In other respects he was happy. He earned ten shillings a day, before deductions. A regular soldier got eight pence a day. His work was carrying messages and running errands for the earl, but in peacetime there was not much to do, and he spent his spare time working on his German.
He had befriended a junior officer of the King’s German Legion, a British army unit 14,000 strong, based in Bexhill-on-Sea. The main reason for this peculiarity was that King George III of England was also the ruler of the German state of Hanover. A battalion of Germans was camped in the next field, and Kit and his friend gave each other language lessons.
Kit had made the men of the 107th Foot pitch their tents in neat lines, and dig latrines at the edges of the field. There was a fine for pissing in the wrong place. He had learned in Barrowfield’s Mill that even rules that benefited everyone had to be enforced.
Chaplain Mackintosh had a small tent of his own, like the officers. Kit went to see him and found him lying on a thin mattress, wrapped in blankets. His fair hair was damp. Kit knelt beside him and felt his forehead: he was hot. ‘You’re not well, Mr Mackintosh,’ he said.
‘I think I’ve got a cold. I’ll get over it.’
‘Let me see your arse.’ Without waiting for consent Kit drew the blankets away and pulled down the waist of Mackintosh’s breeches. His wound was seeping and the skin around it was reddened. ‘This doesn’t look good,’ Kit said, and he straightened the chaplain’s clothing and tucked the blankets around him.
‘I’ll be all right,’ Mackintosh said.
A water jug and a cup stood on an empty ammunition box. Kit poured some water and gave it to Mackintosh, who drank thirstily. There was not much left, so Kit picked up the jug and said: ‘I’ll fetch you more water.’
‘Thanks.’
There was a clear stream running across one corner of the field – part of the reason this site had been chosen for the camp. Kit filled the jug and returned. When he re-entered the tent he had made up his mind what to do. ‘I don’t think you should be sleeping on the ground,’ he said. ‘I’m going to see about putting you somewhere more comfortable until you recover.’
‘My place is here with the men.’
‘We’ll let the colonel decide that.’
It was part of Kit’s job to make sure the colonel knew about everything important that happened in the regiment, and he reported the chaplain’s illness. ‘His wound hasn’t healed up properly,’ he said. ‘He’s feverish.’
‘What do you think we should do?’ The earl knew that when Kit brought him a problem he usually had a solution to suggest.
‘We should put him in a decent boarding house in Brussels. Warmth, a soft bed and rest may be all he needs.’
‘Can he afford it?’
‘I doubt it.’ Chaplains were paid less than officers. ‘I’ll write home to his wife for money.’
‘Very well.’
‘I have to go into the town tomorrow to pick up some new recruits from England. I’ll see if I can find a good boarding house while I’m there.’
‘Good plan. I’ll pay the bill until the money comes from England.’
Kit had expected the earl to offer this. ‘Thank you, sir.’
Early the next morning Kit went to the stable where a few horses were kept for the officers’ use. He picked out an elderly mare. He had got used to horses in the army and now he rode without thinking about it, but he still preferred a slow, lazy mount.
He took with him a young ensign who spoke some French. The lad chose a broad-chested pony.
They rode into Brussels. Ignoring the grand, expensive town centre, they looked around the busy narrow side streets for boarding houses. Some were so dirty that Kit rejected them in seconds. Eventually he found a clean place owned by an Italian widow called Anna Bianco. She looked like a kindly person who might take an invalid under her wing, and there was a mouthwatering aroma coming from the kitchen. She had a spacious upstairs front room with large windows. Kit paid for two weeks in advance and said the tenant would move in tomorrow.
Mackintosh would have to be driven there in a cart. With that wound he could not sit on a horse.
Next, Kit and the ensign rode to a tavern called Hôtel des Halles, on the east bank of the canal from Antwerp. He saw a large horse-drawn barge moored beside the place and guessed that the recruits had already arrived. There were about a hundred men and a handful of women in the courtyard, with an English sergeant in charge. ‘One hundred and three men, sir,’ he said to Kit, ‘plus six female camp followers, all quite respectable.’
The canal barge must have been crowded, Kit thought. Probably the sergeant had been given money for two boats, then had crammed the recruits into one and pocketed the difference. ‘Thank you, Sergeant. When did they last eat?’
‘They had a good breakfast at first light, sir. Bread and cheese and small beer.’
‘That should keep them going a while longer.’
‘Easily, sir.’
