Worth Their Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regiment.)

by Martin McDowell

  “I’m afraid, my Lord, that is not within your right. As you have accused me of cheating, and in addition, struck me a blow by throwing brandy at me, according to the Code Duello, you have issued the challenge. You are the challenger; I am the challenged. That gives me choice of weapons. I choose sabres. Any fellow Officer here will act as Second for me. Appoint yours, and make arrangements.”

  Both stood the ground they held. Templemere had recovered some composure. He had been out at dawn himself many times before and knew the rules, but Carr’s cool correction of him had renewed his high level of agitation. For a short but tense period, he said nothing, but it was not he who broke the silence.

  “I’m afraid he has the right of it, young fellah!”

  Both looked in the direction of the voice. A thin but elegant man, his elegance stemming from his gorgeous blue and gold Hussar’s uniform, was close to the front of those who stood as audience. His face bore the scars of combat, whether from battle or from duelling, it was impossible to tell.

  “An insult, or as in this case, a glass of brandy thrown between you, counts as a blow. He is the challenged. If you want a change from swords to pistols, you must give your word of honour that you are no swordsman. He is then honour bound to accept.”

  “I am aware of this, but I had the right to hope that such as the Captain here, evidently not a Gentleman, would not. I now do so. Captain Carr. On my word of honour I am no swordsman. The weapons should be pistols”.

  Carr allowed a moment of silence to stand between them, the contempt on his face clear and palpable.

  “My Lord, in my dealings with you I have found honour to be conspicuous in its absence. The weapons are sabres. Of course you may now withdraw if you wish. Please inform me through my Seconds.”

  A nod to two fellow Officers stood close by, established their role as such, then he strode across the empty floor, past the attempted elevation of Mrs March-Markham, arduously being undertaken by several maids and footmen. He continued to the main door, but was intercepted by Major Peak.

  “Carr, you can’t do this. You know what it means, the end of your Commission. Orders are clear and strict on duelling, as you well know. If you survive you’ll still be up before a Court Martial and cashiered. Your Army career ended.”

  “Thank you Major, this I know. If needs be, I resign my Commission. I’m going to meet him. I can do no other thing.”

  With that, he took his cloak and shako from the footman and boarded the waiting carriage. On reaching his billet, before preparing for sleep, he wrote a letter resigning his place as an Officer in the King’s Royals, carefully dated. He addressed the letter to his Lieutenant Colonel. He awoke to no word from his Seconds. He was now a civilian.

  oOo

  The dawn of the next day came dry but restless. The wind continued to harry all that stood upright in its path, but the rain had gone, blown inland. Bright patches of sunshine raced over the autumn green countryside, painting their changing shapes on the downs, fields, and valleys alike. The first of the morning raced over the imposing edifice that was the front of Farslake House. A climbing elaboration of Tudor redbrick, crowned by Tudor chimneys, Farslake had changed hands many times during the Wars of the Roses, but, with the peace of Henry Tudor, it stood in the hands of the Coatsley family. They had rebuilt it in the style and it had remained in such ownership ever since. Surrounded by paths of immaculate, white, sea dredged gravel, it was a red and cream confection in the middle of its own well managed woodland and pasture.

  One of the paths crunched to the good boots of a lone figure, who trudged past the side of the East wing, the strap of a stout leather satchel holding down a good half coat, it being of the same ivy green colour as a good tricorn hat that completed the apparel of Joseph Pike, ex-fenceman of the Farslake Estate. He was a young man of classic good looks and could have been the model for any of the statues that he passed on his exit towards the main gate. Tall, well muscled, and well proportioned, even under the depressed circumstances of this ragged morning, he walked with an easy athletic elegance. To crown all, a queue of brilliant blond hair hung just behind his collar, protruding beneath the rear of the hat. He looked up at the top windows of the side of the East Wing, an imposing creation by itself. Did a curtain move? He stopped, but it was impossible to tell. He resumed his long walk to the Main Gate.

  The youngest son of four boys, Father a carpenter, at seventeen he had no choice but to follow the next brother above and leave home. He had gone to the Farslake Estate looking for work and found himself before the Estate Manager, Jacob Tilsley When asked what skills he had, he had replied, “Carpentry”. The Manager needed a fenceman and so Joe was required to demonstrate his skills by making a side-gate. When given a pile of good timber and a set of tools better than his Father could ever dream of, Joe had made a gate of sound construction and proper proportion. He was duly hired and given lodgings above the workshops. For almost three years all went well. All were impressed with young Joe; he proved himself a good worker; when given any job it was carried out in good time and carried out well.

  None of the female staff could resist a soft spot for Joe, certainly none on the catering side, yet he formed neither attachment nor liaison with any of the girls on the staff. Though several there set their cap in his direction, he had no experience of girls and no capability to recognise the signs. Also, his humble background and limited experience rendered him shy and awkward in so lofty a place, but he was polite and respectful and always with a ready smile. Needless to say he was “mothered” by the Cook.

  His job was the fences and gates all over the estate. The Manager would set the work and, being Joe, soon he was trusted to arrange and carry out the work, ordering the timber and loading his work cart. Jacob Tilsley soon noticed that there was little waste and the tools and the cart with it’s horse, were cared for. One summer’s day he was ordered to replace a section that fenced off The Ride, a wide earthen pathway used by the Coatsley family for exercising both themselves and their horses, its long sweeping curves designed for a good gallop, and all within the confines of the estate.

  This generation of the Coatsleys was not a large one: two sons and one daughter, Jasmine. When she entered her late teens, riding became a daily, even twice daily, occupation, at least once along The Ride. Now, at the age of eighteen, she was allowed to go alone, with neither her groom nor her brothers. Inevitably, like all the females on the estate, she also had noticed Joe, and now, as she took her fine gelding on a rising trot out for a morning ride, there he was, working on the fencing. She slowed her horse to a walk. She had all the confidence and poise of her breeding, thoroughly instilled by her own Governess, but nevertheless, she was yet a teenage girl and not sure to look or look away. Joe stood up and turned to pay his respects. His fellow estate workers had quickly drilled it into him that you ignored one of the family at your cost. All expected you to acknowledge their arrival. He lifted his hat, and turned full to face her, as he had been taught, but being Joe he added a smile.

  “Morning, Miss.”

  From any other worker on the estate, to any other member of the family, such over familiarity as a smile would have brought a withering look, or even a verbal rebuke. However, what was returned was nothing of the kind. He waited for an acknowledgement, in case one came. It did, a nod, but Joe noticed the discomposure that entered her face. She looked down, she looked up, she looked away, she looked back, then recovered herself and set her horse back to a trot. Joe returned the nod, although it wasn’t required and followed her with his eyes as she rode past, then returned to his work.

  She could naturally see no reason why the afternoon ride should not take the same route. Joe had finished about four sections and was taking a break; bread, cheese and an apple. He himself sat leaning back against a lower rail. Again, he rose to his feet, but he had just taken a mouthful of bread and cheese, both still in his hands, and so he began chewing for all his was worth to enable himself to speak the required acknowl
edgement. He was still chewing mightily when Jasmine reached the distance from him at which the words and gesture should arrive. At last he managed the last swallow, exaggerated and comical. The humour was not lost on him and showed in his face.

  “Sorry, Miss. Good afternoon. Miss.”

  She reigned in her horse. She looked down, he looked up. She wanting to say something, but knowing not what; he waiting for the customary nod or lifting of the riding crop, or even some instructions. Joe broke the moment.

  “Is your horse alright, Miss?”

  She seized the subject gratefully.

  “I’m not sure. Could you check his left rear hoof? He doesn’t feel quite right.”

  Joe knew little of horses, but he had enough common sense and experience to know what a shoe on a hoof should look like.

  “Yes, Miss. Certainly, Miss.”

  He approached the horse and again knew enough to calm the horse by running his hand along the well-groomed brown flank, then down the leg to the hoof. He lifted it and made an inspection. All sound, no stone, nothing loose. He returned to Miss Jasmine.

  “All’s well, Miss. As far as I can tell. There’s nothing wrong with the hoof. Perhaps a stiff tendon or somesuch, but there’s nothing obvious.”

  “Perhaps you’re right. Could you give him some water?”

  “Yes, Miss. I have some here.”

  He moved to the workcart. His own small workhorse stood nearby, hobbled and contentedly grazing. A bucket and pile of hay were nearby. He picked up the bucket and returned with it.

  “Could you get fresh?” she asked. “I don’t like him drinking from the same bucket as the workhorses. He’s bred. You can’t be too careful.”

  Joe halted and looked for the stream. It was 100 yards away.

  “Yes, Miss, I can. Just give me a moment, and I’ll fetch some.”

  She watched him all the way to the stream and she watched him all the way back, at least until he returned close enough for her to grow concerned that he would become aware that she was gazing at him. The water was set down and the horse drank. She broke the silence.

  “Why are you working here; is there a problem? Are stock escaping, or something?”

  “No Miss. Mr Tilsley thinks the fence could soon go, and has set me to replace what I think is close to rotten.”

  “He trusts you to decide such a thing for yourself?”

  “Why, yes Miss. My job is the fencing, I make the careful check of the wood and gates and such, and decide what needs doing. He’s made no complaint to me so far.”

  He smiled and so did she. The coquettishness of an eighteen year old surfaced.

  “What’s your name, fencer?”

  This being spoken with a wide grin banished all hint of any attempt at superiority.

  “Joe. Joe Pike. Miss.”

  “Are you a good fencer, Joe? What needs to be done when you “fence”?”

  “Well, as I say Miss, no complaints so far. I just mend the fences with good timber.”

  “And what do you do to warrant yourself to be called a “good fencer?”

  Joe, surprised at so detailed an enquiry, obediently began some explanation, naively going into details about fence joints, rail splitters, woodgrain, augers, tar, and so on. She watched and listened with amusement to his description, all well illustrated with gestures and waving hands, but she looked more than she listened. She was fascinated. She knew few boys and fewer still of what she felt the right age, that being just her senior, and here she was talking to one, and one very much out of the ordinary. Joe had stopped.

  “Well that’s about it. There’s not that much to it, really.”

  “I feel I could be a fencer. I think I’d be very good, as well.”

  “Yes, Miss. I’m sure the stock would be fully safe and sound with you looking after all the gates and rails. And they’d feel it, too, that’s for certain.”

  She laughed.

  “Well, Joe Pike. I’ll leave you to your wood and tar. I’ve enjoyed our conversation.”

  “My pleasure, Miss.”

  She fixed her eyes on his, and then kicked her horse into a trot. Joe stood, stunned and dazed. He’d talked to a girl and she’d listened. The small details of his lowly life and work had entertained the daughter of the estate! He watched her back as she grew smaller down The Ride, but the significance of her turning her head was lost on Joe, for when she did look back, her face was lit by a smile that matched the smile in her eyes.

  In her innocence, with growing frequency, in the days and weeks that followed, before her ride she would ask Jacob Tilsley where Joe was working. He didn’t like what he knew was happening, even less when sometimes she would walk there and the pair would talk as equals. The family talked from above, which didn’t just mean from horseback. Tilsley was not an obsequious man such as would grovel in his place, but he feared for Joe. He could do nothing to prevent it. If the daughter of the estate asked him something he had no choice but to answer and answer fully. Often he would follow and was relieved to see that they never touched and were always in full view, but it was plain that they were special to each other. The language of their hands and faces could give no other impression. She did not remain with Joe long, but their meetings were a daily occurrence.

  One evening Tilsley called on Joe in his room above his workshop. He knocked on the door and Joe opened it, his right holding the door, his left a book. Tilsley stepped inside.

  “Joe, I didn’t know you could read.”

  “Yes, some. We were taught a little at Sunday School, and Miss Jasmine is helping me to improve more. This is her book, she lent it to me.”

  Tilsley’s spirits sank. This was worse than he had expected. What had grown between these two could cause nothing but trouble, but both he and Joe were powerless. If a Coatsley decided to take a course of action, any course of action, how were any such as themselves to alter the run of the outcome?

  “Joe, now listen to me. You must be careful. If she wants to sit with you to read, or visit you whilst you work, I know you can’t turn her away, nor anything, but don’t ‘ee touch her. Don’t even look at her for more than a second. Keep it worker and Mistress; apart and respectful. She’ll get bored, they always do, and then she’ll leave ‘ee alone, but by Jesus our Saviour don’t touch her and keep a distance between yourself and her. No matter what she says or does. You do have that with you. Same as a Master can’t touch a maidservant, she can’t touch you.”

  Joe looked astonished and not a little concerned. This was beyond his thinking; beyond his understanding of himself with Miss Jasmine.

  “I understand you, Mr Tilsley, but I never thought otherwise about how it should be, and stay. I know my place with the likes of her, and that’s how it’ll stay. I’m grateful for her helping me with my reading, but, like you say, how do the likes of us turn away the likes of them? Besides, she acts like a good friend?”

  “You’re right lad, I know, but I also know that you’re meeting too often. I’ll do what I can to keep her away. It’s best, I hope you know that.”

  “Yes, Mr Tilsley, I do, and I do thank you for your concern.”

  “Right, Joe. Good night.”

  “Good night, Mr Tilsley.”

  But the next morning, the Earl strode into the Estate Office.

  “Tilsley, what’s this I hear about Jasmine spending time, a lot of time, with this fencer boy? I’m told they even sit together reading books. What do you know?”

  “It’s true, Sir. She spends time with the lad, and she is teaching him to read, but there’s nothing to fear. He’s a good boy. He knows his place. He’s just grateful that she’s helping him with his learning.”

  “Learning be damned! I want him gone, off the estate, do you hear? Gone, so’s I don’t see him again, and neither does she.”

  Tilsley replied in a tone that carried his sorrow the equal of the carefully chosen words he spoke.

  “But what would you have me tell him Sir? He’s as good a worker as we
’ve got here, skilled and diligent. He can do any job on the estate, with never a complaint. On what grounds Sir, what do I tell him?”

  “That’s of no concern to me. I don’t care what you say, as long as you say “you’re dismissed!” Just get him on his way. I leave that to you, I care not.”

  Tilsley had no choice but to resign himself to the inevitable.

  “Yes Sir. I’ll see to it. He’ll be gone by morning.”

  The Earl left the office and Tilsley followed him out, but Tilsley turned into the stable and began saddling his good steady mare. His jaw was clenched and his brows knitted together in a deep frown. Sadness, and no small amount of injustice too, lay upon him as profound as he could remember. He was the Estate Manager and though it felt like a ton weight, it fell to him to dismiss Joe. He leant his forehead onto the smooth leather of the saddle and paused in thought. Then he mounted.

  He set the mare to the track that led to the field where Joe was working and soon reached the section along it where Joe should be found. There he was and, as if by solemn edict, Miss Jasmine was there, holding the end of a rail whilst Joe set the other end into its post.

  “Morning Miss Jasmine.”

  “Mr Tilsley.”

  “Excuse me, Miss, but I need a word with Joe here.”

  “By all means.”

  “Joe, when you’ve finished here, come by the office, will you?”

  “Right, Mr Tilsley. I shouldn’t be too long.”

  “Fine Joe, I won’t be far away.”

  Tilsley couldn’t smile, nor give any kind of cheery word. The dismissal of a good worker for such a reason was new to him personally, but he had heard of it and could find no comfort that such things were not unknown to workers on any estate. He acknowledged Miss Jasmine with a forefinger to his forehead, remounted his mare and let her walk back at her own speed. He didn’t, however, return to his office. He went instead to the saddler and obtained a good leather satchel. Then he went to the kitchen. He shared the news with all there and not a few white pinafores went up to cover sorrowing faces, but he had only to show the satchel for the cook to fill it with as much travelling food as was easily available. Next, to the Counting House, where he paid for Joe’s boots, coat, and hat from his own money, collected Joe’s wages, then back to his office to await Joe. There he waited in silence, with no company but the sorrowful tick of the old clock. When Joe arrived, it didn’t take long. Tilsley handed over the satchel and the wages and wished him well, adding that he need not leave till dawn; he would have till then to gather up his things. Joe took himself off to his room and gathered his few possessions, making good use of his new satchel. He slept until dawn, which woke him as it customarily did. Then he set off, not fully understanding the events that had befallen him, but nevertheless wiser in the ways of Nobles and Commoners.