'Calm down.' Richard raised a hand. 'This is not solving anything. Arthur, can you blame us for the perception you create of yourself? I, at least, believe that you have some potential.'
'Why, thank you, brother.'
'So why act the fop?'
Arthur made a hurt expression. 'I thought I was acting the dandy.'
Richard smiled. 'Either way, you can't keep this performance up for ever.'
'We'll see. I'm game.'
'I'm sure you are, Arthur. But the question is, when are you going to stop punishing us for what you see as your own failings? Acting as you do will not change things. It makes you look foolish and irresponsible. And it reflects badly on the rest of the family. So you see, no one wins. In fact, we all lose.You most of all.You must see that?'
Arthur shrugged. 'So what should I do?'
'Just as Mother says. Join the army. Commit yourself to the career. I'm sure you will do well. And, if any opportunity comes up outside the army, for which I deem you suitable, then you might want to pursue a new path instead.'
'I see.You quietly thrust me into the army so I can stop being an embarrassment to the family. If you're lucky there might even be another war, or some plague-ridden posting halfway across the world for which I might be deemed suitable. That would dispose of me very satisfactorily.'
'No one's trying to get rid of you, Arthur. We just want what's best for you. If there is a war, who knows, it might be the making of you.'
Arthur suddenly felt very weary of it all. He had hoped for some kind of a reconciliation with his family, some kind of acceptance that he could do just as well as them, in a field of his own choosing.
'I need to think about this. I need a rest. Somewhere quiet. Mother?'
'Upstairs,' she replied. 'First door on the left. Be sure to take your shoes off before you take to the bed. I'll send for you when the meal is served. Please be in a more convivial mood at the table.'
'Thank you.'Arthur left the room.As he mounted the stairs the conversation in the parlour resumed at a low level. He was tempted to stop, and listen, but it was pointless. He already knew what would be said.
As if to confirm his expectations William's voice suddenly rose up.'I've never known such monstrous ingratitude! Why, the fellow has the audacity to blame us for his shortcomings!'
'Thank you, William,' Richard cut in. 'But we need to be a little more productive in our contributions right now.'
Arthur smiled tiredly, and carried on up the stairs. The room his mother had suggested was dark and cold, but the bed was comfortable and had been made up with thick quilts. Once his shoes had been removed he drew his stockinged feet up beneath the covers, curled up in a ball and closed his eyes. For a while his mind turned over his prospects. In truth he was tired of being directionless.The diversions that he had enjoyed in London were just that and nothing more. His heart and mind ached for something more nourishing, and he was not yet wholly convinced that a life in the army would fill that need. Even though Colonel Ross had cut an elegant figure, and one that Arthur would happily emulate, he could not help suspecting that the military regime was as subservient to routine as the dull halls of Eton, though marginally more dangerous.
Chapter 35
On 17 March 1787 a message arrived at Lady Mornington's house. It was addressed to the Honourable Arthur Wesley and although there was no external indication of where the message had come from, she knew at once what it must be and had it sent up to her son's room as soon as it arrived. At the tap on his door Arthur laid down the book he had been reading.
'Come.'
The door opened and one of the two footmen that Lady Mornington could afford stepped into the room. He carried a small silver tray on which rested a letter. Arthur tried not to smile. The letter salve was one of his mother's latest affectations, picked up on the tail end of a fashion that had swept through the best houses in the capital.
'For you, sir.' The footman offered him the salve with a slight bow. 'Arrived just this minute.'
'Thank you, Harrington.' Arthur took the letter. 'You may go.'
The footman bowed again and left the room, quietly closing the door behind him. Arthur wasted no time in breaking the wafer that sealed the letter and unfolding it.The message was terse and formal, as he had expected, and briefly informed him that he had been gazetted as an ensign in the 73rd Highland Regiment. Not terribly exclusive, Arthur mused, but Richard had done his best. Arthur would have preferred a cavalry regiment commission with all the associated dash, but Richard had been adamant that such a commission would have been unreasonably costly to obtain and sustain. The artillery was out of the question since it would make quite unfair demands on Arthur's intellect. Besides, that branch of the army tended to be so professional that its officers might as well be employed in some form of trade. So his commission had to be in an infantry regiment. But, by God, did it have to be a Scottish regiment? Did that mean he had to wear one of those bloody ridiculous kilts? Or were officers permitted to dress in a more civilised manner? Arthur read on.
The regiment was temporarily attached to the garrison in Chelsea Barracks. Ensign Wesley was requested and required to attend the barracks to formally take up his commission on 24 March. Thereafter, he would be inducted into the duties of an officer of infantry by the drill instructor at the barracks.
Arthur folded up the letter and tapped it against his chin as he reflected that his military career was at last about to begin. In the months since Christmas he had resigned himself to this path, and had therefore done as much background reading into military matters as possible. Whatever else he may have failed at in his life so far, Arthur was determined that he would be a good soldier at least. One that even his family would come to admire, however grudgingly.
The uniform and other accoutrements he had ordered arrived from the tailor the day before he was due to attend the Chelsea Barracks.With a sense of excitement that was palpable to all those who shared the house with him, Arthur dressed in the full uniform and then stood in front of a full-length mirror in his mother's room and gazed at his reflection. He presented quite a striking image, he decided. He buffed the shiny buttons on his coat with his sleeve and left the room, descending the narrow staircase into the hall, before striding purposefully towards the door to the parlour. Inside, his mother and oldest brother turned to look at him.
'Now that is something to see!' Richard grinned. 'Quite the man.'
Anne raised her hands and beckoned to him. 'Arthur, I had no idea that you could look so… so gallant! You'll have to use that sword of yours to fight the young ladies off.'
'In that case, you have my word that the blade shall never see the light of day,' Arthur laughed. 'But I doubt I shall be able to afford much entertainment on an ensign's pay. Eight shillings a day! It's a wonder that the army can attract any new officers. I had no idea that offering to fight for one's country was charity work.'
Richard punched him lightly on the shoulder. 'I agree with you. Eight shillings a day is hardly a fortune. So you must earn quick promotion, bed and wed a wealthy woman, or we must find you as many powerful patrons as possible. The present Duke of Rutland will not be with us much longer. But there are others who owe me favours.'
'Good,' Arthur replied. 'Because, in the absence of war I'll need all the help I can get.'
At nine o'clock the next morning Ensign Arthur Wesley presented himself at the barrack gates with his official letter of introduction. A corporal conducted him to the officers' mess and he was immediately taken through to the office of the 73rd's adjutant. Captain Braithwaite was a middle-aged, middle-weight man with a sour expression and a face blotchy with burst blood vessels from too much drinking. As Arthur entered his office the captain was walking up and down the room in great strides. He glanced up at the new arrival as he turned and strode back across the room.
'New boots,' he explained. 'The shoemaker claims to have a technique for enhancing the comfort, but I can't feel a bloody thing.' He stopped cl
ose to Arthur and scowled angrily. 'Man's a confounded liar!'
'Yes, sir.'
'Who the bloody hell are you?'
'Ensign Arthur Wesley, reporting for duty, sir.' Arthur held out his document.
'Where's the salute then, Wesley? I'm your superior officer. Come on, man, salute me!'
Arthur reproduced the effort he had made at the barracks gate and the captain snorted with derision. 'You'll need to work on that, Wesley. Before you meet the colonel.'
'Yes, sir. Is the colonel at headquarters? I was given to understand that I was supposed to report to him.'
'The colonel's not here. Went to a party with him last night and he disappeared with some slip of a girl. Still shagging her senseless, if I'm any judge of the man.'
'Oh…'
'So you'll have to let me write you into the books. You'll be the replacement for that fool, Ensign Vernon. Got himself crushed by an ammunition cart.That was three months ago.We applied for a new ensign and, well, you can see how swiftly the bureaucratic cogs turn in the army. It's a wonder we got a replacement at all, I suppose. So you are most welcome, Mr Wesley.'
'Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.'
'Now, if you don't mind, I have some boots to return to my shoemaker. My staff sergeant will take care of the paperwork. Then he can show you around the barracks and you can be introduced to that rabble you'll be commanding.' He turned his head and shouted over Arthur's shoulder. 'Phillips!'
'Yes, sir!' A voice answered from another doorway and a moment later a tall, thin and perfectly turned-out sergeant stamped to attention.
'This is Ensign Wesley. Get him entered on the strength and written into the pay books. He's taking over MrVernon's position in Captain Ford's company. Once you're finished at headquarters take Mr Wesley over to the mess and open an account for him.'
'Yes, sir.'
'Good day, Wesley.' Braithwaite nodded towards the door and Arthur turned and started towards it when a shout stopped him in his tracks. 'Salute!'
Arthur spun round and swept his arm up to his brow. 'Sorry, sir.'
'Don't apologise, Wesley. Just do it in future.'
'Yes, sir.'
Arthur followed Sergeant Phillips back to the room he shared with the other clerks. Once Arthur had been given his pay book, the sergeant escorted him to the officers' mess. Only two of the battalion's officers were present and one of them was sleeping on a seat in the corner, a London newspaper lying open across his face. The other officer was eating a breakfast of devilled kidneys and nodded a welcome to Arthur as he passed through the room to the mess sergeant's office in a small room at the back. Phillips entered Arthur's name in the ledger and immediately added a figure of two shillings in the credit column.
'Membership fee,' he explained. 'Payable every month, or part thereof, sir.'
'I see. Any other charges I should be aware of?'
Sergeant Phillips counted them off on his fingers. 'Funeral club. Wedding club. Do you hunt, sir?'
'Let me guess. Pack subscription?'
'Yes, sir. We've a share in the Guards' hunt. Helps keep prices down.'
'Is it compulsory to join?'
'Only if you require friends and something of a social life, sir.'
Arthur frowned. 'Anything else?'
'Only food, lodgings and kit, Otherwise, your pay is your own, sir.'
'That's a great comfort. I believe we are to meet my men.'
'Yes, sir. This way.'
Arthur was taken to the barracks, and while he waited outside, Sergeant Phillips went in and shouted orders for the men to assemble outside, in full uniform. There was a chaos of shouting and scraping of clothes chests before the first men emerged from the wide doorway and hurried into position before standing at ease. Arthur took care to examine each man carefully, noting the surly expression in most faces as they had been hauled from the warm fug of their quarters into a cold, damp late winter morning. Then he pointed to one of the corporals.
'You! Come here.'
The corporal hurried over and stood at attention in front of Arthur.
'What's your name?'
'Campbell, sir.'
'Right Campbell, you see that meal scales over there?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Right then, Campbell, here's what I want you to do.' As he explained, Sergeant Phillips leaned into the barracks and screamed at the last few men still inside. 'Come on, you beauties! Move yourselves! Or the last man out is on a charge!'
As the last of the men took up his position, Arthur puffed his chest out and strode along the front rank of the company. So these were the men of the 73rd Highland Regiment: dour-faced for the most part, roughly shaven and smelling of the damp, sweat and smoke of a crowded barrack room. Every one of them looked to be older than the fresh-faced ensign staring down his long nose at them. Arthur froze for a moment as he desperately tried to summon up the strength to address these men, the likes of which he had rarely encountered before, and never en masse.
He cleared his throat, drew himself up and began. 'Good day to you, gentlemen!'
Silence, and seventy-odd expressionless faces. Arthur felt like turning away and having Sergeant Phillips dismiss these men. Perhaps he could face them another time. Another day. NO! Arthur clenched his fists. He was committed now. Either he act the part of an officer or quit the army immediately. He cleared his throat again.
'I am the Honourable Arthur Wesley, newly appointed ensign to this company. I aim to do my duty and learn the skills of the trade… our trade, as soon as I humanly can. Therefore I ask for your forbearance in the weeks ahead while I become worthy enough to serve alongside fine men like you. It is my intention to know exactly what I can demand of the men I command. How far they can march, how well they can shoot and how hard I can expect them to fight.' He paused to see if his words had had any kind of impact, but the men stared straight ahead as before with no sign of their reaction. Arthur smiled to himself. No doubt some of them had been addressed by so many new officers during their service that they saw him as just the latest face in a chain of young gentlemen from whose lips spewed the platitudes of the first ever such address. Well, today things were going to be a little different. They were going to remember Ensign Wesley.
'It is my intention to start my learning here and now.' Arthur glanced over to where the corporal was busy attaching a large empty water butt to the feed scales.Then Arthur looked along the front rank until his eyes came to rest on a man about halfway along, a well-proportioned individual in his mid-thirties with a shock of dark hair. Arthur pointed to him.
'What's your name?'
'Stern, sir.'
'Stern, get your full marching kit, and musket.' The soldier glanced to Sergeant Phillips as if asking for confirmation. Arthur snapped at him, 'Do it! Now!'
'Yes, sir.' The man fell out and ran back into the barracks. Arthur turned to the sergeant. 'I want you to give him the standard issue of cartridges for a soldier on campaign.'
'Yes, sir.'The sergeant turned and ran off towards the barracks' arsenal. When Private Stern and the sergeant returned and the soldier had placed the cartridges in his belly belt, Arthur quickly examined him to make sure that all the kit he expected to see was there. 'Where's your blackjack?'
'Couldn't find it, sir.'
'Then we'll use another man's.' Arthur jerked his thumb back at the barracks. The soldier trotted off, accoutrements jingling as he went. He returned an instant later with a leather beaker and fastened it to his belt.
'That's better,' Arthur nodded. 'Now get in the water butt over there, the one the corporal has attached to the feed scales. Come on, Private! Quickly now.'
The private doubled across the yard and clambered over the side of the butt and squatted down inside, so that his head and shoulders and the barrel of his musket protruded above the rim.
'Corporal, you can weigh him now.'
'Yes, sir.'
Arthur had the man weighed in full kit, then without his pack so that he would be at t
he same weight as when he was in battle, and finally the soldier was ordered to strip down to his plain uniform and boots before the last weighing. Deducting the man's weight in uniform from the total of his marching rig gave Arthur the total weight of equipment. He turned to the assembled men. 'Seventy-six pounds. That's how much each of you carries on his back when you're on campaign.'
'Aye!' a voice called from the end of the line. 'An' doan' we ken it, laddie!'
Arthur smiled as he leaned towards the sergeant. 'Do you know that man's voice?'
'Overton, sir. I'd stake my life on it.'
'Overton!' Arthur shouted. 'Out here, now!'
There was a shuffling in the ranks as a huge man squeezed through and marched up to the new ensign. He stared over Arthur's shoulder, and his lips had tightened into a sneer. Arthur narrowed his eyes as he addressed the soldier. 'Since you are in such fine voice, Overton, I want you to go and get your full equipment. Then you will march round this yard until you have covered twelve miles. When that's done, Sergeant Phillips will come for me and then we'll see how much further you can go. Should be an interesting experiment. I hope to understand precisely what weight and distance variables can be applied to troop movement.' He smiled. 'And I thank you for your services in this experiment. Sergeant Phillips!'
'Yes, sir.'
'Dismiss the men. Except Overton here, of course.'
As the company returned to their barracks Arthur looked round the yard and made some quick calculations.'A hundred and seven times round the parade ground. Call it a hundred and ten. Make sure he sticks to the perimeter. Oh, and get that one out of the water butt.'
Over the following months the new ensign became a source of considerable interest to the men and officers at the barracks as he wasted no opportunity to learn more about the men, the equipment and the organisation of the British Army. It was the latter that perplexed Arthur most. Rather than being left to run its own affairs the army was thoroughly caught up in a web of official hierarchies. The Treasury was responsible for the commissariat that supplied the 73rd's food and transport needs; the army's medical services were overseen by the Surgeon General's office; the troops were paid through the office of the Paymaster General; camp supplies were organised by the Storekeeper General and the Master General of Ordnance was responsible for the upkeep of the barracks. If ever the regiment should go on campaign then the officials of the Quartermaster General would be added to lines of records that caught the regiment in a tangle of bureaucracy that would have instantly broken the nerve of a more dedicated adjutant than Captain Braithwaite.
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