Soldiers in the Mist

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  Wynter swung his whole body round to stare down the stone steps to the ground quarters.

  ‘Why, that lyin’ . . .’

  ‘Wynter,’ interrupted Crossman, not wanting all the protestations to start, ‘I want you to teach me.’

  The soldier swung back again, this time his face wore an expression of bewilderment.

  ‘Teach you what, sergeant?’

  ‘I want you to teach me to cheat at cards. If you’re as good as Devlin says you are, I want you to pass on your skills to me. I have to win two thousand pounds from an officer in the 93rd. I’d like to let you do it, but I’m sure he wouldn’t stoop to playing cards with a lance-corporal, so you’ll have to show me how.’

  Wynter looked positively stunned.

  17

  ‘You’re going to cheat at cards?’ Wynter said in disbelief. ‘But you’re supposed to be a gentleman of honour.’

  ‘Let’s leave my honour out of this,’ replied Crossman, patiently. ‘The man I’m going to play is said to be a cheat. And I intend paying the two thousand back as soon as I am able. I have – a friend – in the 93rd who has lost his life’s savings to a cardsharp. I intend winning them back again. Of course, if I have to do it dishonestly, then I will eventually return the money to the cardsharp, but the important thing at the moment is to obtain my friend some relief. Buy him some time.’

  ‘He must be a very good friend, sergeant.’

  ‘He is – I grew up with him. Of course he must know nothing about this – nor anyone else – so I expect you to keep it to yourself. I might add that I hate doing it this way, Wynter, but my avenues are few. Since Campbell himself cheats, especially with newcomers, all the honest ways are closed to me. If I went up against this cardsharp without any secret weapons I should be blasted out of existence.’

  Wynter shook his head in amazement.

  ‘I’m not saying I cheat at cards, sergeant, but I know how to, so I’ll show you. But you need a certain skill with the deck. Nimble fingers.’

  ‘Dexterity? Legerdemain?’

  ‘Exactly, sergeant, if them words mean what I think ’em to mean. How much cards have you played? Good at whist, are you? I hear the gentry play a lot of whist.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Wynter, I’m not usually a card player. I used to enjoy it as a child, but I’ve had little opportunity to play since then. Perhaps you’d better start with the basics.’

  Wynter rolled his eyes to heaven. He then produced out of his pocket a greasy pack of playing cards. With a sigh, he fanned the pack, face up.

  ‘I s’pose you know what the cards are. You’re not going to start calling these “blackberries” are you?’ He showed Crossman the ten of clubs. ‘What’s the name of the game you’re supposed to play, with this officer of the jocks.’

  ‘Chemin de fer, which I believe is also known as baccarat.’

  ‘Posh French game, for officers and toffs. I take it you don’t know the rules of baccarat? No? Thought not. Well, here’s how it goes. You’ll probably be playing with just one deck in a place like this, but it could be two. You get dealt two cards, first off, but you can ask for another one, which is dealt face up. What you’ve got to do is get as close to nine or nineteen as you can. The face cards count as nothin’, so if you get given a six and a king, then you ask for a third card face up, and it’s a two, that’s eight you’ve got in your hand, see? If you tie with someone, all bets are off. The banker deals again.’

  ‘There’s a banker?’

  ‘Yes, didn’t I say that? One of you is banker. The other players can only bet as much as the banker bets. That’s in the rules.’

  Wynter was looking at Crossman’s face intently. It was clear that Wynter was unused to teaching anyone anything – he had not been called upon to do so before – and it was a new experience to him. He was not sure whether Crossman was taking in the intricacies of the game.

  ‘Thank you, Wynter – I think I get the idea.’

  ‘Oh, an’ another thing, sergeant. If I’m doing this with you, teaching you things, you have to call me Harry.’

  Crossman bristled. ‘Harry?’

  ‘Yep. It’s short for Harrold.’

  ‘I know what it’s short for, Wynter, but I am not going to call you by your given name.’

  ‘While we do this, you are. Otherwise, I chuck it in now and you’re on your own. I get to call you Jack, you have to call me Harry – it’s in the rules.’

  ‘What rules?’

  ‘My rules for teachin’ people how to cheat at cards.’

  Crossman was squirming inside, but Wynter had him dead to rights. If he did not do as the lance-corporal requested, there would be no tuition. It was as plain as that. Crossman did not know where else to go to get such tuition. There were probably several card cheats in an army of thirty thousand men, but how did one find them? You could not go and ask someone who was playing cards, ‘Excuse me, are you good at cheating?’ He was stuck with Wynter and there was nothing else for it.

  ‘Right,’ he said through clenched teeth, ‘let’s play a few games – Harry – and you can show me some sleight-of-hand tricks while we re playing.’

  ‘Some what, Jack?’

  ‘How to cheat, dammit!’

  Wynter smiled and dealt the cards. He was thoroughly enjoying himself. Such an opportunity would not come his way again and he meant to make the most of it. It was a pity Crossman was not an officer, eating dirt, but there it was. If you had to make someone grovel, it might as well be a sergeant as anyone. It gave Wynter a warm feeling in his belly. He could not wait to tell Devlin and Peterson.

  Wynter and Crossman sat there for eight hours, breaking off only to eat and drink, or go to the ablutions. Crossman’s wound was still giving him trouble and occasionally he had to stop to relieve the pain in some way. A cold compress was usually the answer. At the end of the eight hours both men were exhausted.

  Crossman had certainly got the hang of the game proper, but whether he was good enough to cheat at it was a big question. Wynter had taught him some basic things, like dealing a card off the bottom of the pack, thinking that anything which required a greater skill would be more likely to get the sergeant into trouble.

  ‘Am I ready, Wynter?’

  ‘As ready as you’ll ever be, Jack – but don’t forget to call me Harry.’

  ‘Lessons are over now, Wynter. There’s to be no more Harry and Jack, if you please. If you call me by my first name once more, I shall have you flogged.’

  Wynter’s face screwed into an expression of disgust.

  ‘There’s bloody gratitude for you.’

  ‘I am grateful, Wynter, but you had the advantage of me, while I was in a vulnerable position. I’m out of it. Now you have to behave yourself. We’re back on normal status now. One day I shall repay you for your time and effort. I’m not sure how, but we’ll find some way. Perhaps when this war is over I can find you a job in civilian life.’

  ‘A job? What sort of a job?’

  ‘Gamekeeper’s assistant, or footman, something like that.’

  ‘I’d rather you gave me a kick in the pants, sergeant. I don’t like working for toffs. Not in a servant capacity, if you understand me. I’ve got me prize money to get me started.’

  ‘Well, perhaps I can assist you with starting up a business then? A greengrocery perhaps.’

  Wynter shook his head, sadly. ‘You don’t understand me at all, do you, sergeant?’

  Crossman grinned. ‘I suppose not. Some other way, then. All right? Shake my hand, man. Thank you.’

  Wynter’s calloused grip closed around Crossman’s proffered palm and he pumped his arm.

  ‘You’re welcome, sergeant,’ said Wynter, all malice forgotten now that a reward had been mentioned. ‘Any time you wants to become a better cheat than what you are now, I’ll be willin’ to help.’

  ‘And if you speak of this to anyone else, I’ll cut your throat, you understand?’

  ‘Not even Peterson or Devlin?’ exclaimed Wynt
er, upset at the thought that he could not tell them how ‘Harry’ and ‘Jack’ were such good pals. ‘How am I goin’ to keep it from them? They know I’ve been playin’ cards with you all day.’

  Crossman sighed. ‘All right, just those two – but no one else mind. Not another soul.’

  That evening, Jock McIntyre came to see Crossman after the sergeant had sent him a message.

  ‘There’s a game in the small cabin to the north of Kadikoi,’ the sergeant-major told Crossman. ‘It’s tonight at twelve. Yer brother willna be there, since he’s on duty. What are ye goin’ to do, man? Yer not thinking of playing cards with Captain Campbell?’

  ‘I’m afraid I am, Jock. Wynter has taught me the game. I shall be there at midnight. Would you speak with Captain Campbell and ask him if he would entertain another officer at the game? Tell him the officer is thought to be reasonably wealthy.’

  ‘And who is this officer?’

  ‘Lieutenant Tremaine, of the 2nd Rifles.’

  McIntyre raised his eyebrows.

  ‘How are ye going to get this officer of the Rifles to play for ye?’

  ‘I shall be he. I intend borrowing one of Lieutenant Dalton-James’s uniforms. We’re about the same height and build. I think I shall look quite smart in Rifle Greens, don’t you think, Jock?’

  ‘With or without the lieutenant’s knowledge, Jack?’

  ‘Without.’

  The Scottish sergeant-major shook his head. ‘Yer taking an awful risk, man. Impersonating an officer? They’ll flog ye and throw what’s left out of the army. Are ye sure ye want to do it this way? Surely there’s some other?’

  ‘None that I can think of.’

  ‘And what if ye lose?’

  ‘Then my problem will merely be doubled. It’s double or nothing, Jock. I’ve got to take the risk. I’ve sent Wynter off to steal the uniform, so there’s no turning back. Wynter is our best thief, by the way. We rely on him in such matters.’

  ‘Gude God, man. I hope ye know what yer doing.’

  After McIntyre had left, Crossman set about smartening himself up. He shaved with a bowl of hot puddle water. Devlin cut his hair for him. By the time Wynter returned triumphantly bearing one of Dalton-James’s best uniforms, Crossman was clean and spruce, and ready to try it on.

  The fit was snug, but once in the Rifle Greens, which appeared black under most lights, Crossman looked every inch an officer in the Rifles. Peterson was enthralled by the image. She kept plucking his sleeve. There were no boots, so Crossman wore his own, but since his were Russian, taken from a dead body, they would not appear out of place. A lot of officers and rankers had taken boots from the enemy corpses after a battle. The Russian footwear was superior to anything of service issue.

  A small neat undress cap was the last addition.

  ‘How do I look, lads?’

  Wynter said, wonderingly, ‘It don’t take much to make an officer, does it? Just a wash and shave, a comb of the hair, an’ there you are, nothing to it. You look an officer right and proper, sergeant. And you talk like one, so there’s no finding you out that way.’

  ‘It takes more than you think to make an officer, Wynter. It takes a lifetime of imbibing mannerisms of speech and behaviour unknown to farm labourers such as you. It’s knowing when to light a cigar, how to light it, when and how to throw away the stub. It’s knowing whether to stand or sit, bend or bow. It’s using all the right gestures at the right times. Social graces can only be absorbed in one’s formative years, to any real degree, and those who try to imitate are invariably discovered. Those who ape and parrot men of breeding appear ridiculous, even to hoi polloi themselves, and are rarely good enough actors to get away with it.

  ‘I’m not saying that’s a good thing, you understand, I’m just saying that’s how things are. It’s important to know how to act like a gentleman, without forcing it, by letting it come naturally. It’s the small nuances of demeanour which give men away, when they’re attempting to impersonate a gentleman. I was raised to those subtleties. I cannot be caught out because I am, a gentleman.’

  ‘Well, there’s a fancy speech for you,’ said the delighted Wynter. ‘He’ll get away with it, I swear.’

  Crossman heard back from Jock McIntyre that Captain Campbell would be delighted to have another victim at the card table. Consequently, at the midnight hour, he made his way over the muddy ground to the cabin. His path took him close to the house which had been commandeered by Mrs Durham’s husband for the use of his wife and her lady friends. Glancing at this building, Crossman saw that a lamp was still burning.

  Up at the front, the guns had ceased barking. Only the occasional crack from a sharpshooter or picquet broke the stillness of the night. Candles were burning in tents and hovels, where men were busy at some military task or other, or perhaps just reading a letter from home. Smells of wood-smoke and cooking wafted through the chill air, and in the distance the false laughter of drunks still draining their cups. A drummer boy began tapping out a rhythm on his drum until a soldier yelled at him to be quiet. Stillness, again.

  Crossman reached the cabin. It had a hanging blanket instead of a door. He lifted this and stepped inside. The room was full of blue smoke from chibouques and cigars. There was a bottle of rum on the table and filled glasses. A warm, comfortable atmosphere pervaded. Crossman had let in a draught on entering and five faces turned from the table and looked at him. The only one he recognised was that of Captain Campbell.

  ‘Lieutenant Tremaine, at your service, gentlemen,’ said Crossman, removing his headgear. ‘I believe I have the honour to be invited to a place at this table? Which of you is Captain Campbell, of the 93rd Foot?’

  ‘I am. Sit down, lieutenant,’ said the dealer, who was Campbell himself, ‘I hope you’re as green at cards as that uniform you’re wearing.’

  There was laughter from the other men.

  Campbell continued to lay out the cards, adding one hand more by an empty chair. Crossman sat in the chair and picked up the two cards. They were a two of diamonds and a five of spades.

  ‘The game is chemin de fer, and I am the current banker,’ said Campbell. Then he suddenly stared at Crossman hard. ‘Wait, I know you, fellah! You’re the johnny who faced me out on coming back from one of Buller’s damned furtive operations. I recognise you, even without your stinking goatskin and your beard. What do you say now, lieutenant? This time I do know your rank, sir, and I’m glad to see I have the better of you, in that respect. I think a captain trumps a lieutenant, does it not?’

  There were one or two soft laughs from the other officers.

  Crossman smiled grimly. ‘It does indeed, sir, and I never thought to get trumped in such a manner.’ There were some more laughs from the other players. Crossman saw that he had not yet said enough to placate the captain. ‘You have me at a loss, Captain Campbell. I can but ask you to accept my humble apology for my rudeness. I realise I insulted you and am at your disposal if you should wish to take the matter further.’

  Campbell stared at him for a few moments longer, looked back at his cards, and then waved Crossman down.

  The captain obviously had a good hand.

  ‘Play your cards, if you please, lieutenant.’

  18

  Even after only a few hands it was obvious to Crossman that he was hopelessly out of his depth. The game itself was not complicated, but like all simple yet absorbing games, the skill was in the playing. Crossman did not even try to cheat. He had thought he could, but now he was here, sitting at the table, he could not do it. Such a thing was not in his nature.

  In any case it was patently obvious that if he used the tricks Wynter had taught him he would be discovered almost immediately. The men around the table were all hardened gamblers. They had eyes like hawks. Crossman realised he had been very naively optimistic, perhaps foolish was a better word, in thinking he could simply walk into a card game he had only just learned and beat one of its greatest disciples.

  He began to lose, at firs
t lightly, then heavily.

  Soon his money was all gone. Most of it had been won by Campbell. His losses represented everything he had saved since leaving England a year ago. He was now destitute. He stared through the smoke haze at the table top in confusion.

  Campbell said, ‘You should have stuck to backgammon, lieutenant.’

  Crossman carefully tapped the bowl of his chibouque on the heel of his boot, to give himself some time to gather his wits and calm himself. Fool he might be, but he did not want to appear one. A gentleman hides his true feelings behind a cold mask of indifference.

  Turning to Campbell, he said quietly, ‘Backgammon is no more my game than is chemin de fer. I much prefer wagering on the horses.’

  ‘What, owning ’em? Or racing them?’

  ‘Both. You will find me either at Tattersalls or at any half-decent racecourse when I am at home.’

  In fact Crossman had never been near Tattersalls, the famous racehorse auctioneers, and was an infrequent visitor at the races. He was desperately trying to save face and everyone in the room knew it. The best thing he could do now was leave, before he made a spectacle of himself.

  Campbell puffed on a cigar. ‘We will accept your markers, if you care to stay in the game.’

  ‘I – I can’t gamble with money I do not have.’

  ‘But you will have more, at some time,’ said a subaltern, ‘surely? Why not stay?’

  Crossman rose. His stomach felt like a lead weight. Failure was not a thing he enjoyed. He came stiffly to attention and bowed to the other gamblers.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I must take my leave.’

  ‘Come back any time, lieutenant,’ Campbell said, smiling irritatingly ‘Always glad to take your money.’

  Crossman bowed stiffly again and went out of the cabin.

  Once outside, the cold early-morning air struck him forcibly in the face. What a fool! What an utter idiot he was. A ripple of laughter followed a remark by Campbell from inside the cabin. Crossman knew who was the brunt of the joke and he withered inside. The amazing thing was, why on earth had he thought he could do it? How many men in history had thought they could win at cards, or horseracing, or anything, simply because they felt special? There must have been hundreds of thousands. Yet here he was, a man who prided himself on his clarity of reasoning, following dumbly behind those thousands like a lemming.