Kit was appalled. He felt as if he was having a nightmare and could not wake up. He stared at Donaldson. The man’s face was innocent of deceit. He was completely sincere. ‘Why on earth not?’ said Kit. ‘Don’t hundreds of men do it?’
‘Yes, but substitution is always at the discretion of the commanding officer, and in your case Colonel Northwood will not permit it.’
‘Why? What has he got against me?’
‘Nothing. It’s the opposite. He knows who you are, he’s heard of your talents, and he wants you in his militia. We have plenty of young ruffians who can brawl. What we’re short of is men with brains.’
‘So I’m doomed?’
‘Don’t look at it that way. You’re an engineer. I can promise you a commission as lieutenant within six months. This offer comes from the colonel himself.’
‘Engineer? Doing what?’
‘For example, we might need to get ten thousand men and twenty heavy cannons quickly across a river with no bridge.’
‘You’d make a bridge of boats, probably.’
Donaldson smiled like a man who has played a trump card. ‘You see why we need you?’
Kit realized he had just sealed his own fate. ‘I suppose I do,’ he said bleakly.
‘Conscripted men are in for the duration of the war, which may be many more years. But as an officer you’ll be able to resign from the militia within three to five years. And officers’ pay is much better.’
‘I’ll never fit in with the military life.’
‘Our country is at war. I’ve known you for years: you’re mature for your age. Think about your responsibility to England. Bonaparte has overrun half of Europe. Our armed forces constitute the only reason he doesn’t rule us...yet. If he invades, it will be up to the militia to fight him off.’
‘Don’t say any more. You’re making it worse.’
Donaldson stood up and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You’ll learn a lot in the militia. Look on it as an opportunity.’ He walked away.
Kit buried his head in his hands. Speaking to no one, he said: ‘It’s more like a death sentence.’
*
Spade went to the waterfront to supervise the loading of a consignment onto a barge for Combe. The bargee was a grey-haired man of about fifty with a London accent. Spade did not know him but he introduced himself as Matt Carver. He struggled with the heavy bales, so Spade helped with the lifting. All the same the bargee had to stop frequently for a breather.
During one such pause the bargee said: ‘My soul! That man in the black coat. Is his name Joey Hornbeam?’
Spade followed his pointing finger. ‘He’s called Alderman Hornbeam here, but yes, I think his first name is Joseph.’
‘Well, I’ll be damned. An alderman, and wearing a coat that must have cost three months of a working man’s wages. What’s he like, these days?’
‘Hard as nails.’
‘Ah, he was always hard.’
‘You know him?’
‘I knew him. I was raised in a district of London called Seven Dials. Me and Joey were the same age.’
‘Were you poor?’
‘Worse than poor. We were thieves, and we had nothing but what we stole.’
Spade was intrigued. Hornbeam as a child thief. ‘What about your parents?’
‘I was an abandoned baby. Joey had a mother up until he was about twelve. Lizzie Hornbeam. She was a thief, too. She specialized in elderly men. She’d beg for sixpence, and while the old geezer was saying no – or even yes – she’d steal the gold watch right out of his waistcoat pocket. But one day she made a bad choice and picked a man that was quicker than her. He grabbed her wrist and didn’t let go.’
