiment, sir, so winning and friendly in her ways, so jolly and lively and full of fun. And so beautiful, sir. Such a face, such a form, such a way of carrying herself! Of course, she has not been quite herself lately, but we all hope that now her happy event has occurred she will soon be her old, jolly self. She will be very glad to see her family, sir. It has been very dull in the regiment since the First Battalion went off to fight, and Sunderland is duller still, with only Captain Wickham, Ensign Dobson and myself. There are the officers of the engineers, who are building the new battery to guard the port, but we do not mix socially with them, of course. The townspeople have been very good to us, however, but it is not the same. Ah, but Mrs Wickham will set all to rights, she….”

  Before he could launch into another encomium upon my erring daughter I made haste to interrupt.

  “A new battery to guard the port, you say, Mr Washington? Does that mean the port requires guarding? I should not like to think I might be taking my family into danger. Surely you do not anticipate an invasion so far north?”

  “As to that, sir, there has been little danger of such a thing since Admiral Duncan destroyed the Dutch fleet at Camperdown – an event they make much of where we are going, the seaman who nailed Duncan’s colours to the mast having come from the town – and even less now that the Danes are no more a threat. But we get the occasional raider making a nuisance of himself, and the fort is to discourage them.”

  “Tell me, Mr Washington, if, by any chance we were to mount the next hill and find a French force waiting for us on the other side, having been landed by such a raider, or, even worse, the invasion having occurred and the news not yet having reached Newcastle, what should you do?”

  “You need have no fear of that, Mr Bennet. I know exactly what to do in such an event.”

  “And what might that be, pray? I ask only for the sake of information, not as any form of criticism of yourself, in whom I have compete confidence, although you will, perhaps, forgive me if I mention that your experience of such things does appear to be rather limited.”

  “Oh, I know exactly what I should do. I should ask Sergeant Millburn. Isn’t that right, sergeant?”

  “That’s right, sir,” replied a grizzled veteran who was marching alongside us at the famous Light Infantry pace, quite capable of keeping up with our ambling nags. “That’s what God made sergeants for, to tell young officers what to do when they don’t know.”

  I could think of nothing more to say, other than that I now felt myself greatly reassured, and we rode on in silence for a while.

  Eventually, however, my curiosity got the better of me, and I found myself enquiring about the strange, conical hills we passed every so often in the distance, some of them smouldering or almost smoking, like so many Etnas.

  “Those?” the young officer replied in response to my enquiry, “It is traditional to practice upon Southerners by letting them believe that they are volcanoes. You may encounter fellows who will tell you of ‘the eruption of Mount Pelaw’, or ‘the last days of Pity Me’ in pursuit of that tradition. Do not let yourself be deceived, sir. Volcanoes are primaeval, part of God’s creation, whereas these ‘hills’ are of comparatively recent date, and their creation is not divine but human, or even, some would say, infernal. Indeed, there is one near my home now, which is younger than I am. I have watched it grow even as I have grown myself. Consider what sort of a country you are in, sir, and ask yourself what it is much more likely to contain than so many volcanoes.”

  Seeing me look no less mystified, he continued, “They are what we call pit heaps, sir. They are nothing but great piles of waste from the coal mines. The coal, when it comes up from the ground, is all mixed with slag and rubble, and all kinds of rubbish, which must be picked out and discarded before the true coal can be sold. That is all these ‘conical hills’ are, sir, the accumulated waste of years of mining.”

  “But they smoke so,” I objected.

  “So they do, sir, and often flames are not wanting either. I warrant you would see them coming from yonder heap if you were here after dark, for the coal seams give off many noxious gases, as the fire damp, the choke damp, the stink damp and the deadly white damp. The slightest spark will set off the fire damp, which in turn may set off the entire heap, for a deal of coal is left in among the waste, and you may see entire hills ablaze if you choose to enquire.”

  “You are very knowledgeable about these processes sir,” I responded, “Are you b
y any chance a Natural Philosopher?”

  “Not I, sir. I fear I am but a member of the rude and licentious soldiery, although I try to indulge in as little of one as of the other. But every gentleman of property hereabouts has at least one pit on his estate, though he may lease out the management and working of it to another. Coal is money, sir, and there are few so well off as to afford to neglect the subject. My father has an inclination to dismiss his coal agent and replace him by one of the family. Had this war not providentially intervened, I should have been put to learn mineral engineering, a fate which I was very glad to avoid by volunteering. Even now I fear family influence may be brought to bear, and I cannot rest easy until I have a regular commission.”

  “That is why I am so anxious that this assignment should go well. I trust everything is to your satisfaction, sir? Are the ladies comfortable?”

  “Perfectly comfortable, now, I believe, now that they have enough room on their cushions. But tell me, I forgot to ask before, with what exactly are those cushions- those sacks, rather – stuffed?”

  “I made sure they should have the softest items in our cargo, sir. The blanket is draped over the ready-bagged loads for the eighteen pounders which are installing in the new Wearmouth Battery.”

  “Let me understand you correctly, sir. Do you tell me that my wife and daughters are presently sitting on bags of gunpowder?”

  “Not very large bags. And they are perfectly comfortable. I spent some time sitting on them myself before you arrived, and I am convinced of their comfort.”

  “It is not so much their comfort that concerns me, but their safety.”

  “You need have no fear on that score, sir. I apprehend no danger. I have done this run a dozen times, although this is the first time I have been in charge.”

  “But…..”

  At this point, however, Mr Washington was called away to rule on some dispute as to the route to be followed at the next crossroads, which was perhaps just as well, as, to this day, I really do not know what I should have said next.