Recruitment #2
A woman in a dark cloak stepped from one of the nearby tents, skirts brushing the damp ground.
“You are the lady from Meryton, Miss Bennet?” she asked briskly.
“I am Mrs Hensley. We can always use another pair of capable hands. Come with me, and I will show you where we keep the bandages and broth.”
Jane squeezed Elizabeth’s hand. “I shall be near.”
“I know,” Elizabeth replied quietly.
The woman led Jane away toward the cluster of hospital tents, her voice already issuing instructions. William waited until they had gone, then nodded toward a larger tent ahead where a tattered flag stirred in the wind.
“This way,” he said.
At last they reached a canvas awning marked by a tattered flag and a table set beneath it. The morning damp had settled deep into the canvas of the registration tent. Behind a battered desk sat an adjutant in a frayed coat, spectacles low on his nose and a half-finished pot of ink by his elbow.
“Name?” he asked without looking up.
“Thomas Bennet,” Elizabeth replied.
“Age?”
“One and twenty.”
His eyes flicked over her face. “You look younger.”
William stepped in smoothly. “His uncle has sent the funds for a commission, sir. Two hundred pounds already deposited in Meryton with the paymaster. Captain Bennet of Longbourn.”
“A purchase, then?” The adjutant’s tone softened a fraction. “You are in luck. Several lieutenancies stand vacant, and the Board is not fussy when coin is ready.”
He took up his pen, scratching in the ledger. “You will serve provisionally until the papers are confirmed. The sum will be held in trust until your name is gazetted. Should Whitehall refuse the age,” he broke off with a shrug, “they rarely do when the Treasury is satisfied.”
Elizabeth inclined her head. “I understand, sir.”
“Report to Sergeant Barrow for assessment,” the adjutant finished. “If you hold the line and survive the week, you may call yourself lieutenant.”
She stepped back, pulse quickening. The lie had passed its first test. Coin had always been the best disguise.
Outside, the air felt colder after the close heat of the tent. The noise of the camp returned at once: the thud of boots, the sharp crack of commands, the rasp of steel on stone.
A tall, wiry man with a no-nonsense expression waited nearby, arms folded. His coat was plain, his eyes assessing.
“Bennet?” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Lucas?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sergeant Barrow. You will report to my section until the officers decide whether you are worth keeping. Come along.”
Elizabeth glanced once at William. He gave a short nod, and together they followed the sergeant through the rows of tents, mud sucking at their boots.
* * *
Darcy turned back to the table, but before he could gather the scattered dispatches, a commotion outside drew his attention. Bingley appeared at the entrance, lifting the flap with a sharp nod. Only slightly less good-humoured than usual.
“New volunteers reporting, Darcy—sir. Officers and enlisted both.”
Darcy gave a single nod. “I will come out.”
Bingley stepped aside, and Darcy followed him out into the morning light, Richard following behind.
The parade ground was still damp with dew. A small cluster of new arrivals stood at uncertain attention, four while not in uniform yet clearly were gentlemen, three more in simpler clothing. All looked travel-worn, and some looked young. Too young.
Darcy surveyed them with a practised eye. They would need shaping, clearly, but there was something in their posture that spoke of determination, even if not yet discipline.
One of the officer volunteers, a tall, dark-haired youth with a clear gaze and wind-reddened cheeks, stepped forward first and offered a salute.
“William Lucas, sir. Lieutenant, Hertfordshire.”
Darcy returned the salute with a nod.
The second officer stepped forward. He was shorter, slighter, and looked impossibly young. His cap sat too low, as though to shadow his face. He saluted smartly, but there was a nervous energy to his stance.
“Thomas Bennet, sir. Lieutenant. Also of Hertfordshire.”
Darcy’s brow twitched. Bennet. The boy looked barely sixteen.
“You are recently commissioned, Lieutenant Bennet?”
“Yes, sir.”
His voice was level, but it lacked the weight of experience. Darcy studied him a moment longer than necessary.
“How old are you?”
“One and twenty, sir. As of earlier this month.”
Darcy said nothing. He stepped along the line.
“Names?”
“Geoffrey Talbot, sir,” said one. “Lieutenant.”
“Edward Bell, sir,” said the last, squinting slightly in the morning light. “Lieutenant.”
“All from Hertfordshire?”
“Yes, sir,” they answered.
Darcy gave a short nod. “You will be assigned to temporary quarters. Lieutenant Lucas, Lieutenant Bennet, you will be introduced to the other officers this afternoon. For now, see that everyone is settled and ensure your kits are in order. Training begins at first light tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir,” three of the men replied crisply.
Bennet echoed the reply, a second slower.
Darcy watched as they dispersed, Lucas immediately speaking quietly to the others. Bennet hung back a moment, his hand adjusting the set of his cap.
He looked young. Too young.
Darcy turned away to meet the soldiers.
But the boy’s face lingered in his mind.
The enlisted men stood in a looser group, less sure of their footing.
Mud clung to their boots and the hems of their coats.
One was tall and broad-shouldered, his jaw dark with stubble; another had a shock of fair hair and freckles scattered across a sunburnt nose.
The third was wiry and short, shifting his weight from foot to foot as if uncertain whether to stand at ease or attention.
Darcy approached with Richard at his side.
“Names?” Darcy asked, his voice even.
The broad-shouldered one stepped forward first. “Matthew Skinner, sir. Farmhand from Meryton.”
The freckled boy followed. “Thomas Simms, sir. Apprentice cooper. Baldock.”
The last took a quick breath. “Jasper Hart, sir. Errand runner. Hitchin.”
Darcy nodded. “You have no prior military training?”
They shook their heads in unison.
“Then you will begin with the basics. Marching, drills, arms. You will be under Corporal Hunt for the first week. If you have complaints, keep them to yourselves. If you have questions, ask your sergeant.”
A beat passed, and then Darcy added, “Welcome to Baldham Heath.”
He turned away without ceremony and strode back across the clearing. Richard caught up with him a few paces later.
“You were almost gentle,” Richard said under his breath.
“I do not have the luxury of gentleness.”
“No, but you might have it in your eyes. That Bennet boy—he barely looks twelve.”
Darcy watched as the officers dispersed, Lucas already steadying the others with quiet words. Bennet lingered, adjusting the set of his cap, shoulders too slight for the weight of a commission.
He looked young. Too young.
Better he fail in training than falter on the field. Darcy told himself it was no more than prudence, no more than a commander’s eye for weakness. And yet, as he turned away to meet the soldiers, the boy’s face lingered, unwelcome in his thoughts.
Darcy’s mouth pressed into a line. “He claims to be one-and-twenty.”
“You do not believe him?”
“I do not know what I believe,” Darcy said shortly. “But I know he will not last a week if he is not.”
Richard glanced back toward the dispersing group. “They will not thank you for your scrutiny.”
“They do not need to. They only need to survive it.”
Richard grunted. “And what of you? Do you intend to outlast the war by sheer force of scowl?”
Darcy gave him a sidelong look. “It is the most consistent weapon I possess.”
Richard laughed softly. “Well, then. God help the enemy.”