Thomas returned the smile. ‘I fancy that would damage me more than the enemy.’ To make conversation, he asked, ‘How many horses does it take to pull this?’
‘One in the shafts, sir, and six pairs in the traces,’ adding helpfully, ‘It can fire a two-pound ball as far as a mile.’
And knock over a line of men like so many skittles, thought Thomas. Lifeless skittles if they’re hit by a ball from this beast. ‘There’s much going on today. Do you know what’s happening?’
The man laughed. ‘God bless you sir, I’m just a poor soldier from Amsterdam. No one tells me anything.’
‘Nothing at all?’
‘Not much anyway. We’ve been told to make ready to march. Where to and for what, we’ll find out when we get there.’
‘No rumours at all?’
‘Gloucester’s most people’s choice as Prince Rupert is still laying siege to the town, but I’ve had a wager on Reading. They say the Earl of Essex is heading that way. If he is, we’ll be sent to stop him reaching London, and I’ll be five guineas richer.’
‘I hope you are, and that you’re able to collect it.’
‘If I’m not, sir, it’ll go to my wife. I mean widow. That’s the agreement.’
Thomas nodded. ‘Good luck then.’ A Dutch mercenary, fighting for a living. Hardly a matter of principle for him. Not all the cannon were as enormous as his. As he walked down the line, Thomas counted four other types, right down to a little fellow with its own wheels. He stepped around heaps of rope, piles of cannonballs of different sizes, blankets, sacking and barrels of powder. What an immense undertaking war was. Immense and costly — and not only in money. How many men would die when these merciless destroyers started dealing out death? A thousand? Five thousand? Ten thousand?
At the end of the line, he came to the river and looked across. In the fields on the far bank, infantry were gathering. Among their tents he could see pikemen in their helmets and breastplates practising their drills, and musketeers with their long-barrelled matchlocks, ammunition, cleaning prickers, gun rests and swords. The word ‘apostle’ came to him — it was what the small flasks of powder on their bandoliers were called. An odd choice of word. The wise musketeer measured out each charge very carefully before going into battle. Too little and his musket would not fire, too much and he might go up in flames. Who would be a soldier? Having to carry pounds of equipment all over the countryside, sleeping in the open or, at best, in a leaky tent, surviving on scraps, and if the enemy do not kill you, you’ll probably kill yourself. Infantry drilling, artillery making ready — there was something afoot, to be sure.
From the meadow Thomas made his way to the Crown. He was in need of refreshment before going back into battle with that wretched message. As before, the inn was busy — soldiers enjoying a final drink or two before marching off to war, perhaps. Thomas had to shoulder his way in and shout to be heard over the hubbub. Having ordered a bottle of claret and a rabbit pie, he looked about for somewhere to sit. Seeing no spare chairs, he made his way towards the back of the inn, hoping to find one there. Right at the back, at the same table as when he had first seen the man, was Fayne, unmistakable in a short crimson coat and tight crimson breeches. There were three others with him, and a game of hazard was in progress. Despite himself, Thomas moved quietly up behind Fayne, the better to observe the game. As a student, he had prided himself on being rather good at it, and had paid for many a meal out of his winnings. It was a game of chance, but a mathematician’s knowledge of the odds and a quick way with numbers were a decided advantage. It would be interesting to see how well these soldiers played.
The man on Fayne’s right was the caster, the man opposite him the setter, who acted as banker for the three players opposed to the caster. As Thomas watched, he picked up the two dice, shook them in his hand and rolled them out. They showed a five and a six. The caster cheered and the setter pushed a pile of coins towards him. It was the setter’s job to make sure the right amounts were paid out on each hand. As different combinations of main and chance points were played at different odds, he had to have a quick head for figures. Sensible fellow, thought Thomas. He must have set a main point of seven, thus winning with a throw of eleven. Seven was very slightly the best number to set as a main in hazard, and the wise caster never chose anything else. His opponents groaned and fished in their pockets for more coins. ‘The devil’s balls,’ cursed Fayne, ‘do you never choose anything but seven? Where’s your spirit, man?’
Undeterred, the man again set a main of seven, pushed a crown into the middle of the table and watched as each player did the same. There were no scholars’ pennies or farthings in this game. This time, however, both dice showed six, and the caster had to find two more crowns to cover his loss. Thinking his luck had changed, he chose nine as the main for the next round and tossed more crowns on the table when he threw eleven. Foolish fellow, thought Thomas, another main of seven and he would have won. The caster tried nine again, and this time threw four followed by nine. Unlucky, but it happened. Having lost three consecutive hands, the caster passed the dice to Fayne, the man on his left.
‘Now, gentlemen,’ barked Fayne, ‘time to make things more interesting. The main point will be five.’ He put down four crowns and waited to see who would wager against him. All three did. Fayne rattled the dice and threw them down. They showed a four and a one. With a roar of delight, he scooped up the coins and put them in his pocket. ‘There you are, that’s how a sporting man does it.’
One of the players stood up. ‘I’m finished,’ he grumbled. ‘No luck today.’ And he sloped off towards the door.
‘No spirit, young William,’ sneered Fayne. ‘Still, perhaps there’s someone else who’ll join us, eh, gentlemen?’ He turned in his chair and looked around. He saw Thomas immediately. ‘Well, well, if it isn’t the little bookseller. Care for a hand of hazard, bookseller, or haven’t you the head for it?’
If you’re going to choose mains of five, thought Thomas, I have the head and the heart. ‘Captain Fayne, you look a most accomplished player. I am little more than a novice, and I could not play for crowns. A shilling or two would be my limit.’
Again Fayne sneered. ‘Hardly worth the effort, bookseller. What do you think, Philip?’
‘If this gentleman cares for a hand, I say we should oblige him,’ replied Philip, clearly seeing in Thomas the price of a good meal or two. ‘I am Philip Smithson.’
The third player, who offered his name as Hugh Tomkins, agreed.
‘Very well,’ said Fayne. ‘Take a seat, bookseller, and get out your shillings.’
Claret and pie forgotten, Thomas took the empty seat. In his pocket he had six shillings. If he lost those, that would be it.
Fayne, having won the previous hand, was still the caster. He put a shilling on the table and announced that the main would be seven. Damn, thought Thomas, who was hoping he would stick with five. He put down his shilling and hoped for the best. Fayne shook the dice and rolled them out. Two fives. That set ten as the chance point. Now, if he threw ten before he threw seven, Fayne would win, and if he threw seven before he threw ten, he would lose — a reversal of the first throw in each hand, and a reversal of the odds. Thomas knew that it was the moment to lay a side wager and ordinarily, he would have. But he had only six shillings, so he kept the other five in his pocket.
Fayne threw again. This time, the dice showed six. He threw for a third time. A six and a four. He raked in the shillings. ‘Never mind, bookseller, you’ll do better on the next hand,’ he gloated. ‘The main will be seven again.’ Three shillings were wagered against him, and he threw the dice with a flourish. When they showed a four and a three, he had won again. Thomas was down to four shillings, and needed a change of luck.