Clementine let off one of her titillating giggles. “Solving your little problem with that ogre, Cardigan. By the time we are finished, he won’t know what’s hit him.”
Chapter 17
The rough sound of an iron poker moving the coals around in the small grated hearth was the only thing that could be heard in the office belonging to General FitzRoy James Henry Somerset, 1st baron Raglan. He was a tall man with a slim physique. He had soft features and a narrow jaw without the fashionable whiskers that usually graced a Victorian gentleman’s face. He wore a navy-blue double-breasted coat and he sported a cravat of the same colour around his neck.
The general had pursued a distinguished military career, taking him to his current position of being placed in command of the British expeditionary force being sent to the Crimea. Before that, he had served in the Peninsular War and the Hundred Days, latterly as military secretary to the Duke of Wellington.
During the Battle of Waterloo, he had lost his right arm. He was famous for having asked the surgeon to retrieve it after the amputation, so that he could have the ring his wife had given him returned.
Lord Raglan sat behind his large mahogany desk in the far reaches of his study. Behind him was a ceiling-high rack of shelves full of books. To his right was a large sash window looking out onto a square close to Saint James’s Park.
He was reading the morning newspaper with a frown of concern etched onto his features. Every so often, he would shake his head and mutter a few inaudible oaths. He sometimes shook the ink-ridden paper as if he could change the news written therein.
The man who had been stoking the fire, turned away from the hearth to take his seat in a padded leather armchair facing the general. He sat down with a grunt and picked up his newspaper and continued reading the most recent article in The Times that had taken London by storm. Like his superior, he shook his head every so often as his eyes darted over the words on the page.
“Have you seen The Times this morning, Raglan?” asked General Richard Airey, 1st Baron Airey with a frown of concern on his face.
“I have seen The Times, Airey.” Lord Raglan sighed as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.
“Black bottle and the threat of arrest of a major in the 11th Hussars because of un-gentlemanly conduct in the officers’ mess.” General Airey exhaled a gush of breath.
“I am very worried about the British army when it gets into the newspapers.”
Airey got to his feet and walked up to his superior’s desk at a leisurely pace. “What ever Lord Cardigan does becomes public news within an hour,” he said, folding the paper so that the article concerning the black bottle affair was visible to his commander. He handed it to Raglan.
“It is unfitting,” responded Raglan, taking the paper with his remaining left hand.
“Black bottle.” Airey walked behind the desk to a table with a tray containing all of the accoutrements necessary for the serving of tea.
“What?”
“It is what he shouted at him when he left the mess hall. It does make the army look ridiculous you know,” said Airey, pouring some of the hot beverage, adding lemon and a teaspoon of sugar.
“Vulgar things - they shouldn’t say these vulgar things about Lord Cardigan, Airey. But what do we do?”
Lord Raglan accepted the cup and saucer from Baron Airey. He shifted his weight in his seat, turning his head, while he placed the cup and saucer on his blotter. His gaze came to a rest on a large statue of the Duke of Wellington astride of his horse, Copenhagen, on the square outside.
“Where are they going to put it, Airey? They can’t leave it here to be enjoyed by me alone.”
“They’re not going to leave it there. They just have no clue where to put it.”
General Airey stroked his beard in thought.
“We have won so many victories in the past century, and there are so many heroes of the wars in which we have fought, I am afraid that the city of London is becoming flooded with memorial pieces celebrating the exploits of famous fellow Britons.”
Lord Raglan pleated his brow, while he still studied the imposing likeness of the renowned Duke and victor of the Battle of Waterloo outside of his office.
“It is very much in my light for paper work. I do wish they’d remove it.”
“You and I both, My Lord. It does make you think though, how the great Duke would have acted and decided when faced with similar circumstances?”
“Similar circumstances?”
“The press, Raglan. What would the Duke have done were he in charge of a man such as Cardigan?”
Airey shrugged.
“What would he have done about such articles as the one in the papers today – the black bottle affair, and the unlawful and unnecessary arresting of officers in her majesties armed forces?”
“Yes, it is food for thought, Airey. It truly is.”
Lord Raglan got to his feet wearily and paced up to the window with the heavy silk curtains to the sides to get a closer look at the imposing effigy again as if it might inspire him with a spark of the Duke’s genius.
“He was surely right when he said that when there is danger, it is the persons with the stake in the country who have the most to lose.”
He sighed again, as he continued to step through his office toward the fireplace. He began to prod the coals with the poker. It was an absentminded gesture, but he needed something to soothe his busy mind and to provoke it into activity, hopefully providing some solution to the problem.
“I am an old man, Airey…and I have only got one arm to fight the war with. Probably won’t be enough, eh?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Raglan. You have years of experience and you knew the Duke. I am sure that involvement will serve you well when we meet the Russians. The Duke of Wellington once said that all the business of war, and indeed all the business of life, is to endeavour to find out what you don’t know by what you do that’s what he called: guessing what was at the other side of the hill.”
“He said that, did he? How very good of him. It is most sound advice. I will be sure to employ it when the time is right. Maybe soon, like the Crimea. Thank you, Airey, for that.” Raglan sighed deeply. “That is if we ever get there.”
“I don’t know what you mean, My Lord?” Airey frowned.
“Well, you see, Airey, when the press starts writing about British officers being arrested for not decanting their moselle, it all gets rather worrying. It was bad enough when the papers were full of the black bottle affair alone. Now that this – what was his name?”
“Major Whit Whittaker, My Lord.”
“Yes, that’s the one. When a major - and son of the Duke of Kenbridge - is implicated in such things, it all gets rather difficult. We have to do something lest we become a laughing stock here at home and in the eyes of the world.”
Lord Raglan turned away from the fire to scrutinize his colleague more closely.
“You do see the expedience for some action that would lighten the people’s mood, old friend?”
“Oh, I do, Raglan. Very much so. However, not to worry for I might have an idea on that front, My Lord,” said Airey, his face lighting up.
“Oh, good, do tell.”
Chapter 18
That same evening, Lord Cardigan walked into the Theatre Royal on Drury Lane. He was late and the play on the stage was already in full swing. He silently strolled onto the balcony where the best seats were located. Before him, row upon row of velvet-covered chairs encircled the large hall all the way around to the sides of the stage.
It was an impressive building that had nearly as many lives as a cat. The purpose of the structure was always for entertainment, but it had had a rather tumultuous past.
Born in 1663 after King Charles the Second, commissioned the construction of a purpose-built theatre, the moment he was restored to the throne. It soon found its demise three years after completion during the Great Fire of London in 1666. The second theatre enjoyed a longer life unt
il it fell into decay and was demolished. Henry Holland designed a third and far more impressive structure that came into completion in 1794. This one, too, burnt down by 1809.
The current building was designed by Benjamin Dean Wyatt and opened on October 10th in the year 1812 with a production of Hamlet, featuring Robert Elliston in the title role. The new theatre made some concessions toward intimacy.
It had seating for 3,060 people, about 550 fewer than the earlier building, although its size was still considered an extremely large theatre.
On the 6th September 1817, gas lighting was extended from the audience area to the stage, making it the first British theatre to be gas lit throughout.
In 1820, the portico that stands at the theatre's front entrance on Catherine Street was added, and a few years later, the interior underwent a significant remodelling. The colonnade running down the Russell Street side of the building had been added recently.
Cardigan grunted his approval at his surroundings. He lifted his pocket binoculars to get a better view of the actors performing a piece called The Queen of Spades by the Irish playwright, Dion Boucicault. He scanned the scene imperiously for a while until he snapped the binoculars shut and continued the search for his seat.
“Look, Stirling, it is Lord Cardigan. Now, we are going to have some fun,” said Clementine with an excited current in her voice that worried Stirling.
He turned his head to watch his commanding officer strut about in his black jacket with coattails, starched white shirt and bowtie. He felt anger rush through his veins like molten lava. The mere sight of Cardigan was enough to make his blood boil. He pressed his lips together, hardly noticing Clementine fidgeting on the seat next to him.
It was their second outing together since their stroll in the park and the little excursion to Fleet Street two days ago. Elizabeth and Royce had finally caught up with them when they had exited the offices belonging to The Times newspaper.
When he had escorted Clementine back to her father’s house in Belgravia, he had asked her whether he could call on her again. The memory of her reaction remained in his mind like a golden nugget.
Clementine had giggled at him when they got a short moment alone close to her father’s residence. Without waiting, she had planted a small kiss on his lips. Stirling sometimes thought that they still burned in remembrance of this brief touch. After that, she had looked at him sternly and said that she had never heard such a ridiculous question. Clementine had waited for him to say something, but Stirling had remained still as a statue.
At last, Clementine had groaned and said: “Do you really think I would spend my time alone with a gentleman in a hansom unescorted and kiss him on the lips for no reason other than a fancy?” She had blushed after that. The sight of her flush had kindled the feel of her tongue against his, no matter how short the contact had been. Thinking about it still sent shivers of pleasure down his spine.
Once he had gotten his wits about him again, Stirling had said that he would approach her father once more to ask his permission to escort his daughter on another junket. Clementine had nodded her approval at this delayed epiphany on his part and lured him into the house that very moment.
She would accept no delay. She had been of the opinion that time was of the essence. She had told him that they were both a man and a woman taking part in the machinations of nations and of empires. That would not wait for them, so they could not wait for it – it was time to seize the day lest they have no more days at their disposal.
Stirling had agreed to her logic on the spot. Clementine did make a lot of sense a lot of the time, and especially in this case. The city of London was buzzing with amorous intent as eager couples upped the ante in their courting because of the war.
On the way to her father, she had made it abundantly clear that she wished to see the play they were watching at that very moment. At the time, Stirling had thought nothing of it. He had considered it as another of her whims, a pleasure that she wished to drown with immediate gratification the moment it had emerged. He had not been impartial to the idea though because he had read many a good review about the performance.
However, now, seeing the palpable excitement running through her like an electrical current, it made him realize that it had nothing to do with the busy actors on the stage. On the contrary, it had something to do with his nemesis, Cardigan. But what was Clementine up to and at the theatre of all places?
“Tis time, Stirling. Elizabeth and Royce are ready too,” said Clementine reclaiming Stirling’s full attention.
“Time for what? What are Elizabeth and Royce ready for?” Stirling glowered at his friend who only gave him a flimsy smile back.
Clementine had in no way included him in her little scheme. Stirling saw the familiar mischievous glint in her eyes despite the weakness of the lighting. He had come to recognize it well in the short time he had come to know her.
He turned his head to follow her gaze. Clementine was looking directly at Lord Cardigan as he shook the hands of some members of parliament. She resembled a hawk ready to swoop down on its prey. Her eyes were fixated and ruthless. Stirling spent a few more moments alternating his gaze between the two of them until it finally came to a rest on the earl.
“BLACK BOTTLE!” she yelled at the top of her lungs.
With a jerk, Stirling snapped his head in Clementine’s direction to see her shouting with rosy flushed cheeks. Before he knew what was happening, Royce and Elizabeth joined in with equal fervour. He turned back again to see Cardigan scanning the theatre in search of the commotion. His face became redder with every shout of the offending words.
“BLACK BOTTLE!”
“BLACK BOTTLE!”
The trio continued yelling the catchword. Within moments, and timing it perfectly, Clementine included the following refrain to the intonation, “OFFICER ARRESTED FOR UN-GENTLEMANLY CONDUCT – SHAME ON YOU, LORD CARDIGAN!”
Already, the actors on the stage had halted their performance, stopping their moving and speaking. They stared out into the sea of people in the audience. A few tentative heartbeats went by and gradually all heads turned to look up onto the spectator’s gallery where Lord Cardigan stood peering down from his position close to the balustrade.
A loud groan went up from the crowd. They recognized him from the unflattering article in The Times that morning. At the fringes of the audience, a group of people started to catcall their disapproval.
“BOOO – BOOO – BOOO!”
Soon, more and more individuals caught on, increasing the cacophony in the theatre hall. The superior acoustics of the structure enhanced the potency of their cries manifold. In moments, the jeers and whistles became two words as Clementine, Elizabeth and Royce outshouted everyone, guiding them like shepherds until they said exactly what they wanted them to say.
“BLACK BOTTLE!”
“BLACK BOTTLE!”
“BLACK BOTTLE!”
Once Clementine was happy that everything was going to plan, she repeated the full phrase from before once more. Soon after, her sister and Royce joined in, chanting deafeningly at the top of their voices.
“OFFICER ARRESTED FOR UN-GENTLEMANLY CONDUCT – SHAME ON YOU…LORD CARDIGAN!”
Stirling did not know whether to add his voice to the clamour or wait it out in silence. He decided that it would make no difference as the audience and Clementine, Elizabeth and Royce were doing a big enough job of it. Also, should things go wrong, it would not be wise to be seen by his commanding officer to be a part of it. Clementine seemed to understand his reticence. Not once did she try and persuade him to include his declaration.
Clementine was the loudest of the lot as she screamed her displeasure at the earl who had started to shudder with rage at the insult to his person. Like a swarm of locusts acting as one, the spectators changed tack and chanted the new phrase. Occasionally, they would include the word black bottle to make their point. They did not stop once. It was as if everyone present had taken one concerted bre
ath of air and now vented it with all of their strength.
The intonation continued while the earl, as was his habitual arrogant persona, slowly strolled around the seating area until he sat down. He haughtily perused the stage where the actors still stood in a state of frozen mobility. He looked this way and that, as if the shouting of his name in connection with black bottle and shame was the most normal thing in the world.
“That should do the trick, Stirling. It will be all over the newspapers on the morrow. Cardigan is becoming quite the celebrity,” said Clementine with a rubicund bloom on her cheeks. She giggled giddily.
“I haven’t had so much fun in ages. If this doesn’t get that ridiculous arrest of yours lifted, then I don’t know what will.”
A Charming Cavalryman for Clementine_A Historical Romance Novel Based on True Events Page 14