Young Bloods Part 28

The sound of shouting echoed down the corridor and Whaley nodded his head in that direction. 'There's the captain now. I imagine he's got a bit of a head on him so watch your step,Wesley.'

'Right. I'll see you later.'

Arthur hurried back to his chair and sat down.

A man burst in through the door at the end of the corridor, bellowing back over his shoulder, 'I don't care where he's got to, Sergeant! Just make sure that coffee is on my desk, piping hot, in less than ten minutes. If it's not I'll have you broken back to private and shovelling s.h.i.+t from the stables before the day is out. D'you hear?'

Grumbling, he stamped down the corridor towards Wesley. His jacket was hanging half open and with a curse he tried to b.u.t.ton it up as he stamped along. Not an easy task since Captain Wilmott was exceedingly overweight and the waistband of his breeches cut into the rolls of fat beneath, straining b.u.t.tons above and below what might once have been his waistline. He walked up to his office, glanced at Wesley as the latter stood up and saluted.Wilmott lurched inside. There was a short pause and a curse and then his head appeared round the doorframe.

'And who the h.e.l.l are you?'

'Lieutenant Wesley, sir.'

'Not the new aide-de-camp?'

'Yes, sir.'

'You're b.l.o.o.d.y early, man. I'm not ready to see you yet.'

Arthur composed himself. 'Yes, sir. I like to be prompt.'

'Prompt? Prompt is just on time, Wesley. Not b.l.o.o.d.y hours ahead of time.'

'Hours, sir?'

'Well, as good as. Still, you're here. Might as well see you now. Come on, Wesley. Come in. Don't dawdle. I'm a busy man. Have to see my tailor as soon as possible.'

He ducked back inside and Arthur picked up his coat and entered his office. The captain waved towards a chair on the near side of his desk. 'Sit there.'

Arthur sat down and the captain continued struggling with his b.u.t.tons, all the while growing steadily more frustrated and angry so that his blotchy face turned quite red. At length he succeeded and sat heavily in his chair on the other side of the desk. He thrust out his hand.

'Your papers. Let's have 'em.'

Arthur handed them over and sat back in his chair as the captain glanced through the doc.u.ments and then tossed them to one side.

'Well, they seem to be in order. I'll have the sergeant prepare an office for you. Have you found adequate lodgings?'

'Yes, sir. On Ormonde Quay.'

'Good. That's good. Well then, don't let me keep you.'

'Sir?'

Captain Wilmott fixed him with the same stare that a man might bestow on a village idiot, before he gestured towards the door. 'Go.'

'Sir, I had made an appointment to see you so that you might explain my duties as an aide-de-camp.'

'Duties?'The captain laughed.'There are no duties here, sir. No real duties.You may be called upon to run the occasional errand for the viceroy or the vicereine. Beyond that your only duty is to make sure that you make up the numbers in the ballroom during the winter season and the picnics when the summer comes, if it ever does in this benighted little island. Have you ever been to Ireland before, Wesley?'

'Yes, sir.' Arthur replied quietly. 'I was born here. My family have an estate in Meath.'

'Oh, really?'The captain replied as if this was the most boring piece of information he had heard in many years. 'Well, you'll know what a damp, nasty pile of peat Ireland is then.'

Arthur shrugged. 'If you say so, sir.'

'I do and it is. Now where's that b.l.o.o.d.y coffee?'

As if on cue the sound of hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor. A moment later the sergeant entered the room with a tray on which a pot and a cup and saucer were balanced.

'About time!' the captain grumbled.

The sergeant, chest heaving, glanced at the other officer. 'Would you like me to get another cup, sir?'

'What? No, I wouldn't. The lieutenant is just leaving.'

Chapter 46.

Arthur soon discovered it was as Captain Wilmott had said.There were no real duties at the castle for the aides. There were plenty of petty tasks, though, such as hand-delivering engraved invitations to b.a.l.l.s to the finest households in Dublin. Or overseeing the order in which coaches were permitted to enter the castle, since the social order was even more rigidly enforced here than back in England. Perhaps the most onerous aspect of the posting was having to attend every social event organised by the vicereine - everything from quiet but intense afternoons at whist to raucous b.a.l.l.s where the resident German band played loud music into the small hours. Lady Buckingham delighted in being surrounded by the band of young officers attached to her husband's office. At b.a.l.l.s Arthur and the others were compelled to attend to her for the first few hours, after which they were used as a pool of dancing partners for all the young and not so young ladies that had been invited. As the weeks pa.s.sed Arthur sometimes felt that he was little more than a glorified male escort.

Outside of these duties the aides' time was their own and as young gentlemen will, they squandered it in an orgy of drinking, gambling, duelling and whoring. The latter was a pleasure Arthur had discovered as a member of the officers' mess in Chelsea.

Over the last hundred years Dublin had expanded at an astonis.h.i.+ng rate, quickly spilling out into the surrounding countryside even as the slums filled to overflowing. With the establishment of an Irish parliament in Dublin, the city had drawn all those seeking political favours and sinecures, all of which were in the power of the viceroy to grant. It had also attracted swarms of lawyers, doctors, builders, brothel keepers and any manner of other professions that could smell money like hounds smell a fox. There was no pleasure, luxury or vice that could not be bought somewhere in the city if you had the right connections. The officers serving at Dublin Castle were well connected in that respect, and within a matter of weeks Arthur was familiar with the best clubs and brothels. The problem for Arthur was that these pursuits came at a price that far exceeded the modest income of a lieutenant of infantry.The reserve that he had h.o.a.rded from the gifts of money given to him by members of the family before he left for Ireland was soon eaten up.

That was when he discovered his first true weakness in life. With the arrival of spring the racing season began again and the rattlers, dashers and rompers - as the officers like to style themselves - descended on the racecourse to watch the horses, look over the women and place their bets. One day, early in May, Arthur shared a carriage to the racecourse with Buck Whaley and two other aides, Piers Henderson and Dancing Jack Courtney. The sun, for once, was s.h.i.+ning down from a clear blue sky and the good weather seemed to have lifted the spirits of the crowds streaming along the lanes to the racecourse. The officers descended from the carriage and, wielding their canes, forced their way through the crowds and into the main enclosure. The air was filled with the cries of hawkers and bookies, struggling to be heard above the excited hubbub of the racegoers.

Whaley nudged Arthur towards one of the bookies. 'That's O'Hara. He's the man for us. Gives decent odds and pays winnings out promptly. I've got an excellent tip for the first race. Come on.'

They pushed through the crowd towards O'Hara: a tall, broad-shouldered man with the build of a prizefighter and the scars to match. He stood on a box, while beside him crouched a young urchin, bent over a book, recording the bets as they were taken and handing receipts out to the punters.

'Hey!' Whaley called out. 'O'Hara!'

The Irishman looked round and caught sight of the English officer at once. 'Why, it's Mr Whaley. And what can I be doing for you this fine day, sir?'

'What odds will you give me on Charlemagne?'

'Charlemagne?' O'Hara closed his eyes for a moment and his lips moved silently. Then the eyes snapped open again. 'Nine to one. But for you, sir, twelve to one.'

'Taken! I'll have five guineas on him.' Whaley turned and nodded towards Arthur. 'My friend will have the same!'

O'Hara looked at Arthur, a shrewd calculating look. 'I don't know this gentleman, sir. We haven't been introduced yet.'

'My apologies. This is the Honourable Arthur Wesley, newly arrived at Dublin Castle.'

O'Hara bowed his head. 'Sir.' Then he prodded the boy with his boot. 'Liam, son, did you get the gentleman's name?'

'Aye, and he's down for five guineas, so he is.'

'Good boy.' He ruffled the child's hair before he bowed his head again to the two officers. 'Enjoy the race, sirs.'

Whaley waved a farewell and pulled Arthur towards the stands. Arthur brushed his hand off. 'What did you do that for,Whaley?'

'Do what, Arthur?' Whaley frowned. 'What are you talking about?'

'Making me take that five-guinea bet. That's almost all the money I have right now. If that Charlemagne loses I'll have no money to pay the rent at the end of the week.'

'Nor will I,' Whaley laughed. 'If we lose, we'll just have to do what every other young officer does, and borrow some money. Besides, how can that horse lose with a name like that?'

'Oh, that's very scientific, Buck. I don't suppose you bothered to check his form.'

'Why should I? The source of my tip is unimpeachable. Come on now, Arthur, or we'll be too late to find a good spot to watch the race.'

With a bitter sigh of frustration at his friend's thoughtlessness, Arthur followed him into the stands and they climbed up until they had a view of the whole track.The horses were already being marshalled down by the starting line and the jockeys urged their mounts into place with quick twitches of the reins and pressure from their knees as the crowd grew quiet in antic.i.p.ation. The starter waited until all the mounts were as close behind the line as possible, then he dropped his flag and with a throaty roar from the crowd the horses kicked out and galloped down the opening straight.

'Which one's ours?' Arthur shouted into his friend's ear.

'Green and black colours! There, in third, no, fourth place.'

'Fourth? I thought you said he couldn't lose.'

'The race has just started, Arthur. Give the poor b.l.o.o.d.y horse a chance. Now do be quiet and let me watch.'

Charlemagne managed to stay up with the leaders as the horses swung round the first bend, but made up no ground as they pounded down the next straight towards the final bend. Arthur watched with a sinking feeling of despair. Then the animals swept round, with Charlemagne a full five lengths behind the three leaders. Suddenly, the lead horse reared to one side as the jockey's reins snapped. The second animal drew up and was immediately knocked flying by the horse in third place.

'Ahhhh!' roared the crowd, and then, as Charlemagne swerved past the tangle of horses and riders and thundered down the home straight towards the finis.h.i.+ng line the crowd began to jeer and boo. As their horse safely crossed the line and the jockey punched his fist into the air in triumph Whaley and Arthur shouted with delight and pounded the rail with their hands.

'What did I tell you?' Whaley screamed. 'He did it! Come on, let's go and see O'Hara!'

Despite having to pay out a considerable sum to the two officers the bookie was cheerful enough since he had raked in all the money placed on the three unfortunate horses that had come to grief on the home straight.

'You gentlemen care to make another bet?' O'Hara indicated the board behind him on which he had chalked details of the coming races. Arthur was about to walk away when Whaley held him back. 'Just a minute. There's good odds on that last name in the fifth.'

'With good cause, no doubt,' Arthur responded. 'Come on. We've chanced our arm enough already today. Let's take the winnings and go.'

'But look. The odds are twenty to one.'

'Yes, but I doubt we can rely on another freak of fate today.'

'Oh, come on, Arthur. Let's just give it five guineas. We can afford that now. And if we win, we're almost twice as well off. Come on,' he pleaded. 'Just one more bet.'

Arthur looked at him a moment, and relented. After all, he was already more than fifty guineas better off. 'Just one last bet then. But I'll place mine both ways.'

The outsider came in third and Arthur smacked his fist into his hand as it crossed the line, much to the chagrin of Whaley, who had bet to win.The betting did not end there. Several more races went by and Arthur backed almost as many losers as winners by the end of the day, but he had been careful with his initial winnings and was pleased to leave the racecourse twenty guineas richer than when he had arrived.They went and found the other two officers and returned to the hired carriage. Henderson and Courtney had lost a small fortune but were putting brave faces on it.

'It's only money,' Jack Courtney shrugged.'I'll just have to send home for some more.'

'Wish I could,' Henderson replied unhappily. 'I already owe several months' pay to those sharks in Dublin. My father's paid 'em off once already. Swears he won't do it again.'

Arthur smiled. 'I'll wager he does.'

'How much?'

'Twenty guineas.'

'Done.'

'But you must let me write the letter to him.'

'What?'

'I write the letter or the bet's off.'

Henderson considered the stakes for a moment and then thrust out his hand. 'You're on.'

It amazed Arthur just how far one could go in placing a bet. In the months that followed he bet on the weather, the colour of the vicereine's dress for the next ball, Captain Wilmott's waist measurement, and once he even bet Whaley that the latter could not walk six miles round Dublin in less than an hour. Even though Whaley was quite drunk at the time, he took the bet, and through a supreme feat of endurance, won it. Other bets Arthur won, most he lost, and as the summer of 1788 settled on the city he found that he was in debt. He owed Dancing Jack money over a bet who could down the most Tokay one night at the castle. When Jack pressed for the money Arthur had none to give him.

'That's bad form, Wesley,' Jack responded with unusual seriousness. 'A bet is a matter of honour. It's like pledging your word. A gentleman always honours his debts.'

'And it will be honoured,' Arthur said firmly. 'As soon as I find the money.'

'Then see to it, before word gets out that you are not good for your bets.'

The first person Arthur turned to was his landlord, the bootmaker on Ormonde Quay. The bootmaker did not have to be persuaded; he had already made loans to a number of his gentlemen lodgers and knew that they would go to almost any lengths to repay him rather than be publicly dishonoured. Besides, the interest rate on the loans provided a nice source of income in itself. For Arthur, the problem got progressively worse as he was compelled to borrow money from one lender to pay off another, and all the time the sums he owed grew as fast as a vine, threatening to wrap itself around him and choke him to death in the long run. He briefly considered approaching his brother William for a loan, since William was now a respectable member of the Irish parliament, with enough sinecures to provide a comfortable living. But the prospect of enduring one of William's sermons on debt was too much for Arthur to bear. After a certain point, when it was clear that he would not be out of debt as long as he remained in Dublin, Arthur simply ceased to worry about his debts and accepted them as a fact of life.

Dublin offered other pleasures of the most carnal and sophisticated kind. And there was no more infamous club than Fitzpatrick's on Birdsall Street. So infamous, in fact, that it had an appendix all of its own in the latest edition of Harris's List of Covent Garden Ladies Harris's List of Covent Garden Ladies. It was to Fitzpatrick's that Arthur and Dancing Jack were making their way on a humid July evening. Even though it was past eight o'clock Dublin was bathed in a warm orange glow, accentuated by a thin mantle of smog. Aside from a brief shower earlier that day the weather had been glorious for the last week and the streets stank of sewage.The two officers were pa.s.sing through one of the slum neighbourhoods and the streets were filled with ragged barefoot children, gaunt with hunger but still playing games amid the rubbish and filth strewn the length of the street. Loud singing spilled from a drinking-house at the end, and several men were slumped against the wall, having drunk themselves into oblivion. A haggard-faced wh.o.r.e was calmly going from one man to the next, rifling their pockets.

'Away with you!' Jack lashed at her with his cane and she shrieked as the blow landed across her shoulders. 'b.l.o.o.d.y thief !' He raised his cane again and the woman scrambled back, rose to her feet and scurried round the corner.

Arthur glanced about and saw that the people in the street were gazing at the two smartly dressed officers with open hostility. 'Come, Jack, this is not a friendly place.'

'Not friendly? Pah! This lot are nothing more than craven cowards.' He waved his hand dismissively at the people in the street. 'Like all the Irish. Black-hearted barbarians fit for nothing but growing potatoes.'

'Quiet, Jack.You'll get us killed.'

The door of the drinking-house burst open and two men rolled into the street, cursing and snarling as they grappled on the filthy cobblestones. One of the men s.n.a.t.c.hed a s.h.i.+llelagh from his coat and before the other could react he smashed the small club down on the other man's skull. There was a dull crunch and the man fell back unconscious, blood welling up from under his hair. His a.s.sailant did not spare a second in bending over him and pounding away at the head of his victim, until his face was spattered with blood and brains. He glanced up, saw the two officers watching and took to his heels.

Jack looked over his white breeches to make sure that they had not been hit by any of the flying droplets of blood. 'Like I said, black-hearted barbarians. Where else in this world are you likely to come across a thieving wh.o.r.e and a murderer in the s.p.a.ce of less than a minute? Tell me that, Arthur.'

Arthur took a step towards the man lying in the street. 'We should get him to a doctor.'