by John Wilcox
Four days after the Griffiths’ dinner party, Simon received a telegram ordering him to report to Brecon Barracks in three days’ time for, firstly, examination by Surgeon Major Reynolds and then interview with Lieutenant Colonel R. Covington, Commanding Officer of the 2nd Battalion, 24th Regiment of Foot.
‘Covington,’ mused Major Fonthill that evening at dinner. ‘Yes. Never did know him very well, though I believe he was an ensign when I commanded a company. Strong fellow. Quite opinionated and not exactly subtle, I fear. But a stout enough soldier. Only just got command of the 2nd, I believe.’ He turned to his wife. ‘Didn’t we have him to dinner, years ago?’
Mrs Fonthill looked vague. ‘I’m afraid I can’t remember, George. There were so many.’
‘I believe that I remember him, Papa,’ said Simon, looking ten years back to a small boy lying on the grass beneath a window. ‘Big man with large moustaches?’
‘That’s the fellow. Not terribly bright, as I remember, but he’s done well to get a command.’
For the appointment, Simon rode the ten miles to Brecon on his mother’s best hunter. He felt the need to appear as soldierly as possible. Although the 24th was not a cavalry regiment - indeed, it was an infantry unit of some seniority, having been raised as long ago as 1689 - good horsemanship was a prime requirement for all officers. Throughout his short army career Simon had shown himself to be a good, even promising officer in most departments, distinguishing himself at languages, topography, military history, field tactics, fencing, marksmanship and mathematics at Sandhurst and displaying excellent man management as a platoon commander on appointment to the 1st Battalion. Equestrian skills, however, escaped him - to the continuing disgust of his mother and the mild amusement of his father. When he cantered between the stone pillars of the entrance to Brecon Barracks, then, he did so just a trifle gingerly.
The examination by Reynolds took little time. Without saying a word, the old doctor tapped his chest, recorded his temperature and repeated the eye and reflex exercises.
‘Feel all right, then?’ he asked eventually.
‘Fine, sir.’
‘Can you take up your duties again?’
‘Yes, sir.’
The seamed face of Reynolds came within inches of Simon’s. ‘Yes, but do you want to - even if it means a posting abroad?’
‘Of course, sir.’
The doctor looked at him expressionlessly for a moment, then turned and scribbled something on a white form.
‘Here. I am passing you fit for duty. Don’t you go collapsing again. Now go and see the Colonel.’
Shako helmet under his arm, left hand rigidly clasping his sword close to the blue line down his trousers, Simon stamped to attention before the grand mahogany desk behind which sat Lieutenant Colonel Covington. The Colonel took his time looking up and then examined the young officer languidly.
‘At ease. You’re Wobbly Fonthill’s son, aren’t you?’
‘Sir? My father is Major George Fonthill VC, formerly of this regiment.’
‘Yerse . . . Wobbly Fonthill. Yerse . . . I seem to remember dining at your house once. How is your father?’
‘Very well, thank you, sir. He sends his regards to you.’
‘Yerse, well. Please return them.’ The Colonel stood up. The decade since he and Simon had last met had thickened his body, taking away a little of the elegance which had so distinguished the young captain. But the moustaches remained magnificent and the acquired bulk made him appear more formidable, less of a dandy and more a purposeful man of authority. The eyes were cold, however, and his tone remained languid and quite unfriendly. He walked slowly round Simon, a piece of paper in his hand.
‘This means, I presume, that you are a gentleman’s son?’ He waved the paper.
‘I don’t, er, quite understand. But yes, of course, sir.’
‘You don’t understand and, well, neither do I. Why didn’t you purchase your commission like a gentleman has always done?’
‘Because, sir, as you may remember, the Cardwell Act abolished purchasing four years ago. I came in through Sandhurst after passing the army examination.’
‘Ah yes, of course. You came in through school. I was forgetting.’ The voice was soft and almost caressing. ‘Had no trouble meeting your mess bills, I trust?’
For a moment, the direction of the Colonel’s questions puzzled him. Then he understood. The Cardwell reform had raised a fear among serving officers that ‘undesirable’ lower-class officers would be afforded easy entry to the army, so lowering standards and even producing economic hardship among the new entrants. A second lieutenant’s pay was only five shillings and threepence a day, which in some regiments hardly covered mess bills. Simon, however, received a personal allowance from his father to supplement his pay.
‘Certainly not, sir.’
‘Good. Good. Well, the army command at the Horse Guards want me to take you in the 2nd Battalion. I have to tell you that I’m damned reluctant to do so.’
‘Sir?’
‘You ought to be at the Cape with your own battalion, not here on depot duty.’
‘I . . . I was ill, sir.’
‘Were you now? Any complaint that I know of?’
‘I am not aware of the nature of the illness, Colonel, but I believe it was some sort of fever. No doubt Surgeon Major Reynolds can enlighten you.’
‘You know damn well that he can’t.’ The words came like a whiplash, directed at Simon from behind, a few inches from his right ear, all languid disinterest gone. ‘I believe, Fonthill, that you are a malingerer and that you affected some kind of illness to avoid active service.’
The accusation struck Simon like a blow. The force of the words, their proximity - he felt a tiny particle of Covington’s saliva fall on his cheek - and precision, each syllable articulated with cutting care, made him flinch. His mind recoiled for a second and then indignation flooded in. He sprang to attention. ‘That is quite untrue. I deny it and resent the insult. If you were my rank I would call you out - sir.’
‘Well I’m not and you can’t. Duelling is banned, as well you know.’
The Colonel walked casually back to his desk and sat down. He picked up a pen and idly tapped it on his fingernail. ‘As I say, the powers-that-be have posted you to my battalion. You will have to serve with me if you want to stay in the 24th.’ He leaned forward. ‘The choice is yours. If you serve under me I shall drive you all the time. I shall see that no imputation of cowardice is levelled against you in the mess or anywhere else - that would spread unrest and I will not have any divergence away from our duty here. But you will have to prove yourself constantly. There will be no respite.
‘Or, of course,’ he sat back and balanced the chair on its back legs, one shining boot thrust on to the edge of the desk, ‘you could apply for a transfer to another regiment. Or just resign your commission. As I say, the choice is yours. But you must make it now.’
Simon remained stiffly at attention, staring straight ahead. ‘I need no time for consideration, sir. The 24th was the regiment of my father and of my grandfather. I wish to remain in it. I shall therefore serve under you.’
‘Very well. Reynolds tells me that you seem to be fit. Report here tomorrow morning at six o’clock. You will be Officer of the Day. I shall inspect you personally before you go on duty. Good day.’
‘Sir.’ Simon wheeled and marched from the room, his mind in such a turmoil that he had to be reminded by the Guard Sergeant to replace his shako before stepping out on to the parade ground. So the accusation had been made at last! In some ways it was a relief, in that it was better spoken than left to innuendo and gossip. Nevertheless, the shock was severe, like a hot iron pressed to the skin. He marched, erect, round the periphery of the parade square with no sense of direction or destination as his brain grappled with the situation. He had replied instinctively to the Colonel’s challenge - and that was what it was, a deliberate provocation. Perhaps it would have been better to resign. Life with Covi
ngton was not going to be easy. But resignation would have been an admission of guilt, and he was never going to do that. In fact, he would do nothing to give that bastard pleasure . . .
‘Mr Fonthill, sir.’ His reverie was interrupted by a small, very thick-set soldier, dressed in blue patrols, who stepped into his path and offered a smart salute.
‘Good to see you recovered, then, sir.’ Simon frowned and concentrated on the dark brown face and wide moustache. The twinkle in the black eyes reminded him. ‘Ah, Jenkins 352, isn’t it?’
‘The very same, sir. Glad to hear that you are joining the 2nd then.’
‘How on earth did you know that?’
‘Friend in the orderly room, see. I’ve been posted to the 2nd Battalion myself, so I’m out of the hospital now.’
‘So I see. Well, good luck to you, Jenkins.’
Simon made to move on but the Welshman barred his way. ‘Permission to make a request, sir,’ he said, straightening his back and bristling to attention, so that his huge moustache made him look like an up-ended broom.
Simon looked at him quizzically. ‘Request away, but I warn you, Jenkins, that I have no influence here.’
‘No, sir. But you will be needin’ a servant, isn’t it? As an ex-NCO I don’t fancy goin’ back into the line. I’m lookin’ for a change, see, and this would suit me perfectly, if you would ’ave me. And sir,’ his black eyes looked directly into Simon’s, ‘from what I ’ear, you’ll be needin’ someone with a bit of experience like to look after you. And I am experienced and I will look after you.’
The two men regarded each other in silence for a moment. ‘Thank you, Jenkins,’ said Simon. ‘You can be my servant. But I don’t want a nanny, because I can look after myself in most things. Tell your colour sergeant that I have requested you.’
A smile split the brown face.
‘But Jenkins . . .’
‘Sir?’
‘Don’t hit him.’
‘Oh no, sir. At least, not yet, sir.’
Private Jenkins saluted, rendered a perfect about-turn and marched away. Simon Fonthill watched him go, and somehow felt considerably better.
Chapter 2
1878
Jenkins entered the small room in the darkness, put down two mugs and fumbled to light a candle. He turned to the sleeping form on the wooden-framed bed and shook him. ‘It’s twenty before six, it’s cold enough to freeze your armpits, here’s your tea and I’m late wakin’ you, so please ’urry.’
Simon sat up immediately and seized the tea mug. ‘Why are you late?’
‘Well, you’re not the only one they’re chasing, look you. Colour Sergeant gave me an hour in the cookhouse from half past four because they’re very short of ’ands in there, or so ’e says.’
Simon dipped a shaving brush into the other mug and quickly lathered his face, barely covering it with soap before scraping it away with his cut-throat razor. ‘Why did he pick on you? Didn’t you do cookhouse duty last week?’
Jenkins’s teeth flashed in the gloom. ‘P’raps it’s because I’m the prettiest.’
‘Don’t be so damned flippant.’
‘What is flippant, then?’
‘It’s what you’re being now.’ Simon hurriedly wiped his face. ‘Quick, hand me my boots.’
Jenkins crouched down and offered one gleaming riding boot and then pushed from the heel as Simon slipped his toes into it. ‘No,’ he said, looking up, ‘what is flippant, then?’
‘Oh, to hell with you and your certificate, 352. It means, er, trying superficially to be amusing. Quick, the other boot.’
‘Well,’ said Jenkins, performing the same service for the other foot, ‘I don’t know about bein’ flippant, see, but you can talk, sir. They’ve made you do two picket duties already this week and now you’re Orderly Officer again. Is the Colonel training you to be a field marshal, then?’
‘Something like that, I think. But I am sorry that you seem to be getting more than your share. Where’s my helmet?’
‘No, it’s not the helmet today, look you. The dress of the day for officers is the cap. I checked on it on the way ’ere an’ just as well I did, ’cos it’s been changed since last night.’ He handed Simon the jaunty box-like blue cap, with its polished peak and big brass 24 on the front. ‘Anyway, you once said that we were in the same boat. I expect they’ll be postin’ Colour Sergeant Cole to this battalion next, in which case, see, I’ll ’ave to ’it ’im again. Ooh, sorry. I forgot.’ Jenkins rushed after Simon as he strode through the door and down the corridor, buttoning his topcoat as he went. ‘Here’s a letter for you.’
Without glancing at it, Simon thrust the letter into his pocket and hurried towards the guardroom. The hour before dawn was piercingly cold and the January stars patterned the sky like sequins on a dark quilt. The big quadrangle of the parade ground glistened with frost as he made his way towards the yellow light of the guardroom. The sentry at the gate stiffened to attention and, with hardly a movement of his lips as Simon walked by, whispered, ‘Colonel’s inside, sir. Top button’s undone.’
Dammit! Nearly caught. With a grateful nod to the sentry, Simon buttoned his greatcoat, settled the cap squarely on his head and entered the guardroom, calling firmly, ‘Stand to the guard, Sergeant.’
The long wooden room was not, of course, brought to life by this command. The guard was already fallen in line, greatcoated and with Martini-Henry rifles shouldered. At the far end of the room stood Lieutenant Colonel Covington, greatcoat over his pyjamas, the trousers of which were tucked into riding boots. His bulldog, General Grant, was at his feet and a huge mug of cocoa was in his hand.
Simon sprang to attention and saluted. ‘Good morning, sir.’
The Colonel took a sip of cocoa. ‘You’re late, Fonthill.’
‘With respect, sir, I think not.’
‘Really? Sergeant, tell me the time.’
‘Sir.’ The Sergeant smacked his boots into a left turn and marched to the large clock that was fixed to the wall of the guardroom by the door. There, he executed a perfect halt, made a right turn, studied the clock, swung in an about-turn, marched to the Colonel, crashed into a halt and in the great sing-song of Wales cried, ‘Five fifty-nine exactly, Colonel sir.’
‘Ah,’ said Covington, pulling a large gold watch from his pocket and examining it with exaggerated care. ‘My hunter must be a trifle in advance. Still, it does no harm to turn out the guard a little early. Carry on, Fonthill.’
‘Very good, sir.’
The Colonel leisurely walked to the door, still sipping his cocoa, but his eye travelled over the young officer, taking in every detail of his dress and his bearing as Simon, in turn, inspected the guard. Covington turned as he opened the door. ‘Oh, Fonthill.’
‘Sir.’
‘When you have finished your duties for the day, come and see me. I have some news for you. Now come along, General, there’s a good dog.’
It was not until Simon had dismounted from his horse for a hurried meal two hours later that he remembered the letter in his pocket. Sitting close to the orderly room fire, he examined the envelope. It bore the familiar, precise hand of Alice Griffith and he opened it with a smile.
Dear Simon,
I have now been in this dreadful place for eighteen months and it seems Papa is about to be presented with a document that certifies that my education is now complete. You will not be surprised to hear that I don’t feel at all educated - though neither do I feel uneducated, for that matter. Anyway, I am tired of the French and their ridiculous lessons in deportment and etiquette.
The good news is that I am about to come home and it would be most gratifying to see you again, if your duties at the depot can spare you, that is. I have been so pleased to receive your letters and to be allowed such a privileged insight into the life of an officer of the line on depot duty. Perhaps we can exchange boredom ratings on the respective teachings of table place settings for seventeen noble persons of various ranks and wheeling a c
ompany into line by fours from the left?
I am leaving tomorrow for home and, indeed, may well be there by the time you read this. If the gesture will not be misunderstood(!), I shall ask Papa to invite you and Major and Mrs Fonthill to dinner soon, so that we can exchange experiences.
Please present my compliments to your mother and father.
Sincerely, your good friend,
Alice Griffith.
Simon’s smile remained as he read the letter and then folded it and replaced it in his pocket. His correspondence with Alice had begun immediately after their tête-à-tête in the topiary two years before and had continued ever since - mainly, it must be admitted, at Alice’s instigation. They had met only once in that time, when Alice had conducted a long and rather one-sided conversation on the problem of rural poverty in Wales. It would be good to see her again.
He stared into the bright coals. Life for the last twenty-two months had not been bad, despite Lieutenant Colonel Covington. Simon had rediscovered his joy in soldiering: the delicate interplay of relationships with the men, the elation of deploying his platoon on exercises, constant physical effort that had made his body lean and hard - even the cat-and-mouse games with the Colonel had their enjoyable side. Not once had he been caught, despite the laying of many traps by the CO. Once again Simon blessed the providence that had provided 352 Jenkins as his servant. Frequently, it was only the barrack-room caution and experience of the little Welshman that had saved him. The example of the cap was typical. Simon had been completely unaware of the last-minute change in the order of dress for the day. It would have been an awful solecism for the Orderly Officer to have appeared wearing the new Prussian-style helmet instead of the ordained field cap. It had obviously been another trap.
Immediately after the new guard had been mounted in the evening, Simon presented himself in the Colonel’s office. There was no doubt about it, Covington was pleased. He oozed affability.
