gnovel 5. Military ranks can be bought and sold.
5. Military ranks can be bought and sold.
In 1803 Britain, the power of money permeated every corner of society. Even the prestigious military officer positions could be openly priced and freely bought and sold. This was the British Army's system of selling officer positions, which was prevalent between 1683 and 1871.
At that time, apart from technical branches such as the Royal Engineers and Royal Artillery, which required graduation from the military academy to serve, almost all officer positions in the cavalry and infantry regiments could be obtained by money. From second lieutenants to colonels, there were clear price lists, and there were even absurd sights of "five-year-old majors" and "eight-year-old captains".
Nobles could simply pay money to buy military ranks for their infant children, allowing them to receive salaries in name only, without any military training or combat experience.
Even more outrageous is that many of those who bought their positions never performed their duties personally, but instead hired others to do them while they enjoyed the salary, turning military positions into tools for personal gain. Even Benjamin Franklin, one of the founding fathers of the United States, once complained that this kind of corruption had long since seeped into the very bones of British society.
Even the Duke of Wellington, who later became famous throughout Europe and defeated Napoleon, was not immune to the common practice of buying his way into office in his early years.
This future military genius began his military career in 1787 as a standard-bearer, and subsequently used his family's wealth to climb the ranks through sheer spending.
He was promoted to lieutenant in 1788.
He bought the rank of captain in 1791.
In 1793, he spent money to purchase the position of major.
He was soon promoted to lieutenant colonel and, with the rank he had bought, went with his unit to Flanders to fight, where he gained his initial combat experience.
Unlike those nobles who held only nominal positions without performing any duties, Wellington relied on his talent and hard work to achieve numerous military exploits on the battlefield, eventually shedding the label of "buyer of office" and becoming one of the greatest military strategists in British history. However, his early experiences remain a vivid illustration of the British system of selling official positions.
The letter of appointment as a major staff officer in the 94th Infantry Regiment that Dugan held was bought by his father Oris at a high price. It was not an honor, but just an excuse to send him far away.
The morning sunlight streamed through the windows of St. Mary's Clinic, falling onto the beds in the wards.
Dugan had shed his disheveled appearance from yesterday and changed into clean casual clothes. The abrasions on his left arm had been re-bandaged, and although there was still some lingering pain, it was no longer a serious problem.
He carried a food box containing pastries and fruit and pushed open Ken's hospital room door.
After a few days of rest, Ken's spirits improved considerably, and he was no longer as irritable and domineering as before. However, the wound in his abdomen was still painful, and he could only lie half-reclined in bed, his face still somewhat pale.
"Hey, fatso, looks like you're pretty tough." Dugen walked over with a smile, placed the food box on the bedside table, his tone less teasing and more sincere.
Ken turned and glared at him, but instead of cursing as usual, he just snorted coldly, his voice still somewhat weak: "Thanks to you, I didn't die. But Dugan, you really went all out. If that bullet had been an inch off, I would really be meeting God."
"Likewise." Dugan pulled up a chair and sat down, casually picking up a piece of pastry. "You didn't hold back with that shot either. If I hadn't reacted quickly, I'd be lying here right now."
The two looked at each other and burst into laughter at the same time.
In the past, they were rival playboys in London's high society, arguing fiercely over trivial matters, even to the point of dueling. But now, these two people who used to dislike each other have developed a tacit understanding.
After laughing, Ken looked at Dugan with a hint of curiosity in his voice: "I heard that after you saved me that day, you went straight home? Didn't your father punish you?" In his opinion, Earl Connby would definitely punish Dugan severely for causing such a big mess.
Dugan's smile faded, and he nodded slightly. "He cleaned me up. Of course he cleaned me up. He gave me a torrent of abuse that almost deafened me." He paused, then added calmly, "He bought me a position, a major staff officer in the 94th Infantry Regiment. In three days, I'll be going to fight in India with the troops."
"What?!" Ken sat up abruptly, aggravating his abdominal wound and gasping in pain. Ignoring the pain, he stared at Dugan in shock. "Going to India? Just because you almost killed me? Your father is ruthless!"
To the London aristocracy at the time, India was a distant and dangerous foreign land, rife with war and miasma; going there to fight was no different from sending oneself to one's death.
Although Ken was usually arrogant and domineering, he was aware of the danger involved. He originally thought that Dugan would at most be grounded for a period of time, but he never expected that Oris would be so ruthless as to send Dugan to such a place.
"That's right." Dugan chuckled self-deprecatingly. "In his eyes, I'm just a piece of trash who only knows how to cause trouble. Sending me to India is a way to get rid of me and maybe he can even count on me to 'die for the country' on the battlefield, so that I won't embarrass the Connaught family anymore."
Ken fell silent, his shock gradually turning into reluctance.
He looked at Dugan, his tone complex: "Dugan, I used to think you were just an arrogant bastard who relied on your family background, but now... I'm actually a little reluctant to see you go." He paused, scratched his head, and added somewhat embarrassedly, "Honestly, if it weren't for your surgery, I'd be a corpse by now. You may be a bastard, but you're much better than those hypocritical nobles."
Dugan was also somewhat surprised. Looking into Ken's sincere eyes, a strange emotion welled up in his heart.
Having been in this world for so long, apart from his mother's love, he had never felt such genuine kindness, even if it came from an opponent who had once challenged him to a duel.
"Don't worry, I'm tough, I won't die." Dugan patted Ken on the shoulder, his tone more relaxed. "When I get back from India, I'll take you to the opera house to compete for girls, and to the casino for a couple of rounds of gambling."
"Alright! It's a deal!" Ken's eyes lit up, and he instantly perked up, forgetting the pain of his wound. "You'd better come back alive! If you die in India, I'll never find such an interesting opponent again. By the way, when you get to India, remember to take care of yourself. If you really can't handle it, just surrender. Don't force yourself."
"You're the one surrendering," Dugen retorted with a smile, but a warm feeling welled up inside him. The two once fierce rivals, spoiled brats, found themselves developing a sense of mutual respect and camaraderie at this moment.
They may still be absurd and unruly, but in each other they see a sincerity and openness that is different from those hypocritical nobles.
After chatting for a few more minutes, Dugen told Ken to take good care of himself, and then got up to say goodbye.
After leaving St. Mary's Clinic, he did not go home, but went straight to the black market in East London.
It was a place teeming with all sorts of people, including all kinds of extraordinary individuals; it was also the place where he had last found Banksy.
After passing through several narrow and dirty streets, Dugan arrived at the dilapidated shack next to the small theater from last time and gently knocked on the door.
The door was quickly opened, and Banks' wrinkled, grimy face appeared behind it. Seeing Dugan, a flicker of surprise crossed his eyes, followed by a greedy grin: "Yo, young Master Dugan, long time no see. What brings you to this old man? Were you dissatisfied with the pistol from last time?"
"I'm satisfied with the pistol." Dugan walked into the hut, his gaze sweeping over the mess of tools and parts. He got straight to the point. "I'm here to give you some new work. I need a Brownbee rifle to rifling, and a set of molds and tools for making bullets. It has to be done within a week."
Upon hearing this, Banks' eyes lit up, and he rubbed his hands together, his greedy expression intensifying.
The Brownbees rifle was the standard-issue rifle of the British Army, with a .0.705-inch caliber and a total length of nearly 1.5 meters. Originally a smoothbore design, it was extremely difficult to rifling, in addition to the difficulty of making bullet molds. These molds were usually about 16 centimeters long, with a handle for easy gripping, and a closed, hollow, round front end for casting lead bullets. The process was complicated and by no means easy.
"Young Master Dugan, this job isn't easy," Banks grinned, revealing his cavities. "You have to rifling the Brownbes rifle and make the bullet molds. It's meticulous work, time-consuming, and the materials aren't cheap either."
"I know it won't be easy," Dugan said calmly, taking a few gold coins from his pocket and placing them on the table. "Tell me, how much do you want?"
Banks stared at the gold coins on the table, his eyes darting around, and then made an outrageous demand: "At least 40 pounds! Young Master Dugan, you know that rifling is a technical job. It takes me a lot of time, and I need to find the best steel to make the molds. 40 pounds is not too much at all."
As he spoke, he carefully stroked the gold coin, as if afraid that Dugan would refuse.
It's worth noting that in 1800, a British infantry private's daily wage was only 1 shilling, so 40 pounds was equivalent to nearly 800 shillings, which was an astronomical sum.
Dugan frowned. £40 was indeed a lot, but he also knew that Banksy's skills were superb, and that the price was not unreasonable for completing such a complicated job in a week.
"Okay, 40 pounds." Dugan nodded in agreement. "I'll pick it up in a week. If you can't deliver on time, if you're late, or if it's not up to standard, I won't give you a penny, and you know the consequences."
Banks was overjoyed when Dugan agreed. He quickly gathered the gold coins from the table and patted his chest, guaranteeing, "Don't worry, Young Master Dugan! I'll get it done within a week! Absolutely top-notch, even more exquisite than the last pistol! I'll carve the rifling with the most precise pitch, and the bullet molds will be polished smooth to ensure the cast lead bullets are all the same size!"