Born To Privilege (A Poor Man at the Gate Series Book 3)

by Andrew Wareham

  “I think Miss Brooke would be very pleased to have a place to go to. Her parents are dead, I understand, and she must be expecting to have to live on her savings for some weeks while she searches for another post. Speak to her by all means, ma’am.”

  Miss Brooke would have preferred a post in the country but was easily able to decide that a place in London was better than no place at all, especially as it would keep her in the family. If my lady were to produce another daughter then she would have employment for at least eighteen years followed by a cottage and a pension on the Grafham estate, security in a harsh, cold world that offered little to the elderly, genteel spinster.

  Colonel Lord Jack Masters left Grafham House in state, as he considered appropriate to a man of his rank and standing. He sat in isolation in a post-chaise and four, followed by a larger wagon carrying his uniforms and camp comforts and batman and cook and two servants. His four chargers - three good English hunters and a single black horse, four hands taller and powerfully made, rare in the British service, more common amongst the Germans from whom he had bought it – had been sent the day before under care of his two personal, civilian grooms, would be waiting at Harwich when he arrived. He was outfitted in full working uniform, ostentatious but less glittery than parade dress – it would not have occurred to him ever to wear civilian clothing.

  His head groom had ensured that there was space aboard his trooper and he was waiting at the quayside for his master, a working party ready at his whistle. They sailed on the afternoon tide, the wind ideal, as it normally was eastbound, reached Ostend next morning to be greeted by a cornet detached, quite properly, from the camp to escort the new colonel. He had chaise and wagons waiting so that there was no delay in obtaining transport and they were able to reach the lines in Ghent that evening, much to Lord Jack’s pleasure. That was the way things should be done in a proper regiment, he said.

  He met his officers next morning.

  For a Mess they had commandeered a small country house, its owners fled to safety well away from the dangerous frontier, far more convenient than tents, and were able to sit together at the great table in the dining room.

  The regiment was at full establishment, as was to be expected after a year of peace. Eight cornets, sixteen lieutenants, eight captains and a major. Four of those present wore uniforms that had obviously seen service; the rest shone in pristine glory, their rawness on proud display. Lord Jack had taken care to wear his old campaigning outfit, announcing his experience in the field.

  “Good morning, gentlemen! I do not propose to ask you all to name yourselves here and now – because I would never remember thirty odd names all thrown at me at once! Please to bear with me over the next few days. Major Dimmock, of course, I know from Spanish days, and Captain Wolverstone I met, saw rather, with great respect, on the field of Vitoria. I am honoured to serve with you, Captain Wolverstone, am proud that you grace my regiment, sir! I believe that Captain Foulkes and Lieutenant Chapple also saw action that day. Whilst, gentlemen, I am of course honoured to serve with you all, it means that the great bulk of officers present have never been on campaign… I require one thing from you, gentlemen, and that is discipline! Your men must be obedient to your word, unfailingly, that and that alone will bring us to victory and add to the laurels that some amongst us have already won for the regiment. I will support every officer in maintaining discipline, without fail, without question. I am confident that you in your turn will support me. Enough said! Bring the regiment to parade this afternoon, Major Dimmock, in full campaigning order, at readiness to move out. Inspection.”

  Lord Jack left the Mess, noting as he did that a number of his officers were signalling to the waiters, whether for late breakfast or early drinks he did not stay to see.

  With Dimmock at his side he made his way to the horse lines.

  “Remounts, Major Dimmock?”

  “Too few, sir. A week on campaign and we will be finding men who must be left in bivouac for lack of a mount. In Spain, as you know, sir, we lost three horses for every two men, more or less, and we have only twenty remounts with us, sir.”

  Lord Jack shook his head – Horse Guards had been told time and again that they must provide horses if they wanted effective cavalry, but they would not find the money for extra troopers. It was all Wellington’s fault, of course, the man had no idea how to handle cavalry – outposts and vedettes, bloody nonsense! The cavalry’s job was to charge, to break the Frog infantry without all of this fuss and bother and manoeuvring and hiding behind hilltops. Because he could not recognise that simple fact he never valued his cavalry as he should.

  “Horses are in good condition, Major Dimmock. What about the men?”

  “A few of the newest recruits in each squadron are still weak in the saddle, sir. I have them at exercise every afternoon.”

  “Good. What’s that armourer doing?”

  The regimental armourer in his long leather apron was at work in one of the stable yards, his grindstone set up in the sunshine, the men of one of the squadrons assisting him as he sharpened their sabres.

  “Brigadier’s orders, sir. All sabres to be sharpened with a chisel point, sir, so as to allow the thrust as well as the slash. Horse Guards, sir, have decided that thrusting like the French and German Hussars do, is more efficient than the back-slash we have always used.”

  “Bloody nonsense! Who won the last war, Dimmock? If the French were better than us, then how did we beat them?”

  Dimmock made no reply.

  “Who is our Brigadier, Dimmock? I have not met him yet, must ride across tomorrow, I suppose. I’ll take the chance to put him right about the sabres while I’m at it.”

  “Colonel Quentin, sir.”

  “What, of the 10th?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The man’s a fool and a coward. If he had not been a f vourite of the Regent he would have been broken, at least, at the court-martials last year!”

  “Yes, sir. Instead, all of the officers of his regiment were dismissed, sir. He has too much influence for me, I am afraid, sir.”

  Lord Jack stopped in his stride, his determination to see and browbeat his Brigadier suddenly lessened. He had no influential patron with the army in Belgium and suspected that it would take too long to mobilise the Grafham and Andrews interests in England to come to his aid.

  “Bloody politicals, Dimmock!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  There were men in the butts practising with the short carbines recently issued to the Light Dragoons and Hussars – effectively identical units other than in uniform. Lord Jack snorted his contempt – the arme blanche was all that made sense for cavalry, give his men carbines and they would soon become no more than mounted infantry.

  “Still, I suppose they can be of use in the mill towns, Dimmock, shooting these bloody machine-breakers we hear so much about!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Parade at three, Dimmock, campaign dress, full equipment.”

  “All officers, sir?”

  “Yes, we are at war, Dimmock, what else would it be… Why do you ask, sir?”

  “Some of the young men, sir, tend to be careless in their habits…”

  Lord Jack nodded – Dimmock was President of the Mess, could hardly tell tales on his Mess members, yet he was also responsible for presenting the colonel with a working regiment, a sober regiment, the officers at least – the men were drunk more often than they were sober, he firmly believed.

  They came to the tents, eight blocks, each squadron separated slightly from the next, theoretically identical, all set up according to the one set of rules.

  “Those lines are none too straight, Dimmock!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Too many followers, I believe, Dimmock. There’s a damn’ sight more than eight wives per squadron here, sir!”

  “Soldiers will be soldiers, sir! A few extra came out from England, I believe, stowed away, as it were. More are local ladies, sir.”

 
“I do not approve, sir!”

  Dimmock said nothing; he had rigorously suppressed comment and speculation in the Mess the previous evening about the colonel’s second groom, a lissom, handsome boy of sixteen or so, and had observed the colonel’s habits in Spain over a pair of campaigns and he had very little comment to offer.

  “Clear the lines of all non-official wives, I believe, Major Dimmock.”

  “With respect, sir, we are under warning to move forward towards Mons, sir, possibly by the end of the week. Were the wives to remain here with the baggage party and the sick, sir, we would probably find our losses to be much less – they would certainly prevent the locals from looting the camp, sir. Most of the French speaking people here support Napoleon, it seems, and no few of the Dutch as well.”

  “Make it so, Major Dimmock – we shall see to them after the campaign is over.”

  It was clear to Lord Jack that Dimmock was going to be a good second. A few too many ideas of his own for comfort but very ready to discuss and implement his orders sensibly.

  The parade was in some ways better than he had hoped for – the bulk of the men were well together, turned out properly on well cared-for horses, healthy in themselves and bright and alert. A few of the horses were too small for the work, some were simply poorly bred, lacking stamina, but most would be good for a fortnight of hard campaigning and this was going to be a short war. If Bonaparte had not won by July then he would certainly have lost because the Austrians and Russians would be across his eastern borders in unstoppable numbers.

  Two of the cornets had been quite drunk, barely able to sit on their horses, and one of the lieutenants little better; they would be dealt with later. Five of the men had been the same, incapable of controlling themselves – they were under arrest and would stand before a punishment parade in the morning. There was evidently a problem with rum in his regiment, there was with the whole army, Wellington was right there, the men were all drunks who had to be kept under control. He would start as he intended to continue, all of his people could learn just what sort of man he was.

  “I have it in mind to send the cornets home, Dimmock. The lieutenant can stand guard for the rest of the month – he may be useful in the field while the boys will be no loss at all. Is there any reason why either of the cornets should not be dismissed from the regiment?”

  Dimmock pursed his lips, shook his head – both had influence, families who could be a nuisance.

  “Connolly is related to the Castlereaghs, sir, a cousin of sorts, one of the many. Ffolliot is connected to the Chelmsfords, his mother is a Thesiger. Both would appear in another regiment within a few months and the families would be unhappy that they had missed the campaign, sir.”

  “And the regiment would suffer – a posting to Canada or the Cape of Good Hope or even Botany Bay. What do you suggest, Major Dimmock?”

  “I could speak to them, sir, persuade them that I had the most extreme difficulty in saving their careers. If they miss this campaign it will be known throughout their whole service – they will always be the young men who were sent home, unfit to face the French. I will forbid them to drink more than a single glass at any meal, sir, and give them extra duties to keep them busy. I will warn them most straitly that any second lapse will finish them. They may believe me.”

  “Do that, if you please. It is a pity we cannot treat them as we do the men for the same offence!”

  The five troopers came before the colonel next morning, knowing that they were in deep trouble – disciplinary hearings normally took place before the major, but, in the field, it was possible to shorten the process of sentence and confirmation.

  All admitted being drunk on active service in the hope that candour might reduce their punishment. Each was sentenced to three hundred strokes and were warned that repetition of the offence in front of the French would see them stood in front of a line of muskets

  The regiment paraded in hollow square the next morning, watched the beatings in silence. They noted as well when the colonel overrode the doctor’s protests and insisted that one of the five who had lost consciousness should nonetheless receive his remaining fifty, even though it was, strictly speaking, illegal.

  “They will never be fit to ride with the regiment on Friday, sir.”

  “No loss, Major Dimmock – drunks are of no use to us!”

  They set out early on the Friday morning, the column walking past the colonel as they turned their heads towards the frontier.

  “Captain Wolverstone!”

  “Sir!”

  Wolverstone reined in beside Lord Jack, a few years younger than him, straight-backed, as a cavalry officer should be, lean and intense, his eyes watching his men and horses all the while.

  “Your Troop Sergeant, Captain Wolverstone – I do not like his posture, sir, slumped in the saddle as he is. He is to set an example, I believe!”

  “He was wounded at Toulouse, sir. He is the best sergeant I have ever had, sir, but his wound makes it impossible to straighten his back for more than a few minutes at a time, sir.”

  “Not good enough, Captain! If he is not able to soldier then he should be invalided out. He must look the part of a Troop Sergeant; if he stays then he must do the job properly, sir!”

  The Troop Sergeant was in his forties, had no other skills than as a soldier. In the nature of things he had never married or saved money and the best he could hope for would be a Greenwich pension of three shillings and sixpence a week – with no certainty even of receiving that, his wound might not be deemed sufficient. He heaved his back straight, swearing to himself as the knife-pain stabbed through his belly.

  “Silence in the ranks!”

  He had heard the comments of ‘bloody tyrant’ behind him, agreed with them but would have no part in indiscipline, not where it could so easily be observed.

  All was quiet at Mons and there was a Dutch-Belgic brigade who seemed to think it was their area and that the British were not supposed to be there. It was quite possible that orders had been changed over the last few days and that the news had not reached the regiment. The Prince of Orange was renowned for his ability to forget to inform his juniors of the decisions he had made on a whim and had communicated to his allies or to Brussels. Lord Jack conveyed his apologies to the brigade-major who had resented his presence, explained through the interpreter that there had been an error and that he now intended to take his command to the east, a route march in effect, a training exercise now that they were out of camp. He asked whether there was any news from across the border, was told that all seemed quiet, though a couple of deserters claimed to have seen Bonaparte in person not so far away. They thought he would not move just yet because the first hay cut was only just coming in – another week would see the haylofts full of the forage that his horses would need.

  It was a persuasive argument – there might be a reconnaissance in force but a full-scale invasion was irrational at this time.

  They moved east, slowly, walking the horses, more concerned to practise their formation-keeping than to scout for an enemy.

  “Close the squadrons up, Major Dimmock! Keep them within one hundred yards of each other so that they can form into four troops inside a minute. First troop to be able to make an immediate counter-charge, second and third to hold back and be ready to launch themselves as the second wave, the captain in command to make the decision to charge on his own initiative if I am not there. Fourth troop to hold as a reserve that may be set in motion only at my command, or yours if I have fallen. It worked in Spain, it should do here, I believe!”

  Lord Jack kept the regiment to its easy pace, wanting more to get an idea of the abilities of his officers than to look for action. He noted who was able to keep a squadron together, which of his captains allowed the ranks to become untidy, who amongst the lieutenants showed a proper attitude of keen alertness. He expected little from the cornets as yet other than that they should be obedient to command and smart – most were.

  “Co
lonel, sir!”

  An orderly from Wolverstone’s squadron, currently at point, galloping up, saluting.

  “Captain’s compliments, sir, and he has stopped two Belgian officers, he thinks they are from their Customs Service, sir, retreating from their post which has been overrun by the French, sir.”

  “Wolverstone speaks good French, sir,” Dimmock interjected.

  “Hold the men here, Dimmock.”

  Lord Jack looked about him. They were in a lightly wooded country of shallow valleys and low, rolling hills, one in which a battalion of infantry could be concealed behind any of a dozen small coppices or hedgerows. Conversely, of course, a marching battalion might not become aware of charging cavalry before they were within a hundred yards, if they could wend their way through the hedgerows.

  “Warn the captains that the French are up, Major Dimmock.”

  He tapped his hunter with his heels, cantered forward to Wolverstone, a couple of furlongs ahead of the main body.

  Wolverstone had the pair of Belgians by him, a trooper holding their reins. It was clear that they would have much preferred to be riding hard to the north, away from the current unpleasantness. Both wore a dark blue uniform with little in the way of ornamentation or marks of rank, neither seemed to be of military bearing.

  Wolverstone saluted.

  “Report, captain!”

  “Customs officers, sir, junior in rank, non-commissioned equivalent. They were the sole tenants of a small post near the River Meuse, sir, said they had heard sounds of horses and wheels moving up in the night, had evacuated their post before dawn. They watched what they describe as an ‘army’ starting to cross, sir. They said they saw four different regiments of light cavalry and two of heavy, at least six battalions of infantry, some two dozens of artillery pieces and a number of wagons and support troops on the far bank. They came away before they could ascertain whether they were making camp on the far side or crossing, sir, but they are certain it is an invasion. Both marched with Bonaparte’s troops in the last war, sir, and I gain the impression that they have little loyalty to their new kingdom. Both seem to me to be of an excitable tendency, sir.”