A Victorian Gent (The Making of a Man Series, Book 1)

by Andrew Wareham

  They met most afternoons, sometimes taking tea together - so much more English than coffee - and enjoying each other's company. Mornings, Dick discovered, she devoted to the business of the hotel, keeping the books for her brother and as well corresponding with merchants in the ports, ordering wholesale and selling to local stores, her brother the public face for this activity. She made it clear that she had a liking for Dick, but not necessarily any romantic leanings - which was quite pleasing as he did not wish to take any risks with her.

  He spent his evenings in the hotel, leaning on the bar with a half-empty glass that was never refilled or sat a table to the side, back against a wall and turned towards the doors, watching and being seen. He was almost never alone, there were always some to talk with him for the vicarious glory of rubbing shoulders with the Kid and a few, mostly from his Militia Company, became closer acquaintances; none could have been described as a friend though. Only rarely was he called upon to maintain order in the public rooms and he slowly discovered that his silent presence was sufficient to deter most trouble-makers. He did not brag or swagger, and that disconcerted the many who did.

  He rode out, exercising one or the other of his horses on all except the coldest or stormiest of afternoons, coming to know the immediate territory, and on Saturday mornings paraded with the Volunteers. They wore smart uniform, deep blue jackets with a minimum of ornamentation, and learned how to form column of fours and deploy into line. More importantly, they practiced advancing at the gallop then dismounting, three to firing positions while the fourth held the horses safely in the rear. At the end of his first month there were sufficient new troopers to need another sergeant and Dick was voted into the post, without competition – they wanted ‘a killing man’ to their front when the war came, they explained.

  “Dick, the Governor wants to know why ‘he ain’t niver done seed us a-charging with them old sabres waving’, like real cavalry do.”

  “Have you told the Governor that he’s a bloody old fool, Mike?”

  “I reckon it might be more tactful not to, Dick.”

  “Sell the sabres off, Mike. Get Bowie knives in their place – more useful for cutting firewood and just as handy in a close fight. Not even that old drunk would expect us to charge waving Bowie knives.”

  “Good advice, Dick. They’re talking of pulling the men across from Topeka to join up with us in a single unit, build us up to a pair of troops.”

  “How soon, Mike?”

  “We shall ride in the spring, for sure. Far as I can tell, they goin’ to march the foot soldiers to the railhead and send them to Washington, but the horse stays out here in the west and pushes the Secessionists down to the Big River and all the way south, cutting Texas off from the rest of them as quick as maybe. The word from Washington is that they want the war done and dusted in ninety days – they're going to be offering three month enlistments to the volunteers.”

  “What’s the chance of ordering more breech-loaders in from Chicago, Mike?”

  “We raised the money last month, Dick, on the quiet. They should be on the cars now. I aim to put one in every trooper’s hand on Saturday.”

  “Lot of money for ninety days’ work, Mike.”

  “Any man who reckons this will end in ninety days ain’t got his head screwed on tight, Dick.”

  “Mr Lincoln seems to think it will be soon over.”

  “Man says so, but I reckons as how he’s got to say what the people in Washington want to hear. Suppose he only had the Southrons to fight then he might have an easier job, but they’s more than enough of Northern Democrats want to stab him in the back besides. The Irish in New York, the Catholics that is, don’t want ever to see blacks freed, for fear they might get higher up the tree than them, and they’re just one set of opposition!”

  “Can Lincoln win?”

  “Maybe. Time he gets himself an army together then he can change the law at the end of their ninety days – tell ‘em he’s ever so sorry but it ain’t quite over yet and they got to stick it out to the end. Depends whether he can find a general who ain’t measuring up for his coffin quite yet.”

  Dick knew nothing of the American Army.

  “Every single one of the generals fought in the Mexican War in the Forties – and most was well on in their careers then. I am told that damned nigh every man of full colonel and upwards first put on a uniform in the War of 1812, and that might be true.”

  “What of the Southerners?”

  “Many of them are younger men, couldn’t get promotion for deadwood clogging up the senior ranks. Likely to be better soldiers, but with poorer equipment.”

  “Like to be nasty, from the sound of things.”

  “Could be, Dick. Goin’ to be short and bloodless, if the two sides just wave their guns and then set to talkin’, or it goin’ to be the most wicked war there ever was.”

  Dick listened more than he talked, memorising the dialect, treasuring it occasionally, concerned not to stand out as an Englishman. With a war coming, and with the possibility still of pursuit behind him, it was well to fit in and, just as importantly, he wanted to be elected as an officer when the time came.

  The skirmishing west of the Mississippi died down in the winter – due as much to heavy snowfall as to any desire for peace on either side.

  The Kansas City Horse practised with their new breech-loaders and built up their numbers, the bulk of their men older than Dick, in their late twenties mostly and with years in the western lands, a few working cattle, most experienced as freighters and casual prospectors who had occasionally shot buffalo or worked traplines up in the hills. Most had exchanged shots with Indians or met up with Border Ruffians. They were not very good at wearing a uniform or standing to attention, but they knew exactly what to do if it came to fighting. They split up into two troops and made Dick a lieutenant in the second, most junior of the five officers - a captain and four lieutenants.

  A lieutenant was an officer and an officer was, in peacetime at least, a gentleman. Dick found himself in demand amongst the few genteel households of the city. He knew his manners and had some slight acquaintance with Polite Society and was able to bow to the ladies; he had been taught to dance as well – he knew the waltz - placing him far higher up the spectrum than almost any other young gentleman of the locality. He accompanied Miss Parsons to several local assemblies, serving as her formal escort and causing much speculation as to his precise role - would-be lover or simply bodyguard standing in the place of her brother?

  He was not at all sure himself, and she did not enlighten him. She was a pretty girl, and intelligent as well as undemanding - he was happy to keep her company.

  He sat at the Mayor’s dinner table and drank tea with several of the lesser mortals and noted with amusement that he was kept well away from impressionable young misses. Mr Richard Burke of Poole, England might be a cultured gentleman, at home in the drawing-room and able to cap most classical quotations, but he was also the Sharps Kid, one of the new breed of gun-fighting men who were notorious and of short life-expectancy. Bachelor, they thought he was, but not of the eligible variety.

  He was present at the formal assembly that celebrated Kansas' accession to statehood in January 1861, in company with every other prominent Free Soiler in the north-west, and shook hands with Governor Robinson. To his surprise the governor held him in conversation for a few minutes; an English politician would never have talked to a gunman in public, he believed. He wondered what he wanted, came away still unsure - the Governor had asked nothing of him.

  "Why, Mike?"

  "Suppose the war lasts the rest of the year, then he's goin' to raise another regiment or two - that means senior officers, captains an' majors, what he appoints. He needs to know the men, and it certain sure looks like you's one of them!"

  Dick observed local society very carefully and saw that courtships tended to be short and to lead rapidly to the altar; he had one wife and could not wisely take a second. He was already a known man an
d intended to make use of every opportunity that a war might throw up to become rich as well – it was easy to imagine circumstances in which his name might be mentioned in England and his antecedents uncovered. It was unlikely but he remained content to observe his fellow-officers, to squire Miss Parsons and whenever possible simply to disappear into the background.

  Captain Parsons called the officers to him in his own rooms in the hotel in mid-March of 1861.

  “Word is, gentlemen, that we are to make our way southwards starting next week. The intention being to clear out every skunk and scallywag from Kansas and then do the same for Missouri!”

  News had come through of the secession declarations of the bulk of the southern states and they knew that war was inevitable, in name at least. Many still hoped that the talkers could still prevail.

  “Do we expect to fight, Captain?”

  The question came from Dick’s senior in the second troop, Alexander Fisher; he was a thirty year old who had spent his years at West Point and passed out very close to the bottom of his class in every subject and had chosen to return to civilian life in his father’s bank rather than become the least of lieutenants in an infantry company in a distant fort in the desert of New Mexico. The regular army’s loss had become the Kansas City Horse’s gain, or so he told them. He wore his uniform well and enthusiastically, tending to be generous in his application of gold lace and braid. The ladies of the town smiled at him; many of the men laughed.

  “Yes.”

  Lieutenant Fisher had hoped for a more pleasing response.

  “I imagine you have intelligence, Captain?”

  “None at all, Lieutenant! We do not know who or what is where, except from the little that the river boats have seen, and are willing to pass on. A function of cavalry, traditionally, is to scout out the land – in fact to gain intelligence. We believe the bulk of the enemy to be in Missouri, but there will certainly be some small parties in Kansas. Due to the absence of infantry to consolidate any positions that we take or to move upon concentrations of the enemy that we discover, we must act upon our own discoveries.”

  “I do not quite understand you, sir.”

  “I believe the captain to imply that we must first find the enemy, and then kill him, sir.”

  Dick was very polite to his troop commander, and took great pains to use his best King’s English – an affectation of the bulk of senior officers at West Point.

  Captain Parsons smiled and agreed, pointing out that the enemy undoubtedly had the same ambition.

  “I am told, in fact, Lieutenant Fisher, that your troop will be a prime target for some at least of the Border Ruffians, due to the presence of Lieutenant Burke. One is given to understand, sir, that the plantation-owning father of one of the victims of the Sharps Kid has placed a price upon his head; five hundred dollars, gold, I believe.”

  Dick wondered if his own father had posted a reward for him, and if so, for how much.

  “Five hundred dollars, Captain? I imagine that that is all his son was worth to him – a reasonable price for a Southern gentleman, I have always been told they come cheaply!”

  It was an amusing but unwise comment, being inevitably repeated and rapidly coming to Southern ears.

  Two hundred horsemen made an imposing sight leaving town on the trail south.

  Captain Parsons led with his troop in fours behind him, then came twenty wagons carrying supplies and a cookhouse, followed by Lieutenant Fisher and his men, Dick riding at his shoulder.

  They had no particular plan for the excursion – as they had no information regarding the location of the Southerners. They had no knowledge of their numbers either, which was a cause of some slight concern to those who thought about the question.

  Lieutenant Fisher had no worries, no doubts at all; his father had connections in Washington and had assured him that the war would come to nothing, at most a single battle for honour’s sake and then a sensible set of negotiations to make all right. Their own action would be no more than police work, disarming and pacifying a few of the unruly and foolish.

  “Should we put scouts out, sir?”

  “No need, Mr Burke! Perhaps in a few days when we get close to the less civilised parts, but we are almost within sight of town here, quite unnecessary to bother!”

  They camped on water that night, built up their fires and enjoyed the meal provided for them by their cooks; close to town they still had fresh bread. It felt like a picnic.

  A peaceful, undisturbed night and bacon for breakfast reinforced the sense of ease.

  The troop-sergeant had fought in Mexico and strongly suggested they should have scouts out on the second day, but Fisher still saw no need.

  Captain Parsons called the officers together that morning, announced his intention of splitting the force into two, Lieutenant Fisher to move eastwards and then south more directly towards the border areas while he led his troop in a sweep to the west and then south before meeting up in four or five days. The aim was to be to show themselves, an organised body of well-armed troops ready and able to crush any small gangs of marauders. It would also pass the message to the tribes that the soldiers might be leaving the forts but there were still more than enough men to keep them down.

  "Nobody's goin' to keep the Comanche quiet, gentlemen, but they might choose to raid down into the Texas rather than towards us. Ain't no decent man ever goin' to go into alliance with them savages, but iffen they choose to wipe out Southern towns rather than ours... well, I ain't goin' to argue!"

  It seemed only reasonable to Dick, but he had never seen the aftermath of a Comanche raid.

  Lieutenant Fisher was certain that they were not riding to battle – his father had told him so and bankers knew everything.

  “Better to keep the uniforms smart, Mr Burke, and the men well-together in their fours, the better to impress upon the local inhabitants that this is a part of the Union. The wagons to the rear, I think – they do tend to be untidy and we must make a good first impression, you know.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Dick walked his horse back to his sergeant and passed on the orders, adding the instruction to put a trooper onto every wagon as a guard and to set a corporal and eight troopers to bring up the rear.

  “Just to keep the column tidy, Sergeant Schafer – we don’t want the wagons to lag behind so that we have to wait hours for our dinners. I am sure Mr Fisher will agree that is sensible.”

  Schafer, a second-generation German and ten years in Kansas, saluted and agreed; they must maintain discipline on the march, just like the army did.

  “I’ll fall back to the rear of the troop, sir. I reckon you will ride at Mr Fisher’s side at the head of the column?”

  “That’s my orders, Sergeant. Make sure the men ride loaded. If we do come under attack then take all necessary actions to defend and then take the fight to the enemy. Those are my orders, if there should be any question afterwards.”

  “Do we got any word of any Southerners hereabouts, Mr Burke?”

  “No. We know nothing at all – and that may be popular politically, but it ain’t good for soldiers.”

  The Know Nothings had been strong in the Old North-West, so Dick had been told; Schafer found the comment humorous, anyway.

  The column was attacked that afternoon, a small party attempting an ambush. Three shots were fired from the cover of a low, brush-covered slope to the left, less than one hundred yards distant and carefully aimed. Lieutenant Fisher fell from his horse, dead before he hit the ground. Simultaneously there was a scattering of fire towards the middle and rear, none of the shooters choosing to show themselves in a charge.

  Dick shouted the command to wheel left and close, led the cavalry straight into the ambushers. If they had breech-loaders then there would be massive casualties, he could lose half of his men inside a minute; the Southerners were said to have only muzzle-loaders, not all of them percussion fired.

  There were thirty or so of the secessionists, all with emp
ty rifles and single-shot pistols. As they sighted their enemy the horse-soldiers dropped from the saddle as they had practised and engaged as infantry. Less than two minutes brought the unequal fight to an end with fewer than a dozen prisoners taken and perhaps half as many Southerners managing to escape.

  “What next, sir?”

  “Lieutenant Fisher had the orders and kept them to himself – I don’t know if there was a fall-back plan, Sergeant. We will make for the River and march, carefully, to the rendezvous point, tomorrow. Bury all of ours; wounded to the wagons. Be better to try to flag down a river boat and shift the wounded back by water. Quicker and easier on them. Camp here tonight. Vedettes out, relieved at four hour intervals, four men to each. Tell off scouts for the morning – in pairs, one to watch and one to report back anything seen. Written list of casualties to me at soonest, if you please.”

  They met up with Parsons three days later, having seen no more action.

  “Three shots into Fisher, you say, Mr Burke? I can only imagine that they chose him as their target because of his ornate uniform – I suspect they thought he was you. Greedy men! Stupid as well, thirty to attack a hundred? From all I have read one must dig a trench first and then shoot in three lines so as to keep up a continuous fire. Gentlemen who believed this nonsense of ‘one Southerner worth a dozen Northern peasants’. If any of those who got away were officers then they will know better next time.”

  “Good shots, sir – at least one third of them hit home in that first volley. Four dead and seven wounded is a high price for so few shots fired, or so I understand from all I have read of the war in the Crimea.”