Victors and Lords

PROLOGUE

ON A WARM August morning in the year 1846, the Royal Borough of Windsor was gay with flags and bunting. Crowds had been gathering from an early hour, attracted by the prospect of a military review, which was to be held that afternoon in the Great Park, in honor of His Royal Highness Prince Albert’s twenty-seventh birthday.

Aware that the queen herself was to be present with her royal consort, people began to assemble outside the castle and along the processional route, so that very soon every vantage point was occupied and the pavements lined, six-deep, with spectators. Many made their way to the gates of the cavalry barracks where, in addition to the squadron of Household Cavalry which would furnish the Sovereign’s Escort, it was rumored that the Earl of Cardigan’s famous Cherry Pickers—the 11th Hussars—had spent the night.

The regiment had recently returned from Dublin. Renowned both for the magnificence of its uniforms and the precision of its drill, the 11th was a great crowd-puller on such occasions, and had been missed during its three-year tour of duty in Ireland. Although Prince Albert had ceased to be colonel-in-chief on his appointment to the Grenadier Guards four years before, the Cherry Pickers were still known as Prince Albert’s Own and would have a special part to play in the afternoon’s spectacle. The majority of those milling about the barrack gates had gone there hoping merely for a glimpse of the Hussars in their fabulous cherry-coloured pantaloons but a few, rowdies and trouble-makers for the most part, had other intentions.

They stood in a small, muttering group, apart from the rest, grimly awaiting the expected appearance of the regiment’s commanding officer, so that they might boo and shout insults at him, for the Earl of Cardigan was universally disliked and a recent scandal had once more aroused public opinion strongly against him.

By noon, when the regiments of Foot were starting to converge on the park from bivouac and barrack, the pavements were so densely packed by cheering spectators that the troops lining the processional route and the blue-uniformed constables of Sir Robert Peel’s police force found difficulty in holding them back. But there were few incidents, even among those outside the cavalry barracks, where trouble had been anticipated and extra police were on duty. True, there were shouts and catcalls, when a closed carriage drove up and someone hurled a stone at its rear window but, when it disappeared across the parade ground, even the rowdies fell silent. The crowds on the whole were happy and good humored, eager to demonstrate their loyalty to their young queen and anxious, too, as a wave of patriotic fervor swept them, to prove to the not always popular Prince Albert that on this, the occasion of his birthday, they bore him no ill-will.

The streets echoed to the stirring strains of martial music and to the rhythmic tramp of marching men. As they watched the splendid spectacle of England’s military might flowing towards them, rank upon rank, scarlet and gold, tartan and tossing plumes, in a perfectly ordered river of brilliant colour, the citizens of Windsor cheered lustily. Voices rose above the shrilling of the fifes and the beat of drums, above the music of the ever-changing marches played by the military bands—eager, excited voices, calling for the royal personage in whose honour all this pageantry had been set in motion.

Long live Prince Albert!

God bless his Royal Highness!

Let’s give him three cheers . . . come on, lads, make it a good’un. Three cheers for the Prince . . . hip, hip, hurrah!

The cheers rang out. No one, it seemed, could hold for long aloof from the crowd’s pride and pleasure or remain unaffected by their mounting enthusiasm. Yet, in one of the windows of a graceful Georgian house overlooking the processional route, a young girl stood, face pressed against the glass and eyes tightly closed as she wept with anguished abandon.

She was a pretty, auburn-haired girl of about seventeen, dressed in the height of fashion in a green brocade gown, whose elegant cut emphasized the slim loveliness of her still childish figure and stamped her, for all her youth, as a lady of quality. Few of the passers-by on the pavement below, had they chanced to look upwards at the window in which she stood, would have failed to recognize her as the Lady Charlotte Mowbray, eldest and most beautiful of the four daughters of a distinguished soldier of the Peninsular War—General the Earl of Dunloy, until recently Her Majesty’s Lord Lieutenant of Ireland.

Some of them, indeed, who had witnessed the arrival fifteen minutes earlier of a tall young man in the frock coat and top hat of a civilian, might even have guessed the reason for her tears, for Lady Charlotte Mowbray’s engagement to Lieutenant Alexander Sheridan, of the 11th Hussars, had been announced a few months previously in The Times. And a great many people in Windsor that day had heard of Lieutenant Sheridan in connection with the latest Cardigan scandal. . . .

Lady Charlotte herself was, however, unconscious of the crowds below her. In spite of the noise and the commotion, she was conscious of little save the silent, brooding presence of the man who waited in the room behind her, for whom now—although they had once been so close—she could find no words. She wished wretchedly that he had not come, wished that she had not allowed her stepsister Emma, a mere child of fourteen, to persuade her, against her better judgement, that it was her duty to receive him.

Emmy with her precocity, her absurd passion for justice, her ludicrous and entirely unreciprocated devotion to her elder sister’s fiancé . . . Charlotte bit her lower lip, feeling it quiver rebelliously. She did not need Emmy to tell her where her duty lay or what she must do. It was evident that she could not marry Alex Sheridan in his present circumstances. But she was willing to wait until he should have demanded a fresh hearing of his case and had had his commission restored to him—as it must be, if the truth were told.

Alex, she whispered brokenly, Alex, please . . . we cannot part like this. We must not!

Only by the slight contraction of a muscle at the angle of his grimly set jaw did Alex Sheridan betray the fact that he had heard her. He made no response to her plea and Charlotte’s throat ached with tears.

A company of Foot Guards, brave in their immaculate scarlet, the black bearskins meticulously aligned, passed under the window at that moment, to be greeted with loud applause from the watching throng. Charlotte saw them as a confused blur of colour through her tears and watched them go without interest, not troubling to raise her head. Even when the Guards were followed by a detachment of kilted Highlanders, swinging smartly along behind their magnificently uniformed pipe band, the weeping girl scarcely noticed them and the crowd’s noisy expression of approval left her unmoved.

Only when the sound of pipes faded into the distance, yielding to the measured clip-clop of trotting horses, did she rouse herself sufficiently to pass a hand across her tear-filled eyes. A little half-stifled cry escaped her as she saw and instantly recognized the officer who now came into view, clad in a glittering blue and red Hussar uniform and riding a fine blood chestnut, draped with a crested shabraque.

Even if she had not seen him many times before in Phoenix Park, Dublin similarly attired and mounted, she would have experienced no difficulty in guessing the identity of that arrogant rider, Charlotte thought wryly, for his appearance fitted his reputation. In any dress, James Thomas Brudenell, Earl of Cardigan, cut an impressive and elegant figure, but in uniform and on horseback, he was possessed of an eye-catching magnificence few could equal. A man of over fifty now, the years had robbed him of few of his youthful good looks and he sat his horse with the easy, natural grace of an accomplished horseman. He rode confidently at the head of his regiment, a smile curving his lips beneath the flowing, carefully trimmed moustache which, like the luxuriant, ginger whiskers, was as yet untouched with grey. The thick rows of gold lace which adorned his brief jacket gleamed in the sunlight and the richly braided, fur-trimmed pelisse, slung by its cords from one shoulder, moved gently as he rose in the saddle, head held high when the crowd—recognizing him, as Charlotte had done—shouted his name.

The shouts were critical and uncomplimentary, even abusive. What cheers there were—and they were few—were reserved for the squadron trotting at his back, a solid phalanx of blue and cherry red and gold, set off by the shining coats of the wellgroomed, perfectly matched chestnuts on which the men were mounted.

Lord Cardigan gave no sign that he’d heard the shouts or was aware of the offensive nature of the crowd’s comments. But his smile faded when one of the spectators, bolder than all the rest, evading the attempt of a constable to restrain him, planted his thin, ill-clad body in the path of the earl’s startled charger and, grabbing the reins, hurled a spate of words into his face.

From the window, fifteen feet above, it was impossible for Charlotte to hear what the shabbily dressed stranger had said, but the people flocking the pavement heard his cry and, with one accord, they took it up, chanting it in derisive unison, their mood swiftly changing and their earlier good humor forgotten.

Lieutenant Sheridan! they shouted. "Where is Lieutenant Sheridan today, your lordship? Why is he not on parade?"

In a brief struggle with two husky constables, the man who had stepped from the pavement was overpowered. But, although the Peelers bore him off, the shouting continued unabated.

Lieutenant Sheridan fired a shot . . . and now he’s copped the perishing lot! It was a couplet which had been going the rounds and Charlotte said, the colour draining from her cheeks, Do you hear them, Alex? They are singing that rhyme about you.

The man in the shadows behind her broke his self-imposed silence at last. His voice was weary as he answered. Yes, I hear them. But it will do no good, you know—my case is closed. It is best forgotten.

Is it? Charlotte challenged reproachfully. Oh, Alex, why do you say that?

Because it has all happened before, Alex Sheridan returned, with flat finality. That is why, Charlotte.

He came to stand beside her, a tall, slim scarcely recognizable stranger in the unaccustomed grey frock coat of a civilian, his face pale and taut with strain. For an instant, his gaze went to the street below and his blue eyes, bright with an emotion Charlotte could not analyze, followed the retreating backs of the trotting Hussars. There was pride and an odd wistfulness in his voice as he added softly,They look well, do they not? And I see that Phillip is riding that new mare of his—the one he bought in Moy.

Is he? I had not observed it. Charlotte dismissed the subject of her brother indifferently but, with unexpected obstinacy, Alex returned to it. Phillip is a fine fellow, with all the makings of a first-rate officer. And he is popular. He gets on with everyone—even Cardigan likes him. You should be proud of him, Charlotte.

I am proud of him. But . . . Charlotte’s lower lip quivered and she felt the tears starting again to her eyes as she looked into the face of the man beside her. It was a handsome, boyish face but already bitterness and disillusionment had marred its good looks and the lines etched about mouth and eyes were not those normally to be seen in the countenance of a man of scarcely five and twenty.

Lord Cardigan seemingly did not age, but Alex Sheridan had added ten years to his appearance during the past few months. She bit her lip and, greatly daring, put out a hand to touch his arm. "It is you I am thinking of now. . . I can think of no one else. If only you would fight back, Alex—if only you would appeal against Lord Fitzroy Somerset’s decision! You heard the crowd just now. Public sympathy is on your side and they sing that couplet everywhere. If you were to lodge an appeal, is it not possible that you might be reinstated, in another regiment, as Captain Reynolds was? After all, Lord Cardigan is constantly attacked in the newspapers, people know him for what he is and he’s detested—the more so since his separation from his wife. And—"

No. Alex cut her short, his tone curt, brooking no argument and discouraging pity. It is quite useless for me to appeal. I told you . . . my case is closed. It cannot now be reopened.

But Captain Reynolds had his case reopened. Why should not you?

The two cases are quite different. Reynolds was tried by court martial and cashiered . . . I was not. In any event, he’s had to wait nearly two years before being gazetted to the 9th Lancers. I could not afford to wait for so long. Alex avoided her gaze. Please, Charlotte, I did not wish to discuss this matter. It is all over and done with—I could do no more, even if I wanted to. And I do not.

Because you are afraid, Alex? Charlotte accused.

Afraid! Afraid of what, pray?

Afraid to fight against the injustice that was done you . . . even for my sake?

He reddened, stung by this accusation. Say rather that I have experienced the futility of trying to fight against it. When one has neither influence nor money, one’s hands are tied and one loses faith in one’s cause.

Then why have you come here? Charlotte demanded, with a swift flash of anger. If you have lost faith in your cause and if you do not intend to fight to redeem yourself, then I cannot marry you, Alex. I . . . I should not want to and you can scarcely expect it. You cannot ask me to honor a promise I made to you in such . . . such different circumstances.

Alex Sheridan expelled his breath in a long, pent-up sigh.

I am not seeking to hold you to your promise of marriage now, he told her stonily. But I had hoped . . . that is, Philip and Emmy urged me to come because— he broke off and took her hand gently in his. Her fingers were ice-cold against his palm and she turned her head away, refusing to look at him. Charlotte, I love you with all my heart! You know that, do you not?

She gave him no answer. In the street below, a squadron of Heavy Dragoons went clattering by, the sun striking dazzling reflections from their plumed helmets. The 5th, Alex saw, and he stared after them miserably, the barrier of silence once more between himself and Charlotte, holding them apart, in spite of their two linked hands. Would she never understand, he wondered despairingly, could she not try to understand the lengths to which he had been driven and the bitter humiliation he had suffered at Lord Cardigan’s hands before, finally, he had rebelled? He knew that she could not when she said at last, her voice a small, chill whisper of sound in the shadowed room,Was it for love of me that you sacrificed your career in the 11th, Alex? Her eyes met his then and again they accused him. "I was in love with you when I consented to marry you. I was happy to think that I should have as my husband an officer of my brother’s regiment, whom he respected and admired. But all that is changed now and you have changed it, not I."

Yes, he conceded tonelessly, I have changed it.

Then why, Charlotte asked for the second time, "why have you come? Why did you choose to come today—because you knew that my father would not be here? Or was it Emmy’s idea . . . did she persuade you?"

Emmy? Alex shook his bead. Oh, no, Emmy did not have to persuade me . . . and I have your father’s permission to call on you. He said that I might come in order to talk to you and to . . . to acquaint you with my future plans. You see . . . He hesitated, uncertain how to tell her what he had decided to do and then, aware that there was no escape, said regretfully, I am to sail for India at the end of this week, Charlotte. It breaks my heart but I . . . that is, I venture to hope that—

"For . . . India?" Charlotte put in. She stared at him in shocked disbelief, the last vestige of colour gone from her cheeks. You cannot mean that, Alex . . . you cannot!

Charlotte my dearest love. . . he drew her to him and felt her tremble in his arms as they closed about her. "I do mean it. God forgive me, it’s what I have been trying to tell you ever since I arrived. I am leaving England for good, Charlotte. My uncle has procured me a cornet’s commission in the Bengal Native Cavalry, in the service of the East India Company. My passage is booked to Calcutta in the S.S. Ripon . . . she sails on Friday."

But must you go to India? Must you, Alex? India is half the world away and you will be gone for years. I shall never see you again . . . . Charlotte shivered, as realization of what his going would mean to her came swiftly and disturbingly. Until this moment she had not visualized losing him irrevocably and the knowledge that she might do so hurt much more than she had imagined it would. So long as he remained in England, even if she were not officially betrothed to him, there was always the chance that his case might be reopened. Her father was not without influence—if he interceded with Lord Fitzroy Somerset or perhaps approached the duke himself on Alex’s behalf . . . She said, her voice choked with sobs,Oh, Alex, I beg you not to go. If you love me, please cancel your passage.

Alex heard the pain in her voice and released her abruptly.

My love, I must go. Do not make it harder for me. The echo of her pain was in his own voice but he went on resolutely, I am a soldier and soldiering is my life—it is all I know and understand. In India, in the Company’s service, I can become a soldier again. What else can I do, Charlotte?

When she did not answer him, he moved away from the window and from her and started restlessly to pace the room. His back turned towards her, he continued in a low, expressionless voice, seeking to make the reasons for his decision comprehensible to her. I have sold my commission in the 11th, as I was commanded to by Lord Fitzroy Somerset. My military career in this country is at an end. The alternative to selling out was, as Phillip must have told you, to stand trial by court martial.

But Alex—Charlotte had recovered her composure—would you not have been better off now, if you had elected to stand trial?

I was offered no choice, Alex stated flatly. In any event, the result would have been a foregone conclusion. Cardigan would have seen to it that I was cashiered.

But at least if you had stood trial, you could have defended yourself against his charges, could you not?

No, my dearest. He shook his head despairingly. I had no defense.

No defense! But everyone in the regiment knows how Lord Cardigan treated you! Charlotte protested indignantly. Surely you could have called witnesses to prove that he provoked you beyond endurance?

Alex sighed. Was this not precisely the course which the military secretary had feared he might follow, if afforded the opportunity of a court martial? It would not have saved him, of course but—had he done so—he might have brought Cardigan down with him. He had been bitter enough to want this but . . . he said, with weary resignation, It was made clear to me, when I first requested a trial, that I should not be permitted to call any of my brother officers as witnesses. Nor should I have asked any of them to speak in my defense.

Why not, Alex? They were your friends . . . Phillip is your friend still, is he not? He assures me that he is and he holds no brief for Lord Cardigan, of that I am certain.

Charlotte my dear, Alex told her quietly, to have called Phillip to speak in my defense might well have ruined him too, in spite of the regard Cardigan has for him. You must understand . . . He halted and came to stand looking down at her from beneath furrowed brows. For any officer to challenge another to fight a duel is a breach of the Articles of War. It is quite unpardonable, whatever may have led up to it. My guilt was never in doubt—I could not deny it. Furthermore the man from whom I demanded satisfaction was at that time my commanding officer.

But you did not fight with Lord Cardigan, Alex, Charlotte objected. There was no duel.

No, Alex returned grimly, but that was scarcely my fault. I issued the challenge, in writing and in full awareness of the consequences. I had stood all I could stand and I lost my temper. But that is no excuse, Charlotte—rather is it a condemnation. No British regiment would accept me now if I did apply for another commission, since it’s widely known that I attempted to call Cardigan out, while I was serving under him. I’m finished in the British army, my love—did not Phillip tell you so?

He endeavored to tell me, Charlotte admitted reluctantly, but I did not believe him, I could not. I was certain that you would be given another chance. If you are not, then it is a cruel injustice . . . because you were not the only one. There were others, Alex.

Yes, Alex agreed. His face darkened. There were a great many others. I should have heeded their example, it was before me for long enough . . . I knew what to expect. He resumed his restless pacing of the floor.

It was true, Alex Sheridan reflected wryly, that his had been by no means the only case of its kind in which his late commanding officer had been involved . . . and it would not be the last, for Lord Cardigan’s record as a regimental commander was one of the worst in the British army. In 1834, as Lord Brudenell, he had been removed from command of the 15th Hussars as a direct result of his mistreatment of one of its officers, Captain Augustus Wathen. A court martial had upheld Wathen and, in its findings, censured his lordship severely.

Yet less than two years later, the wealthy peer had been permitted to purchase the lieutenant-colonelcy of the 11th, which was then a Light Dragoon Regiment stationed in India. Despite a storm in the House of Commons, when the appointment was gazetted, it was not revoked. At a time when the official price for a cavalry command was in the region of £6,000, it was rumored that Lord Brudenell had paid £40,000 for that of the 11th and his anxiety to seek active military employment was, in consequence, regarded sympathetically at the Horse Guards. It was held that he had learned his lesson and the storm abated when a number of distinguished and high-ranking officers came forward to testify, in glowing terms, to his lordship’s character and military accomplishments.

But these were not so apparent to the officers and men of his new regiment—of whom he had been one Alex recalled—when, after assuming command, Lord Brudenell spent a short time with them in Cawnpore. However, he succeeded his father as Earl of Cardigan in August 1837, so that it was not until the following year, when the regiment returned to England and was posted to Canterbury, that its lieutenant-colonel revealed himself in his true colours. It was then very soon evident that the system of command he practiced had not changed; since it stemmed from his own arrogance, Alex thought with bitterness, he knew no other.

The effect on his unfortunate regiment was disastrous. The 11th had served with distinction in India for seventeen years and, officered by experienced professional soldiers, possessed an exemplary record. But this was soon lost under Lord Cardigan’s command, during the first two years of which—when the regimental strength was 335 rank and file—no less than 105 courts martial were held and over 700 punishments ordered. Discipline became notoriously harsh. Extra drills, inspections and parades were a daily occurrence and minor misdemeanors were treated with the utmost severity, without regard for rank or length of service. Arrests, floggings and charges of insubordination were as commonplace as public insults and reprimands, delivered before the whole regiment or in mess, in front of the assembled officers.

Any of Lord Cardigan’s officers who crossed, or otherwise displeased him, were subjected to a merciless persecution, calculated to break the spirit of even the most courageous. It had been