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

by Andrew Wareham

  Miller came up to him, formally asked him if he would compose the quarrel short of bloodshed.

  “Certainly, Mr Miller – a full, open, public apology for his drunken boorishness will be quite acceptable. Verbal – he need not put it into writing. I do not seek revenge, but my honour will tolerate no less!”

  Two of the onlookers had previously been introduced to him as scribblers, newspapermen; one indeed had asked if he could talk to him – ‘an interview’, he called it – and was to see him again privately for the purpose. He took care to reply loudly enough for them to hear, modelling his response on one he had read three weeks before and which had been found acceptable – not that he was at all sure that the newspapers had any business at all publishing such an occasion, surely some things should be kept decently private!

  His demand for an apology was indignantly refused, as he had expected, and hoped. A fight would be an interesting experience, would tell him much about himself. The pistols were loaded, a light pair, purpose built for the duel – not practical weapons for self-defence or military use. A small bore, no more than one third of an inch, not the more usual three-quarters, so a very light powder charge and minimal kick. He must remember not to aim as low as he normally did, but not too high; it was regarded as unacceptable to create a disfiguring wound to the face.

  Seven paces, so they were to be a little less than fifteen yards apart – point-blank, there would be no bullet-drop, so if he was to take his aim say an inch left of the navel, allowing for his own normal pull – right and a little high - then he should hit his man towards the centre of his chest if he stood square. If his opponent took a classical sideways stance then the strike should be somewhere under the armpit, depending on luck, of course. He had no time to be afraid, his mind too busy with the calculations. Life would be so much easier if he was a natural shot, like his father, but he would never match him for that, would never have the ability to choose to the nearest quarter of an inch where his bullet would strike.

  “Ready!”

  He cocked his pistol, waited for the next command.

  “Turn!”

  Round smoothly, standing square as his father had taught him, arm rising to the horizontal, not too fast. His opponent was at the aim already, powder-smoke at the pan, his ball whistling past, careless! His own pistol steadied on the mark and his finger tightened of its own accord, the explosion taking him by surprise the pull was so smooth, as it should be, of course. He watched calmly as the man doubled over, dropped in absolute silence, blood streaming over the grass – he had stood sideways on, exposed the great artery under the arm. Unlucky! The chances of hitting an artery were very low, but such things happened – it might have been him. The surgeon straightened, shook his head.

  The Millers came across to him, helped him on with his frock coat and then a big drab, frieze coat over all.

  “That’s better! Thank you, gentlemen! That’s a cold wind! What next? Are there formalities or may we go home?”

  “You should shake hands with Henderson’s seconds, Mr Andrews, and then we should retire from the scene.”

  “Henderson? Was that his name?”

  “How important is Henderson’s family, Colonel Miller? May I expect a brother to call on me? Or a hired bully, perhaps?”

  “That does not normally happen here, Mr Andrews, though I have heard of such a thing further south. The churches will rant, but that is their function in life; the newspapers will regret the loss of a promising young man; his regiment will turn out to bury him. You will have the name of a dangerous man, one not lightly to be crossed, and that will be good from a business point of view, of course. Businessmen like to deal with a man who would rather fight than run, and you are still young enough for there to have been doubts about you, the question asked whether you were man or boy – they know the answer now!”

  He went home to Judy, discovered her sat at the breakfast table, waiting for him. She did not normally rise that early.

  “Well, Bobby, did you kill him?”

  He nodded, surprised that she knew he had been out.

  “I thought you would not have been up before dawn for any other reason. Who was he?”

  “A young militia officer, Henderson.”

  “Humph! No worries there, Bobby-me-dear – father’s in marine underwriting mostly, makes money but hasn’t got a lot of influence, not like a banker, say. Not important, thinks he’s a gentleman and he’s got – had - three sons, two in the firm with him, the youngest in the Militia, to show willing and because the boy was dim and wild – liable to cause trouble, bring shame to the name. Now the young feller’s dead, very respectably, and before he could make too much of a nuisance of himself. It’ll do you no harm, either.”

  “Colonel Miller said the same.”

  “That old sod! Watch him, Bobby – nasty piece of work, he is, he was used to come to the house where I started – paid to watch, couldn’t get it up himself! Two or three of the girls would put on a show while another one blew him, all floppy – that’s why he’s only got the one son, and him known to be adopted, him having wed a ‘widow’, or so the story goes. The word is that you might know something about that?”

  Robert shook his head, said that it had been a surprise to him. He would be having a quiet chat with his father when he got home, well away from his mother’s ears.

  “When will that be, Bobby?”

  “November, I intend to sail – two more months here and I will have set up the contacts we need and will want to talk the business over in person. I doubt I will come back – an agent who knows the dirty-handed side of the trade will be best to talk prices and deliveries and specifications.”

  She was silent, shrugged and buttered a piece of toast for him.

  “Will you come with me, Judy? A house of your own in London, or Kettering perhaps, and see me whenever we can… I will have to marry a gentleman’s daughter, one picked for her use to the family and the business… I will not marry for love. My father was a lucky man – he had never been in love, he told me, saw Mama and fell head-over-heels.”

  “Lucky man! From what you have told me of him, lucky lady, too! I’ll go to England with you, Bobby, there’s nothing for me here and I had rather be with you than anywhere else, my dear. What of children? A few years together and there will be one or two almost for sure. I know how to look after myself, but nothing’s perfect, in the nature of things!”

  “They will be taken care of, Judy-love! They won’t be heirs to riches, but the boys will be comfortably off in occupations that will give them the chance to make their own fortunes and any girls will be able to marry well.”

  “Good enough, and better than I’d ever hoped for since me ma died and me darlin’ father sold me into the house – ‘tis a pity you’re a lord, me dear, but we play the cards we’re dealt – and no shuffling off the bottom of the deck!”

  Two days later, Colonel Miller happened to bump into Robert and just happened to be talkative, to wish to discuss a little matter of business, not of any great significance, that he just happened to be currently involved in. They retired to a chop house, sat to an early luncheon and a bottle of claret, the Colonel anxious to keep Robert’s glass filled.

  Robert had grown up over the past few months. When he had first come to New York he might have believed in the Colonel’s coincidences, but now he sat with a cheerful, open, ingenuous smile on his face and his brain racing, listening to every word the Colonel uttered and trying to discover what he actually meant.

  “Napoleon’s Old Guard – nothing for them in the new France and so they have it in mind to set up a colony, as it were, down on the coast of the Gulf of Mexico, west of the Mississippi, in the empty Spanish lands there. Farming and planting, you say, Colonel?”

  “Exactly so, Mr Andrews – they are not themselves agriculturalists and so would wish to purchase bond-servants as labour, the produce of their cotton lands mortgaged for some years to provide the security for the necessary loans,
and to pay for the armaments they would need to defend themselves against the wild Indian tribes. They would want their muskets and a few light cannon, galloper guns, they call them.”

  The Colonel was himself financially stretched for the while, could not take on any new venture, but he was sure that an English bank, Goldsmids, for example, might wish to become involved, especially if the Andrews interest was known to be favourable.

  Robert listened carefully, jotted down a few figures, avoided any commitment. It all seemed superficially reasonable. The demand for cotton was rising, the price climbing a few pennies every year, a profit to be made easily if one was in possession of adequate land, and the west was empty, unused.

  The Spanish were jealous of their possessions, did not want American trespassers, but Frenchmen, good Catholics, might well be less unwelcome – the Trojan Horse came to mind. A brigade of the Old Guard, fully armed, would probably be sufficient to hold off any Spanish colonial forces who objected to their eventual declaration of independence, and later assimilation into the United States. The involvement of British money and political influence might well prevent the Spanish from declaring war or sending troops from Europe. America would expand west, as it clearly wished, and all for free – the political and financial burden borne by the English. Very crafty!

  “I will bring the matter to the attention of Goldsmids, Colonel Miller – though it will take a few weeks to get a decision, as I am sure you would expect.”

  Robert paid an immediate visit to the Goldsmids office, begged Nathan’s third son who was managing the firm’s business to listen carefully to all Colonel Miller might say in favour of his proposal and delay any decision until he had heard from London.

  “Was we to talk with the Spanish Ambassador in London, Mr Goldsmid, outlining this proposal in all of its ramifications, then the Spanish Government might well be inclined to favour such a colony, so much so that they would build a fort there, garrisoned with a battalion or two of foot soldiers from Spain, and a regiment of cavalry and a few guns, all for the protection of the new source of wealth.”

  Goldsmid grinned and agreed – he would do exactly as he was asked.

  “You do not expect to become involved with iron production in America, Mr Andrews?”

  “No, sir. I am inclined to believe that one might require a very long spoon to sup with these gentlemen. I shall recommend to my father that we stay in cotton only in the United States. I believe he is more interested in India and Botany Bay for further expansion of our iron works – English Government and English Law, you know.”

  Robert sent his report back to Thingdon Hall, informed his father that he intended to return, hopefully by the end of the year, if not then early in the year ’16. The firm should send out a traveller who could talk with the Americans about coastal batteries, a man who could hold his own on technical matters and read between the lines of every contract the Americans might offer – they were very sharp businessmen - the northerners at least.

  The Second Secretary from the British Embassy came to New York on one of his regular visits in October, very naturally paid a call on Robert – he was a connection by marriage of the Grafhams.

  “So, Mr Andrews – the Old Guard to turn their bayonets into ploughshares, or cotton hoes, at least. You are, of course, quite right in your surmise that the Americans wish to expand to the west, and that must mean a collision with the Spaniards – using a French colony is a very crafty ploy, but also very obvious. Wheels within wheels, I suspect, and your Colonel Miller betraying his own government as well – they to know only about the expansion into Spanish lands and paying him for that, the meanwhile he will be taking a cut of the profits on some other enterprise. Several possibilities, of course – running slaves out of Cuba into his new colony and then overland to the cotton states, or the exact opposite route – manufactures from the north and from England overland and then shipped to the Spanish colonies, in breach of their ban on trade with any country other than Spain. He might, also, have some other aim in mind – there have been several proposals for Americans to carve out kingdoms of their own from the Spanish Empire – a mercenary army of French troops could be seen as a useful tool for this purpose. All very entertaining – I shall send word to London and the people there will see what can be discovered. I shall, of course, mention your name as having dug up the first indications of this scheme – government will be pleased, I have no doubt.”

  Robert made the appropriate thanks and disclaimers, trying to show pleased and enthusiastic, as a young man should. Inwardly he was acutely embarrassed – he had thought he was so clever, instantly discerning the falsity of Miller’s plan. To have been casually told that there was a second smokescreen, another layer of deception, and that he had fallen for it, was humiliating, the more so because it was obvious that the diplomat had been tactful in his words.

  “What do you advise me to do for the while, Mr Carstairs?”

  “No more than you already have, Mr Andrews – you have responded correctly and well and Colonel Miller will have no suspicions but that his plan is working exactly as it should. We shall play along for the next year or two, I expect, and then either a word to the wise in Washington or Madrid, or quite possibly an instruction to the Admiral on the West Indies station, and the whole affair will be scotched, ideally after Miller has spent a substantial amount of his own money on it.”

  Major Wolverstone sent a brief note to Thingdon Hall, informing his lordship that he had decided to sell out and would be very pleased to accept his offer, if it was still open. He was invited to present himself at his earliest convenience, together with his batman and soldier servant.

  “I am glad you have decided on a civilian existence, Major Wolverstone – I am sure that I shall gain from it, and I know that you will, financially, at least.”

  “Very little decision on my part, my lord. I returned from my furlough last week and was immediately requested to present myself at Horse Guards, at the office of the General Officer Commanding – a frank and very precise encounter, my lord. The general was very open in telling me that he understood that I had been no more than a captain commanding a troop during the day in question, and that, rationally, I could not be blamed for the foolish failure to inform Brussels that Napoleon was moving. Equally, the regiment had put up a black, I was the senior survivor and a head had to roll and mine was the obvious one. Very generously, he proposed that I might wish to consider accepting the regimental rank of lieutenant-colonel, the battalion in question being of locally-recruited foot on the West African Slave Coast!”

  Tom winced – the slave coast was the old Bight of Benin, commonly called the ’Fever Coast’, and a posting there was worse even than the Sugar Islands for its mortality. Lord Frederick Masters had told him of a whole battalion of Carmarthen men who had gone out to Goree in the Seventies, not a single one returning. Yellow Fever, marsh ague, cholera, dysentery, bubonic plague, all were rife on that coast, plus, no doubt, a number of other unrecorded poxes – the promotion offered to Wolverstone was little more than a death sentence, only the poorest of officers, in every sense, ever going there.

  “Was there an alternative, Major Wolverstone?”

  “Two, my lord – I might have my brevet rank confirmed, on condition of instantly sending in my papers, in effect a bribe of a thousand or two for there is a substantial premium on cavalry field commissions. Alternatively, I would revert to captain and be posted to a regiment in India, there to stay, transferring to the Company’s forces at an early stage – that would be the course I would have accepted had you not made your offer, my lord.”

  “It would have been a comfortable existence, I believe, Major Wolverstone – even a small private income will stretch a long way in India, one is told, and Company pay is better than King’s, is it not?”

  “It is, my lord, but promotion is strictly by seniority – I would be at least fifteen more years as a captain!”

  “Enough said, sir! I know nothing of
your background, Major Wolverstone, but, are you happy to become a businessman?”

  Tom was, of course, lying – he had had full enquiries made and Michael had presented him with a detailed but very slim folder on the major. His parents were of respectable birth, related at second and third cousin level to several of the great families of the land, but insignificant in themselves – a younger son wed to a third daughter, heirs to nothing. The father had become a barrister-at-law on the Northern Circuit and earned a good two thousand a year and the mother had produced six children, the elder boy a rector somewhere in Yorkshire, the four daughters wed to respectability – merchants, a banker, a doctor. Wolverstone had been bought his cornetcy and then lieutenant’s commission by his godfather, an unwed family friend, had reached captain in the field, a reward for virtue. Reading between the lines it was clear that he had had to struggle to keep himself mounted and pay his mess bills – he should be very pleased to be put in the way of making his fortune

  “Yes, my lord – I am not of the landed gentry, have no great difficulty with the concept of earning my living, and I have responsibility for the well-being of my servant and my troop-sergeant – he was wounded at my back at Toulouse.”

  “He is fit enough to survive in India, do you think?”