Man of Honour by Iain Gale Page B

chair, closed his eyes and sighed.
    ‘God, Charles. I can’t abide paperwork. We should have clerks to do such things. Never would have happened in the old army. You know I can’t help thinking that we may have our priorities wrong. What need have the men for new shoes when there are hundreds of perfectly serviceable pairs being discarded? The men never needed regular supplies of new shoes before. Why now? What does Marlborough suppose it will buy him? Popularity? Of course he’s right. But he doesn’t have to sit here and write up the damned papers for the bloody things. I tell you, it’s typical of the way this army is going. I don’t like it, Charles. It’s not what soldiering’s about. Reforms yes, of course we need reforms. But not like this. Not reforms for new shoes. We need reforms for new men. New officers and a new code of fighting. I’m not liked you know, in Whitehall. I’ve been passed over. I should have command of a battalion.’
    Charles Frampton spoke from a corner of the tent, without looking up from his book. ‘You could always raise your own regiment, Aubrey.’
    ‘D’you suppose I’m made of money, Charles. Don’t be ridiculous. Waste my own money on clothing and feeding 600 men. No. I intend to rise by merit and persuasion. It is my right.’
    There was a cough from outside the tent. Jennings looked up and then back down again at the ledger and took up his pen. ‘Come.’
    Stringer entered, leering.
    ‘Yes. What is it Sarn’t?’
    ‘Have to report, Sir. Men are a bit low, Sir.’
    Jennings looked up at the grinning Sergeant and put down his pen.
    ‘Perhaps I had better go and raise their spirits. D’you think?’
    ‘No, I wouldn’t do that. No, Sir. Not if I was you, Sir. See, it’s the effect of the flogging, Sir. Never very happy after a flogging the men aren’t. There’s talk as you should have had ’im cut down after fifty, Sir.’
    ‘Oh there is, is there? Well Sarn’t, see if tomorrow you can’t listen a little closer as to where that talk is coming from and then we’ll see if whatever big-mouthed miscreant is the author of that treason doesn’t get a hundred lashes or more of his own for his trouble.’
    Stringer grinned his toothless smile.
    ‘Very good, Sir. I’ll get about it now, Sir.’
    Turning, he made to leave the tent, but before he could do so an officer entered, his red coat marked out by the distinctive green facings and grey waistcoat of Wood’s Regiment of Horse. Jennings knew him as a casual acquaintance. Thomas Stapleton, a Major of no little repute, testimony to which was born out by the white scar which ran the length of his right cheek. Jennings knew him too from London.
    He suspected that Stapleton, with his obvious allegiances, must be as disenchanted with the motives and ambitions of their great commander as he was himself. Wondering what business Stapleton might now have with him, he rose from the table to greet him.
    ‘Major Stapleton. How very pleasant to see you again. To what do we owe your presence? A drop of claret perhaps. Charles.’
    Frampton poured a glass and brought it across to them.
    ‘Thank you, Major Jennings. That would be most agreeable.’
    Stapleton had been blessed from birth with a speech impediment, pronouncing all his ‘r’s as if they were ‘w’s. It had the effect of making his already high-pitched voice still more comical. But there was nothing amusing in the expression he wore as he accepted the proferred goblet of wine from Frampton. He took a sip and got to the matter in hand.
    ‘May I speak plainly?’
    ‘Major Stapleton. You may rest assured that you are among friends here. You know Captain Frampton?’
    Major Stapleton nodded and then frowned: ‘Indeed. Nevertheless, Major Jennings.’
    He raised his eyes towards Frampton. ‘If you would be so kind.’
    Jennings turned to Frampton. ‘Charles. I’m afraid that I must ask you to leave us, briefly.’
    Frampton walked slowly across to the entrance