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

by Andrew Wareham

  The next four attacks saw them landed on black mud strips under the cover of mangrove, out of sight of the local people but laid out on a plate, as it were, for the mosquitoes and other variegated bugs of the swamps. Three hours of squelching brought them just outside the palisade of a fort which they stormed at first light, each time achieving complete surprise, because no-one in his right mind risked the mangrove swamps at night. If the crocodiles did not get you then the bush-demons certainly would – it was inconceivable to the local men that anyone would be so foolish as to launch a night attack.

  The fighting had been fierce but quickly over in each case, casualties very few, but half of the men, at least, were in their beds shaking with fever by the second day after each of the assaults. James, who had his own medical chest and supply of bark, had been taking a prophylactic dose since first arriving offshore and remained on his feet until the fifth fort of the sweep along the coast when he came up against a Dutch trader with a sword. He had fired his pistols already, coming over the wall at the very head of his men, first in, had held one by the empty barrel to parry the sweeping blade and then kicked very vigorously and precisely, his sergeant using his sword bayonet to finish the job as the Dutchman doubled over clutching himself. He tried to pick up the pistol he had dropped, discovered that his left hand did not work any more, the last two fingers dangling, almost wholly severed. He swore and then turned to work – they could be dealt with later. Six of his men were entangled with three axe-carrying natives in the corner of the walls, chest to chest, unable to step away and use their bayonets because they would open themselves to the axes as they did. He waved to another pair standing just behind them, waiting an opportunity for their bayonets.

  “Kraus, Schmidt!” The bulk of the 60th were still foreigners, he had found. “Bash the bastards with your butts!”

  He became ‘Basher’ Andrews from that moment.

  The doctor on the ship was quite open in his diagnosis and prognosis.

  “You may keep the hand, Lieutenant Andrews, and if you do it will probably work reasonably well – you will not be crippled. I shall take the damaged fingers as low as I can, at the joint, because the wounds are dirty and will otherwise become infected. They may become infected anyway, and if tomorrow or later I smell the faintest miasma of the rot then I shall cut at the wrist, and then possibly at the elbow later in the week, and perhaps at the shoulder in a fortnight – and if there is still a return of the gangrene then we shall bury you in the third week. You may be lucky – I am going to pour brandy on the wounds because I have found that to stop the rot appearing quite often in the past, and you are young and healthy without any vicious tendencies of the body. You show no signs of the pox, for example – it is amazing how common that can be, and it almost invariably leads to infected wounds and death. I shall send you to your own cabin on the troopship rather than keep you here, Lieutenant – better to avoid the breathed air of the fever cases.”

  James sat, stoically, trying to smile as the doctor quickly dissected the fingers at the joint with the palm, two minutes for each, four quick stitches to hold a flap of skin over the open stumps, then a liberal splash from the brandy bottle before a strip of linen was wound round as a cover. He was interested to note that he could hold his hand perfectly still all the while and that he could swallow the bile as it rose in his gorge. He supposed that he should have maintained a light, witty conversation with the doctor, to demonstrate sang-froid – but he could think of nothing funny to say and thought it safer to keep his lips tight closed together, just in case.

  James’ batman, a middle-aged rifleman who was slowing, the rheumatics getting to him after campaigning all of the way through Spain and southern France and America, had been posted to the West Indies as a boy and had picked up some very strange ideas there. He insisted on changing the dressings at intervals and keeping the wound clean, washed with soap and boiled water, and he repeated the applications of spirits every day. He claimed all of the credit for the rapid and clean healing of the hand.

  James watched the next series of landings, unfit for active duty. He rather regretted that he could not be with his men, at their head, leading them into danger as he should be – it was not, he assured himself, that he liked fighting, it was just a necessary part of his work.

  By the end of the campaign he was still acting-lieutenant but in charge of the whole detachment. Two other Rifles officers still lived but both were barely convalescent from the fever, bed-bound and asleep more often than alert. The senior sergeant had advice to offer, and was able to do so tactfully, to effectively take command whilst leaving James his pride. The boy had been a good fighting officer, all agreed, and given a couple of years, or so, would become competent at the rest of the trade – it was well worth carrying him the while. The shrunken companies retained their discipline and smartness and the commanding officer noticed the fact and wrote his commendation appropriately in the despatches he returned to Horse Guards. The word was passed on and rapidly reached Rothwell’s ears and was sent to Thingdon Hall.

  “James will be returning to England in three months or thereabouts, I am informed, Verry – slightly wounded, in command of all of the Rifles, as the only fit survivor. Distinguished in action and thereafter, mentioned by name in the despatches home to Horse Guards and instructed to make his purchase immediately – he is a lieutenant already! The expectation is that he will remain in England for a year or two before being sent out to Canada or perhaps the Cape – a salubrious posting, as a reward.”

  “How is that a reward, Thomas?”

  “Overseas, so he has the chance to further distinguish himself in action and continue as he has started, and in places where there is little of fever, so that he has a good chance of living. If he stayed in England, which could be arranged, then he would become captain by eventual seniority – making his purchase after six or seven years as a lieutenant, unless he changed battalions, which is also possible – one can always purchase a captaincy after five years and majority after eight, but it is frowned upon in the fighting regiments these days. Where was I? Yes, he could stay in England and rest on his laurels, but if he goes overseas he will be major well before he is thirty and will be respected for it, and in peacetime there is competition for the fighting postings, so he should make the most of his good start. He must take the chance to show that he is his own man, not merely my son. When purchase comes to an end at lieutenant-colonel he will have the reputation to be used as a commander by merit, not merely to progress by seniority. He will not gain steps in rank, but he will be awarded honours, possibly a title of his own – a successful brigadier will gain a knighthood, a major-general should become baronet at least at the end of a good campaign.”

  It was why she had pushed him into the Rifles, so she could hardly complain, but she would have liked to keep her boy by her side, in England at least, for a few years more. He was still very young, and she did not like to hear that he had been wounded in some unspecified manner.

  “Joseph has not written a word from St Helens yet – he has been three weeks away!”

  “The Masons will keep me informed, my love. The word they have so far sent is of twelve and fourteen hour days and no time at all for anything other than steam!”

  The reality at St Helens was much as Tom had said. Joseph had immediately immersed himself in the practicalities of building new steam engines, of draining pits, of designing steam-powered ships, of puddling iron more effectively, and some of his ideas had been good. Work had already started at the two wet pits outside the village of Billinge, on the hillsides there, to sink a shaft down slope from the colliery and extend a gallery towards the pit-faces from a lower level. The new shafts were less than eighty feet deep and could be drained by the existing Boulton and Watt engines.

  The Masons had talked long with Paddy Reilly and Mr Paisley, his manager, and had determined that they would gain at least a hundred pounds a week from the more efficient drainage. They also reported that
the Troubles in Ireland were being felt in Lancashire – there was word of Orange Lodges being formed and at least one new Catholic church had had its windows smashed, while the children of many of the original miners were increasingly at odds with the English colonists and masters. For the time being, the few Catholic priests were concerned to stop the spread of anti-English feeling, for the bulk of those who were active in the new movement for Irish freedom seemed to be Reds, as anti-clerical as they were opposed to the King. George Mason feared that no good could come of it, but Frederick was more sanguine, doubted that revolution would eventuate, or not for many years, especially whilst they paid so well.

  Tom spoke to Rothwell, interested to hear the government point of view on Ireland, found it to be simple despair. Nothing could be done, it was politically impossible to reconcile the various needs and interests, most of them legitimate, all of them wholly opposed. Rothwell tried to explain, to simplify, while stating that he was not entirely certain that he understood all of the ramifications of the problem.

  “As I understand the matter, my lord, nothing can be achieved without a full emancipation of the Catholics. That will demand disestablishment of the Church of Ireland – for why should the Catholics pay tithes to a Protestant communion which can no longer be argued to be theirs? In their turn, the dissenting sects of Ulster will require some degree of recognition, and cash. Government is unwilling to extend any sympathy to the Catholics in Ireland, particularly whilst the Vatican is determined to support the reintroduction of the Inquisition in Spain and wishes to persecute every Frenchman who ever cheered for the Revolution. It has represented to the authorities of the Catholic Church that His Britannic Majesty would be very willing to seek a rapprochement – in return say, for the formality of accepting the legitimacy of the House of Hanover – but the current Pope seems determined to continue to recognise the Stuart claim, despite the lack of a Stuart pretender.”

  “So, there will be no compromise with the Catholics, which means no peace in Ireland. What will be done instead?”

  “Coercion – what else is left?”

  “Land reform? Could not government buy up some of the estates and somehow distribute them to the peasantry?”

  “Cost, Thomas! Government is under an obligation to reduce expenditure, hopefully to peacetime levels of the last century. Nothing can be done that will add to costs.”

  “Then God help the Irish, Frederick, because it seems the English will not. I shall instruct the Masons to open a fund for the assistance of those who wish to emigrate from the pits, but I can do nothing about the causes of their problems. I beg you will pass the word to Sidmouth that the disturbances amongst the Irish will not cease unless attention is paid to their legitimate grievances – and tell him as well that the coal mines and iron works will not produce as well without their willing labour, and that will reduce his income from taxes. Perhaps he may listen if he can be persuaded that working together will be more profitable.”

  Rothwell shook his head pityingly. “He is incapable of listening and can assimilate nothing new in any case. He does not need to listen, because he knows everything he needs already and ‘profits’ are dirty things – they had none of them when he was young, he believes.”

  “Should I change party, Frederick? Would the Whigs offer more sense?”

  “Not at all, why should they? They are the same people from the same landed, English background, differing only in the most minor way and that mostly due to inherited feuds more than current policy. Possibly the Radicals have something to say – but not much – the bulk of them believe in Rousseau, the need to return to pastoral simplicity and purity, rejecting all that is modern and corrupting in our world. That we have twice as many mouths to feed as there were one hundred years ago has escaped them, they seem to imagine that the Land can provide for all! Few of our political classes have read Adam Smith or David Ricardo, and even fewer have understood them, I fear. Forget about the politicians, Thomas! Only businessmen can save us, by producing enough to make the ordinary men more comfortable in their lives. Keep their bellies full, their children in school and given a chance to prosper, and put a few pennies in their pockets so they can buy a jug or two at the weekend, then there will be no Revolution in England. As for Ireland – as you say, God help them, for we cannot.”

  Tom sent a message to the Rectory, requesting the pleasure of the company of Reverend Harker of a morning during the week, fully expecting him next day and not disappointed – the patron of a living rarely was.

  “There are too many hungry mouths in the parish, Reverend, and too few acres to put them all to work. I am about to charter a ship, sailing from Bristol in a few months, bound for the New World, passage free for every family and young man, or woman, who wishes to go. I would be obliged if your sermons over the next few weeks could reflect upon the virtues of self-help, of the desirability of making one’s own way to comfort, possibly to riches. There will be land and long loans, free of interest, for the purchase of seed, tools and animals, and every family man will carry gold in his pocket sufficient for his first year’s food, every single person a sufficiency for a few months until they can set themselves up to earn a wage – for the unmarried cannot work farms, of course.”

  The Reverend signified his willingness to comply with Tom’s demands but registered just the least caveat.

  “Single young women, my lord… Are you quite certain, my lord, that they should be encouraged to roam free on the high seas? Is it desirable that they should be permitted to leave their homes and the guidance and control of their fathers to make their own way in life?”

  “Is it more desirable, Reverend Harker, that they should stay in poverty and in far too many cases drift into sin for the sake of a few shillings in their pockets?”

  Having been a soldier, Harker knew the truth of Tom’s comment. Prostitution and poverty were firmly interlocked, though which was cause, which effect, he was not entirely certain and nor, as a good moralist, did he wish to know. The teachings of the Church of England would suffice.

  “I shall be passing the same message to the chapel, Reverend, but I see little point in informing the Quakers, do you?”

  Harker agreed – the Quakers were all of the middle order of people, merchants, shop-keepers, professional men, none of them facing economic pressure and quite able to look after each other, to protect any of their brethren stricken by illness or misfortune. They would not leave the country except under religious persecution, which no longer existed for them, unfortunately.

  The Methodist minister, Mr Nugent, had grown a little more portly since last Tom had had occasion to speak to him, which was hardly surprising he realised. It was very nearly twenty years since they had done more than exchange passing ‘good mornings’. He was still, however, keen of eye and intellect and willing to work for the benefit of his flock, even though he did not necessarily agree that Tom’s prescriptions would be of great value to them.

  “Emigration, my lord? To leave their homes and parents and loved ones and the comfort of their Religion in exchange for a doubtful future in wild lands? Better a little privation in England, surely, accompanied by their souls’ salvation, than to wander into the wilderness bereft of guidance and protection from those better qualified to recognise the perils they will face. For the young maidens especially, my lord, the perils are far too great and I cannot possibly countenance their being encouraged to desert their proper place. Home and hearth, kitchen and nursery, my lord, that is where the young woman should find herself, and nowhere else!”

  Tom restrained himself, adopted a gently reasonable tone – there was no gain in opening hostilities.

  “It is my intention that whole families should, where possible, go together to settle with their kinfolk in new villages, probably in Canada. Working as a community they will find it much easier to create a new, prosperous, settled life for themselves. At the moment, young men are drifting away from the village every week, and few of them are ever he
ard of again. Some girls also go – and we know what has happened to some of them!”

  The minister showed no comprehension – fallen women were no concern of his, they had removed themselves from the ranks of the saved and should reap the rewards of their wickedness. They would not have fallen had they not been inherently sinful.

  “Many of the younger men, the second and third and fourth sons of the tenant farmers especially, have no future in the village, Mr Nugent – all they can be is unpaid labourers to the eldest brother, with never a chance of independence or a family of their own. Emigration would allow them to set up their own farms with wives and children.”

  “It is God’s will that that they should be born into their own place in life, my lord. I do not propose to lead them from the path the Lord has appointed for them.”

  Tom rose, shrugged.