THE TOWER.
ABOUT this time all England was ringing with what was known as the “Trent
affair”; 10,000 troops had been ordered to Montreal, of which a
considerable portion were Guards, and so it devolved on certain line
battalions to garrison London, and we were ordered to the Tower.
It was the regimental guest-night, and all the plate of which the
regiment was so proud decked the table in the dark wainscoted room of the
Mess House. In the middle of the table stood a centre-piece displaying
the soldiers in the uniforms of the days of Marlborough, the Peninsular,
and later on, when the hateful Albert Shako did duty as the headgear of
British infantry; extending down each side were scrolls containing the
names of brave men who had fallen with their faces to the enemy at
Quebec, Quatre Bras, and the Redan, whilst flanking the massive trophy
were silver goblets varying in size—from those that held a quart down to
others of more modern dimensions, indicative of presentations on
promotion, marriage, or “selling out.” It had, indeed, once been a
custom for the last joined ensign to drain the largest tankard on his
first appearance at mess; but that was in the days when four bottles
under a man’s belt was deemed a reasonable amount, and before the
Regent’s allowance enabled every one to consume nightly a half-glass of
port or sherry free of expense.
The Colonel, as may be supposed, was in great form, each of his yarns
exceeding in improbability the one preceding it. “Yes, gentlemen,” he
was saying, “I remember my father saying how at Quatre Bras the regiment
found itself confronted by the 88th French Infantry Corps, and he
overheard the right-hand man of his company saying, as he bit off the end
of his cartridge, ‘Jasus, boys, here’s a case—here we are opposite the
French Connaught Rangers!’”
“I was saying, gentlemen,” the Colonel’s voice was here heard declaring,
“that I shall never forget”—and then followed a tissue of fabrications
every one had frequently heard before, but which nobody but the worthy
old warrior for one moment believed.
Coffee and cigars had meanwhile made their welcome appearance, and as
guests began to think of home, and others settled down to muff whist, the
ante-room resumed the humdrum appearance so familiar to every one who can
speak from experience.
By the irony of fate, also, the regiment was furnishing the guards on
this special guest-night, a circumstance that claimed more than one
punter; not satisfied with which, the field officer’s “roster” had
apparently joined issue and requisitioned the old Major who, on these
festive occasions was always a sure hand at loo, and who at the identical
moment when he should have been “taking the miss,” was probably bellowing
out “Grand Rounds,” to some distant guard in tones that belied his
amiable genial disposition.
George, on these occasions, was the recognised organiser, and by
herculean efforts had secured some half-dozen recruits to commence loo as
soon as old Hanmer returned.
Games of chance—even in the long-ago sixties—were rarely indulged in in
the ante-room, which was reserved exclusively for solemn whist for
nominal stakes, where the players bottled up trumps, misdealt, and
revoked, regardless of all the canons of the game.
“Damn it, sir!” once exclaimed an irate General at an inspection dinner
to his trembling partner—the assistant surgeon—“Are you aware that 3,000
shoeless men are tramping the streets of the Continent for not leading
trumps?” to which the medico—who was a Kerry man—replied respectfully:
“Oi apalagoise, surr, most humbly; but oi disremembered me abligation.”
“Obligation be d—, sir!” replied the genial old warrior as he lighted a
fresh cheroot.
“The Major’s late,” remarked George to a confirmed loo player; “let us go
up to my room and get the table ready. Come on,” he continued to four or
five others, “we’ll make a start anyhow; he can’t be long.”
The officers’ quarters in the Tower can hardly be described as spacious,
and so by the addition of chairs from other rooms; with the table lugged
into the centre, and brandy and sodas piled on the bed it was not long
before some half-dozen punters were securely wedged together and
indulging in unlimited loo for stakes that were not always nominal.
The Major, meanwhile, had joined the party and without divesting himself
of either cloak, shako, or sword, dashed into the fray with considerably
greater zeal than he had displayed when going the rounds. Not that he
was any feather-bed soldier; on the contrary, he had borne his full share
of the trenches, and then often found himself told off to march to
Balaclava with a fatigue party, and eventually to enjoy a few hours’
sleep in wet clothes on wet ground, whilst blankets and boots were
rotting within six miles, and all because brave men were at the front,
and old women were at the back of that rickety machine called the War
Office.
Billy Hanmer, amid the ordinary walks of life, was of a chilly
temperament; the thermometer in his quarters was never permitted to
register less than 65 degrees; he wore flannels all the year round, which
in winter were duplicated, even to his socks; when he became
excited—which never occurred except at loo, or when suddenly called upon
to drill the battalion—the three hairs that were usually pasted across
his martial skull rose like the crest of a cockatoo, and he was apt to
give vent to expressions seldom or never heard at a bishop’s. Swearing
in those long-ago days was considered a necessary adjunct to military
efficiency, as any one who was under Pennefather when he commanded at
Aldershot can testify, and so it was that the Major was now swearing like
a trooper. As a fact, he had just been “loo-ed,” and was counting some
forty sovereigns into the pool, and every sovereign was accompanied by an
oath as unique as it was unavailing.
George Hay, sportsman though he was, was also a bad loser, but this
evening, in his capacity as host the Fates had happily protected him.
The grilled bones that appeared at 2 a.m., and the inordinate amount of
brandy and soda that had been consumed, were all put down to him; but the
hundred he had won left ample margin for the hospitality, and towards
five our hero fell into a profound and refreshing sleep, periodically
enlivened by sweet visions of huge pools that he persistently raked in,
whilst Billy Hanmer, divested of cloak, sword, and shako, was swearing
till the old rafters rattled.
In those days the club most affected by subalterns was the “Raleigh,” a
charming night-house, approached by a tunnel, whose portals opened at
dusk and closed reputedly at four a.m., or whenever its members vacated
it. And the comfort of that long, delightful single room! Ranged round
its entirety were fauteuils, suitable alike for forty winks, or brandy
and soda, or the only eatables procurable—bacon on toast sandwiches with
a dash of biting sauce. Here might be seen the best men in London
percolating through at every moment, and exchanging badinage as brilliant
as probably it was naughty—poor old George Lawrence of “Sword and Gown”
fame, and Piggy Lawrence, killed not long after in a regimental
steeplechase; Fred Granville, who assisted at a once celebrated elopement
by waiting at one door of an Oxford Street shop for the beautiful
_fiancée_ of a wealthy landowner whose brougham had deposited her at
another; Freddy Cooper, the best four-in-hand whip of the day; the wicked
Marquis who ran through a fortune almost before he was of age; and young
Wyndham, another Croesus of the duck-and-drake type; Sir Henry de Hoghton
of the red tie and velvet suit who thought he could play ecarté; and
King-Harman, then a sinner, but eventually a saint, who died in the
sanctity of respectability. These, and a hundred others, all, alas gone
to the inevitable dustbin, and yet the old building exists, _externally_
apparently the same—the haunt of aspiring youths seeking a club with a
past, respectable and cautious to the highest degree, where cheques are
not cashed over £5, and the doors close at one a.m. to the tick.
But even in these long-ago days, the membership increased to such an
extent that elbow-room had to be sought, and so Sally Sutherland’s, a
high-class night-house that abutted on the premises, was eventually taken
in, and became the card room of the old Raleigh. To see this room in its
glory it was necessary to enter it during the Derby week, where, as far
as the eye could reach (and farther), one dense mass of human faces
watched the proceedings at the card table, and fought and hustled to pass
fivers and tenners and fifties towards building up the mountain of bank
notes that flanked either side of the table.
Seated composedly were the two champions with their bankers alongside
them, then a fringe ten deep of pasty-faced cornets and rubicund old
sinners with sheaves of bank notes in their hands, while beyond were the
“fielders”—landsharks who never played—eagerly watching every turn of the
cards to take advantage of any bet that appeared slightly in their
favour. “Chalky” White—the master of the Essex as he was ironically
called—because he affected horsy overalls, and was once seen on a screw
at the Boat Race; Captain Mulroony, an Irish buckeen who joined the
“North Corks” to be eligible for “the cloob”; “the Rapparee,” another
warrior with a brogue of a pronounced order, all ready to plunge on a
reasonable certainty and retail their experiences later on, on their
return to Dublin. Needless to add, we youngsters had put down our names
_en bloc_ for membership as soon as we had settled down at the Tower, and
on the memorable night to which we refer were in great force in the long
room. George Hay, one of our lieutenants who was being entertained by a
venerable member, was wrapped in contemplation as he watched a decrepit
old gentleman sipping a gin sling. “That man”—his cicerone was telling
him—“fought the last duel in England; look at him now, about eighty if
he’s a day, and barely able to crawl down here, and yet fifty years ago
he had a drunken brawl with his best friend at Crockford’s, and shot him
dead before breakfast at the back of Ham House. Wait till the play
begins and you’ll see him ‘fielding’; he never plays, but if he sees a
chance, no matter how slightly in his favour, he still pulls out a
crumpled fiver and invites you to cover it. He only bets ‘ready,’ and
would probably ‘call you out’ if you suggested ‘booking’ it. That man in
the blue shirt is the Duke of Hamilton; he only turns up in the Derby
week, and has probably just arrived by special train. We call him ‘the
butcher,’ because of his shirt and his punching proclivities. He
plunges, too; wait a bit till the Leviathans turn up. You’ll see some
sport yet.”
“What are you going to do, George?” inquired a youngster; “why not have a
look in at Kate Hamilton’s? This is all d— rot, and I’ve put my name
down for 2 a.m.”
Putting one’s name down, it may be explained, was a necessary formality
indicating at what hour an officer intended to return when the wicket at
the Tower was opened and closed, and punctuality was a necessity of the
greatest moment.
On one occasion, indeed when “Payther” Madden was on sentry, the wife of
an officer who gave herself considerable airs having arrived five minutes
late was challenged from inside by “Who goes there?” “I’m the Major’s
lady,” was the haughty response. “Divil a bit do I care if ye were the
Major’s wife!” yelled Payther from inside; “you’ll not get in till the
wicket is opened agin.”
And the approaches to the Tower in those days were not the broad and
well-lighted avenues such as the Eastcheap of to-day; tortuous alleys and
dingy, narrow streets had to be traversed, and the garrotter was very
much in evidence. Officers returning late carried knuckle-dusters and
short blades in their right-hand overcoat pockets, ready to job any
footpad who attempted to seize them from behind. Men seldom returned but
in parties of twos or threes, and so it was that the Major’s “lady” found
herself constrained to hug the walls of the grim old fortress during the
early hours of that memorable night in the long-ago sixties.
It was the night after the big race, when Caractacus was responsible for
much that followed, that the crowd at the Raleigh was phenomenal, and
champagne was being consumed in tumblers from the entrance hall to the
card room. Thousands had changed hands within the past dozen hours, and
old Jimmy Jopp with his chocolate wig over his left eye was scrambling
sovereigns from the doorstep amongst the fair guests of our country who
thronged the boulevard. The card room had not as yet entered on its
usual function, the window was indeed open in an endeavour to dilute the
stifling atmosphere, and a corpulent old lady with a Flemish accent was
half-way in the sacred precincts through the combined efforts of a bevy
of fair compatriots on the pavement.
“Curse these races,” ejaculated Biscoe, “where have the plungers got to?
Nearly one o’clock by G—, and a pile to be got home before daylight.”
This Biscoe was not a favourite in the club; of a hectoring disposition
he added to his unpopularity by the pursuit of sharp practices. If he
won he invariably found an excuse to retire with his gains, and if he
lost he became cantankerous and offensive in his remarks. Some there
were, indeed, who went so far as hinting that he was not above unfair
dealings. He was partial to shuffling the cards with their faces towards
him and placing a king at the bottom of the pack. This he explained was
mere force of habit, and when remonstrated with—as he often had
been—added that he was superstitious and that one of his superstitions
took this form. No actual act of foul play had ever been brought home to
him; he was nevertheless under suspicion, and being otherwise unpopular,
his eccentricities assumed a graver form when balanced by hostile
critics.
Cheating in those long-ago days was happily a rare occurrence; a man
about town might beggar his parents, or drive his wife into the
workhouse, and still hold up his head as a man of honour if he met his
card debts on the nail; but “sharping” was practically unknown till some
years later, when a scandal that thrilled Europe and involved a deep
erasure in the Army List was enacted at Nice.
The Raleigh, meanwhile, was gradually simmering down; choice spirits had
started for Cremorne or Mott’s; the more soberly amused had wended their
steps towards Evans’s, and the residue might have been classed as either
punters or puntees—if such base coin will bear alloy.
Seated in the card room, Biscoe still smoked in his solitude; before him
was a gilt-bound volume such as betting men affect, and its contemplation
apparently did not afford unalloyed pleasure. “Egad,” he muttered,
“£4,000, more or less, and not a hundred to meet it with; to-night it’s
neck or nothing, and if nobody bleeds I shall be unable to face the music
on Monday. Ah, De Hoghton,” he exclaimed, barely looking up as an
apparition in velvet and red tie appeared, “been at Epsom? No? Perhaps
you were wise.”
Paddy was too clever to suggest a game, knowing as he did the eccentric
baronet’s peculiarities. “Never mind,” he continued, “better luck
to-morrow, perhaps. I’m half asleep. Good-night,” and he rose as if
about to depart.
“What’s the hurry?” inquired the new arrival. “If you want to keep awake
I’ll play you half a dozen games of ecarté, but only for small stakes,
mind.”
Want indeed! It was what Biscoe had wanted for hours, and as to the
stakes, did he not know from delightful experience that if they began at
£5 it would not be long before the game was for hundreds, and that his
adversary’s rent roll might be counted in thousands?
“My dear Sir Henry,” replied Biscoe, “name your own stakes. No fear of
making them too low. I feel in bad form to-night, and your science will
be altogether too much for me.”
“Say a pony then,” continued the baronet, and they cut for deal.
Meanwhile the room began gradually to fill, and as the unmistakable
flutter of crisp notes—for which no resemblance has ever been
discovered—made itself heard in the long room, George Hay and a troop of
others sauntered negligently into the room.
“Sit beside me, Colonel,” De Hoghton requested a grizzly, rubicund
warrior, “you’ll be able to advise me when they make a pool.”
“And, Rapparee, I want you,” exclaimed Biscoe. “We must show these
English boys how we play at Stephen’s Green,” and a fire-eating
pronounced Hibernian took post alongside his compatriot.
For a considerable time the luck appeared to fluctuate, and if hundreds
were passed across the table on one game, they returned more or less
intact at the subsequent encounter. Play was now in real earnest, and
stakes were hazarded that were simply appalling. Biscoe, too, appeared
to be in for a run of luck, and the excited whisperings between him and
the Rapparee left little room for doubt that he contemplated a retreat on
the first defeat.
His winnings, indeed, were considerable, and a smile pervaded his
hitherto scowling face as he contemplated the Monday’s settling with
equanimity. Again the bank was declared, and a pile of notes larger than
any of its predecessors lumbered each side of the table; eyes,
apparently, had no other vocation than to watch their respective
champion’s hands; the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece became a
nuisance, and the grasshopper literally became a burden; the silence of
the Catacombs pervaded the entire assembly, when a voice, shrill and
excited, was heard: “Do that again, Mr. Biscoe, and I’ll expose you.”
It was the Colonel, who leaning across the table bore down Biscoe’s hands
with a strong right arm as he was in the act of shuffling.
“What am I to understand by this?” inquired Biscoe looking towards the
Rapparee. “If it’s by way of an insult you’ve met the right boy to
resent it. Hands off, sir!” he shouted, as shaking off the Colonel’s
hand, he hurled the pack of cards in his face.
“Hold, hold, gentlemen, for God’s sake,” implored De Hoghton, as a dozen
men interposed between the belligerents. “Some explanation is surely
forthcoming that may avoid a scandal. Colonel, tell those gentlemen what
you saw, and let them decide on the merits before it gets into the
papers.”
“What I saw I am prepared to prove,” replied the Colonel, excitedly; “but
even that sinks into insignificance, as far as I am personally concerned,
in face of the man’s assault. Meanwhile, pick up these cards, count them
carefully, and if you don’t find five kings in the pack I’ll apologise to
Mr. Biscoe, and take his assault like a coward.”
And then a scramble on the floor began, which was followed by breathless
silence.
“Count them, please,” requested the Colonel, and sure enough 33 was the
result.
“Now turn the faces towards you, sir,” continued the Colonel; “and
extract the kings.” And lo! before a dumbfounded crowd, two kings of
hearts were displayed.
“This, gentlemen, is my accusation. I charge Mr. Biscoe with being a
card-sharper and a cheat. To-morrow I’ll lay my charge before the
Committee; meanwhile, I retire and will ask you, Hay, to act as my
representative.”
The Rapparee meanwhile had been in whispered conversation with his
friend, and on the Colonel’s departure, addressed himself to Hay.
“Oi presume, surr, your principal will meet my man unless he’s a coward,
and we shall be pleased to let him fix his own day, either before or
afther his complaint to the Committee.”
“This is hardly the time, sir, to enter into such arrangements,” replied
Hay, courteously; “but I vouch for Colonel George doing what is right and
honourable.”
But one of the younger members seemed inclined to treat the matter as a
joke, and turning towards the Rapparee, remarked, “But, surely, sir, you
must see that if it’s a duel you are hinting at, it would hardly be fair
considering that Colonel George is considerably stouter than Mr. Biscoe.
May we assume, sir, that you won’t object to a chalk mark down each side
of the Colonel’s waistcoat, and a hit outside not to count?”
“Surr!” scowled the Rapparee.
“Please,” pleaded Hay; “this is not a joking matter, the honour of the
Club and of every member who was present is at stake till the affair is
cleared up. I appeal to you, gentlemen, one and all, to retire.”
Turning to the Rapparee, and raising his hat, he continued: “My name,
sir, is Lieutenant Hay, and I’m stationed at the Tower.”