The Fuzzy-Wuzzy Man (The Duty and Destiny Series, Book 3)

by Andrew Wareham

  “The difference between East Indies and West, Sir Frederick – the slave is kicked, the sepoy rewarded. I know which policy I prefer, as do you, I can see, sir!”

  To the Admiralty and a brief meeting with the First Lord, Earl Spencer commiserating with him and assuring him of Their Lordships’ kind regard for him – he must go to half-pay until he was wholly well, must consult with the best of surgeons, had he considered taking the waters? The Bath; Harrogate, High and Low; Leamington Priors; Matlock – little known as yet but very well spoken of; all ideal to set him up again, enable him to regain his strength. He should go immediately to Harley Street, the Earl’s own physician, Doctor Hunter, the man of the moment!

  The young doctor was an enthusiast, failed to gain Frederick’s confidence.

  “Magnetism and warm ale, Sir Frederick, a new treatment and does not fail!”

  Frederick expressed his surprise, the one remedy so new, the other traditional.

  “The best of both worlds, sir! It cured the Dowager Duchess of Kensington of the stone only last week, sir!”

  Frederick was duly impressed, left promising to return the instant he felt pangs of the stone.

  “David, will you send a letter to Abbey, inform them I shall be with them inside a month and will expect to be in residence for most of the next two years, the house to be fully open. An express to Mrs Burnett at Long Common as well.”

  “Both done, sir. Bosomtwi dictated letters to me off Rotherhithe – should I inform your parents and the Pagets, sir?”

  “I will be there before the mail, and it is hardly worth sending an express, paying out some three pounds to gain a day. Bookshops tomorrow, chaise on Friday?”

  “I’ll organise two, sir.”

  “Picture books, sir, for a little boy? Certainly, sir – primers, alphabets, numbers, peoples of the world – including the Fuzzy Papuans, who eat men, we hear!”

  “So I understand, sir. Will you despatch, say at each quarter, a selection of four or five new books – Iain is three this year, so you will make them more apt to his age each year, if you would be so good. I am often at sea, will not be able to buy myself.”

  Mr Roberts would, most certainly. He would, in fact, be delighted, wondered if, just possibly, other sailors might not be interested in such a service, a letter perhaps sent to each ship in commission might be worthwhile… For the meantime, what was the captain’s direction?

  “Captain Sir Frederick Harris, Abbey, Dorchester, or at Long Common, near Botley in Southamptonshire.”

  “Certainly, sir, let me just copy that into the ledger, Sir Frederick… Ah, yes! The Fuzzy Papuans, sir, I had, of course, Sir Frederick, no intention… that is to say, sir…”

  Frederick cut him short, reflecting that this was going to be all too common an occurrence. “How could you have intended any offence, sir, being unaware of my name? Please do not concern yourself over so minor a matter. Now, sir, pamphlets on agriculture, if you would be so good, and there is a work on Population that I am told I must read, and I would wish to be informed on steam engines, roads and canals, being interested in the drainage and enclosure of a somewhat old-fashioned estate.”

  “The Reverend Malthus, of course, Sir Frederick. As well, sir, and in part arising from it, there is a discussion of the Poor Law, the Speenhamland System and its errors, which I dare suggest would be of interest to you. Canals, sir, since the bubble burst and too many fortunes were lost, are somewhat blown on, but there are works detailing their construction, as there are on turnpikes, all of which are to hand. Steam engines, sir, are best covered by Messrs Boulton and Watt of Soho, Birmingham, who have published drawings and details of their engines, and included warnings of the dangers of high-pressure steam and such foolish dabblers as the Cornish Welshman, Trevithick!”

  Shop boys came running and the pile mounted, two copies of each, all to be wrapped and waterproof, those for Abbey to be dispatched by carrier, the Long Common set to go with Frederick.

  “As well, Mr Roberts, being recently wounded, I will have time on my hands when I cannot be doing and will wish to read for pleasure. I do not know the modern authors, sir, in the nature of things, and wonder if you might not put up a dozen or two that might be of interest to me.”

  “Novels, sir?”

  “Why, yes, I suppose that is what they will be. Preferably, perhaps, not in the Gothic style – villainous monks have little interest for me!”

  “With pleasure, sir.”

  They covered the sordid, worldly details of their transaction – payment – to Mr Roberts’ pleasure and he ventured to suggest that Sir Frederick might wish to inform him by letter which of the novelists gave him enjoyment, so that he might send to him each of their latest works as soon as published.

  “It occurs to me, sir, that a literary gentleman such as yourself might wish to catch the Hamlet that opens tonight at the Little Theatre.”

  “Why, yes, thank you, Mr Roberts, that would occupy an empty evening rather well. How would I go about tickets, sir?”

  “A box if you wish to attend tonight, sir. One of my boys can arrange it now. Do you arrive for nine o’clock, Sir Frederick, and you will be looked for. Will you be in a party, sir?”

  “I am alone in London, Mr Roberts.”

  “Then, if I may give you advice, sir, you should take your man with you – otherwise you will be besieged by those who have services to sell or who wish to bring themselves to your notice.”

  Bosomtwi was much in favour, he did not believe that Frederick should ever go unattended, for the sake of his dignity, safety and consequence. He rigged Frederick out in evening dress, appropriately black and white but of provincial tailoring and some three years out of date, even though hardly ever worn. The attire was perfectly correct, but his shirt points were too low and his frill a fraction too large, there was a button too few at the front and he was an inch too long in the tails – all signs of the rich and out of touch. To those in the know they were signs of the Navy – years at a time out of London but still young and with a weather-beaten complection – not a squireen come to Town.

  The evening was opened with a one-act farce, its main function to make a display, a backcloth for the settling audience. The alert used this period to assess the throng, particular attention paid to the boxes. The word soon spread that the gentleman on the right with the man of colour in attendance was navy, Sir Frederick Harris, one of Lord Alton’s family, a frigate captain and one of the Golden Few, the Fuzzy-Wuzzy man. To the poor and unfashionable was added the warning that his man was a killer, leave well alone! Higher echelons of society added instead the information that Sir Frederick was a widower, and thus in need of a wife; was rich, thus ought to have a wife; was born within the Upper Ten Thousand, give or take a couple of hundred, could look anywhere for a wife. The Season was soon to commence and a number of prudent Mamas bade their debutante daughters to make careful note of the small gentleman’s features.

  “For, my love, he is a baronet now, and to be Lady Harris is something in itself. He will become an admiral, of course, and may well, almost must, become a baron or viscount, though in the peerage of Ireland, most likely – to be Lady Bogrich will be more than most lay claim to!”

  Irish peers, many never having set foot in the island, bore the social cachet, almost, of English, and had the overwhelming advantage that they could not sit in the House of Lords. Admirals could be distressingly blunt in matters political, shouting aloud mere details that were better whispered in quiet corners – it were better far that they should not be put in the way of doing themselves unwitting harm in an arena to which, being as a general rule honest, they were quite unsuited.

  The play progressed predictably to its wholly satisfactory conclusion, much enjoyed by Bosomtwi.

  “Hey, sir, every bugger dead, isn’t it!”

  “We must see Macbeth one day.”

  A ballet followed, the dance of little importance, its function being essentially that of display so that the
wealthier young men of the audience could choose their meat for the night. The females and less carnal of the males made their way to the lobby to greet old and new acquaintances whilst waiting for their carriages. Inevitably, Critchel was there, he would never miss a first night.

  “Sir Frederick! I was sorry indeed to hear of your wound, sir, am glad to see you are convalescent.”

  “It is a nuisance more than anything else, Mr Critchel, one of these slow, tedious affairs served best by rest and patience – a quality, I fear, that I lack!”

  “It has certainly not been a hallmark of yours, Sir Frederick.”

  “Your nephew, Midshipman Michael Critchel, has shown exceptionally well, sir, I have been very pleased with his conduct. He is now one of Sir Iain’s young men, has transferred to the flagship.”

  Critchel showed real pleasure, what seemed a rare, true emotion showing on his usually hooded face.

  “Thank you, Sir Frederick. Vice Admiral Farquhar is very well thought of, and always looks after his people. Michael will do very well with him! Your Lieutenant Jackman is still First of Charybdis?”

  “No, sir, he is made Master and Commander and has his own sloop – and I shall not ask why you enquire!”

  They chuckled very quietly, surveyed the crowded room.

  “Do you know many of those present, Sir Frederick? There are some I should introduce you to, I believe, would be very pleased to know you. I see one at least of your clan, and, of course, Lord Partington who you know. It would seem he ran all the way to London. A true patron of the arts, my lord, was certain to be here!”

  “I had not seen him, Mr Critchel – would not have noticed him if I had, not the company I choose to keep, Lord Partington’s!”

  There was a fortuitous silence in the babble and Frederick’s voice, penetrating in timbre and pitched to the demands of the sea, could be heard clearly across the whole chamber. Every head turned, first to the source of the comment, then to its unwitting victim. A murmur of identification arose as the throng waited, otherwise silent.

  The silence dragged on, then a sudden snort of disbelieving laughter came from one side of the lobby, a man’s drawling contempt from the other.

  “As I was saying, my dear, any number of men of apparent birth and breeding seem to have forgotten what honour means. Perhaps they should go to China, the yellow won’t show up there!”

  “Well said, my lord!”

  Partington jerked out of immobility, cheeks flushing under the sneering glances cast towards him.

  “Captain Harris!”

  “I believe it to be ‘Sir Frederick’,” an unknown voice interposed.

  Blushing brighter still, the social solecism acutely embarrassing, Partington swallowed, took a pace forward.

  “Sir Frederick! I believe… you have something to say to me.”

  “Then you are, as ever, utterly wrong, my lord!” Frederick mentally shrugged, as well a sheep as a lamb. “I have nothing whatsoever to say to you, since, I understand, my good neighbour and friend, Sir Geoffrey Taylor, said all that was needful in Dorchester last year.”

  Partington looked helplessly about him as Critchel’s voice was heard in a carefully pitched undertone. “Slapped his face and called him a coward, in public, is still waiting for his friends! I understand he intends to use his cane next time, if he can catch him!”

  The small group of acquaintances near Partington began to shuffle an inch or two distant, an almost imperceptible cold shoulder. He was trapped – he could swallow the insult, and find every door in London closed to him, the social scene, the theatres and artists, all that he enjoyed in life gone, or he could make the expected challenge, and then he would have to fight, to stand up with a man whose whole fame was martial. He could flee the country, would have to in fact, would have no refuge in England, but where? The war had closed Paris, Rome, the German cities. America? Was there any culture there? He could delay no longer, had already almost destroyed whatever credit he had, he must challenge or go forever. He looked about him despairingly, found that none would catch his eye, would acknowledge him in any way.

  “Would you name your friends, Sir Frederick?” He asked in a pleading voice, hardly the challenging bravado normally expected, but sufficient to satisfy honour.

  “Sir Frederick may always consider me a friend, my lord!” Critchel replied.

  “I, too, would be honoured to stand at Sir Frederick’s side, but we of the Pagets always stand together! My name is Major Christopher Paget, of the Blues.”

  A tall, heavily built, obvious soldier, in his thirties, fair haired and red-cheeked, Paget bowed to Frederick and set off across the room at Critchel’s side, murmuring a greeting to him. They met with two of Partington’s party, the lobby in absolute silence – these arrangements were commonly made privately, never in the presence of females. Paget paced back, measured and unhurried.

  “Pistols, Sir Frederick? When? Mr Critchel says you are wounded.”

  “I can fire left hand, Major. Tomorrow will do me, thank you.”

  The word spread round the room; there was a murmur of protest as Partington’s friends uncertainly accepted the arrangement, feeling perhaps that it was not for them to query Sir Frederick’s health.

  “Wimbledon Common, Sir Frederick, eight o’clock, soon after sunrise. I will bring a surgeon.”

  “Thank you, Major. Will you join me for breakfast afterwards? At the Crown, I shall order for nine.”

  “That will barely leave time for an exchange of shots, Sir Frederick.”

  “One should be sufficient, Major!”

  Partington had left so Frederick delayed – it was laid down in the code that the principals must take care to avoid casual contact before a meeting. They chatted idly for a few minutes before Bosomtwi came to say that a carriage was waiting and then Frederick returned to his inn, to sleep soundly, unperturbed – Partington, poor fellow, was hardly a threat.

  “You will kill this man, sir?” Bosomtwi enquired as he eased Frederick into a frockcoat. “Best you don’t, isn’t it. They don’t like it in England, the landlord tell me.”

  “No – no need. I will try to nick him a bit, draw blood to bring an end to it, finish the business, honour satisfied. High arm is best, depends how he stands. It is my fault, this duel, I did not mean the comment to be loud enough to be generally heard, not really necessary. It would not be right to kill him.”

  They met under the trees, in the place where half a dozen times a year gentlemen settled their differences, where a pair of Cabinet Ministers would face each other. Paget produced two identical pistols, his own military weapons, Frederick saw, a much heavier calibre than a purpose-built duelling pistol, an advantage to the professional. Partington’s seconds, neither with military experience, did not notice their man’s disadvantage.

  The principals were called to the mark, met face to face, were formally asked to make peace – Partington, the aggrieved party, could not make apology, Frederick would not. They stood, Partington half a head taller, fair, handsome, sleepless eyes darting, lips trembling; Frederick, underweight, face lined with recent pain, utterly intense.

  “Take your weapon, gentlemen – do not cock it. On my word retire eight paces. When I am satisfied, I shall give the instruction ‘Make Ready’, and then I shall say ‘Turn’. At that point you will face each other and fire as you will. Do you understand?”

  Neither spoke.

  Paget glanced about, checked the line of fire and the light – the sun was behind a cloud, fair to both. Some fifty or sixty men stood quietly clear, watching intently – the affair had been too public in its inception to be performed discreetly.

  Frederick held the pistol muzzle down, left handed, thumb holding the pan tight closed so as to lose no priming powder; as always, he was alert, senses heightened by danger. He saw the tic at the side of Partington’s mouth, the tiniest of pulses; smelt the series of little farts escaping the tight-clenched cheeks; he heard his breathing, faster and faster, shallow dr
awn; he knew Partington was terrified, felt very sorry for the poor man.

  “Never so alive as when you may be dead next minute – the fear is part of the fun – buck up, man! Learn your fear and be bigger for it! We are both on display – play your part, walk tall,” he urged, decency demanding that his thoughts remained silent, he could not address his opponent.

  “Retire!”

  Count! So easy to take seven or nine by mistake.

  “Make Ready!”

  Frederick thumbed back the hammer, relaxed, dropped into fighting stance – knees a fraction bent, toes turned out. He took an easy breath, expanding his belly the while, exhaled slowly, filled the belly again, not knowing why but from experience understanding that this was the way to increase his awareness, to slow time so that he could see and evaluate everything, could aim almost at leisure, the world crawling by. He waited for the cry of ‘Turn’, utterly confident.

  “No!” Paget’s voice, outraged, a pistol’s detonation, the sound half-muffled, a scuffling noise.

  He glanced round, saw first Partington’s weapon on the turf, discarded out of harm’s way, muzzle towards the trees. Fifty yards off, and accelerating, he saw Partington’s back, watched him scramble into his coach and gone, shouting at his driver to make haste, seconds left behind.

  A sudden roar burst out from the spectators, every man shouting amaze at once.

  The four seconds stood open-mouthed – there was nothing in the code of the duello to cover this eventuality. The surgeon, shaking with laughter, began to collect his bag together, putting away the instruments and pledgets and brass tourniquet he had laid out on a sheet of oilcloth.

  “What do we do now?” Critchel, uniquely, at a complete loss.

  “Sir! I can only tender my apologies - my name is Russell - and those of Mr Holmes, my companion, and say that… what can I say? Bonds of friendship have been dissolved by this act – I share my principal’s disgrace, I shall be pointed at in society for months!”