An Unwilling Alliance

by Lynn Bryant

  “You’re all right, Rosie, always have been. Though I’m not surprised he’s having trouble marrying you off, you’re not much like the other girls. You coming?”

  “Yes,” Roseen said. The temptation was too great. “Haven’t been out to sea in a while. Although if my Da finds out I’ve been sailing with a pack of common fishermen dressed as a lad at my age he’s going to lock me up for a year.”

  It was glorious all the same to feel the brisk wind in her hair as the neat schooner pulled out of harbour and turned up towards Douglas. She was dressed in an old shirt and rough woollen jacket with a pair of loose trousers too big for her, pulled tight about her waist with a piece of cord. She had used another piece of cord to tie back her dark hair since she could hardly go out dressed as a boy with her hair pinned up. From a distance Roseen supposed she would attract no more attention than the other six men, ranging from Kissack at thirty, down to the youngest Kinvig boy who was barely seventeen.

  She had known them all from childhood and was comfortable with them, immediately at home with ropes and sails, with the feeling of the rough wooden deck under her bare feet. Close up to Douglas Bay, Kissack allowed her to steer for a while and she loved the feeling of power and of freedom that it gave her. She remembered suddenly with a sharp pang exploring the yacht with Hugh in Peel Town and wondered if he had bought it. He had promised to take her sailing and she wished she might have gone to sea with him, just once. There were so many things she had not had time to do with him or say to him and every one of them was a lasting regret.

  After two hours, Kissack called for the boat to come about and Roseen gave way to the more experienced men to get them safely back to Castletown. She perched instead on the roof of the small cabin and looked out over the grey green waves, feeling very peaceful. There was still a risk that her father would find out where she had been and he would be furious but Roseen did not care. It had been worth it for these few hours of physical activity and uncomplicated companionship from men who still saw her as Finlo Crellin’s scrubby small sister and wanted nothing from her but friendship.

  “Sail coming up, Illiam,” John Kinvig called suddenly. “And it’s coming fast.”

  Something in his voice made Roseen’s heart skip a beat. She swivelled round and followed his gaze. All of the other men turned to look at the approaching brig.

  “Oh shit,” Kissack said. “It’s the impress service, lads.”

  “No,” his brother Davy said. “Oh bloody hell, no, I am not going. I’ve got Mary due any day, I can’t leave her…”

  “Calm down,” Kissack said. He was studying the approaching brig. “Nothing we can do to avoid the bastards, they’ve got the speed and they’ve got the guns. Some of us are going.” He looked around, running his eye over the crew. “They won’t take all of us, they’ll leave two or three to get the boat back in. Davy, we’ll tell them you’re the master and you can get back to your wife, she needs you. Pat, you’re too young, they’ll leave you. One more.”

  “What about you, Illiam?”

  “I’ll go. I got us into this, ought to have asked around, checked if they’d been seen in the area. Jonny, see if they’ll let you stay. That way Ma’s only lost me. And I’m tough, I’ll survive it and I’ll get back when I can. Sorry, lads.”

  They were resigned, Roseen realised, understanding that this was a danger all fishermen faced. She looked from one white face to another and was conscious of a burning anger that these men should be free to come here, to her island and take men from their families to fight in a war they had not started and cared nothing about.

  “I could try and talk to them. Make up some story. Perhaps…”

  “No,” Kissack said forcefully. “Not a chance, Rosie. You’ll get below with the others and stay out of sight until they’ve gone. The lads’ll get you back and I know I can trust you to make sure their families are told.”

  “I will,” Roseen said. “And I’ll keep an eye on them, if there’s need. I promise you, all of you. Your folks won’t starve for the lack of your wages this winter.”

  It was all she could do and she went, as ordered, miserable in the little cabin, listening to the navy impress service boarding the fishing boat. She could not hear everything that was said, only the barking of orders. She was cold suddenly, wanting to go home, wanting the comfort of a fire and a hot drink and her father, reliable and solid, telling her that everything would be all right. She would have to tell him now and he would be angry, but his sorrow over the loss of the men would outweigh his anger at her and she knew he would honour her promises to help the families if the loss of their breadwinner left them in need.

  Abruptly the cabin door opened and Kissack appeared. “You need to come out,” he said. “It’s all right, they’ve agreed you’ll stay to get the boat in but they want to make sure there’s nobody else in there.”

  Roseen shuffled out and stood between Davy and Jonny Kissack with the youngest Kinvig boy on the end. The commander of the gang, a burly man of around fifty ducked into the small cabin and emerged a moment later and threw a salute to the officer who had remained on the deck of the brig.

  “Nobody else, sir, not room to hide them on here.”

  “All right. Get them aboard, Wilson and let’s get going.”

  “Aye, sir.” Wilson eyed the remaining crew. “Any trouble mind and I’ll take you as well and let this pile of driftwood sink. Especially that one - looks more like a girl than a boy.”

  The lieutenant aboard the brig gave a crack of laughter. “Well we all know it makes no difference to you, Wilson, you’ll fuck either when you’re drunk enough. Bring him if you like the look of him.”

  Roseen did not move or speak, keeping her eyes down, but she heard Kissack move.

  “No. We’d an agreement and you’ve four good seamen here, no need to go after a lad of his age, he’s too young.”

  “He’s right, Wilson. Get them over.”

  “Aye, sir.” Wilson jerked his head. “Get moving you scurvy Manx bastards, you’re in the navy now.”

  They moved, reluctantly to the edge of the schooner where a rope ladder hung down from the brig. As he passed, Roseen heard Kissack give a soft laugh.

  “Christ, fella, if they’re all as stupid as you are I’m surprised Bonaparte’s not got us beat by now.”

  Wilson turned, lifting the thick cosh he carried and Kissack gave a cry of pain and went down onto the deck.

  “You think that mouth of yours is funny, Manxy boy? Let’s see how much you laugh at this!”

  There were two of them and the blows were hard and vicious. Kissack gave two more cries and then fell silent but Wilson continued to strike him. Roseen thought of the hours she had spent with Illiam as a girl. He had taught her to sail and taught her to swim. He had also taught her to fight and two weeks ago it had saved her from a rapist. She moved forward, ignoring the startled cries of the other crewmen, put her head down and ran at the big man, hitting him squarely in the midriff. It drove the breath from him with a whoosh and he sat down hard on the deck.

  “Leave him alone, you’re killing him!” Roseen yelled, and then something hit her hard from behind and she felt herself falling forwards. Pain exploded in her neck and head and another blow caught her across the face. She heard a voice, the voice of the officer on the brig.

  “Oh for God’s sake, Wilson, he’s half your size, you’re pathetic. Get them up here now, we need to go!”

  It was the last thing Roseen remembered hearing.

  Chapter Nine

  Troop ships had been arriving all day in the Kattegut, the sea between Jutland in the west, the islands of Denmark to the south and the Swedish provinces to the east. It was a bright sunny day with a stiff breeze and the deck of every transport was bright with red coats as the officers of the British army enjoyed the fresh air and watched the ships sail in, joining the fleet of Admiral Gambier which was already at anchor off the Danish coast. Major Paul van Daan, at the rail of the fireship Horace, surve
yed the scene with some enjoyment.

  His transport, bearing half his officers and four companies of the first battalion of the 110th infantry had sailed in early, with the rest of the battalion on a neighbouring ship. No orders had come through about disembarkation yet and Paul suspected they would not. The political situation was still very unclear and he imagined that diplomatic dispatches were flying backwards and forwards between the army and navy commanders, the Danish authorities, the government in London and possibly the Russians whose emperor’s sudden concord with Napoleon Bonaparte had given a frantic purpose to this expedition.

  Paul had been in Dublin with five companies of the 110th when he had received his promotion to major and with it the news that he would take command of the first battalion under Sir Arthur Wellesley in Denmark. The promotion had come at a relatively young age and he had leapfrogged a number of older and longer serving captains in the regiment. The commander of the second battalion, Major Middleton was in his fifties and considering retirement but there were several men who could have claimed Paul’s promotion as their due.

  Paul was trying hard not to feel defensive about his good fortune, but he was under no illusions that the main factor in his success had been financial. Under the traditional system, promotion was offered to the next man in line in the regiment. If none were able to come up with the purchase price, the commission could be sold to an officer from another regiment wanting to transfer for promotion. The Duke of York, who had made admirable attempts to reform some of the abuses of the system, had put in place length of service conditions for promotion to captain and major which were effective in peacetime although might be breached during campaigns when officers were in short supply. Paul had barely reached the specified time when the promotion had been offered and in his battalion alone at least four other captains had served longer; more if the second battalion were taken into account.

  Money had made the difference. Paul’s mother had been the daughter of a viscount but his father was from a trade background and had made an impressive fortune in shipping and finance. When the elderly Colonel Dixon had decided to retire, his commission was sold to Major Johnstone who was in command of the first battalion. Paul, puzzled by Wellesley’s conviction that the majority was his if he was willing to pay for it, had quickly realised that the colonel was expecting his retirement to be funded by a premium on the sale of his colonelcy, a premium which Johnstone could only afford if he added the sum onto the sale of his own commission.

  The premium was strictly against regulations but Paul was aware that they were an open secret in fashionable regiments, where commissions were sometimes sold for twice the regulation price set by the government. He was faintly amused at the approach by the regimental agent, with Dixon and Johnstone remaining at a discreet distance as if the negotiations might sully their hands. Commissions in the 110th did not generally command much of a premium; it was a relatively new regiment with no history and little reputation thus far, but Colonel Dixon was very well aware of both the personal fortune and the ambition of his wealthiest company officer and had taken the gamble.

  Grimly aware that he was about to be fleeced, Paul had gone back to his mentor, Sir Arthur Wellesley who was in London on Parliamentary business and invited him to dine at the Van Daans’ London home in Curzon Street. Paul’s father and brother were away in Leicestershire and they had dined privately and sat afterwards over a good port.

  “Have you received your commission, Major?” Wellesley had said. They had talked, during dinner, of neutral matters; of the current situation in India and the proposed expedition to Denmark. They had also spoken of politics and the latest London scandals. Paul had been waiting to see if his chief would raise the subject.

  “Not yet. I am trying to decide if it is worth the extremely over-inflated price I am being asked to pay for it.”

  Wellesley gave one of his barking laughs. “Expensive, is it? Yes, I’d heard that Dixon is in need of funds.”

  “Colonel Dixon,” Paul said, sipping the port, “is currently still my commanding officer so it would be unthinkable of me to call him an avaricious old goat. At least anywhere he can hear me.”

  “What makes you think I won’t report that, Major?”

  “You never report any of the other appalling things I say to you in private, sir, so I’m cautiously optimistic.”

  “Are you going to pay it?”

  Paul pulled a face. “Sir, it’s not the money. It just galls me that he’s making that kind of profit out of a system which shouldn’t allow it. There are at least six or seven other men in the regiment who are eligible for this promotion. We can discount Longford, Wheeler, Cookson and Graham - none of them could raise even the regulation price. Which is a good thing in Longford’s case because he’s an incompetent arsehole who shouldn’t hold the commission he does. But men like Gervase Clevedon and Kit Young and Jerry Flanagan…they’ve every right to be furious if I buy in over their heads. I really want this. But I have to serve with these men.”

  Wellesley reached for the decanter. “It is your choice, Major. Would it help if I told you that even if you do not accept it, somebody else will.”

  Paul raised his eyebrows. “Into the 110th? Have we suddenly become fashionable without my noticing it?”

  “No,” Wellesley said with a laugh. “But sometimes it is more than that. Have you come across Captain Edmund Willoughby?”

  Paul frowned, puzzled. “If I have, I don’t remember him. Which regiment?”

  “He has served variously in the 4th, the 10th and the 24th. Moved each time for promotion and he has come up very fast indeed. Faster than you have.”

  “How?”

  “Money. Connections. A considerable enthusiasm on the part of a very high ranking member of the peerage to see his natural son progress. He’ll use the 110th as a stepping stone; the timing is very convenient for him. Would you like me to tell you how many weeks’ actual combat experience he has?”

  Paul met the hooded eyes across the table. “Sir, are you applying emotional blackmail to get me to cough up the money for this piece of highway robbery we are calling a promotion? Is this gentleman likely to get my battalion killed in his first action with them?”

  “I imagine it is very possible,” Wellesley said tranquilly. “Either that or you will be on trial for shooting him in the head to prevent it. Paul, I am sorry. The system is what it is, and I don’t disapprove of it. More often than not, the men who purchase commissions are men I am glad to have serving under me. Like yourself. But it is open to abuse at times. If you do not buy it, Willoughby will and you will be serving under a man who has no idea what he is doing. You have first refusal, you are a member of the regiment. Swallow your resentment and pay the price, none of the other officers of the 110th can afford it and I am reliably informed by several members of the peerage who owe him money, that your father will never notice the difference in his indecent fortune. Your officers will understand; they like you and they all know how it works. You are in a position to ensure that the regiment has Johnstone in command and you beside him and it will not be long before Major Middleton is ready to move on - if his excesses do not kill him first - and Colonel Johnstone will ensure that his majority goes to the right person for the right price; he isn’t greedy.”

  Paul thought for a moment and nodded unsmilingly. “All right. I’ll pay the ransom, sir, just as long as I get to call it what it is. And as long as that smarmy bugger Filbey understands that it includes Johnny Wheeler’s promotion to command the light company. I don’t give a damn what I have to pay for that one; he should have had it years ago.”

  Wellesley gave a slight smile and picked up his glass. “I am glad,” he said. “A toast, then. To your promotion and to Captain John Wheeler. I do not think you will regret it, Major.”

  With the exception of Captain Vincent Longford, who loathed Paul, the other officers had been surprisingly understanding. Paul suspected that he had Lieutenant Swanson to thank for a good
deal of their acceptance. He had told his boyhood friend about his conversation with Wellesley and he suspected that the rest of the officers of the 110th were very well aware that their choice had been between Paul and an unknown outsider. There was a cohesion about the 110th now, that had not existed when he had first joined and although he was sure they had grumbled amongst themselves about middle class upstarts with money, they would rather have their own monied upstart than Captain Willoughby about whom they knew nothing.

  “It looks like mayhem out there,” a voice said beside him and Paul turned and smiled at Captain Johnny Wheeler who now commanded his light company and was his unofficial second-in-command.

  “It’s probably better organised than it looks. The navy mostly knows what it’s doing. I’m guessing they’ve anchored here to await further orders. God knows what is going on.”

  “Any news from Wellesley?” Johnny asked.

  Paul shook his head. “Not yet, but he must be on his way; he was sailing directly from the Nore with his staff.” Paul straightened. “Not sure about Lord Cathcart yet - not sure about anything to be honest. And I suspect I’m not the only one.”

  “I’m sure we’ll know a lot more when Wellesley gets here. Pretty place, this,” Johnny said and Paul looked again across the white-capped waves towards the shore of Sweden.

  “Isn’t it?” he said. “Poor bastards, I doubt Bonaparte will leave them alone for long. But I think they’re safe enough from our lads, it’s not worth them going ashore, we won’t be here for long enough.”

  He surveyed the rocky shore of Vinga, a series of islands and outcrops with a small lighthouse on the top. There was little sign of habitation near the coast although he could see huddles of whitewashed houses further inland and in the distance several larger buildings in red and white which might have been big houses or might have been public buildings. Smoke spiralled lazily from several chimneys and a small fishing boat was moored at a wooden dock. A lone figure was tying it up, his movements frantic and Paul wondered in some amusement what a Swedish fisherman made of the fleet of warships and troop transports collecting off the coast.