A Charming Cavalryman for Clementine_A Historical Romance Novel Based on True Events

by Hanna Hamilton

  Stirling just groaned. He recognized the voice’s owner. Instinctively, he dreaded the prospect of having to confront the man. Wishing the man away, he remained totally still. He even stopped breathing for a few heartbeats until he nearly vomited again.

  “Stirling, I know you’re in there. Open the door this very instant,” said the man again. And then the hammering on the door continued.

  “No one by that name resides here,” snorted Stirling.

  “Stop acting the fool, my friend. You still go by that name and nothing will change that. I have important news for you.”

  Stirling knew that he had to get up and face the reality that was standing in front of his door. He slowly moved. He groaned as his head complained with bouts of stabbing pain that seemed to shoot from his head and down his spine. Finally on his feet, he stumbled around his scanty room in search of his brown breeches. Finding them, he pulled them on and hastily tucked in his shirt that he had also slept in.

  Stirling walked over to the door and fumbled with the crude metal latch. With a grunt, he pulled on the door until it opened with an unpleasant creaking sound. Royce stood in front of the doorframe. He was dressed in the full uniform of the 11th Hussars.

  “May I come in?” he asked with a mask of concern written on his face.

  Stirling nodded weakly and stood to one side.

  “How revolting,” said Royce, as he brushed past his friend, entering his meagre accommodation. Stirling closed the door after him with a sigh.

  “So, this is where the finest horseman in the whole of the kingdom resides?” Royce paused a moment while he sought somewhere to sit down. Finally deciding that there was nowhere salubrious to place his posterior, he chose to remain standing. “Stirling, I’m going to make this quick,” he said icily. “First of all, let’s start with this,” he said removing a small package from his coat pocket and handing it to Stirling.

  Stirling took it with trembling fingers. “What is it?”

  Royce arched his eyebrows.

  “Open it, you fool,” he ordered.

  Under the gaze of Royce’s angry brown eyes, Stirling swallowed nervously. They bored into him like daggers forcing him to flinch. Stirling would’ve loved to punch his old friend in the face for seeing him in the state he was in.

  Stirling nonchalantly chucked the package onto the sweat-stained mattress of his bed and stared at Royce belligerently. He was burning with curiosity for what it might contain, but he wasn’t going to give his friend the pleasure of seeing that.

  “As you wish,” said Royce casually. For a while, they just stood facing each other in silence.

  Getting nervous, Stirling decided to speak first. “How’s that lovely new wife of yours. I am sorry I haven’t written, but I have been rather busy as of late.”

  “I can see that. Busy frequenting the alehouses in St. Giles I presume. I just hope that you haven’t been anywhere more unsavoury. Get ready, Stirling and let me get you out of this pit and find you some accommodation befitting a man of your standing and ability.” Royce moved forward to take his friend’s arm.

  Stirling pulled away. “This is where a coward belongs. I have nothing left. I will die here among the dregs of society.”

  “As you wish. But, I just want you to know that I have put in a good word for you. Read the letter I added to the package and I hope to see you tomorrow.”

  He didn’t say any more. Time seemed to stand still. The atmosphere in the small tenement was even more unpleasant than usual. And as if he had made up his mind that there was nothing more to say, Royce turned to the door and opened it. Stepping out and standing in the doorframe, he turned around and smiled ruefully.

  “Stirling, you’re in a frightful state. You’re still young and a captain in her majesty’s army. You have your whole life ahead of you and many things to accomplish. Get yourself cleaned up and find me at the new Horse Guards Building on the Mall. You will know what I mean shortly. I have added all the information you need to know to the package.”

  Royce furrowed his brow. He had more to say. “When you open that package, don’t see its contents as something bad or as an impediment of finality, but rather see them as a gift and an omen…a symbol, if you will, spurring you to action rather than slovenliness and idleness – make it count, Stirling” He cleared his throat and added, “Accept whatever comes to you woven in the pattern of your destiny, for what could more aptly fit your needs? You will put this right. I know so.”

  With that, Royce was gone. Stirling stood alone in the room. He felt sicker than before. Turning, he saw his reflection in the murky mirror on the wall. His friend was right he did look terrible. His dark hair was too long and hung in a dishevelled tuft on his head. He sported a long beard that still had the remains of last night’s vomit stuck to it. There were deep purple sacks under his brown eyes that exuded defeat instead of determination.

  Stirling looked at himself a little longer and decided that he liked the beard, albeit without the bits of bile. He nodded his head as if he had made up his mind. He turned to his bed and glowered at the little package wrapped in thick white paper. He walked over and opened it.

  Chapter 7

  “Join the bloody army? You’d best stay clear. It’s the path to death and destruction, mate,” said Jake to Rory. They’d been drinking since the early afternoon and they were already quite sloshed. Both of them shared the same opinion that their lots in life were unjust and undeserved. They had lost their jobs as stevedores and with it the much needed coin to remain alive.

  For Rory, it was much worse because he had a family to feed. His wife had left London and thanks to the grace of a wealthy former employee, she had taken on a job as a seamstress in her home. When the baby came, she would become a maid in her household. The children lived there in a cottage placed at their disposal. Rory did not know when he would see them again. As far as he was concerned, the only person that remained in his life was the man he had avoided on his first day at work.

  “We have no choice. Where else will we make any money?” grunted Rory.

  “We could emigrate to the colonies. I hear the Americas are good. Over a million Irishmen went there during the Potato Famine a few years ago. They won’t be back, that’s for sure.” Jake drained his mug of gin. He searched the bottom of the empty beaker in the hope to find some more of the liquid that had sustained him for days.

  “As what? We have no coin to pay for the passage. We can barely afford our drinks.”

  Jake shifted his weight along the coarse wooden surface of the bar. “We can sell ourselves…”

  “And become indentured servants for five years.” Rory sat up. The effort for him was considerable. “We’d be slaves in all but title.”

  Jake shrugged. “As far as I know slaves get fed.”

  “That is if we survive the passage across the sea. No, there’s got to be something else we can do,” said Rory, shaking his head. He emptied his tankard of gin and scoffed. “Got any coin, mate. I’m all out.”

  Jake rummaged in his pockets only to discover that he had none either. He shook his head. “Not a bloody copper.”

  Rory realised that he was at rock bottom. He didn’t have one brass farthing to his name. In a little under a week, his scoundrel landlord would throw him out onto the streets. Then, he would be just another pauper populating the rookeries of London. So far, he had gotten by, by stealing from the rich. He picked their pockets. It was an activity with only one destiny. If he were caught, he would end up with his neck in a noose and dangling from a rope.

  Looking at his insalubrious surroundings, Rory knew that going on a continuous bender with Jake was not the best way to change his lot. At the moment, he was drunk and called a dump for an accommodation his home. Something needed to change.

  “Young men of London,” shouted a deep voice that belonged on a military parade ground.

  “Oi, stop shouting, you’re hurting me head,” grunted one of the other frowzy patrons sitting in the tave
rn that was unsuitably called The Dashing Hussar.

  The Sergeant-Major slapped his hand on the barrel in front of the man, silencing him immediately. Rory looked at the soldier with drunken eyes. Dressed in a navy-blue tunic with gold brocade on the front, he was an impressive sight. On his head, he wore a black horsehair busby with a black and maroon hackle on the top. That combined with the striking redness of his breeches made Rory think. He recognised the uniform that belonged to one of England’s finest regiments, but he was too drunk to remember which one.

  Once he had everyone’s attention, the Sergeant started to say his piece.

  “Young men of London if you would be starved, ruled and oppressed by your cruel masters, if you would not be ruled by one except her majesty the Queen, God bless her, but you do have the urge for glory, wealth and fine clothes…”

  The Sergeant paused briefly to clear his throat.

  “Now’s the time to break out of this squalor, and seek that glory, wealth and the fine clothes you so richly deserve. Look no further men, for you can do no better than to enlist for the eleventh regiment of Hussars.”

  “That’s it. They’re from the bleeding Light Brigade,” said Jake, coming to his senses. “Finest cavalry regiment in the whole of Europe, if not the world.”

  And as if he had singled them out, the Sergeant marched up to Rory and Jake. A drummer boy and four other soldiers dressed in the same uniforms followed in his wake.

  “Good evening gents,” said the Sergeant affably.

  Jake and Rory just grunted inaudibly.

  “Have either of you fine gentlemen ever considered enlisting to the 11th Regiment of Hussars?” he asked seriously.

  “Huh, I’m a miserable cad and a scoundrel. Army wouldn’t want me,” guffawed Jake drunkenly. “I would probably pinch the commander’s spurs for a penny or two. You don’t want me…even though I’d love to join up.”

  Rory arched his eyebrows in surprise. Only moments ago, his new friend had spurned the whole idea of a military career and now he said that he loved the whole idea.

  “No matter, you look like a strong and healthy lad to me,” said the Sergeant.

  “And you, sir, doesn’t the prospect of a fine uniform, and the respect and the adulation of the people appeal to you?” he continued, focusing his attention on Rory who shrugged his shoulders. “You’d earn wages,” added the Sergeant knowingly.

  Rory looked at him. For a heartbeat, a look of hope crossed his face, but he then quickly succumbed to his drunken despair once again. He resigned himself to the fact that he would never see his wife and children again.

  “And a nice, full tankard of gin for the both of you,” continued the Sergeant with a grin on his face.

  The promise of more alcohol made the Sergeant appear endearing to the two drunks. They looked up at him hopefully. The path to further oblivion appeared saved for this night at least.

  “That’s the spirit, lads,” he said nodding his head at the innkeeper who smiled because he knew what was going to come next.

  Once the three tankards with gin were placed in front of them, Jake eagerly stretched out his hand to take his tankard. The Sergeant placed his hand on his arm to restrain him. Jake looked at him with a confused expression on his face.

  “One sip of London’s finest blend and I’ll take it you’ll enlist,” he said with a mischievous grin.

  Jake so wanted a drink that he just nodded. The soldier released his arm and smiled encouragingly. “What about you, big lad? Fine strapping bloke like you will have the Russians running a mile.” When Rory nodded, the Sergeant held up his tankard and the three of them toasted to the new recruits.

  Once he’d drunk and wrote down their names in a little black booklet, the Sergeant studied his two new recruits carefully.

  “You two will look a rare treat in stable dress. You are now a part of Prince Albert’s Own, and you will follow in the footsteps of our famous brothers who fought at Salamanca and Waterloo.”

  Enthusiastically, they toasted each other again. After two more tankards of gin each, Rory and Jake staggered out of The Dashing Hussar with the soldiers. They walked down the dark and grimy streets of London that were weakly lit by the flicker of gas lamps. The streets were lined with homeless young children, mothers holding their babies and paupers. It was a sorry sight of abject despair and misery.

  Reaching a crossroads, Rory wanted to turn off and head back to his squalid dwelling, but the Sergeant stopped him.

  “You, young man, are a Hussar in the 11th Regiment of Hussars. One of the 7th Earl of Cardigan’s Cheerybums. Stand to attention when I’m addressing you, sir,” he shouted. But Rory never heard him as he passed out onto the pavement.

  Chapter 8

  “And you are?” said Florence Nightingale in an authoritative tone of voice.

  “Miss Clementine Delaney, ma’am.”

  “Why are you here, young lady?” said Nightingale sternly.

  “To serve Queen and country, ma’am.” Clementine’s lips shuddered as she nervously swayed on her feet in the presence of such an impressive woman. Her reputation preceded her as a harsh disciplinarian.

  “I see. Is that all?” asked Nightingale disappointed.

  Clementine, who up until now had just stared ahead as if she were a private in the army, turned her head and looked at Florence Nightingale directly. Her eyes widened. The woman’s gaze was serious and full of determination. As the last in the line of a dozen women, she wanted to make a good impression. She wanted nothing more than to be a part of this.

  “I want to make a difference, ma’am. Against my parent’s wishes I chose not to become a dutiful wife because I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in some man’s shadow, but to feel the excitement of helping people in need. Maybe travel the world, have an impact on people’s lives and to be respected as an independent woman. Women with purpose will be needed in the months to come,” said Clementine, turning her head away and staring ahead again.

  Florence Nightingale smiled knowingly. The gesture made her habitually sharp - but pleasant - features soften. She was a tall, thin woman, dressed in an elegant but simple black, full dress with a white lace collar. A white lace scarf covered her reddish-brown hair. Her grey eyes that could switch between great sympathy and unyielding purpose told a story that this woman would one day make history.

  “Ladies! It appears Clementine has what it takes to become a nurse,” said Nightingale, walking away from the assembled women. She stopped and turned around to face them again. To Clementine it appeared that she had a perpetual glow on her face that betrayed her sense of purpose and determination.

  “I, too, went against my parent’s wishes. Actually, they even forbade me to become a nurse,” she said, chuckling. “They even compared the profession to that of a prostitute’s. Now there’s something for you to think about before enlisting. Do you want to be compared to such persons?”

  There was a shocked intake of breath from the group of women.

  “I did not hear you, ladies. Do you wish to be called as such?”

  “No, ma’am,” shouted the assembled women.

  “I did not hear you clearly enough.”

  “No, Miss Nightingale.”

  She nodded imperiously. “Five years ago, I refused a marriage proposal from a suitable gentleman. My mother and father wanted to disown me because of it. But that is of no importance. Do you know what I said to my suitor? What reason I gave him for declining his proposal no matter my feelings for him?” asked Nightingale.

  Mesmerised by Florence Nightingale’s aura, some of the applicants nodded their heads eagerly while others shook theirs. Upon seeing this Nightingale smiled again. “I said that he stimulated me intellectually and romantically, but my moral and active nature required satisfaction, and that, I would surely not find it as his wife.”

  Again, the assembled women were in awe of Nightingale’s willpower and independence. Apart from the queen, there probably was no greater woman in the who
le of Victorian Britain. For an unmarried woman, she had travelled extensively.

  Nightingale had spent a long time in Egypt, getting as far as Abu Simbel. What she wrote about the place bore testament to her learning and literary skill. The words were a mirror image of her philosophy of life. She had described the Abu Simbel temples with such flowing eloquence:

  "Sublime in the highest style of intellectual beauty, intellect without effort, without suffering … not a feature is correct - but the whole effect is more expressive of spiritual grandeur than anything I could have imagined. It makes the impression upon one that thousands of voices do, uniting in one unanimous simultaneous feeling of enthusiasm or emotion, which is said to overcome the strongest man.”