“I am pleased to have a more, aggressive, shall we say, man in front of the Rifles. Enough said – the man’s dead and buried – de mortuis is a good rule in the Army! Show yourselves at the next village, see what happens – they will have had time to discover what happened here and decide what to do.”
“Fight, run or surrender, sir?”
“Not much choice beyond those, I would say. If they fight, be ready to pull back – we are too few to stand our ground. If they show a white flag, take possession – cautiously!”
The Rifles marched first, put a mile between themselves and the two, thin redcoat companies, James stretching out at the head of his men, only the pickets in front of him. There was an obvious sense of satisfaction in the men – he was where an officer should be in their opinion. He walked easily, thinking deeply, relying on Donnelly to warn him when he was needed. It looked very confident, as if he was wholly unworried, out for an evening stroll. In reality, he was deeply perplexed, trying to think his way through a suddenly complex existence.
Soldiering was supposed to be simple, he believed.
One did one’s duty, as defined by one’s superiors, as efficiently as was possible and as bravely as was required. There was, or should have been, no other criterion – duty was all and courage was given, never to be queried. All he had heard at school had reinforced this simple belief – an English gentleman performed his duty, no less and needing no more. Now, an Irish sergeant was defining his duty for him, because his previous officer had been inadequate; even worse, he was grateful to the man for showing him the right way to go on. Add to that, school had never discussed what happened when there was a sack, and he had seen and heard enough on the previous night to know that every one of his men was a criminal who should be hanged out of hand. They had raped and murdered casually, and had only refrained from looting because the village was so poor, and even then they had stolen the only beasts of burden the farmers had possessed, although, having killed all the farmers first that hardly mattered, he presumed.
Did he wish to continue in the life? He could argue that he had not appreciated what a sack was before, but if they took another fortified village he would have to allow it and take full responsibility for setting the men loose. He could remain in the army and transfer to a battalion in garrison, in London, probably, and never have to face the problem again. He could send in his papers and try to find a respectable occupation – but what could he do? He could, perhaps, ask father to buy him a farm, but he had little taste for cattle and sheep; he might even settle in rooms in London, living on his allowance, but that would be boring, and then expensive, he feared. Some of the other officers had discussed taking up posts in John Company; collectors in the back country, small-scale governors running the countryside for the benefit of Company and the ordinary folk alike, but he did not know whether he could do that.
In the end, the sole skill he knew he possessed in large measure was fighting – not only could he be first over the wall or into the enemy line, he enjoyed it, wanted to do it again. But… when he was promoted to field officer, major and above, he would be expected to stand back and order others in, subalterns did the bloody-handed work on the orders of the senior men and he could not remain a lieutenant or captain forever. Perhaps, in ten years or so, when promotion to major became practical, necessary almost, he would have solved the problems, would know what he wanted, if he wanted anything at all, and he was not sure he did – he had never had to want things – he had needed very little and that had always been there, in surfeit, in fact. It was all very difficult – he must give the matter much thought – perhaps he could have a long talk with Major Wolverstone when he saw him again.
Growing up was very hard when most of the men he knew were still schoolboys at heart – he had no exemplar, no model to copy. He wondered what his father would have done in these circumstances – he would ask him when next he saw him, but that would not be for many years, unfortunately. Perhaps he could say something in his next letter, but he had no great facility with his pen, it would be hard to say what he wanted without appearing to be a whining weakling, needing his hand held. Not to worry! Lead the company into the next fight and let the day after take care of itself, that was all he could do for the while, and it was good enough, anyway.
The gates were open at the next village and a deputation was nervously standing, empty-handed and humble. One of the men was quite richly dressed, looked like a local chieftain or lord, and he called out to the interpreter as soon as they came within hearing range.
“Sir, the man says that it is his most earnest desire to surrender, himself and all of his people and lands, without any fighting at all. He says as well that he is sorry that the silly people fought yesterday and he is very sure that they deserved everything that happened but please not to do it here. The three villages, the town and the fishing harbour, all are now the happy property of good King George of England, and of better Honourable Company of England, hip, hip, huzzay, sir!”
“Thank him, very politely, and tell him I am very happy to accept his surrender and will want a barracks for my soldiers.”
A brief delay, much nodding and smiling and a junior sent scurrying away.
“There is a very small, that is to say, tiny, fort by the gate, sir, and it will be empty within five minutes and cleaned and brushed in less than one hour, sir. There will be charpoys before night time, sir. Officers, sir, will be welcome indeed in the large house, not as great as a palace but very full of comforts such as English gentlemen will find most desirable.”
“Please thank the gentleman for me. Sergeant Murphy, billet the men, please, with appropriate care?”
“Sir!”
James knew there would sentries, awake and alert, just in case the Burmese gentleman should change his mind in the night, the dark hours often bringing second thoughts, or so he understood.
“Donnelly!”
“Sir?”
“Will you be able to find a billet in the big house? Within call, I would prefer.”
“Of course, sir. Hewett as well, sir.”
The redcoats joined them and paraded through the village, twice the size of the one they had sacked, all of its doors locked, women out of sight, a few men nervously watching, reached the fort in time to watch its previous occupants shambling off down the track, a mob no better armed than those they had slaughtered, four or five hundred strong, presumably going to the town.
The fort was stone built, walls no more than twelve feet high but thick, and a central keep on three floors, strongly built and with its own well, the water sweet. There were cannon, four pound guns, bronze, of Portuguese origin from the coat of arms and the inscription around the muzzle and probably two centuries old; the barrels were bright and shiny, on the outside, their bores thick with verdigris. There were ready racks of ball and grape, the individual rounds rusted together, untouched since first stacked, probably in a previous century – evidently there had been little military action in recent years.
“Rifles to ground floor, Sergeant Murphy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You will take the duty tonight, Sergeant Murphy, redcoats for the following two.”
“Sir!”
A brief word with Major Woods confirmed the arrangements as they made their way to their own quarters, a full furlong distant.
“Peaceful, sir – the governor or whatever he is has no need to live in the fort.”
“Well spotted, James! The family known to be loyal, politically unambitious, trusted by whoever rules the larger princedom or whatyoumaycallit, so he can live a quiet life. Long may he continue to do so!”
“What happens next, sir?”
“Stay here a few days, just to make our presence felt, then down to the coast, a boat sent off for orders. It seems a rich enough valley, so it may be felt wise to leave a garrison here, a company of redcoats, not your people. I would expect you to be taken back to base, then sent out with the next column, unless th
e army marches, in which case, of course, you will be attached to a lead battalion, probably with one of your captains found to take over, you being still very junior in your rank. My letter of commendation will go with you in any case. Enough said! Do you think there will be dancing girls tonight?”
James had no idea, but he rather hoped there might be – everyone had heard of the way the local rulers lived.
There were dancing girls, enough for everybody, and heavy meals of lamb and goat and fresh fish and liberal quantities of various forms of alcohol, sufficient to make for a very enjoyable week and to bias the officers strongly in favour of leaving the original rulers in control of their fiefdom – they were obviously friendly.
The Rifles and one of the redcoat companies marched to the coast, reluctantly, after seven days, Major Woods, James and the redcoat captain and his single surviving lieutenant farewelled at a very early breakfast, travelling better in the morning before the heat of the day.
The interpreter listened to the five minute long speech of the governor.
“He says goodbye, sir.”
He listened again as the elderly gentleman stood and beckoned to a servant with a tray.
“He begs, sir, that you will accept these small presents as a farewell and a wish that you will return, though not soon. Do not open them now, sir, wait till you have left the room, for politeness.”
Four small packages, each about the size of a clenched fist and wrapped in bright silks, scarlet and gold, were handed to them, by the servant, not directly from the governor’s hand.
“I shall say thank-you, sir, and he will respond that it is nothing, not from him, because he did not personally give them to you, so if his masters come to hear they cannot say that he tried to place himself in your favour, yet they cannot say he was disrespectful, either. A very clever gentleman, sir. He will bow his head to you and then, sir, it would be polite for you to do so, but not so deep down as him.”
They smiled and nodded and carefully did not see as the interpreter received another package, not so large or so ornately wrapped as theirs.
“Bloody Hell, James! Would you look at these!”
Major Woods showed him a fistful of stones, a long necklace of rubies and sapphires, the gems alternating, none of them small and set in heavy gold.
“Must be worth thousands, James!”
James cast his mind back to Thingdon Hall, to his mother’s dress on formal occasions – he had always loved the sparkle and gleam of the jewellery she wore, had learned a little as a result.
“That big ruby at the centre is worth at least five hundreds on its own, sir – my mother would covet that!”
Major Woods knew nothing of James, other than his name, raised an eyebrow. Rifles officers tended not to come from the ranks of the very rich.
“Your mother, James? I do not believe I know her name?”
“Lady Verity Andrews, sir, wife to Lord Andrews, my father, of course.”
Woods had heard of the Iron Master, nodded thoughtfully – why was the boy not in the Guards?
“I prefer to be a soldier, sir,” James commented before the question was asked, opening his own package.
Four finger rings and a pin suitable for a cravat, provided one regarded a pigeon’s egg ruby as a tasteful accoutrement to a gentleman’s dress.
“Two sapphires, sir, and three rubies – no, wait a minute, that pin’s a star ruby look!”
He showed the stone and the pinpoint of light directly in its centre.
“Valuable, James?”
“Probably, sir, certainly, in fact, but I have not the slightest idea what it would be worth – I have never seen its like. One day, sir, when I wed, then I shall give it to my wife, but I really do not think I would wish to wear it myself.”
He made no comment when he saw the other two officers, redcoats both, naturally, slipping rings onto their fingers in turn until they discovered a comfortable fit and then admiring their appearance with every sign of satisfaction.
“Good morning, my lord. Bad news, I am afraid, Charlie Barney died last night.”
“Barney? I had not known him to be ill, did he suffer an accident?”
Quillerson sat back at his desk, pulled out the folder relating to the Barney tenancy.
“Not that I have heard, my lord. He was with his eldest son, Alfie, in the Mulso Arms in the village, turned round, put his pint down, said something, nobody could tell what, then just dropped where he stood, dead before he hit the ground, they say. Heart attack, perhaps? Not a bad way to go, I imagine.”
“There is no good way to go, Quillerson,” Tom said sombrely. “He was what, a year into his fourth lease?”
“I’m sorry, my lord, I should have thought! Yes, there’s nearly six years left on this renewal, but the contract is with the individual, it is not binding after his death; we are not obliged simply to transfer it to his eldest son. We would be bound to pay for improvements, and that money would be inherited in the normal way, although generally simply accruing to the next tenant if he is a family member, but that is the full extent of our obligation.”
It occurred to Tom that Quillerson was emphasising the point quite strongly.
“I know very little of Alfie Barney, Quillerson, what is he, in his thirties now?”
“He is, my lord.”
“You do not want him as a tenant, it would seem.”
“I do not, my lord – he is almost illiterate, being both stupid and idle, is a poor farmer and a drunk besides. The Old Waste would soon become true to its name with him as tenant, my lord.”
“What of his brothers? One is at Lutterworth, of course, but another of them stayed behind when the emigrants left, as I remember – is he of any use to us?”
“Joshua is much more intelligent than his big brother, he could have gone to the grammar school but refused it, had no great love of learning or sitting at a desk. He is the horseman of the farm, taking after his father – he has the way with animals. I know that he gave Alfie a beating some five years ago when he found him half-drunk kicking at the dogs and taking a crop to one of the horses for throwing him – put him in bed for a sennight, too, no half measures!”
“I would not have thought him to be more than twenty now – he was the youngest, was he not?”
“He is a strong man, my lord, not especially tall but broad in the shoulder and well-muscled, and Alfie is a drunk, after all.”
“So… what’s to be done? We can hardly just put Alfie out in the street and set his brother up in the house in his place.”
“I beg to differ, my lord! We can, and should, do just that. Fifty sovereigns in Alfie’s hand, and that free and gratis for there is no legal need for us to do so, and send him on his way. He will get little further than the Mulso Arms, I expect, and then will be taken up as a public nuisance. He commonly becomes noisy when drunk, and he will hardly be sober with money in his pocket, and the constable will certainly hale him before the Bench, and if he is still stale-drunk he will become abusive, and then – well, who knows what then?”
Tom did not like it – Quillerson was effectively proposing Botany Bay as the man’s last resting place.
“We shall see. For the moment, we should visit at the farm and offer our condolences. Is Mrs Barney well, do you know? She cannot be a young woman and the shock will have done her no good at all.”
“She is a strong woman in her mind, my lord – more than half Romany, I suspect, and not one to break easily.”
They took horse and trotted the couple of miles to the Old Waste – every inch of the land well-kept, hedges trimmed, fields already ploughed barely two months after harvest and smelling of liberal use of the dung-cart, ditches running free and clear. The horses were out in their paddocks, none of them thoroughbred but all clean, strong animals. Tom shook his head; it was much too good a farm to be put into the hands of a wastrel, whatever claim of loyalty he might have.
There was a pony and trap in the yard, a pair of bags in the back,
shouting coming from the house.
Quillerson knocked at the door, banged loudly when there was no response.
The single maid Barney had employed opened the door a crack, started to deny them, saw Tom and dropped a hurried curtsey, pulled the door wide.
“I told you not to let any bastard in, you stupid bitch! Get them… Oh!”
Alfie Barney dropped his hand, raised as if he was about the slap the girl.
“Sorry, my lord, I didden see ‘twas you. I was just settin’ the place to rights, my lord.”
“In what way, Mr Barney?”
“I’s the master ‘ere now, and I’s just tellin’ the old bitch she can knuckle down to it or bugger off with ‘er bloody son. Master Joshua’s bloody finished ‘ere and ‘e’s gone in the next five minutes – ‘e ain’t stayin’ in my bloody place, my lord! And those bloody dogs ‘e’s so proud of – ‘e can watch me take the old scattergun to the bloody lot o’ they!”
His mother was standing in the corner, holding Joshua’s arm, restraining him.
“Beg pardon, my lord, I tried to bring ‘im up better than that – I made a mess of it, I reckons. I’m goin’, my lord, my brother will ‘ave a place for I. I’m just telling my Joshua ‘ere not to give ‘is brother the lambastin’ ‘e’s askin’ for.”
“Are those your bags in the trap, Mrs Barney?”
“Mine and Joshua’s, my lord.”
“Take them out again, Mrs Barney.” He turned to Alfie, stood in triumph in the middle of the comfortable, well-furnished, respectable living-room of the farmhouse, out of place in a dirty shirt, his hair uncombed, smelling of drink and old sweat. “Mr Barney, your father’s tenancy died with him – it was for seven years or his lifetime. You have no legal right to inherit, and you are not fit to become one of my tenants, and if you even think of harming any of the dogs, I will shoot you myself. Get out!”
Alfie recoiled; he had not expected such a reaction to getting rid of a dog, for Christ’s sake!
“Mrs Barney, can you pack your eldest son’s bag for him?”
The Pain Of Privilege (A Poor Man at the Gate Series Book 4) Page 18