06 A Soldier’s Farewell (Man of Conflict #6)

by Andrew Wareham

  “They must settle to a mundane, humdrum existence – if they can, Septimus. The Army will contract, become far smaller, leaving them in many cases to earn a living, if they can. That is a point, you know, sir, what will a man do who has been a lieutenant or captain living on his pay on campaign? His pay will cease and what skills can he bring to bear then? Half-pay will barely support a gentleman – but what will bring him a living?”

  Septimus had little idea, was only glad that he was not in that case.

  “Go to America and take up land as a settler? Or to Botany Bay as a free man - they say there are huge tracts of wheat and sheep land there. Or Canada, of course, or the Cape perhaps. I do not know. I suspect that for many the end of the war will be the end of their free existence. They will settle as poorly paid ushers in schools or as agents to other men’s estates. Many will be unable to maintain the status of a gentleman, I suspect. We may well see the carrier on the road and discover a lieutenant who had just the cash to buy a wagon and a pair of horses and make a living as a carter, sleeping under his van at night. I feel a great pity for them, who will have given so much to their country and received so little in return.”

  “But not us, fortunately, sir.”

  “No indeed. I must make a success of this command, and then, I suspect, I will not be forgotten. There will be something for me. If there is not, we are well off and can leave a respectable income to the children. I would like more land, of course, but we are more than comfortable as it is. I must set aside a portion for Sarah, but that will not be impossible now – she will be able to wed well, if she so wishes.”

  They travelled to London, blessing a dry spell that allowed them to complete the journey in a long day; once in Town they patronised tailor and dressmaker and refurbished their court wear, for they must show correctly in front of the Prince Regent.

  “It is a handsome uniform, but it would do better for a Star or some such embellishment, sir!”

  “An Order, in fact, my dear. I rather doubt that such will come my way. Do we know who is in London and may be at the levee? It would be pleasant was there a gentleman or two with whom I could talk.”

  Colonel Perceval was present, to receive the smile of the Prince Regent as he was commended on the service of his battalion. Major Taft stood one-armed just behind him, sharing his glory.

  The pair had followed Septimus in the receiving line and joined him after passing through the aura of the Royal presence and his formal enlargement to his peerage.

  “The old fellow’s ridiculously fat these days, sir! My lord, I must happily say! Do I hear you are to have a brigade on the French frontier, my lord?”

  “I am indeed, Colonel Perceval. I am to attempt to whip a bunch of Boney’s veterans, now called Dutch-Belgics, into some sort of shape to resist a Frog invasion or lead one of our own should the man return from Elba.”

  “Should have hanged the bugger – that would have put him in his place!”

  Major Taft agreed – sending the Emperor into exile had been a half-measure, a typical politician’s bodge.

  “I am in need of staff again, of course, though I expect some to come knocking at my door.”

  “The problem will be sorting through them, my lord – the government is disbanding new regiments and second battalions with what can only be called frantic haste. Their only interest is to find a way to cut taxes. The navy has almost shut up shop, despite the protests of John Company and the Levant interest. Damned politicians are likely to ruin the country – doing Boney’s work for him!”

  Colonel Perceval was bitter, certain that his own battalion would suffer before too many months had passed.

  “Word is that a few battalions are to go to Assist the Civil Power in the North Country, my lord. Others are to hold Malta and Corfu and the Seven Islands and Gibraltar in the Mediterranean, and there will be a presence on the Cape of Good Hope, in addition to India and the Spice Islands. Even so, there will be a hundred thousand of soldiers discharged within a few months, and as many sailors – and where are they to find work, my lord?”

  “Where indeed, Colonel Perceval!”

  “My wife’s father is not a happy man, I can tell you, my lord. He sees misery for the many, leading to Revolution. Who are these men with no jobs? Trained soldiers, that’s who! And sailormen who are used to every hardship, fierce and bold. Will they settle to starvation?”

  Septimus had not considered the problem in such stark terms; he was forced to admit that Colonel Perceval’s words made sense.

  “They must be given the Poor Law, despite the cost. And then sent to the Americas, I can see nothing else for it.”

  “If they will go, and can pay for a ticket.”

  “There must be Emigration Societies formed to pay for the able-bodied poor who wish to go, that will be the only answer, Colonel Perceval.”

  It made sense, they agreed, then they turned their minds to more congenial matters.

  “Will you go to half-pay now, Major Taft?”

  “I think I shall, my lord. My father has it in mind for me to take a wife, I believe – and, provided he settles on a sensible match, then I shall put aside my uniform for a year or two. Three or four years, perhaps, my lord. Then it’s purchase again and take my place on the ladder of seniority until I become Major-General and am given a command of a sensible garrison, not too big and not very important, for I am not likely to be seen as fit for the rigours of the field. Five years doing the pretty, without untoward scandal, and I shall be set to the unemployed list, never to work again and with a title of sorts to pay me off. Baronet is very probable, for my father can pull the strings and has the readies to grease a palm or two. A respectable addition to the family, I shall be, probably to be set to work on the occasional Board or Committee of Inquiry, and made baron at sixty, to the delight of all. To be quite honest, my lord, I am looking forward to the life. I have had some excitement, and you have made me into a man rather than a layabout boy, and I am really rather pleased with my existence, though I could have done without losing the arm. My father bade me offer his best compliments, I must add, my lord.”

  A slightly confused account, but sincere, Septimus believed. The Tafts were friends.

  Colonel Perceval quietly commented that his own father and brother had also expressed their delight at Septimus’ well-earned rise in the world.

  “One or two of our acquaintance as well, my lord, have commented that if Bonaparte should attempt a come-back then it will be as well to have some trustworthy soldiers already in the field. I am told that the Duke of Wellington was asked his opinion of the wisdom of leaving only Dutch-Belgic forces in the Low Countries and expressed a wish for you – by name – to be posted there.”

  “I could ask no better recommendation, I believe, Colonel Perceval.”

  “So say I, my lord.”

  Septimus spotted Banastre Tarleton making his way through the crowd as Perceval and Taft withdrew; he decided he must not mention Wellington’s name in Tarleton’s company.

  “Lord Pearce! I wish you joy of your rise in the world, my lord!”

  “Thank you, sir! I am still in a state of amaze and joy that it has come about, I must say.”

  “A well-deserved promotion, my lord! You have returned the colony of New Ireland to the Crown, where it properly belongs. I had some hopes that you might attempt an invasion, and that an expedition from England might then complete the endeavour; I was amazed, and delighted, to discover that you achieved the whole task in a brief and sweeping campaign! I had, I must say, observed your abilities at a previous date – but this I did not expect! I am told you are to have an independent Brigade in Flanders, my lord?”

  “I am indeed, Sir Banastre. A Dutch-Belgic force of very doubtful loyalty, I am told. I must see what can be achieved with them. Tell me, sir, you being au fait with London news, do we expect Bonaparte to stay content in the confines of Elba?”

  “He was reported to be fatigued and in low spirits, my lord, at the end
of the war. It is possible that he will never recover that vitality of the animal spirits that was so strong in him as Emperor. So the gossips say, my lord.”

  “But you do not agree with them, Sir Banastre?”

  “He will be in Paris in a very few months, and the Frogs will fete him! And, my lord, I will whisper that we should respond by welcoming him. This French King is a very shabby sort of monarch, you know. We should very simply inform the Emperor Napoleon that we will welcome him in France, under the borders of 1792, and that we shall be pleased to assist him in conquests of colonies in the Berber States of Africa. From Tripoli to Casablanca there are rich lands abused by the primitives of Barbary and Morocco. Should France wish to bring the benefits of civilisation to those lands, then it would be undertaking a noble task. We should not waste our substance on yet another war, my lord – and I know that you will agree with me. You have seen more of war than I, and must regard battle as an aberration, unfit for civilised man.”

  It seemed a fraction enthusiastic to Septimus; Tarleton had made several attempts to take command of the armies in Spain from Lord Wellington, which was hardly the behaviour of a man who was out of love with war.

  “Do you believe that Bonaparte would accept the loss of all of his conquests on the Continent, Sir Banastre? Would he not demand some part of the Italian and German States, and at least the return of Wallonia, the French speaking part of the Lowlands?”

  “Who is to say, my lord? Was we to talk to him, rather than instantly declare him outlaw, as has been mooted, then we might persuade him to pursue a course of moderation. I do not know, but I cannot imagine that we are right to blindly support the foolish King of France. You have heard what is said of him, my lord? In twenty years of exile, he has learnt nothing and he has forgotten nothing. He is, in other words, the same sort of despotic fool who created the Revolution of ’89. We have fought for nearly a quarter of a century, and for nothing!”

  “A shame if that is so, Sir Banastre.”

  “It is indeed. In fact, of course, we have made certain gains, whatever happens in France. The whole of India is ours, and so are the great majority of the Sugar Islands. Canada is safe, and we have New Ireland too! The China trade is almost entirely ours. The richest parts of Africa – the Cape and its sheep lands - are in our control. Botany Bay is a foothold on a great continent. In the Mediterranean there is Malta, which controls the whole sea, and we have the Seven Islands as well. Gibraltar of course will never cease to be part of Britain. We are well-placed to become masters of the whole world – or of all of its riches, my lord – and that because of the efforts of our soldiers and sailors. What, in fact, do we care for Bonaparte?”

  Rather a lot, Septimus thought, if he chose to mount an invasion through that land which held his little brigade.

  “You will be seeking staff officers, I believe, Lord Pearce.”

  “I shall, Sir Banastre, though the bulk have already been chosen.”

  Septimus had no wish at all to be placed in Tarleton’s political camp.

  “I am too late, pipped at the post, one might say. It is no surprise, my lord – there are few places on offer at the moment, and you have a name as a fighting and successful soldier. There will be many young men anxious to serve with you.”

  It was a flattering thought, Septimus felt.

  They exchanged bows and Tarleton moved on to another potential source of political influence, his scheming unending, and rarely successful.

  Marianne had stood silent, ignored rather rudely by Tarleton.

  “Who was that gentleman, my lord? You called him Sir Banastre. Was he the hero of the War of Independence, the dashing light cavalryman?”

  “Just so, my lady. Tarleton, once the most handsome and debonair gallant of them all. But that was more than thirty years ago, and Time has wreaked its changes on his countenance.”

  “Poor fellow! He seems not to realise that he is not the young man of three decades since. Was that a corset I heard to creak as he bowed?”

  “Sh! What a thing to say – the poor man would be shattered was he to hear such an imputation!”

  “There is another bearing down upon us, my lord. Who is he?”

  “Lord Uxbridge. I had not thought him to be in England, had imagined he was to go to the armies in the Low Countries.”

  Uxbridge was a well-preserved gentleman in his mid-forties, and was a senior cavalry general, on unfortunate terms with Lord Wellington since running off with his brother’s wife.

  “Lord Pearce, I believe, and you must be Lady Pearce, ma’am.”

  They exchanged bows, noticing that Uxbridge offered more than a dismissive bob.

  “I am pleased to greet you, Lord Pearce, and to offer my congratulations on your well-deserved promotion to the Upper House. I have had an eye out for you for some years, sir, since that damnably handled business at Corunna. Few regiments came out of that with any credit, but yours did well indeed. I believe that Moore was less than pleased with you?”

  “We crossed swords on the retreat, my lord. General Moore was much distressed by the misconduct of some of our troops and wished to bring them back to discipline. It was an impossible task, and I told him so.”

  “So I heard. There are those who regard General Moore as one of our greatest soldiers, I believe. I doubt you would agree, my lord?”

  “On the contrary, my lord. He was a fine soldier – it was as a general that he failed.”

  “Oh! Well said, Lord Pearce! I shall bring that comment out myself, sir – most apt!”

  Septimus was rather pleased himself, particularly as it was entirely spontaneous. He thought it was quite possibly the best thing he had ever said.

  Just a few minutes later, as they stood on the fringes of the crowd, trying to put a name to vaguely recognised faces, General Hill appeared, a smile on his kindly face.

  “Lord Pearce, such a pleasure, my lord! And you, ma’am are Lady Pearce, from the description your husband gave me.”

  “My lord, a pleasure to greet you – a friendly face is very welcome here! The gentleman is Lord Hill, my dear.”

  Daddy Hill had been some few months in London, sitting as an MP for a time before his elevation to the House of Lords.

  “Lord Pearce, you are to go across to the Low Countries, of course, but you should take your seat in the House before you go. I much trust you will often be seen there, my lord, for there is a great need for men of achievements there, rather than simply those of fortuitous birth.”

  He turned to Marianne, commented that he had a great respect for her husband, a rare soldier, he believed.

  “The country will have a need of Lord Pearce’s services during the years of peace one so much hopes are to come.”

  The hotel servants grew spiteful over the next few days, unendingly running upstairs to inform Lord Pearce that there was a military gentleman begging his attention, or leaving notes if he was out. A stream of well-connected ensigns, lieutenants and captains brought themselves to his attention in person. A greater flow of parents and uncles introduced their family to him as worthy aides, ideal members of his staff.

  He had taken advice from the Tafts and Percevals again, had discovered which families were at daggers-drawn with His Grace of Wellington and took pains to refuse their blandishments. It would do him no good at all to surround himself with the Duke’s enemies.

  Four days had brought six men to his train, all approved by his advisors. He had retained Marianne’s cousin Rowlands, because he had developed a reluctant liking for the boy since he had fought back from a wound that could have crippled him, had he permitted it. Additionally, he appointed one captain, three lieutenants and a single ensign, so that there would be one at least junior to Rowlands and because he was related to the Lord Lieutenant of Hampshire, a man with a claim on Septimus’ loyalty.

  All of his new staff other than the ensign had seen service in the Peninsular Army, had fought in one at least of its battles.

  Captain Forsythe ha
d marched with an infantry battalion from Torres Vedras to Toulouse, was a true veteran. Septimus had taken him because he knew how to train and drill a company of infantry of the line and then how to take them into a fight. From the little he had heard from the Low Countries – and gossip in Town was surprisingly thin on the topic of the Dutch-Belgic forces – their own officers were distinguished more for their personal loyalty to the House of Orange than for any military distinction, and they would need some very direct assistance in working their men.

  Lieutenants Hendry and Worthington and Tanner were also infantrymen, had experience as well, two of them with Light Companies, often used at the very front of an advance or battlefield.

  Ensign Porteous had almost reached the field at Toulouse, but had joined a day late, reached the scene in time to assist in clearing the particularly bloody battleground. He knew something of conflict as a result.

  All four of the senior men spoke competent French, and Porteous claimed to have a smattering of French and some Dutch. They explained how it came about when Septimus invited them to dinner before he returned to Dorset.

  Septimus gathered that the men’s fluency resulted from the boredom of winter service in the camps of the Peninsula; for those officers without the means to take a ship home for three months, or who were unable to persuade their colonel to allow them furlough, the winters had been dreary and slow and they had taken to learning and self-improvement to pass their days.

  “Fortunately, my lord, I avoided the siren song of the Bible thumpers, and let my soul look after itself, but more than one officer, and supposed gentleman, fell to their temptations. The Duke was distinctly upset, one understands, could not find it in him to approve; he was firmly of the opinion that such activities did the men no harm but were not at all the thing for a man of gentle birth.”