Unspoken was the certainty that the boy would gamble stupidly, but at least he would be making a fool of himself at a distance and, hopefully, the regiment would control the worst excesses of its junior officers. He would play cards, for sure, but if he did so in his Mess then he would be under the eye of more senior men who would not want to see heavy gaming and the trouble that inevitably followed it.
They returned to Stainer on the Monday for fittings, Pearce finding the time to escort his son again, disarmingly honest when he told Septimus that it was so his compeers should know the boy had not done anything so shameful as to make him outcast. Walking down the narrow street by the Butter Cross, opposite to the mediaeval, timber-framed House of God Begot, unchanged in the three or four centuries since a rich merchant had caused it to be built, they passed an open carriage crawling up the hill in the press of traffic; it contained three females, one, evidently companion or governess, sitting forward, back to the horses, two very fashionably dressed ladies behind.
“Lady Everholt and her daughter, my son. They live up at Flowerdown House. The old lord died three years ago and his son, the young Viscount Everholt, lives in London. They say the girl will bring sixty thousands to her marriage bed.”
The barouche swept past, its occupants not appearing to notice lowly pedestrians – it would seem that those who chose to walk would not in the nature of things be acquainted with the Everholts. Septimus took pains not to catch the daughter’s eye, reflecting that if he had known who she was he would never have taken such a risk; not to worry, they would never meet, their paths would probably never cross again.
A final week of freedom and then there was a post-chaise and four at the door – four horses to make the correct impression at Christchurch – and Septimus was waved away onto the turnpike to Romsey and across the New Forest to the barracks and his new life. It was raining, of course, it always rained in England on important occasions, and he sat gloomily, building a chip on his shoulder, waiting to be sneered at in the Mess and resolving not to let it be seen to hurt.
They passed the Priory – rare in that it was built from the New Forest pan ironstone, a weak, friable rock that limited the height of the nave and forbade impressive spire or towers, but otherwise a rather undistinguished, very brown pile. Well within sight lay the barracks, a low redbrick and fieldstone wall surrounding a dozen or so acres of heathland. Fronting the road a brick, two-storeyed Officers Mess looked onto the turf parade ground with offices of a single storey flanking two other sides. Behind these could be seen rows of low, red-brick barrack rooms and stores buildings, beyond that again the earth mounds of the musketry butts. Septimus did not know what to look for, but it seemed clean enough, neat and tidily kept. The Mess building was freshly painted, the walls gleaming white, floors scrubbed, and the sergeant who met him knew his name and was expecting him and quietly passed him along the tall hallway to the colonel and saw to his baggage, and the first impression he received was of a subdued efficiency that served to overawe him even more.
Allington, the lieutenant-colonel in command of the First Battalion, was a widower in his late forties, childless and with no other occupation or interest in his life; he was a lean, tall, stooping, balding figure, all forehead, nose and chin, seemed very old to Septimus. The battalion was his all and he was deeply distressed by its current condition. The Irish problem had been attracting attention for some little time and opinion had polarised over the years into the camps of Coercion or Reform; the Revolution in France had now added a third factor, made the grievances of the Irish insoluble in English eyes, Reform too great a risk to be contemplated. Allington’s sole major and six of his captains had transferred, gone onto half pay or sent their papers in rather than go to Ireland in effect as policemen; only seven lieutenants remained and four of the ensigns had pulled family strings to be taken on the strength of more congenial regiments.
The majority had been bought by a captain from Gloucestershire, a respectable County gentleman taking a promotion in the ordinary way of things, but all of the subaltern vacancies had been filled by the poor, the underbred or the unpopular, men who could not afford their Mess bills in England or who had fallen out with their fellow-officers and were willing to go out to Ireland and its miseries. Some of these new men were inadequate soldiers, some were simply of the ‘wrong’ sort of family for their original regiment and had been cold-shouldered out, and a few were vicious, idle, hopelessly stupid or cowardly, and Allington was not yet sure which was which. Of the new ensigns, their commissions purchased in London and unknown to the regiment, required only to claim literacy, to have the requisite cash and to be recommended by a respectable person – often arranged by a lawyer – Allington had few hopes; he would assess them as they came, Septimus in fact being the last of the current batch. Allington was of conventional background, a second son of the County, was inclined, privately, to deplore the families of many of his new officers but knew that he must make the best of the men he had if the battalion was not to suffer unduly. He welcomed Septimus, mistook his initial nervousness for the polite diffidence common among well brought-up boys and was rather impressed by the lad’s size - he liked big soldiers, especially officers who could be seen on the field. He was pleased as well to discover Septimus to be at least close to manhood, neither too old to learn nor too young to have left his mother’s arms. He gave Septimus to Captain Howton of C Company, knowing Howton to be a good soldier and suspecting that his two new lieutenants, Price and Bennett were not and that he would not need another burden.
Howton was in his early thirties, lived on his pay and a very few pounds of private income, a third of his small patrimony having gone to purchase his captaincy; he was a lean, austere man, sandy-haired and of middle height; he had strong views on the Army, the Church and propriety in general. To Septimus he seemed both old and intimidating with his forceful speech and air of authority. He was also openly welcoming, accepting Allington’s assessment of the new youngster, and thankful not to have had one of the obviously useless children dumped upon him. He led Septimus into the Mess and personally ensured that he had a room and a servant from the Company.
“We dine-in, tonight, Ensign Pearce, a good time to meet your fellow officers. Join me in the anteroom and I shall see that you are properly introduced.”
Cooper, long experienced as a batman, supervised Septimus as he donned Mess Undress, shaved him and showed him exactly how to wear the uniform and what to do with his hands, all the while briefing him on mess etiquette and the unspoken rules that governed what an officer of the New Foresters did and did not do and what Mr Howton expected and the colonel wanted of his people. Septimus, even more nervous, nodded frequently, asked no questions, made no comment – Cooper, an ordinary seeming man of average height and build, a little over five feet tall, possessed so much knowledge as to be an authority on army life, and Septimus, who had not wanted to be a soldier, had never informed himself about the military, had no preconceptions, could easily imagine himself doing something that would make him a laughing stock, and that would be intolerable. He listened, and learned.
“Keep silent at table, sir, unless you are directly spoken to. Don’t start any conversation until you are a lieutenant. Stand for the Loyal Toast, say nothing. Don’t drink more than one glass before the meal, sir, and only two of port afterwards, the colonel don’t like it in his young men. Address officers by rank in the mess, don’t call them ‘sir’. Sit by seniority, sir, the mess sergeant will show you where, on Mess Nights. Don’t mention any woman’s name, talk politics or discuss soldiering at the table, sir.”
“Thank you, Cooper.”
Septimus joined his new peers in the anteroom to the Mess, accepted a glass politely but insistently offered by a mess waiter, sipped at a heavy wine, a sherry, he thought, but did not really know. Howton called him across, introduced him to Bennett and Price, talked quietly, putting him at his ease, naming other officers and identifying the few battle honours and trophies o
n the walls. The New Foresters had been in existence for a century, had manned garrisons in America and India and the Germanies but had rarely had the fortune to be in the right place at the right time to distinguish themselves on campaign – they were no more than an unfashionable working regiment of the Line.
Even to Septimus’ eye it became clear that the Mess was split, that there were two distinct factions among the officers that showed in an actual physical division into two groups, one noisier, younger, hard-drinking, boisterous even, the other quieter and abstemious, chatting in subdued fashion. Septimus stayed at Howton’s shoulder; he wanted another drink, would have rather liked to have been part of the set who were so obviously enjoying themselves, did not especially fancy the company of the staid group of rather old men he was with, but was not willing to attract attention by actually changing his place, was not sure in any case that they would accept him – they all had very plummy voices and loud, braying laughs, they were just the sort to take against him. Better to stay where he was unless they actually invited him into their midst.
At table Septimus found, to his surprise, that he was not the most junior – another of the ensigns who had arrived in the previous week had purchased the day after him. Young Mr Givens, a stripling of fifteen or so, possibly just old enough to shave and loudly County, was not pleased to discover that the huge new man was senior to him, would be so until they purchased their step. He made a cursory attempt to talk to Septimus, gave up on receiving only monosyllabic replies, chatted exclusively to his other neighbour thereafter, ignoring the looks of reproof from more senior officers who did not approve of ensigns holding noisy conversations together at table, and who did notice Septimus’ discomfort at his neighbour’s ill-conduct. When they rose Septimus found himself on his own for a couple of minutes, was rescued by Howton and quietly became part of a group of half a dozen or so lieutenants and captains sat in a corner, welcomed by them, a chair made available, a glass put in his hand.
Septimus glanced around him, saw they were slightly shabbier, a fraction less prosperous than the bulk of the others in the Mess. There was another group sat together close by, very similar in its composition, clearly professionals and old friends, on easy terms with his set, just two other ensigns with them, neither of them boys. The centre of the large room was occupied by the bulk of the younger men - and youths who wanted to be taken as men - who lounged and drank, laughed loudly and talked horses and cock-fighting and prize-fighting and hunting and shooting and made their plans for the coming week. They dined-in twice weekly, he was told, were free to spend other evenings as and where they wished.
“There will be invitations in plenty,” Howton explained. “Some of them you will be expected to accept – I will tell you which. Others, however, might more wisely be refused. The colonel likes us to attend at the Assembly each month and feels that we should dine frequently with the respectable. One can enjoy an active social life here, though some of the young officers do seem to have developed, shall we say, too broad a circle of acquaintance. There was, I believe, a militia battalion posted to Christchurch for some years and some of the younger men would seem to have inherited their habits of indiscriminate sociality.”
Septimus nodded gravely – all of his life his parents had warned him away from low company and even at his wildest he would never have dreamed of dining at the tables of the people he had drunk and slept with.
Cooper sent him in working uniform to breakfast, having his own ideas of what was and was not proper for a young gentleman - he was not prepared to turn his officer out in civilian clothes, as if expecting him to spend the day in idleness. Cooper, possibly in his mid-thirties, had been a soldier for two decades, knew the sort of officer he preferred to serve, was quite happy to nudge Mr Pearce in the appropriate direction – he saw that as part of his job, the main reason why Mr Howton had selected him for the post. Howton, similarly dressed, called Septimus to his table, formality not being observed in the mornings, began to discuss his day with him.
Training did not exist for any officer, other than Artillery or Engineers, it was sufficient to be a gentleman, or so the powers-that-be held, and many young officers made no attempt to familiarise themselves with the men’s routine. Howton had views on the question of the introduction of young gentlemen to army life.
“It helps on parade, I find, Ensign Pearce, if the officers are thoroughly familiar with the men’s drill, and the colonel likes his young men to learn. The senior sergeants are happy to assist and one will be found, four mornings of the week at nine o’clock, on the lawn at the rear of the Mess, discreetly out of sight. It is, of course, in no way compulsory. Equally, you might wish to acquaint yourself with Dundas’ Eighteen Manoeuvres, and the new Drill Book, though it is in no way obligatory upon you. I can lend you copies until you can purchase your own?”
Septimus joined the informal class, far too unsure of himself to be prepared to argue with Howton or to simply ignore his thinly-veiled order; he made the class up to four in number, the bulk of the ensigns choosing not to lower themselves – they were gentlemen, needed be no more. It took a few weeks, but he learned the commands and discovered what they demanded of the men, could now say, “Carry on, sergeant!” with a full understanding of what came next. He did not at first appreciate that the men were all aware of what he was doing and knew that he was attempting to learn the basics of their trade and had marked him as a potentially ‘good’ officer, one who cared and who was less likely to kill them through ignorant stupidity.
By the end of the first week he was firmly in the faction of the professionals and was cold-shouldered by the socialisers, was not invited even half-heartedly to join them on the strut in town of a morning, or to play billiards in the one parlour or take tea with their circle of young misses. He heard the sneers aimed at the ‘tradesmen’ and he resented them, but not sufficiently to seek the company of people of the sort he had always disliked – he was strong enough not to need to curry favour. He settled down to work at his new profession, not from any virtue but simply because he had strengthened his distaste for those he now privately regarded as ‘unmanly’ as well as socially ‘superior’ to him. The obvious approval of Howton and Cooper helped as well, clarifying in his mind a contempt for those who would not work at their trade, denied, in fact, that they had a ‘trade’. As well, too many of the young ensigns and lieutenants seemed to Septimus to be rather stupid, to have nothing of interest to say, to be no more than callow schoolboys, while the older men could be expansive on their experience of the American War, exchanging reminiscences and anecdotes and not unwilling to be viewed with some awe by a young man. Septimus was lonely, had never had close friends, no more than a circle of acquaintances who had valued his father’s money as much as himself, was very willing to be accepted in a supportive group.
In later years, when he had developed a sufficient maturity to question and analyse his own actions, he accepted that he might more naturally have joined the circle of the drinkers and small-town lechers, would have, in fact, had they only recognised his nervousness for what it was and made an effort to extend a welcome. He was, eventually, proud not to have done so.
Two of the officers, Lieutenant Kincaid and Captain Ellis, prided themselves on their skill with the smallsword, made themselves available on an afternoon each week for exercise and the amusement of their mess colleagues. Septimus attended, watched, was brought to his ground and displayed his limited, schoolboy knowledge, was shown the difference between fencing and killing; he began to learn how to use his substantial strength and somewhat lesser dexterity to improve his chances of survival in the close. He watched in some horror as Howton stood against Ellis, thrust and parried, came breast to breast, blades locked, all in classical pose, and then, instead of the honourable disengage and pace back, Ellis winked, dropped his shoulder, barged Howton over a backheel and stood over his prostrate body ready to drive his sword home.
“But, sir! Is that the action of a gentleman
?”
“No!” They chorused, “but it is a good way of winning!”
Eventually, Septimus joined their laughter, but it was not what he had expected.
There was a weekly parade at which officers’ attendance was compulsory and the colonel spoke severely to officers who did not dine-in, but otherwise Septimus’ time was his own to fill. Howton made him welcome in the daily routine, initiated him into the mysteries of the Company Books, made him a part of the day-to-day business of Depot life. An hour or two of every day he spent with the men themselves, watching them in the butts or on the square, starting to learn names and faces, becoming a part of the Company. Bennett and Price appeared only for parade; observing, Septimus wondered how many of the men would recognise their lieutenants’ faces away from the drill square.
At first Septimus was almost frightened by the men of the Company – they seemed beings apart from the yokels and town loungers he had seen in Winchester, stronger, rougher, harder. The uniform reinforced this feeling at first – the bright scarlet coats, pipe-clayed cross-belts, gleaming leather stocks, powdered hair and queues of the parade ground designed to make the men seem intimidating; the faded working dress of everyday wear making them seem indistinguishable, interchangeable, taking away personality. As he came to recognise faces and names he became more at ease, especially as he realised that the men would obey his every word without query, discipline being all to most of them. The Company was split into four sections, each with a corporal, and had three sergeants; Stratton was senior, had held the rank for years, Mockford was a younger man with a bare fifteen years of service and a willingness to offer a quick explanation whenever Septimus appealed to him. Hatchett, again a younger man, was unwilling to make time for any ensign.
The Soldier Brat (Man of Conflict Series, Book 1) Page 3