Chapter 3 #3
Was there something else afoot? Had he inadvertently stepped into someone else’s unofficial fiefdom and upset the balance of power? Whose fingers were directing this little show?
Miss Barrow had been correct, so it seemed, when she had commented on this at one of their first encounters.
But this hardly seemed to be the only reason behind his exclusion from the society of the fort.
Richard knew he was far from the only officer who did not gamble, and his opinions were not extreme.
He did not lecture against the evils of gambling, and he could hold his drink as well as the next man.
He could name four or five other men of about his own rank who spoke quite vehemently against betting on cards, but who could be found sharing an ale and a laugh in the mess or at the tavern.
This seemed more personal a matter than his distaste for wagering.
Once again, he had his suspicions, which Miss Barrow echoed as they walked upon the walls one evening.
The two of them had, by some tacit arrangement, started meeting in the mustering fields as the sun began its descent, and would walk for a short time around the fort.
These strolls were not long, and with the scores of soldiers about, either on duty or off, little of any substance came up in their short conversations, but Richard found himself, more and more, respecting Miss Barrow’s common sense and clear insight into the people around her.
She knew the camp and knew the men in it.
“They resent you,” she stated in her accustomed straightforward manner. Others might tiptoe about the issue, but she stated matters plainly. After Miss Ingalls’ deceit, Richard greatly appreciated such candour. Honesty was vastly preferable to artifice. “They see you as an interloper.”
Richard twisted his lips into a wry grimace. “I suspected as much, but what have I done that any other officer from away would not? Have I stepped into somebody else’s shoes? Have I walked into someone’s expected promotion?”
The lady inclined her head, a moving shadow against the glow of the setting sun.
“So it would seem. There are two or three officers here who had been hoping for your position, and they are popular amongst the men. One in particular, from the rumours I heard, had a great deal set on moving up in the ranks. His disappointment has poisoned the entire well, for all that he knew he was not ready for the position. My father has privately suggested that his hopes would not have been met, regardless of your arrival, but frustrated men are not always the most sensible. He guides the others, and they have chosen you as the target for their discontent.”
Things were making some sense now. “I regret this. Sincerely, I do. But there is nothing I could have done to prevent it. I must go where I am sent, and my own wishes are irrelevant.”
He did not add that, had he any control over his postings, he would not be in this tropical paradise but would be in the full arena of war.
It would not do to inadvertently insult the lady by such comments; honesty was laudable, but not all truths must be spoken aloud.
Nor did he wonder aloud at the vehemence of this poisonous current of discord.
Being passed over for a new position was part of the game of military life; no man received everything he asked for, even if he could afford to purchase his way. Something else must be at play.
Miss Barrow nodded her head, now freed from her customary bonnet. The dying light caught her brown strands and gilded them in a soft golden light that was pleasing to the eye. Richard found his eyes drawn to the movement of her hair, and only with great effort wrested his focus back to her words.
“The men, of course, know this, and ought not to place the blame on you for something over which you have no control. But when they take exception to something, common sense has little sway.”
And to this, there was little more to be said.
Any chance that Richard had of breaking through the stony wall of exclusion by the other officers was dashed some days later.
A violent storm had hit the island, and rain lashed down from leaden skies.
This was not one of the hurricanes of which Richard had been warned, but it was vile weather nonetheless, and the men had given up thoughts of their usual sojourn to the tavern in Somerset for their accustomed games of cards.
This did not deter them from their pursuits, however, and it soon became apparent that a great deal of money was being wagered within the walls of the nascent fort.
The evening began quietly enough, with little betrayal of what was happening behind the door, but as the beer flowed and the stakes rose, so did the level of the noise, until Colonel Barrow heard of it.
Richard liked his colonel. Brusque and efficient, Barrow shared his daughter’s straightforward ways, and he abided no fools.
He was sincere and utterly reliable, but he did not always take the time to clothe his thoughts in gentle language.
Another reason, it seemed, that his underlings did not love him like a benevolent uncle.
“Fitzwilliam!” Colonel Barrow stormed into Richard’s room, the noise rivalling the thunder outside. “There is some game going on in Simmond’s and Weekes’ rooms. Two of them, the curs. They know my sentiments. Put a stop to it. Now.” And off he crashed, having found someone to do his work for him.
Richard blew out a lungful of air. This would not gain him any new friends, but he had his orders and obey them he must. Everyone knew of his dislike of gaming, but until now, he had ignored it.
Let the men make their own beds, and all that.
Tonight, he would by necessity turn ambivalence into animosity.
Richard’s rooms were across the field from where the game was taking place.
He found his heavy oiled coat and thickest boots and dragged them on before stepping out into the storm.
No umbrella would help against the deluge, and he did not even attempt to use one.
His hat, likewise, would be destroyed, and the coat’s hood must suffice.
Still, he was soaked through to the skin before he had gone five steps beyond the shelter of his wing of the complex, and by the time he arrived at the rooms where the games were taking place, his temper was short and he had no desire to placate the miscreants.
“Shut this game down this very instant!” he yelled from the doorway to Simmond’s room. “The colonel is most displeased and commands it.”
Half-hearted pleas from the men to allow them to continue were lobbed about the space, but they met firm resistance in Richard’s stony demeanour.
“I said NOW!” he bellowed, his fiercest officer’s voice loud and strong. “Back to your rooms, all of you, and perhaps Colonel Barrow will not take action. Now!”
This was repeated next door, and the games broke up, but there was no disguising the sour expressions that lined the faces of the men about the tables, or the looks of absolute loathing on the parts of Simmond and Weekes.
No, any chance of forming friendships amongst this crew of officers was now thoroughly dead.