Worth Their Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regiment.)

by Martin McDowell

  Chance would have it that the Head Butler of Grangemoor was ambling by on his day off, glanced in the window and saw a half set of his beloved cutlery on display in a place so dreadful as a Pawnbroker’s window! The Town Constable was fetched and soon it was ascertained that the Vicar of Chorlton Sage had made the sale. A search was made of the Vicarage; in the absence of the incumbent, for he was off on his rounds. The remainder of the set was duly found and Sedgwicke arrested on his return, the shock mercifully reduced by the amount of alcohol running through the passages of his befuddled brain. Not even his status as a High Church Vicar could stave off the wrath of a High Duchess and within days he was charged, tried, and sentenced, “Service in the Army until discharged by the King”, then ignominiously de-frocked in his cell by the Bishop. Mortified by these final thoughts on his shameful story, exhaustion at last overcame him and he fell into a troubled sleep.

  The company settled to rest. The soldiers had completed their cleaning and inspection and Tom Miles began the first sentry duty, leaning against the wall by the door. His musket grounded, with bayonet fixed and the hammer holding closed the frizzen, behind which lay the charge of priming powder. Jed Deakin took a last turn around his command; most were asleep, save one who was still making preparations. It was the prisoner he was most concerned over, the one he felt the most liable to make an attempt at escape. He was the one he had named in his mind “The Gypsy”, although there was nothing to confirm that origin. This one was tall, 5’ 10”, muscled and well proportioned. The exertions and privations of the past days had inflicted no more on him than it had on the soldiers, perhaps less so. What he was doing impressed the veteran Corporal. He was lining his wet greatcoat with dry hay from the back of the barn, making a thick lining between himself and the sodden material. Impressed with this old soldier’s dodge and recognising someone of the same ilk as himself, Deakin felt no hesitation in beginning a conversation. He settled himself on the nearest straw bale

  “You’d be Davey.”

  The prisoner looked up and studied his interlocutor. His expression remained unchanged.

  “Correct.”

  “Why’d they bring you before the Beak?”

  “Poaching.”

  “Poaching! You could’ve been hung!”

  “Depends what and who from. A pair of coneys off a farmer’s land don’t count the same as pheasants off the Duke’s.”

  “How’d they catch you?”

  “Gin trap.”

  “An’ it didn’t break your leg?”

  “No, I had on leather gaiters with slats down inside. It hurt, but that were all.”

  “You’ve been out more than once, that’s plain. And you couldn’t get it open?”

  “No, and the Bailiff and his mates got to me on the following morning.”

  “It must’ve been a new one. You been hauled up before?”

  Davey felt his temper rising at the questioning, but he knew enough not to start a quarrel when not needed and besides, this was the Corporal in charge. He had the power to make life hard and, besides again, it was hard to take too much offence at Deakin. His temper subsided. It was obvious that their backgrounds were alike, he could easily have come from the next village to his own, Far Devening, with both standing talking, whilst leaning on some field gate. He found himself becoming less terse.

  “Three times, but I went out many more times than that. Out for simple stuff, coneys and hares, took just for the pot. Had to, widowed Mother and three youngers. ‘Twere that or starve, if you understand?”

  “Oh, I understands, well enough! Oh my, yes.”

  Deakin nodded in accompaniment, he understood perfectly. As a child he had fed often enough on poached meat; crow, badger, and others of an even less savoury variety.

  “What did they give you those times?”

  “A whipping and a fine. That’s what I expected this time. Things is now different, that’s plain.”

  “Aye, you’re right. More and more the Courts is sentencing time in th’Army. Not hard to work out why, with Boney just across the Channel. Now, a word of advice to ‘ee. Deserting won’t be far from your mind. If you got a family behind you, like you say, don’t try. The first place the Provosts go to is your home, and they be none too gentle. They’ll smash the place up, just out of spite. Even if they catch you or they don’t. The Army isn’t so bad. It don’t let you starve, and you do get paid. You shot before?”

  “Yes, carrion shoot. It put food on the table.”

  “Were you any use?”

  “Better than most, I’d say.”

  “Right then. If you’re a good shot, like you say, try to get into the Light Company. Promotion’s quicker and there’s a better chance of plunder. If you want, the Regimental Purser will send home your pay, and any other money besides. Most Pursers are straight, it’s too soft a billet to risk with a little crookery. Think of someone you can trust, and he’ll send it on.”

  With no more conversation from either, Deakin rose and moved to his own place in the barn, leaving Davey wrapped in his greatcoat. The fire began to die, but the barn was a place of succour, the warmest place they’d been all day, and dry, despite the rising wind howling between the gaps in the tiles in the roof above. All fell to sleep, save the sentry and one other. He lay on the edge of the group of sleeping bodies. Seth Tiley, thief, robber, thug and footpad, lay with eyes wide open, watching the sentry, considering choices, thinking and scheming.

  oOo

  In a setting of deepest contrast to those in the barn, Mrs March-Markham stood in a state of profound delight, hands clasped over her ample bosom. Almost as round as she was tall, her height was doubled by a pink turban and a swaying peacock’s tail feather, set about by others, smaller but equally lavish. Trussed about in numerous sashes, she resembled a collection of lustrous orbs of various sizes, all gathered roundabout by finest satin. Her round and heated face bore a permanent smile of gleaming contentment. Arranged before her, she viewed, as would a miser his gold, the cause of her glorious state of exuberance. A society ball exhibited itself in all its grandeur in the main hall of her own home; Newcombe Hall, recently purchased and sumptuously refurbished by profits from her husband’s plantations in the West Indies. A social success had plainly been achieved; a “place”, surely, had been established amongst the local high placed gentry, both for herself and for her merchant husband.

  New to the area, the March-Markhams had anxiously issued invitations to all of local society, all had accepted and, to her utmost satisfaction, all had attended. Newcombe was one of the more substantial properties in the area, set in extensive grounds and all came, if only out of curiosity, to see what the cavalcade of builder’s wagons over the past months had accomplished. Also, adding brilliant scarlet, the entire officer corps of the fashionable King’s Own Royal Fusiliers, the “King’s Royals” were present, having been billeted in the surrounding area. The dancing was glorious, the music well played and in mode, the conversation loud and mirthful, and the food plentiful and exotic. Moving as on casters beneath the shimmering gown, opening and closing a huge fan as the occasion warranted, she drifted amongst her guests, bestowing her obvious pleasure to all, who in turn greeted her as their generous and accomplished hostess.

  Nothing existed in either her view or knowledge that could in any way mar the joy that welled within her bejewelled chest and throat, of enough acreage to show off the lavish display gifted to her by her thoroughly moneyed husband. However, beyond the scope of what she knew or saw, events were progressing in an upstairs room that would soon develop into the confrontation that would mark the occasion beyond the memory generated by the opulence and grandeur created by the host and hostess. The young gentlemen of the County, plus a few of the younger Officers, were lolling and lounging in the smoking room, which was living up to its name with a fug of cigar smoke building nicely. Some drank of the fine wine and spirits available that evening, but all were watching two players, one a well-dressed young gentleman, the othe
r a young Officer. Each sat at the opposite ends of a small colourful board that neatly covered its supporting table. The young Lord Frederick Templemere, recent inheritor of the Hampshire estates and fortune of the late Lord Josiah Templemere, was losing heavily at his favourite and major gamble, backgammon. Having never met his equal, Templemere justifiably counted himself as one of the best players in the country and, in truth, he was invariably proved correct. Usually he found himself happily fleecing minor players on such social occasions as these, to provide the small change that a gentleman such as himself really did not need. Such coinage, though, proved useful at the racetrack; his other, if more minor, gambling activity, where a bet added interest to each race. Templemere was strong featured, dark eyes under dark brows, healthily complexioned and generally considered by his close circle to be good company. He was always ready with the “bon mot” that usually arrived in the form of some cutting remark aimed at someone out of favour.

  However, Templemere was reaching an undisguisable level of agitation. They were on their third game and both that had gone before had been lost. In fact, at the conclusion of the second game he had suffered the deep humiliation of being “backgammoned”, for at the close of the game he had failed to “bear off” any of his checkers, because there remained two in his opponent’s home board. Worse, being Lord Frederick Templemere and playing to the crowd, at the onset he had goaded his opponent into five pounds per pip. Worse still, he had doubled and re-doubled during that game in the hope of making his opponent concede the game, but he had doubled also, making the final reckoning eight times the original stake. Templemere had lost over three hundred pounds so far and this third game was going the same way. All his tactics, blocking and priming, had been demolished and circumvented and so, coming to the end, “counting pips” told him that he was, again, about to lose heavily. His opponent had to move but one checker to his home board and, subject to “bearing off”, a long way away for Templemere, this game also would be his.

  Opposite, on the far side of the board, sat Captain Henry Carr, languid and relaxed, displaying just the level of effortless sangfroid that Templemere most often demonstrated himself when gambling in this way and all the more irritating for that. Carr’s open face, just too full to be described as aquiline and too pale to be described as healthy, sat above the full collar of a fully buttoned Officer’s jacket. A jacket not perfectly tailored, nor perfectly new, but clean and certainly becoming an Officer. Clear blue eyes calmly regarded Templemere and a confident smile moved one corner of his mouth to one side of his face as he threw a five and a three which moved his last checker the eight points needed to both oer’leap Templemere’s block, and also clear all his checkers from Templemere’s home board. Templemere still had five to bring home and one on the bar, which he had to attend to first. He threw and obtained a three and a six. This brought the checker off the bar and enabled the movement of one of the other five checkers, but not to his home board. Losing was now almost certain. The doubling cube sat unused. Now that his throw had arrived, Captain Carr picked it up and turned it to show the two. Templemere had now to accept a doubling of the stakes or concede the game. His temper finally broke.

  “You, Sir, are a damned cheat!”

  The words exploded into the silence. All present sat up, alert and now paying rapt attention. This was developing into much more than a match made for interest in gambling. Carr looked more quizzical than astonished, still retaining an unruffled countenance.

  “A cheat? Come now, Sir, how can it be possible to cheat at backgammon? The board is in full view, the dice also. How can any manipulation be possible?”

  “Nevertheless, I say you cheated.”

  Although they were equal in years, Carr spoke as an indulgent adult addressing an errant child.

  “My Lord, pray calm yourself. If you saw cheating, describe what you saw. I’m sure it can be explained.”

  Templemere drew himself up in the chair and delivered his accusation via a stabbing finger.

  “You primed the dice. Too often you threw exactly the number you needed. I say that’s clear evidence of cheating.”

  There was not a sound in the room, nor movement, not even to draw on a fine cigar, nor sip the fine wine. All knew the absurdity of what had been said and all knew the stage that it had now reached. Carr spoke in tones that became progressively more clipped and formal.

  “My Lord, the rules say that the dice must be delivered from the cup, onto the board, and lie flat. That was ever the case, never once other than. Please accept that.”

  However, his loss and humiliation had taken Templemere beyond reason to near hysteria. Reason had gone absent. He screamed,

  “I don’t. I’ve never seen dice favour a man as they have you. It’s the work of a cheat. There’s no other explanation.”

  Carr’s face became blank, showing no emotion.

  “You have accused me of cheating, within hearing of this honourable company. I require you to withdraw the remark.”

  Some of the company now spoke up. None wanted what now seemed likely.

  “Come on, Fred. He beat you fair, fair that I saw. All good players try to prime the dice inside the cup. It’s all within the rules.”

  “Fred, he’s not asking for an apology. Just let it go. The man’s a good player. That’s that!”

  Templemere felt further humiliation pressing in from all sides, but worse, no support.

  “Pay the man, Fred. You’d expect the same if he were the loser. Pay up for fair play, and let’s get back to the ladies.”

  But Templemere was not used to such a defeat, especially not before an audience of cronies. His jaw clenched so hard that muscles and veins protruded from both the cheeks and temples of his now liverish face. None agreed with him, none had offered support; none would say that they had seen what he had just accused this repulsive Officer of. There would be a reckoning. He took out his pocket book and opened it, never taking his eyes off Carr. Through clenched teeth,

  “Will someone provide me with pen and ink?”

  An inkwell and a quill were duly found and the note duly written. Templemere offered the note across to Carr, who took it and read the sum. £315, the exact amount for the first two games, nothing for the third.

  “And the withdrawal?”

  There remained a thunderous, drawn out silence, suddenly broken.

  “Now hold there, Carr.”

  Carr recognised the Lancashire tones of Nathaniel Peak, Major of the King’s Royals. He looked around to the source of the words and saw Peak coming to the table. Had he been summoned, or had he been there some while? Carr had no way of knowing. The Major spoke,

  “Take your winnings, Captain, and end the matter. The sum has been paid; take that as acceptance of fair play. Now take yourself back to the dancing. That’s an order.”

  Carr rose to his feet, the note still in his hand. To throw it back meant a challenge, to accept it constituted exactly that, acceptance. Without taking his eyes, now icy blue, from Templemere he unbuttoned his jacket, placed the note inside, and then rebuttoned fully, taking care with every one. He then turned on his heel and left.

  An uneasy silence settled on the room, then, with uneasy glances towards each other and Templemere, who remained sitting, the group began to break up and leave. Friends of the defeated Lord came to offer consolation, a hand on the shoulder, a pat on the back. All were shrugged off, all felt it better to leave, and did so.

  The company of gentlemen and Officers descended the main staircase, some noticed by the other guests below, but most of these guests were deep into the distractions of the evening. Mrs March-Markham continued to circulate, cementing the good work of the evening and basking in the complimentary comments: “glittering occasion”, “such a pleasurable evening”. Major Peak watched and then followed Carr all the way down the staircase and at the bottom caught up with him.

  “These are your orders. If you have the need, get a bottle, get something to eat, portable, then g
et your cloak and take yourself back to your billet. Use my carriage. I want you out of here in ten minutes. Clear?”

  “Sir.”

  Carr took himself to the buffet table, much reduced but still displaying plentiful fare. He was very hungry. He emptied a breadbasket, refilled it with food that would travel, chose a bottle and then turned, to find himself nose to nose with Lord Templemere. It was Templemere who stepped back, but only to give himself room to throw a glass of brandy full into Carr’s face, then shout loudly and from a range so close that spittle was added to the brandy.

  “I still say that you are a damned cheat. You cheat from the cup, and that’s how you beat me.”

  Carr carefully returned the basket of food to the table behind, withdrew a large kerchief from his cuff and wiped away the brandy that stung both his eyes and nostrils. This took enough time for the room to go very silent, the dancers to stop, and the music to die away, the last notes discordant within the ragged ending. This was not all that “died away”. On seeing the two antagonists in full view in the middle of the room, one evidently having assaulted the other, who seemed about to strike back, Mrs March-Markham collapsed; the disaster of what was unfolding took her legs from under her. She could not be held up and was allowed to sink to the floor, but remained unattended; all eyes were on Carr and Templemere. Carr was icy calm. He made a point of carefully returning the kerchief, then made his reply.

  “My Lord, this has now become a serious affair that must be settled in the proper manner. Do you have Seconds?”

  “ So you make a challenge?”

  “No my Lord, for I pick up yours. Do you have Seconds?”

  “Yes. As for weapons, I choose pistols.”

  Mrs March-Markham had regained enough equilibrium to enable herself to roll to a sitting position, but at the mention of pistols and Seconds, she thoroughly fainted off, resuming her impression of a badly made satin bed and bolster.