by David McDine
*
The park was seething with activity like a disturbed ant hill, with men, horses, carts and artillery pieces higgledy-piggledy all over, and sergeants and corporals struggling to sort out the apparent chaos with raised voices and curses – order, counter-order, disorder.
The officers charged with organising the review briefed those from newly-arrived units, fussed over the morrow’s parade order and grappled with the complex logistics required to position and cater for almost 6000 people from the highest in the land to the lowliest volunteer, and hundreds of horses.
Troops of the West Kent Yeomanry, from Sevenoaks, Tonbridge and Tunbridge Wells in the west, to Chislehurst, Greenwich and Woolwich in the north of the county and the Isle of Sheppey in the north-east, resplendent in their richly-decorated uniforms, were exercising their horses, admired by the county set, now disgorged from their carriages and enjoying the spectacle.
The West Kents, under Lord Camden, were to take precedence in the review, but this did not dampen the ardour of their East Kent counterparts, who hailed from as far afield as the Isle of Thanet, Romney Marsh and the string of rural villages between the two extremes.
Companies of volunteer foot from all parts of the county paraded, were counted and re-counted, inspected, re-inspected, exhorted by their officers and tongue-lashed by their sergeants.
For the purpose of the manoeuvres, Major-General Pigott was to command the first line of Kent Volunteer Infantry, and no less a personage than His Royal Highness Major-General Prince William Frederick had been placed in at least nominal command of the second line.
Gunners from Thameside and from Thanet fussed around their artillery pieces and received their instructions over and over from Major Kite, who had brought no less than 100 of his volunteers from Gravesend, qualifying him – if for no other reason – to be commander of the combined Artillery Corps.
With men from Ramsgate, Margate and Broadstairs brought under his command for the review, it was vital that he and his subordinate officers got their act together, for they could afford no mistakes when the 21-gun salute was fired at the end of the proceedings.
A misfire would speak louder than any broadside. With the eyes and ears of the King himself, more than 5000 volunteers, and thousands of spectators concentrated on them at the crucial moment, ridicule for the gunners was but a hairsbreadth from a perfectly-timed salute.
It was small wonder that Kite’s men were compulsively cleaning their already highly-polished guns, checking and re-checking the blank charges and advising one another on how to avoid a cock-up.
To Anson, the artillerymen on the whole appeared to be mainly well-built, well turned-out fellows who would not have disgraced a man-of-war gun deck.
He noted that the yeomanry were sparky, proud, and of all the volunteers by far the best-accoutred. But there was no telling how effective they might be on active service.
The standard of their splendid uniforms and the quality of their mounts was no doubt attributable at least in part to the rich young land-owners’ sons who commanded them – like the dolt he had clashed with on the way to the review.
The great majority of the volunteer infantrymen looked keen and fit, but among them he spotted more than a few who were only once removed from simpletons and whose ill-fitting uniforms gave them the appearance of beggars in stolen clothes that dogs would bark at if they came to town. For their officers’ and sergeants’ sakes, he hoped these individuals would escape inspection.
Looking to his own men, Anson thanked God that the social-climbing Captain Hoare had insisted on him providing them with uniforms of a sort. In their normal, shabby, work-a-day civilian clothes they would indeed have looked like a bunch of pirates that had just been pulled through a number of hedges backwards.
As it was, thanks to the expenditure of his personal prize money, they looked half decent in their dark blue jackets, broad red-and-white-striped trousers, sea boots and straw hats. And, all credit to the exacting measurements of the undertaker, the majority of the jackets appeared to fit, at least where they touched.
Fagg and Hoover had managed to get the fencibles cleaned up, too, by forcing them under the pump in the wayside inn yard before they left early that morning. Washed and more or less clean-shaven for once, most now looked unnaturally whey-faced, and one, known to everyone as Darkie Smith, whom most had imagined to have the touch of a tar-brush in his ancestry, turned out to be pink after all. He had just not been seen with a clean face since new-born.
A lavishly uniformed foppish amateur officer minced past, apparently deliberately seeking a salute. Fagg obliged by lifting his hat a good six inches, but Hoover, the previous night’s clash still fresh in his mind, turned away, barely hiding his contempt.
Fagg replaced his hat with a flourish. ‘What’s up lobster? Don’t marines salute orficers?’
‘Don’t mind saluting proper officers, but these …’ He searched in vain for the right word. ‘Back home we didn’t hold with all this bowing and scrapin’ and forelock-touchin’ to peacocks like him.’
‘Well, you ain’t over in Amerikey now. And just ’cos we bows and scrapes over ’ere don’t mean we respecks no one,’ Fagg observed enigmatically.
37
The large marquees, including the grand royal pavilion, were being readied to receive the King and Queen, the Princesses Augusta and Elizabeth, and the Dukes of York, Cumberland and Gloucester.
Also expected were the exiled Dutch Stadtholder William V, the Lord Chancellor, and all the great officers of state, including Messrs Pitt, Dundas and Windham, along with many of the principal nobility and gentry of the kingdom.
The Lord Lieutenant, as the monarch’s representative in the county, was making a tour of inspection with his entourage of deputies and commanding officers of the various corps represented.
Since the time of the Armada, successive Lord Lieutenants from William Brooke, the Tenth Baron Cobham onwards, had been responsible for organising the defence of the county.
Through him and his successors, the monarch exercised indirect rule in this as in all other counties, and, importantly, they controlled the militias, local defence forces of special importance in a nation which came late to acquiring a significant standing army.
Lord Romney also acted as the county’s chief magistrate, responsible for the appointment and discipline of the justices of the peace, a role that, like his military power, gave him immense political influence and prestige.
Anson was engrossed in creating order among his fencibles as Lord Romney rode past, and was startled to be addressed by the great man himself.
‘You, sir!’
He spun. ‘Me, my lord?’
‘Yes you, sir. Navy man, ain’t you?’
‘I am, my lord.’ He lifted his hat. ‘Lieutenant Anson, here with a party of Sea Fencibles.’
Romney beamed. ‘Ain’t you the fellows who saw off the French down at Folkestone?’
‘In a manner of speaking, my lord. We did have an encounter with a French privateer.’
The Lord Lieutenant guffawed. ‘Encounter is it? Gave ’em a drubbing, I heard. Excellent, excellent! We had summoned the River Fencibles from Greenwich, but sadly they have not appeared. Why, I know not. Gettin’ all these yeomanry fellows and footsloggers is one thing, but the navy’s a bonus that will please His Majesty – especially the jolly Jack Tars who’ve given the Frogs a kicking and sent ’em packing.’
Anson smiled and tilted his head dismissively. ‘Hardly the proper navy, my lord, ’though I do have the honour to be a naval officer, formerly of HMS Phryne, now posted ashore to command this detachment of Sea Fencibles under Captain Hoare. But my men here, well, they are part-timers of course, a mixture of boatmen, fishermen and the like—’
The Lord Lieutenant protested. ‘No need to excuse them, young man. I’ve no doubt there are smugglers and harbour rats among them, but the important thing is that they are volunteers, steppin’ forward to aid our nation at a time of peril, eh?
And as such, your fellows have earned their place at my tables tomorrow.’
The Seagate men within hearing distance shuffled with pleased embarrassment. Being called smugglers and harbour rats was no insult to them, and they were happy at the acknowledgement of their volunteer spirit. Clearly, the Lord Lieutenant was unaware of the protection system that saved them from really putting their lives on the line for King and country in men-of-war.
Nevertheless, Anson was grateful for the compliment. ‘You do us proud, my lord. And to bring us here in the presence of His Majesty is an honour we will ever remember with gratitude.’
The Lord Lieutenant turned to his aide. ‘Ralls, make a note to bring this young man to the royal pavilion after the feast. I’ve a mind to present him to His Majesty.’
*
With the men settled, Fagg strolled off, with only a slight limp now, intent on finding out what was on the menu. Behind the mansion he came upon a harassed-looking individual in a cook’s rig, out for a crafty smoke.
‘Looks like you’ve bin busy, mate,’ observed Fagg.
The cook removed the clay pipe he was puffing on, let out a stream of smoke, and jabbed his thumb at the basements where the kitchens lay.
‘Never knowed anyfink like it and that’s the truth. There’s an army of cooks and skivvies in there, brought from all over. Never in me life—’
‘Hard graft, I ’spect, mate?’
‘You never said a truer word, brother. You wouldn’t believe the amount of stuff we’re preparin’ – 60 lambs, 700 fowls, 300 hams, 300 tongues, gawd knows how many dishes of boiled beef, roast beef and veal, hundreds of pies … you name it, we’re cookin’ it. I hate to think how much old man Romney has shelled out.’
Fagg, more of a drinking than an eating man, enquired: ‘And some drink too, mate?’
The cook laughed. ‘There’s not only more butts of beer and pipes of port up here ready to draw on than you could shake a stick at, but he’s had a pump fixed up over there that links to the cellar so’s more can be pumped up if you lot drink the barrels up here dry.’
‘We’ll do our best, mate!’ Fagg assured him and made his way back to the wagons. Best see that the men had not yet cottoned on to the ready availability of booze.
He found Anson, who was also acutely aware of the major’s warning against drunkenness, but nevertheless ordered: ‘Issue a tot of rum, but careful measures mind, and take care the men don’t abuse this privilege. I will not tolerate men sneaking off to alehouses or buying drink from pedlars. Any man seen rotten drunk will lose his protection.’
*
At dawn next day, Hoover and Fagg rousted the men out of the canvas-covered wagons and tents and chivvied them into titivating themselves before breakfasting on bread, cheese and water brought with them.
The bosun forestalled any muttering about the spartan fare by assuring them: ‘If ’alf what some cook told me yesterday is true, we’ll be feastin’ orf the fat of the land soon enough. Lamb, beef, chicken, venison … Gawd, you won’t know you’re born!’
Before long, parties of gentry and would-be gentry were wandering about taking in the colourful scene and hoping to be noticed later by those of royal blood. Gentlemen were smartly attired as current fashion demanded, mostly in round hats with flat-topped crowns and uncocked brims, tailed frock coats over single-breasted waistcoats, nankeen breeches and short top boots. Many were carrying sticks, some no doubt concealing swords.
The ladies were in their finery, wearing long flowing dresses, bonnets or more elaborate feather-topped hats, and many carried parasols against the afternoon sun.
The adults’ equally dressed-up children were little mirror images.
Red-jacketed sentries wearing tricorn hats and crossbelts, their muskets with bayonets fixed, were good-naturedly keeping the lesser mortals at a respectable distance, while the upper crust sauntered around by the house and the cluster of large tents, as much on parade as the volunteers themselves, and pretending to be oblivious to the stares of the perimeter crowds.
On the hilly area looking down on the park, Anson came upon an artist at work behind a large easel, busily sketching the scene laid out before him. As he stopped to take a look, the artist noticed him and asked: ‘A darker shade of jacket than the artillerymen or the yeomanry, so I conclude you must be a navy man?’
‘Quite correct! Lieutenant Anson at your service.’
The artist put his pencil behind his ear and held out his hand. ‘William Alexander. I venture my profession speaks for itself.’
‘The official artist for the review?’
‘Just so, sir. But may I ask what you are doing here such a long way from the sea?’
‘Indeed, sir. I am here with my detachment of Sea Fencibles. We have travelled up from Seagate for the review.’
Alexander nodded. ‘Worth every step to be part of such a colourful and historic event, don’t you think? I am recording it at the behest of various patrons with a view to publishing a print worthy of framing for drawing room walls around the county, and maybe for the King himself.’
‘How will it be reproduced?’
‘The plan is for an engraving in aquatint to be made from my finished drawing. In colour, with all the uniforms and so forth, it should make a pretty picture.’
‘You have quite a task recording such a busy and extensive scene, sir, but I much admire what you have done so far.’
The artist acknowledged the compliment with an appreciative nod. ‘It is indeed a major task, but not all has to be achieved at one fell swoop. I have been working on the background – the old and new mansions, tented pavilions, trees and so forth – for some days now, so today it’s a question of putting the soldiery and spectators into the picture. I’ll continue to work on the fine detail from my rough sketches for many a day to come before I am satisfied I have done justice to the scene – and the occasion. Are you an artist yourself?’
‘Sketching is encouraged in us as midshipmen, so as to be able to do a likeness of an enemy coast or suchlike, and I keep it up as an agreeable pastime at sea. But I fear my skills do not begin to compare with yours, sir.’
Alexander tutted. ‘You should keep it up, sir. We all improve with practice.’
Anson pointed to where his fencibles were gathering. ‘Pray sir, have you noted the White Ensign above those far tables?’
The artist put a small telescope to his eye. ‘I confess I had not noted it earlier, but I see it now.’
‘If you’ll kindly ensure it is showing in your finished picture, I will most certainly buy a print – a number of prints!’
Alexander smiled. ‘Then there is no doubt that I will include it, rest assured. We impoverished artists need all the patronage we can get!’
*
Hoover was with the wagons checking weapons when a lone blue-jacketed horseman approached and dismounted beside him.
He tapped his helmet in salute and Hoover recognised him as the sergeant from the yeomanry troop involved in the fracas at the wayside inn.
‘Sarn’t Noad, Sam Noad. Remember me?’
‘How could I forget? Between us you and I just about stopped a civil war outside that pub. You didn’t miss much, by the by – ale was like cats’ piss, the food was crap and the barn was full of wildlife!’
Noad laughed. ‘We did no better five miles up the road. It took that long for Cap’n Chitterling to calm down enough to stop—’
‘So why’s he sent you? I guess he wants me flogged for that, er, accidental discharge?’
‘I’m sure he does, but he didn’t send me. I’m here off me own bat – just to say I reckon I would’ve done the same as you.’
Hoover was pleased. ‘That’s mighty thoughtful of you. I appreciate it.’
‘Just wanted you to know, sarn’t to sarn’t, that we ain’t all like the captain in the yeomanry. He’s got his cronies o’ course, but most of the lads are decent enough farmers’ sons. Trouble is, they’re tenants of the Chitterlings, who own Gawd kno
ws how much land round our parts.’
‘You, too?’
‘No mate, I was in the reg’lar dragoons. Real soldiers with proper officers, not like the yeomanry clodhoppers. If yer daddy has enough land you can get put in charge like Chitterling is. He’s always on about honour, bravery and suchlike, but he’s never fought a foreign foe. Poor poachers, foxes, gamebirds and the like are much more to his taste. They gen’rally don’t fight back. He’s just a spoilt brat with more money and power than sense.’
‘So why did you join his troop?’
‘I’d just come out o’ the reg’lars, got a new wife and wanted to settle down. He needed someone to train his bumpkins and hold things together, so I gets paid as the full-time troop sarn’t with all found. He’d be lost without me and he knows it, so he treats me a bit wary-like. Can’t be bad, can it? I’m home most nights.’
‘Sounds like me, as master-at-arms of these sailor boys. Darn sight better’n sailing the seven seas in the marines!’
The marine’s accent puzzled Noad, and he asked: ‘You from Amerikey?’
Hoover nodded.
‘D’you know a Jack Dawson?’
‘Who might he be?’
‘Me cousin, well, second cousin.’
‘So?’
‘P’raps you see’d him there?’
Hoover stifled a smile. ‘No mate, ’fraid it’s a pretty big country and there’s a might few over there as I ain’t come across yet myself.’
Noad nodded, apparently satisfied. ‘I forgot, ’course it’s a big place. I ain’t been there, but they do say as how Amerikey’s even bigger’n Yorkshire.’
‘I guess so,’ Hoover agreed.
‘No hard feelings about that scrimmage?’ Noad held out his hand and the marine grasped it.
‘None at all. If I can do anything for you, just let me know. Seagate Detachment, Sea Fencibles, that’s where you’ll find me.’