Regimental Affair

chapter 1 THE PRIVILEGE OF RANK The Horse Guards, March 12, 1817 Five major generals, so much scarlet and gold that the usually somber meeting room of the commander in chief's headquarters was for once a place of color, sat in comfortable upholstered chairs at a long baize-covered table, their chairman, Sir Loftus Wake, Bart., the vice adjutant general, at the head, while on upright chairs at the wall perched the Duke of York's military secretary and two clerks. The atmosphere was somnolent despite the morning hour. In front of each general officer lay a blue vellum portfolio tied with red silk, as well as paper, pencils, and a coffee cup of delicate pink Rockingham, rather out of place. Some of the cups were empty, and were being attended to by a footman in court livery. Major General the Lord Dunseath, a dyspeptic-looking man with a purple nose, waved him aside without a word, intent on some detail in his copy of The Times. The footman next proffered his coffeepot to Sir Archibald Barret, KG, a kind-faced man in spite of his eye patch, who merely sighed and declined with the same breath. Major General the Earl of Rotheram, noble browed, a picture of decency, lit a cigar instead, but Sir Francis Evans, Kt., crabbed and lacking any appreciable chin, with an ear that was turned forward like a tailor's tab, accepted more of the strong araba and took out his snuffbox. The footman hesitated by the next, empty, chair and then moved to replenish Sir Loftus's cup. Sir Loftus Wake resembled a small garden bird in both looks and animation. His frame was spare indeed, and his eyes, his whole head, darted from papers to watch, from watch to door, and then back again with the speed and regularity with which small birds must search about constantly for predators. He stared again at the empty chair and then at his half-hunter. "It is a quarter past. Where can Sir Horace be?" Lord Dunseath, his nose always a beacon of his disposition, put down his newspaper and made a loud huffing sound. "Well, if he's trying to come through the City he'll never get here. They're hanging that caitiff Cashman at Newgate this morning. The Times says a crowd's expected. A mob more like, I'll warrant! I trust you've a line of cavalry between them and Whitehall, Wake?" "Oh, come!" said Sir Loftus, more agitated still. "That will be no occasion for trouble." "Don't you imagine it," huffed Dunseath again. "I was 'ere last December when those damned Radicals at the Spa Fields marched on the Tower. As close to revolution as I ever saw!" "Stuff and nonsense, sir!" said the Earl of Rotheram, blowing a cloud of smoke ceilingwards. "I was at St. James's the whole time. It was all wind and wine. Hunt and his like, rabble-rousers, yes, but I hardly fancy they have the stuff of a Robespierre in them!" The earl was ever a man in whom the moderation of the shires found a faithful voice. "I wouldn't be so sure, Rotheram," warned Dunseath. "There's radicalism seething all about. In some places the machine breakers are as active as ever. And there's a deal too many discharged soldiers and sailors as well. All prey to jackanapes like Hunt." "On this latter I would not dissent. And where might we seek to lay blame on that account? I think it truly ignoble that this government has discharged its fighting men in so mean a fashion. There are beggars in scarlet in every lane." Lord Dunseath's nose seemed darker still. "What would you have had Liverpool do, then? Exalt Pitt's income tax another pennyMallinson, Allan is the author of 'Regimental Affair' with ISBN 9780553111545 and ISBN 055311154X.