Today I’m delighted to welcome author Virginia Crow, who has joined me on Writing with Labradors to talk about Vercingetorix’s Virgin, her contribution to Alternate Endings, the new anthology from the Historical Writer’s Forum.
Hi, Virginia, welcome to Writing with Labradors. I’m very excited about the release of the latest Historical Writers Forum anthology “Alternate Endings” and it was great to get an early look at your story.
Hello Lynn! Thank you for hosting me and my story on your fabulous blog!
You’re very welcome. Can you start by telling us a bit about what you generally write and how does this story fit into that?
I have to admit, this story broke a number of the constraints I normally wrap around my writings! It doesn’t really match up with any of them – at least not yet – I’ll explain more about that later on.
I absolutely love exploring history and finding the random events which have been tucked into the telling with seemingly little relevance. Only, they must have been significant enough to have been recorded in the first place! These events provide the bones, while the plot wraps around the flesh of the story. Because this is how I write, I don’t have a specific time period I write in, but Vercingetorix’s Virgin is the earliest to date!
Most of my writing has an edge of mythology, be it historical fantasy like my Caledonbooks, or cultural superstitions like in The Year We Lived. I find the extra dimension which this gives to both the plot and the characters absolutely invaluable. The incorporation of Roman religion allowed me to explore this aspect within the story, and the superstitions and beliefs which surrounded the characters is at the core of Vercingetorix’s Virgin.
Ancient Rome is a long way off. What first sparked your interest in that period?
When I was invited to write a What If? story, I spent a long time trying to come up with an idea. I tried to think of figures from history who I had come to know from researching my own books, sparing the life of my historical heroes, or altering the course of battles. But then comes the inevitable realisation that sometimes it is the unjust nature of events surrounding these historical figures which drew me to them in the first place! Did I really want to take that from them?
So I shelved those ideas and talked through a few different ones with my family. My sister suggested: What if the Gunpowder Plot had been successful? and I was leaning towards that. But I have to admit to knowing almost nothing about the Stuart period beyond what I was taught in school, and I just couldn’t motivate myself to actually research it.
Then came an invite from Pen & Sword to review Simon Elliott’s book Alexander the Great versus Julius Caesar. Bingo! This was exactly what I was looking for: something I had a deep interest in, but no real connection to. So, after reading and reviewing the book (which is fantastic, by the way, and I would definitely recommend!), I started to delve into researching that world…
That’s really interesting. I’d like to see your ideas about the Gunpowder Plot if you ever get around to it. To come to your story – it’s a very interesting concept. How did you come up with this particular alternate ending. I mean, when you first heard about the theme of the anthology had you already considered this one for yourself or did the idea come to you once you started thinking about it?
Thank you!
I knew I wanted something which would show a different ending but not alter the entire course of history. Every story I write focusses on little things which make big ripples. To tweak the Conquest of Gaul meant that big ripples were caused, but they were only as transient as those ripples on the water’s surface. Eventually, they would fade away and history would return to its course once more. But, I have to admit, I enjoyed inserting these two heroes of the ancient world. I’ve never really told the story of famous people (well, not exactly – although The Year We Lived might be an exception to that!), but the theme for the anthology meant that a significant event (and therefore significant persons) needed to be modified…
A very real challenge followed – to explore the precise manners and relationships of these two men – but the result hopefully worked!
I think it worked very well. Tell me a bit about the Vestal Virgins. Who were they and what was their importance in Roman society?
Like most people, I suspect, the first time I ever came across Vestal Virgins was in the Procol Harum song A Whiter Shade of Pale. I never really understood the reference, but then I never really understood most of that song anyway!
A few years ago, I visited Rome with two of my sisters. It was such an incredible place – history tucked in everywhere, hiding in plain sight. We behaved like real tourists with our sightseeing and one of the places we came across was the ruins of the Temple of Vesta. There isn’t much left of it now, but what is there shows the wealth and power which was given to this aspect of the Roman beliefs. While we were in Rome, I got one of those books with plasticky pages which you can hold over one another to see what these ruined buildings had looked like in their heyday, and there was a little bit of writing about each place.
This was where my interest in the Vestal Virgins sparked. One of the things it mentioned was the power Vestals had to pardon people who were being led to execution. That was it! A potential ripple on the surface of the water!
I researched more for the rest of the time we were in Rome, and continued after we returned home. I had an idea for a story based on this event, which then went on to follow a number of twists and turns (of course!) before concluding in the horrendous death of essentially being buried alive which awaited any Vestal who broke her vows.
Vestals played an incredible role in Roman society. They were deemed to be the very best of humanity. Their word was trusted intrinsically, they were never questioned, they were allowed to oversee legal affairs, and their touch and gaze carried the power of the goddess herself.
Vestals served a thirty-year tenure in the temple, they wanted for nothing and were given all they required. But thirty years must have seemed a long time, missing out on the prime of their lives. Many did go on to marry after their service was complete – in fact, a former Vestal was thought to be one of the best wives a man could have – but placing those things which had been forbidden into the hands of a person accustomed to never being questioned, did not always make for the most amorous marriage beds!
That’s fascinating, I’d no idea the Vestals were that influential. Or that some of them married afterwards. That really must have been an interesting adjustment. Have you written other short stories or is this your first? How do you find working in this shorter medium as opposed to writing full length novels? Which do you prefer?
Eeek! My writing motto is: Never use one word when ten will suffice. So writing short stories is always a challenge for me! Back in January 2020, before COVID, I set my New Year Resolution to enter a writing competition/journal each week. It was a very ambitious target but, courtesy of my obsessive nature, I managed to see it through. I got one short story shortlisted and a poem published, which might not seem like much for 52 weeks, but I felt quite proud of them both!
But more than that, I learnt how to make this style work. I finally perfected (good enough for me, anyway!) the art of writing in different genres and different lengths. Since then, I’ve had a few more acceptances too, which is fantastic.
After writing Vercingetorix’s Virgin, I’ve dabbled with Alternative History a little bit more. I have an idea to possibly one day publish an anthology along the lines of “What did the Romans ever do for us?”, pointing out how different life would be without their input. It might never come to fruition, but you never know!
I love that idea! I bet it would be popular. And just wow about your Story-a-Week project. I could never manage to stick to that – very impressive.
To move on to your characters, what was it like writing Julius Caesar? He’s such an iconic historical character – what did you want your readers to learn about him from this story?
Firstly, I have to explain that I had preconceived ideas about Julius Caesar. I had come across him in school as the first Roman to conquer Britain. That was my first misconception, but it was not my last. And that quote, Veni, Vidi, Vici (I came, I saw, I conquered) has absolutely nothing to do with Britain!
So I had to undo everything I thought I knew about him.
Thankfully, my dad is something of an Ancient Rome/Ancient Greece enthusiast – my siblings and I always suspected it was because he was there when it was all happening, and we say that only half-jokingly! – so there was plenty of pointers he could give regarding where to look for more information concerning Caesar.
For me, it wasn’t the case that the more I read about him the more I liked him. It was more like: the more I read about him, the more I pitied him. Here was a man who built up an empire but was left with so much that he was entirely alienated. All his work and campaigning ultimately counted for nothing. His successor would go on to murder Caesar’s son, establish himself as an Emperor on the basis of the conquests Caesar had made, and even re-model Caesar’s calendar to deify himself on an equal footing.
Ultimately, what we tend to remember the most about Julius Caesar is his death. How sad is that? His work, his conquests, all forgotten as his own people turned on him.
So, when I came to write him, I wanted him to be connectable. I didn’t want a distant, aloof figure, because I honestly don’t think that was how Caesar wanted to be. Ironically – since he made himself dictator – I think he missed people. So, for the sake of Vercingetorix’s Virgin, he is someone always trying to reach out without being seen as weak; someone seeking to cement his legacy, but who knows it is unobtainable; someone who is looking to put right the relationships he had failed to rectify the first-time around.
In many respects, Vercingetorix was the anti-Caesar. Writing them both – especially as they interacted with their seconds and the Vestals – was a brilliant contrast to explore.
That makes Caesar sound much more human, somehow. And rather vulnerable. It makes me wish that he really could have had an alternate ending.
So now that you’ve tackled Caesar, do you have any other alternate endings that you’d like to write about one day? What are they?
I have written one other alternative history story. It’s called The Triumph of Maxentius, which is based on the question: What if Constantine lost the battle of Milvian Bridge? This would have had major repercussions for the Christian religion and this was the exact topic of that story.
Because of the gap in time but the huge impact they left, I’ve found Roman history is my preferred era for alternate endings!
And one day, I might have a go at the Gunpowder Plot one, too…
Ha! I’m going to keep an eye out for that one. Virginia, this has been great and I hope a lot of people go on to read your amazing story, it’s well worth it. What else are you working on at the moment? Anything recently published or in the pipeline?
My obsessive nature coming into play again, I am a strict NaNoWriMo participant. Having avoided it for years, I signed up in 2019 and now I refuse to be beaten by it! So all this month I’m chipping away at a new – rather different – novel. For the first time, I’m attempting a dual timeline story. Set part in the 3rd Century, and part in the 18th Century, this book draws from the story of the Amcotts Moor Woman. It is steeped in early church history and runaway Jacobites – a sop to my passion for theology and history!
I’m terrible for starting books, though, and never seeing them through. Maybe this one will get finished but I suspect, if it hasn’t been written by the end of November, it will join my increasingly growing pile of “I-will-get-around-to-it-one-day” books. Time will tell!
That sounds like an amazing project. I hope you do manage to get it finished. Either way, I’ll be following your progress through November as I struggle to get started with my own new book.
Virginia, thanks so much for joining me on Writing With Labradors. It’s been lovely to have you and good luck with the publication of the anthology and with NaNoWriMo as well.
About Virginia
Virginia Crow is an award-winning Scottish author, who grew up in Orkney and now lives in Caithness. She comes from a large family of writers and readers, and has been surrounded by books her whole life. Her favourite genres to write are fantasy and historical fiction, sometimes mixing the two together. She enjoys swashbuckling stories, her favourite book being The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas and she is still waiting for a screen adaption that lives up to it!
When not writing, Virginia is usually to be found teaching music. She believes wholeheartedly in the power of music, especially as a tool of inspiration, and music is often playing when she writes. Her life is governed by two spaniels, Orlando and Jess, and she enjoys exploring the Caithness countryside with these canine sidekicks.
As well as books, she loves cheese, music, and films, but hates mushrooms.
Readers can find out more about Virginia on social media here:
Eton Mess is in loving memory of a very gorgeous dog called India and is dedicated to her companion, my friend and enthusiastic reader Janet Watkinson.
Welcome to my free short story for Halloween 2022. Those of you who have read my previous Halloween stories will know that they are generally traditional ghost stories, designed to cause a bit of a chill.
For some reason, I couldn’t come up with my usual ghost story this year. Maybe I just wore out my ideas last year, or maybe it’s because I really wanted something a bit more light hearted during these times of doom and gloom. Whatever the reason, I’ve written something different this year, though it’s very much based in the season.
When I was a child I used to adore school stories. Nothing could have been further from my East End schooling than the tennis and cricket matches of boarding schools but I loved them. The Chalet School were my favourites, closely followed by the Jennings books but I read every one of the genre I could get my hands on.
I even managed to wade through Tom Brown’s Schooldays. I adored George MacDonald Fraser’s follow-up books about the dastardly bully, Flashman, and his spectacular army career and there’s a good reason why the bully in this story is going into the cavalry. One of these days, if he’s made it this far through the war, I’d quite like to introduce him to Major-General van Daan who has a long memory and a really large dog.
My research into the customs of Eton College during this period made it clear that a lot of the traditions we associate with the school came in rather later. There doesn’t seem to be a great deal of uniformity about how the school, including the Boarding Houses, was run at this point, though it does seem to be clear that some of them were still being run solely by women. House masters did exist, but did not become fully established until slightly later in the nineteenth century. It suited my purpose for the young Van Daan to live under a more relaxed regime so I’ve placed him in Dame Lovelace’s Boarding House.
I hope you enjoy this latest adventure in Paul van Daan’s early life. I loved writing it and was surprised at the end to realise that, with one exception, Paul’s appalling language really hadn’t developed at this point. You could almost let your children read this one. It was definitely written for fun. Enjoy.
Eton Mess
Eton College, October 1795
Mr Julian Holland was correcting Latin grammar in the Masters’ common-room when the sounds of battle reached him. He tried to ignore it. Five years living in the midst of three hundred active boys had taught him the madness of intervening in every minor squabble. Often the combats proved to be nothing more than the kind of noisy play fight you might expect from a litter of growing puppies.
After a few minutes, Julian put down his pen and listened harder. The noise had grown louder and he decided that this was more than general high spirits. There was a savage chanting which suggested a fight of more than usual interest or even worse, a severe beating.
Julian stood up with a sigh, shaking out his gown. He occupied a relatively junior position among the teaching staff at Eton College and it was not really his job to maintain discipline among the boys, unless it was in his own classes. He was sure that the Headmaster or some of the Assistant Masters were within earshot, but he knew that none of them would make a move to find out what was going on unless somebody made a formal report. Mr Heath had only taken over as Headmaster the previous year and was so far showing every sign of continuing the indifference of his predecessor to the safety and welfare of the boys under his care.
Julian made his way at a gentle run down through the Long Walk. The noise seemed to be coming from the churchyard beyond the chapel which was further away than he had expected. Sound carried well on the chill autumn air and, as Julian rounded the end of the chapel, he could see them: a group of boys in a wide semi-circle close to the red brick wall and the old well on the far side of the churchyard. Their cheers and yells of encouragement drowned out any sound of his approach across the damp, leaf strewn grass between the gravestones.
As he drew close, Julian could see that his instinct had not betrayed him. Boxing was a popular sport at Eton and many parents paid extra for their sons to be taught properly, though many of the masters considered it a vulgar activity and preferred to encourage the young gentlemen to study the art of fencing. Some of the boys excelled at both.
Coming up to the edge of the group, Julian could see that the current match was uneven. Two boys were at the centre of the ring, one on the ground sporting a bloody face while the other was still on his feet, although he did not look in much better condition. Three older boys surrounded them, aiming kicks and blows where they could, with no consideration for the traditions of boxing or for any kind of gentlemanly conduct.
Julian knew all the boys under his tuition and was aware that these older boys were all approaching the end of their time at Eton. In the case of the Honourable Cecil Welby, who was eighteen and undoubtedly the ringleader in this systematic battering of younger boys, Julian could not wait for him to go. Welby was destined for a commission in a regiment of Hussars and Julian hoped passionately that the young officer would be ruthlessly bullied by his new messmates to give him a taste of his own medicine.
Welby and his friends had clearly not had it all their own way on this occasion. Ned Carrington’s nose was almost as bloody as his younger opponent’s and he was clearly distracted by his need to mop it occasionally on the sleeve of his coat. Barney Fletcher, the third combatant had what looked like the beginnings of a black eye and Welby himself sported a badly split lip. He was moving in on the younger boy now, his expression murderous.
“Carrington, Fletcher, get hold of his arms. Hold him still, he’s like a bloody gnat.”
As if to prove a point, the boy dodged back as the two converged on him, twisting sideways to avoid Fletcher’s grasping hands. Carrington managed to get a hold on his other side but let go with a yell as the boy turned into him and lifted a knee towards his groin. The blow missed however and the boy was off balance, giving Welby the opportunity to charge into him, knocking him flat.
All three of the older boys moved in, using their feet. Julian gave a shout of anger as all three connected with different parts of the boy’s body. He elbowed his way through the crowd which parted immediately. The atavistic roars of encouragement had died away. Partly Julian thought it was due to the arrival of a master but he also thought they had sensed the moment when an uneven mill turned into something savage and more dangerous.
“Welby, Carrington, Fletcher, get away from him,” Julian bellowed. “This is not the first time I’ve had to speak to you about bullying the younger boys, but you’ve gone too far this time. I’ll be speaking to the Headmaster and I also intend to write to your fathers personally.”
Welby did not speak but Carrington lifted his voice in immediate protest.
“That’s not fair, sir, he started it. We weren’t doing anything wrong. Just giving young Galloway a bit of a reminder of his duties. He’s Welby’s fag you know and he’s been altogether too choosy about what he will and won’t do. Nothing wrong with that, is there?”
Julian, who could remember the sheer misery of his own school days fagging for a bullying senior, wanted to point out that there was a lot wrong with it but he knew he would lose the argument. Fagging, the practice of a younger boy acting as servant to a senior boy in return for his protection was encouraged at most schools. In the hands of a kindly older boy it was harmless enough but in the hands of a bully like Welby it could be intolerable.
“He’s twelve,” Julian said coldly. “It shouldn’t take three of you to explain the rules.”
“It would have been all right if Van Daan hadn’t weighed in,” Welby said. “None of his damned business and I told him so. I hope he’s learned his lesson by it, sir. He needs reminding, the snotty little brat.”
Julian looked down at the leggy, fair-haired fourteen year old on the grass. He had uncurled himself cautiously and was beginning to sit up, wincing a little. Julian waited. He had no idea what was coming but he knew something was and he was poised to intervene. Van Daan rubbed blood from his face and felt around one eye which was beginning to swell. He looked up, giving Julian a glimpse of clear blue eyes, then shifted his gaze to Welby and gave a singularly charming smile.
“Every time you get close enough, Welby, I’m reminded of the smell of dog shit on a hot day. It’s the strangest thing; I always stop to check my shoe and then I realise it’s just you wandering past.”
Welby made an inarticulate sound and moved forward. Julian stepped in front of him, trying to look authoritative and Van Daan scrambled to his feet and stood ready to continue the fight. Julian looked over his shoulder.
“Van Daan, get Galloway up then get him over to the house and cleaned up. I will meet you in the Dame’s kitchen in one hour and if you open your mouth again, I’ll be reporting you. Get moving.”
The boy hesitated, then turned to where Galloway had dragged himself into a sitting position. The sight of the younger boy seemed to remind him of why he had become involved in the first place and he abandoned his fighting stance and went to help the other boy up.
“Come on Galloway, up you get. Dame Lovelace is going to have a fit when she sees the state of you. Make sure you tell her straight away that I didn’t do it or I’ll get my ears boxed on top of everything else.”
Julian watched them limp away. Galloway was leaning heavily on his companion although Julian was not sure which of the two was more seriously injured. He had seen Van Daan flinch as he moved, putting a hand to his ribs. He hoped that Mrs Lovelace, the Dame who ran the Boarding House to which both Van Daan and Galloway belonged, would be able to see through Van Daan’s bravado and get a doctor to have a look at him if necessary.
When the boys had disappeared through the gate Julian turned to look at Welby. The boy wore an expression of studied insolence.
“I don’t think the Headmaster will want to get involved, sir,” he said. “My uncle by marriage is on the Board, you know and none of them will want to interfere with me disciplining my fag. And Van Daan attacked me.”
Julian allowed his eyes to dwell on Welby’s battered face. “I can see he did,” he said. “If I were you, Welby, I wouldn’t want the rest of the school to know that the three of you were bested by a fourteen-year-old. All I can say it that it’s a good thing you didn’t get involved in a fencing bout with him.”
Welby’s face flushed scarlet and Julian gave a sympathetic smile. “Oh I’m sorry. I forgot that you did, last term. Lost half a year’s allowance betting on yourself, didn’t you?”
“If we all had the money he has to waste on fencing and boxing lessons, sir…”
“Enough. I’m not interested. I suggest for your sake that you keep this quiet. Leave Van Daan alone. You’ve only got a couple of months left here, Welby – you go at Christmas don’t you?”
“Yes, sir. To take up my commission.”
“Good. I won’t bother to write to your father, I’m well aware he doesn’t give a damn how you conduct yourself. But if I have to speak to you again about beating the younger boys, I’m going to write to your future commanding officer suggesting he keep an eye on you and explaining why. In the army you’ll be expected to behave like a gentleman. It won’t be a good start if your Colonel knows you’ve a history of not knowing how.”
Julian did not bother to say any more. He knew that Welby was perfectly right. Discipline at Eton was left largely in the hands of the older boys and unless something went badly wrong, it was unlikely that either the Headmaster or the Provost would intervene. He hoped that his threat might make Welby think twice before attempting to exact further revenge on either of the younger boys.
Julian went back to collect his marking then made his way along South Meadow Lane to the big house where Mrs Eleanor Lovelace presided over Whitchurch House, home to twenty boys ranging from the age of ten to eighteen. Julian’s own lodgings were in a narrow lane nearby and although it was not part of his formal duties to oversee the Whitchurch boys, he was on good terms with Dame Lovelace who frequently invited him to supper and often consulted him about the welfare of the boys under her care.
He found the Dame in the big square kitchen, tending to Tobias Galloway’s battered face. Washed clean of blood, it did not look too bad although there was a bruise on his temple and another darkening the fair skin of his jawline. The blood seemed to have come from a split lip. Julian came forward to inspect him and nodded.
“You’ll do, Galloway. You’ve done a good job, ma’am. All the same, I was wondering if you thought it might be an idea to write to Mrs Galloway to suggest that young Tobias goes home for a month or two for Christmas. It might do him some good.”
“He’s due to go home anyway, sir, his father has furlough from the army. I agree it might be wise to bring that forward a little, I’ll write to them this evening to suggest it. By the time he comes back after Christmas the problem should have solved itself.”
“You mean Welby will have gone.”
“Yes, and I won’t miss him. Horrible boy, he’s the worst senior I’ve ever had in the house.”
“Oh I don’t know, ma’am. Whitchurch House won’t be the same without the Honourable Cecil,” a voice said from the doorway. “He should be an asset if he gets to fight the French though. One look at that ugly face and they’ll run a mile. Thank you for intervening, Mr Holland. I know it’s not really your job.”
Julian turned to survey Paul van Daan. He had taken the time to clean himself up and change his muddy clothing but his face, as Julian had suspected, was more battered than Galloway’s. One eye was swollen and bruised, there was a nasty cut on his left cheek and another on his lip. A swelling lump and a gash on his temple made Julian wonder if that was where one of the kicks had connected.
“Look at the state of you,” Mrs Lovelace scolded. “Come and sit down and let me look at those cuts. You look like a low prize fighter. Your poor mother would turn in her grave if she could see you now, Master van Daan.”
“I don’t suppose she would, ma’am. She was used to me.”
Dame Lovelace shooed him into a wooden chair and went for a cold compress and some sticking plaster.
“Well you’ve lived under this roof for two years and I’m still not used to you,” she said. “You should know better, you know what a spiteful beast that boy is.”
“I know that once he starts hitting people he can’t stop,” Van Daan said, his eyes straying to Galloway’s white face. “It’s a pity he always has his friends with him. I wouldn’t bet on his chances if I could get him on his own for ten minutes.”
Julian watched as Dame Lovelace applied a plaster to the cut on the boy’s temple. “He’s four years older and a head taller, Van Daan,” he said gently. “This is not the first time this has happened. When are you going to learn not to get into fights with the seniors?”
“When the seniors stop picking on my friends.”
Julian opened his mouth to remonstrate and then closed it again. It was not the first time he had tried to have this conversation with Paul van Daan. Generally speaking, after the first few rounds with an older boy establishing his superior position in the school hierarchy, most younger boys either fell into line and waited for their own turn at the top, or persuaded their parents to continue their education at home. Van Daan, on the other hand, seemed to be making a single-handed attempt to change the entire system. It had not gone well for him today.
The Van Daan boy had not stood out when he arrived at Eton two years earlier. The gossip in the masters common-room was that he was the younger son of a wealthy Dutch businessman who had married into the English aristocracy. The boy’s mother and sister had died of smallpox and Julian remembered him on arrival as a tall slender twelve year old who looked faintly lost in the echoing halls of the old college.
The first weeks after Van Daan’s arrival had been marked with the usual scuffles and jockeying for position within his peer group, but Julian thought the boy settled well. He seemed well-liked by the other boys and tolerated by most of the masters. His father was wealthy enough to pay handsomely for his sports and social education and Van Daan quickly developed a reputation for being a talented boxer, a brilliant fencer and a good but unenthusiastic cricketer. He was also much in demand for football games where his height and fearlessness made him a favourite pick of the team captains.
His academic studies were less remarkable but Julian, who taught him Latin and geometry, quickly decided that it had nothing to do with his intelligence which was razor sharp. Van Daan’s studies were erratic. If something caught his interest he would devote hours of concentration to mastering it. He went through various enthusiasms for astronomy, Roman military history and learning to play the violin and he proved very able to stick to a subject. When he was bored however, he was an appallingly disruptive pupil with the ability to reduce a class to giggling inattention within minutes.
Julian, who enjoyed teaching and rather liked his pupils, found his ingenuity stretched to keep Van Daan busy and interested and thanked God he was not obliged to teach him Greek. The boy had been taught the basics at home by his previous tutor but showed no interest in taking it further and quickly declared silent war against Mr Archibald Thornton, the thin faced, irritable Greek master. Thornton was quick to lose his temper and enthusiastic in the use of the cane. By the end of his first year, Van Daan had developed a grim tolerance for physical punishment but never managed to look particularly repentant.
Dame Lovelace was pouring hot milk into a cup and adding a dash of brandy. “Off to bed with you, Master Galloway. We’ll see how you are in the morning, but I don’t think you should attend the classroom tomorrow. You look all in, you’ll be better for a good sleep.”
She shepherded the younger boy out of the kitchen. Julian sat down on the bench opposite Van Daan. “What happened?” he asked.
“I wish I knew, sir. Galloway made some kind of dust up about something Welby wanted him to do. I wasn’t there at the start, but when I came upon them, that arsehole and his tame monkeys were threatening to throw him down the old well. He was terrified.” Van Daan’s remarkable blue eyes met Julian’s gaze. “I’m sorry. I know I promised last time, but I couldn’t walk away.”
“I told you to come to me.”
“There wasn’t time, sir. What if they’d really done it? I couldn’t be sure.”
“And what if I’d not come along, Van Daan, and they’d thrown you down that well?”
“I suppose I’d be dead.
Julian sighed. “You can’t leave things alone, can you boy?”
“No, sir.”
“And you don’t know what set them off? It’s not like Galloway to argue with his seniors.”
“No, it’s got me in a puzzle as well. I’ll find out though. Or at least, I’ll get Will Cathcart to do it for me. Galloway will tell him.”
Julian could not help smiling. Cathcart had been an early victim of Welby’s bullying when he had arrived at the school. How Van Daan had managed to get the younger boy’s fagging duties switched to his own good natured senior, Julian had never found out but the two boys had been inseparable ever since. Cathcart was due to leave school very soon to take up a berth in the Royal Navy and Julian wondered if Van Daan’s sudden championship of Galloway had anything to do with him looking for a replacement. He rather hoped so. Galloway had struggled ever since his arrival and Van Daan’s bracing cheerfulness would do him a great deal of good.
Julian sighed. “All right. I’ll leave him to you, Van Daan. Come and speak to me if it’s anything I should know about. I’ve done my best to warn off Welby, so try not to antagonise him for a few weeks, will you? He’s not here for much longer.”
“And then he’ll be off to bully his men in the cavalry, I suppose.”
“That is not going to be your problem, Van Daan.”
The boy gave him a look which informed Julian that he disagreed. Julian lifted his brows and glared back. After a long moment, Van Daan said grudgingly:
“All right, sir.”
Julian considered asking for his word and decided against it. He got up.
“I have marking to finish, you exasperating young whelp. Try and keep out of trouble until class tomorrow, will you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Perhaps it might be best if you take a day off as well…”
“No, sir. This isn’t bad. I’ll be there. Have you marked my work?”
Julian studied him. “Not yet. Why, will I need to borrow some of Dame Lovelace’s brandy first?”
“You might, sir. I think,” Van Daan said modestly, “that I did quite a good job of it.”
Julian could not prevent a laugh. “Eat your supper and get to bed early, Van Daan. You’re going to have the worst headache tomorrow.”
“It’s already started, sir.”
“Well listen to Dame Lovelace. She’s a good woman and she adores you. She’ll know what to do. Good night.”
***
There were two shared dormitories in Dame Lovelace’s boarding house plus three separate rooms for the senior boys. Two of them belonged to Cecil Welby and Ned Carrington, although neither appeared to have come home yet tonight. The other was occupied by Dominic Netherton, the third son of an Earl, an elegant youth rather incongruously destined for Cambridge and then the church and a family living in Hertfordshire. Paul van Daan shared nominal fagging duties for Netherton with his friend Cathcart. Netherton was a good natured and undemanding boy of eighteen whose only real requirement was money. He had discovered early on Paul’s talent for both fencing and boxing and had reaped a rich reward in organising competitions and running betting services on the outcome. In return he exercised a casual protection over the two younger boys and troubled them very little.
Paul had just finished his supper and was drinking brandy and milk under the eagle eye of Dame Lovelace when Netherton appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, casting a disapproving eye over the scene.
“I’ve just been hearing about your set-to with Welby, Van Daan.”
“Sorry, Netherton.”
“You’re a damned nuisance. He’s been complaining to me and saying you should be flogged.”
“It would be superfluous,” Paul said, indicating his battered face. Netherton studied him and sighed.
“All right. Keep out of his way until your match against Beeston on Thursday. I’ve got this month’s allowance on it: I can’t afford to lose. Are we clear?”
“Of course. I’ll be fine, it’s nothing serious.”
“Good. Is Galloway all right?”
“I think so. I’m going up to check on him now.” Paul hesitated. “Look, Netherton. I was wondering…you’re going to lose Cathcart next term, he’s off to the Navy. While you’re still here, maybe you could take over Galloway after Welby leaves? He’s a good lad and he’ll be grateful.”
Netherton glared at him. “Welby will want one of his friends to take him over.”
“You’ve no reason to worry about those two, they’re nothing without him. They won’t make a murmur.”
Netherton studied him for a while then sighed. “All right. I’ll speak to Galloway after Christmas. You’re such a pain in the backside, Van Daan.”
“I know I am. Sorry.”
“No you’re bloody not. Get up there and find out if he’s all right, poor little runt. If he’s worried, let me know and I’ll see if I can warn off Welby.”
“Thank you, Netherton. You’re a good sort.”
“I am a bloody pushover and you know it, you little bastard.”
Paul grinned and removed himself to the dormitory. There were eight beds but only five were occupied. Admissions to Eton had been low for several years, although they were currently slightly improved, possibly due to the change in Headmaster.
It was early for the boys to be in bed and Galloway was the only one tucked up in his narrow cot. On the bed next to him was the slim figure of William Cathcart, Paul’s closest friend at school. Cathcart was thirteen, almost a year younger than Paul and the eldest son of Lord Cathcart, a Scottish Peer. Cathcart had suffered at the hands of Welby and his cronies during his first term at school but had made a remarkably good recovery. He was due to leave in the summer to join the Royal Navy as a volunteer aboard HMS Melpomene with the Channel fleet and Paul knew he was going to miss him.
Paul closed the badly fitting door and joined Cathcart on his bunk. Galloway was sitting up, finishing the milk and brandy. He was very pale and looked completely exhausted. Paul studied him for a moment.
“Are you going to tell us what happened, Galloway?”
“I don’t much want to talk about it.”
“I understand that,” Cathcart said. “But we’re your friends, you know, we want to help. And it’s not like you to get into trouble with Welby. Normally you just…”
He stopped abruptly and Paul managed not to laugh. “Normally you’ve got more sense than me and just go with the tide,” he said tactfully.
“Normally I just do what he tells me to do.”
“Well, yes,” Cathcart said. “And it’s the intelligent thing to do, we all know it.” He shot a glance at Paul. “Well, most of us do. What went wrong this time?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“It can’t be that bad.” Cathcart frowned suddenly. “Or at least, I suppose it could be, but I didn’t think Welby was like that. I mean I’ve never heard…”
He broke off, studying the younger boy with concern. Galloway flushed scarlet as he appeared to catch his meaning and shook his head, setting down the cup on the wooden floor.
“No! Nothing like that.”
“Are you sure?” Paul said. He had heard vague stories of one or two of the older boys requiring more than domestic services from their fags, although as far as he knew it had not happened during his time at the school. Gossip travelled quickly at Eton and Paul thought he would have known if Cecil Welby had abused any of the younger boys in that particular way.
“No, I swear it. Just the usual stuff, running errands, cleaning his room and suchlike. He’s beastly and he’ll give his boys a box around the ear if we’re not quick enough, but nothing worse until today.”
“So what did he want from you today, Galloway? Is he after money? He spent a couple of months trying to extort what he could from me once he realised my brother sends me a guinea under the seal of every letter. Come on, spill it. We can’t help you if we don’t understand.”
“It’s a secret.”
“We won’t tell,” Cathcart promised. “I’ll give you my oath.”
Galloway was silent for a moment and Paul could see that he was torn between wanting to share and his ability to trust.
“I promise, Toby,” he said gently. “What does that bastard want?”
Galloway took a deep breath. “He wants my dog,” he said.
***
The bitch was part-spaniel, five months old and very playful. She was housed in the stable attached to the George Inn under the care of a skinny stable-hand who was being paid to look after her.
Paul sat in a pile of straw with the puppy on his lap licking his face while Galloway told the story. He had heard about the puppies from one of the grooms in the college stables and had been longing for a dog since losing his elderly hound the previous year. Unusually wealthy due to a generous birthday gift from his uncle, he had bought her and found a temporary foster home in one of the staff cottages with a gardener.
“It’s only until Christmas. My father is coming to collect me to take me home. He’s on furlough for three months before going off to India and he wants to spend the time with me. He and my mother have already agreed to me getting another dog, so he’ll be happy to take her. I thought it was an excellent idea all round. I’ve been spending all my free time with her, training her.”
“What’s her name?” Paul asked. The puppy was lying on her back as he scratched her tummy and he was already in love. His mother had adored both dogs and horses and in the horrible weeks after her death Paul could remember going to sleep each night with her favourite spaniel curled up in his arms for comfort. The memory hurt but also made him smile.
“India. I called her that because I’d just heard about Papa’s posting. It was all going so well until Welby found out. He told me I wasn’t allowed a dog in college and that if I didn’t give her to him, he’d tell the Headmaster and she’d be taken away. When I told him to get lost, he threatened to drown her. He’d found out that old Jones was looking after her for me and I knew if he went after the poor old fellow he’d have to hand her over.”
“Where did you come up with this place?”
“My parents always put up at the George if they come up to visit for any reason. I’ve known some of the lads here for years. It’s expensive, it’s costing me every penny of my allowance, but it’s only for another few weeks. As long as I can keep her hidden from Welby, we’ll be fine. But he worked out that I’d moved her and was trying to get me to tell him where. I didn’t tell him.”
Paul was twisting some straw into a makeshift ball. He tossed it across the stall and laughed as the puppy bounded after it. “She’s gorgeous. I can’t believe you didn’t tell us about her, Galloway, you little idiot. Far easier to look after her with three of us and if you run out of money I can help.”
Galloway gave a slightly tremulous smile. “I should have told you. I can’t take your money though, Van Daan.”
“Yes, you can. I’ve nothing useful to spend it on and I’ll take puppy cuddles in payment. I miss the dogs at home. My mother used to have a spaniel who looked rather like this. India, come here. You’re supposed to fetch the ball not eat it, you’ll be sick.”
“Are you sure Welby doesn’t know about this place?” Cathcart asked.
“As sure as I can be, but I’m terrified he’ll find out.”
“We need to get rid of Welby,” Paul said, stroking the spaniel’s ears. “He’s going anyway at Christmas, if we could just find a way to get him sent down sooner you’d have nothing to worry about. I can’t believe he’s not managed to get himself expelled before now.”
Galloway snorted. “The Headmaster doesn’t see thrashing the junior boys as a problem.”
“No. What would he see as a problem?”
“Theft? Murder? Seducing the Provost’s daughter?” Cathcart said.
“I’m not sure we can set him up for any of those,” Paul said regretfully. “Not without causing serious harm to somebody else.”
“I was joking, Van Daan.”
“So was I. At least…I think I was.” Paul stopped stroking India’s silky ears. He was staring into the distance as an idea began to form in his brain. After a moment the puppy grew bored and began to nibble at his jacket. Paul took no notice. The idea was taking shape, forming into something like a plan. It was possible. It could work. It could…
Paul caught sight of the faces of his two friends. They wore identical expressions of sheer horror and he laughed aloud.
“Your faces.”
“No,” Cathcart said firmly. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop thinking it. I’ve come to know that expression. I have approximately six months left at this school and I’ve no wish to be kicked out before then because I followed you in some mad scheme to get back at Welby.”
“You’re going to love it.”
“I’m going to hate it.”
“You’re not. It’s not illegal and it won’t hurt anybody. At the very least he’ll end up looking like a complete idiot and if we’re really lucky they’ll send him down early for being out after curfew and for causing a dust-up with the townspeople. Don’t be such a boring toad, Cathcart. Don’t you trust me?”
“No.”
Paul looked at Galloway. “I don’t trust you either, Van Daan,” the younger boy said earnestly. “But…will it keep him away from India?”
“He is going to be far too busy to even think about India. Though if he does come anywhere near her, I’m going to drown the ugly bastard in the Thames, I promise you.”
Galloway gave a broad smile. “I think you would, too.”
“I definitely would. But I’m not going to need to. What’s the date?”
“The date?” Galloway looked baffled. “It’s the twenty-sixth of October.”
“Exactly,” Paul said rather smugly. “Which gives us five days to plan this.”
Cathcart gave a puzzled frown. “You’re not thinking of doing something on Mischief Night are you? The Head said only the other day that he’d expel any boy caught playing tricks on the townies this year. I don’t think even Welby would be stupid enough.”
Paul shook his head regretfully. “No, we’d never get away with it. After Grantham set fire to that barn last year and nearly burned down Selby Street they’re going to have us firmly locked up on the thirtieth. I’m thinking of All Hallows Eve.”
Both his friends stared at him blankly. Eventually, Cathcart said:
“What in God’s name is going to happen to Welby on All Hallows Eve, Van Daan? Apart from a ducking if he’s bobbing for apples, that is?”
Paul gave a broad smile. “We’re going to persuade him to go ghost hunting,” he said happily.
***
The telling of ghost stories was a time-honoured tradition at Eton and Julian rather imagined at most other boys’ schools. He remembered from his own time, both at Eton and Cambridge, cold winter evenings toasting bread by the fireside and competing to tell the most ghoulish tales.
There were currently fourteen boys in residence at Dame Lovelace’s boarding house and all but the two youngest were scattered around the boys’ parlour when Julian arrived to supervise the residents during Mischief Night. The practice of playing tricks and pranks on the neighbourhood on the evening of the thirtieth of October varied greatly around the country and Julian had never heard of it in his own county of Surrey, but he had discovered it was very well established in the town of Windsor.
Until recently the Headmaster had mostly ignored the escapades of some of the wilder elements in College. They tended to consist of racing through the darkened streets banging on doors or taking buckets of dung from the stable heap to leave on the doorsteps of unwary citizens. It was exasperating but harmless and the town boys were just as enthusiastic as the College boys.
Over the past few years however, the pranks had been escalating. Competition between the town youths and the boys from College had raised the stakes to the point where the pranks were becoming either expensive or dangerous. One year some of the Thames boatmen were furious to discover most of their barges had been sunk during the night, while a farmer on the outskirts of the town had lost two cows to drowning when every gate on his farm had been opened. There were angry local meetings where the townspeople blamed the college and the College pointed to the town.
On the previous year, the most imaginative prank and Julian’s personal favourite, was when Mr Calverley, a local solicitor who had been particularly vocal on the subject of the College boys and had even gone so far as to take his walking cane to two of the juniors he suspected of stealing eggs from his poultry yard, arose to find his hen house completely enmeshed in a cage of string. Julian had been tasked with enquiring into the matter and he had been baffled at how difficult it was to release the squawking hens until he realised that once the string was in place it had been thickly painted with glue, which had set very well during the cold night. It took the lawyer and his servant almost an hour to chip and cut the string away and when the indignant hens sallied forth, every one of them was painted a bright shade of green.
Green hens were outrageous but more or less harmless, however somebody had gone further and set fire to a partly derelict barn at the end of Selby Street. The fire had looked likely to spread and though the residents had managed to put it out, helped by a fortuitous shower of rain, two College boys had apparently been seen in the vicinity and the Headmaster declared that Mischief Night was over for the scholars of Eton College. Orders had been given and threats made, but on the night itself, the Headmaster allocated each one of the Assistant Masters to a Boarding House where they were to check if any of the students were missing and keep an eye out for anybody trying to abscond.
Julian had been ready for a sulky response from the three senior boys who were used to a good deal of freedom in their spare time. To his surprise he found Netherton, Welby and Carrington happily consuming buttered toast and hot chocolate with their juniors while the Honourable Martin Wynne-Jones told a gruesome tale about a headless horseman. Julian bowed politely to Dame Lovelace, who was settled in an armchair with some knitting, and took a chair in the corner.
There was silence as Wynne-Jones finished his story. After a moment, Paul van Daan gave an exaggerated shudder.
“That was excellent, Jonesy. It’s a good thing I can’t imagine your horseman making it up those stairs or I’d struggle to sleep tonight.”
“Your turn, Van Daan,” Netherton said lazily. “Don’t you have any grisly tales for us?”
“I’m sure there’s one my brother told me about a ghostly hunt, but I can’t for the life of me remember it,” Van Daan said regretfully. “It’s a shame because he scared the life out of me for a month afterwards, I used to lie awake listening for the phantom hunting horn. My mother was furious with him. What about you, Welby? Anything from Dorset?”
It was said casually but Julian thought he recognised an olive branch and was surprised and a little touched. He half expected Welby to reject it scornfully but the older boy could not resist the opportunity to take the stage. His story involved a ghostly sea captain and was not as well told as Wynne-Jones’ but the boys seemed to enjoy it and it rather pleased Julian to see what appeared to be a cautious truce.
He looked again at Van Daan who was sprawled on a shabby rag rug on the floor and wondered if the boy was yet aware of what a gift he had for leadership. The casual charm seemed effortless even at fourteen and Julian hoped he would find the right outlet for his undoubted talents as he grew older. He had told Julian that his father wanted him to go into the law but Julian could not imagine that restless energy confined behind a desk and certainly did not see Paul van Daan as a clergyman. The army and the navy were both traditional careers for a younger son and might well suit him better.
Several more stories were told and Julian, called upon to contribute, told them about the ghost of Anne Boleyn who was supposed to haunt the Tower of London. He could see that the younger boys were getting sleepy. Dame Lovelace had observed it too and was folding her knitting in preparation to sending them up to bed. Paul van Daan looked over at her and gave her a winning smile.
“One more, ma’am. We’ve been on a ghostly tour around Britain tonight, but we’ve had nothing local. Aren’t there any gruesome tales about the College? Or even the town? You must know, surely.”
The Dame sniffed. “I’ve better things to do than listen to ghost stories, Master van Daan. Not that my father didn’t tell me about some strange noises in the college library when he was caretaker here forty years ago, but he told me he never actually saw anything…”
“What did he hear, ma’am?”
Dame Lovelace settled herself back in her chair and Julian watched, hiding a smile. At this rate it would be midnight before the boys were in bed but he was enjoying the unusually mellow atmosphere. Dame Lovelace told a surprisingly effective story of her father.
“That gave me the chills,” Cathcart said appreciatively when she had finished. “It’s almost worse imagining what he might have seen than actually seeing the ghost. Reminds me of that story about the boathouse.”
“What story?” Van Daan asked.
“You know, the one the boatman told us when we took shelter there from the rain. At least…weren’t you there, Van Daan? Maybe it was just me and Galloway.”
“I don’t remember it,” Van Daan said, sitting up from his prone position. “Tell us immediately. And after that, I’m going to bed. It’s been a good Mischief Night and the town can sleep safely, though I’m not sure I will after this. What’s the story of the boathouse?”
“Apparently it’s haunted. Old Peterson reckons he’s seen her.”
“Seen who?” Netherton said, intrigued. The sleepy boys seemed to have woken up at the mention of the boathouse, which was regularly used by the College boys. “Tell us about it, Cathcart. That’s very close to home; I’m in and out of there all the time. I can’t believe you’ve left this to the very end.”
“And that will have to be the end,” Dame Lovelace said firmly. “You’ll all be sleeping through lessons tomorrow.”
“It was this time of year, according to Peterson,” Cathcart said. “She was quite young, the daughter of some local tradesman and she got involved with someone at the College. Peterson couldn’t say if it was a senior boy or a master…”
“This does not sound like a suitable story for young ears,” Dame Lovelace said in repressive tones.
“No, no ma’am, of course. Like I say, I don’t know the details but whatever happened it went wrong for her. I daresay he dropped her or left College or some such thing but she couldn’t get over it. People used to see her wandering along the river bank where they used to meet, crying. One day she didn’t come home at all and it was pouring with rain. Her father went out to look for her but there was no sign along the river pathway. He was beginning to worry she’d missed her footing and slipped into the river so he made his way to the boathouse to see if any of the boat men were there and had seen her. The place was in darkness but the door was unlocked, so he pushed it open and saw her there. She was hanging from the rafters, swaying gently.”
“That’s an appalling story,” Julian said, watching the faces of some of the younger boys. “And quite enough for tonight.”
“It’s not a ghost story though,” Van Daan argued. “Or is it, Cathcart?”
“According to Peterson she’s still seen along that path just as dusk is falling. People have heard her crying as well – inside the boathouse, though when they open the door there’s nothing there. Although one night – perhaps it was the anniversary, we don’t know – one of the boat men saw her in the shed: just her outline hanging there.”
“Oh that is definitely enough,” Van Daan said, getting up. “If anybody in our dorm wakes up yelling in the night, Cathcart, it’s your fault. And it might well be me. I’m off to bed. Goodnight, ma’am. Thank you for a very good Mischief Night, I think I enjoyed it more than last year. And you too, Mr Holland. You can report back that we were all present and correct and behaved ourselves very well. We’ll be staying home tomorrow as well, I swear it. After that little performance, I’d happily stake two guineas that even Netherton and Welby wouldn’t have the nerve to be wandering along the river on All Hallows Eve. Goodnight all.”
Julian watched him go, followed by his friends, their feet clattering on the bare wooden stairs. He agreed that the evening had been a success and that the boys appeared to have behaved impeccably, so he could not understand why he had the wholly irrational feeling that Paul van Daan had in fact just behaved very badly indeed.
***
Paul fell asleep quickly and was awoken by Cathcart bouncing on the end of his bed. He managed to stifle a squawk, sat up and smacked his friend across the ear.
“What was that for?” the younger boy whispered indignantly.
“For scaring the shit out of me in the middle of the night after three hours of ghost stories,” Paul hissed. “Outside before we wake up the whole house.”
Cathcart followed him onto the dark landing. It was very cold and Paul shivered.
“Make it quick, my teeth are chattering. Did he bite?”
“He bit,” Cathcart said with great satisfaction. “The bet stands at two guineas that he’ll parade along the river path alone at dusk on All Hallows Eve, then stay in the boatshed until midnight. Carrington volunteered to stand as guarantor that he goes through with it but I pointed out that he wouldn’t be alone then so the bet wouldn’t hold good. I’ve told him you’re giving a shilling to Peterson to watch from that cottage of his to make sure he doesn’t try to sneak out of there.”
“Very good idea. Am I in fact giving a shilling to Peterson?”
“Yes. Which he’ll be spending at the King’s Head, happily not looking in the direction of the boat shed.”
“Better and better. I’ll get down there directly after my Greek class to set everything up. I hope I can manage to stay awake through the deathly boredom of old Thornton droning on. He’s not caned me for months, he must be getting a bit twitchy by now. Come on, let’s get back to bed before the Dame catches us. Or before we freeze to death and start haunting the place ourselves.”
Despite his disturbed night, Paul managed to get through both Greek and Latin without incident the following day and was even faintly smug when Mr Holland praised his recent translation. He regretfully turned down an invitation to play football during the afternoon and slipped away about his own affairs, although he made sure that he was back in plenty of time for dinner and joined in with the conversation about the football match as though he had been present.
Welby was quiet during dinner and Paul wondered if he was regretting his rash acceptance of the bet. When the table was cleared, the boys collected their books for the study period and for an hour and a half the big schoolroom at the back of the house was silent, broken only by the rustling of paper, the scratching of pens and an occasional deep sigh.
Dame Lovelace rang the bell which signalled the end of formal study and the boys broke up into informal groupings. In some Houses there was still a great deal of supervision during the evening but Dame Lovelace was known to be lenient, particularly with the older boys. It was not uncommon for the seniors to slip out to meet friends from other Houses in one of the local taverns and providing they returned by eleven o’clock and did not wake the house up because they were drunk, she would turn a blind eye.
During the summer months she would also allow some of the older juniors to go down to the river to swim or to row, or to the field to play games. Tonight it was already growing dark and Paul was pleased to see that Welby had vanished, although Netherton was still there, setting out a draughts board. Paul joined him.
“Netherton, can you cover for me? I want to go up to the hall to practice for an hour, I’ve got two fights next week and I’m feeling sluggish after my skirmish with Welby. I need to get myself moving again.”
Netherton shot him a glance. “Do so,” he said firmly. “I thought Beeston had you beaten, I’ve never seen you so slow. Welby has gone off somewhere, something to do with a wager. I hope he bloody loses, whatever it is. I’ll tell the Dame I sent you on an errand. Take a lantern though, it’ll be pitch black coming over the field in the dark and I don’t want you spraining your ankle. I’ve got a huge bet on you against Wolverton and there’s a big take up on the betting book as well. I need you to win.”
Paul grinned. “I can beat Wolverton with one hand,” he said. “Thank you. I won’t be more than an hour or so.”
“She won’t check the dorms, she never does. If you’re late back I’ll tell her you’ve gone to bed and I’ll make sure the side door is unlocked. See you later.”
Paul collected a closed lantern from the kitchen and slipped out through the side door. He was halfway across the field when he heard footsteps and stopped, waiting.
“Van Daan, is that you?”
“Yes. What the bloody hell are you doing here, Cathcart? If we get caught it will be six of the best at the very least. And you should never have brought Galloway. It’s all right for me…”
“Shut up and get moving or we’ll miss the fun. I’m reliably informed by Carrington that Welby went first to the Queen’s Head for refreshment. If we cut across by Peterson’s Cottage we should get there in plenty of time. I had a look earlier and there’s a place behind those three oaks which gives an excellent view of the boathouse door.”
Paul held up the lantern and began to walk faster. “I wish I could see his face when he opens that door,” he said wistfully. “But watching him run will be a lot of fun. I was trying to think of a way of getting him into trouble for being out after hours, but it won’t wash. Firstly because we’re all out as well. But also, it will come home to Dame Lovelace and she’s a good sort. I’d hate for her to lose her post because she doesn’t sit on us all the time. Still, it will scare the life out of Welby and as long as we see him run, Peterson is happy to confirm that he did too.”
“And how much did that cost you?” Cathcart said cynically. Paul laughed.
“Whatever it cost me, it was worth it. Did you hear back from your father, Galloway?”
“Yes, I got a letter this morning. He’s coming down to collect me himself; he’s probably on the road by now. And he’s very pleased about India. I knew he would be.”
“Lucky little bastard. I wish I was going home early for Christmas,” Paul said dispassionately. “Or maybe I don’t. My father is never especially pleased to see me. I miss Joshua though, and my dogs and horses. And Carl.”
“The parson’s son?”
“Yes. We’ve been friends since…oh forever. I wish you could meet him, you’d like him. Look, it’s grown misty over the river. Gives a nice atmosphere. This way, we can cut through the trees.”
They were barely in position when Paul heard footsteps approaching along the footpath. They seemed erratic and at first Paul did not think it was Welby at all, but as a lantern similar to the one he had recently doused came into wavering view through the swirling mist, he could see the older boy’s face. Welby looked satisfyingly nervous, glancing around frequently as though expecting to see a ghostly form emerging from the mist.
The weather was a bonus for Paul’s plan, since it virtually guaranteed that nobody else would be taking a night time stroll along the river. He watched Welby approach the big wooden structure of the boathouse and wondered suddenly if he was slightly drunk.
At the door, Welby hesitated, lifting his lantern. Paul hoped that Peterson had followed instructions and left the shed unlocked. Welby looked around him again and Paul could almost see him wondering if he could get away with sneaking off after his evening walk and not spending the next few hours in the dark boathouse. Paul could have reassured him that he was not likely to be there for long.
After several minutes, Welby stepped forward and took hold of the latch. Paul could see his figure outlined against the mist. The wooden door creaked slightly as Welby opened it cautiously, adding to the atmosphere. Paul realised he was holding his breath.
Welby screamed.
It was a high-pitched sound of sheer terror and it told Paul all he wanted to know about how well his plan had worked. Welby must have bolstered his failing courage in the tavern but the drink would only have made the shock worse. There was a scrabbling and a clatter and then the light from the lantern was abruptly extinguished, presumably because Welby had dropped it.
Paul waited, listening. He could hear the older boy crashing about down at the path, sobbing in terror. Remembering how frightened Galloway had been the previous week when Paul came across him close to the old well, Paul felt a sense of savage satisfaction. He hoped that Welby remembered this the next time he bullied a terrified boy six years his junior. He also hoped that Welby sprained his ankle racing back up to Dame Lovelace’s House.
There was another scream, then a yell of terror and then an enormous splash. After that, there was only splashing, with an occasional cry. Paul listened for a moment.
“He’s gone into the river,” Galloway said.
Paul waited. The next cry was more of a gurgle. “Of course he’s gone into the river,” he said. “He’s a bloody idiot.”
The three boys remained frozen between the oak trees. The noise continued for a while. Eventually a terrified wail floated up from the darkness.
“Help! Somebody help me!”
“He can’t swim.” Cathcart said.
Paul listened for another moment and realised that his friend was right. The enormity of how badly their plan had gone wrong made him furious.
“Of course he can’t bloody swim!” he roared. “You would just know it. Of all the useless good for nothing dog turds I’ve been unfortunate enough to meet in my short life, the Honourable Cecil Welby is top of the list. His inability to swim is…oh never mind. Galloway, take my tinder box. See if you can get the lantern lit again. Come on, Cathcart, we need to get him out of there.”
He was halfway across the grass towards the river when he heard his friend’s voice. Cathcart sounded apologetic.
“I’m afraid I can’t swim either.”
Paul froze. He realised he had no time to say any of the things he wanted to say and probably did not know enough swear words to express his feelings anyway. He said the first thing that came into his head.
“Oh for God’s sake! You’re about to join the bloody Navy!”
The river was high because of recent rain and freezing cold. Paul stripped off coat and boots and waded in, following the faint sounds of Welby’s voice. It sounded as though the older boy had managed to keep himself afloat but was clearly struggling. Paul struck out strongly in the direction of the sounds and reached Welby just as he went under again.
For several long minutes he struggled with the older boy in the water. Welby was beyond terror and in his panic he fought rescue. He was bigger and stronger than Paul and for a while it felt as though the only course would be to let him go under. Paul hung on grimly, trying to dodge his flailing arms. Eventually sheer exhaustion slowed down Welby’s frantic struggles and he allowed Paul to grasp him around his chest and tow him to the river bank.
Cathcart and Galloway were there with the lantern lit and Paul staggered out and sat down suddenly on the bank. Only now, with Welby safe and vomiting river water onto the grass, did he realise how exhausted he was. He lay back, letting his friends fuss around him and wondered how close he had come to dying in the cold waters of the Thames.
***
It was drizzling steadily over the courtyards and college buildings. Julian had deliberately found reasons to be present as the Headmaster and Mr Thornton presided over the inquiry into the events of All Hallows Eve. As the informal Housemaster of Whitchurch House he felt justified in pushing his way into the process.
Welby had recovered from his near drowning but was curiously subdued through the questioning. He told the story of the bet and his subsequent terror but seemed too embarrassed to dwell on how badly he had been frightened by a white muslin gown hung by ropes from the beams of the boat house. It had been decided, given his unauthorised absence from his Boarding House and the evidence that he had been drinking that evening, that he would leave College immediately and spend the remaining months before he took up his commission at home.
Paul van Daan was alarmingly composed as he related the story of his practical joke on Welby and how he had managed it without assistance. Julian was deeply appreciative of how well he was able to explain every aspect of the plan, even to the fact that he had been given the idea by Cathcart’s innocent retelling of a local ghost story. Julian knew it could not possibly work, since both Galloway and Cathcart had been caught out of their rooms after hours, but he approved of Van Daan’s efforts to excuse his friends.
The Headmaster was quietly furious. Mr Thornton, Julian thought, was slightly triumphant. Sentence was passed for the following morning before the entire school. Julian thought the matter was finished, but it seemed that Van Daan had more to say. As the Headmaster gathered his gown about him, the boy said clearly:
“Headmaster, I’m sorry. You’re right, I deserve the caning. But not these two. Cathcart came out to find out what I was doing and Galloway followed him. Neither of them knew. This isn’t fair.”
The Headmaster paused. “They were both outside beyond curfew, boy. That in itself…”
“Maybe. Two or three strokes. But not ten, that’s too much. This was my fault. I was angry with Welby and I planned the whole thing. They’d nothing to do with it.”
The Headmaster hesitated and Julian held his breath. He wondered if Van Daan might have reached him. Before he could speak however, Thornton cleared his throat loudly.
“Utter nonsense. Cathcart made up the story which led to this whole thing, there was a room full of witnesses. As for the Galloway boy, he is guilty of keeping a dog without permission, Headmaster. I have instructed my senior boys to make enquiries about where the animal is being kept and to arrange for it to be destroyed.”
Van Daan swung around and the expression on his face unexpectedly broke Julian’s heart. He rose and stepped forward.
“I was present on Mischief Night when the boys told their ghost stories, Headmaster, and for what it is worth, I think Van Daan may be telling the truth about the fact that they knew nothing of his plan. Cathcart heard the story from some local boatman and I think that gave Van Daan the idea. With regard to the dog…”
“It is utterly forbidden to keep an animal on school premises,” Thornton said sternly.
“The dog is not being kept on school premises, Headmaster, and I have made my own enquiries,” Julian said easily. “It appears that the animal actually belongs to Colonel Sir Edward Galloway who will be arriving within a day or two to collect it, along with his son. I would not personally wish to explain to him when he arrives that you have beaten his son and had his dog destroyed. It is, of course, up to you.”
There was a long, difficult silence. Eventually the Headmaster said:
“I have no interest in the Colonel’s dog of course. However, his son has clearly broken school rules and endangered another student. The punishment will stand.”
The procedure for corporal punishment at Eton was agonising to watch. Julian had only once been flogged during his time at school and had mostly managed to forget about it. He loathed being reminded.
The boys were led up one by one and bent over a wooden barrel. The cane was applied to their bared backside and the swish and the smack made Julian flinch. He knew how much it hurt and he also knew how humiliating it was.
Both Galloway and Cathcart were crying by the end of their flogging. Van Daan did not. It was not the first time he had endured the process and he remained silent, with no sign of tears in those surprising blue eyes. Dame Lovelace stood outside the hall in the courtyard ready to lead them back to their dormitory and, Julian suspected, ready to give them sympathy and treats after their ordeal.
Mr Thornton stood waiting in the courtyard. As Julian shepherded the boys past him, he cleared his throat. Julian paused and turned to look at him. Thornton’s pale blue eyes were on Van Daan’s white face.
“You think you have got away with this,” he said. His eyes shifted to Galloway who was quietly crying. “I know where that filthy dog is being kept and I have spoken to my senior boys. Long before your father can arrive, Galloway, it will be drowned in the Thames as you richly deserve.”
Galloway gave a cry of distress and Julian stepped forward to put his arm about the child. “It won’t,” he said firmly. “I’ll take it in charge myself and…”
He got no further. Paul van Daan stepped forward, his eyes on the Greek master. Before Julian could either move or speak he was reaching for Thornton. Julian watched in horror as he bundled the master forward towards the fountain, easily fending off the older man’s thrashing arms. Van Daan lifted him up and hurled him bodily into the slimy stagnant water which was full of soggy autumn leaves. There was a huge splash and a yell and then nothing apart from the sloshing sound of an enraged Greek master in a gown struggling out of a seventeenth century fountain.
***
Paul was confined to his dormitory while awaiting the arrival of a carriage to take him home. He was not surprised that he had been expelled and he realised, during the long boring hours of his imprisonment, that he was not particularly upset. Whatever his father decided to do with him next, he was thoroughly tired of Eton.
He would miss his friends. Galloway came to visit him before he left, his arms full of exuberant puppy. Paul spent their hour together playing with India and was pleased when Galloway informed him that he would not be returning to Eton. Sir Edward Galloway had held a brief conversation with both the Headmaster and Mr Thornton and Paul thought that his friend would be much happier studying under a tutor at home. He watched Galloway leave with India in his arms and decided that whatever happened next, he had done the right thing.
Cathcart had decided to stay until the summer when he was to take up his post in the Navy. He sat cross legged on Paul’s bed and surveyed his friend serenely.
“You were an idiot, Van Daan. You’d have got away with it if not for Thornton.”
“I know. It was worth it though.”
“Did you know they’d kick you out?”
“Oh yes.”
“Did you want them to?”
Paul thought about it. “I didn’t do it deliberately,” he said. “I mean I’d have been all right staying. Certainly until you left in the summer.”
“So why in God’s name…”
“Because he deserved it,” Paul said. He had had time to think about it. “I understand why they flogged us. I was angry they flogged both of you, especially Galloway. But all right. I could have lived with that. But when that bastard Thornton threatened Galloway’s dog…”
“Paul, he was never going to get to her. Mr Holland was halfway through a sentence, explaining that he’d got that under control. I doubt the old fool even knew where she was. He was just being spiteful, trying to upset Galloway.”
“I know he was,” Paul said. “That’s why I threw him into the fountain.”
Cathcart was laughing. “You’re hopeless,” he said. “What in God’s name is your father going to say to this?”
“I’ve no idea but it won’t be anything good. Look don’t worry about it. You’ll join the navy and rise up the ranks and be a hero. Write to me and tell me how you’re getting on. I’ll let you know where I am and what I’m doing.”
“Make sure you do, Van Daan. I’m never going to forget what you did for me those first weeks when I was here.”
“You’d have done fine without me, Cathcart. You’re all right. Just do me a favour. This summer, before you board that ship…”
“What?”
“Fucking learn to swim,” Paul said with feeling. “You’re going to sea. It’s going to be useful.”
They laughed together and Paul felt both a sense of camaraderie and a sense of loss that he and Cathcart were about to go their separate ways. After a moment, Cathcart said:
“I’m sorry you got kicked out but I’m not sorry we did it. It was a bloody good laugh.”
“It really was. Poor Welby, we pulled him in very thoroughly. That story you told was brilliant, Cathcart, I don’t know how you came up with it.”
“Oh, I didn’t make that up,” Cathcart said cheerfully. “I mean I might have embroidered it a bit, but that was true.”
“What do you mean, it was true?”
“Peterson really did tell me that story about the girl and what happened to her, though obviously I don’t know if he made it up.”
“I didn’t realise that. I thought you had hidden literary talent. Did you speak to Welby before he left? I didn’t get a chance, they’ve got me locked up.”
“Yes, He’s all right. A bit embarrassed about being duped. I think he must have been really drunk that night.”
“I did wonder,” Paul said.
“He saw the gown we hung up the minute he opened that door. Scared the life out of him.”
“It would.”
“But he kept saying that he couldn’t understand how we faked the crying. When he was walking along the river bank he said he could hear a woman crying all the way.”
“I’d blame that on an over-active imagination and the brandy,” Paul said.
“He must have been thoroughly foxed then, because he also said he couldn’t work out how we managed the girl’s face. He went on and on about how terrible it was, with bulging eyes and a horrible colour. He claims he’d never have been convinced if it hadn’t been for that awful face hanging there.”
Paul thought about that for a moment. “He must really have drunk a lot of brandy,” he said finally. “He should cut back.”
“That’s what I thought. Good luck, Van Daan.”
“You too, Cathcart. Keep in touch.
***
Julian went to visit Van Daan on the day before his departure for London. His father had sent a brief letter regarding outstanding fees and travel arrangements but the boy was to travel alone in the post chaise. If he had written separately to his son Julian knew nothing of it. He found the boy with his trunk half packed reading a letter.
“It’s from Galloway, sir. He’s safely home and the dog is doing nicely.”
Julian smiled. “I’m glad to hear it, Van Daan, because from your point of view that dog was very expensive.”
“Not at all, sir. My father is about to save a fortune in school fees.”
Julian gave the joke the perfunctory smile that it deserved. “Are you all right boy?”
“Yes, sir, I’ll be fine.”
“Your father must be furious.”
“My father is always furious with me, sir. I’m used to it. Look, I won’t be here but Cathcart will. Now that Welby has gone I doubt anybody will go after him. But I’d feel better knowing you were keeping an eye out for him.”
“I give you my word,” Julian said. He was rather impressed with the boy’s loyalty to his friends. “I’m sorry Van Daan. You were an idiot but you deserved better than this.”
The boy smiled reservedly. “I think I got what I deserved, sir. What I did wasn’t that bad, but I made rather a mess of it.”
Julian studied him and decided to tell the truth. “Yes, you did,” he admitted. “Not because you got caught or because your scheme failed. Welby got what he deserved, after all.”
Van Daan said nothing. After a moment, Julian said:
“Good. I’m glad you didn’t agree with me. Because he nearly drowned because you needed to show how clever you were. He was an idiot but he didn’t deserve that.”
“Yes he did. You’re forgetting – sir – that I came across him threatening to throw a frightened twelve year old down a well. I’m glad I got him out of the river that night, because I’d have hated to have his death on my conscience. But if I regret anything, it’s not scaring the shit out of Cecil Welby, it’s that two of my friends got beaten because they stepped up to help me against their better judgement. And that was my fault.”
Julian had come with the intention of saying something of the kind but it was clear that the boy was ahead of him. He had not realised before that Van Daan had an over-developed sense of responsibility but it might possibly explain that final act of madness. Julian sighed and shook his head.
“I understand everything else,” he said. “But why in God’s name did you throw Mr Thornton into that fountain?”
Paul van Daan was looking down at his linked hands but he looked up at that, meeting Julian’s gaze without hesitation.
“That? Oh, that wasn’t really part of the plan, sir. I’m afraid I just lost my temper. I do that sometimes.”
Julian studied him and realised he was telling the simple truth. He could think of nothing else useful to say so he held out his hand and Van Daan shook it.
“Goodbye, Van Daan. There’s a little speech I make when my pupils leave and I always tell them I’ll be watching their future careers with great interest. I can honestly say that in your case, that will be true. I can’t imagine what you’ll do next, but I’m sure I’ll hear about it. Good luck.”
If you’ve enjoyed this story and haven’t tried the books, you can read about the beginning of Paul’s army career in An Unconventional Officer.
It’s taken me a few weeks to put together a description of the full day’s tour of the Waterloo Battlefield, partly because events rather took over once I got back to the UK but mostly because I needed a bit of distance before trying to describe the day.
Once again I’m not going to attempt to put together a battlefield guide of my own, based on Gareth’s incredible tour. He’s written so much about the battle himself that it would be utterly superfluous. My recommendation is that people who want to know more go away and find his books. I’ve recently read his Waterloo: myth and reality which is a brilliant overview of the campaign, pointing out some of the enduring myths and stories over the years and sifting through the evidence to suggest what the truth might be. It’s very readable and is a great place to start.
Number One London Tours did an excellent job of managing the various walking abilities of its tour members and the bus moved around the battlefield with us to enable those needing a rest to hop on and off. Some of us walked the whole way. One of the first things I really noticed, being on the ground at Waterloo is that the battlefield is far more undulating than it looks from photographs or from the top of the Lion’s Mound. Crossing from the left to the right of Wellington’s lines before walking down to do the same with the French lines, it’s very clear that commanders, officers and men really couldn’t see what was happening in different parts of the battlefield.
Features of the landscape like the covered way which is still partly visible, waist and head-high crops and surprisingly steep ridges help the story of the battle unfold far more easily than looking at maps. Gareth had maps a plenty though, to demonstrate each stage of the fighting as we reached it, starting from Papelotte and moving around the various parts of the field. He had also brought a copy of his fantastic Waterloo Archive Map Book which includes a large collection of contemporary sketches and maps but also artists impressions of the battlefield and surrounding countryside. I probably don’t need to tell you that I’ve already ordered a copy.
Interspersed with clear, easy to understand descriptions of troop movements and the various attacks at different stages of the battle, were the individual stories from both Gareth and Kristine about the men who fought, suffered and died at Waterloo. I’ve seen many of these accounts before but hearing them read out on the ground where the action took place gave them a whole new meaning.
Despite a lot of development on and around the battlefield, Waterloo reminds me of Salamanca in that it’s still very easy to get a sense of the countryside as it must have been on that wet morning in June 1815 when Wellington deployed his mismatched army along the ridge at Mont St Jean and hoped that the Prussians would arrive. We walked over the same fields as the British, the Dutch and Belgian, the French and Prussians. It was a beautiful sunny day, not at all the right atmosphere for ghosts, but it was surprisingly easy to imagine the crash of guns, the squeal of terrified horses and the tramping of thousands of feet.
It was also horribly easy to imagine the aftermath, with dead and wounded strewn across the field. Injured men staggered towards anywhere they might find help and too many of them fell by the wayside. The memorials to the different armies and regiments as well as to a few individuals which are scattered around the battlefield highlight the poignant truth that most men who died at Waterloo had no marked grave, no memorial and quite possibly may not even have been buried at all.
Lieutenant-General Charles Alten
I’ve not reached the Battle of Waterloo with my fictional regiment yet, but throughout this tour names have been mentioned of men I know about, have read about and have written about as real people. Picton’s death, Charles Alten’s serious injuries and poor Juana Smith’s mistaken belief that her beloved Harry lay dead on that grisly field somehow have a new meaning now. Entwined with them will be the fate of my fictional characters, who over the past five years have become utterly real to me. I still don’t know myself what happens to them all on the bloody field of Waterloo but whether they live or die, I don’t suppose any of them will be the same afterwards.
The Prussian Memorial
We ended our tour of the battlefield with a walk up to the Prussian memorial at Plancenoit and with a drink at Le Gros Velo, sitting in the sunshine opposite the church. It isn’t the same church that was there in 1815. That one was destroyed during the battle but it has been rebuilt on the same site and there are several memorial plaques on the walls. I can remember going to Badajoz back in 2017 and discovering that sometimes, in a place where great tragedy and suffering occurred, it’s what isn’t left behind that affects me more powerfully than what is.
For our last evening we had a farewell dinner at Les Deux Sil, the Italian restaurant on the edge of the battlefield. It was a lovely meal and a lovely evening with a real sense of camaraderie. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed getting to know these people and hope to meet some of them on future trips.
When we emerged, it was dark. Kristine had bought some flowers and a few of us walked up towards the Lion’s Mound which is lit up at night. It looked spectacular and despite all the jokes about it spoiling the battlefield, it felt like a fitting memorial that night, not to the Prince of Orange or Wellington or to any of the other individual commanders but to the thousands of anonymous men and animals who died on that field two hundred and seven years ago.
We placed the flowers on the edge of the field, not on any particular monument but just on a spot where any man might have fallen and stood quietly, listening on a phone to John Tams singing Spanish Ladies, a haunting folk song. A version of that song existed in 1815 and might have been sung by the campfires by men who did not survive that day. It seemed an appropriate memorial to the ordinary soldiers and the perfect way to end Waterloo 2022: the Battlefield Tour.
The house used by the Duke of Wellington in Brussels in the run up to the Battle of Waterloo
I’d like to thank Gareth Glover and Kristine Hughes Patrone from Number One London Tours as well as all my fellow tourists for making this a fascinating but also very moving experience. I’ve come home with pages of notes and loads of ideas about how the 110th infantry might fit in to the battle on the day. It would be so tempting to jump ahead, but I’m not going to. My lads had to go all the way through that war, so I’m going with them every step of the way.
Waterloo 2022: Wellington Napoleon and Mont St Jean
Today’s tour started at the Wellington Museum which is housed in Wellington’s Headquarters in Waterloo itself. I’m going to digress from being a tour guide here now and mention the fact that having been round the various museums here, I am quite grateful that there is in fact a Wellington Museum at all.
I’ve seen various commentaries online about the huge local concentration here on Napoleon rather than the Allied commanders. People who complain about this are generally mocked for being Wellington groupies and undoubtedly in some cases that’s true, but it is striking, particularly in the various gift shops. I think it might have improved very slightly since I came four years ago in that it is now possible to buy one Wellington item in the main gift shop but that is completely overwhelmed by the vast amount of Napoleon memorabilia. Personally I don’t really need any more souvenirs but the difference is striking.
I have no idea whether there’s something political about this, whether it’s considered Napoleon was the most important person at Waterloo given that he was an Emperor or whether they just don’t think Wellington or Blucher memorabilia will sell. I do think it should probably be redressed, but if it’s a marketing decision then I guess that’s a good enough reason. All the same, Napoleon as a dog was a bit much for me.
Not the best likeness, but it gets the point across…
The Wellington museum is a poignant reminder of the human cost of battle. Wellington’s staff had done surprisingly well through the long years of the Peninsular War but his luck ran out at Waterloo. This was where Kristine’s knowledge of the people came into its own and the excerpts from Wellington’s letters were very emotional. During the years I’ve been writing the Peninsular War Saga, I’ve got to know some of these young men as if they were my own fictional characters and it was surprisingly painful to think of Alexander Gordon’s death and Fitzroy Somerset’s agonising operation to amputate his arm. There’s a lot of information about Wellington through the various sites, but in this house I found it much easier to imagine Wellington the man, struggling to write the early part of his Waterloo dispatch while receiving news of the death and wounding of his friends.
Across the busy road from the Wellington Museum is the elaborate church which was there at the time of the battle and used, like many churches, as a hospital to receive wounded men. Those of you who have followed me for a while know that I have a thing about old churches and this one was particularly peaceful, with a number of memorials to the men who fought and died during the Waterloo campaign. Memorials at this time tended to be paid for either by the family of the dead man or by subscription through the various battalions and regiments, so not surprisingly more of them relate to the wealthier regiments. Very few of the memorials even mention the NCOs and enlisted men apart from this one in the church, which may well be the first of its kind.
After lunch we moved on to Napoleon’s Headquarters in the farmhouse of Le Caillou, where Napoleon and his staff spent the night of June 17, 1815. The museum collection is spread over five rooms and tells the story of the Emperor’s actions in the hours before Waterloo. There are a number of artefacts relating to Napoleon, though Gareth queried whether some of the furniture was authentic given that the Prussians reputedly set fire to everything on their way through after Napoleon’s departure. Still, it gives a good sense of how the farm might have looked at the time.
In the garden outside the farmhouse are one or two memorials. There is also an ossuary, which is a small building intended to serve as the final resting place of human bones. Ossuaries are often used where burial space is scarce but in this case it has become a depository for bones found on the battlefield over the years. I’ve seen photos of this but found the real thing unexpectedly moving.
Mont Saint Jean today
The final stop of the day was the medical museum, located at Mont Saint Jean, which was situated at the back of Wellington’s lines and became the main field hospital. We hit a slight problem here as it turned out the museum and attached bar had just moved over to winter opening hours and were closed. Fortunately Gareth’s local knowledge saved the day and after a short wait we were allowed to go in to the museum for a brief tour.
Mont Saint Jean is not for the faint hearted. The suffering of the wounded of both armies must have been indescribable, and Gareth read a distressing description of bloody bodies and severed limbs covering the ground outside the farm. There are vivid descriptions of the various wounds and operations performed and information about individual surgeons and their experience of the campaign.
There are also exhibits of medicine and surgical kits from the era and the uniforms worn by the medical staff. One or two models give an idea of the state of Mont Saint Jean as the wounded continued to pour in. I’ve always thought that the astonishing thing about surgery and medicine in the army at this time is how many of the operations actually succeeded and how many men survived their wounds. Survival would not have been improved by the invariable practice of bleeding a wounded man. It has sometimes occurred to me that once the initial operation was over, a shortage of surgeons might well have meant that a man would be bled less often which could improve his chances of survival…
After one of the shorter days with Waterloo 2022: Wellington Napoleon and Mont Saint Jean we went back to the hotel early for dinner and drinks, as we needed to get ready for the next day and our battlefield tour. For me this was going to be the highlight of the week and the main reason I came on this tour. This week has gone so quickly and I’ve learned so much, it’s been a joy. I should also mention that the group were fantastic and really good company.
Waterloo 2022 – Quatre Bras and Ligny was one of the days I was most looking forward to. I’ve previously done a whistle stop tour of some of the Waterloo museums, but I’ve never been to either of these sites. I’ve also read nothing about them other than a brief mention at the beginning of many books on Waterloo. I was well aware of the significance of both of these actions in the rest of the campaign but other than that, I knew very little.
At some later stage, when I get to it, I’ll do a proper post on the whole campaign. These posts aren’t designed to tell you what happened on those days in 1815 but to describe my own experience of touring the battle sites with Number One London Tours led by Gareth Glover and Kristine Hughes Patrone.
The windmill at Fleurus
Our tour today began in Fleurus, a town to the south-west of Ligny. Napoleon arrived at Fleurus with his staff and escort on the morning of the battle and reached the Fleurus windmill. He apparently ordered his engineers to build an observation platform by knocking out part of the roof and climbed up to survey the situation for himself. Throughout the tour, Gareth returned regularly to the issue of how much of the battlefields could actually be seen by the various army commanders. Napoleon remained well-back from the fighting for most of the day, while Wellington was positioned further forward, and in his usual manner, moved around the battlefield at different times.
Chateau de la Paix
We next moved on to the Chateau de la Paix, which is now used as local government offices. After his victory over the Prussians at Ligny on 16th June, Napoleon retired that evening to the Chateau in Fleurus, while his troops camped in the surrounding area. During the night Napoleon shut himself off from the outside world for as long as he could. He was inactive for almost eleven hours while the Prussians escaped. They were bloodied and much depleted but still effective enough to march to support Wellington at Waterloo.
The Napoleon room in the Chateau de la Paix
The room occupied by Napoleon in the Chateau has been reconstructed with period furniture. Our local guide Laurent was an excellent storyteller with a great sense of humour and he talked about the battle, the aftermath and what might have gone wrong for Napoleon. He and Gareth agreed with the possibility that treatment for a severe case of haemorrhoids might well have affected Napoleon’s behaviour that night and could possibly have affected some of his decisions. For anybody wanting to visit the Chateau, you have to book in advance and details are on their website. If all the guides are this good, I strongly recommend it.
Our next visit was to the small but very good museum in Ligny. It covers both Ligny and Quatre Bras and gave a very good sense of what happened on 16th June in these small villages and towns as the French inflicted a bloody defeat on Blucher’s Prussians and fought to a stalemate against Wellington’s Allied army. I was shocked at the extent of the casualties at both battles. Somehow I’d always had the vague impression that these were just skirmishes ahead of the main battle, but they clearly weren’t. All three armies were weakened by what happened on this day and it must have had an effect on what happened at Waterloo.
French ambulance wagon, much coveted by Anne van Daan…
From my own perspective, I was delighted to find a French flying ambulance wagon in the courtyard outside the museum. Anybody who has read the Peninsular War Saga will know that Anne van Daan has been persecuting Wellington about ambulance provision for three books now and if he wasn’t so fond of her he’d probably have strangled her. I’ve read about these and seen pictures but it was great to meet the real thing.
Memorial to the Duke of Brunswick, killed at Quatre Bras
We made our way up to Quatre Bras. There’s very little to see there, as the original farmhouse has been pulled down and there’s a lot of building in the area. Gareth did a good job, pointing out those sites and memorials around both battlefields which can still be seen. Even with limited access he managed to give a clear picture of what happened in both battles and had a wealth of personal accounts to read of what happened to individuals on the day.
Auberge du Roy d’Espagne, Genappe
We drove through Genappe, looking at the routes taken by the various armies and stopped for a photo opportunity at the Auberge du Roy d’Espagne. This former inn was used at different times by the Duke of Wellington, Prince Jérôme Bonaparte and Marshal Blücher, who stayed at the inn after Waterloo and reputedly left it in Napoleon’s sedan. There is a picture of the Prussian generals celebrating their victory at Waterloo, but the inn also housed the wounded French General Guillaume Philibert Duhesme who died there on June 20, two days after the battle, probably while the Prussians were still celebrating in the next room.
Blucher’s window at the Auberge du Roy d’Espagne from the outside…And a painting of the same window from the inside. Though it doesn’t look the same, I suspect some artist’s license here…
Another long day on the tour, with moving accounts from both Gareth and Kristine about the battles and their aftermath. Tomorrow is museum day, with visits to the Wellington and Napoleon museums, the church in Waterloo and the Mont St Jean medical museum.
Horse Guards. “No wonder nothing ever works there” (Colonel Paul van Daan, in a Redoubtable Citadel, 1812)
Waterloo 2022 – the London tour was the first official tour day. I had a great dinner last night at the Clarence pub, meeting the rest of the tour group then this morning we set off on the London section of the tour.
We began outside Lanesborough House. The former home of the Viscounts Lanesborough, it is a beautiful neoclassical building on Hyde Park Corner opposite Apsley House. From 1733 it housed St George’s Hospital until it became a five star hotel in 1991. It was the beginning of our walking tour around the early nineteenth century heart of London.
Original gate to Tattersalls, where every young officer about town hoped to find a good campaign horse
Our guides were historians Gareth Glover who has published more than a hundred books on the Peninsular War and Waterloo campaign and Kristine Hughes Patrone who runs Number One London tours and is the author of Waterloo Witnesses and who can talk forever on the Duke of Wellington, or ‘Artie’ as he’s also known and the social world in which he moved. We visited Hamilton Place, Wellington’s temporary London home in 1814-15 from where he and some of his staff departed for Brussels in 1815. We saw the site of Tattersalls, the famous auctioneer of quality horses during the period and learned something about the best choice of horses for officers setting off on campaign.
The Grenadier Pub, supposedly haunted by a soldier murdered for cheating at cards.
We moved on to the Grenadier Pub, and heard Kristine’s personal experience of the local ghost story and we walked between mews and carriage houses, now converted into fabulously expensive residential properties and were able to get a sense of how busy the area would have been in 1815 with the army barracks, Horse Guards and the comings and goings of officers and men alongside fashionable London.
Apsley House, home of Wellington after the Waterloo campaign
No Wellington visit would be complete without a trip to Apsley House, also known as Number One London. There is an excellent Wellington Museum inside the house which includes a spectacular art collection, much of which was captured from the French after the Battle of Vitoria and which the Spanish then gave to Wellington after the war. The house was originally bought by Richard Wellesley, 1st Marquess Wellesley, but in 1817 financial difficulties caused him to sell it to his famous brother, by then the Duke of Wellington, who needed a London base from which to pursue his new career in politics.
Elegance in Regency clubland
We went on to St James’s Square where the Waterloo Dispatch and captured French eagles were delivered to the Prince Regent, who was attending a soiree hosted by Mrs Edmund Boehm on 21 June 1815. The dispatch was brought by Major Henry Percy, one of Wellington’s ADCs. Percy first delivered Wellington’s dispatch to the Prime Minister and Secretary of State for War in Grosvenor Square before going to lay the eagles at the feet of the Prince Regent.
Our final stop for the day was the Horse Guards museum and were in time to see an inspection parade. After that it was back to the hotel in preparation for an early start on the Eurostar to Brussels the following morning.
Waterloo 2022: prelude only really came about because I live on the Isle of Man. My much anticipated Waterloo tour officially starts in London with dinner on 1st September, but given the unpredictable nature of travel these days, I was absolutely determined not to risk a major delay. Accordingly I found myself in London with a whole day to spare yesterday.
Some people – those with sense – would have found something relaxing to do ahead of what is likely to be an energetic tour. I decided the best way to spend the day was on a marathon tour around the navy museums in Greenwich, before going for dinner with some of my fellow travellers. I was absolutely shattered but had a great deal of fun.
The National Maritime Museum part of Royal Museums Greenwich, a network of museums in the Maritime Greenwich World Heritage Site. Greenwich has always had connections with the sea and navigation. There was a Roman landing place here, the Navy has a long history with the Greenwich waterfront and in 1675, Charles II founded the Royal Observatory for “finding the longitude of places” Greenwich has been the home of Greenwich Mean Time and the Prime Meridian since 1884, and has been a centre for astronomical study. Navigators right across the world have set their clocks according to its time of day. It’s the perfect place for a maritime museum.
The Museum has a fantastic collection on the history of Britain at sea including both British and Dutch maritime art, cartography, manuscripts ship models and plans, scientific and navigational instruments. There are a series of galleries looking at the history of Britain at sea, organised either geographically or by historic period.
There is, as usual, an abundance of information and artefacts about Lord Nelson, England’s most feted naval hero including the clothing he was wearing when he was shot down on the deck of the Victory during the Battle of Trafalgar. While I’m grateful that the national obsession with Nelson means that EVERY navy museum has something relating to my period of interest, I can’t help imagining the howls of indignation of a few other navy officers of the era who really did some quite impressive stuff themselves, but don’t get a mention. Nevertheless, the National Maritime Museum is fascinating, with loads to see and do for both adults and children and I highly recommend it.
Close by is the old Royal Naval College, the centrepiece of what has come to be known as Maritime Greenwich. The buildings were originally built as the Royal Hospital for Seamen at Greenwich, first chartered by King William III and Queen Mary II in 1694. The buildings were designed by Christopher Wren and built between 1696 and 1712. The hospital closed in 1869 and between 1873 and 1998 it was the Royal Naval College, Greenwich.
Model of Greenwich Palace
There had been a palace on this site from the days of Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester. It was rebuilt by Henry VII and became known as Greenwich Palace, a favourite residence of several Tudor monarchs. Henry VIII, Mary I and Elizabeth I were all born there. It remained a royal palace until it fell into disrepair during the Civil Wars of the seventeenth century and was finally demolished in 1694.
Greenwich Seaman’s Hospital was built on the orders of Mary II who was affected by the sight of wounded sailors coming home from the Battle of La Hogue. It is incredibly beautiful architecturally and both the Chapel and the Painted Hall are well worth a visit. I particularly liked the Chapel, which has naval motifs incorporated into the design.
Admiral Sir Richard Keats
Even so, I will admit that for me the most exciting part of that visit was to spot a bust of Admiral Sir Richard Keats, looking benignly at me from a corner. Keats is a recurring character in my Manxman series and it was like running into an old friend, though I probably confused the rest of the tour group with my enthusiasm. Nobody had heard of him and I promise I only gave a gratuitous chunk of information in revenge for somebody asking me if he would have known Nelson…
Henry VIII’s tiltyard at Greenwich
There’s a modern visitor centre which is really interesting on the subject of the early history of the Greenwich site, including models of the the old palace and the tilt yard established there by Henry VIII.
Nelson also features a fair bit, surprisingly enough. England’s Hero lay in state for several days in the Painted Hall and there is a small dedicated Nelson Room, but my favourite artefact is a lion which was apparently a model piece for the Nelson frieze. The lion is holding a stone which purports to claim that Nelson fought in 122 battles. I had this piece of information from the guide and I’ve not managed to check it at all, but my extensive reading on the subject of the Napoleonic navy so far has suggested that most of the time was spent either on tedious blockade duty or seething at home on half-pay. Nobody seemed able to answer my question about how Nelson managed to see quite so much action during his time in the navy but if I get to the bottom of it, I’ll let you know. Alternatively, if anybody else knows where I can find a list of these battles, I’d love to hear it. Nice lion, though.
My final visit of the day was to the Cutty Sark, a nineteenth century tea clipper located in dry dock on the river bank. The Cutty Sark has a very sentimental place in my heart as it was a favourite place to visit as a child. We used to go to Greenwich a lot, getting the bus from Mile End and then walking through the Victorian foot tunnel under the river. I loved it there, the park and the eclectic market, the little shops, the Queen’s House and the Observatory, the graceful buildings of the Naval College. That much history in one place always set off my very eccentric imagination about the men and women who had lived in these buildings and walked these streets in the past. But the absolute joy for me was the once or twice a year when we were allowed to actually go aboard the Cutty Sark.
In those days, the Cutty Sark wasn’t the only ship on the riverside. She was joined by the Gypsy Moth IV, the yacht in which Sir Francis Chichester became the first person to single-handedly circumnavigate the globe in 1966. The yacht is now on display in the museum at Buckler’s Hard but I can remember visiting her at Greenwich. It was an exciting story and my sister, her interest firmly rooted in the present, loved it but it failed to catch my enthusiasm in the way that the clipper races of the Cutty Sark did.
I wasn’t sure that I’d still feel the same about the Cutty Sark. Certainly the displays aboard ship are very different to my childhood memories, probably because of the enormous amount of conservation work done over the years, especially after the fire of 2007. It’s astonishing that despite everything, 90% of the ship in Greenwich today is original. The ship you see today is mostly the same as when she first carried tea from Shanghai to London and was reopened by Her Majesty The Queen in 2012.
The Victorian foot tunnel at Greenwich
I was amused at how small the Cutty Sark felt to me, after recent visits to the Victory, the Trincomalee and the Warrior. Below decks had nothing like the atmosphere of the Napoleonic ships but once I was on deck again, I suddenly had that same feeling I remember in childhood, gazing awestruck up into her rigging, trying to imagine what it would have been like. The displays were fascinating and I’ve finally found out where the ship’s name came from. But for me, just standing there on the riverside, stepping onto the deck and then walking down into the old foot tunnel brought back memories so vivid I got quite emotional.
After a day on my feet, it was a relief to meet up with some of my fellow travellers at the Royal Horse Guards Hotel, and dinner was great fun. Today has been very restful, with a trip on the river and lunch at the Royal Opera House with Janet, one of my readers whom I’ve chatted to over the past couple of years and who I’ve been dying to meet. I think I’ve recuperated enough to hit the streets of London with Number One London Tours tomorrow to visit Waterloo related sights before heading off to Belgium the following day.
I’ll try to keep up these posts over the trip and share as many photos as I can, though it’s a packed programme so some of it will probably have to wait until I get home again. I’m hoping to learn a lot this week which will help me with the Waterloo book when I finally get to it. It’s getting alarmingly close…
NaNoWriMo with Labradors – the first week has gone better than I ever expected. There’s something very motivating about sitting down each day knowing that you’re not going to give up until you’ve at least come close to your word count.
As I’ve said before, I discovered when I came back to this book that I’d written more than I realised, although it was a bit all over the place, with a series of unconnected scenes. They weren’t all bad though. In fact I was really happy with some of them. Others were interesting but just not right for this book. I quickly realised that the first two chapters were probably the reason I found it so difficult to progress when I first started to work on this book last year. They slowed the book down unbearably from the beginning and kept impinging on the action later on as I had to justify their existence by keeping those narratives going. I’ve scrapped them completely and rewritten the following chapters to fit in and I’m now very happy with the start of this book.
Including the remaining excerpts which will either be scrapped or incorporated into the book when I get to them, I’ve now got seventy-nine thousand words, which is probably more than half the book. It’s going incredibly well. I’ve sent the first four chapters to my editor, just to read through, and she loves it, so I think I’m on the right track. To complete a first draft before the end of May I need to write an average of three to four thousand words a day, and I think I can probably manage that. After that will be a major edit, but I’m hopeful this book will be out before the end of the year, which makes me very happy after the disasters of the previous two years.
I love writing about Hugh Kelly and Alfred Durrell but in order to be able to tell the full story of the siege of Tarragona I needed men on the ground. As with the storming of Castro Urdiales in An Unmerciful Incursion, the British army wasn’t involved in this campaign. In that book, I solved the problem by giving some of my regular characters a reason to be in the town at the time of the siege. At Tarragona, I found that there were several published narratives written by men on the ground. Both General Suchet and General Contreras wrote their own accounts of what happened at Tarragona giving me some excellent source material to put alongside the account of Captain Codrington of the Royal Navy.
Accordingly, this will be the first outing for the French Captain Gabriel Bonnet of the 30th légère who later makes an appearance in An Indomitable Brigade. From the Spanish side, I’ve introduced a brand new character who is presenting me with an interesting challenge. Captain Bruno Ángel Cortez, ADC to General Contreras who commanded the Spanish garrison in Tarragona is a complex individual who is not always likeable and not easy to write. I’ll be interested to see how this one goes.
It’s the start of a new week. I’ll keep you updated on progress on my Facebook page, so keep an eye out for posts there. I’m very excited to see where this book takes me next.
Oscar and Alfie are excited as well, as you can see…
In the meantime, I’ll leave you with an excerpt from the early part of the voyage to Tarragona. Enjoy.
Hugh turned his attention to his sextant. It was a bright clear day, making the readings easy. Beside him Manby worked out his latitude in a small notebook and there was silence over the group of observers who were suddenly intent on their work. When the master had finished, he walked aft to where Lieutenant Pryce, the officer of the watch waited. Pryce accepted his report of noon along with the degrees and minutes of the latitude observed.
Hugh watched, hiding his smile, as Pryce approached him to make the same report. Manby had needed to walk past him to reach Pryce, but it would not have occurred to the master to report directly to Hugh and Hugh would not have asked him to do so. The daily rituals of shipboard life were important, not because of routine days such as this when Hugh was present and available, but for the one day when he would not be, and a crisis might occur.
Pryce saluted, announced that it was twelve o’clock and gave the latitude which Hugh already knew. Hugh nodded.
“Make it twelve, Mr Pryce.”
“Aye, sir.” Pryce raised his voice to the mate of the watch. “Make it twelve, Sanders.”
“Aye, sir.” Petty Officer Sanders turned to the waiting quarter-master. “Sound eight bells.”
The quarter-master stepped onto the ladder and called below. “Turn the glass and strike the bell.”
As the first stroke of the bell rang out, Pryce turned to where Geordie Armstrong waited, his whistle ready. “Pipe to dinner, Bosun.”
Hugh stood watching as officers and men dispersed. The officers dined in the wardroom at one o’clock and then Hugh dined an hour later, theoretically in solitary splendour. In practice, if he had no other guests, Hugh dined with his first lieutenant. He knew that one or two of his other officers during the past few years had looked askance at his close friendship with Durrell. There had been mutterings of favouritism, particularly after Walcheren when Hugh had stood by Durrell against all attempts to put him on half-pay.
Hugh could see Durrell now, his long form leaning against a grating. He was demonstrating something in a notebook to two of the midshipmen, waving his pencil in the air as he explained. Hugh had no idea what he was teaching them, but he knew it would be accurate, very well-explained and incredibly detailed. Hugh had received many such lectures from his junior and at times they had driven him mad, but he had also learned a great deal. He stood waiting for Durrell to finish, watching the midshipmen. Mr Clarke was staring into space, looking as though he would rather be somewhere else. His companion, one of the new boys by the name of Holland, was scribbling frantically in his own notebook, looking up every now and again with something like hero-worship at Durrell’s oblivious form. Hugh made a mental note to spend some time with Mr Holland and came forward.
“Mr Durrell. As it’s our first day at sea, I’ve invited the other officers to join us for dinner.”
Durrell smiled. “We’re very grateful, sir.”
“I’m sure you’ll be willing to act as my second host. And I’d be grateful if you’d do the same tomorrow when I’m hosting the midshipmen. I may need help with that.”
Durrell laughed aloud. “I’d be delighted, sir. I’m sure the young gentlemen will be on their best behaviour.”
“They’d better be.” Hugh surveyed Durrell’s two pupils. “Mr Clarke, I hope you’re studying hard. Mr Holland, you’re new to us. How are you enjoying your lessons?”
“Very much, Captain.”
“Excellent. You were taking notes there.”
“Yes, sir. Mr Durrell was explaining the difference between various instruments when making calculations and how they…” Holland stopped suddenly and blushed scarlet. “It was very interesting,” he said lamely.
“It’s fascinating,” Hugh said, amused. “I applaud your ability to rein in your enthusiasm but don’t do it with me, you’re exactly the kind of young officer I’m looking for. I’d like to get to know you better, you’ll sit beside me tomorrow at dinner. Now go and get your own dinner before your messmates eat it all.”
He watched as the younger men raced away to their meal then turned to Durrell. “Are you sure you’re ready to help me at this dinner tomorrow?”
“Of course I am, sir. There are one or two very promising men among the new midshipmen, but Mr Holland is my favourite so far.”
“I can see why. If he’s as good as he seems, why don’t you find him some extra duties that will give you a chance to work with him?”
Hugh saw his first lieutenant’s eyes light up. “Thank you, sir. I’d like that.”
“Excellent. I’ll see you at dinner. As my clerk is struck down with sea-sickness, I intend to spend the next hour setting out my accounts book.”
Hugh heard the gloom in his own voice. Durrell laughed. “Would you like me to do it, sir?”
“Yes, but you’re not going to, you take on far too many duties that are not yours, including schooling the midshipmen. I…”
Hugh broke off at the sound of raised voices from the gangway. Before he could move, Durrell was ahead of him. Hugh watched as his first lieutenant crossed the deck and barked an order. Three boys scrambled up onto the deck and lined up before him and Durrell looked them over unsmiling.
“Mr Oakley, Mr Bristow. Can you explain to me why you’re brawling with Lewis when you should be on your way to dinner?”
“Not a brawl, sir. Just joking around.”
Durrell said nothing. He let the silence lengthen until the boys were shuffling their feet. Hugh could feel their discomfort and he did not blame them. Durrell’s withering expression was enough to discompose even the liveliest midshipman.
Eventually, Durrell moved his gaze to the third boy. Teddy Lewis was a wiry ex-pickpocket from Southwark who had been pressed as a landsman and had chosen to remain as a volunteer, acting as Durrell’s servant. He was sixteen and smaller than most of the boys but made up for it with a belligerent willingness to fight even the biggest of them. Durrell glared at Lewis for a full minute then looked back at the other two boys.
“Aboard a Royal Navy vessel, a midshipman is considered a young gentleman. I happen to know that you both qualify by birth if not behaviour. Repeatedly picking on one who is both smaller and below you in rank because you think he cannot fight back is not the act of a gentleman or a future officer, it is the act of a snivelling coward. Please do not be under the misapprehension that because you joined this ship as midshipman, you will necessarily remain so. If you persist in bullying the other boys I will have you broken to common seaman, and you’ll find that below decks the men will be unimpressed with your status. Now get to your dinner. I will see you at four o’clock after the watch is called and we will spend some time improving your mathematics.”
“But sir, study time is over then,” Bristow said in appalled tones.
“Not for you, Mr Bristow, since it appears that you struggle to find constructive ways to spend your leisure. Dismissed. Not you, Lewis.”
When the other boys had gone, Durrell regarded his servant thoughtfully. “Are you hurt?”
“No, sir.”
“Did they take anything?”
Lewis hesitated and Hugh could see him considering whether he could get away with a lie.
“I will find out, Lewis, and you will regret it.”
“My lesson book, sir.”
“Did you get it back?”
“It’s spoiled, sir. In the animal pen, it’s covered in shit…I mean dung, sir.”
Durrell did not speak for a moment. When he did, his voice was pleasant and even. Hugh could tell that he was furious.
“Go to the purser after dinner and get another one, with my authorisation. When you’re not using it, you have my permission to keep it in my cabin. The money will be deducted from their pay. In the meantime, Lewis, in addition to practicing your reading and penmanship, I would like you to practice walking away. If you spend your time defending every inch of your dignity you’ll never rise above able seaman and that would be a shame, because you are more intelligent than either of them. Now go and get your dinner.”
NaNoWriMo with Labradors appeared in my brain when I was trying to get back to sleep at 3.45am. I often struggle with sleep due to back problems, but I do try not to actually think when I’m awake. Thinking is fatal as I have the kind of brain which, once it’s fired up, sets off a series of ideas like a row of fireworks going off. This is really useful when creating fictional plots but a complete pain in the early hours of the morning. Let’s just say I’m going to be tired today.
Those of you who have grown old waiting for the release of An Indomitable Brigade will know that I’ve been struggling to be productive since the beginning of the pandemic. I was absolutely delighted to finally publish book seven of the Peninsular War Saga and even more pleased at how well it’s been received so far. This has given me a really good push to get on with the next book.
This Bloody Shore is book three in the Manxmanseries and is centred around the Siege of Tarragona in 1811. I started to write this book immediately after the publication of An Unmerciful Incursion in July 2020 and made a good start, but after a while I stalled and simply couldn’t get moving with it. Eventually I decided to set it aside and move back to the 110th in Spain. Hugh and Durrell have waited ever since, fairly patiently for them, until last week when I hauled them off half-pay and back aboard the Iris, setting sail for the Mediterranean.
I realised I’d written a lot more of this book than I thought, which was excellent news. Even better, most of it is very good with the exception of the first two chapters which were utterly superfluous to requirements and probably explain why I struggled with this book first time around. I’ve come up with some new ideas, done some more research, invented a useful new character (with major links to the other series, incidentally) and am ready to go.
That’s when I came up with this mad idea. I’ve never seriously done NaNoWriMo. Partly it’s because I write all the time anyway and have never felt the need to do a particular push like that. Partly it’s because the allocated month is November and that’s not generally the best time for me to be going all out on a novel. I’ve always quite liked the idea of a determined push like that, though, and as I’d really like to get another book out this year, it occurred to me that I could do my very own NaNoWriMo to try to get at least the first draft of this book finished.
For those of you who don’t know, NaNoWriMo is National Novel Writing Month which usually takes place every November. Writers can register on the website and log their daily word count, as well as receiving encouragement and finding writing buddies. It’s a great resource and I suspect an amazing way to get people started. I’ve made a couple of half-hearted attempts at it, but the timing has just never been right for me.
So, my plan is, starting tomorrow, to write between four and five thousand words a day between now and the end of May. That’s probably going to be quite variable, because life will get in the way, but we’ll see how it goes. I’ll post regularly giving my word count and to let you all know how I’m getting on.
My notebook is ready, my laptop is fired up and the desk army and navy are ready to offer support. This book is happening people…
Oscar and Alfie are excited about this new initiative at Writing With Labradors, as long as it doesn’t interfere with walks, playtime and mealtimes.
This Bloody Shore: Book 3 of the Manxman series.
It is 1811.
A desperate struggle takes place on the Eastern coast of Spain. The French are threatening the coastal town of Tarragona and Bonaparte holds out the glittering prize of a Marshal’s baton if General Suchet can capture the town.
Far from Wellington’s theatre of war, the town is held by Spanish forces under the Marquis of Campoverde. Supporting them is a small Royal Navy squadron, including the 74-gun third rater, HMS Iris.
After the frustration and political wrangling of the Walcheren campaign, Captain Hugh Kelly is missing Roseen but is relieved to be back at sea under the command of a man he trusts even though the situation in Tarragona is more complicated than it appears. Lieutenant Alfred Durrell is keen to put his family troubles behind him, but an unexpected encounter in London has left him feeling unsettled.
On shore, two very different men face each other across the walls of Tarragona. Captain Gabriel Bonnet, a scarred cynical veteran discovers a surprising sympathy for one particular victim of war. Captain Bruno Ángel Cortez is a former Spanish Bonapartist but the atrocities he has seen have turned him into an implacable enemy of the French.
Meanwhile in England, Faith Collingwood’s long months of banishment are ended by an event which will change her life forever.
As Suchet’s troops creep ever closer to the walls, the armies, the navy and the townspeople are swept up in a brutal conflict which ends on the bloody shores of Tarragona.
Welcome to the Recruit, my St Patrick’s Day short story. As always, it’s free, so please share as much as you like. It’s the first time I’ve done a story for St Patrick’s Day, so I hope you enjoy it.
The Recruit is something of a departure from my usual haunts, on the battlefields of the Iberian Peninsula or the decks of a man o’war. I first got the idea of writing about the 1798 rebellion in Ireland when I was asked for further information about one of my characters by someone who was writing an article about my books. He asked a lot of very interesting questions, which sent me back to my research, and I ended up with a very rough idea for a future book, set during the rebellion.
The Recruit makes no attempt to tell the full story of 1798, it’s just a snapshot of one part of the campaign, and the effect it had on one idealistic young Irishman. It can be enjoyed as a standalone story, but it also provides a brief glimpse of one or two characters from the Peninsular War Saga in their younger days. The recruiting poster I have used is very closely based on a real one from the period.
The character of Ciaran Donnelly is fictional, but his companions in arms are not. Matthew Furlong, Bagenal Harvey and Thomas Cloney all existed, and their actions as described in this story are as real as I could make them. I’ve every intention of turning this short story into a full book. Now that I’ve done so much reading about it, the story is too good not to tell, and I predict a visit to Ireland in the very near future.
There are numerous books about the rebellion, but for this short story I have relied heavily on the entertaining The Year of Liberty by Thomas Pakenham. I also found an excellent website covering Ireland’s military history which gave a lot of detail about the battle itself. The website is called Never Felt Better and has a series of posts called Ireland’s Wars. I really recommend it. Last but by no means least, I was able to read the account of the uprising written by Thomas Cloney himself, which was completely fascinating. Cloney makes an excellent partner-in-crime for my fictional character and I’m looking forward to getting to know them both better when I write the book.
The Recruit
Ten Guineas Bounty
And a Crown to drink His Majesty’s Health
Wanted, to complete the Companies of His Majesty’s
One Hundred- and Tenth-Line Infantry
Commanded by Colonel Charles Dixon
A few high-spirited, handsome Young Men who wish to enter into high pay, free quarters, good clothing and a number of other advantages to be found in serving His Majesty, should make themselves known to Lieutenant Longford or Lieutenant Wheeler at the Castle and Falcon on Watergate Row North, in Chester
Where they will meet with every attention and encouragement a soldier can require
N.B. The bringer of a good handsome recruit shall be liberally rewarded.
God Save the King
Ireland, June 1798
It was barely mid-morning, but the sun was already hot and a shimmering haze lay over the rebel camp at Carrigburn. The men took their ease, recovering from the fighting and marching of the past week. In many cases they were also nursing hangovers from wine, ale and cider either looted or freely given by enthusiastic supporters.
Ciaran Donnelly had not been drunk on the previous evening, although after a restless night under the stars he wished he had. He was finding sleep difficult, and not just because he was not accustomed to resting on the hard ground with nothing but his cloak to cover him. When it was dark and the camp settled to sleep around him, Ciaran found himself wakeful with the events of the day, and the week, and the month, running riot through his exhausted brain. During the day the need for action stilled his racing mind, but when he was quiet, the memories flooded back, robbing him of much needed rest. Around him, his fellow rebels slept peacefully. Ciaran envied them and wondered what was wrong with him.
He had no duties that morning. On the previous day, the new commander-in-chief of the rebel forces in Wexford had arrived in camp and was presumably taking time to get to know his officers and plan his next move. Ciaran did not know Bagenal Harvey personally, although he knew him by reputation. Harvey had been imprisoned in Wexford Gaol before the armed rebellion by the United Irishmen had even begun and had only been released when the rebels triumphantly took Wexford Town. Ciaran, listening to the men around him, heard that Harvey was a barrister, educated, like Ciaran, at Trinity College. He had a good reputation as an honest, compassionate man, but had no military experience. Ciaran wondered how far honesty and compassion could take a man in this bloody conflict.
“Donnelly, are you sleeping or dead over there?”
Ciaran sat up, looking around him, and located the speaker mounted on a bay mare. He was a stocky, square-featured man in his early twenties, his appearance unremarkable apart from his eyes which were long-lashed and luminous blue. He was grinning.
“Get your horse. There’s been an attack over at Old Ross, a troop of yeoman cavalry. One man dead, the other just rode into camp to bring the news. I’m away to speak to General Harvey about it. Come with me, you should meet him.”
Ciaran got up and made his way between the lounging men to where his horse was tied up along with several others. Denis was a black gelding, a gift from Ciaran’s parents when he had left home, eighteen months earlier, to study at Trinity in Dublin. Taking the horse with him had been a ridiculous thing to do, given the cost of stabling in the city and Ciaran often thought he had spent more on feeding the horse than on feeding himself, but he had never regretted it.
It had been the name of the horse which had brought him to the attention of Colonel Thomas Cloney. When Ciaran first joined the Wexford insurgents, Cloney had heard him speaking to his horse and hooted with laughter.
“Denis? Is that what you call him? Jesus, I was looking round for my old man there, it’s his name as well.” Cloney had come forward, running an experienced hand down the horse’s smooth coat. “Not that my father is as good-looking as this beauty. Is he yours? How old? Does he ride as well as he looks?”
Cloney’s shared passion for horses had proved a blessing for Ciaran, who knew nobody in camp. He had ridden from Dublin in the wake of a flurry of arrests, as the government at Dublin Castle decided it was time to deal with the rebellion in their midst. Informed of the names of the chief members of the United Irishmen in the capital, they had swept down in a series of raids, beginning with most of the leaders who were gathering for a meeting at the house of Oliver Bond. From there, they moved through the city, collecting lesser individuals who were significant enough to make it onto the lists compiled by government informers.
Ciaran knew he was going to be on one of those lists. Raised a good Catholic, the son of a respectable schoolmaster, he had set his faith to one side at the suggestion of his patron, a Protestant landowner who had offered him a scholarship to study at Trinity. Ciaran had been dazzled by the prospect and tried to ignore his parents’ sadness at his choice. He had reasoned that religion was something to be considered when he was older and that if he could obtain a degree and good connections in Dublin, he would be in a far better position to help his family and his people, than if he took some low-paid position in Sligo.
Ciaran had not realised how much the necessary compromise would rankle. It made him an ideal recruit for a political movement which sought to free Catholics from the necessity of leaving their religion behind in order to make their way in the world. It also sought to set aside the differences between the two religions, numbering both eminent Protestants and Catholics among its leaders. Ciaran was easily drawn in and quickly found himself much in demand as a courier to take messages beyond Dublin. He spent weekends in muddy fields outside the city, drilling and training with muskets and pikes under the tuition of disaffected militia officers, and found to his surprise that he was very good at it. Weapons were in short supply, and so were qualified officers. Ciaran was quickly promoted to lead a company of men and enjoyed both the responsibility and the distant dream of overthrowing the restrictions of English rule and living under an Irish republic, even if that must be achieved with the help of a French invasion.
The movement in Dublin came crashing down with the first arrests in March, and Ciaran knew his time was running out fast. Several of his fellow students, known for their sympathy with the movement, slipped away quietly and went back to their families, hoping they would be seen as too insignificant to pursue. Ciaran had no such hopes. There would be letters and documents with his name on and, at some point, the authorities would get round to him. He had no intention of waiting for the knock on the door and even less intention leading the authorities back to his family home in Sligo. His parents and his younger sister had no inkling of his involvement with the rebellion and Ciaran intended it to stay that way.
He left Dublin under cover of darkness, and rode through a land under martial law, where districts refusing to give up their arms were given over to the reprisals of the troops. Ciaran knew that the severity of these reprisals would depend very much on the temper of the officer in charge of the district. Men like Sir Charles Asgill in Queen’s County and Sir John Moore in the south, were able to restrain their troops from the worst excesses. Others would not try.
Ciaran found shelter with a rebel family in North Wexford and held his patience as best he could, hearing news of murder and torture and the burning of houses and farms on both sides. The arrests of Harvey and the other Wexford leaders and the massacre of captured rebels in the neighbouring county finally pushed the people of Wexford into open rebellion. Ciaran joined the swelling ranks of the rebel army as it swept through the north of the county, attacking military and loyalist targets to steal arms. They lost ground at Ballyminaun Hill but gained victories at Oulart Hill, Enniscorthy, and finally Wexford Town. Ciaran was slightly shocked at their success, and he had the sense that he was not the only one.
Mounting up, Ciaran walked his horse over to join Cloney. “What happened with the yeomanry?” he asked, falling in beside the older man.
“Murdering bastards. I’m not sure if they were trying to reconnoitre our camp or if they’re just on a looting spree, but they came across two unarmed locals on the road. They killed the man with the slower horse, the other rode straight here to warn us. Here, it’s up this way.”
“I didn’t see you yesterday.”
“No, I was away to see my father and my sisters. It’s not far, and I thought I should see them, in case…”
Cloney broke off and Ciaran felt rush of guilt and misery at the thought of his own family. “I wish I could do the same.”
“I’m sorry, Donnelly. Have you heard at all?”
“No, and I don’t want to. As far as I know, it’s peaceful there. They’ve a good relationship with their landlord, he’ll take care of them if he can. As long as I’m a long way off, they should be safe.”
Cloney did not answer, and they rode in silence for a few minutes. A farmhouse came into view, with two men apparently doing sentry duty outside. Cloney dismounted, motioning for Ciaran to join him. There was an iron ring set into the side of the house and they looped the reins around it then entered the house.
Bagenal Harvey was seated at the head of a long table in the farmhouse kitchen. The room was crowded with men, most of whom Ciaran recognised from his weeks with the rebel army. Several of them nodded to him. At a big fireplace on the outside wall, a woman, possibly the farmer’s wife, was stirring something savoury in a pot over the fire. The room was far too hot.
Harvey was a pleasantly spoken man in his thirties with a worried expression. Cloney had confided that he was not convinced that Harvey had really wanted this command, but he had accepted it when offered and seemed to be doing his best to bring the wilder elements under control and to extend at least some protection to local loyalist families who lived in terror of rebel reprisals. He listened to Cloney’s story without interruption, then looked around the room at his officers.
“I think we’re in agreement that we must take action, gentlemen.”
“Of course, sir. It’s shocking.”
There was a murmur of indignant assent. Ciaran, with only an observer’s part to play, thought there was also a sense of discomfort. As he thought it, Ciaran saw Cloney look over at him. To his surprise, Cloney gave an unmistakeable wink.
“Who will you send, sir?” Cloney asked.
“We will need a strong party of horse. They can intercept these scoundrels on their way back. Captain Keogh, will you take command? Or perhaps you, Mr Donoghue? You both have experience of…”
“I’d rather not, sir,” Donoghue said quickly. “We’ve no information as to the numbers of these yeomanry and our horsemen are not yet reliably trained. It’s one thing to command as part of an army, but to go out alone without proper intelligence…”
“Well, I’m not going,” Keogh said decidedly. “I’d not trust that rebel rabble not to take off and plunder the neighbourhood. Best keep them here, and busy with the drink while we finish reorganising, and decide…”
“It’s going to be difficult to reorganise any of them if they’re half-sprung all the time,” Cloney said, echoing Ciaran’s thought. “General Harvey, if you’ll trust me…”
“I was just going to suggest it,” Harvey said, apparently completely ignoring the outrageous disregard for military discipline displayed by two of his officers. “Select fifty of the best horsemen, Colonel Cloney. And perhaps another officer.”
“With your leave, General, I’d like to take my good friend Mr Donnelly. May I introduce him? He’s from Sligo but was a student in Dublin and had to make himself scarce when the arrests began. He fought beside me on the advance to Wexford and is an excellent horseman and a brave man in a fight.”
Harvey gave his sweet, slightly abstracted smile. “I am happy to meet you, Mr Donnelly, and thankful for your courage and dedication. I hope you will continue to act as Colonel Cloney’s lieutenant.”
“Have I been promoted?” Ciaran enquired of his friend, as they left the farmhouse.
“I’m thinking you might have, if you want the job. I’ve become used to a reliable man beside me, but it’s good to make it official. Come on, I want to catch these bastards before they get back to Ross.”
It proved an exhilarating, but ultimately pointless, expedition. They rode fast, intent on their prey, but the yeomanry, returning with whatever plunder they had acquired, could easily see the fifty horsemen descending from Carrigburn Hill. Cloney spotted them at the same time and stood up in his saddle with a triumphant yell, which Ciaran suspected did not feature in any army training manual. He touched his heels to Denis’ flanks and set him to a gallop, pulling up beside Cloney who was careering down the hill like a madman. Behind them, Ciaran could hear the thundering of fifty sets of hooves, the jangling of harness and the occasional whoop of excitement as the rebels began to pull closer to their quarry.
The yeomanry galloped ahead, racing over the crossroads of Old Ross towards the town of New Ross, and sanctuary. Ciaran found himself caught up in the thrill of the chase, but as the town walls came into view, common sense reasserted itself. He had never been to New Ross and did not know anything about the strength of its defences, but he could see several towers joined by an imposing wall. He glanced over towards Cloney, who had pulled a little ahead of him. Cloney’s eyes were fixed on the retreating cavalry and his expression told Ciaran that he had no intention of pulling back. Ciaran looked at the walls and found himself mentally placing musket men along the ramparts. There was room for a good few. He had no idea if they had artillery. He took a deep breath and yelled.
“Colonel Cloney, we need to pull back. We can’t get within musket range of the town.”
Cloney did not pull up or look around. Ciaran could not decide if the man had not heard him or was ignoring him. They were getting closer, and the yeomanry had almost reached one of the town gates. Ciaran glanced behind him. Not one of the horsemen appeared to have realised that they were charging into potential disaster and Ciaran felt suddenly cold with fear. He had only moments to make his decision.
Ciaran tightened his hands on the reins and Denis pulled up immediately, without rearing up. Two of the following horsemen had to veer sharply to one side to avoid crashing into him. Ciaran stood up in the saddle, snatched off his hat and waved it in huge circles in the air, yelling like a madman.
“Halt! Pull back. Cavalry halt and turn about!”
He thought for a long agonising minute that nobody was hearing him, then he realised that the men behind him were slowing and stopping, dragging back their sweating horses into a rough line. Those few who had passed him continued their headlong rush towards the town, and Ciaran said something vulgar, took a deep breath and yelled again.
“Thomas! For the love of Christ, get yourself back here!”
Cloney looked around, realising for the first time that most of his men had pulled up. He looked over his shoulder then bellowed an order, turned his horse in a wide arc, and began to gallop back towards Ciaran. The rest of his men followed, thundering out of range of the town walls. As they drew closer to Ciaran, a musket crashed from the defenders, the shot falling harmlessly short. Cloney pulled up in front of Ciaran, the blue eyes steady on his. Ciaran took a deep breath and waited.
“Mother of God, Donnelly, I’m glad I’d the wit to bring you with me. I got bit carried away there, don’t you think?”
Ciaran let out his breath. “I think so, sir,” he said.
Cloney studied him for a long moment. “We’re both fairly new at this,” he said in conversational tones. “Myself, I’m beginning to wonder if you’re going to be better at it than I am. Come on, let’s get them back. General Harvey is holding a meeting to discuss our next move and I’m hoping to be there.”
***
Ciaran had a hangover on the morning of the attack on New Ross. Given that Harvey planned a dawn start, it had probably been unwise to stay up so late eating and drinking, but the food was good, the wine plentiful and Ciaran was flattered to be included in the feasting as Cloney’s lieutenant. Eighteen months as a student in Dublin had given him a good head for drinking, but as he attempted to rouse his men in the pre-dawn darkness and get them into some kind of order, Ciaran had a thumping headache and a dry mouth. He had a useful water bottle on a strap which he had looted from the army stores at Enniscorthy, and he drank it dry and refilled it several times over before the army was ready to march.
Ciaran wondered if the garrison lined up to defend New Ross had been able to hear the laughter and the music, and to smell the roasted meat from the camp on Carrigburn Hill. If they had, would they have been intimidated by the sheer numbers they must face the following day? Or would they be contemptuous of an army so ill-disciplined that it spent the night before battle in an orgy of feasting, drinking and dancing? Ciaran had a suspicion it might be the latter.
He spent much of the evening with a young gentleman farmer by the name of Matthew Furlong, who acted as one of General Harvey’s aides. Ciaran had not met Furlong properly before and found the man very likeable. Furlong was from much the same background as Ciaran and they talked of crops and horses, alongside philosophy and the revolution in France. They also spoke, more candidly than Ciaran had managed with anybody else, about their experience so far of war.
“I’d never fought before this. I’d certainly never killed. Never really thought I would. All those meetings in Dublin, where they spoke of rising up and crushing the government troops, and I was thumping the table with the best of them. It’s different somehow when you’re at the safer end of a pike or a musket and the man you’ve just killed looks no older than you are.”
Furlong gave a little smile. “How old are you, Donnelly?”
“Nineteen. Almost twenty. You?”
“Twenty-three. It’s the same for most of us. We weren’t soldiers before this. Some had joined the militia or the yeomanry, but the rest are just farmers or farriers or over-educated students of classics…”
Ciaran aimed a mock punch at him, and Furlong ducked, laughing. “Sorry. I’m not laughing at what you feel, Donnelly. It’s good that you feel it. I do myself. It’s men like us – and like Cloney and Harvey – who can make something out of this mess if we win. The rest of them would just slaughter the Protestants – or the Catholics – and get drunk to celebrate.”
“That’s something else I’m struggling with,” Ciaran admitted. “The reprisals. Christ aid me, I know what they’ve done to our people over the years. But I watched them shoot twenty unarmed loyalist prisoners last month, with the bodies thrown into the river. It sickened me.”
“And the unarmed United Irishmen they slaughtered at Dunlavin Green and Carnew?”
“That sickened me too.”
“It sickens me as well,” Furlong said. “There are some of us that will have none of it, Donnelly.”
“Are there enough of us to stop these men going mad if they get into New Ross tomorrow morning? It’s well known what they did in Wexford.”
“I hope so, lad. Though from what I’ve been told, you’d be hard put to know if it’s Protestants or Catholics you’re more worried about.”
“I’m Catholic,” Ciaran said. He realised it was a long time since he had said the words. “And if they’re saying I’m a man who abandoned his religion for gain, and the chance of a scholarship to Trinity, they’d be right. Though it wasn’t just for that.”
There was a long silence, then Furlong said:
“What’s her name?”
Ciaran looked up sharply, but he could see only sympathy in the other man’s eyes. “Her name is Sinead, and it’s over. It should never have begun. Stupid to think I could turn myself into something I’m not. Her parents would never have agreed, no matter how well I did and what I made of myself.”
“That’s hard. Is she back in Sligo?”
“It’s where her home is, but the last I saw her she was in Dublin, staying with her uncle’s family while they look for a good Protestant gentleman for her to marry. I went to see her before I left. She hates me.”
“She probably doesn’t, Donnelly.”
“Oh, I think she does. Her father was my patron. He’d no son of his own, and he’s known me since childhood. He offered to pay for my education and help me find a position afterwards. He’s a generous man. A good man.”
“But your religion was the price?”
“He didn’t insist on it, but it made no sense to go unless I started attending Anglican services. They’ll let us study there now, but we can’t be elected Scholars or Fellows or be made a professor. More to the point, most of the positions I could apply for afterwards are open only to Anglicans. I was ambitious. And I thought if I did what he clearly wanted, if I pleased him enough, he might consider a marriage with Sinead in a few years. She wanted it too, we talked it through many times. She said she’d wait for me, refuse any other offers. She argued that one church was much the same as another and that God didn’t care. But it turned out that I cared. I hated myself for it. I disappointed my parents by turning away from the church in search of personal gain and now I’ve betrayed my patron in turning my coat again. I’m ashamed of it.”
“No wonder you were ripe for rebellion, boy. Here, have another drink. General Harvey is coming this way.”
Harvey appeared to be completely sober. “Furlong, Donnelly. I’m looking for a volunteer for the morning. I’ve written a note to General Johnson asking for an early surrender to avoid the town being sacked.”
“Do you think he’ll listen, sir?” Furlong asked, in surprise.
“I have no idea, Matthew. But I feel that I should try. I need a reliable man to ride in under a flag of truce tomorrow, before we attack.”
“I’ll do it,” Ciaran said quickly, then realised Furlong had spoken at the same time. He looked at the other man and Furlong laughed.
“It’ll only take one of us. Do you have a coin on you? I’ll toss you for it.”
***
As the first pale light of dawn showed over the waiting walls of New Ross, Ciaran heard a rustle of sound behind him, and then a hand clapped him on the shoulder. “Good morning to you, Donnelly. How’s your head?”
Ciaran grinned. “Sore. How’s yours, Furlong?”
“Hammering like the gods of thunder. No hard feelings, I hope?”
“None at all,” Ciaran said cheerfully. “Last night, with the drink in me, it felt like a good idea to be riding out under a flag of truce to ask General Johnson to surrender. This morning, I have to tell you, it feels an awful lot safer to be hiding here amongst my men.”
Matthew Furlong chuckled. “I can’t tell if you’re speaking the truth or just a gracious loser, Donnelly, but whichever it is, you’re a good lad. Keep an eye on Cloney in the battle today, will you? He told me about the charge on the town yesterday, and how well you kept your head. We need a few men of sense among us today.”
Ciaran watched him ride downhill towards the gates of New Ross. The flag was made from a white handkerchief tied to a sturdy stick, and it was reassuringly visible in the rapidly improving light. At the same time, Ciaran wished his new friend had not chosen to approach the town at a gallop. The past few weeks trying to train and lead inexperienced men had taught Ciaran the value of allowing them time to react, and he supposed it was true for regular units as well. In Furlong’s place, Ciaran would have walked his horse forward, giving the men of the garrison a chance to see him properly and plenty of time to wait for orders.
It was still only half light as Furlong approached the gate. Ciaran could see the white flag very clearly and there was no possibility that the guards on the gate could miss it. He found that he was holding his breath, waiting for the sound of a shouted challenge which would cause Furlong to slow down or stop, but none came, or if it did Ciaran did not hear it. What he heard, shockingly loud, was gunfire, not just one shot but the thundering of half a dozen muskets.
The horse reared up in terror and Furlong’s body hit the ground. Ciaran was surprised that the horse was not injured too, but if it was it was not serious, because the animal wheeled around and came galloping back up Corbet’s Hill to the rebel lines, where half a dozen men ran forward to catch it. Ciaran did not move. His eyes were on Furlong’s body, as two redcoats ran out from their post by the gate, bending over him. After a moment they straightened and walked away, back to their line. From here, Ciaran could not see the blood on Furlong’s dark coat, but he knew it must be there. It had been minutes only since Furlong had put his hand on Ciaran’s shoulder, and Ciaran could almost still feel it there, warm and steady with the promise of future friendship. He wanted very badly to be sick.
“The murdering bastards,” Cloney breathed beside him. “Under a flag of truce. Poor Matthew.”
“That could have been me,” Ciaran said. He could hear the tremor in his voice. “I volunteered. We threw a coin for it, and he won. On the toss of a coin, I could be lying there dead.”
Around him, he was suddenly aware of a rising sound, and he looked about him. The shocked silence which had followed Furlong’s brutal death was rapidly turning into a clamour of angry voices. Ciaran glanced at Cloney.
“What do we do now?” he asked.
“We fight, laddie. They’re not bloody surrendering, are they? But I’m not sure the General’s plan is going to count for much now. This lot are going in whether we like it or not. We can choose to go with them or stay behind.”
Ciaran knew he was right. Already the men were moving forward, the angry clamour rising to a roar of fury and no order was going to pull them back. Ciaran took a deep breath and tightened his grip on his looted musket, instinctively checking that the bayonet was properly fixed.
“Best lead from the front then, sir,” he said, hoping that his voice was steady. Cloney gave a small, tight smile and clapped him on the shoulder, very much as Furlong had recently done.
“Good lad. Let’s get moving.”
***
Superficially New Ross seemed well defended, with high walls, nine towers and several strong gates, but local intelligence pointed to weaknesses. Some of the fortifications had been taken apart during the previous century and the walls were old and not built to withstand modern artillery. The gates had been widened to improve the flow of traffic, and the town was overshadowed by the high ground of Corbet’s Hill. A modern, well-equipped army could probably have stormed New Ross relatively quickly, but Harvey did not command such an army.
What his army did have was reckless courage, fuelled by anger, and they swept down from the heights of Corbet’s Hill roaring like wild animals and firing muskets and ancient blunderbusses towards the line of redcoats guarding the Three Bullet Gate. Harvey’s original plan had been to attack the town from three sides at once. Eight hundred men under Captain John Kelly were ordered to concentrate on capturing Johnson’s scattered outposts rather than attack the town itself.
Either Kelly had forgotten his orders or he was unable to control his men, because Ciaran could see him at the front of the attack on the Three Bullet Gate. Harvey had attempted to send a herd of panicking cattle ahead of the main advance, a tactic which had worked brilliantly at Enniscorthy. Here, the cows swerved away long before they reached the gate and took off into the countryside leaving the rebels, headed by Kelly and his men, to make a desperate assault on the gate.
It was terrifying. The attackers were under fire on both sides from flanking companies placed there for the purpose. Ahead, artillery fire raked the disordered ranks, cutting down men in swathes. Ciaran, who was in the second rank along with Cloney and his men, had never experienced an assault like this. Around him, those men who had accompanied Kelly in the first rush were seriously depleted, and Ciaran found himself scrambling over dead and dying men to reach the redcoats in the defensive trenches.
Ciaran wanted to run, but it was impossible, and he would probably have been cut down as he fled. Most of his men had discharged their firearms, if they had them, and it was too close for the defenders to use either muskets or artillery without risking their own men. He fought with a bayonet, while around him most of his men used pikes. There was no organisation and no plan, only the desperate cut and thrust at each man ahead of him, dodging their bayonets, stabbing down ruthlessly, killing and maiming in order to avoid being killed or maimed. It was exhausting. Ciaran’s arms and shoulders ached, there was blood on his clothing and the sickly metallic smell of it in his nostrils. He could almost taste it.
Close to the gate the smoke of musket and artillery fire still lingered in the air, choking him and making his eyes water. Ciaran stood during a brief respite in the action, blinking and trying to catch his breath. Around him his men were pushing forward, driving on despite cruel losses. Unexpectedly, Ciaran was proud of them. They had everything to lose, these men, and he knew very well that it was blind rage over a lifetime of oppression that was driving them, but they were brave, and they endured, and their courage revived him.
The rebels did not break. They pressed on, foot by agonising foot. The two flanking companies fell back, shocked at their inability to hold this disorganised rabble. Cloney’s men captured the trenches and then drove forward right up to the gate. The fighting was bloody, and nearby some of the buildings were already on fire, the air thick with eye-watering smoke.
Kelly’s men were the first into the town. Kelly himself had been shot in the thigh and had to be carried to the rear while his men stormed the barracks near the gate. The building was poorly defended and, as Cloney and Ciaran led their men into the barrack yard, the last of the guards fled before them. Cloney made no attempt to give chase.
“We need arms. Muskets and ammunition. Spread out and start breaking down doors, there’ll be a storeroom somewhere. Donnelly, take that side.”
Ciaran obeyed. As he led his men along a row of doors, kicking or battering them down, he was aware that the yard was rapidly filling with smoke. Houses on both sides had been set alight, the thatched roofs burning fiercely. Ciaran shouted at the men to move faster. He had no wish to be caught anywhere near the barracks if the fire spread to a gunpowder store.
“Here. Over here,” Cloney yelled. The men raced to the open stores, and four men stripped the shelves, handing out muskets and ammunition. Once armed, the men were off, running back out into the streets. Ciaran turned to follow them.
“Donnelly, take this.”
Ciaran turned to see Cloney holding out a pistol. He took it and turned it over in his hands.
“Do you know what you’re doing with it?”
“Yes,” Ciaran said, taking the ammunition. He had learned to shoot as a boy on the estate, following Sir James Howarth through the coverts for long hours. They were some of the happiest times of his childhood, along with the time spent in Howarth’s excellent stables. Ciaran could remember wishing with a passion that he had been born the son of this kindly, intelligent man and then had immediately felt disloyal to his own parents.
He loaded the pistol quickly, putting the spare ammunition into his pocket, then shoved the weapon into his belt and took up his bayonet again. Outside, he and Cloney separated, searching through the smoky streets to find their men. Ciaran caught up with them on the approach to the town gaol. They were following Kelly’s leaderless men who were making an attack on the building. Ciaran ran to join them, then stopped, wondering if this might be a trap. There were several side streets where loyalist troops could be waiting. Leaving his men to continue their advance, Ciaran ran back cautiously, peering into each of the narrow streets to make sure they were not about to be hit from behind by a well-placed ambush.
There was an enormous crash from the gaol which made Ciaran jump violently. He spun around to find the building half-hidden in clouds of smoke. Somewhere a man was screaming, a high-pitched cry of agony, over and over. Those of Ciaran’s troops still visible were backing away from the gaol, then turning to run. Another crash brought several of them down and startled the rest into precipitate retreat. Ciaran made no attempt to stop their flight. He was under no illusion about how much control he had over these men today, and he was not prepared to stand firm against the enemy with nobody beside him. He reached the end of the street and turned to look back at further blasts. One of his men paused beside him.
“What happened, O’Leary?”
“Grapeshot, sir. We lost half a dozen men in the first blast, but Kelly’s men were ahead of us, they’ve been cut to pieces. What a bloody mess.”
Ciaran could see the survivors emerging from the smoke, some of them limping, being helped by their companions. They were pitifully few and as they reached the stragglers from his own men, they pushed through without stopping, desperate to reach the gate and the relative safety of Corbet’s Hill. Some of Ciaran’s men followed them, and Ciaran retraced his steps, yelling at them to halt, wondering if the attack was about to disintegrate into a full rout.
The abrupt retreat through the gate set off a panic in those still storming down from the hill. Looking back up to the remainder of the army who had waited for orders, Ciaran could see some of them beginning to flee. He felt a sense of despair. They had already lost so many men. He looked around him, wondering if it was time to cut their losses and call a general retreat, and wondering also if any one of the rebel leaders had enough control over their men to do so. He could not see Harvey, but Cloney was there, trying to direct a chaotic group of musket men into a firing line. Ciaran thought, with sudden anger, that if they had been given proper weapons and training, these men had enough courage to defeat a whole army of redcoats. Then, unexpectedly through the noise of battle, he heard horses, the clink of bridles and the clattering of hooves over the cobbled road out of town.
Ciaran spun around and stared in horror. He could not be sure of numbers but there looked to be between thirty and forty cavalrymen riding out through the Three Bullet Gate and forming up in the open space as if preparing for a charge. Around Ciaran was a confused melée as some men continued their flight back up the hill, while others tried to find their companies and their leaders amidst the chaos. He could no longer see Cloney anywhere and wondered in sudden panic if he had been hit.
Ciaran had trained on the fields outside Dublin with three former militia officers who had joined the United Irishmen. They drilled with broom handles and tree branches, and at times Ciaran had thought it a waste of time. Instead, he had talked to the men, asking questions about battles and tactics and weapons. They had spoken of cavalry, and the best way to stop them, and Ciaran knew that in this conflict so far, pikes had proved remarkably successful. If his men fled, they were going to be cut to pieces as the cavalry rode them down.
“To me!” he roared. “Pikemen, to me, they’ve cavalry. We can take them if we stand!”
To Ciaran’s immense surprise, the men around him turned. Ciaran looked around him, then dropped his bayonet and stooped, snatching up a pike from a fallen man. He whirled to face the approaching horsemen, and felt a solid wall of men around him, pikes pointing upwards ready to impale the cavalry.
“Come on, you bastards!” he yelled. “Let’s see how you do against Irish pikemen!”
The first horseman died with a high-pitched scream, and the sound echoed round and round in Ciaran’s head. The line of cavalry crashed into the pikemen and Ciaran thrust upwards and was astonished at how easy it was, with this weapon, to unseat a horseman. Some of the horses were wounded, though none fatally, and with no rider to urge them on, they turned and galloped back through the gate, or out into the countryside, causing further chaos among the rest of the charging cavalry. Ciaran’s men were yelling in triumph and several of them broke ranks, ran forward and finished off those dragoons still alive on the ground. One of them was the commanding officer, and his loss broke the nerve of the remaining troopers. They wheeled and galloped back through the gate, and with an inhuman roar, Ciaran’s men raced after them, all thought of retreat forgotten.
Ciaran paused to catch his breath. He looked around him at the fallen horsemen, and realised he was counting them in his head. There were twenty-eight. He was crying, tears pouring down his face. He tried to wipe them away with his sleeve and felt his eyes sting as black dirt from the smoke and powder mingled with salt tears.
“Donnelly. Ciaran. Jesus Christ, are you all right?”
Ciaran looked around to find Thomas Cloney staring at him in concern. He nodded, because he could not speak. Cloney put his hand on Ciaran’s filthy sleeve.
“I thought you were about to get yourself killed there, you stupid bastard,” he said. “That was unbelievable. I could never have rallied them like that.”
“I think you could, sir. They’re brave men.” The words steadied Ciaran. He took another deep breath. “They’ve gone back to the attack. We need to join them. Where’s General Harvey?”
“He’s over there, I’m not sure he’s made it into the town yet. It’s down to us, Donnelly. Can you do it?”
“Yes,” Ciaran said. Suddenly he felt very calm and very sure. “Yes, I can do this.”
Within the town walls it was chaos as, for the second time that day, the garrison were pushed back through the streets in a confused melée of cavalry, infantry and artillery. After them fled the townspeople, terrified of reprisals from the enraged rebels. They ran towards the quay and the bridge with Harvey’s musketeers and pikemen chasing them down. Ciaran pushed himself to run faster, overtaking his men, shouting to them to leave the civilians alone. He was not sure whether they heard, understood or even cared.
Many of the houses in the streets around had been set on fire, and it spread quickly, sending billows of black smoke through the narrow lanes. Ciaran prayed that the houses were empty. In most of the town, the garrison had fled leaving only a stubborn group of officers and men with artillery which protected the crossroads leading to the bridge.
Ciaran found himself abruptly with nobody to fight. He took the opportunity to rest for a moment, drinking from his water bottle. It was almost empty. Around him, the rebel soldiers seemed confused, as though they had no idea what to do next. The crash of guns suggested that General Johnson’s men were continuing to guard their retreat, but there seemed to be no fighting at all within the town. Ciaran found a water pump and drank gratefully, tipping cold water over his head, then refilling his bottle.
“Donnelly? Jesus, I’m glad to see you’re still alive.”
Ciaran turned in relief at the sound of Cloney’s voice. His friend was making his way across the small square. He was filthy and there was blood on his coat. Ciaran held out the water bottle and Cloney gulped it down.
“You too, sir. I’m not sure what’s happening though. Have they retreated?”
“Most of them are across the river, and our lads don’t seem so keen to charge those guns. I’m going back to find Harvey, we need orders. The men are exhausted, and a lot of them are breaking into the houses and looking for food and wine.”
“If they don’t get orders soon, they’ll get drunk and fall asleep,” Ciaran said.
“If I don’t get orders soon, I’ll be doing the same thing. Look, stay here. Find some food if you can and see if you can keep an eye on our men. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Ciaran waited. Eventually, he made his way to the stone steps leading up to what looked like a public building and sat down. Around him, small groups of men wandered aimlessly, some of them with bottles in their hands. One of them, a man Ciaran knew from his own company, approached him and held out a piece of bread. Ciaran took it and thanked him. It seemed ridiculous to be sitting alone on the steps in the middle of a battle eating rye bread, but he was very hungry.
Somewhere nearby, he could hear men singing. Ciaran wondered if they were drunk, and if it was really the right time to celebrate their victory, with no information about whether the garrison had wholly abandoned the town or if they were regrouping for another attack. He finished the bread, drank more water and was just getting to his feet with the intention of going to find Cloney, when he heard his name called, and the tone chilled him.
“Donnelly! Get moving, we need to get the men together. They’re attacking. They’re coming back over the bridge. We need to fight, man!”
Ciaran snatched up his bayonet and began to run in the direction of the singing. Around him, men were beginning to appear from houses and cottages, many of them unsteady on their feet though whether it was from exhaustion or drink Ciaran had no idea. He was chasing them, trying desperately to pull them together into a defensive line, yelling himself hoarse, but he could already hear the approaching troops, the hooves of the cavalry and the disciplined marching of infantry, as General Johnson mobilised his tired troops and drove them back into the town.
The rebels had nothing left to give. Cloney and Ciaran held those they could, and through the streets of New Ross other leaders did the same, but it was impossible. Some attempts were made to use the captured guns against Johnson’s men, but there were no trained artillerymen among the rebels, and attempts to force prisoners to operate the guns proved a failure. Ciaran’s pikemen fought on, making repeated charges back through the streets, but there were too few of them and they were exhausted. Ciaran continued to exhort them, to urge them to stand, and then realised that he must either call a retreat or watch them die in front of him. He called it and stood watching as they poured back through the Three Bullet Gate. Some of them could barely stand, but they staggered on, back up the slope towards the camp on Corbet’s Hill. Ciaran prayed that Johnson would not order an immediate attack, but he doubted the garrison had either the men or the ammunition to do so.
Well away from any stray musket ball fired from the walls, Ciaran retrieved his horse, thankful that the makeshift stable nearby had survived the fires, and watched the last of the rebels stagger away from New Ross. Beyond the last ditch, General Harvey, Thomas Cloney and a few other officers sat mounted, watching the flames which were beginning to die down now. Ciaran walked his horse to join them.
“General Harvey. I’m glad you’re safe, sir.”
“You too, Donnelly.” Harvey’s voice was muffled, and Ciaran suspected he had been crying. “A terrible day. A terrible loss.”
They rode in silence back towards the camp, the gentle light of early evening settling over the town and the hill. Part of the way, Cloney’s horse stumbled then stopped and began to graze. Ciaran reined in, momentarily worried that his friend had a concealed injury, then realised to his surprise that Cloney had fallen asleep in the saddle. As Harvey and the others plodded on, Ciaran reached for the bridle and gently shook Cloney awake.
“Come on, Thomas. Just a bit further and you can sleep.”
“Not for long,” Cloney said. “We’ll need to get out of here early, before they have time to regroup, or get reinforced.”
“Where to?”
“Back to Carrigburn to start with. After that, I don’t know.”
Cloney sounded depressed as well as exhausted and Ciaran knew how he felt. “Is it over, Thomas?”
“The day or the struggle?”
“I think the day is over,” Ciaran said.
“Not for me, it isn’t,” Cloney said, and suddenly Ciaran realised that something was badly wrong, something more than the slaughter of the battle.
“What’s happened?”
“I have to speak to General Harvey. To tell him what’s been done. I took the message, just before the final assault, and I couldn’t tell him then. There wasn’t the time, and I hadn’t the stomach for it.”
Ciaran felt an icy chill settling around his already bruised heart. “What’s happened?” he asked again.
Cloney picked up his reins and began to walk his horse towards the camp and Ciaran drew Denis alongside.
“There’s been murder done,” Cloney said flatly. “Murder of innocents and done in our name. In Harvey’s name. You know him, Ciaran. You’ve seen what he’s like. This news, on top of what he’s been through today…it’s going to break him.”
“Tell me.” Ciaran felt sick but he needed to know. “You need to speak of it, Thomas.”
Cloney said nothing for a moment. Ahead, there were flickering lights, which suggested that some of the exhausted men had managed to get fires lit around the camp. Ciaran waited, his heart beating fast.
“You’ll know that before the battle, there were prisoners taken. Loyalists from the surrounding countryside. Protestants mostly, people who might have taken information to the garrison. A few Catholics as well, those loyal to the government. Around two hundred people, mostly men but some women. And children. They were being held in a barn at Scullabogue. Harvey…General Harvey told me yesterday he’d hold them only until the day was won, then would send a message for their release.”
“Go on.”
“At some point during the day, messengers arrived from the battle. I’ve no idea who they were, they might even have been deserters, for God knows we had enough of those today. They claimed that the garrison were butchering our wounded men and that the prisoners in the barn should be killed in retaliation. The captain in charge said no at first, but eventually they convinced him it was an order. They took out thirty-five men and shot them on a lawn. The rest of them – the families – were locked in and the barn was set alight. They’re all dead.”
Ciaran pulled up and slid from Denis’ back. He dropped the reins, not caring if the horse ran, and fell to his knees, vomiting by the side of the track. He was shivering violently, as if with cold, though the evening air was mild. There was little food in him, but he continued to retch distressingly for some time.
Eventually it stopped. Ciaran got to his feet, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He turned and realised that Cloney had dismounted and was standing looking at him. His face was streaked with tears.
Ciaran stepped forward and Cloney hugged him hard. They remained together for a long time, finding friendship a comfort, in the midst of death and injustice and misery. Eventually, Cloney stirred and stepped back. He looked around. Both horses were grazing peacefully beside the ditch.
“They’re too knackered to run away,” Ciaran said.
“Are you joking me? The idle bastards have done nothing but eat looted hay in a cosy barn all day. Jesus, I wish I’d had the wit to stay with them.”
“So do I, Thomas.”
Cloney managed a smile. “My friends call me Tom, Ciaran, and I’d think by now you qualify.”
They mounted up and continued up the path to the camp. “I’ll come with you,” Ciaran offered. “When you tell him.”
“Thank you, I’d be glad of it. I don’t think he’ll continue in command, Ciaran, he never wanted it in the first place.”
“Good.”
Cloney shot him a surprised glance. “I thought you liked him.”
“I do like him. But he shouldn’t be doing this. He hasn’t the stomach for it.”
“Do you?”
“I think my stomach made its point very well just now, Tom. But I’m in it now. I’ll stick with it, until it’s over. Which might not be very long, unless Wolfe Tone really has managed to convince the French to lend a hand. King George has an awful lot more men than we do, and they’ve trained for this. So far, we’re fighting the militia and whatever troops they’ve got to hand, but a battalion of experienced soldiers is going to slaughter us where we stand. They’re good at this.”
“So are you.”
Ciaran gave a tired smile. “I was lucky today.”
Cloney shook his head. “That wasn’t luck, boy, I know the difference. When it comes to organising the resistance and writing political speeches, I reckon I’ve got you beat. But when you stood out there, pulling those men together today…didn’t you realise I was leaving it to you?”
Ciaran had not, and the idea shook him a little. “I’m not old enough,” he said. “And I think the responsibility would scare the shit out of me.”
“It might do thinking of it now, lad, but once you’re in a fight, it’s a different matter. I’m telling you, if you need to run and have nowhere to hide, you should join the army. You’d look all right in a red coat.”
“That’s not funny, Tom.”
“It’s the best I can manage today. Come on, let’s pick up the pace. I want to get up to headquarters and break the news, get it over with. And there might be food. My heart is broken into twenty pieces right now, but I’m still bloody hungry.”
***
Chester, September 1798
The magistrate was late to arrive in the private parlour at the back of the Castle and Falcon, but made an impressive entrance. Lieutenant Johnny Wheeler, who had rushed his breakfast, decided it was easy for a man of Sir Thomas Woodbridge’s girth to look impressive. Woodbridge was almost as wide as he was high, and Johnny managed not to laugh as he surveyed the chair which had been set out for him, which had wooden arms. Woodbridge said nothing, merely looked, and there was a further awkward delay as Sergeant Stewart sent a man out into the tap room to find a chair wide enough for the magistrate. That done, Woodbridge seated himself, looked over at Sergeant Stewart and nodded to indicate that he was ready to begin.
The swearing in of new recruits was not a lengthy process, but Johnny had seen it often enough during the past month to be heartily bored with it. The 110th infantry had been under orders to embark for India when it was discovered to be significantly under strength. Johnny had no idea why this had come as a surprise to Colonel Dixon, since most of the company officers had been grumbling about it for a year or more, but the matter was rapidly turning into a crisis as the date of departure approached.
Johnny had not wanted to join the recruiting party, and there was an enthusiastic volunteer in the person of Lieutenant Vincent Longford of the seventh company. Johnny thought that his enthusiasm had probably aroused the suspicions of his seniors. Longford was a lazy officer, notorious for finding ways to avoid hard work. Touring the local area staying in inns and public houses accompanied by a sergeant, a drummer and four enlisted men was far easier than the long hours of training and drilling in barracks which were being supervised by Major Johnstone, but Johnny was in no doubt which he would have preferred.
Captain Mason called Johnny into the mess room to inform him that he was to join Longford’s party. He grinned sympathetically at Johnny’s expression and placed a glass of wine in front of him.
“Cheer up, Mr Wheeler. It will only be for a few weeks.”
“Yes, sir. But may I ask why? It isn’t usual to send two officers. And even if they wanted to, can’t Longford take one of his ensigns? Two lieutenants seems excessive.”
“One of his ensigns can hardly be expected to keep an eye on him. Longford loves doing this, but some of his recruitment practices are a little unscrupulous and we’ve no wish to find half our new recruits released from their oaths because it can be proved that Longford tricked them into it.”
Johnny thought privately that the wording of the recruitment poster could be considered a piece of trickery in itself, given what he knew of the pay and conditions of the men under his command, but he decided not to mention it. He sipped the wine and asked gloomily:
“Why me?”
“Major Johnstone asked for you specifically,” Mason said. “I was annoyed, to be honest, I could do with you on the training ground this week. But it’s a compliment, Wheeler. He trusts you to see it’s done right. If we leave it up to Longford, he’ll find himself a comfortable inn and stay there an extra week at the army’s expense.”
Johnny thought that Mason probably had a point. “Then why send Longford at all?”
“Longford can be unscrupulous. You, on the other hand, are at risk of being over-scrupulous, you’d never recruit anybody. Between the two of you, I think we’ll reach our quota before we have to sail.”
Johnny was not sure if he had just been complimented or reprimanded. “Thank you, sir. Where are we…?”
“You’re going to Chester.”
“Chester?” Johnny said in surprise. “Isn’t that rather out of the way for us? We could try Leicester and possibly Nottingham, with the towns and villages in between. I’m sure…”
“You’re going to Chester on the Colonel’s orders, Mr Wheeler, because he wants to speed up the process, and as it happens, he has a friend in Chester who is a magistrate,” Mason said grimly. Johnny’s heart sank.
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes.”
“Do we know how many, sir?”
“About twenty, I believe.”
“Oh sir, that’s too many. Even if we split them between the companies, they’re going to cause trouble. It’s one thing to take one or two at a time from the courts, but that sounds as though they’re emptying out their gaol into our ranks.”
“I suspect they are. There is nothing we can do about it, however. I’m sorry, Wheeler, I know you’d rather be doing anything other than this. You have my sympathy, I loathe the process. Longford is rather good at it though. He enjoys the spectacle of parading through town with a drummer. Let him have his way and only intervene if he’s doing something obviously illegal, or if he’s spending the army’s money on himself. Oh, and don’t let him snaffle all the best men for the seventh company. They’re only about ten men short, we need at least fifteen or so. If you two are doing the work, you’ll get first pick. You know what we’re looking for in the light company. Fast, agile and with a modicum of intelligence. And try not to allow half the pickpockets and highwaymen of Cheshire into my company, will you?”
“I’ll do my best, sir.”
The journey was not as bad as Johnny had feared. Despite his reservations, Johnny had to admit that Captain Mason was right about Vincent Longford. The man would do almost anything to avoid drill or training with his men, but given the opportunity to strut through a market town or a country fair to the sound of a beating drum, Longford was in his element. He could be surprisingly gracious to even the humblest of the potential recruits although once they joined, Johnny knew he was more likely to order a flogging than a offer a kind word. Longford was a harsh and unpredictable disciplinarian.
They had picked up eighteen men by the time they reached Chester, and Johnny only needed to intervene once, to remind Sergeant Stewart that while some magistrates would turn a blind eye to the common practice of making a man so drunk that he would swear to anything, others would call a halt to proceedings if the recruit appeared to be inebriated and wait for him to sober up before taking the oath. Longford did not attempt to intervene or contradict him, although Johnny was sure that if he had not been present, Longford would have happily signed up two men who could barely stand and taken a chance with the magistrate.
The weather remained fair into early October, with some days as hot as midsummer. Despite his reservations, Johnny realised he was quite enjoying the break from routine. Longford was happy to take on the job of advertising their presence in the towns and villages, leaving it to Johnny to organise the paperwork, arrange the necessary medical examination that each recruit must pass and approach the local magistrate to oversee the taking of the oath. They stayed at inns and taverns along the way and although Johnny did not particularly like Longford, they got on well enough to enjoy a meal and a drink together. They were the same age and having managed to raise or borrow the funds for promotion to lieutenant, both found themselves looking at the faintly depressing prospect of not being able to progress further without money or a great deal of luck.
Johnny understood Longford’s feelings, but after a week in his company was bored with his litany of complaints. Though he could not imagine how or when he would be able to obtain his captaincy, he preferred not to dwell on it. The army had been his life since he was seventeen and, at twenty-five, he had no desire to pursue any other profession. While Longford dreamed of finding a wealthy or influential patron to smooth his path, Johnny preferred to work hard and hope that at some point, somebody would recognise that intelligence and steady competence had as much value as noble connections.
Longford and Johnny called on Sir Thomas Woodbridge and accepted an invitation to dine. Woodbridge was clearly delighted with the prospect of a solution to the overcrowded city gaol and proudly informed his guests that he had no less than twenty-five men from Chester and the surrounding area, who had declared themselves willing to don a red coat rather than face prison or transportation. Longford was at his most obsequious and Johnny cringed inwardly and hoped that at least some of the men would be pronounced unfit to serve by Dr Howland when he examined them. The custom of encouraging convicted felons to join the army was considerably less popular with serving officers than with serving magistrates.
Johnny studied the men who assembled in the parlour the following day, as Longford administered the oath which bound them to serve at his Majesty’s pleasure. They ranged between a thin-faced cutpurse in his forties to a terrified boy who did not look older than fifteen, though he gave his age as seventeen. Only one of the prison recruits had been refused by the doctor on the grounds of a marked curvature of the spine. Most of these men looked skinny and underfed, but that was probably due to poor food in gaol and in many cases, the grinding poverty that had pushed them into criminality in the first place. Johnny had quizzed Dr Howland to ensure there were no signs of gaol fever. He had no wish to march back to barracks in Melton Mowbray with his new recruits dropping by the roadside.
With the swearing in completed, Johnny joined Longford and Dr Howland in the dining room, leaving Stewart and his men to get the new men settled in their temporary barracks. Over dinner, they discussed the time of their departure on the following day and the route to be taken on the way back. Longford suggested a slightly longer route, taking in the towns of Derby and Nottingham and Johnny agreed. It was unusual for a recruiting party to fill its intended quota but if they were as successful as they had been in Leicester on the way out, Johnny thought they might do very well.
Johnny was awake early the following morning and, since they were not marching until noon and breakfast would not be for an hour or more, he dressed quietly so as not to wake Longford or Howland and went out into a world painted rosy by the first light of dawn. Strolling through quiet streets, he made his way down to the River Dee and stood watching the sun come up over the water. It was chilly this early, but with the promise of another lovely day, and Johnny lingered for a while. He knew he would miss days like this in the heat and dust of campaigning in India.
The inn had come to life by the time he returned, with a bustle of early departures in the stable yard and the clatter of pots and pans from the kitchen at the back of the building. Johnny stood for a moment watching a family party climbing into an elegant travelling carriage, piled high with luggage.
“Lieutenant Wheeler?”
Johnny turned to find the landlord calling him, framed in the open doorway of the kitchen.
“Sorry to disturb you, sir, it’s just there’s a man arrived asking about the recruiting officers. Mr Longford and the doctor aren’t down yet, so I was going to direct him to the barn where the men are, but as you’re here…”
“Another volunteer?”
“He didn’t say, sir, but what else?”
Johnny sighed. “I’ll speak to him. Where is he, Turner?”
“In the tap room, sir.”
Johnny walked into the wood-panelled tap room. The man was seated at the bar with a tankard before him. Seen in profile, it was a face of considerable distinction. He was young, probably not much above twenty, with dark curly hair tied back neatly with a black ribbon. His clothing was dusty and travel stained, as though he had spent some time on the road, but Johnny observed that it was of far better quality than any of the other recruits. As Johnny studied him, the young man seemed to sense his regard and turned his head, revealing deep-set dark eyes. After a moment, he got up and bowed politely as Johnny approached.
“Lieutenant Wheeler of the 110th light company. I understand you’re wishing to join the army.”
“Aye, sir, I am. I’m hoping I’m not too late. The landlord said you’re moving on today.”
The voice was pleasant, with a musical lilt which was wholly and unmistakeably Irish. Johnny did not reply immediately. He looked again at the stained clothing, the stubble on the man’s face and the dark, serious eyes and a warning bell clanged loudly in his head. Ireland was in turmoil, with the bloody uprising of the United Irishmen only just defeated. The army had its share of Irishmen, both officers and enlisted men, but Johnny was instinctively suspicious. This man was young, well-spoken and looked as though he had been sleeping rough on the road for days. Most of the Irish recruits in the 110th came either from the cities, where unemployment was high or from recruiting in Ireland itself, when a poor crop and a round of evictions made serving King George seem the only alternative to starvation. This man was cut from a different cloth.
“You’ve missed the swearing in, and we’re marching out later today.”
“I could go with you and be sworn in when it’s possible.”
Johnny studied him, troubled. It was his job to accept every willing recruit and he knew Longford would not hesitate. Johnny was already concerned about the collection of thieves, drunkards and vagrants they had signed up on the previous day and was trying to work out how best to divide them between the ten companies of the first battalion so that they could not easily influence each other. He had no particular desire to throw an Irish rebel fleeing for his life into such a dangerous mix.
“I’ll ask the landlord to bring you breakfast,” he said finally. “It’s the least we can do, given that you’ve travelled to find us.”
Unexpectedly the younger man smiled. “I didn’t travel to find you, sir. I was travelling to find work, and I stumbled across you on the way. It seemed a good solution.”
He reached into his pocket and drew out a crumpled sheet, which Johnny recognised as one of the posters or handbills they had distributed around taverns and ale houses in the district. It explained at least where the man had found out about the recruiting party.
“The army is a very hard life for a young man. Especially if you’re not accustomed to hardship. You should give it some thought before taking that oath.”
The Irishman laughed aloud and indicated the paper. “High pay, free quarters, good clothing and a number of other advantages. Are you telling me that’s not true?”
Despite himself, Johnny smiled. “It might be to a starving peasant, but I’m not convinced that’s you.”
The Irishman smoothed out the paper. “High-spirited, handsome young men. Don’t I qualify, Lieutenant?”
Johnny did not speak for a long moment. Eventually, he said:
“Get yourself over and speak to Sergeant Stewart, he’ll arrange breakfast for you. If you still want to, you can march with us until the next signing on. It may be a few days. You can change your mind at any time between now and then but if you’re staying, you’ll need to improve your attitude. If you speak to the other officers like this, you’re going to end up at the wrong end of a flogging before the end of the month.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I’ll learn to do better.”
“Good.” Johnny studied him for a long moment. “Have you any experience of training or drilling? Or fighting?”
For the first time, the dark eyes did not meet his. The Irishman looked down at the paper which he still held. He crumpled it up again and put it back in his pocket, and Johnny was suddenly sure.
“Not really, sir. Apart from a few weeks when I thought I might join the militia. But I’m a quick learner.”
“I’ll just bet you are,” Johnny said softly. “What’s your name?”
The younger man looked up. There was just enough hesitation to convince Johnny that the name he was about to be given was not this man’s real name and was possibly one he had thought up at a moment’s notice.
“It’s O’Reilly, sir. Michael O’Reilly.”
“Is it now?” Johnny said, making no attempt to conceal his scepticism. “Welcome to the 110th, O’Reilly. I’m sure you’ll be an asset in no time at all.”
The Irishman said nothing for a moment. He withdrew the paper from his pocket and studied it in silence. Johnny wondered if his disbelief had put the man off. Eventually O’Reilly looked up again.
“If you’ll take me on, sir, I’ll do my best to see you don’t regret it.”
There was unexpected emotion behind the words and suddenly Johnny was very aware of the travel stained clothing, the unshaven face and the haunted expression in the dark eyes. He wondered what this boy had seen or done during this past year to make the army seem a refuge. He also wondered how long it would be before the independent spirit he was trying so hard to conceal got him into trouble. Johnny sighed.
“I’m already regretting it,” he said resignedly.
The door opened and Sergeant Stewart came in. He saluted, looking curiously at the Irishman.
“Sorry to disturb you, sir, but Captain Longford’s not down yet. The farrier is here to replace that shoe.”
“That’s all right, Sergeant. This is O’Reilly, he’ll be marching with us and if he still wants to, he’ll be sworn in at our next halt. Get him fed and take his details, will you?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll add him to Captain Longford’s company, they…”
“No.” Johnny was still studying the young Irishman who waited with wholly unconvincing meekness to learn his fate. “I don’t think Captain Longford is the right officer for O’Reilly. Put him in the light company, Stewart.”
Johnny watched them cross the yard to the barn, O’Reilly half a head taller than his companion. Briefly he wondered exactly how much trouble the young Irish rebel was likely to cause and if he had done the right thing. Then the smell of bacon wafting out of the kitchen reminded him of his growling stomach and he abandoned all thoughts of O’Reilly and went in search of breakfast.
When I was invited to write a What If? story, I spent a long time trying to come up with an idea. I tried to think of figures from history who I had come to know from researching my own books, sparing the life of my historical heroes, or altering the course of battles. But then comes the inevitable realisation that sometimes it is the unjust nature of events surrounding these historical figures which drew me to them in the first place! Did I really want to take that from them?
I knew I wanted something which would show a different ending but not alter the entire course of history. Every story I write focusses on little things which make big ripples. To tweak the Conquest of Gaul meant that big ripples were caused, but they were only as transient as those ripples on the water’s surface. Eventually, they would fade away and history would return to its course once more. But, I have to admit, I enjoyed inserting these two heroes of the ancient world. I’ve never really told the story of famous people (well, not exactly – although The Year We Lived might be an exception to that!), but the theme for the anthology meant that a significant event (and therefore significant persons) needed to be modified…
A few years ago, I visited Rome with two of my sisters. It was such an incredible place – history tucked in everywhere, hiding in plain sight. We behaved like real tourists with our sightseeing and one of the places we came across was the ruins of the Temple of Vesta. There isn’t much left of it now, but what is there shows the wealth and power which was given to this aspect of the Roman beliefs. While we were in Rome, I got one of those books with plasticky pages which you can hold over one another to see what these ruined buildings had looked like in their heyday, and there was a little bit of writing about each place.
Firstly, I have to explain that I had preconceived ideas about Julius Caesar. I had come across him in school as the first Roman to conquer Britain. That was my first misconception, but it was not my last. And that quote, Veni, Vidi, Vici (I came, I saw, I conquered) has absolutely nothing to do with Britain!
I have written one other alternative history story. It’s called The Triumph of Maxentius, which is based on the question: What if Constantine lost the battle of Milvian Bridge? This would have had major repercussions for the Christian religion and this was the exact topic of that story.
My obsessive nature coming into play again, I am a strict NaNoWriMo participant. Having avoided it for years, I signed up in 2019 and now I refuse to be beaten by it! So all this month I’m chipping away at a new – rather different – novel. For the first time, I’m attempting a dual timeline story. Set part in the 3rd Century, and part in the 18th Century, this book draws from the story of the Amcotts Moor Woman. It is steeped in early church history and runaway Jacobites – a sop to my passion for theology and history!
Virginia Crow is an award-winning Scottish author, who grew up in Orkney and now lives in Caithness. She comes from a large family of writers and readers, and has been surrounded by books her whole life. Her favourite genres to write are fantasy and historical fiction, sometimes mixing the two together. She enjoys swashbuckling stories, her favourite book being The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas and she is still waiting for a screen adaption that lives up to it!
e Endings is available on Kindle and in paperback on Amazon.
Eton Mess is in loving memory of a very gorgeous dog called India and is dedicated to her companion, 
Number One London Tours
Features of the landscape like the covered way which is still partly visible, waist and head-high crops and surprisingly steep ridges help the story of the battle unfold far more easily than looking at maps. Gareth had maps a plenty though, to demonstrate each stage of the fighting as we reached it, starting from Papelotte and moving around the various parts of the field. He had also brought a copy of his fantastic
Interspersed with clear, easy to understand descriptions of troop movements and the various attacks at different stages of the battle, were the individual stories from both Gareth and Kristine about the men who fought, suffered and died at Waterloo. I’ve seen many of these accounts before but hearing them read out on the ground where the action took place gave them a whole new meaning.
It was also horribly easy to imagine the aftermath, with dead and wounded strewn across the field. Injured men staggered towards anywhere they might find help and too many of them fell by the wayside. The memorials to the different armies and regiments as well as to a few individuals which are scattered around the battlefield highlight the poignant truth that most men who died at Waterloo had no marked grave, no memorial and quite possibly may not even have been buried at all.
When we emerged, it was dark. Kristine had bought some flowers and a few of us walked up towards the Lion’s Mound which is lit up at night. It looked spectacular and despite all the jokes about it spoiling the battlefield, it felt like a fitting memorial that night, not to the Prince of Orange or Wellington or to any of the other individual commanders but to the thousands of anonymous men and animals who died on that field two hundred and seven years ago. 
We placed the flowers on the edge of the field, not on any particular monument but just on a spot where any man might have fallen and stood quietly, listening on a phone to John Tams singing Spanish Ladies, a haunting folk song. A version of that song existed in 1815 and might have been sung by the campfires by men who did not survive that day. It seemed an appropriate memorial to the ordinary soldiers and the perfect way to end Waterloo 2022: the Battlefield Tour.
I have no idea whether there’s something political about this, whether it’s considered Napoleon was the most important person at Waterloo given that he was an Emperor or whether they just don’t think Wellington or Blucher memorabilia will sell. I do think it should probably be redressed, but if it’s a marketing decision then I guess that’s a good enough reason. All the same, Napoleon as a dog was a bit much for me.
Across the busy road from the Wellington Museum is the elaborate church which was there at the time of the battle and used, like many churches, as a hospital to receive wounded men. Those of you who have followed me for a while know that I have a thing about old churches and this one was particularly peaceful, with a number of memorials to the men who fought and died during the Waterloo campaign. Memorials at this time tended to be paid for either by the family of the dead man or by subscription through the various battalions and regiments, so not surprisingly more of them relate to the wealthier regiments. Very few of the memorials even mention the NCOs and enlisted men apart from this one in the church, which may well be the first of its kind.
After lunch we moved on to Napoleon’s Headquarters in the farmhouse of Le Caillou, where Napoleon and his staff spent the night of June 17, 1815. The museum collection is spread over five rooms and tells the story of the Emperor’s actions in the hours before Waterloo. There are a number of artefacts relating to Napoleon, though Gareth queried whether some of the furniture was authentic given that the Prussians reputedly set fire to everything on their way through after Napoleon’s departure. Still, it gives a good sense of how the farm might have looked at the time.
In the garden outside the farmhouse are one or two memorials. There is also an ossuary, which is a small building intended to serve as the final resting place of human bones. Ossuaries are often used where burial space is scarce but in this case it has become a depository for bones found on the battlefield over the years. I’ve seen photos of this but found the real thing unexpectedly moving.
Our next visit was to the small but very good museum in Ligny. It covers both Ligny and Quatre Bras and gave a very good sense of what happened on 16th June in these small villages and towns as the French inflicted a bloody defeat on Blucher’s Prussians and fought to a stalemate against Wellington’s Allied army. I was shocked at the extent of the casualties at both battles. Somehow I’d always had the vague impression that these were just skirmishes ahead of the main battle, but they clearly weren’t. All three armies were weakened by what happened on this day and it must have had an effect on what happened at Waterloo.
Our final stop for the day was the Horse Guards museum and were in time to see an inspection parade. After that it was back to the hotel in preparation for an early start on the Eurostar to Brussels the following morning.
Waterloo 2022: prelude only really came about because I live on the Isle of Man. My much anticipated 
The 
There is, as usual, an abundance of information and artefacts about Lord Nelson, England’s most feted naval hero including the clothing he was wearing when he was shot down on the deck of the Victory during the Battle of Trafalgar. While I’m grateful that the national obsession with Nelson means that EVERY navy museum has something relating to my period of interest, I can’t help imagining the howls of indignation of a few other navy officers of the era who really did some quite impressive stuff themselves, but don’t get a mention. Nevertheless, the National Maritime Museum is fascinating, with loads to see and do for both adults and children and I highly recommend it.
Greenwich Seaman’s Hospital was built on the orders of Mary II who was affected by the sight of wounded sailors coming home from the Battle of La Hogue. It is incredibly beautiful architecturally and both the Chapel and the Painted Hall are well worth a visit. I particularly liked the Chapel, which has naval motifs incorporated into the design. 
Nelson also features a fair bit, surprisingly enough. England’s Hero lay in state for several days in the Painted Hall and there is a small dedicated Nelson Room, but my favourite artefact is a lion which was apparently a model piece for the Nelson frieze. The lion is holding a stone which purports to claim that Nelson fought in 122 battles. I had this piece of information from the guide and I’ve not managed to check it at all, but my extensive reading on the subject of the Napoleonic navy so far has suggested that most of the time was spent either on tedious blockade duty or seething at home on half-pay. Nobody seemed able to answer my question about how Nelson managed to see quite so much action during his time in the navy but if I get to the bottom of it, I’ll let you know. Alternatively, if anybody else knows where I can find a list of these battles, I’d love to hear it. Nice lion, though.
My final visit of the day was to the Cutty Sark, a nineteenth century tea clipper located in dry dock on the river bank. The Cutty Sark has a very sentimental place in my heart as it was a favourite place to visit as a child. We used to go to Greenwich a lot, getting the bus from Mile End and then walking through the Victorian foot tunnel under the river. I loved it there, the park and the eclectic market, the little shops, the Queen’s House and the Observatory, the graceful buildings of the Naval College. That much history in one place always set off my very eccentric imagination about the men and women who had lived in these buildings and walked these streets in the past. But the absolute joy for me was the once or twice a year when we were allowed to actually go aboard the Cutty Sark.
NaNoWriMo with Labradors – the first week has gone better than I ever expected. There’s something very motivating about sitting down each day knowing that you’re not going to give up until you’ve at least come close to your word count.
I love writing about Hugh Kelly and Alfred Durrell but in order to be able to tell the full story of the siege of Tarragona I needed men on the ground. As with the storming of Castro Urdiales in 
Accordingly, this will be the first outing for the French Captain Gabriel Bonnet of the 30th légère who later makes an appearance in 
Hugh turned his attention to his sextant. It was a bright clear day, making the readings easy. Beside him Manby worked out his latitude in a small notebook and there was silence over the group of observers who were suddenly intent on their work. When the master had finished, he walked aft to where Lieutenant Pryce, the officer of the watch waited. Pryce accepted his report of noon along with the degrees and minutes of the latitude observed.
NaNoWriMo with Labradors appeared in my brain when I was trying to get back to sleep at 3.45am. I often struggle with sleep due to back problems, but I do try not to actually think when I’m awake. Thinking is fatal as I have the kind of brain which, once it’s fired up, sets off a series of ideas like a row of fireworks going off. This is really useful when creating fictional plots but a complete pain in the early hours of the morning. Let’s just say I’m going to be tired today.
I realised I’d written a lot more of this book than I thought, which was excellent news. Even better, most of it is very good with the exception of the first two chapters which were utterly superfluous to requirements and probably explain why I struggled with this book first time around. I’ve come up with some new ideas, done some more research, invented a useful new character (with major links to the other series, incidentally) and am ready to go.
My notebook is ready, my laptop is fired up and the desk army and navy are ready to offer support. This book is happening people… 
Oscar and Alfie are excited about this new initiative at Writing With Labradors, as long as it doesn’t interfere with walks, playtime and mealtimes.
This Bloody Shore: Book 3 of the Manxman series.
