Septimus explained that he had been taken to the Opera in Lisbon, almost against his will, as a courtesy to an acquaintance, but had found the music so very enjoyable; he hoped that they might pay many a visit over the next few years.
It seemed good to Marianne; the thought of a visit to London and the chance of seeing some of the great of the land in their carriages was rather exciting.
Septimus was able to procure tickets and had enjoyed half of his Mozart, was idling in the interval, waiting on Marianne’s convenience before returning to his seats, when he was hailed by a delighted voice.
“Sir Septimus! I had just sent you a letter to say that I was settled in Town for the winter months. Are you well, sir? Perceval wrote me that you had been wounded, though I read of your doings at Fuentes de Onoro afterwards!”
“Very well, Major Taft, and delighted to see that the same may be said for you. You look in much better case than I could have hoped for!”
Taft smiled deprecatingly, said that he had seen a doctor of Horse Guards’ appointment and had been told that he would be fit for the field within six months. The arm no longer gave pain and he was well on the way to regaining the weight he had lost in the difficult weeks following the amputation.
“Then, sir, it is back to the regiment for me. I am told that I must show my face in the Second Battalion first, but that there would very soon be a draft for me to take out to Spain. Damned Frogs, Sir Septimus, they are in debt to me for half an ear and three parts of an arm now, and you may be sure that I shall take my money’s worth from them!”
“So you should, as well. I am told that I am not to go back to Spain but will be employed elsewhere next year. More than that I do not know, of course. Here is my lady, Major Taft, and we must return to our seats if we are not to miss any of the music. I found opera in Lisbon, Major Taft – to my lasting pleasure!”
“My father will be at home tomorrow, sir. He would be delighted was you to call.”
Septimus gave his promise and hurried back to his seat.
Septimus made his visit, as was obligatory, the invitation having been given, and expressed his pleasure, and that of Marianne, to meet the old general, Taft’s father.
“Glad to see you in my house, Sir Septimus. Been in my mind that I should speak to you this last year and more, in fact. You have done very well by my boy, Sir Septimus. Turned him into a man and a soldier, to my surprise and the pleasure, I believe, of both of us.”
Septimus shook his head, said that he had done very little other than to give scope to Major Taft’s natural abilities.
“A good soldier is one who stands at the front of his men and takes them forward, sir. No man can be taught that, I believe – it is in him, or it is not.”
“Well said, and generously so, sir, and very nearly true! Suffice it to say that I am grateful, Sir Septimus. Have you a club, sir?”
“Why, no, General Taft. I have been very little in London and have never had the opportunity to seek membership of any.”
“As I suspected, sir. You should become a member of one of the better clubs – a very good way to meet people, and to remind them of your existence. I have, in fact, been so forward as to raise your name at White’s.”
“A merchant’s son, General? In the most exclusive club in England?”
“A soldier who is Lord Wellington’s protégé, Sir Septimus, and known as a gentleman of retiring manners who will go to some lengths to avoid giving offence, but who will put a bullet into the man who forces a quarrel upon him. That story has reached London from Bombay, sir. I would add that you are also renowned for being bloody-handed on the field of battle – for carrying more pistols than Blackbeard the Pirate and being delighted to use them. Standing on a wall and defying French cavalry, one is told, sir!”
Marianne showed a little indignant at that; there would be questions raised at home, Septimus saw.
“That is somewhat overstated, sir.”
“Of course it is, but you did it, even so, and more than one letter received in London has commented upon the fact, and upon your doing very much the same in India. You have a name, Sir Septimus, for being a true English fighting man, and we are in the midst of a long, long war… You will be welcome in the Club, sir. Politically, as well, your family is known to be of the right sort, which does not hurt. If you wish, then I shall introduce you, tomorrow? Come here at three o’clock and we shall walk you round there, Sir Septimus.”
“I had heard that the dandy set were much to be discovered in Whites, General. I do not know if I dress well enough to be welcome there.”
“Brummel holds sway in Whites, Sir Septimus. For him, a man is to be clean, neat and unobtrusive; you meet his standards, though he will no doubt shake his head at your tailor. Brummel says that a man is well-dressed if he does not catch the eye, if one does not notice what he is wearing because it is simply right. You will do, sir.”
It would seem that General Taft was correct; no voices were raised in outrage at Septimus’ presence and the Bow Window Set did not seem to notice him. Brummel and Lord Alvanley were both present and showed no wish either to be introduced to Septimus or to expel him.
Mr Danvers was there and strolled across to exchange bows and say how glad he was to see Septimus in the hallowed premises.
“You certainly belong with us, Sir Septimus, and should feel at home here. We have too few of soldiers inside our doors, sir. There should be more. That seems to be Mr Carruthers bearing down upon us, have you met him, Sir Septimus?”
“No, Mr Danvers, but I ran into a son in Lisbon. I expect that he wishes to apologise for his boy.”
Septimus was almost right.
“I beg your pardon, sir, for intruding upon you. My name is Carruthers. Are you Colonel Sir Septimus Pearce?”
“I am, sir. I believe I met a son of yours recently, sir, in Lisbon.”
“You did indeed, Sir Septimus. Over the card table, I believe.”
“We played, sir, certainly.”
“My son’s colonel sent me a letter, Sir Septimus, to say that you had played piquet, that my son had forced the stakes to very high levels and had lost, and that you had returned his notes of hand to him, utilising the services of General Cookson-Waring.”
“That is correct, sir. Your son was in the company of some rather foolish friends who were drinking heavily and involved him in their jollification. He played me and lost a small sum early in the evening, the last night I was in Lisbon. Later he sought revenge and lost again and then demanded another rubber for higher stakes. His friends were egging him on, sir, and there was every possibility of trouble, the drink leading to foolish talk. I played, I won and I sought to leave the table, knowing that he was no longer wholly sober and was in any case much my junior. General Cookson-Waring thought it best that I should continue to play in order to placate the young gentlemen; he knew that I had no intention of pocketing any winnings made in such a circumstance. We played ‘double or quits’, your boy full of brandy and unable to judge his cards at all; he had lost more than twelve thousands when he finally fell down, sir. He wrote his notes of hand and I gave them to General Cookson-Waring to return with a lecture on the unwisdom of playing cards when the wine was in and the wit was out. Boys will be boys, sir, and he will know better next time.”
“That is exactly as the colonel wrote me. I cannot accept that your actions were correct, Sir Septimus. A debt of honour once accrued, there are no circumstances under which it cannot be paid. I would wish to give you a draft upon my bank for the sum, Sir Septimus.”
They were attracting attention; other members had overheard Carruthers, who had made no attempt to speak quietly.
“You are right in what you say, Mr Carruthers, but this was not, could not be, a debt of honour for two reasons. First, sir, your son was not sober and was not master of himself and was being urged to incorrect conduct by a noisy group of friends. Second, sir, is that I am far his senior in rank and age and it would be wrong in me to take s
uch huge winnings in that circumstance. I must hold to my position, sir; your son owes me no debt.”
“The boy’s colonel said the same in his letter. I am unconvinced, Sir Septimus. Would you take a third opinion, sir? We are in White’s where there are many men well-versed in the Code of Honour who could give a ruling. White’s is, after all, the home of high stakes!”
Septimus could not refuse.
“Certainly, Mr Carruthers, but I must repeat that I cannot make a case in favour of the money being paid.”
Word had rapidly passed around the big room – a debt of honour being denied by the creditor rather than the debtor was almost unheard of and created immediate interest.
Lords Alvanley and Sefton expressed a willingness to give an opinion on so unusual a circumstance. They established the facts, read the colonel’s letter to Carruthers and sat down to consider their verdict, came back in ten minutes.
“There cannot be a debt of honour in such circumstances, gentlemen. It is clear that Sir Septimus was playing, not for a bet as is normal, but solely to prevent scandalous misconduct in the mess in which he was a guest. He is to be commended for his actions. He is perfectly correct to hold that the rather large sum of money mentioned should not be regarded as his winnings.”
Mr Carruthers bowed and signified his acceptance of the ruling.
“Thank you, my lords. I trust you will forgive me for seeming over-punctilious, but I believe that a family cannot be too tender of its honour.”
“Very true, Mr Carruthers.”
Carruthers withdrew in the company of Lord Sefton, talking of the horses they were to enter at Newmarket later in the year. Lord Alvanley turned to Septimus, a sardonic smile on his countenance.
“There goes one of the richest men in England, Sir Septimus, his wealth perhaps his prime virtue. I would venture to suggest, sir, that his sole interest today was to demonstrate in public that a mere twelve thousand pounds means nothing to him. Tender of his honour indeed!”
“I must say, my lord, that I was surprised by his actions. No soldier would have expected me to do other than forget the whole foolish business. A green boy with no head for brandy and quite probably nervously waiting to join his regiment in action – if such a one makes an error, well, who is to be upset, or to remember his mistake? As for pocketing the money, well!”
“I do not have your experience, of course, Sir Septimus, but even I could see just what the circumstances might be. Far better forgotten, and certainly not to be dredged up at White’s! I believe this is your first time in our company, Sir Septimus? Will you join me in a glass of wine?”
Septimus would of course, conscious of the rare honour he was granted; the Bow Window Set did not habitually take wine in the company of mere provincial colonels of foot. He was granted ten minutes of Alvanley’s company before being politely sent about his business, but that was more than sufficient to establish him as one who was accepted in High Society – on its fringes perhaps, but he would not be given the cut by those who crossed his path.
He told Marianne of the event, as soon as he reached their hotel; she was delighted, but could not help thinking of all that they could have done with twelve thousand pounds.
“Six hundred acres of best wheat land, sir! Rather a lot to give away on a point of honour!”
“Too much, I agree. The matter was settled in public, however, and will come to the ears of everybody who is anybody. The whole of Horse Guards will know that I had rather refuse twelve thousand pounds than compromise my honour – and those who do not know me will be told that I am no rich man. Alvanley is an intimate of Prinny’s, and will no doubt tell him of the affair, of the unusual Court of Honour convened in White’s this day.”
“And that may lead to greater gains over the years, do you think, Septimus?”
“It is not impossible. General Picton, for example, has hopes of gracing the House of Lords, and, while he is my superior in birth, I far outstrip him in personal attainments. Put simply, if a man of his sort has such hopes, then so have I!”
“He is known as a brave, fighting soldier, is he not, Septimus?”
“Picton certainly is – but he is also a foul-mouthed brute and short of scruples. I, of course, am not foul-mouthed!”
She chose not to respond to that provocation.
They shopped and Septimus visited his tailor and had his provincial dress deplored by the young man who numbered him among his clients. Scott himself appeared and smiled benignly while he enquired whether Septimus was to be measured for his brigadier’s uniform on this occasion. Scott knew very well that no such appointment had been made, but he implied that it was no more than a matter of time; he was in the nature of things aware of all that was under discussion in the higher military circles.
It was all very heartening.
Septimus returned home in the best of good moods.
He was called to sit as a magistrate in the following week.
The bench at Micheldever sat for a substantial part of rural north Hampshire, alternating with that at Alton, and sharing the west of the county with Andover. The effect was that, contrary to normal practice, there could be strangers in the dock, accused of any variety of crimes.
The strength of the system was normally that local Justices of the Peace knew all of the men, and the very few women, brought before them and could often assess the quality of any proofs offered. Where a particular father had insulted a local and rich farmer the magistrates would look askance at an accusation of poaching made against his son in the following month; justice was tempered by common sense and the letter of the law was less important than the practical maintenance of good order in the locality. When the magistrates sat in judgement on men from five or ten miles distant then the process broke down – they knew nothing other than the evidence presented in court.
On this occasion a group of young men were arraigned, labourers’ sons from the area immediately around Whitchurch, a few miles to the north, closer to Andover than Micheldever. There were seven of them, all accused of arson, a felony carrying the death penalty; normally there would have been no more than a cursory hearing, sufficient to establish that there was a case prima facie, and they would have been remanded to trial at Assizes or Quarter Sessions, whichever came first. On this occasion there was an attorney present who begged that the evidence might be presented to the Bench. The magistrates adjourned to discuss the request.
The Clerk of the Court, himself an attorney-at-law and providing the whole of their legal expertise, was distressed for not knowing what was best to do.
“An attorney may not plead before the High Court of Justice, gentlemen – that is reserved for barristers. He must believe that there is a case to be made for the accused, and must also know there is no money to pay a barrister’s fees. It would be much out of the ordinary way of things to dispose of such a case in a summary court. Yet there is a fear of grave injustice if the case goes higher. A guilty verdict will bring sentence of death – a judge will never regard arson as less than the most serious of crimes. Even if the sentence is commuted then they will see Botany Bay for life.”
“What do we know of the background, sir?”
“Nothing, Sir Septimus!”
The Clerk of the Court practised in Winchester and neither of the other magistrates sitting that day knew anything of Whitchurch.
“What is the actual charge? Do we know what it relates to?”
They perused the few papers available.
The deposition was that a shed belonging to the silk mill at Whitchurch and containing bales of Indian silks had almost caught fire after a group of youths had made a camp fire a few yards away and had allowed it to spread unchecked through dry grass. They had, it was alleged, stolen gin and beef from the back of a local inn, had spitted the beef over their fire and then got hopelessly drunk while waiting for the meat to cook. The silk mill – the only example of such in the south of England – held stock worth thousands and its owners were wealthy an
d wanted an example made of the louts who had almost cost them a fortune.
“Arson? That is hardly the case, surely, gentlemen. Theft probably; stupidity certainly; but not the intention to destroy another man’s property by fire. In my opinion, gentlemen, we should hear the case of theft and dismiss the charge of arson.”
Theft of goods to a value greater than a shilling could in itself carry the death penalty, but the Bench would value a bottle of gin at a groat and the joint of beef at seven pence, thus to give the total of a penny less than the deadly shilling. That was their normal habit, accepted by all as the best way of avoiding too many casual hangings.
“Are they guilty, by the way? Have they brought the right people to us or did the people from the silk mill arrange for young men they disliked to be taken up?”
The Clerk could not reply; normally he could have answered that question from his local knowledge.
Septimus suggested that the Clerk should have a quiet word with the attorney for the accused.
The lawyer returned shaking his head.
“A birthday celebration, gentlemen. The uncle of one of the boys is a foreman at the silk mill, himself unmarried and fond of his nephew. He bought the gin and the beef for them, but dared not admit the fact at first in fear of his job. He has now come forward, and has been dismissed from the mill, but his evidence is disputed because the landlord of the inn who claimed theft will not admit to having sold the bottle, himself in fear of perjury. The silk mill owns the village, sir, and the people in it; they will not cross the mill owners.”
Septimus shook his head.
“Dismiss the case, and send the boys back to Whitchurch and they will simply be taken up again and hauled before another court on better-falsified charges.”
The Clerk of the Court denied that such a thing could be possible; Sir Septimus should not say so.
The other magistrates remained silent; they did not like the case, but they did not wish to start a feud with the owners of the silk mill.
“What do we know of the boys?”
Spanish Tricks (Man of Conflict Series, Book 5) Page 18