For the next three mornings the adjutant drilled the battalion from eight o’clock until half past ten. Then there were company drills and musketry until one. After a break of two hours to rest and refresh, there were route marches or runs and other physical exercises. Moss pushed his battalion in the final days before they were to march to Portsmouth and embark. There was little time for further social pleasures, although life in the mess was still sometimes boisterous. The colonel had let it be known, however, that no serious misbehaviour would be permitted. Officers were reminded that above their own sense of personal honour they owed a duty to the regiment. Their conduct over the next week was to be impeccable. Moss drove the 106th hard.
Hanley was weary as he sat at the end of the third day and sketched Jenny Dobson. A week earlier he had been ed to draw for the first time since he had left Madrid. He had sat in the tent lines and sketched the grenadiers as they took their meal, sitting or standing in all states of uniform, with their wives and children around them. Jenny had seen him, had come to look over his shoulder. Normally he hated anyone watching him work, but there was a childlike enthusiasm about the girl which was winning and more than a little at odds with her normal manner. When he had finished, he gave her the picture, and she had asked him whether he would take her likeness. There had not been an opportunity until now, although on several occasions he had been moved to pick up his pencil and pad since then, and had done several hasty outlines of men on the march or drilling. Rather to his surprise, he was starting to enjoy this new life and was happy enough to want to draw. He had even wondered about obtaining some better paper, and digging his watercolours out from his trunk.
Once again he sat on a bale of straw among the company’s tents. The girl sat on a folding stool borrowed from Billy Pringle with the white of a tent behind her. At first they had gathered quite a crowd, with a few of the men making faces at the girl and trying to make her laugh. She had joked and cursed back at them, until eventually most lost interest and went about their ordinary tasks.
Hanley had always liked the clarity and contrast of a pencil sketch, enjoying the way that shape and texture needed to be hinted at. He was shading the girl’s face as delicately as he could. Jenny was young, her features not yet set, and Hanley tried to capture that softness. Her curly hair reminded him a little of Mapi, at least when he drew it and it became black like the Spanish girl’s. No one yet seemed to know where in Spain they were going. Some said Gibraltar and others the north coast. Both were a long way from Madrid, but he wondered whether they would end up there and if he would see Mapi again, assuming she was alive. If so, then what would he say?
Jenny was trying to stay very still, even though he had told her it was not necessary. Her nose began to twitch, and after a bitter struggle she finally gave in and reached up to scratch it. The girl looked guilty.
Hanley smiled. ‘Nearly done, Miss Dobson.’ He kept his tone formal, wishing to show the girl’s formidable father that he was employing proper respect. The family had announced only yesterday that the girl was to marry the large and quiet Private Hanks. Rumours were rife, both about her allegedly wanton behaviour and the suggestion that she might be with child. Dobson had taken the young couple before Captain Wickham and received his permission for them to marry. There would be a brief service after the church parade on the next day. Jenny was wearing the new dress bought for her by her parents, which she would also don for the ceremony. It had lace around the collar and she was very proud of it. Hanley took care to draw the detail as well as he could. The sketch would be his main present, although the company officers were making a collection to give to the young couple.
Money was a worry for Hanley. As an ensign he was supposed to receive five shillings and threepence a day. More than a shilling went before the pay came anywhere near him, lost in tax, agency and poundage. Two and a half more were deducted and paid straight to the mess, and even though Lieutenant Colonel Moss matched this fee with his own funds it was still a substantial amount. Then there was sixpence to his soldier servant, as much again to provide the necessaries for breakfast as well as a little tea for the day, and finally another fivepence to the company’s wives for washing and mending his clothes. As far as he could see, service to King and country had him barely avoiding making a loss each day. It was not a lipermitting of any luxuries.
He had less than a pound remaining from the money given to him by his father’s family. There had been more, but thirty-five guineas was on loan to Captain Wickham. It had seemed a reasonable request at the time – a mark of friendship and trust, suggesting that he was now accepted in the battalion. Yet weeks had gone by and the loan ‘till the end of the week’ showed no prospect of being returned. It was also a difficult subject to broach.
Hanley looked down at the drawing. It was done. He knew that he could spend hours adjusting and modifying the sketch, but that for every improvement he made he would lose more of its essence. Smiling, he stood and walked over to the girl, handing her the pad. Jenny Dobson looked at it intently.
‘That’s me,’ she said firmly. ‘That’s me.’ Turning her head she called to her family. ‘Come and see my picture.’
‘Seen you before,’ muttered her brother as he strolled towards them.
‘Thank you, Mr Hanley, sir, it’s lovely.’ She rose, standing on tiptoe, and as he leaned over to tear the page from the pad she kissed him on the cheek. Her eyes flicked back to her approaching parents, and then she kissed him again, sliding her mouth until for just a moment her tongue flicked into his ear. The girl’s thick hair stopped them from seeing anything.
Hanley straightened up, and then bowed to her, keeping his face as expressionless as he could. There was certainly not too much of the child left in this one.
‘A pleasure, Miss Dobson. I have rarely drawn so agreeable a subject. May I say that Private Hanks is a lucky man.’
‘Yes, he is,’ said the girl.
Hanley managed to withdraw fairly quickly after only brief expressions of admiration by the rapidly gathering crowd. Dobson simply nodded his approval, thought for a moment, and then offered the ensign his hand. Even though he had expected it, Hanley was still surprised by the firmness of his grip. The man seemed to be made of iron.
After a quick visit to the tent he shared with Pringle, Redman and Williams to deposit pad and pencils and tidy himself up, Hanley reported to the adjutant for another hour’s drill. This was a daily routine for all the recently joined officers and soldiers in the battalion. It was no longer something he resented. Indeed, he had discovered a strange poetry in the drill movements, an odd sense of losing himself in the group unlike anything he had ever known before. It had a dance-like, almost spiritual quality.
‘Mr Hanley, sir! Keep your bloody arm straight, who do you think you’re waving to!’ bawled Sergeant Major Fletcher.
‘Platoon, halt. Right face! Present arms!’ For just a second the RSM drew breath. ‘As you were, as you were.’ He paced along the line, back ramrod straight, his stick tucked ferociously under his arm. ‘Now I’m glad Mr Thomas can’t see you. You see, he’s a sick man. It’d kill him to see you! Now, we will do it again.’
If anything, there was even less of a spiritual quality to the celebrations in the mess that evening. Tomorrow was Sunday, and the battalion would rest and ‘make and mend’, repairing and cleaning uniforms and equipment. On the Monday morning they would begin the march to Portsmouth. The Saturday night was devoted to dinner in honour of Moss’s engagement. All officers were expected to attend, but the occasion was not open to wives, which gave a good indication of the type of celebration envisaged by the colonel. Champagne specially brought down from approval, own stocks flowed freely for a good three hours, before other bottles appeared.
Toasts were drunk to the colonel and his lady, to the regiment, to the army, to the King, to England, and to anything else they could imagine. Songs were sung, loudly and lustily, if with scant regard for tune or rhythm. As usual ‘Spanish Ladies’ was one of the most popular. A pitched battle was fought between the subalterns of the left and right wings, lobbing bread rolls from the heights of the long trestle tables which ran down either side of the room. Moss and the senior officers watched from the gallery above, and periodically lobbed apples at anyone they felt deserved to become a target. After that, things became a little more lively.
The main event was the joust, with the officers paired off in teams as charger and knight. The grenadiers inevitably found themselves acting as horses. Williams carried young Derryck, who proved himself a deft hand with the pillow used as a weapon. Especially satisfying was a rapid victory over Redman as charger and Hatch as knight, aided greatly by the latter’s advanced state of drunkenness. Hanley and Anstey offered more of a struggle, as surprisingly did a diminutive combination from the Light Company. In the end they faced the final challenge of Pringle and young Trent.
That battle lasted for a good five minutes, the two knights slogging away with pillows while the horses circled. Williams almost slipped on a puddle of spilled port, but managed to steady himself and grab Derryck before he tumbled down. Everything would probably have been fine had not Pringle seized the moment to shoulder-charge the volunteer. Williams and Derryck were flung back, knocking down one of the tables. Trent fell, but Pringle caught him and held him upside down by the legs, loudly proclaiming their victory. The shouted opinions on this seemed more in their favour than against, and Truscott’s comments on the value of an Oxford education were all but drowned out.
All in all it was a highly successful evening, especially since the injuries were all minor. Proceedings were less formal after the joust, but continued for another couple of hours. By then, a number of officers were slumped over the tables snoring noisily and exposed to the practical pleasantries of their comrades.
Williams had managed to avoid Redman and Hatch apart from during the joust. Sharing a tent, it was impossible to have nothing to do with Redman, but the ensign curbed his now bitter hostility when the other grenadier officers were present. As far as was possible, the two men ignored each other.
It was around two when Hanley, Pringle and Williams came out into the night air. The two officers needed to relieve themselves, so the volunteer waited for them, leaning against the side wall of the inn. He had discovered that he rather liked champagne, which seemed unfortunate given the state of his finances. Although the wilder aspects of mess life had never appealed to him, there had been an air of excitement about the evening which had in itself been intoxicating. The prospect of going to war, and the knowledge that both life and honour might well depend on the quality of the men standing beside you, was a powerful bond. For all their drunkenness and ribaldry, Williams felt very close to the officers of the 106th.
The sound of violent retching came from behind him. He turned to see Hatch bent over double as he threw up on the ground. Redman was patting him on the back. Williams felt a truce was in order.
‘Quite a night, eh?’
‘What the devil would you know about it, you goddamned peasant!’ Redman’s hatred was surprising. Even Hatch looked up with a puzzled expression
‘Just making conversation.’ Williams’ reply was mild, but he felt his anger rising.
‘Kiss my arse!’ Redman was almost screaming. Hatch tried to hush him, but was ignored. ‘It’s a bloody disgrace, having people like you pretending to be gentlemen.’
Williams shrugged. ‘You are drunk, otherwise I might take that personally.’
‘I’m not drunk enough,’ claimed Hatch.
Williams turned to walk away, making sure he moved slowly. Pringle and Hanley had emerged and looked confused.
‘Don’t you damned well dare turn your back on me,’ yelled Redman. ‘You hear me! You’re nothing. A piece of Welsh shit!’ Williams’ fingers flexed, but he kept on walking.
‘That wasn’t the first time I’ve had Jenny Dobson. Same with Hatch. You liked seeing her tits, didn’t you?’ Hatch was straight now, nervously watching the confrontation. ‘She’s just a young slut. A whore like your mother!’ Redman threw the taunts at Williams’ back, encouraged by his refusal to be drawn.
Pringle and Hanley came up to the volunteer. They fell in on either side of him and Pringle tapped him on the shoulder. Williams started at the touch.
‘Forget it, Bills. He’s just a drunk. Not worth the trouble,’ whispered Pringle.
‘You call yourself a gentleman. Where is your honour? Damn me, you’re a coward. A gutless coward.’ Redman was following, enjoying his victory. Hatch tried to pull him away, but he shook his friend off. ‘You think you’re better than me. You and your God.’
Williams kept walking with the others, one either side of him. Redman stopped his pursuit, was about to stalk away and then added as an afterthought, ‘Better than me, are you, you damned saint? What about Jane MacAndrews? We saw you. Wouldn’t mind ploughing her myself. Was she good?’
Redman was laughing when Williams spun on his heels, brushed off his friends and strode right up to him.
‘I will fight you any time and anywhere. With pistol or with blade.’ He almost spat the words. Redman’s eyes showed surprise, but no fear.
‘A pleasure,’ he said, seeming now a lot more sober. ‘I’ll enjoy killing you.’
‘Mr Pringle will act for me.’ Billy had forgotten his promise, never guessing that it would be taken up.
‘And Hatch for me.’ The nominated second was busy throwing up again.
‘Then there is no more to be said. Good night to you.’ Williams made a very precise about-turn and marched off five paces. Then he stopped. Slowly he turned and marched back as neatly as he had come. A few feet away from Redman he swung into a punch and his right fist struck the ensign cleanly under the chin. Redman dropped.
‘I forgot the insult,’ said Williams, and about-turned once again. Pringle joined him as he marched away, putting one arm around his shoulder. Hanley caught up with them.
‘That’s not quite the way you are supposed to do it,’ Pringle said mildly. Privately he was afraid his friend had just thrown away his career.