Absolute Honour

by C. C. Humphreys

  ‘Now, boys, let me remind you …’

  Laughter interrupted the lesson. It came from the house adjoining the stableyard. Though Jack was meant to face front, he couldn’t help but look. Three officers strode down the steps, still laughing. As they reached the gate, the eldest of them, a fellow probably in his mid-twenties, called out, ‘Sergeant Puxley, we’ll practise the parade, if you please.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied the Welshman, not commenting that they were just about to do that.

  The three officers waited as grooms brought their mounts, then each wheeled his horse around the rear of the troop. The Captain – Crawford, Onslow had named him, new since Jack’s time – took up his position in the first rank, two before Jack. The Cornet, also unknown, wheeled his horse till its arse was the required one horse length just before him.

  ‘What the devil?’ The voice came from beside him. ‘Trooper, you are in my place.’

  Jack turned. Beside him was a very angry-looking cavalryman. Under the black, jappaned hat he saw a face he vaguely remembered.

  ‘Hullo, Stokey,’ he said.

  The usual mix of confusion and searching went on. This man got it quicker than most. ‘Absolute?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you’re dead.’

  Give me strength, Jack thought, but said, ‘No, I am not. Look, I am awfully sorry about this, Stokey. I know how disappointing my resurrection will be. You see—’

  The man’s colour had gone a deeper red, but before he could let loose his temper, the two files before Jack wheeled their horses. ‘What’s this? What’s this?’ said Crawford, the newly promoted Captain. ‘Who, pray, are you?’

  Jack saluted. ‘Lieutenant Jack Absolute, sir. Sixteenth Light Dragoons …’ He paused. Of course, they knew his regiment.

  Stokey spoke. ‘Fellow’s a damned interloper. Swans off, comes back, wants my damned commission.’

  ‘Is that true?’ Crawford was turning as red as his subordinate. ‘Are you trying to usurp Bob’s promotion?’

  ‘I’d rather not, of course, sir. But I believe you’ll find that I was the senior cor—’

  ‘And I believe you’ll find, Lieutenant whatever-your-blasted-name-is that I make the decisions in my own troop, damn your eyes!’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Jack looked right. The whole of the third troop, the men he’d forced to work for so long under a blazing sun, looked back. He turned again. ‘I was hoping Captain Onslow would have informed you—’

  ‘As Senior Captain, Onslow is attending upon Major Somerville. So you’d better do the informing and swiftly.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Might I suggest …’ Jack waved toward the house.

  At last, his brother officers became aware of their audience. ‘Well, indeed,’ murmured Crawford. ‘Puxley, you’re in command.’

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘You – all three of you – come with me.’

  Leaving the third troop temporarily officer-less, the four men dismounted, gave the reins to grooms and entered the house.

  The explanation he’d given to Onslow, and partly to Puxley, was given again. It failed to satisfy, and the repeated jeers and interruptions only confirmed the first impression Jack had made of Bob Stokey. He was the type of officer his father complained was taking over the cavalry, especially the more prestigious regiments. Too much blue blood, too little reaching the brain. Jack had schooled with many of that ilk at Westminster.

  ‘Look here, Chancer Jack, or whatever you call yourself—’

  ‘Jack will do, though “sir” will be better before the men.’

  ‘I’ll be damn’d if I’ll “sir” you, sir!’ The repetition reddened the face still further. ‘You suddenly appear from nowhere, having failed to take part in the regiment’s recent actions, having skulked some place away from the fighting—’

  ‘I have fought,’ Jack said quietly. ‘Rather more than you, I suspect.’

  ‘You dare to …’ Stokey stepped forward, meaty hands reaching before him. He was a large man and Jack took a step back. Not from fear; but if it came to a dance he’d want a little room for the steps.

  ‘Bob! Desist!’ Crawford’s command brought the younger man to heel like a beagle. He turned back to Jack and though he was obviously still as angry as his subordinate – and favourite, that was clear – he must have decided that this was an argument that could not be settled here. ‘I will certainly be hearing all this again from Captain Onslow. I shall complain to the Major. Indeed, since Colonel Burgoyne is due to take command himself any day, he shall also hear my protest.’

  Jack nodded. ‘I shall, of course, be ruled by the Colonel, sir.’

  ‘I should think you shall, you puppy.’

  With that, Crawford, his beagle close behind him – now the image was present in his head, Jack could not shake it – turned and left the house.

  A long silence was finally interrupted. ‘Where I am from, they do say that the more you mess with an old turd the worse ’ee do stink.’

  Jack turned in some amazement to the hitherto silent member of the triumvirate. His accent was undoubtedly from the West Country. ‘Cornet … Worsley is it?’

  ‘Aye.’ The man – boy, really, he could have been no more than sixteen, with a sprouting of ginger hair emerging from beneath his cap, and a rosy glow to match – smiled at him. He was the first soldier to do so since Jack arrived and it gladdened him.

  ‘Well, I am sorry that you too will suffer from my return, Worsley. You’ve come up from ranks, have you not?’

  ‘I have. And will be happy to return to them, if I’m honest.’ He grinned. ‘I never wanted the commission, no more than a toad wants side pockets, if you understand my meaning.’

  Jack smiled. ‘We have the same expression where I was born. You’re a Devonian, are you not?’

  ‘Barnstaple born and … was going to say bred, but my father was a tinker so who knows?’ He winked. ‘And you?’

  ‘Cornish.’

  ‘Well,’ the lad sighed, ‘I’ll not hold it against ye.’ He moved to the door, nodded out of it in the direction of the disappearing officers. ‘They might, though.’

  With that he was gone. Jack looked out. Puxley was organizing the troop as if for a review. Of the officers there was no sign; gone, no doubt, to protest. The red ranks shimmered in heat haze and, for a moment, Jack was tempted to remain in the relative cool of the porch. But ignorance would only give his new enemies something else to hold against him. He had been many things already in his short life but only briefly a cavalryman.

  He went out, strode to his horse, mounted, rode up to Puxley. ‘May I rejoin you, Sergeant?’

  ‘You may. If you’ll first redress your saddle cloth. Exactly and only one six-inch showing beneath the leather. We are on parade now, sir! Parade!’

  *

  Parade was followed by a trot to a piece of scrub land where wheeling, column to ranks, the reverse and finally a charge were practised. Jack returned exhausted to the stables and was told he was billeted in a nearby house. The dead officer’s trunk had been brought and Jack pillaged it for the plain, unlaced frock suits that officers inevitably wore in the mess. A glance in the mirror told him that the rush had not aided his appearance. He was glowing with the exertions of a hot day, and what had been concealed beneath the beard was now a livid red, contrasting with the sea-brown above. His hair was a little shorter but still a black tangle. However, for the moment there was nothing to be done.

  He had to be in the mess by eight and he pushed open the door of the Praho Taberna as the last toll from a local church sounded. He entered to a silence, as the men already at the table turned to stare. Stokey was just sitting down, his face as scarlet as his coat, the heat no doubt conjured by the words he’d just spoken.

  Wonder what he’s been saying? thought Jack, though he believed he knew. ‘Lieutenant Jack Absolute, reporting to the mess,’ he said. ‘Good evening, gentlemen.’ He gave a small bow and closed the door behind him.

  – SIX �
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  The Wager

  It was difficult to decide which hurt more – his stomach or his head. The one felt as if washerwomen were trying to squeeze his innards dry by twisting them into coils, while the other seemed to have been occupied by a marching band consisting mainly of timpani. It was impossible to tell now which had done the most damage: the filthy, overly-spiced food; or the vast mix and quantity of liquor. A combination, no doubt, if the contents of the reeking bucket that lay beside his head on the floor were testament. He’d failed to make it onto the bed; just one of the many things of which he had absolutely no recollection. Indeed, virtually nothing after his entrance into the tavern was clear to him. There were toasts, he knew, a huge variety of them. He may even have proposed a few himself. Indeed there was the vaguest memory of … overcompensation, as if, by showing himself to be a stout fellow, he could overcome the obvious antipathy for the interloper he’d seen on every face.

  ‘Great Christ!’ Jack groaned aloud, one hand over his eyes, feebly trying to block out the vicious sunlight invading the room through the half-open shutters. He shifted slightly and other aches came to his attention. His thighs, unused lately to sitting a horse, throbbed; his knuckles were raw from scraping the sword hilt; his toes had a blister apiece from being crammed into a dead man’s too-small boots, while the skin that had been protected by a full beard was burnt and raw from exposure to the sun. Yet these were minor inconveniences compared to the agony of gut and head. In prison in Rome, with only his own company to keep, he had never drunk to excess. One could be as out of training with liquor as with any other exercise.

  Someone knocked. Snatching up the sheet, he crawled onto the bed and whispered, ‘Enter!’

  A face thrust around the door, framed in ginger curls. ‘Good morning, sir. And a fine one, is it not?’

  ‘It will be better one if you desist from shouting,’ Jack snapped, the effort of raising his head causing it to pulse violently, a tremor that spread to his stomach, which jiggled and tried to eject something. Swallowing hard, Jack fell back and muttered, ‘Who the hell are you and what do you want?’

  ‘Worsley, sir. Do you not remember? Your fellow from the West?’

  Jack opened one eye. He did seem familiar. ‘Worsley,’ he croaked. It came back. ‘Cornet Worsley.’

  ‘Cornet no more.’ The man came in, putting a bucket of water down beside the bed, dipping a wooden cup into it and handing that to Jack, who sat up too quickly, drank too fast, retched, steadied, drank more. ‘Back to the ranks, me, and happier than a pig in shit about it.’

  Jack stared at him, at the orange hair, the face reddened by sun and youthful spots. Memory stirred. ‘But you were there last night, weren’t you? In the mess?’

  ‘I was. My last act as an officer, for the present.’ He refilled Jack’s cup. ‘But now it’s been settled that one of you will be Lieutenant and one Cornet, there’s no need for me, is there?’

  ‘I will be Lieutenant,’ Jack muttered. ‘I am the Lieutenant, damn it.’

  ‘That’s what I like, sir. Confidence.’ Worsley got up, began to collect the various pieces of clothing Jack had managed to discard before he collapsed.

  Jack continued to regard him with just one eye. ‘What are you about, fellow?’

  Worsley straightened. ‘Thought I might be your batman, sir, if you’ve need of one.’

  ‘From cornet to servant in a night? Don’t you mind it?’

  ‘I don’t if you don’t.’ He grinned. ‘Rather serve a West Countryman – even if you are from the wrong county – than one of them society officers, if you get my meaning.’

  ‘Why serve at all?’

  Worsley sighed. ‘Do you remember how much they pays us? Lucky if we get three pence a day and doubly so if we ever sees it. Haven’t for weeks now, anyhow.’ He grinned. ‘And it’s well known how liberal Cornishmen are with their money, ain’t that the truth of it, sir?’

  ‘It’s well known that Devonians are a soft-brained bunch of knucklydowns.’ Jack smiled, the first time he’d felt like doing so that morning. It hurt. ‘Why do you assume I’ve got any coin?’

  ‘You will have, now the regiment’s on the march. Always issue the officers something to settle up with when we move bivouacs.’

  Jack swung his legs onto the floor. ‘Move? Does that mean I should be,’ he shuddered, ‘on parade now?’

  ‘You may rest easy, sir, for the moment. Parade’s not till evening on account of us riding out tonight. Time for those who can do to settle their liquor bills, those who can’t to stay hidden and those who have them to kiss their sweet’arts goodbye.’

  Jack lifted his hand from his face. ‘Do you have one, Worsley?’

  ‘Oh, aye. Lass by the name of … Jacinta? Jocasta?’ He leaned forward, his voice quieter. ‘I could send her to see you, if you like. Lovely girl if you don’t look too closely in her mouth. Arse like an Exmoor heifer.’ He whistled, spreading his arms wide.

  Jack shook his head. ‘I think I’ll leave it, thank ’ee all the same.’

  The man shrugged. ‘Just part of a servant’s duty to his officer, like.’ He cocked his head. ‘If I am your servant, that is?’

  Jack thought for just a moment. He had few enough allies as it was. None, in fact. And a servant was a source of information also. ‘Why not,’ he said, extending a hand.

  ‘Whoo-hoo!’ Worsley shook the hand once then did a little jig. Stopping, he said, ‘Then I’ll be about your business, sir. If you let me have that shirt and them britches …’

  Jack struggled out of them, then sat back naked on the bed. Worsley stopped his scurrying to look down with some concern. ‘I do hope, sir, that I have backed the right horse here. I’d far rather be the batman of a lieutenant than the man what got my cornetcy.’

  ‘And you are.’

  Jack rubbed his head then looked up. Worsley was staring at him hard. ‘You do remember last night, don’t you, sir?’

  ‘Of course.’ Jack nodded. ‘Um, what specifically?’

  ‘The wager?’

  ‘Ah yes. The wager. What wager?’

  Worsley looked heavenwards then down again. ‘You was complaining about the stew. Stokey, who had volunteered the meal on account of his promotion, asked you to provide something better. You declared you’d be hard pressed to find worse.’ He sighed. ‘And on it all went from there.’

  Jack searched his mind. He did have the vaguest recollection of such a conversation, but not its conclusion ‘And where did it all end?’

  ‘With him challenging you to obtain decent meat for the Queen’s birthday feast in two days’ time. And you not only agreein’ but also wagering your lieutenancy against a cask of brandy that you would do it.’

  Jack looked at the man in the alarm of sudden recollection. ‘But no one took me seriously, surely? I mean, it can’t be binding, can it? I am still Lieutenant by virtue of seniority and …’ He became aware that his voice was rapidly rising to a whine and stopped. While what he had just said was true, he also knew that if he had agreed to step down in Stokey’s favour before all their brother officers he must do so. It was his word, his honour pledged to it.

  He reached over to his satchel, took out his purse. He had four gold scudi left from what he had split with Pounce in Rome. Though he was sure he would get an appalling rate, there would be someone who would give him Portuguese coin for the gold at least. ‘How much will we need to buy, say, a cow?’

  ‘A cow?’ Worsley laughed. ‘Sir, this land’s in a drought and has armies criss-crossing it. I’ll warrant Stokey paid more than what’s in your hand for the dog you ate last night.’

  Jack felt his gorge rise, quelled it. ‘So what do I do?’

  ‘Well, you was boasting of your time in Canada …’

  ‘Boasting? I recall a few small anecdotes …’

  ‘… and told of some painted savage what could track game ’cross forest, marsh, mountain, lake, through the very air, you said! And how he taught you everything he knew.’ />
  Até had also taught Jack not to make promises with his mouth that his arse could not keep. ‘Is there game here?’ he asked tentatively.

  ‘I don’t know. I’m from Barnstaple. Only thing we hunt is crabs. Both kinds!’ He grinned. ‘But,’ he went behind the door, pulled out a long, slim leather satchel, ‘I was batman to the late Sir William afore ’ee, and his everything you have inherited. He was very proud of this.’

  He handed the case over. Jack undid the buckles and gasped. For out slid a simply beautiful gun, with a stock of polished walnut, its silver mounts and thumb plate engraved with scenes from the chase. The lock was signed ‘Tanner à Gotha’, a renowned Saxon gunsmith. It was not the very latest of designs, but a quick glimpse down the barrel showed it was rifled, and it was certainly a better weapon than any he’d hunted with in the Colonies. ‘Is there flint and ball for it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Worsley waved at the chest.

  ‘How d’you manage to preserve this booty from the other officers?’

  ‘First thing I hid.’

  Jack laid the stock to his shoulder. ‘Clever lad.’

  ‘A bit of Sir William’s brains must ’ave rubbed off.’ He grinned. ‘If you’ll forgive the expression.’

  Jack laughed, lowered the gun. ‘What time do we ride tonight?’

  ‘Not till midnight. Out of the sun and to keep the movements secret, ’tis said.’

  ‘Where are we bound?’

  ‘Secret, too. But forward, not back. Seems we’re going to war at last, ’Bout time, I says. Soldier can only have so much rum and women afore ’ee fights, don’t ye agree, sir?’

  He left. Jack raised the weapon again, sighted on a crow atop a neighbouring roof. His vision was still a trifle impaired but it would clear. A smile came on a realization. He had, perhaps too swiftly, tried to integrate back into army life in ways that befitted his rank and station. He had gotten horribly drunk. He had made a reckless wager. And he was headed for war. There was just one thing left for an English gentleman to do.

  Hunt.