The Scarlet Thief

by Paul Fraser Collard

  Jack checked Captain Sloames’s washstand for a third time. The carefully arranged toiletries were all in their allocated place, the pots of pills and the jars of potions and creams ordered and precise. He had stropped the razor, cleaned the brushes and combs, picked the stray hairs from the towel, filled one porcelain jug with hot water and another with cold. He made sure the washbowl was without stains or watermarks and the sheet on the floor was laid out evenly and blemish-free. He was certain that Sloames would have no cause to find fault this morning.

  ‘Good morning, sir.’ Jack took a deep breath and pulled back the thin curtains that had been fighting an uneven battle against the early-morning sunlight. It was past ten yet Jack had delayed waking his master, knowing full well that he had not struggled home until the small hours of the morning after another heavy night of drinking in the officers’ mess. However, a meeting with the battalion adjutant had been arranged for noon and despite Jack’s silent prayers, Sloames had not stirred of his own volition.

  A groan came from deep under the bed’s tousled coverings.

  ‘Coffee, sir?’ Jack stood dutifully at the foot of the bed, a cup of the first medicinal coffee of the morning in his hand.

  ‘Good morning, Lark.’ Sloames’s muffled voice was feeble. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Past ten, sir.’

  ‘Good God.’ Sloames pushed his way clear of the covers, emerging into the sunlight blinking furiously. ‘You mentioned coffee?’

  ‘Sir.’ Jack stepped forward and carefully placed the china cup of steaming black coffee in Sloames’s trembling hand.

  Sloames peered at him over the brim of the scalding liquid. ‘You look like an overeager hound, Lark. Whatever is the matter? Goodness, my head.’

  ‘You’ll soon feel better, sir.’ Jack did his best to sound composed. He did not want Sloames to think he was anxious. ‘I have prepared your second-best uniform for your meeting with Captain Ramsay.’

  ‘Very good.’ The coffee worked its restorative power and colour returned to Sloames’s cheeks, warming his former deathly pallor. ‘Good coffee.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. The mess had fresh beans this morning.’

  Sloames handed the empty cup back to his orderly before taking his head in both hands and ruffling his hair vigorously. ‘God, I feel awful.’ He stopped and looked up. ‘By God, that was a night. I suppose I should’ve learnt my lesson by now!’ Sloames smiled ruefully at his orderly, abashed yet obviously proud of his own fecklessness.

  Jack smiled back at his officer, his charm impossible to ignore. Like all officers, Sloames was a hard drinker, the officers’ mess famous for its riotous nights. More often than not these evenings ended with some horseplay or mischief that would have the colonel wondering at his officers’ sanity. Only the other week a precious teapot had been smashed in an impromptu game of indoor cricket, much to the delight of the officers and to the despair of the colonel’s wife.

  With a loud groan, Sloames pushed himself up from the bed. He staggered to the washstand and Jack leant backwards to make enough room for Sloames to pass without their bodies touching.

  Sloames made a quick appraisal of his toiletries. ‘Damn you, Lark! Can you do nothing right?’ He spat a thick wad of phlegm into the washbowl.

  ‘Sir?’ Jack stepped forward, his heart pounding as he tried to work out what he had done wrong.

  Sloames laughed at Jack’s horrified expression. ‘Just jesting, Lark. Just jesting. Everything is perfectly in order.’ He turned and threw two handfuls of water over his face. ‘You really are a hopeless cove.’

  Jack did his best to smile. He helped his officer through his morning wash routine, passing and taking items as they were needed or discarded.

  ‘Have you heard the rumours?’ Sloames lifted his chin high and started to scrape away the unwanted hairs, carefully trimming round his thick mutton-chop whiskers.

  ‘Rumours, sir?’ Jack was immediately interested. For the officers’ orderlies, gossip and tittle-tattle were the common currency of their lives, sought as eagerly as the scattering of forgotten coins that could be slipped unnoticed into a diligent servant’s pocket – and as jealously husbanded.

  ‘Do not play the innocent with me.’ Sloames looked at his orderly from the corner of his eye. ‘The rumour that we are to be posted.’

  ‘I’d heard something about that, sir.’

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me. Would it astonish you if it were true?’

  ‘I suppose so, sir. I thought we’d be stuck here forever.’

  ‘Would that suit you? Or have you the taste for adventure?’

  ‘I’ve never given it much thought, sir, if I’m honest.’

  ‘Truly? I must confess that I think of little else. What could be worse than stagnating in this Godforsaken place? What glory is there to be won in Aldershot? What legacy will be left if I languish here and waste the prime years of my life?’

  ‘There’s plenty of time, sir.’

  ‘You’re wrong there.’ Sloames waved the razor at Jack to emphasise his point. ‘I’m fast approaching thirty years of age. Thirty! My life is slipping away. My father had fought a dozen battles in Spain and faced down the damn Frogs at Waterloo by the time he was my age. Whereas what have I done?’ Sloames gave Jack no time to answer, not that he would ever be unwise enough to offer a suggestion. ‘Nothing! I crave glory, Lark. Glory.’

  Jack was keen to steer the conversation away from his master’s frustrated ambition and back towards the news that the battalion could be about to move. ‘So is the battalion to be posted overseas?’

  Sloames nodded. ‘We are bound for the West Indies. To Jamaica, in fact.’

  ‘The Indies!’ Jack could not contain his dismay. All soldiers dreaded this posting. Duty in the West Indies would be a death sentence to many. Yellow fever, dysentery and all manner of other Devil-inspired illnesses waited to strike down a newly arrived redcoat. Jack craved going overseas. But, dear God, not to the Indies. To go there was to die.

  Sloames paused in his shaving to stare at his orderly. ‘Your face betrays you. You no more want that destiny than I do.’

  ‘No, sir.’ Jack met Sloames’s stare as evenly as he could while his soul screamed at the injustice of the cursed news.

  ‘All is not lost. There is hope. I have written to Horseguards expressing my willingness to exchange. I am sanguine of my chances. In my letter, I expressed a keen intention to serve my country on the field of battle. There is talk of a war in the East and I am hopeful there will be a less martially inspired soul who feels their talents would be best employed by remaining away from the rigours of a campaign.’

  ‘I wish you luck, sir.’

  ‘There is no need for you’ll be coming with me. We’ll journey to the fields of battle together. What say you to that?’ Sloames tossed his razor into the bowl with a flourish and turned to face his orderly, his face alive with the prospect of going to war. ‘Can you see the future unravelling before us? We shall leave this mundane existence behind us and go to war.’

  Jack swallowed hard. Molly’s rumours had proved to be true.

  ‘To war? Why on earth do you want to go to war?’ Molly stamped her foot in frustration. ‘What’s wrong with going to the Indies?’

  ‘Well, for starters, I don’t fancy puking my guts out every day for a year before they shove me in a box.’ Jack’s frustration matched Molly’s. He had come to deliver the momentous news only to find it had reached the garrison laundry before him.

  ‘Who says it’s like that? I heard the sun shines every day. And there are servants, even for the likes of us. And you can swim in the sea that’s as warm as a bathtub!’

  ‘You can’t even swim, you ninny. Who’s filled your head with all his nonsense?’

  ‘It’s not nonsense. Mam says.’

  Jack snorted w
ith laughter. ‘And what does she know? She’s never even been to London!’

  ‘She knew you lot were getting posted before you did, didn’t she?’

  ‘But that doesn’t mean she knows anything about life in the Indies.’

  ‘Oh, and you do, I suppose.’

  ‘I know a damn sight more than your mam.’

  ‘You’re just being your usual cantankerous self just to slight me. I’d do anything to get out of here. I want us to go.’

  ‘Us? Since when do they send the laundry girls with the battalion?’

  ‘They send wives!’

  ‘You’re not a wife.’

  ‘And whose fault is that?’

  ‘It’s not mine. Besides, even the wives get left behind.’

  ‘Not all of them.’

  ‘And I’d need permission.’

  ‘Who said anything about you?’

  ‘Do you have someone in mind then?’

  ‘Maybe I do.’

  ‘Oh, there’s others, is there? Can’t you keep your legs shut for more than a bloody second!’

  Molly’s arms had been strengthened by countless hours of dollying, stirring wet clothes with a heavy wooden paddle, and she delivered a punch any prizefighter would have been proud of, a rising blow that connected spectacularly with Jack’s chin. With teeth-juddering force, his jaws snapped together, his head knocked sideways by the force of the blow, and he staggered back.

  ‘Don’t you dare talk to me like that! I’m not some common doxy. If you think so badly of me, what on earth are you doing here?’ Molly stepped closer. She looked ready to continue her assault.

  Jack lifted his hands to ward off further blows. ‘What do you want, Molly?’

  Jack saw the anger leave her eyes. It was replaced by a look of such sadness and longing that he forgot the pain of her right hook and took her in his arms, pressing her close.

  They stood in silence for a moment, quiet in each other’s embrace.

  ‘What I want . . .’ Molly sounded uncertain as she began to speak. ‘What I want is a future, one that doesn’t mean spending my years toiling away in a laundry. I want a different life.’

  ‘It’s not that simple, is it? Wanting is one thing. Getting is another.’

  ‘I know that, Jack. I’m not a fool. But don’t you ever feel trapped? Stuck in a life not of your choosing but which has wrapped itself around you so tightly that you can never get out. I know I do.’

  Jack kept quiet. Molly could have been expressing his own feelings. He knew exactly what it was to feel trapped. It had taken him years to pluck up the courage to leave his mother and take the Queen’s shilling. All in an attempt to better himself, to find a life far away from the one into which he had been born.

  ‘So are you going to take me away? Like one of those knights in those stories my mam told me when I was a girl.’

  Jack laughed at the image. ‘I’m no knight in shining armour. I can’t even ride a bloody horse.’

  ‘But will you? Will you take me away? I’d follow you anywhere if it meant leaving this behind.’

  ‘If I ever get the chance, I will.’ Jack pulled Molly tight against him. ‘I promise.’

  ‘You wanted to see me, sir?’

  ‘I did indeed. Give me a moment.’

  Sloames turned back to his desk, his attention focused on a thick pile of documents. The thick, creamy parchment looked official and Jack did his best to peer past his officer’s shoulder and read the neat, copperplate writing.

  It was a fortnight since the momentous news that the battalion was to be posted had broken. Two weeks for the battalion’s mood to go from high excitement to sombre contemplation as the reality of moving to the far reaches of the empire left the redcoats wondering what their new future would be like. After so long on garrison duties, they had put down strong ties with the local community, ties that would be brutally severed when the battalion marched through the barrack gates for the last time.

  The spring sunshine spread across the desk. It warmed the dreary room, the soft yellow light meandering over the stained, peeling wallpaper that had once been deep red but now looked blotchy and discoloured. Sloames had obviously been working on these papers for some time; his fingers were stained with blue ink. With a flourish, he scratched his name on the uppermost paper and threw his steel pen to one side. The rickety chair he used at his desk creaked loudly as he twisted round to face his orderly once again

  ‘There, it is done.’ Sloames stood, brandishing the paper he had just signed, waving it imperiously under Jack’s nose. Sloames seemed well satisfied with his work; he smiled widely and brushed his wayward hair from his face, oblivious of the inky streak he left on his forehead.

  Dressed in civilian clothes and with the warm sunlight playing on the red and yellows in his brightly coloured waistcoat, Sloames looked much younger than he did when encased in the scarlet shell of an officer.

  ‘It, sir?’

  ‘It, my dear Lark, is our ticket out of here. This beautiful missive is the final document that confirms that I am to purchase a captaincy in the King’s Royal Fusiliers! Fusiliers, Lark! We are to be fusiliers!’

  ‘Us, sir?’

  ‘Of course. I told you I couldn’t do without your services. We shall face this new adventure together. I shan’t know a soul in the new regiment so it will good to have a familiar face around.’

  Jack took a moment to digest Sloames’s sudden announcement. He felt an absurd surge of pride that Sloames had made the effort to arrange to take him.

  ‘I shall have to go to London for a few days to finalise the affair with the agent handling the transaction. I’ve hired a coach and driver to collect us tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Very good, sir. I’ll start preparing your things.’

  ‘That is not all.’ Sloames brushed past his servant, the small sitting room not allowing for easy movement when two people occupied it. ‘Have you heard of the events unravelling in the East?’

  ‘A little. Something about the Russians and the Ottomans.’

  ‘You have it exactly. For too long, Tsar Nicolas has been trying to exert pressure on the Ottomans with an eye to increasing Russian influence on their southern borders. Ever since that shameful episode at Sinope when those Russian blackguards massacred those poor Turkish sailors, the papers have been calling for something to be done. And I for one am in full agreement! Even as we speak, Lord Raglan is putting his command to readiness and I have it on good authority that the King’s Royal Fusiliers are to be a part of his force. They expect to sail shortly and although I shall not be there to join them before they are despatched, I expect to be able to follow them without much delay. Indeed, time is of the essence. I would not have anyone say we dallied and I am keen for us to arrive and take command of my new company before the campaign starts properly.’

  ‘But the government hasn’t declared war yet, has it, sir?’

  ‘No, it hasn’t, but the papers have been demanding nothing less for months and I fully expect war to be declared before the end of the month. The Turks and the Russians have been battering at each other for an age now so the stage is set for us to remind the world that the British army is still to be feared, even if we are to be allied with the damned French.’

  ‘Doesn’t that strike you as queer, sir? Us fighting alongside the Crapauds.’

  ‘It is war.’ Sloames looked suitably grave, an expression at odds with his obvious excitement about his new commission. ‘It is not pleasant but I am sure the government knows what it is about. If I am ordered to fight alongside the French then I shall do so with pride. My own misgivings cannot be placed above the needs of the country.’

  Jack nodded in agreement, doing his best to match his officer’s gravity. It shamed him that he did not know more about the situation that would soon lea
d his country to declare war. He had free access to Sloames’s newspapers but had never bothered to take the trouble to read them.

  ‘So where will we be sent exactly, sir?’

  ‘Here, let me show you.’ Sloames reached for that day’s paper which was on his desk. ‘The Times has an excellent representation. Yes, here it is.’ Sloames folded the paper so that a half-page map appeared uppermost. He made space on his desk’s blotter and smoothed The Times flat. Jack moved forward and leant over his officer’s shoulder to see. The two men shared a moment’s companionable silence as they gave the map their fullest attention.

  ‘Here is Moldova.’ Sloames’s finger moved over the map. ‘The Russians invaded back in June last year. This here is Wallachia. The Turks have been fighting the Russians in these parts since October. It is a nasty business but if the reports are to be believed, the Turks have given the Russians a bloody nose or two. As yet it is not clear where our army is to find work but I would not be surprised if we were to join the Turkish army here, near the Danubian principalities. However, there is some pressure for us to do something a little more dramatic and some observers are calling for a campaign here on the Crimean Peninsular with a view to seizing the Russian naval port at Sevastopol. That would make Tsar Nicolas sit up and take note.’

  Jack listened to the exotic names and tried to work out exactly where these strange foreign places might be in relation to England. His knowledge of geography was scant, to say the least. As Sloames spoke of the protracted series of events that had led Britain to contemplate going to war for the first time in nearly forty years, Jack did his best to read the article that accompanied the simple map. He was so engrossed that he didn’t notice that Sloames had stopped talking and was staring at him.

  ‘You find this interesting, don’t you, Lark?’

  Jack pulled himself upright and took a respectful step away from the desk. For a few minutes the social gulf between the two men had been bridged by their shared interest in the wider events of the world.