Andrew Wareham - End to Illusion

“When will the breakthrough come, Colonel? When will it become a proper war?”

“It will not, sir. This is a war of guns and infantry, slogging it out in the mud. There is no place for the cavalry, none at all! A slow grind, sir, until one side or the other is exhausted – that is all I can see. We will attack again later this year, I do not doubt. Unless the artillery is massively greater, the attack will not succeed. There are aprons of barbed wire thirty yards across, sir. If the wire is not cut, the men cannot reach the German trenches. That demands big guns and many of them.”

“Then, surely the cavalry must be used to go around the trenches. They must be passed by!”

“How, sir? The trenches extend from the shores of the North Sea to the Swiss border.”

It was too difficult for the old gentleman. He knew only that wars were won by cavalry, the infantry holding the ground the horse had taken. That was the way wars were fought – there could be no other.

“Can this war be won, Colonel?”

A middle-aged man introduced as Doctor Harper, presumably of medicine.

“Not in the trenches as they stand now, Doctor. They are stalemate unless a new weapon is found. We shall try, and it is possible that we may strike lucky. Better to fight elsewhere, I suspect. An invasion across the North Sea might be a better idea or perhaps strengthen Russia so that armies could march in from the east. The war must be won, as goes without saying, but there may be better solutions than butting one’s head against a brick wall.”

The dinner party ended with the normal inanities of conversation in the drawing room – discussion of local issues the most important.

The Bakers left before midnight, normal in local society.

“Well, Richard, what did you think of young Farthing?”

“Overpriced, sir. He ain’t worth half as much!”

Vicky laughed; the old man was less amused; Alexandra spoke up to say that he was nasty, had clammy hands; Mrs Baker thought he was a commonplace young man who should be in the Army.

“Right. Can’t say I went much on him. Are you definitely going back to London on Monday, Richard?”

“I am, sir. I have a lot to do in the next week.”

“So you have. I will talk to Farthing on the telephone, suggest to ‘im that he sends his boy down to the War Office at the same time. You can pull a string or two to get him his commission, can’t you?”

“No, I don’t know the right people, Father. The soldiers I know are all on the fighting side, not the armchair warriors of the War Office. He can give my name as a sponsor, perhaps – I don’t know how it works, do you? Perhaps the best bet will be to talk to the Lord Lieutenant’s people – you know them, don’t you?”

“Aye. I had to deal with them to get the railway spur to the works through. Needed to persuade a couple of farmers to allow the line across their land. He did that, no worries. Cost me five hundred quid into his special fund, that was all. Farthing will get his help for the same, I expect. That’s the way things work, ain’t it?”

Monday morning saw Richard in Town and a note sent to Viscount Elkthorn asking to meet with him. The hotel messenger came scurrying back with an appointment for eleven the next day, at the Town House.

“Best uniform tomorrow, Paisley. Not Dress but everything of the smartest.”

Paisley said nothing, nodded and started to prepare a shirt for the occasion.

“Elkthorn is the father of Miss Patterson, Paisley.”

“Thought he might be, sir. Will you be living in Town or Country, sir?”

“Depends on what my father buys, Paisley. Country, I suspect, but my wife, assuming I am accepted, will make the decision. She will use the house far more than me in these next few years.”

The door was opened by a butler flanked by two footmen, neither of them beyond the age of military service. Richard did not approve of young men idling in England. He scowled at them.

“Colonel Baker, to see the Viscount.”

“Do enter, sir. You are expected.”

The footmen closed the big front door, one limping, the other possessed of one arm. Richard mentally apologised.

The butler led Richard to a large study, a drawing room converted to business use. There was a red Despatch Box on the table, informing the aware that the master of the house was occupied in government business. Lord Elkthorn rose and came around the expanse of mahogany to shake Richard’s hand.

“You are welcome in this house, Colonel. I must congratulate you on your promotion. What battalion now?”

“8 thBedfordshires, my lord. A new formation, just ready to go to France. I expect to take them out next month as part of General Fotherby’s division.”

“Very good! Take a seat, Colonel. A drink, perhaps?”

“Just tea, thank you, my lord. I do not imbibe of a morning – a bad habit for a young man!”

They laughed together and chatted about very little until the tea tray had arrived.

“To business, then, my lord. I have become rather close to your daughter Primrose, you may know, my lord. I would wish to ask you for her hand.”

“I thought that might be what it was, Colonel Baker. I would add that she has made it clear to me that she hoped you might appear on this mission. What can you tell me of yourself, beyond that everybody knows of you?”

Richard outlined his financial circumstances.

“A house and five thousand a year and the expectation of two millions? You could present yourself to any duke in the country and beg his daughter of him, sir!”

“I did not realise that to be so, my lord. Nor did I know before this weekend the extent of my father’s wealth. I would add that I want Primrose, not some unspecified High Society miss, my lord.”

“Then you must speak to her, Colonel Baker. I can have no objections – you are no mere adventurer in a scarlet coat!”

Miss Primrose was called and her father left the room, chuckling quietly, evidently more than satisfied by his daughter’s catch.

“Good morning, Primrose. Will you marry me? Simple and straightforward – I shall not attempt to explain why I ask – I hope you know my mind already, and your own. I will say that I am asking for love, not for any other interest.”

“Very military, sir! Should I stand to attention?”

He thought of a vulgar response, chose not to make it.

“I am afraid I have become a soldier and little else, this past year. I need a wife to civilise me, perhaps.”

“Then you must have one, Richard. I hoped you would ask me and am glad to accept you, for the same reason – affection, not the desire to wed with a rich ironmaster’s son. I am right about that, am I? All of the girls say you are born to a rich father but not to any blood. Or should I not mention that?”

Probably not, he thought, seeing no reason why she should change.

“You will meet my father and discover that he is short of breeding, in your sense. He is born to a line of ironmasters and has inherited their virtues. They do not include gentility.”

“Ah! I must be prepared for that. When should we marry, Richard?”

“Next year, if possible. I have to go back to France within weeks, I do not have any exact date. Once there, leave is uncertain and we must wait for the front to settle down. It is possible that the next offensive will produce a breakthrough and an end to the war. Pigs might fly! When we know, we will be able to make precise plans. For the while, I would hope to be able to take two or three weeks in late winter, when all is naturally quiet. For now, I believe we are permitted to celebrate our engagement, are we not?”

She agreed, enthusiastically, coming into his arms with no awkwardness at all.