Soldiers in the Mist

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  Crossman made his way back to the hovel just as the church service ended. Some of the 88th Foot were coming away from the open-air church and he heard one of them mutter, ‘There’s Fancy Jack. Dressed like a Tartar as usual . . .’

  Crossman smiled to himself. At one time he had hated his nickname, but these days he did not care. An obvious aristocrat in the ranks, he was regarded with suspicion by common soldier and commissioned officer alike. The first group thought he was there to report on their misdemeanours, the second, because he had done something of which he was ashamed. Neither was true.

  He hurried away from the scene, not wanting to meet Mrs Durham face-to-face. She might just confront him, even with her husband in attendance.

  There was a problem with Lavinia Durham. She knew that his real name was Alexander Kirk and that his father and brother were serving with the 93rd Foot in the Crimea. This was information which Crossman wanted to remain secret. So far Mrs Durham had not used her knowledge, but there was no telling she would not in the future.

  On reaching the hovel, Crossman found his small peloton lounging around within. There was Corporal Devlin, Lance-Corporal Peterson, Lance-Corporal Wynter and Private Clancy. Since they had earned some prize money – the silver coins which had been intercepted on their way to the traitor Barker – they had begun to get a little uppity. Crossman had sent them back to the front to remind them they were ordinary mortals – soldiers of the 88th Connaught Rangers – and they were now a little more subdued.

  ‘ ’Ello, sergeant,’ remarked Wynter as Crossman entered the room, ‘come to rejoin the happy band?’

  The biggest troublemaker of the group, Wynter, was never without words. Peterson, a woman disguised as a man, whose real identity was known only to Crossman, sat in the far corner of the room cleaning her precious Minié rifle. She was the best shot Crossman had ever seen, and for that reason alone he kept her secret. Private Clancy was lying on his cot, his hands behind his head, probably dreaming of India, where he had been raised as the son of an Irish clerk and an Indian mother. Corporal Devlin, a steady and reliable married man, was scraping mud from his boots.

  ‘Well, well, my boys,’ said Crossman. ‘Back from the ditches of hell, eh?’

  ‘We’re back, sergeant,’ replied Wynter with a sour look. ‘You’re lucky we’re all alive. We could’ve been killed. Shell and round shot fallin’ like rain out there. Whistlin’ Dicks scarin’ the living daylights out of you. Musket balls whizzing through your breakfast tins. Ain’t right.’

  ‘You should be proud to do your bit for your regiment,’ said Clancy from his cot. ‘I am.’

  ‘Listen to old dusky,’ replied Wynter with a sneer. ‘Anyone would think you was British.’

  ‘He’s as British as we all are,’ Peterson said hotly. ‘And don’t you forget it, Wynter.’

  Devlin however, disagreed. ‘I’m not British, I’m Irish – and so’s Clancy as far as I’m concerned. A man with an Irish father?’

  ‘I’m not Irish, I’m Anglo-Indian,’ remarked Clancy. ‘Even the sergeant knows that.’

  Crossman, who regarded himself as Scottish, even though he had an English mother, smiled to himself at these exchanges. If they all came from the same county, they would be arguing their differences, saying their village or town was superior to any other. The human race is so territorial, he thought. We would argue for our own back yard if there were no nations.

  He cleaned himself up at the communal wash bowl and then joined Lieutenant Dalton-James and Major Lovelace at the hospital. The major had more information on Captain Barker. It turned out that Barker had been born in Bulgaria, his father being an English merchant there. No one knew the nationality of his mother, but there was enough evidence to suggest that his traitorous activities had more than just a mercenary motive.

  ‘I’m afraid General Buller is not available for a few days now – I think you will have to trust me after all,’ said Lovelace.

  Crossman nodded. ‘It seems I have little choice, sir. I will give you the benefit of the doubt. This Captain Barker – you think his mother may have been Russian?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  If Barker’s mother had been Russian, or from a country sympathetic to Russia in this war, and she had been maltreated in some way by his father, then Barker might have reason to assist the enemy. Who knew? Dalton-James was inclined to think that it was pure greed which had turned the captain’s head, but this was too simplistic an answer for Crossman.

  ‘The trouble with you, sergeant, is that you think men are complex creatures,’ said the lieutenant, on their way back to the hovel. ‘I, on the other hand, believe them to be basic creatures who would sell their own grandmothers for gold.’

  ‘That’s a very cynical view,’ said Crossman. ‘I would despair for mankind if I held such an opinion.’

  ‘Nonsense. Take a man like Wynter, for instance. If the Russians promised him enough, he would fight for them against his fellow countrymen. Some men are incorrigible.’

  ‘I hope not,’ replied Crossman, with feeling. ‘I sincerely hope not.’

  6

  Crossman once again settled for a short time into camp life. This was better for him than most company sergeants, who spent their time soaked to the skin on picquet duty, sleepless and weary, and whose only entertainment was a dreary canteen. Crossman’s colleagues up in the trenches and on the picquet line were having a hard time of it. They were being bombarded relentlessly by the Russian guns, forever crawling through mud and mire, and were lucky to snatch an hour’s sleep.

  Every day too, there were skirmishes going on between picquets and forward patrols. Men were being killed by musket fire, the bayonet and cannon. Sharpshooters picked off those foolish enough to show their heads above the trenches. Round shot and shells fell in trench and on barricade. Cold steel entered the breasts and bellies of soldiers of several nations. Bodies were being collected during armistices by both sides.

  One such typical incident was that experienced by Private McGuire of the 33rd Foot, who was taken captive by two Russian soldiers. McGuire had been on advanced sentry duty at the time when the Russians came across him and disarmed him. They marched him between them towards Sebastopol. But McGuire was not going to be taken that easily. He waited until his captors were inattentive, then snatched back his Minié, to blast one of the Russians. He then turned on the other and struck him with the butt of the rifle, felling him to the ground. Private McGuire ran off and made it back to his own lines safely.

  Crossman, although his work was dangerous, did not have to spend days and nights in freezing trenches. That deadly strip of land around Sebastopol was the responsibility of others. And at least he had a roof over his head and a straw mattress to sleep on.

  The evening of the day he had returned with Lieutenant Dalton James he had a visitor from the 93rd Foot.

  ‘Sarn-Major Jock McIntyre,’ he said, as the Scotsman walked through the doorway in his splendid Highlanders’ uniform, ‘to what do I owe this great pleasure?’

  The sergeant-major was one of the few people in the Crimea who knew Crossman’s real identity. He was a solidly trustworthy man, whose loyalty was unquestionable. Crossman felt no concern at the fact that McIntyre knew his secret.

  ‘Thought I’d come and share a dram with ye,’ said Jock, looking round at the other men. ‘Is there somewhere private we can talk, man?’

  ‘Certainly. Step upstairs to my drawing room.’

  The sergeant-major followed Crossman up to the room above, where he and Major Lovelace had their sleeping quarters.

  ‘An’ if I hear one whisper about ladies in skirts,’ the kilted McIntyre warned Wynter and the other soldiers below, ‘I’ll personally tear the man’s ears from his head.’

  The sergeant-major of the Sutherland Highlanders was a formidable looking man, square of shoulder and of jaw, and even Wynter kept his peace this time.

  Once in the privacy of the upstairs room Crossman lit a cheap tallow can
dle. Major Lovelace was out and about somewhere, employed with the duties of the night. By the flickering light of the poor flame Jock confided to Crossman that there was a problem with Crossman’s brother.

  The first thing McIntyre said was, ‘Where’d ye get the bruise on yer jaw, laddie? It looks like a plum.’

  ‘Not from fighting with the soldiers of other regiments, Jock,’ Crossman said, smiling. ‘A Russian rifle butt is responsible.’ He ran his fingertips over the bruise, having forgotten it was there. It was still sore to the touch. ‘The 4th Corps from Odessa was passing by and took a fancy to me. It’s my belief there’ll be another Russian assault soon, but our generals don’t agree with me.’

  The Highlander shrugged and nodded, then got down to the business he had come about.

  ‘I hope ye dinna mind me coming here with tales, man, but I’m feared for your brother. He’s a gude officer, a wee bit inclined to follow his fether’s lead, ye ken, which is nae always the best way to go – but he has the makings of a fine soldier. Lord knows we need gude officers in our regiments during these hard times. We need reliable leadership – steady, dependable leadership.’

  ‘You know I asked you to look out for him,’ replied Crossman. ‘Has he got himself into some sort of scrape?’

  ‘Well, yes, and he’s getting deeper all the time.’

  ‘Is it a woman?’ asked Crossman, knowing his own weakness. ‘Has he fallen for one of the camp whores?’

  ‘No, not that, though he does visit places where they are to be found. Nor is it the drink – which reminds me – I’ve a quart of gude malt whisky here. Would you like a spot?’ Jock pulled a bottle from inside his tunic, took out the cork, and offered the bottle to Crossman.

  Crossman took a long swig of the amber liquid, feeling it burn his oesophagus on its way down to his stomach.

  ‘That was good. So tell me. What’s my brother James been up to?’

  ‘Gambling,’ McIntyre said flatly. ‘He’s taken to the cards in a terrible way. His debts are as long as ma arm and growing longer by the day. I’ve said nothing to him, of course, for it’s no ma place. But I thought ye ought to know.’

  ‘And my father, Major Kirk?’

  ‘Major Kirk disna ken what’s going on, Jack. The major, well he’s likely of an evening to be frequenting those places we mentioned earlier – visiting the ladies. Lieutenant Kirk spends his time wi’ the young subalterns.’

  ‘Chasing women is a family failing. But gambling? Even my father has never been much interested in gambling. He likes to keep his money in his pocket too much to give it away to someone with a better hand of cards. Oh, he has the odd wager on who is the best shot with a sporting gun, or who can jump a high fence on a hunter, but nothing more than that.’

  ‘I think your brother is already down some two thousand pounds,’ confided McIntyre.

  Crossman whistled, sitting bolt upright.

  ‘As much as that? My father’s only worth about five thousand a year. James will ruin the family.’

  It was funny. It was the first time since he had left home that Crossman felt any consideration for the family as a unit. He was concerned for the woman he had always called ‘Mother’, and occasionally he thought about his brother James, but he believed he was over worrying about ‘the family’ as an entity of concern. He could not in fact care less whether his father’s estate was ruined or not, except that it would affect his step-mother.

  ‘Will yer fether pay yer brother’s gambling debts?’

  ‘I doubt it, Jock. Not to the tune of two thousand or more. I think he would sooner fling James out. My father’s not one of those Scottish aristocrats who cares much about the honour of the family. I’ve got to stop this thing somehow. Who is the main holder of the debt?’

  ‘I should say that would be Captain Campbell. He’s the man with a flair for the cards. I should say every officer in the regiment who has ever held a playing card in his hand is in debt to Captain Campbell in some form or another.’

  Crossman took another swig of whisky, this time out of necessity.

  ‘What kind of man is he? This Campbell?’

  ‘No as flashy as ye’d expect considering his favourite pastime. No a bad sort o’ man, outside the gambling. Reliable enough on the battlefield, a wee bit too cocky off it, but there’s many an officer follows that description, Jack.’

  ‘Could I appeal to him, do you think?’

  ‘Whut? Ask him to put the debt aside? Jack, Jack, ye know better than that, lad. How many men could ye ask to do that? Yer very best friend, perhaps, someone ye grew up with, saved from drowning, and who owes ye his life. But merely a brother officer?’

  Crossman sighed. ‘Yes, I know. Well, thanks for coming here tonight, Jock.’

  The sergeant-major smiled. ‘Always a pleasure to see the man who saved ma life. If it was me who held yer brother’s debts, then ye could forget them. Unfortunately, it’s another. I’ll see ye on the battlefield, for it’s certain sure we havnae seen the last Russian coming at us. A new assault ye say?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Then I’ll keep ma powder dry.’

  Just before he left, the sergeant-major spoke to Crossman one last time.

  ‘Ah said Campbell was no a bad sort o’ man, outside the gambling. But I have tae tell ye, inside it he’s the very devil. I’ve been told he cheats. Ah don’t think anybody’s ever proved it mind and the last man who accused him of cheating is lying in some French cemetery outside Paris.’

  ‘A duel?’

  ‘Among his other skills, Captain Campbell is an excellent shot – ah ken no better.’

  ‘If he cheats, how does he get people to play with him?’

  ‘Laddie, laddie, ye know so little about the underside of life. It’s mah guess he disna cheat with everybody. He’ll pick a victim – a raw card player like yer brother – and he’ll milk him. He’s never been caught red-handed, mind. It’s just a whisper from his batman, ye understand. A servant’s loose tongue. It may not even be true.’

  ‘But you think it is?’

  ‘Ah’ve seen too many green officers destroyed by him.’

  The next morning, Crossman made enquiries about Captain Campbell. It seemed the man had a reputation for gambling with high stakes and that there was some taint of cheating attached to him. There was also no reason to suppose that Campbell was a philanthropist: it seemed he always collected money owed him, one way or another. In fact, Crossman managed to catch a look at the man as he passed by his tent. Campbell was shaving with a cutthroat razor in the light of the dawn. He looked up and frowned on seeing he was being observed.

  ‘Can I assist you, sergeant?’ he said with some hauteur, his face still half-covered in shaving soap and his razor hand poised above his chin. ‘Are you waiting to see blood?’

  ‘No, sir – sorry, sir,’ replied Crossman, hurrying on.

  There was no point in getting into an unpleasant exchange with the officer.

  That single encounter had told Crossman a great deal. The sergeant had seen the look of steel in the captain’s eyes. It had been uncompromising. No quiet reasoning would work with this particular man. Captain Campbell, immaculate of dress and bearing, was obviously one of the old school: he would rather call a man out than allow him to welch on his debts.

  Crossman returned to the hovel with a heavy heart. The first thing to do was to stop James from getting in any deeper. His brother had to be dissuaded from further gambling. Then they had to settle the debts in any way they could, preferably without their father getting wind of it.

  Major Lovelace had returned and Crossman broached the matter straight away. Lovelace was poring over some charts. The small mean window of their sleeping quarters allowed only a dull grey light into the room, and he was having to peer closely at the charts, his attention absorbed by their faint lines. Crossman cleared his throat and spoke with great difficulty.

  ‘Sir, is it possible to advance me my prize money? I believe I have two thousand in
Maria Theresa dollars coming to me.’

  Lovelace looked up sharply from the map he was studying.

  ‘You must have good reasons for asking that question,’ said the field officer at last. ‘You know the answer.’

  ‘I have very good reasons – family reasons. The money would not be for me. It is desperately needed elsewhere.’

  Lovelace sighed. ‘Unfortunately, the decision is not mine to make. I’m sorry, I can’t help you. If you will take my advice, which of course you have no need of, you will drop the matter straight away. It can only lead to disappointment.’

  ‘You think there’s little chance?’

  ‘I believe there’s no chance whatsoever.’

  ‘I just thought I would ask. I’m sorry to have embarrassed you, sir.’

  ‘On the contrary, sergeant,’ replied the major, quietly, ‘it appears to be you who is embarrassed. I’m sorry about your domestic problems. Is it anything I can help you with personally?’

  ‘No, sir, I’m afraid not. Thank you anyway.’

  Major Lovelace nodded, no doubt thinking that one of Crossman’s parents was desperately ill and in need of funds.

  Crossman was squirming inside. He hated even having to mention the fact that he had problems. It was a family matter and had to be settled by family. He wanted no one outside the small circle who already knew to find out about his brother’s foolishness. James, of course, was entitled to gamble if he wished, but not with money he did not own. On doing so he had abrogated any entitlement to privacy.

  ‘Sergeant?’ said Lovelace, and Crossman realised the officer had been speaking to him about another matter while he had been reflecting on the situation.

  ‘Sorry, sir. Yes?’ Crossman’s concern for his brother would have to wait: there were more important problems in hand.