Septimus stayed mute – it sounded as if they might be getting rid of him – some rumour of the looting on St Jeanne, perhaps?
“First, I must say that I do not want you to go, Mr Pearce! Let it be understood, sir, that the battalion will be weakened by losing you and Sergeant Mockford – for there is no other who can go with you – but there is good reason.”
Allington coughed and fiddled with the papers on his desk, ill at ease with what he had to say.
“More than anything else, you can afford it, sir! Few of your brother officers would wish to face the expense of the years at the depot, entertaining and taking a lead in the Mess – there will be junior officers to bring on and that will make demands on your hospitality, I suspect. By the same token, you will not seek promotion for a few years yet, and will purchase when the time is ripe – others of your compeers need the chances offered by the field of battle. Finally, sir, I know that you will perform the task well – you will train the men and do the work, and I have to say to you, inside these four walls, that not all of your brother officers would do the same.”
Septimus thought briefly, nodded to himself – the colonel was right.
“So, Captain Pearce, I farewell you!”
There was a ninety gun second rate in harbour and under orders for Portsmouth, sailing within the week; a combination of luck, interest and an admiral favourably inclined towards the army found cabin space for Septimus and a berth for his men – Cooper, Mockford, Dowdy, Barnes and Chitty of the original platoon and Hogsflesh and Nias who had joined from the draft.
The platoon messed with the Marines and shared some of their duties so as to keep them occupied, standing sentry over the spirits room and on the magazine; Cooper remained as batman and Septimus was a guest of the mess, ranking with the first lieutenant.
The passage was swift, he was told, a bare forty days from port to port, but even so it was a long time without occupation. Septimus had bought a half dozen books, allowing for one a fortnight which he thought should be ample, the longest passage never exceeding three months; unfortunately he had no knowledge of modern authors and discovered that four of his volumes were romances in the fashionable Gothic style and tedious beyond belief, written apparently for sheltered females with a taste for the marvellous and very silly – Septimus found villainous monks to be very uninteresting indeed. The officers off watch were friendly and hospitable when awake – cards were played every evening, poor man’s whist always in being, there was a backgammon board and chess – but the days were long. Two of the lieutenants had some skill with the smallsword and were happy to fence with Septimus, upgrading him from butcher to half-way competent, they said, and occasionally they shot muskets and pistols with him, more impressed by his ability with a handgun. He dined with the captain weekly, a courtesy that gave small pleasure to either, for they had little in common and had to force polite conversation. The captain was a fifty year old Scot, in his last employment because of his age, still a year or two from the Admiral’s list and certain to be made ‘without squadron’, an admiral in name, and half-pay, only. He had served many years on the Indian station, where there was no chance of prize-money, and came from a family of small lairds, landowners short on acres even if long on name, and looked forward to a retirement in genteel poverty – the whiff of prosperous trade that hung about Septimus was very little to his liking.
Septimus was glad he had been too old for the midshipman’s berth when his father’s patience had finally cracked – the only pleasure he gained in the whole six weeks was the sight of the Isle of Wight as they crawled towards Spithead and the dockyard. It was a cold, rainy September morning, and he had to get to Christchurch yet, but the problem was instantly solved for him, the captain wanting him off of his decks at the earliest possible moment – two guineas was demanded and paid to the master of a ketch that generally worked the run from Portsmouth to Cowes and the men and their baggage were stowed in the hold, Septimus and Mockford permitted to stay on deck for the half of the day it took to work down the Solent and into the mouth of the Hampshire Avon. A shilling at the quayside procured a donkey cart and a boy to lead it carrying Septimus’ trunks and gunbox; twenty minutes and they were at the gate in the low wall surrounding the barracks.
There was no party at the gate, not even a lone sentry; the barrier was open.
“What day of the week is it, Cooper?”
“Monday, sir. Pretty sure it is, anyway, sir.”
Septimus was displeased; he tugged his watch out of his pocket, flicked the cover off the dial and stared accusingly at the Roman numerals stark black on the white face.
“Three of the clock, Cooper.”
“Yes, sir.”
There was no need to say more.
The parade ground was empty. There was no sound of musketry from the butts. No word of command could be heard from the drill square behind the barracks huts. There was no trace of sweepers, cleaners or painters, no evidence of the existence of any fatigue parties. There was in fact no evidence of life at all other than smoke rising from the chimneys of the cookhouse – all four chimneys, so the camp was fully occupied.
“Sarn’t Mockford! Take the platoon to the barracks and get them a sleeping room, all together and separate from the recruits under training, then see to their messing, and your own, of course, if you please.”
Mockford saluted and marched smartly off, too wise to offer any comment, chuckling inwardly – Stroppy Seppy was going to draw blood before the day was out!
“Cooper, see to my quarters in the Mess, please.”
Cooper suppressed any trace of a grin and ran, calling boy and cart to follow.
Septimus strolled around the parade ground, not permitting his boots casually to touch the sacred turf and noting that it seemed very little worn, showed small evidence of regular use, and through the double doors of the Officers Mess. He was wearing working uniform, perfectly correct and clean but faded by the tropical sun; he thought that some of the younger officers might find it shabby and sneer – he hoped so.
The Mess Sergeant appeared, awake, alert and smelling faintly of gin – he always had, Septimus remembered.
“Sergeant Parker! Still with us, then?”
“Mr Pearce, sir!” Parker stood to attention, amazed to see the captain, having had no forewarning.
“Posted to the Second Battalion to assist with training, Parker. Orders from Horse Guards – happening in all the Home battalions, I understand.”
The Mess Sergeant was a privileged person – he had to be, he knew everything – deserved more explanation than would ordinarily have been offered.
“Yes, sir.”
“Who’s here, Parker?”
“Colonel’s in London, sir, had to report to the General Officer Commanding, sir, so took the opportunity of a break for a few days. Expects to be back next week, sir. Major Harris is on furlough, but Major Treasure is here, although he is in town at the moment, I believe. Most of the officers are away at the shooting, I believe, sir.”
Septimus smiled. “Then it’s a good thing that I have arrived – there is evidently a need for me.”
“Yes, sir. Will you be dining in tonight, sir?”
“Certainly, Parker – it is obligatory on a Monday, if I remember correctly?”
“Yes, sir.”
Cooper appeared to signal that the captain’s rooms were ready and Parker ran to find the batmen of those lieutenants and ensigns likely to be in the Mess that evening and warn them to turn their masters out correctly.
Dinner was a frosty meal, conversation at a minimum, waiters snapped at for the most minor transgression.
Major Treasure made no appearance and a Captain Browning was the only other officer of rank; enquiry disclosed that Browning, though several years older than Septimus, had reached captaincy only in the month, a maiden aunt having bequeathed him a couple of thousands on her final, belated death. The officers came together in the ante-room of the Mess, a dozen or so of ensign
s and lieutenants, most in less than adequately formal dress, two at least the worse for alcohol. Their batmen must have warned them, so their conduct was a deliberate challenge, an announcement that their easy-going ways suited them and were not about to be changed by any jumped-up newcomer.
Septimus took a sip of sherry, coughed meaningfully, glanced at the clock on the wall.
“It wants fifteen minutes of eight o’clock, gentlemen. I am surprised to see that only four of you intend to join Captain Browning and myself at table.”
A group of younger men disappeared hurriedly; Septimus guessed their batmen were waiting, forewarned, ready to turn them out correctly.
One of the drunks swore, half audibly, turned belligerently on Septimus.
“We don’t wear dress except on Mess Night, each month. No need for it!”
“There is always a need for manners, however, lieutenant, and I would remind you of them! You are not fit to dine in the Mess tonight, sir. You may withdraw.”
A pair of friends seized hold of the lieutenant and bundled him out before he could either disobey an order or offer deadly insult – neither court martial nor duel would do the regiment any good at all. They returned in appropriate dress ten minutes later.
“Thank you, gentlemen. That saved a great deal of bother for all of us.”
They smiled cautiously, disliking Septimus, aware that they had done the right thing and had made a partially favourable impression on the big new man, not certain even so that they should have gone to the effort and risked offending their own friend.
The food was better than Septimus remembered – commenting to Browning afterwards he was told that Major Treasure demanded it so.
Treasure made an appearance next morning, soon after eleven. Septimus, who had been four hours prowling the depot, invited himself to interview.
Treasure was fat – grotesquely, obscenely obese, a mass of rolling, creased, jelly-like adiposity descending in pendulous, treacly, creeping folds towards the floor. His cheeks and many chins drooped; his belly fell; his great, foetid backside brushed against his lower thighs, almost to the knees. He rose tremulously to his feet, rocked to a balance, stepped around his desk to greet Septimus with a handshake, a soft, cloying, soggy contact.
“Captain Pearce, you are here before I expected you – you must have made a good passage, sir,” he wheezed. “You are welcome, sir.”
His breath stank like an open sewer, half of his teeth quite rotted. He found his chair, eased himself carefully back into it, got his second wind after his exertions.
“You are to take responsibility for training the drafts, Captain Pearce. Good. Do so. Browning is adjutant, will have orders to assist you as is necessary. Until the colonel returns you will order the recruits as you will, sir.”
Unspoken, but very clear, was the instruction to leave Treasure alone, not to bother him.
“Thank you, sir. What of the junior officers?”
“They will do their duty, of course, Captain Pearce,” Treasure muttered, foreseeing trouble and work and effort in front of him.
“Good, sir. I shall define their duty for them. I am sure that all will go well, sir.”
Septimus found the sergeant-major busily making a show of drilling the companies of recruits, men at various stages since enlistment dumped together, higgledy-piggledy, in an amorphous mass. There were four sergeants present, including Mockford, and not a single officer. Septimus stood watching for a few minutes, raised an eyebrow to the sergeant-major who instantly doubled across to him and gave him full attention and salute, all of the most formal.
“Thank you, ‘major. An interesting sight. There will be a meeting of all sergeants here on the drill square at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. You will come with me, of course.”
“Yes, sir.”
The sergeant-major relaxed a fraction - not that the uninitiated would have noticed – as he accepted that the captain was asking him to join in, to become part of the new regime, was not trying to blame him for the obvious failings in the existing routine.
“Would you be so good, ‘major, as to ensure that all officers are informed that there is to be a meeting for them in the recruit company offices, at two o’clock today?”
“Sir!”
The sergeant-major handed the parade over to his senior sergeant and went off personally to locate the officers or their batmen. His face eased into a very quiet smile – he was a professional, a soldier, and, unless he was very much mistaken, the depot was about to be made into a place for soldiers, not for pansy civilians in pretty uniforms.
Major Treasure had given no formal permission for any officer to absent himself from his place of duty, so in theory all of the subalterns and ensigns should have been in the barracks; in reality, all of those who felt well this morning would be on the strut, lounging in the main streets and furthering their acquaintance with the young ladies of the town. Only the officers nursing a hangover might be expected actually to be in the Mess building, and they would not be pleased to be dragged out of bed.
A stream of batmen trotted out of the gates over the next few minutes, heading towards the billiard lounge and the main shops in urgent search of their masters.
Septimus watched the men drill a few minutes longer before dismissing them and turning to the sergeants.
“How many recruits on parade?”
The senior sergeant, well into middle age, answered immediately.
“Three hundred and twenty four, sir.”
“Bloody liar!” Septimus thought – that, surely, was the number there ought to be, but he would have sworn there had been no more than two hundred and fifty present. He was not going to call them back and count them – as the sergeant was gambling; he would tomorrow, though, as the sergeant knew well.
“Parade tomorrow morning, sergeant, after our meeting, at eight thirty. Men in working dress, in five companies, organised by date of enlistment, as is normal practice. Sergeant Mockford and his platoon will assist you as you require.”
“Yes, sir. Beg pardon, sir, but should the men mess together by their new companies, too?”
“Certainly.”
“Right, sir – we shall do it proper, sir.” The sergeant saluted, was about to dismiss himself.
“One moment, sergeant – I don’t know your name?”
The man’s face was familiar yet Septimus was sure he had never met him before.
“Hatchett, sir.”
“One of the First Battalion’s sergeants is a Hatchett.”
“My brother, sir – youngest of the family.”
“A good man, too. He was well when I left Jamaica, untouched by the fevers.”
“Thank you, sir – he was never much of a one for writing, sir.”
The depot – the Second Battalion – had a theoretical establishment of a lieutenant-colonel, two majors, five captains and ten lieutenants; ensigns were supernumerary, being themselves in training, as it were. The Quartermaster for the regiment was also based at the depot but was not a part of the training regime, such as it was, issuing stores to both battalions. In practice it was always the case in peacetime that those officers who were sick or of a social disposition were posted to the Second Battalion, which hardly ever then saw them; habits were slow to change, the mere declaration of a war insufficient to compete with the demands of the shooting season or Mayfair. The reality in Christchurch was three captains, four now with Septimus, and nine lieutenants; there were five ensigns, only one having gone overseas with the last draft.
Neither of the captains on furlough was expected to be seen until the shooting had tailed off, and there was a strong probability that they would then be caught up in the hunting season – the Army was a social club to them and they had little intention of contributing their presence to it when there were better things to do. Six of the lieutenants were actually present, and all of the ensigns, all of them rapidly being spoiled by idleness although it might be expected that some would still have the potential
to be of use. Browning would not tattle of his messmates and Septimus was unwilling to ask the sergeant-major for his private opinion of the officers – he might be too honest. It seemed wiser simply to bring the eleven together, tell them what the future would hold for them and then bring them to fall in with his wishes – it could be interesting.
Septimus entered the company offices at one minute before two o’clock, saw that all were present.
“Sit down, please, gentlemen. My name is Captain Pearce and I have been placed in charge of training. You will assist me. You will be aware that there is some apprehension of invasion and it is the intention of Horse Guards to bring more men to the Colours and to ensure that they are fit to stand in the line at the earliest possible juncture. We must, therefore, establish an effective training regime.”
There was an absolute silence – eleven expressionless faces staring back or avoiding his eye.
“There will be five companies of between sixty and seventy men in the first instance. Their drill will be perfected first and then they shall turn to musketry. We shall take no more than six months to produce a useful soldier who will hold his place in line and fire three rounds a minute, at minimum. He will be able to march fifteen miles a day, every day, and he will be disciplined, by which I mean he shall be instantly obedient to command and, as well, will be trustworthy when out of his officer’s immediate sight.”
Still no response.
“Officers will match the men, of course, marching with them.”
That brought a reaction, but none of them were willing to stand up and refuse, to take a lead, to offer themselves as target for the wrath of the new man, a man they had all heard of and knew to be an implacable warrior, one who had received early promotion and could expect even more, could very easily end up in direct command of them all.
“Horses will not always be available, gentlemen, and an officer who cannot march will be useless. I have some slight experience of warfare and know this to be so. Have any of you seen the field of battle?”
None had smelt powder and all knew that Septimus had been given his step at such early age in recognition of his valour. They could not argue with his experience, thought it would prove possible nonetheless to reach an acceptable compromise in private – he surely could not expect them to march for fifteen miles a day!
The Soldier Brat (Man of Conflict Series, Book 1) Page 15