He somehow managed to stumble back to his quarters and change into his sergeant’s uniform. Wynter was fast asleep but Crossman woke him and asked the bleary-eyed lance-corporal to return Lieutenant Dalton-James’s uniform to its correct place, before it was missed. Grumbling, Wynter did as he was asked.
When Wynter returned he asked the sergeant the inevitable question.
‘No, Wynter, I did not win – I lost everything I have.’
‘I knew you would,’ said Wynter, smugly. Then more generously, he added, ‘You’re good at what you do with us lot, sergeant – you save our necks time and again – but I could have told you you was no gambler.’
‘I seem to recall that you did tell me,’ Crossman replied, ‘quite forcibly.’
‘You didn’t take much notice.’
‘I’m an arrogant man, Wynter.’
Wynter sighed. ‘I’ve always wanted to be a gentleman,’ he said, ‘with lots of money. Not to spend it, as such, but to go and gamble at some of them posh clubs you nobs have, like White’s in St James’s Street in London – or Boodles, Limmer’s, Watiers, the Royal Cockpit, Fives Courts or the Daffy Club. Some of the wagers that go on at those places!’
‘You seem to know an awful lot of gentlemen’s clubs.’
Wynter nodded enthusiastically. ‘My uncle was a doorman at White’s and I’ve read about ’em in the Dreadfuls. Did you know a Lord Alvanley once bet three thousand pounds on a race between two raindrops running down a window at White’s? And my uncle told me that when a man collapsed on the steps of the club, gentlemen coming in and out straight away placed bets on whether he was dead or not.’
‘I’ve heard the same stories.’
‘Yes, but did you know that when a doctor came to give medical attention, those who’d bet the man was dead wouldn’t let him through the crowd, in case he was revived?’
Crossman shook his head. ‘No, I hadn’t heard that, but I think I could have lived a reasonably happy life without ever knowing it. What makes you so enthusiastic about the London clubs, Wynter?’
‘Why, sergeant, I could have cleaned them out. With my skills as a man of cards, I would be Lord of all England.’
‘Wynter, if you had been born a gentleman with those same desires, you would have been a corpse at eighteen. Someone would have called you out and shot you dead. Or run you through with a sword. They do not like cheats in White’s or Boodles, any more than they do at the Hogshead Inn. Someone would have found you out and turned you into raw meat in St James’s Park at six o’clock on a cold and misty morning.’
Wynter grinned. ‘I can dream, can’t I? I ain’t saying any more. Just think on it. You got a big worry with this Campbell, but you’re goin’ about fixing it the wrong way. You’re too soft, sergeant. Oh, I know you can be hard when it comes to duty and the enemy, but with everythin’ else you’re too much the gentleman. Why don’t you let me, Devlin and Peterson deal with this? We’ll sort it out.’
Alarm bells began ringing in Crossman’s head.
‘You leave me with my own problems, Wynter.’
He had visions of his three soldiers murdering Campbell in his bed and calling it common justice.
Wynter shrugged. ‘Well, it’s an offer.’
‘Thank you, Wynter, but no.’
‘Think on it.’
Crossman did ‘think on it’ further, but simply became more depressed as he took to his bed in the morning.
Wynter knew that the sergeant the rankers called Fancy Jack would not agree to allowing him and the other two remaining members of the peloton to deal with the situation for him. In which case, he decided they would do something without the sergeant’s permission. He could not allow this Captain Campbell to make his sergeant miserable.
It was not that Wynter liked the sergeant so much: Crossman was outside that kind of reference. Wynter neither liked nor disliked the man. Fancy Jack was an upper-class toff in a sergeant’s uniform. Whatever Crossman was wearing, the likes of men like Wynter did not make friends with a separate species. They were as different from one another as gorillas were from baboons: they lived differently, ate differently, thought differently. A baboon did not make friends with a gorilla.
The reason Wynter was upset was because the activities of this Captain Campbell were intruding into the cosy little world of the peloton. No matter how dangerous it was out on fox hunts with the sergeant, Wynter’s life was preferable to that of the soldier laying siege to Sebastopol. At least Wynter was dry and warm some of the time, was master of himself occasionally, and was not treated like a moron.
So, he made up his mind to get rid of Captain Campbell for good and all, and in this frame of mind roused his two companions and told them the story. He already had a scheme in mind, which he imparted to them enthusiastically. Peterson, after hearing it, was dubious as to whether they would be able to make it work.
‘Well, what do you suggest then?’ asked Wynter, willing for once to listen to the views of others. ‘We ain’t got much time you know.’
‘I think your plan is good enough,’ acquiesced Peterson, ‘but we need someone with a bit more rank than a corporal to make it work.’
‘I agree with Peterson,’ said Devlin. ‘We have to find some officer to help us.’
They sat and discussed who that officer might be and came to the conclusion that anyone with a commissioned rank would not touch the scheme with a bargepole, no matter how much they sympathised with Fancy Jack. Then suddenly Devlin came up with the perfect man.
‘What about Mr Rupert Jarrard – he’s the sergeant’s friend – let’s tell him the whole story and see what he thinks?’
‘Brilliant,’ said Wynter, grinding some beans in the bottom of a shell case to make some coffee. ‘That’s the stuff. We’ll get rid of Campbell all right and then things can go back to normal around here. I’m fed up with seeing Fancy Jack walking around looking like Death on a rainy day.’
The guns booming along the siege line woke Crossman up around noon. He rose from his horsehair mattress and staggered downstairs to wash his face. There was no one else about. He seemed to be alone in the hovel. Once he had washed and was feeling a little less like a warthog, he went out to seek Lavinia Durham, to get the latest news on his brother.
Mrs Durham was standing outside the British Hotel, talking with Mrs Nell Butler, a Winchester woman and the wife of a private in the 95th Foot. Mrs Butler was one of those who regularly assisted the surgeons with the sick and wounded.
Crossman managed to attract Lavinia Durham’s attention, and indicated he would like to speak with her.
He went behind a row of shacks and soon Mrs Durham came tripping round the corner, holding up her long skirts with their flounces and lace with her right hand.
‘Alexander,’ she said, ‘how nice to see you. Is this another one of our clandestine meetings? I must say I do enjoy this conspiracy. It is fun!’
As usual he became a little agitated with her flippancy.
‘Lavinia, please. How is the affair between my brother and the widow, Mrs Kennedy progressing?’
‘Flourishing, my dear man. He took to her instantly. I must say the males in your family must be all alike. Show them a pretty face and they’re lost forever. You are the same, I seem to recall, and I’ve heard stories about your father.’
‘Lavinia,’ he said, sharply, ‘that is most indelicate. You can say what you like about me, but leave my father out of it.’
‘Sorry. Anyway,’ she linked her arm in his and walked him through the mud, ‘James is smitten. It did not take long after Molly Kennedy fluttered her eyelids for your brother to start walking with her. Now they are inseparable. I think he has forgotten all about his card games.’
‘He can’t have forgotten all about them – he has a huge debt to repay.’
‘Well, I can only say that his mind is preoccupied with thoughts of love at the moment.’
‘Here,’ said Crossman, withdrawing his arm, ‘this must not become too serio
us.’
Lavinia Durham arched an eyebrow. ‘My dear Alexander, you can’t unleash the forces of nature and then hope to control them. You must take what comes. Your brother is a grown man.’
‘Yes, I know, but Molly Kennedy – why – she’s . . .’
‘You shock me, sir! You’re about to say “she’s only the widow of a corporal” aren’t you? Such women are all right to philander with, I suppose, but heaven forbid if it becomes any more serious than that. I thought you were this liberal-minded man, who wishes for a breakdown between the classes? You’re a fake, sir – and what’s more, you’re a hypocrite.’
He was pained. ‘No, no, Lavinia. But Mrs Kennedy! I mean, there are some of the widows who are perfectly respectable. I’m not saying I would be overjoyed if my brother married a woman from the Lancashire cotton mills, or a coach driver’s daughter, but so long as she was respectable. You know Molly Kennedy is an outrageous flirt. She wouldn’t do at all.’
‘No one has mentioned marriage, so far as I know, but if they do you only have yourself to blame. You started this, Alexander. Molly Kennedy is no different from any other woman, even if she is a flirt. A handsome lieutenant is paying court to her. A lieutenant from an upper-class family with wealth. She is both flattered and eager, and it would be unnatural if she did not want it to last forever.’
‘You mean they’re in love?’ cried Crossman.
‘Molly is most certainly infatuated and your brother is showing signs of it too. Whether these feelings will continue after a longer association I do not know, but you wanted your brother to be diverted, and diverted he is. Molly has done an excellent job of that. You may stand there with your mouth agape and your eyes rolling, but you have pushed your brother down a steep slope and can do nothing to stop him now.’
‘Oh my God,’ groaned Crossman.
19
Like many men who believe they have cast off the worst of their inherited prejudices, Crossman found that when it came to the heart of the matter he was no better than his father. He himself might have found a young woman below his class, fallen in love, and married her without too much discomfort of the soul. It would be all right for him, as the younger son. However, his brother James was a different matter. James was the elder and therefore would inherit the Scottish estates. For James to have an Annie Bloggs for his wife, instead of a Beatrice Hughes-Fitzwilliam or a Caroline Esterhazy, was unthinkable.
‘I’ve started something I can’t stop,’ Crossman told Rupert Jarrard. ‘How can I live with this?’
‘You, sir, are a rotten snob,’ replied Jarrard, without much sympathy. ‘In the United States we allow our kin to marry whom they please, whether she is the daughter of a fishmonger, or a rich merchant.’
‘Ha!’ exclaimed Crossman, hollowly. ‘So if your daughter, supposing you had one, came home and said she was going to marry a Cherokee Indian, you would give her your blessing? I don’t think so. You might, but I seriously doubt it. You certainly wouldn’t allow her to marry a Negro slave.’
Jarrard said, ‘Those are different matters.’
‘They are the same matters in different clothing, Rupert. And even closer to home than that, what if she wanted to marry a store clerk, someone with no prospects whatsoever, a man who was happy to sweep the floor of the store for the rest of his life? Or a riverboat gambler? Or a wild west gunfighter? Or even an honest cowboy, on two dollars a week and found. You would not approve. You would not, Rupert. We are all fakes when it comes to the point. Believe me ’
Jarrard shrugged. ‘I think I have less snobbery in me than you do, Jack, just as I have fewer scruples.’
Crossman looked at his friend quizzically. ‘What do you mean by that? Fewer scruples? Where did scruples come into the conversation?’
Jarrard looked slightly abashed, but he shrugged away Crossman’s question.
‘If you come down to Balaclava harbour tonight at six o’clock, I shall show you what I mean.’
Captain Campbell of the 93rd Foot was taken on board HMS Antigone at five o’clock in the evening, just as the sun was going down behind the curved horizon of the Black Sea. The sky was a deep red colour, a magnificent sunset, but since Campbell did not care for such things he hardly noticed it. He was thinking about the coming game of cards with two naval lieutenants, one of whom was at his elbow now, guiding him down a set of steps to a cabin below.
Campbell descended into the belly of the ship cautiously. He had never liked boats. His journeys through the Bay of Biscay, into the Mediterranean Sea and subsequently across the Black Sea, had done nothing to improve his liking of them. This gentle rocking on the wavelets created by the wind on the harbour waters was bad enough, but the great chops and swells of the high seas always made him feel very ill.
He had only agreed to a game here, on board this ship, because the two lieutenants were remarkably inexperienced card players. He had been introduced to them by the American correspondent, Mr Rupert Jarrard, a rough sort of fellow, but what passed for a gentleman in the New World.
Campbell had already taken a good deal of money from the two ‘sea-green matelots’ as he called them behind their backs, when they had played in the cabin behind Kadikoi. It had seemed churlish to refuse their offer to continue the game on board their ship, where they promised one or two more naval officers would be sure to join the game.
‘Down here?’ he said, entering a gloomy area festooned with coiled ropes and smelling strongly of tar.
One of the fresh-faced young lieutenants answered him – the one called Holliday.
‘That door there, sir. We’re out of the captain’s way down here. He does not approve of gambling and it will serve our purpose for the better. I hope you will find us good hosts, captain, since we are going to be thrown into each other’s company more than we imagined.’
Campbell did not know what Holliday meant by this veiled remark, but he took it that they meant to keep him playing until they had cleaned him out. Perhaps they believed that now they had him on foreign ground he would play in a nervous, less skilful fashion? Well, these callow youths were mistaken if they thought that getting Captain Campbell off his home ground was going to unnerve him enough to lose at cards.
He entered a cabin with a low ceiling. There was a table in the middle, fixed to the floor with strong bolts, with chairs arranged around it. In the centre of the table were two packs of sealed playing cards. An oil lamp swung in the corner of the cabin, casting a weak amber light over the room. Down here the motion of the boat was much more pronounced, but Campbell was too intent on the coming game to worry too much about any queasiness he might feel in the pit of his stomach.
‘Any place which pleases you,’ said Holliday. ‘The choice of seating is yours, captain.’
‘Thank you,’ Campbell replied, taking the nearest chair, ‘this will do admirably.’
‘Do you drink rum, sir?’ asked Blightwell, the other lieutenant. ‘It is the navy’s preference. We shall of course send for some claret or other drink of your choice if you wish?’
‘No, rum will do fine. Let’s get started shall we? Are we to be joined by any others?’
‘In about an hour or so,’ Holliday informed him. ‘They have duties at the moment.’ To Campbell’s astonishment the lieutenant winked at him. ‘But once they are relieved from watch they will join us. Now, if you would open one or even both packs, sir, let us play some chemin de fer . . .’
Campbell thought the wink very odd, but he had ceased to wonder at the differences between infantry officers and their naval counterparts. They were like two different races so far as he was concerned. The culture and rituals of each were as far apart as those of an Englishman and a Hottentot.
For the next hour Captain Campbell played cards.
At first his luck was in and he found he did not have to ‘bend’ the cards too much to make the lieutenants part with their money. He took it away from them slowly and gradually, though he could have made a quick killing. From experience h
e had found that men do not notice their money disappearing so much when it dribbles away. It is only at the point when they come to a reckoning of what they have left, that they suddenly gasp and go pale, realising that three months’ pay has melted before their eyes like the snow when it thaws.
Annoyingly, one of the lieutenants then began winning. Campbell did his best to plug this hole, but the young man’s luck was astonishing and even with some assistance from his deft fingers Campbell could not stem the flood. The strength of the rum was getting to Campbell’s head, so he was having a little difficulty in maintaining his concentration. He watered down his drink from a bottle on the table, hoping to begin sobering up.
This bad patch was, he knew, merely an irritating interlude. The lieutenant’s luck would eventually change – nothing is forever – and in the meantime all Campbell had to do was watch and wait, and try to clear his head. If only the damn boat would stay still for a few moments! It was probably the rum, but the rocking appeared to have increased in strength. The lamp in the corner was swinging back and forth like a pendulum in a grandfather clock. Campbell stared at it in a bemused fashion, hypnotised by its drifting light.
‘Your play, I believe, captain?’ said Holliday.
‘What?’ cried Campbell, jerking out of his reverie. ‘Oh, yes – no more cards, thank you, sir. I shall remain with these two. When did you say we would be joined by others? I believe we have been playing for more than two hours.’
‘Soon, captain. They are probably changing their uniforms. It gets wet on deck when one is out to sea. There is a constant fine spray from the bows, even on the calmest seas, and I believe we are heading for dirty weather at the moment.’
Soldiers in the Mist Page 15