The Generals

Chapter 14

December, 1795

It was a fine, clear winter day and the harbour at Southampton was filled with shipping.The masts, spars and rigging looked like a vast, intricate spiderweb from where Arthur observed the scene from the main quay. In amongst the coasters and small trading vessels were the large Indiamen flying the East India Company’s flag. Further out lay the warships of the Royal Navy, from small sloops up to the stately ships of the line. The vessels were anchored to one side of the channel as several ships, taking advantage of a favourable breeze, glided into Southampton, passing those setting sail for other destinations. Their topsails were sheeted home and bulged as they filled under the pressure of the wind, canting the vessels gently to leeward.

The quay was filled with men unloading cargo from the merchant ships, and others loading supplies and equipment aboard the troopships berthed near the naval yard. Arthur watched as his officers and sergeants marshalled the red-coated men of his regiment, the 33rd Foot, and marched them up the ramps on to the decks of the vessels that would be their cramped quarters for the next few months. The harsh shouts of the sergeants competed with the breeze singing through the rigging and the shrill cacophony of seagulls. Once the last of the men were aboard, Arthur turned away and made his way back to his lodgings at the Crown and Anchor inn to settle his personal affairs before joining his men. If the wind direction remained constant, the regiment would sail on the noon tide of the following day. So he worked hard to complete the remaining tasks before he quit England.

He still owed the family’s land agent over a thousand pounds and had arranged for his mother, Lady Anne Wesley, to guarantee the debt until he should return from foreign service to repay it. He owed Richard considerably more once he had reckoned up all the loans advanced to him by his brother to purchase commissions and pay for the costs of his election to the seat at Trim. Lastly, he wrote a final letter to Kitty, in which he set down his intention to make a name and a fortune for himself, and should she still be unmarried on his return to honour his pledge to marry her. Arthur had given much thought to this letter. Time could change a man’s feelings, yet he felt sure enough of the permanent nature of his love for Kitty to commit himself to her in writing.

He signed the letter, folded it carefully, wrote Kitty’s name and address on the front and then sealed it. Then he sat back in his seat and poured himself a large glass of Madeira. It was dusk and the light was fading.The rooms he had rented at the Crown and Anchor were comfortable enough, but the windows were small and stained and looked down into the coach yard. Not that there had been a moment to contemplate a view had there been one.

As soon as Arthur had arrived in Southampton he had been overwhelmed by the host of tasks demanding his attention. He had to ensure that the regiment was fully equipped for the coming campaign, and that all the men with families had made arrangements for a proportion of their pay to be sent directly to their wives. Wills had to be written and countersigned before being sent back to the battalion’s depot. A small number of men were in jail for sundry offences and debts and Arthur had had to humbly request their release, or cajole the local magistrates into believing that it was their patriotic duty to return the miscreants to their colours so that they could atone for their sins by fighting for King and country. One of his officers had run up a large gambling debt which Arthur had borrowed money to pay off rather than lose the young man’s services. The debt would be recouped from his pay, eventually. The letter to Kitty had been the final task, and one that had been put off until there were no lingering distractions to interfere with the composition of what might well be his last message to her.

Now it was finished, and there was nothing more to do. As soon as the wind was favourable Arthur would board his ship and sail away from England. As he sipped, sparingly, from his glass Arthur realised how tired he was. Frantic weeks of activity had taken their toll and he felt drained of energy. His head was pounding and his body ached. He rose from his seat wearily and undressed. Leaving his clothes hanging over the back of his chair, he climbed into his bed and closed his eyes.

He woke early, cold and shivering. Outside the wind moaned across the roofs of the port and when Arthur made his way down to the quay it was clear that a gale was blowing directly up the channel. The weather remained foul for several more days and while the men sat aboard their ships, struggling to find their sea legs, Arthur spent his time walking and riding along the shores of the Solent, watching and waiting for the shift in the wind that would make it possible for the convoy to leave Southampton. In the evenings he returned to his room to read the books he had bought about the West Indies. He had also borrowed some French newspapers from the harbour master so that he might learn the latest news of the conflict in Europe. As he perused the articles he once again came across the name of Bonaparte. It seemed that France’s hero of Toulon had now added to his laurels by crushing a royalist uprising in Paris and had been promoted to full general. Arthur sighed wearily. It seemed that luck favoured some men far more than others. While this man Bonaparte seemed to have every good fortune strewn in his path, every possible obstacle was being placed between Arthur and any measure of success. Much as he abhorred the revolution in France and all that it stood for, he could not help feeling envious of Bonaparte’s situation. One day perhaps Arthur’s luck would change, and he would strive to match, and possibly outdo, the achievements of men such as General Bonaparte.

At last, in the middle of December, on a bitingly cold day, the wind veered round to the east and the captain of the frigate Hermione, charged with escorting the transports, sent word to Arthur that the convoy would set sail the next morning.

The wind howled across the surface of the sea, whipping foam off the crests of the waves. On the ships the rigging moaned and shrilled as the deck rolled one way and then the other beneath Arthur’s boots. Overhead thin strips of sail were stretched taut beneath the furled material hanging from the spars. Two small triangles of jib sails above the bowsprit helped to thrust the transport ship on as it followed the loose line of vessels ahead, steering south-west away from the coast of the Isle of Wight. Half a mile off the starboard bow the Hermione surged forward, bursting through the waves in great showers of spray that were blown back over her foredeck.

Wild as the weather was on deck, Arthur was enjoying himself, wrapped up in a thick coat and covered with oilskins to protect him from the icy squalls that blew in every so often, almost blotting out the coast of England when they struck. The wild fury of nature filled him with a sense of awe, mingled with an all too human pride in man’s triumph over the elements as the ships ploughed defiantly through the waves towards the open sea. Ahead he could just make out the Needles: tall columns of white rock stretching out from the end of the Isle of Wight. The lead transport was sticking to Captain Shelby’s orders and, as Arthur watched, began to pass well clear of the rocks. As the last of the transports beat past the Needles he could hear the boom and roar of waves striking the columns even above the wind. Then they emerged from the partial shelter of the island and the ship was exposed to the full force of the wind. The deck canted over alarmingly and he clung to the side rail.

‘Colonel! Colonel Wesley!’

He turned and saw a figure making his way forward along the quarterdeck. A fluke of wind blew the rim of the newcomer’s oilskin hat flat against his forehead, and Arthur recognised Captain Hodges. Hodges was an experienced sailor and strode forward comfortably enough as the deck heaved and swooped beneath his boots. As he closed up on Arthur he cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted, ‘I’d advise you to get below, sir!’

Arthur shook his head. ‘Not yet! I want a last look at England!’

Hodges stared back for a moment and then shrugged as he turned back towards the quarterdeck. ‘It’s your funeral, sir.’

In truth Arthur just wanted to delay returning to the narrow cabin that had been allocated to him close to the stern of the ship. The soldiers had been ordered to stay below and keep out of the way of the sailors, but the world below deck was a hellish chaos. There was no fixed point of reference for the eye relative to the motion of the ship and within minutes the wild motion had stricken scores of men with nausea and several were vomiting into the first slop bucket that came to hand. Their suffering was made worse by the stink wafting up from the ship’s bilges. Some of the men were too terrified to feel unwell and sat wedged in corners against the great compass timbers of the ship that groaned and creaked with the strain of battling the storm. Their lips moved in silent prayer, or curses, and the cumulative effect of it all drove Arthur up on deck where he had sought Hodges’ permission to stay there a while, out of the way of the crew.

But now it was growing dark, and already the lead ship was no longer visible, just the bright spark of the heavy lantern lashed halfway up the mizzen mast. As night closed in round the transport, Arthur finally picked his way back towards the gangway that led to the cabins, and with a final glance at the black mass of the sea surrounding the transport he ducked down and carefully descended the steep stairs into the narrow passage. His cabin was one of the more spacious, but even so it was not very much larger than the cot it held. Arthur stripped off his oilskins and cloak, placed them over his sea chest, and then called for one of the ship’s servants to bring him a drink. As he settled into his blankets to go to sleep his ears were filled with the protesting creaks of stressed timbers, the deep moan of the wind, and the thud-crash of the waves.

The morning brought fresh problems. The convoy had been scattered during the night, and when Arthur joined Hodges on the deck in the wan glow of the light filtering through the dark grey clouds rolling overhead he could see the pale streaks of the sails of only two ships on the surrounding sea.

‘Are any of the other transports in sight?’

‘Lookout reports two more, hull down to the south of us.’

‘What’s happened to the others?’

‘Could be many miles away by now. If they haven’t foundered.’

‘Deck there!’ a voice cried out, just audible above the wind. Arthur glanced up and saw a figure in the ratlines of the main-mast, clinging on as the mast inscribed crazy circles against the clouds. ‘The Hermione’s hoisted a signal.’

‘What does it say?’ Hodges bellowed back through a speaking trumpet.

There was a delay as the lookout raised a telescope and tried his best to fix it on the frigate. At length he lowered the glass and called down, ‘Make sail, course south-west, until further orders.’

‘South-west?’ Arthur frowned. ‘Why south-west?’

‘For safety.We head south and we might come up on Ushant. West and we might hit the Cornish coast.’

‘In all this sea?’ Arthur shook his head. ‘Surely not. They are hundreds of miles apart.’

‘True,’ Captain Hodges admitted.‘But do you know where we are at this moment? Precisely where we are? Neither do I, and I won’t until I can shoot the sun. In this weather who knows how long that will be. So until then, we play safe and steer south-west.’

The following dawn revealed a storm-tossed horizon clear of any ships and Captain Hodges kept to the course he had been given. More days passed with grinding monotony as the transport sailed with the wind on her port quarter, rising up on each wave, then lurching and swooping into the trough as the wave passed on ahead. Rain squalls constantly swept over the ship and water found its way between decks so that soon nothing seemed dry and it was almost impossible to keep warm.

One morning, as Arthur emerged for his regular attempt at a walk up and down the quarterdeck, Captain Hodges came over to greet him with a brief knuckle to the brim of his hat.

‘Good day to you, Colonel.’

‘Any sign of the other ships?’

‘None, sir. Not for several days now.’

‘Any idea how far we’ve come?’

‘Difficult to say. We’re making six knots through the sea, but over the ground?’ He shrugged. ‘But if the wind stays steady, it’s fair for the West Indies and we’ll make good time.’

‘That’s something of a comfort.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Hodges nodded and turned back to keep an eye on his ship, then paused and glanced back at Arthur. ‘One other thing, sir.’

‘Oh?’

‘Merry Christmas.’

‘Christmas? Oh, Christ, of course it is.’Arthur laughed.‘Merry Christmas to you too, Captain!’

The next day the wind began to veer. Slowly, degree by degree, until it had shifted far enough to the west to force the captain to change course and he tacked for six hours at a time before going about and clawing back with the wind on the opposite bow, pointing as close to the wind as the ship would steer. And still the storm continued, day after day, week after week, until nearly seven weeks into the voyage the lookout called down to the deck.

‘Land ho!’

‘Where away?’ Hodges called back.

‘Two points off the starboard bow!’ The lookout thrust his arm out and the officers on the quarterdeck turned to scan the horizon in that direction. For a while they could see nothing; then the ship lifted on to the crest of a large ocean roller and there was the coast, a thin dark strip with flashes of white cliffs.

‘What land’s that?’ Arthur squinted. Hodges was quiet for a moment, bracing his legs as he trained his glass on the distant coast before the ship slumped down into a trough and he snapped the telescope shut. He laughed bitterly.

‘It’s the Needles.’

‘The Needles?’ Arthur shook his head. ‘Impossible! How can it be? We’ve been at sea for nearly two months.’

‘It’s this bloody storm. We’ve made no headway against it. Now it’s blown us back to England.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘What can I do? We’ve consumed two months’ provisions, the rigging has been strained to breaking point and two of my sails have been torn to pieces in the wind. We’re heading back to port.’

The next morning the transport eased its way up Southampton Sound on reduced sail. Hodges joined Arthur at the rail and pointed to a cluster of ships moored in the sound. ‘Recognise them? That’s the rest of the convoy.Wonder how long they’ve been here?’

As soon as the transport had taken on the mooring line and reefed in all the sails Arthur went ashore in one of the ship’s boats. Stepping on to dry land was a strange experience after seven wild weeks at sea. The very cobbles beneath his boots seemed to cant and tilt as wildly as the deck of the ship and Arthur frowned angrily as his sea legs took him clumsily down the quay to the harbour master’s headquarters. The current office-holder was Rear Admiral Porter, a relic of a bygone age in his powdered wig. As Arthur was ushered into his office Porter eased himself stiffly up from his chair and pumped Arthur’s hand.

‘Good to see you again, Colonel. Just beginning to wonder if your ship had foundered. Rest of the convoy’s been in port for the best part of a month.’

‘A month?’ Arthur shook his head. While Hodges and his crew had been battling the elements to win every scrap of distance they could to the west, the other crews had been sitting snug in the sound.

‘Ah!’ Porter raised a hand. ‘While I think of it, you have new orders. Arrived from London last week. Over there on the table. Go and get them, man, and I’ll order you a drink. What’s your poison, Wesley?’

‘Tea, please, sir. A nice hot pot of tea.’

Porter chuckled. ‘I’ll see to it.’

As the old sailor bustled to the door to order the refreshment, Arthur crossed to the table indicated and ran his eyes over the correspondence resting there. He saw his name almost at once and picked up a slender package and broke the seals. Removing the outer waxed covering, he unfolded the letter and began to read a tersely written missive from a staff officer at Horseguards. As of the start of the year Lieutenant Colonel Wesley had been promoted to full colonel. He was further requested and required to make preparations for a fresh voyage. As soon as the convoy’s supplies were replenished it was to set sail and make best time to Fort William in Calcutta.

‘Calcutta!’ Arthur could not believe his eyes. India?

‘What did you say, Colonel?’ Porter headed back towards him cupping a hand to his ear.

‘Calcutta,’ Arthur repeated. ‘The War Office is sending the 33rd to India.’

‘India?’ Porter mused. ‘You’re in luck, Colonel. Many’s the man who has made his fortune in India. Now, it seems, your turn has come.’