Chapter 5: Great unexpectations

On the appointed day, at the appointed time, I was seated in the same anteroom to the office of the Commander in Chief of His Britannic Majesty’s Army as when summoned in December of 1816, after the duel where I had killed Jarvis Braxton-Clark.
It seemed if little had changed in the room since then; the same gilded, brocaded, and uncomfortable, chairs designed by Mister Chippendale, and a bevy of seemingly moribund senior officers waiting to see the Commander in Chief — possibly the self-same officers. Of course, some things had changed between times. His Britannic Majesty was now King George IV rather than King George III, and the ADC who called out my name was a different ensign than the one in 1816.
“Major Greenway. His Royal Highness will see you now, please follow me.”

The fact the ADC had misread my name grated somewhat, but none the less I followed the young ensign, noting the glares from those officers still suspended in perpetual waiting mode.
Before I knew it we were at the door of the C in C’s inner sanctum.
The ADC knocked on the door, and at the order of ‘enter’ ushered me in and announced me. “Major Greenway, Your Royal Highness.”
Prince Frederick, Duke of York, looked up from the document on his desk and growled, “I have told you before, Bush, get your facts right before blurting anything out. The major’s name is Greenaway.”
The flustered ensign burbled an apology while managing to drop the sheaf of papers he was carrying. Eventually he regained his paperwork, if not his composure, and made his exit.
The Duke looked at me ruefully. “Young George Bush is an accident waiting to happen. His father, also a George, was a shrewd, intelligent fellow; George junior must be a throwback.”

I was standing rigidly to attention during this homily, and Prince Frederick noticed. “Sit down, man. You are not being investigated or castigated.”
I sat down gratefully, and waited for him to tell me why I was here in the Holy of Holies.
The Duke put his fingers together in a steeple and looked at me over his fingertips. “There is something rotten in the county of Lincolnshire – well, so far as the militia of the county is concerned. I have reports of behaviour which could be regarded as mutiny, when companies from the south of the county are ordered to cooperate with those from the north. What is it with you ‘Yellowbellies’ that causes such bellicosity between the men of different distrits?”
I had no logical answer. There has always been a certain amount of animosity between the populations of the three ridings of Lincolnshire.
At school we were taught the region had been the border between the Angles and the Saxons, a disputed territory where each tribe and clan had striven to subjugate the other. The ancient rivalries had been maintained even after the Normans had conquered England.

“I am really at a loss to explain, Your Royal Highness, but the men of Lindsey have always looked down their noses at those of us from Kesteven, as Lindsey was once a kingdom in its own right whereas Kesteven was ruled only by a Thane.”
The Duke looked glum. “Well, it does not bode well for our Kingdom when even militiamen of the same county are at loggerheads. The Militia is becoming more important now many regiments of the regular army — which has been cut back far too drastically in my opinion — are being deployed overseas. Our merchants are finding more markets for their goods, and need their factories and warehouses guarded and trade routes defended. The East India Company relies on British regiments to support their sepoys, and now we are becoming embroiled in South Africa with those damn surly Boers — not forgetting the Kaffirs and Hottentots. With a state of simmering civil unrest here at home I want a militia I can rely on, and it is up to fellows like you, who have learned your trade fighting the French, to provide me with one. I have got rid of many of those post holders of militia colonels – what is the name of the fellow from Scunthorpe who commands the Lindsey Militia?”
“Blenkinsopp, Sir. “
“Yes, the Blenkinsopps of this world and their ilk, who strut about in their fancy togs as if they had been alongside Conky at Waterloo. Blenkinsopp probably knows as much about soldering as you know about iron founding.” The Royal Duke gave a sly grin. “I know the name you fellows give to people from Scunthorpe.”
He picked up a quill from the holder on the desk and dipped the nib into an inkwell. “I want men who have smelled powder and know how to use a bayonet in their place — you still can use a bayonet, Greenaway?” he asked, signing the document before him.
“Indeed, Sir, I said, wondering where this strange conversation was leading.
The Duke blotted the document, and then pushed it across the desk.
“There you are, Greenaway. Promotion to Lieutenant Colonel, and appointed commander of the newly formed regiment of Lincolnshire Militia, amalgamated from two former militia regiments. Your new command is presently at Lincoln Castle. I want you up there as soon as possible, and whip the regiment into shape. You have carte blanche to rid the unit of any dozy, incompetent, and sub-standard officers. I will send a couple of regular army men, an officer, and a senior non-commissioned officer, to assist you.”
He stood up, and so did I, still not believing I had reached the exalted rank of Lieutenant Colonel. He shook my hand, and I stammered my thanks. Prince Frederick put his index finger against his nose.
“You deserve it, Jack. I know what happened in Saint Helena.” He rang the bell on his desk. “Ensign Bush will show you out, if he can remember the way.”

I still needed to know the full story of what happened in Marlow the day Zinnia, Becky and I called on the Shelleys. Bridey Murphy, who at the time was housemaid to the Shelleys, would be the person who could give me the truth. That being the case before I left for Lincoln I called on the Slades, accompanied by Bridey’s fiancé Rob Crawshay,
Both Gurney and Zinnia Slade were heartfelt in expressing their sympathy at the loss of my wife and family. Zinnia had tears in her eyes as she hugged me, too choked with sorrow to do much more than mumble the usual condolences. Even Gurney, not a man who exposed his emotions in public, gripped my shoulder and said, with a voice cracking with grief. “There is nothing I, or anyone else in the world, can say which will ease your pain, Jack. I wish to God there was.”

And that was the truth of it. Nothing — platitudes, prayers, curses, votive offering, or human sacrifice — would bring me back my family. They were gone, and I had to live the rest of my life with the knowledge. So be it.
But Caroline, John–Jarvis, Molly, Domina, and the unnamed child Caroline had been carrying, will be avenged. I swear it on — what does a Godless man swear on other than his life and his honour?