Chapter 6 #2
Laurence stepped forward, acutely conscious of every eye upon him. He loaded, rammed home the charge, primed the pan, presented—each motion deliberate, yet still too slow, too stiff, lacking the fluid rhythm of the men around him. Harris watched in silence, then gave a single, curt nod.
“Ten minutes’ extra drill at sunset, sir. You will repeat it until it is done correctly.”
The platoon was dismissed at last as the sun dipped toward the water, gilding the waves in molten light.
Laurence’s shirt clung damply to his skin; his feet throbbed within boots not yet broken in; his arms ached as though he had carried stones from dawn to dusk.
He stood a moment upon the emptying ground, watching the white cliffs darken against the sky, and felt something cold settle within him—not precisely anger, but the first sharp prick of doubt, a realisation that the scarlet coat did not confer instant competence, nor did family name command instant respect.
Ensign Taylor clapped him upon the shoulder as they walked toward the billets, a gesture half sympathy, half encouragement.
“First day is always the worst,” he said. “Tomorrow we shall have bayonets fixed. You’ll manage.”
Laurence made no reply. He returned to the long, low room assigned to the junior officers of No.
4 Company—a single chamber above the tavern’s stables, its walls of rough plaster patched here and there, its floorboards worn smooth by generations of boots.
Eight narrow cots stood in two rows of four, separated by little more than the width of a man’s shoulders; a single window at the far end admitted the last of the daylight and the ceaseless murmur of the sea.
The air carried the mingled scents of damp wool, pipe tobacco, oiled leather, and the faint metallic tang of gunpowder that clung to every garment.
Most of the beds were already occupied or claimed; Laurence found the one allotted to him by a folded blanket and a small tin mug set upon the wooden box that served as a nightstand.
He stripped off his sodden shirt, hung it over the foot of the cot to dry, and sat down heavily, elbows on knees, staring at the bright, unmarked epaulettes still lying upon his folded coat.
Later, by the light of a single tallow candle set in a tin holder, he took paper, ink, and pen from his portmanteau and began a brief letter home.
Dear Father,
I have reported for duty with the 43rd Regiment at Dover. The work is hard. I begin again tomorrow.
He paused there, pen still poised above the page, as though the few plain lines had not yet said all that ought to be said.
A faint crease gathered between his brows, for a moment he considered adding more—something of the parade ground, perhaps, or of the long march beneath the sun, or even some brief assurance that he had arrived in tolerable health.
Yet the words did not come easily. What he might have written that morning on the road from Canterbury seemed suddenly either foolish or premature.
Around him, the long room lay quiet but not empty.
Two narrow beds stood against the opposite wall; Ensign Taylor slept heavily in one, his boots placed with military neatness beneath the frame, his breathing deep and even after the day’s exertions.
A third cot remained empty, its blanket folded but untouched; the fourth officer of the mess had not yet returned from whatever duty or errand kept him abroad.
The other four beds were occupied by subalterns of varying seniority—two ensigns fresh from purchase like himself, and two lieutenants who had served long enough to earn the right to silence rather than conversation.
None spoke to him now; the day’s fatigue had claimed them all.
Laurence had just dipped the pen again when the door opened without ceremony.
A colour-sergeant stood in the threshold, broad-shouldered and square in the doorway, his figure dark against the lamplight of the passage.
“Lights out in five minutes, sir,” he said bluntly.
Laurence looked up, momentarily surprised. “For the officers as well?”
“For everyone in the billets,” the sergeant replied, unmoved. “Reveille before dawn.”
The words were spoken without insolence, yet with the quiet certainty of a rule that admitted no discussion. Laurence glanced once more at the unfinished letter.
“I had meant to write home,” he begun to explain.
“You may do so tomorrow evening, sir.”
Nothing further was offered. The sergeant waited only long enough to see the message understood, then closed the door and moved on down the passage, his boots sounding steadily upon the boards as he delivered the same order to the next room.
Laurence remained still for a moment, pen in hand. Then, with a faint exhale that was almost a sigh, he folded the letter as it stood—brief, abrupt, and perhaps sufficient for now—and sealed it.
The candle flame flickered as he set the paper aside.
Outside, the sea murmured against the quay in steady rhythm, and somewhere a night picket tramped past with measured tread. Ensign Taylor shifted in his sleep and muttered indistinctly before settling again into silence.
Laurence extinguished the candle and lay down upon the narrow cot, the thin mattress offering little comfort against the ache in his limbs.
He stared up into the darkness while the unfamiliar sounds of the garrison settled around him: distant voices in the yard below, the creak of leather harness, the slow pacing of the watch beneath the window, the occasional soft cough or turn of a sleeping man in one of the other cots.
For the first time since leaving Longbourn, the dream of military glory seemed smaller, dustier, and farther away than he had ever supposed.
The weight of the day pressed upon him—not merely the physical exhaustion of drill and sun, but something deeper: the slow, inexorable realisation that here, in this long, shared room smelling of sweat and salt, no one cared for his name or his regrets or the circumstances that had brought him to this place.
He was simply another subaltern who had yet to prove he belonged.
A quiet despair crept in then, not loud or dramatic, but steady and cold.
Laurence Bennet thought he would never find words to tell his father and brothers the truth of what he felt: that the scarlet coat had not transformed him, that the regiment did not bow to his arrival, that every barked command and every aching muscle reminded him how far he still had to go.
For a fleeting moment, the thought crossed his mind that perhaps he need not go any further—that he could write again tomorrow, or the day after, and ask to be released from the commission before the regiment marched elsewhere, before the extra drills and the endless corrections wore him down entirely.
The notion was tempting in its simplicity: return to Hertfordshire, face whatever disapproval awaited, but at least sleep in a bed of his own choosing, among people who knew his name without requiring him to earn it anew each dawn.
Yet even as the idea formed, something stubborn within him resisted.
He turned onto his side, the cot creaking beneath him, and closed his eyes against the darkness.
Tomorrow would come soon enough—bayonets fixed, more drill, more correction—and with it, perhaps, the smallest proof that he could endure.
Beyond the walls, the sea continued its steady murmur, and the barracks fell gradually into sleep.
Laurence lay listening to the rhythm of breathing around him, the soft snores and occasional mutterings of men who had already learned what he had only begun to suspect: that true rank was not bought with money, but forged in the slow fire of repetition, endurance, and quiet acceptance.
Oh yes, he was a lieutenant in name only.
Until he could demonstrate competence—through drill, discipline, perhaps a future campaign—the sergeants and senior officers would treat him like a rich boy who needed to be trained.
The candle had long since guttered out. In the darkness, Laurence Bennet waited for morning.
***
The morning of the first of September broke over Dover with a pallid light, the Channel’s mist still clinging to the cliffs and curling about the edges of the parade ground like a reluctant veil.
Laurence Bennet rose before the drum’s summons, his body already laden with the memory of yesterday’s exertions: limbs stiff, muscles aching, and feet blistered in protest with every cautious step across the bare boards of the long officers’ room above the tavern stables.
He dressed methodically—scarlet coat brushed until the cloth caught the light with a dull gleam, cravat arranged with the exactitude of a man who understood that appearance was the first order of command, boots polished as well as the tavern’s indifferent blacking would allow, for the parade ground would soon coat them again in chalk.
With a steadying breath, he descended to the common room, where a hasty breakfast of bread, a modest wedge of cheese, and a draught of small beer awaited him, consumed in silence.”
No words passed beyond the necessary civilities. The other subalterns were already assembled at table, their voices low and guarded, speaking in half-formed phrases of orders received and drills to come.
Ensign Taylor granted Laurence a brief, sympathetic glance, but said nothing; Lieutenant Carter merely inclined his head in passing. The silence that enveloped Laurence was not ill-tempered, but a cool indifference that pricked sharper than any reprimand.