The Blooding of Jack Absolute by C.C. Humphreys

Author:C.C. Humphreys [Humphreys, C.C.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781409138570
Publisher: Orion
Published: 2011-09-29T06:00:00+00:00

– PART 2 –

War Cry

– ONE –

To War

Yet again, Jack was pitched forward, his head only saved from further bruising by a hastily thrown-out arm. As on the open sea, so here on the St Lawrence River. The West Indiaman Sylphide disdained its delicate name and sought any and every trough in which to wallow. If Jack had been hoping that the term ‘river’ would lead to a lessening in the lurching that was the vessel’s natural gait, he had been swiftly disillusioned. This Canadian waterway could have swallowed ten of the Thames, while its shoals channelled currents that had him wishing for the relative calm of Atlantic swells. Having mastered his stomach two weeks out of the Old World, he’d had to regain control of it all over again five weeks later in the New World. Such control was essential; he did not intend his new commander’s first impression to be of a sickly, green-faced milksop.

As voices erupted from the deck above him – a mix of Kentish curses and the bizarre approximation of French that the river pilot spoke – Jack pushed away from the tiny cabin’s wall, steadied himself and returned to the task of creating that impression. Replacing the cracked mirror on its hook, he regarded the least distorted of his reflections. It was the first time he’d donned the uniform since embarkation and it did not hang as well as it had in Portsmouth; he’d inevitably lost weight in the green weeks despite the hearty eating since. His father’s generosity, now Jack had submitted to his will, was limitless and included the extra £30 for this private … box – it could not be dignified with the word ‘cabin’ – and a seat at the captain’s table. Beevor ate well and so, once he’d mastered himself, did Jack; they’d only had to resort to salt provisions three days before Gaspé.

The red coat, with its lines of gold buttons and embroidered lace loops, hung limply from his diminished shoulders. It would have to wait for a regimental tailor to alter it, but he’d managed the waistcoat and breeches himself with a few stitches of sail yarn in the back. Turning each way, Jack had to admit that the overall effect was none too shabby. His hair was powdered and Mrs Beevor had done a tolerable job in setting it. The ribbon that gathered it was of the same dark blue as the uniform’s facings while the collar and cuffs had been further darkened with boot black. His stock was white and fresh from the tailor’s crêpe.

Burgoyne had said to him, ‘You will be the first of the Sixteenth Light Dragoons to serve in North America. You must be a credit to the regiment.’

Looking at himself, Jack felt he probably would be – at least sartorially.

Burgoyne. He knew how his colonel had protested that they should not be sending someone with a mere three months in the trade. Yet he also knew he was a victim of Burgoyne’s own excellence.

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