Seven
London—June 1817
Two years after the battle of Waterloo, Gabe’s life could not have been more altered. Waterloo had ended the war and Napoleon had been exiled to Saint Helena, far enough away in the south Atlantic to pose no further threat. For a time, Gabe’s Royal Scots had been part of the Army of Occupation in France. Gabe wished they’d been sent somewhere more distant, not so close to Brussels, not so filled with reminders of what he most wanted to forget.
The orders finally came that the whole battalion would be shipped to Canterbury. Once there, however, Gabe’s battalion was disbanded and he was placed on half-pay. In what seemed like an instant he had no regiment, no orders and literally nothing to do.
Now he was in London and, like other officers let loose in a non-military world, was haunting the Horse Guards hoping to discover a regiment looking for officers, or visiting the War Office to get the forms necessary to write to regimental agents for a commission to purchase. On this warm June afternoon Gabe strode into the War Office to pick up more copies of the form the office had run out of the week before. Gabe had performed this same errand the day before and the day before that, without success. He was not optimistic that this day would yield a different result.
Three other officers of his acquaintance were on their way out.
“Deane!” one of them cried, slapping him on the back. “Come for more forms, have you?” He spoke with a thick Irish accent that had earned him the nickname ‘Irishman’.
“Indeed,” Gabe responded without enthusiasm. “Are you going to tell me they have a new supply?”
Another man, Major Hanson, stepped up. “Not going to tell you that. Webberly even offered a bribe if the fellow would find him one copy, but apparently there are still none to be had today. Maybe tomorrow, the fellow said.”
Webberly, the third of the trio, shook his head. “I was certain a bribe would work.”
Gabe gave him an impassive look. “I’d be grateful for the opportunity to pay a bribe.” What else was he to do with his money?
Hanson jostled him. “Do not speak so loud. The clerks will smell a profit.”
The clerks already knew of Gabe’s willingness to bribe them for more forms. He’d made the offer days ago.
Irishman laughed. “Now, Captain Deane, my dear fellow, are you so eager for a commission? It would mean leaving our company and the fine accommodations of the Stephen’s Hotel.”
They all had rooms in the Stephen’s Hotel on Bond Street, a place popular with military men.
Gabe responded with sarcasm, “Not at all. I’m merely pining for the lost luxuries of army life.”
“You are wasting your time today, Deane,” Hanson told him. “Come with us. We plan to make great use of a tavern and deprive it of several pints of ale.”
It was tempting to seek the oblivion that alcohol could bring. Most of the officers at Stephen’s Hotel drank too much, but, after Brussels, Gabe had learned that whatever you wanted to drown with drink was still with you when morning came. Along with the devil of a headache.
“Not this time.”
The men bid him goodbye, and Gabe proceeded to the clerk’s desk anyway.
The clerk barely glanced at him. “No forms today. Maybe tomorrow.”
Gabe tapped on the man’s desk with a finger. “If the forms do arrive tomorrow, will you save me some?”
The clerk raised one brow. “For the amount we agreed upon?”
Gabe gave him a level stare. “Indeed.”
The clerk grinned. “We have a wager going here as to who among you officers will be the first to break down and accept a commission to the West Indies.”
The 1st battalion of the Royal Scots was stationed in the West Indies. There were always commissions open there, because so many officers caught fevers and died.
Gabe had survived that dreadful place once; he had no desire to chance it again, even if it would free him from the tedium of London.
Gabe had already travelled to Manchester, the home of his youth and where his family still resided, a place he’d not seen for at least ten years. It was nearly like going to a foreign land. Factories and warehouses had sprouted everywhere. Nieces and nephews had sprouted as well, too many for him to count. His mother and father had turned shockingly old and neither they nor his brothers or sisters seemed to know what to do with him.
He’d wound up spending most of his time with a twelve-year-old nephew who asked question after question about every battle on the Peninsula and every detail of Waterloo. The boy had reminded him of Emmaline’s Claude, or, more accurately, what he imagined Claude might have been like if not for Badajoz.
After a few weeks of intense discomfort on all sides, Gabe made an excuse to leave. He suspected the family was relieved he was no longer there to distract them from the routines of running what was now a very prosperous drapery warehouse. With Manchester’s new mills and a canal that improved the shipping of goods, the town seemed to have turned into a Garden of Eden for cloth merchants.
After Manchester, Gabe visited his uncle on the hill farm. Even that idyll was about to be lost. Stapleton Farm was up for sale and his uncle would soon be vying with younger men by the scores who were also seeking employment. Had matters turned out differently in Brussels, Gabe might have bought the place. He’d learned his lesson, though. He belonged in the army. No sense dreaming otherwise.
He’d returned to London and the tedious days of applying for a commission. What odds were offered that he would be the one to break down and go to the West Indies? Surely he’d be a safe bet.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said to the clerk who’d already turned his attention back to the papers on his desk.
“Undoubtedly,” the man replied.
Gabe walked out of the office and back on to the street. He took a breath.
Lawd. He needed more to do. Exercising his horse in the morning and visiting the War Office or Horse Guards in the afternoon was simply not enough.
Most of his fellow officers attended society balls and other entertainments in the evenings, hoping to find a wealthy heiress to marry. Even that occupation was closed to Gabe. With the glut of younger sons in town, the son of a merchant was no matrimonial prize. Besides, marriage was not in the cards for him. He’d learned that lesson in Brussels.
Gabe walked slowly back to the hotel, ignoring the book shops, ironmongers, milliners and tea shops on Bond Street. Head down, he approached the entrance of Stephen’s Hotel, hoping not to see anyone he knew. He was not in a humour for friendly discourse on the weather or any other subject. As he entered the hotel, he removed his shako and threw his gloves inside it. Holding it under his arm, he crossed the hall, making his way to the stairway.
“Captain!” The footman who attended the lobby called after him. “Captain!”
He’d almost made good his escape.
