“I’m going to take a walk, Cooky,” Septimus smiled up from his stool, at ease with the world and well-fed. “Down to the river, over the bridge at Twyford, up to the top of the castle and back home in a big circle.”
“Ten mile, thereabouts, and good for you, too. Goose for dinner, so you be back on time, young man!”
Up to his room, changing from evening ‘going-out’ clothes into walking boots and breeches and plain shirt and jacket. Money in his pocket, a few shillings, the bulk of his illicit winnings tucked away at the back of his pile of schoolbooks, and on tiptoes downstairs and away before Mother could catch him for church.
He strode downhill to the riverside, the sun well risen now and pleasantly warm, the sky cloud free, the best of spring days to look forward to. Trout and grayling both to be seen, slipping, shadowy, safe in the close; no rod or gun for three months, and Father allowed by the Squire to shoot and fish his lands, a slightly unlawful dispensation but one that was always ignored and another sign of the family’s rise towards the ranks of the County. Septimus supposed his father and the Squire had had some sort of business dealings which had led to the granting of the privilege, but he really did not care.
He crossed the river at Shawford and followed the track across the valley towards Twyford village, church, manor house and hamlet set on a river bench a few feet above the wetlands of the valley, part sheltered by the Downs behind them. A last few hundred yards of the low clays, water meadows strong in the best grasses, the cattle thriving on these rich fields, a few, small stands of reed, kingcups and marsh marigolds blooming on wettest patches, pussy-willow showing its grey-green down along the banks. It was the best of pasture land, but Septimus was only slightly interested – he was no bumpkin to plod his acres with clay on his boots.
The church bell began to ring, he found it easy to ignore.
He swung more towards the north, taking the Owlesbury road for a half mile, turning onto the Downs before reaching the village – Osselbree, they called it, to the mystification of the literate – and headed up towards the tops.
The country changed instantly as he reached the chalk – short turf, close-cropped by rabbits and centuries of sheep, the demands of wool forming the landscape over tens of generations’ grazing. There were a few clumps of blackthorns, mostly on the sides of the pits where flint had been dug for building stone, the big, head-sized nodules cracked in half for infilling the timber and brick piers and frames of local cottages. Some of the pits were still worked, more especially where the stone was of the best quality and could be knapped to produce the flints for tinder boxes and gun locks. Septimus had watched the knappers at work when he was younger, had wondered how the men had found the patience to do the same thing, time after time, rain or shine. He cut across the slope towards the ‘castle’, an Iron Age hill fort that had stood for two millennia, its ditches and spoil ramparts still clearly visible; he had imagined himself a warrior here, axe and spear in hand defending his land against the Romans – a pity they had not succeeded and kept them and their Latin out of the country!
It was a steep climb from the south and Septimus’ calf muscles announced the fact. He sat down between a couple of blackthorns, their low branches cutting the wind, luxuriated half-asleep in the sun – it had been another long, cold winter and he was tired in any case.
A half an hour or so and he was thinking of moving on, buttoning his shirt and picking up his coat, when he heard hoof beats coming over the crest from the north, a single horse at a walk. The Downs were common land, so he was not trespassing, but he had no great wish to be disturbed or make polite conversation if he was recognised and he eased back into the cover of the low trees.
It was a pony, a young girl up side-saddle, one of the gentry, surprising that she should be unattended; she must have given her groom the slip, probably, like him, should have been in church, had not been expected in the stableyard.
She was reining in, pulled the pony towards another clump of blackthorn, slipped down from the saddle, knotted the reins to a branch, pricking her fingers on the thorns from the muffled cry that came from her, scurried a distance away into deep cover. Septimus grinned – he knew what she was doing! Caught short, poor girl!
A rabbit suddenly darted out from its hole, almost under the pony’s legs; the small branch snapped as the animal started back, let the reins dangle free. The pony wandered a few steps, trotted uphill as its mistress came running towards it shouting, commanding it to stand and trying to snatch at the reins. It danced towards the trees where Septimus stood and he was able to step quietly forward and take it close to the bit, talking in a low, soothing voice, calming it again as the girl dashed across, shouting at him.
“You there! Don’t let her go again. Hold her!”
“Big-mouthed bitch!” Septimus thought, “what the hell does she think I’m doing!”
“Hold her! I’ll give you sixpence!”
“Small wonder you ran, gal, I’d not want to put up with that cow!”
Septimus grinned, fumbled at the girth hidden on his side of the pony, relaxed it a couple of notches; she could walk home for her pains.
The girl was perhaps a couple of years younger than him, black haired, bright red in the cheeks with anger, said not a word to him as she thrust a foot into the stirrup and tried to haul herself up. The saddle slipped and she fell back, the pony side-stepping nervously and almost dragging her off her feet.
“Blast it!” She held onto the reins, waiting for Septimus to act.
He stood motionless, laughing to himself.
“Don’t just stand there like an idiot, boy! See to my saddle.”
“You said you’d give I sixpence, ma’am,” Septimus replied, knuckling his forehead and putting on a labourer’s accent.
As he had expected, she had no money in her pockets and he turned away.
“Mama will give it you, if you come to the Big House at Sparsholt tomorrow.”
“Oi can’t be doing that, ma’am. ‘twould be three hours walking there an’ back, and Oi got to be workin’, like.”
“But you must see to my saddle for me! I … I command you!” She stamped a foot in outrage.
“Nope! Oi only stopped a minute or two to get me breath back, Oi got to be back at Master’s place soon as can be.”
She looked around desperately, but the downland was empty; she thrust forward the silver-headed crop she was carrying.
“Take this! You could get at least five shillings for it.”
He held his hands well away in simulated fear. “Not Oi, ma’am. Oi goes to sell that and they says Oi stole ‘er and it’s prison for Oi and no arguefying.”
“But you can’t just leave me here! It’s six miles to home and I can’t walk that. You must help me! You’ve got to!”
An idea crept into Septimus’ head, a way to really bring the joke home, and a bit of fun, too.
“Well… Oi should ought to ‘ave my sixpence, like.”
“But I haven’t got it on me! I will pay you, I will make certain you are paid!”
“Oi dunno, missy,” Septimus smirked, “Oi don’t see as ‘ow you going to do that. Tell ‘ee what, missy, sometimes they do play penny kisses, back in the village. Six big ones, for a sixpence.”
“You think I would kiss you? No!”
Septimus shrugged, turned and started to plod away.
“Wait… just a kiss, then. What must I do?”
She tied the reins firmly to the trunk of a blackthorn, turned to him, let him take her in his arms; she tried to struggle free as his hand crept into her bodice but by his sixth kiss her habit was open to her waist and he was fondling a bare nipple.
She hurried to cover herself, bright scarlet. “That’s your sixpence paid, let me go now!”
He stepped away, admiring her large, firm, uptilted breasts, much bigger than Jenny’s.
Too big a risk to do any more. He rapidly put her saddle to rights. Very slowly he adjusted the girths, made sure her saddle was
secure – let no one say he had cheated her!
He reached a hand down, cupped to lift her into the side-saddle and sent her on her way back over the downs. He made rapid time downhill, common sense telling him to be over the Itchen and far away before she got home. She probably would say nothing, would not want to risk the grooms talking if they were sent out to search for a man who had accosted her, but she might be upset enough to open her mouth, even so.
He would take another walk next week, he thought, but in the opposite direction.
Back home, Septimus washed and changed for dinner, ate hungrily, smiled and conversed politely with his parents and Brother George and his wife Jane who had joined them for Sunday Dinner. His father commented on his absence from Church, accepted his excuse of a beautiful day and a long tramp across the countryside, so glad to hear of his erratic son’s innocent pleasures as to instantly forgive the minor peccadillo.
“Enjoy your holiday, my son. You can still be young for a while longer.”
Septimus nodded and smiled, unawake to the message in his father’s quiet comment, busy in financial calculation. Five shillings for a couple of hours and twice, compared with a guinea for a night and five times; the crown visit was unquestionably the more economical, and, allowing for other expenses, he could make at least ten of them before next his allowance from his father put him in funds again. They were right, he really must consider money more carefully.
Eight miles away the Honourable Lucasta Everholt sat to her dinner in sullen silence, her mother keeping up a light chatter - moods were so common in girls of her age, best to simply ignore them.
Man of Conflict Series
BOOK ONE
Chapter Two
Two days after Easter Septimus was summoned to his father’s office. He had been conscientiously virtuous for the previous month and more – no brawls, no noisy roistering, just the normal, discreet, visits to Mrs Ford’s. It had seemed wiser to him to keep his father sweet; he did not want him to cut off his allowance.
He had been ten weeks without employment since his schooling had come to its abrupt end and he was thoroughly bored with leisure; watching the labourers work on the Home Farm with Harte, the bailiff and his father’s head groom and general factotum, droning on about the agricultural year and suchlike nonsense; walking the Downs, very unentertainingly; riding whenever there was a cob available; even turning to his books, his Latin anyway, for lack of better to do. A man needed something more, even the Counting House would be better than this, for a while. Presumably his father had a suggestion for him. He made up his mind to fall in with his father’s plans if they sounded even half-way reasonable, for he had no ideas of his own yet. He could always put a few guineas together working for his father - and it would not be as if he had to make much of an effort, just turn up and show willing would all - while he found out just what he would do with his life.
“Well, Septimus, I have made provision for your future, my son.”
Pearce sat at his desk, turned sideways, legs crossed, an elbow on the blotter holding down some documents. His face was quite expressionless as he considered his last-born; it was clearly a business matter he was dealing with.
Septimus stood awkwardly, not knowing what to do with his hands, waiting to be invited to sit, wondering what answer he should make.
“Yes, sir?”
“Yes, my son. You need something more active than the merchant’s life, and you like fighting. I have purchased you an ensign’s commission in the New Foresters. They are in barracks at Christchurch just now but sail for Cork next month. Mr Stainer will take your measurements tomorrow and will deliver your uniform on Thursday of next week. On the Monday following you will report for duty.”
“But… I don’t wish to be a soldier, sir!”
Pearce nodded and smiled, his manner conveying no surprise at all at this news. “What do you wish to be, my son?”
Septimus was defeated; he knew only what he did not want.
“Exactly so! Now, listen, good my son. Your behaviour is intolerable – I know where you have been going these evenings, and your mother suspects! You have not asked to go to the Counting House and you do not wish to farm, so Harte assures me; you cannot go up to University, nor would you, I suspect, knuckle down to the Law. I will not keep you in idleness for any longer – why should I? Your brother has worked these twenty years, should he watch as you spend the money he has helped earn? So, my son, you will leave this house, on Monday sennight. If you will not take a pair of Colours, then I will buy your passage to Halifax in Canada and give you fifty pounds as a last goodbye. So, Bristol or Christchurch, which will you choose? Before you speak: I will give you an allowance of two hundred pounds a year, and in two years time I will buy your lieutenancy, after that, your captaincy and, if you merit it, majority, your allowance rising with your rank. George has promised to bear this responsibility in his turn. But, you will serve with the Regiment, wherever it may be – you will not spend your time idling on half-pay, not if you wish to keep your allowance. Sit down for ten minutes and think on your decision.”
He waved Septimus to a hard, uncushioned ladderback chair in the corner, turned to his papers again, the boy apparently dismissed from his mind.
Septimus felt as if he had unexpectedly, treacherously, been kicked in the belly, flat and lost. He tried to clear his mind, to think, to address the sudden lightning strike that seemed to have destroyed him.
‘Upper Canada – wild, primitive, farms and furs and logs and Indians. Salt fish, father said he buys it from there, I remember. What would I do there? Catch fish? Become a farmer? But if I go for a soldier? My sort don’t become soldiers - all those gentlefolk, the ones who look down on Trade, that’s the ones who become soldiers. The ones at school who wouldn’t talk to me, who mocked me because I’m just a yokel, they’ll be there, or their sort. But, at least, the Family will still be here – I won’t be out on my own.’
The arguments went round and round in his head – in the end he knew he did not want to go West and be all alone and never come back home again in his life, anything must be better than that.
On the precise second of the tenth minute Pearce looked up and coughed.
Septimus stood, older-seeming. “Yes, sir. I will join. May I return to this house on leave, sir? Will you and my mother read a letter if I send one?”
“You are my son. You will, I trust, always be so. While this house is mine you will be welcome on furlough; when it is George’s, he will make his own decision. Your mother will look forward to your letters, my boy, however much you may have grieved her.”
For the first time ever it occurred to Septimus that he was a disappointment to his parents. He felt very humble and depressed, for a few minutes.
His father took him to Stainer the Tailor next day and his measurements were duly noted and the cloths displayed, scarlet and white and gold and black, stocks and tricornes laid out. The finery appealed to Septimus – he had never imagined wearing a uniform, now could see himself strutting before the young ladies, peacocking, outshining the other merchants’ sons of the town. He was taken next to his bootmaker, thence to a saddler. Finally his father led him to Wheatley’s gun shop, there to purchase sidearms.
“You are going to Ireland, Septimus, where the old customs still apply. Brushing against a man on a crowded pavement can be called insult there. Besides that, the military Code of Honour can easily demand that you go out, especially on foreign postings, I am told. You have learned a little of the sword at your school and have fired pistols as well; you would be well advised to improve both skills and there are those in your battalion who will teach you, if you wish to make the effort to learn.”
Septimus nodded – this was to be treated as a man indeed; his mood brightened again.
They bought a pair of working military pistols, plain single barrelled flintlocks of twelve bore, throwing a ball of a little more than one and a quarter ounces, enough to knock down a horse. Then the elder
Pearce bade Wheatley produce a cased pair of duelling pistols, their ball only four fifths of an ounce but accurate at twenty paces and with much less of a kick. Wheatley adjusted the set of the butts until the barrel naturally followed the line of the first finger of Septimus’ right hand when he pointed it.
“There you are, sir. Don’t try to aim these, point them, just as you would your finger. You can point at anything and always be on line. These will put their ball wherever you point, from waist or shoulder, whichever you wish.”
Dress sword and working hanger came next, the first to official, ornamental pattern, useful only for parades, the second a heavy, single edged, slightly curved blade, sharpened on both sides for the five inches to the point.
“Good steel, sir. Thrust or slash is all one to this blade. Wipe it carefully if it gets bloody, sir. Very corrosive is blood, can ruin a blade.”
The comment was particularly shocking coming from the lips of the aging, mild-seeming shopkeeper, a spare man, shoulders starting to bend, who should have been measuring out yards of calico rather than discussing mortality so calmly; it stuck very firmly in Septimus’ mind as a result.
He wondered for a moment then about using the sword, sticking it into a man’s body, bringing about the bloodshed, decided that he would be able to do it. His enemy would be the King’s enemy, so it would not be the same as killing a man, it would simply be duty, and he had been taught at school that duty must always be done, could never be refused; and they wouldn’t be men, not Englishmen, they would be enemies, so it would be entirely acceptable.
“Now, Septimus!” They were in the gig, homeward bound, packages behind them. “I have corresponded with the colonel, who says that riding horse and mule may best be procured in Ireland, as you are going there. It will save the problems of transporting them. Apparently the troopers are not the best place for a horse to be cooped up for anything up to a month, and in any case it is easier to buy good beasts in a country where so many are bred. The colonel will supervise the purchase because he will wish his officers to look the thing, well-mounted and presented, and I have sent him a draft direct. I shall give you fifty pounds in coin and the bank will credit you with as much again every quarter, using their agent in Cork. That is a generous income, more than many a lieutenant lives on, I am told, and I shall look for you to stay within it. If you should contract debts of honour then you must inform me: don’t get into the hands of the Jews! We will be able to come to some arrangement, but I hope you will know better!”
The Soldier Brat (Man of Conflict Series, Book 1) Page 2