Clementine still studied Lord Cardigan with an angry glint in her eye. She so despised chauvinistic men like him. Furtive glimpses to the cavalry officer softened her mien. When he would look at her, she would look away. She felt the heat rise up her neck to her face. Clementine did not know what was happening to her. Hot flushes alternated with delightful little shivers; they danced a merry little waltz up and down her spine.
“This comes as a surprise, darling,” was all Elizabeth managed to say.
“Yes, the Tsar presses for a port in the warmth and access to the Mediterranean. For this, he must control the Dardanelles. The Ottoman Empire is not what it once was. The land with the onetime most fearsome infantry in the world is now the sick man of Europe. They lose one territory after another and Great Britain cannot allow the Russians to snap them up. It is time for us to send in the army,” said Cardigan imperiously.
“My Lord, those infantrymen you speak of were the Janissaries, if I am not mistaken. But tell me why the army must go. Surely, our navy is more than enough to keep the Russians boxed up in the Black Sea,” said Clementine, angrily trying to free herself from the captivating hold of the intense green orbs pooled in milky-white spheres.
Cardigan cleared his throat gutturally. He was obviously put out at having to discuss geopolitical and martial matters with a woman and a young one at that. “Yes, Janissaries were the name of the soldiers. At first, they were taken into the regiment by coercion. The Turks used to kidnap young Christian boys and train them into the most efficient killing unit. However, put your mind to pretty things, young lady.”
He turned away from Clementine to look at her more docile sister. “This husband of yours will make a very fine Cherrybum in his tight breeches that leave nothing to the imagination. I am sure it will have you begging for it,” said Lord Cardigan, patting Royce on the shoulder paternally.
“What’s a Cherrybottom, your Lordship?” asked Clementine before she could keep her tongue in check. She had barely registered the earl’s rudeness. But she blushed crimson when Stirling chuckled. The initial embarrassment soon turned to annoyance. Had she misjudged the young officer? Was he another chauvinistic bigot like the earl?
“What’s a Cherrybottom? What’s a Cherrybottom? They are called Cherrybums. Do you boast no education, woman?” guffawed Cardigan arrogantly, totally forgetting Clementine’s earlier display of intellect.
Royce joined in his lordship’s mirth and Elizabeth just stood there stunned. She was still in shock that her husband might soon be sent off to war. And Clementine just thought, I could bang their noodles together until their doodles drop off.
“Cherrybums are what his lordship calls the men of the eleventh, My Lady,” said Stirling. He was deeply moved by the young woman. It took all of his effort to maintain his habitual stoic poise. Looking at her, he would have liked nothing more than to whisk her away and talk about the future. “They got the name after the men of the brigade who hid in cherry trees from the French in the last Great War.”
“I see,” said Clementine, immediately softening to the young lord.
“You should find yourself your own Cherrybum, girl. The gentlemen in my regiment would jump at the chance to court a young lady such as you. Good pedigree, what is what,” said Cardigan addressing Clementine haughtily. He did not register the burgeoning connection between the two young people. His words galloped over them like a three-quarter ton charger.
But before Clementine could answer or continue speaking to Stirling, Cardigan carried on as if her opinion on the matter was of no interest to him.
“How old are you, girl? Nine and twenty? About time you got married before you’ve completely outlived it. By God, woman, the dangers for you to squeeze a baby out of your archaic body increase with every passing year. Not to mention your looks. It’s the face powder that gets us men and the baking powder that keeps us,” he said nudging Royce in the ribs jovially.
Cardigan laughed uncouthly. Clementine could’ve strangled him for making her a full eight years older than she actually was. However, the icy expression on Stirling’s face made her frown. If she didn’t know any better, the man was about to punch the earl. She watched him clench and unclench his fists belligerently. She must do something before he gets himself into a position he’d regret.
“Fine filly such as yourself should have no other ambition in life other than straddling a young man,” said Cardigan winking lewdly.
“There’s more to life than being some man’s filly,” spat Clementine, getting her word in, in the nick of time, and before Stirling blew a cap.
“More to life than a man, woman? Whatever next! Best choose yourself the finest stallion in the stables before you’re dragged off to the slaughterhouse,” said Cardigan dismissively. It was obvious that he found independent woman like Clementine distasteful.
“If you must know, your lordship, I’m going to play my part when the time comes. When Britain’s young men are called upon to serve queen and country, I will be there to support them.” she swallowed deeply. “And it won’t be as some young filly waiting to be mounted by a randified stallion, but as a nurse.” She spat angrily.
“Women joining the army. Now that is a ridiculous notion. In Roman times, there used to be a followers camp for mistresses and whores. Maybe we should reintroduce that.” Cardigan examined the scene before him. “Is there anywhere where I can get a drink?”
“Do you know who you remind of, My Lord?” asked Clementine sweetly.
Cardigan arched his brows.
“The lustful Turk, My Lord. If you are not careful, maybe you also will find your manhood chopped off and placed into a jar for the woman that did it to cherish.” Without waiting for a reply, Clementine turned on her heels and left the bewildered Cardigan who cleared his throat nervously. Elizabeth burst out laughing. She couldn’t hold herself despite Royce’s attempts to quieten her.
Stirling smiled. He had never met a woman such as this before. He had thought to intervene and come to her defence throughout the exchange, but somehow he felt that that would have only spurred her on. Clementine was a highly intelligent and independent woman, graced with the most infinitely exquisite looks. He promised himself that late morning that he would see her again.
“That woman reminds me of my ex-wife. She, too, was the most damned bad-tempered and extravagant bitch in the kingdom,” said Cardigan, stalking off in the direction of a servant holding a bottle of champagne.
Royce laughed. Elizabeth could have slapped him, but fortunately, Clementine never heard what Cardigan had said. Stirling had already left to speak to Royce’s parents before he departed for his father’s estate.
The banquet that followed was a glorious affair. Myriad trestle tables with crisp white tablecloths that had garlands of flowers draped down the sides of them graced the parkland belonging to the earl’s estate. There was a small band playing music and after lunch there would be dancing. Clementine sat next to an extremely tedious young gentleman who kept droning on about the tensions between the Ottoman and Russian Empires. They were at war and Great Britain was soon to pledge to help poor little Turkey, also known as “the sick man of Europe.”
All Clementine could think about was the war and her sister. Was there really going to be a war? She had never experienced one or lived through one. All she knew was that they were brutal affairs. Her reading had taught her that. Young men always wanted to go off and fight them. It was the way of the world that old fools like Cardigan decided when and how young men like Royce fought.
As soon as lunch was over, Clementine escaped her boring table companion. She went off in search of her mother. She wanted to tell her not to ever do that to her again. Weddings were supposed to be fun and not some tedium in the company of a twit. Also, she was going to tell her about her news. She was off to London to become a nurse.
Chapter 4
“It’s nearly quitting time. A few more sacks to lug and we’ll be spending our hard-earned wages at the Duke o
f Wellington pub.”
“I won’t be doing any of that. I got to get back to the missus. She’ll be waiting for the coin I earned to feed our children. The money I take has been falling on a weekly basis as the work shrivels. It’s been hard for them. As of late, the professional restructuring of the dock gangs has really taken a hold. Soon, only licenced stevedores will be allowed to operate. And then what of the likes of us, eh?”
“You got to wet your whistle after all this and with all of those worries clouding yer head. What else is there? And besides, do you think Johnnie will go down fighting? Nah, he has some trick up his sleeve. Don’t ye doubt it.” Rory’s hulking companion lifted a thick sack with his muscular arms. Afterwards, he unceremoniously hurled it onto the cart.
“What do ye think Johnnie can do about it? Squat, that’s what. When the government gets involved, it’s over. There are so many ships coming to port now as the empire grows. Men like Johnnie just don’t have the clout and the brains to deal with it,” snapped Rory imitating his new friend--whose name he did not know yet-- with the cargo.
“Ye listen here, mate. If this work doesn’t work out for us, we’ll find something else to do. You’ll see.”
“And why would I want to find something else to do. I have been doing this for years. Also, I don’t even bloody know ye name and ye talking to me like an old mate.” Rory grunted something inaudible and then turned away to make his way back up the boarding plank to the ship to collect more cargo.
Behind him, the other man grunted his disproval and soon followed. When Rory Bennett got back to the quayside, he took a moment to scan the ship berthed at St. Kathrin’s Dock that was close to Tower Bridge. It was a Blackwall frigate recently returned from India, that ever-expanding British possession in the orient. Hundreds of these vessels made the perilous journey to and from the home country. They even went as far as Australia, which was another growing colony that was still used as a penal colony.
This new ship had replaced the traditional East Indiaman that had been doing the work efficiently for hundreds of years. Whereas the traditional Indiaman had double stern galleries, the Blackwall frigate had a single gallery. It had obtained its name because it was superficially similar to a frigate of the Royal Navy.
With only a single gallery, the hull-lines at the stern could be very fine and combined with relatively fine underwater lines at the bow, Blackwall frigates were fast sailing ships, although not as fast as a clipper that had appeared in the late 1840s and now sailed the Pacific Ocean. Another feature of the Blackwall was a highly rounded hull at the bow and above the waterline, making the dockworkers refer to them as “apple-cheeked”.
Especially designed to carry as much cargo as possible, they brought with them spices, rice, coffee, sugar, cotton and silk. London was their final destination. There, the goods would go to the weaving mills, markets and warehouses. Some of the finished products would go back to India and the rest would swamp the continental European market. Furthermore, the ever-thirsty colonies were in dire need of working utensils that could only be produced in Britain. This, too, left London by the ton.
Thanks to Great Britain’s technological advancements, particularly in steam power, in the past years, the nation had no economic rival. More than a quarter of the world’s GDP was produced by the small island nation. Most of it found its way through the docks of London. Now, with the development by James Watt of the steam engine and the propeller propulsion system for steam liners, the Blackwall frigate was vanishing more and more into obscurity – soon, not wind, but steam would transport all of the goods of empire. Like a giant spider sitting on the sea, Great Britain disgorged its web of power, influence, culture and military might over the sea-lanes to all corners of the globe.
Rory hardly noticed the swampy stink of the River Thames that hung in the air like a foul rumour. It mingled with the stench of rotten fish, men’s sweat and human and animal waste. The sky was overcast like most days. The colossal mass of the white and dark grey clouds appeared more powerful due to the continuous belching of the factory chimneys on the dockside. The cobbled stones thereon were hardly visible under the thick coating of grime that populated the surface.
Rory was a stevedore through and through. Every day for as long he could remember, he started work at the crack of dawn and ended his day when dusk approached. It was hard graft, but it paid better than many of the other jobs in the city. Thanks to his bulky physique, the man, Johnnie, who ran the dockworker’s pressgangs, had picked him on the spot.
That had been five years ago. Before that, Rory had been a thief preying on the wealthy in the West End until he nearly got caught. It could have cost him his life since the sentence for the crime of stealing was en par with murder, resulting in an ignominious hanging at Tyburn Tree.
That had been the day he had met his wife Mary. Originally from Yorkshire, she was a comely matron who had sought out her luck in the greatest city in the world. She had been disappointed. None of the tales told had borne any truth. London was a hard place with even harder people. The streets were full of beggars, crippled war veterans and drunks. Drunkenness was a sickness that scourged the thoroughfares and taverns like a plague. Mary made do though. She had met the pug-eared man she fell in love with and somehow they made ends meet. Two children and a third on the way bore testament to their happy union.
“Alright, lads, time to finish up. Have another drink before you go,” said the overseer. It was an old trick that Rory knew fleeced their pockets of coin. A large barrel of gin stood on the dockside. The men could help themselves to as much of it as they wanted throughout the day. This was not some way to enhance their sense of duty and loyalty, but simply a way to milk money out of them and keep them mellow.
The man who ran the unit of dockworkers Rory worked for also owned the tavern called the Duke of Wellington. The place was the source of the liquor. Before they got paid, the barrel would be measured for consumption and divided amongst the workers to be deducted from their pay.
With the last of the cargo loaded onto the carts that would be taken to the warehouses by another union of men, Rory and the other men followed the foreman to the inn. It was a ten-minute walk that led them past many stone-built warehouses. There were other groups of dockworkers moving in similar clusters to other pubs or places to receive their pay. Rory wondered how much he had earned. They had hit the quota and emptied the ship’s cargo hold. Surely, that would result in higher wages than the day before.
The Duke of Wellington was like any other tavern in the docks. Women of ill repute milled about outside, eagerly seeking new patrons with pockets full of coin. They were fast, too. The moment the money was handed over by the overseer, they would be next to the unsuspecting victim before he could spend it all on gin. It was the age-old conundrum: quick relief or a long oblivion. Most men wanted both.
The inside of the inn was dank and smoke-riddled. The reek of stale sweat was everywhere. Men sat at tables drinking and playing cards. Others lay on the floor in puddles of their own drink and urine. Off-and-on, one of the men working in the pub would hurl a limp body out onto the street. In the back, a group of off-duty sailors celebrated their homecoming with raucous shouts.
They boasted about the money they had made and how they would spend it. This brought on the ladies of the night like wasps to a feast. London was a spitting image of Sodom and Gomorrah. It was about to change. Already, the virtue and piousness of the great Queen Victoria seeped into all corners of society. The Victorian Age would be known for patriotism, virtue and honour.
Rory walked to the far side of the room to where a fire burned in a large hearth. Despite it being spring, it was still cold as winter outside. His clothes were damp from the light drizzle that had accompanied him for most of the day. A day that had once shown such promise in the morning, when the sun had shone to the east.
That was London - sunbeams in the morning and rain in the afternoon. The fire made crackling and hissing sounds. Occasionally,
the odd charred piece of wood would pop, emitting fiery sparks. It gave Rory comfort when the steam rose up from his clothing as his body gradually warmed.
“How long do you think we will have to wait?” asked the man who had worked alongside Rory for most of the day. He was new to the gang and overly keen to make friends. For one or another reason, he had latched onto Rory like an irritating tick. He was an affable looking sort with many scars on his face. It made Rory think what kind of work the man had pursued before becoming a dockworker.
Rory shrugged. “I dunno.”
“You’re not the talkative type, are you?”
“What’s there to talk about? We do our jobs, get paid and go home.”
“There’s nothing wrong with exchanging a few words with a mate.”
Rory arched his eyebrows. “You’re no mate. I don’t even know ye.”
The other man bristled. “If you’d bloody talk to me that would change.”
“What’s yer name then?” asked Rory. He felt a little sorry for the new man. He had been that once and it had been hard. The men working the docks were a very close-knit bunch that hated change. It was stupid really because there were always new workers arriving. The mortality rate was horrific. Not a week went by without somebody being stabbed to death or succumbed to disease.
Diaries of a Heartbroken Duchess: A Historical Regency Romance Collection Page 34
