Dinner with the colonel, in his private residence and with no others present, gave the opportunity to discuss the junior officers - an essential for any new superior.
"Young Taft, sir, seems an unusual lad."
"The lieutenant is not in the ordinary way of subalterns, one must admit, Major Pearce. I believe him to be a soldier because his father - who was a singularly unsuccessful general in the American War - wished the family tradition to be continued. Unfortunately, it is, in all aspects!"
"I presume he will be denied an income if he sells out, colonel?"
"Even so, sir. He has his five hundred a year while he remains with us - and that is no small sum, as you will be aware - but he will be penniless if he becomes a civilian or goes to half-pay."
"He hardly seems to be of martial stock!"
Taft was short and weedy in the frame and possessed more of Adam's Apple than chin; he was naturally stooped, had to remind himself to stand straight when in uniform. Septimus could not imagine him leading a charge in the field. He could not in fact envisage him as able to bear the weight of a hanger or run at more than a very weak trot.
"I have yet to see him on the square, colonel. Has he a voice of command?"
"He has not, sir, and if he had would be unlikely to remember the correct words. He has two years in as a lieutenant and I believe his father to be in process of purchasing his captaincy - hopefully in a battalion on Home posting! I fear, however, that he enjoys the life here, too much - he is forever to be found in the native town!"
Had the Hampshires been in England then it would have been possible for the colonel to have exercised influence behind the scenes to ensure that Taft bought in another battalion - but in India, where letters commonly took a year to receive a reply, that was not possible.
"What of Captain Maxwell, sir?"
The captain was a vigorous, active man, forever making a noise and seeking to be noticed; he was inclined to speak much of what he would do in the campaigns he hoped they were about to have. Septimus had formed an instant dislike for him, based on nothing rational at all.
"He has never seen action, major, and I am unable therefore to justify my suspicions of him, but I suspect him to have a yellow streak a yard wide! On horse he will avoid a fence - he does not hunt, of course! Should a man look cross-eyed at him he will scream for a sergeant to take action, and will call for a flogging when a quiet word would do all that was necessary. I have no respect for him at all. I may be wrong. When next we go into the field it is my fixed intent to make very sure that his company is well towards the front - and I shall watch him like a hawk, major! I do not wish to see one of my young men stood at court-martial and broken, or shot even - it does the battalion no good at all, as you will know, but I will not have his sort, or the sort he may well be, in my mess!"
"My mess, in fact, colonel!"
"Of course, Major Pearce - too long without a man to perform the function!"
As senior major Septimus was President of the Mess; he must set its tone - drunken and boisterous or abstemious and silent, or whatever happy medium he might fix upon. It could be a difficult task where there were distinct factions among the officers; it was vital, in many ways the most important of his functions, because the morale of the officers affected every aspect of the battalion's daily life.
"Three ensigns came out with the draft, colonel, and no more senior officer. I believe the men have forgotten their discipline as a result, and the boys have failed to learn any. I have spoken to the sergeants, at some length, already, but I am unsure what is best to do with the youngsters. I know what I would wish in terms of drill and military education, but am not sure what is practice here."
"I shall speak to each, major, and tell them just what I expect of my youngest men. The sergeant-major is to explain the niceties of uniform and courtesy to them, but beyond that there is little to do other than to appeal to their sense of natural virtue."
"Perhaps I can find a little more than that, colonel."
"Not too much, I beg of you, major. If they become a laughing stock in the garrison, and subalterns from other battalions mock, then it will quickly become a matter of pistols - the least grievance can lead to fighting here. The Code of Honour is applied rigorously and the courts will take no notice of a duel unless, God forbid, there is an irregularity. There have been four deaths since we have been here - none of ours, luckily - and the general tenor is of a willingness to take easy offence."
"I had heard of the of the old-fashioned ways to be found here, colonel. Somewhat like Dublin, one might think."
"Very much so, major."
Septimus took the colonel's words to heart and made his way to the range next morning, accompanied by Cooper and his pistols. He had in the past found that the possession of six heavy pistols, and the ability to use them quickly and well, tended to reduce the aggressive tendency among would-be duellists.
The new draft of one hundred and sixty men was split up among the ten companies of the battalion, intentionally so that their influence would be less on any one.
Opinion in the Mess was unanimous that the new men were idle, ill-trained and obstreperous; no matter, they had dealt with worse in the past and would soon have these licked into shape.
"A thousand for two or three and a dozen to have a day in the sun, tied to a wheel - that will bring them into line, Major Pearce!"
"We cannot afford to lose so many, Captain Maxwell - I suspect most would die after such treatment here. I would prefer them to be brought to virtue by lesser punishments - far lesser, sir! Drill, their officers to set them an example; a few marches; hours at the butts - these will bring them up to our standard much more effectively. A competition between the companies, as well, a prize to be given each month for the best turned out and most able on the square; as well, an annual musketry award with a trophy for the best company and sharpshooters badges for the individuals who deserve them. What do you suggest for a prize, gentlemen?"
Taft licked his lips and chuckled, suggested a dozen of nautch girls.
"Perhaps not, lieutenant!"
"A bullock to be roasted, sir, and a feast cooked for them. A change from everlasting mutton curry!"
That was more acceptable, particularly when a dozen or so bottles of good-quality spirits was added to the menu.
Septimus guaranteed the cost himself but did not object when others offered to contribute to a fund.
Food in the Mess was of appalling quality; it always had been, it appeared - 'the natives did not know how to cook'.
The Mess Sergeant was apologetic, but nothing, he said, could be done. He had to watch the cooks personally, he said, for they could none of them be trusted, 'forever trying to stick foreign muck in the cook pots', so they were. Not one of them could be trusted to boil a potato properly or put a leg of beef on a spit the way it ought to be. Why, only the previous week he had found one of them trying to make 'this curry stuff' when his back was turned - he had reminded the chef that curry wasn’t proper food for officers and kicked him out, of course.
"They produce some very good dinners in my own place, Sergeant Murphy."
"Don't have none of that foreign stuff in my Mess, sir."
"But it tastes far better than the meals that are served up, Sergeant Murphy."
"It ain't good Christian food, sir. Not in my kitchens, them heathen mix-ups. I won't be doing with it, sir!"
If he was ordered to allow the cooks free rein he would do his best to sabotage all they did - an actively hostile Sergeant could make the Mess hell on Earth.
Murphy was in the position because he was older than most of the NCOs, less able to respond to the rigours of the field - it was not practical simply to transfer him back to a company. Septimus called for the Quartermaster.
"Mr Kearney, I have a problem with Sergeant Murphy. To put the matter at its simplest, he is a menace to the digestions of every officer in the battalion for refusing to allow the cooks a free hand to feed us properly!"
>
Captain Kearney was a bachelor and ate at the mess table every day; he was immediately cooperative.
"The food is shockin', sir, so it truly is!"
"Because of his age I can hardly put Murphy back into a company - he would not do well on the march. Can you make use of him in the stores, sir?"
"Cross-grained; ill-tempered; grudging; believing the worst of every man he meets, sir. He has all the makings of a Quartermaster!"
They laughed - it was far better to treat the comment as a joke.
"It would be my pleasure to take him on, sir. I am short a man since the intermittent fever took my Sergeant Crooks - though it was a relief in many ways to hear no more remarks about 'crooks in the stores'."
Septimus managed another chuckle.
"I must discover his replacement, of course. Do you have a suggestion for a man best suited to the task?"
"I do, sir, though it may not be too much liked in the ranks. I have a youngish corporal, Emsworth by name, made up after only a year enlisted, in fact; he was put across to me for being literate, educated well beyond the place of a ranker, and not fitting into his company. He was, so he tells me, in service in a big house up towards Newbury when he fell out with his master and was forced to leave. He absconded overnight, I am quite certain."
"With the family silver in his pocket, one assumes, Captain Kearney!"
"Not at all, sir. I suspect, in fact, sir, that he might have formed a 'friendship' with one of the lads of the family - I am quite sure he has inclinations in that direction. Be that as it may, he is well trained in domestic service, sir, and could make our lives far more comfortable. Particularly, he is handy in the kitchen and would not put up with the stuff served out to us day in, day out!"
"Send him to me, if you would be so good, Captain Kearney. I will personally inform him of his promotion and will myself then speak to Murphy."
As a courtesy, Septimus informed the colonel of his intentions, expecting, and receiving, no interference in such a matter of internal housekeeping.
Food in the Officers Mess showed an immediate leap in quality - attributed by the beneficiaries to the new major taking action and much appreciated.
Man of Conflict Series
BOOK TWO
Chapter Four
The Monsoon rains pelted down, hour after hour, inch after inch and swelling the eight foot deep drains to their fullest.
Marianne stared unbelieving; she had never imagined rain of such ferocity that it stung the bare flesh if one ventured outside.
“There are to be months of this, they tell me, husband.”
“Perhaps two, possibly three, but the rains lessening after the first few days. Only the beginning of the Wet Season is marked by this level of downpour. Fortunately, I think!”
Lightning flashed nearby but the noise of the rain on the roof tiles drowned the sound of thunder.
“It is almost cold, the rain has taken so much of the heat away!”
“A benefit of the Wet Season wherever you are. It was never quite as severe as this in the Sugar Islands, but the hours of rain were often a relief to us. It will, unfortunately, become very hot and sticky just as soon as the rain stops. At this time of year you must stay behind the screens before and after sunset – for that is when the airs are dangerous and the recurrent fever may be caught – and keep the mosquito nets over the bed all night. The bites can itch and it is far better to avoid them.”
There was a loud commotion from the kitchens, behind the house proper and on a lower level, shouts and screams and much howling.
“No! Don’t go to see what it is! If it is dangerous, they will not want you in the way. If it is just silliness then they will not wish you to know of it. They will tell us all they would prefer us to know. It is not like home where the Mistress is to take personal care of each of her servants. Here you must be far more distant. You will still pay for their needs, but you will be close only to your personal maids, and to the nurse when there is a little one in the crib.”
She touched her swelling belly with pride, and some trepidation; she had never envisaged a first baby so far from home and her mother’s help.
“Talk to the girls, my love, those who serve you personally. They know so much more about how to go on here.”
The maids had grown up in English-speaking households and had some command of the language and Marianne was slowly learning a little of their tongue.
She was isolated to an extent because the four other English wives of the regiment were much older than her, close to forty while she was well short of twenty. They were not unfriendly, but they shared few interests – their children almost grown, often in England to finish an education or commence a career in one of the professions. She had not been long enough resident to make friends among the John Company wives or even to meet the few independent merchant families.
“Will you go to the Mess today, Septimus?”
“No, not in this downpour. I am told that for this week the younger, single men take over all that is to be done in the barracks and that the rest of us simply keep dry.”
The major-domo appeared and bowed to them both, but addressed himself exclusively to Septimus.
“There was a snake, Major-sahib. It made an entry to avoid the rain, into the kitchens. A small child was bitten when running in play and treading upon it. The sweepers killed it and have removed the mortal remains, Major-sahib.”
“And the child?”
“Yes, Major-sahib, the child’s remains were removed too. Fortunately, it was only a girl-child, and thus of far less concern to the father who now will not have to borrow from money-lenders to pay a dowry.”
Sometimes it was more alien a country than at others.
“The maids have been told to look carefully under the beds and in all places that you may tread, memsahib.”
“Thank you, you are very good to me.”
It was two weeks before routine could resume in the barracks; it was impossible to parade or march or use the butts in the first onslaught of the Monsoon and the men had hardly stirred from their barrack-rooms. It was a holiday for most, for the liquor-sellers and the brothel-keepers both brought their wares to them, making a carnival of the camp. A very few of the religiously minded kept aloof and read their Bibles or held their own prayer-meetings – but the bulk of them found themselves tempted from the paths of virtue, to the relief of their squad-mates.
The rains eased and most mornings became dry, the wet coming in late afternoon and evening. The companies paraded soon after dawn and drilled for two hours before going to musketry practice on most days. On hated mornings they were called out of bed well before dawn and were taken out on marches, three or four hours before the heat grew too much to be braved.
Septimus was always present and led the marches, making a point of carrying his heavy pistol belt and sword and of doubling from head to tail of the column and back again to assess the performance of each company at least twice each morning. The men could not love him for the performance, but they gave him a grudging respect – he was a hard man, one who demanded more of himself than of them.
The junior officers, the lieutenants and ensigns, detested him, for he made them march with their companies, accepting no excuses that were not borne out by the surgeon.
The captains were permitted to ride, but all except one refused out of pride.
Captain Maxwell would not march – ‘he was no bloody peasant’ – and made no attempt to ease the pace for his company when the going became muddy or particularly steep. He seemed oblivious to the glares of his men and would not listen to any hints from the other captains.
Septimus noticed but said nothing.
“No need to intervene, sir,” he replied to the colonel when the subject was raised. “The first day we go into action will, I strongly suspect, be his last. If he does not instantly impress his men as a hero then he will take a dozen musket balls in his back. Most likely, in fact, sir, they will be in his front for h
e will be behind them and they will have to turn round to shoot him!”
“I know it is said to happen, Major Pearce, but it is a shocking event to contemplate. Have you ever actually known it to happen, a bad officer to be shot by his own people?”
“There was an officer of the New Foresters, sir, who was discovered in an act of vileness on campaign and who was shot in his wickedness. He was left to the French with his legs smashed and lying next to his victims. I know that certainly to be true.”
“Told by a man you trusted, sir?”
“With my own eyes, colonel!”
Colonel Horncastle said no more on the topic. He wondered whether Septimus had observed the occurrence and had taken no action or if he had been the actual shooter. He would never know, he suspected. Possibly he preferred not to know, thinking on the matter.
A message came in from a small fort on the edge of the Maratha country; the renegade, Dhoondiah, was up again, had destroyed a pacified village and killed a Company sub-Collector, an Indian gentleman of some Portuguese origin.
The Marathas had been defeated in a campaign two years previously, Colonel Wellesley making himself a name in process. Rather than destroy the Maratha princes the Company had chosen to offer them subordinate status as governors in their own lands. They had accepted but were, unsurprisingly, resentful and made little attempt to restrain those of their officers who continued in acts of brigandage and outright warfare.
Dhoondiah – whose name was spelt a dozen different ways in the various despatches – had kept the largest band of followers and was motivated more by military concerns than by a desire for loot. He was believed to want a pitched battle against a small enough force to give him a victory that would bring thousands to his flag and create the opportunity to lead a great march against the English and sweep them into the sea. He would not engage an army and could simply disappear into the great mass of the peasantry if he was pressed too hard.
Raging Rajahs (Man of Conflict Series, Book 2) Page 9