He still owed the family’s land agent over a thousand pounds and had arranged for his mother, Lady Anne Wesley, to guarantee the debt until he should return from foreign service to repay it. He owed Richard considerably more once he had reckoned up all the loans advanced to him by his brother to purchase commissions and pay for the costs of his election to the seat at Trim. Lastly, he wrote a final letter to Kitty, in which he set down his intention to make a name and a fortune for himself, and should she still be unmarried on his return to honour his pledge to marry her. Arthur had given much thought to this letter. Time could change a man’s feelings, yet he felt sure enough of the permanent nature of his love for Kitty to commit himself to her in writing.
He signed the letter, folded it carefully, wrote Kitty’s name and address on the front and then sealed it. Then he sat back in his seat and poured himself a large glass of Madeira. It was dusk and the light was fading.The rooms he had rented at the Crown and Anchor were comfortable enough, but the windows were small and stained and looked down into the coach yard. Not that there had been a moment to contemplate a view had there been one.
As soon as Arthur had arrived in Southampton he had been overwhelmed by the host of tasks demanding his attention. He had to ensure that the regiment was fully equipped for the coming campaign, and that all the men with families had made arrangements for a proportion of their pay to be sent directly to their wives. Wills had to be written and countersigned before being sent back to the battalion’s depot. A small number of men were in jail for sundry offences and debts and Arthur had had to humbly request their release, or cajole the local magistrates into believing that it was their patriotic duty to return the miscreants to their colours so that they could atone for their sins by fighting for King and country. One of his officers had run up a large gambling debt which Arthur had borrowed money to pay off rather than lose the young man’s services. The debt would be recouped from his pay, eventually. The letter to Kitty had been the final task, and one that had been put off until there were no lingering distractions to interfere with the composition of what might well be his last message to her.
Now it was finished, and there was nothing more to do. As soon as the wind was favourable Arthur would board his ship and sail away from England. As he sipped, sparingly, from his glass Arthur realised how tired he was. Frantic weeks of activity had taken their toll and he felt drained of energy. His head was pounding and his body ached. He rose from his seat wearily and undressed. Leaving his clothes hanging over the back of his chair, he climbed into his bed and closed his eyes.
He woke early, cold and shivering. Outside the wind moaned across the roofs of the port and when Arthur made his way down to the quay it was clear that a gale was blowing directly up the channel. The weather remained foul for several more days and while the men sat aboard their ships, struggling to find their sea legs, Arthur spent his time walking and riding along the shores of the Solent, watching and waiting for the shift in the wind that would make it possible for the convoy to leave Southampton. In the evenings he returned to his room to read the books he had bought about the West Indies. He had also borrowed some French newspapers from the harbour master so that he might learn the latest news of the conflict in Europe. As he perused the articles he once again came across the name of Bonaparte. It seemed that France’s hero of Toulon had now added to his laurels by crushing a royalist uprising in Paris and had been promoted to full general. Arthur sighed wearily. It seemed that luck favoured some men far more than others. While this man Bonaparte seemed to have every good fortune strewn in his path, every possible obstacle was being placed between Arthur and any measure of success. Much as he abhorred the revolution in France and all that it stood for, he could not help feeling envious of Bonaparte’s situation. One day perhaps Arthur’s luck would change, and he would strive to match, and possibly outdo, the achievements of men such as General Bonaparte.
At last, in the middle of December, on a bitingly cold day, the wind veered round to the east and the captain of the frigate Hermione, charged with escorting the transports, sent word to Arthur that the convoy would set sail the next morning.
The wind howled across the surface of the sea, whipping foam off the crests of the waves. On the ships the rigging moaned and shrilled as the deck rolled one way and then the other beneath Arthur’s boots. Overhead thin strips of sail were stretched taut beneath the furled material hanging from the spars. Two small triangles of jib sails above the bowsprit helped to thrust the transport ship on as it followed the loose line of vessels ahead, steering south-west away from the coast of the Isle of Wight. Half a mile off the starboard bow the Hermione surged forward, bursting through the waves in great showers of spray that were blown back over her foredeck.
Wild as the weather was on deck, Arthur was enjoying himself, wrapped up in a thick coat and covered with oilskins to protect him from the icy squalls that blew in every so often, almost blotting out the coast of England when they struck. The wild fury of nature filled him with a sense of awe, mingled with an all too human pride in man’s triumph over the elements as the ships ploughed defiantly through the waves towards the open sea. Ahead he could just make out the Needles: tall columns of white rock stretching out from the end of the Isle of Wight. The lead transport was sticking to Captain Shelby’s orders and, as Arthur watched, began to pass well clear of the rocks. As the last of the transports beat past the Needles he could hear the boom and roar of waves striking the columns even above the wind. Then they emerged from the partial shelter of the island and the ship was exposed to the full force of the wind. The deck canted over alarmingly and he clung to the side rail.
‘Colonel! Colonel Wesley!’
He turned and saw a figure making his way forward along the quarterdeck. A fluke of wind blew the rim of the newcomer’s oilskin hat flat against his forehead, and Arthur recognised Captain Hodges. Hodges was an experienced sailor and strode forward comfortably enough as the deck heaved and swooped beneath his boots. As he closed up on Arthur he cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted, ‘I’d advise you to get below, sir!’
Arthur shook his head. ‘Not yet! I want a last look at England!’
Hodges stared back for a moment and then shrugged as he turned back towards the quarterdeck. ‘It’s your funeral, sir.’
In truth Arthur just wanted to delay returning to the narrow cabin that had been allocated to him close to the stern of the ship. The soldiers had been ordered to stay below and keep out of the way of the sailors, but the world below deck was a hellish chaos. There was no fixed point of reference for the eye relative to the motion of the ship and within minutes the wild motion had stricken scores of men with nausea and several were vomiting into the first slop bucket that came to hand. Their suffering was made worse by the stink wafting up from the ship’s bilges. Some of the men were too terrified to feel unwell and sat wedged in corners against the great compass timbers of the ship that groaned and creaked with the strain of battling the storm. Their lips moved in silent prayer, or curses, and the cumulative effect of it all drove Arthur up on deck where he had sought Hodges’ permission to stay there a while, out of the way of the crew.
But now it was growing dark, and already the lead ship was no longer visible, just the bright spark of the heavy lantern lashed halfway up the mizzen mast. As night closed in round the transport, Arthur finally picked his way back towards the gangway that led to the cabins, and with a final glance at the black mass of the sea surrounding the transport he ducked down and carefully descended the steep stairs into the narrow passage. His cabin was one of the more spacious, but even so it was not very much larger than the cot it held. Arthur stripped off his oilskins and cloak, placed them over his sea chest, and then called for one of the ship’s servants to bring him a drink. As he settled into his blankets to go to sleep his ears were filled with the protesting creaks of stressed timbers, the deep moan of the wind, and the thud-crash of the waves.