MR 5

[KingSize]

‘Are there any more questions?’ said Blouse, looking along the line.
‘Jolly good,
then. We leave by the last boat, at midnight. Carry on, sergeant . . .
for now. What was
the other thing . . . oh, yes. And I shall need a batman.’
‘Volunteers to be the lieutenant’s batman step forward! Not you,
Private Maladid!’
snapped the sergeant.
No one moved.
‘Oh, come now,’ said the lieutenant.
Polly slowly raised a hand. ‘What’s a batman, sir?’
The sergeant grinned mirthlessly. ‘Fair question,’ he said. ‘A batman
is, like, a
personal servant who takes care of the officer. Fetches his meals to
him, sees he’s
smartly turned out, that style of thing. So’s he is free to perform
his duties more
adequatelier.’
Igor stepped forward. ‘Igorth are uthed to thervice, thargeant,’ he
said.
Using the amazing powers of deafness and restricted vision sometimes
available
even to the most nervous officers, the lieutenant appeared not to
notice him. He
looked fixedly at Polly.
‘What about you, private?’ he said.
‘Private Perks used to work in a bar, sir,’ the sergeant volunteered.
‘Capital. Report to my quarters in the inn at six, Private Perks.
Carry on, sergeant.’
As the skinny horse staggered away, Sergeant Jackrum directed his
glare at the
squad, but there was no real fire to it. He appeared to be operating
on automatic, with
his mind elsewhere. ‘Don’t just stand there trying to look pretty!
There’s uniforms
and weapons inside! Get kitted up! If you want grub, cook it yerself!
At the double!
Disssssssmiss!’
The squad dashed for the barracks, propelled by sheer volume. But
Polly hesitated.
Corporal Strappi hadn’t moved since the snigger had been cut short. He
was staring
blankly at the ground.
‘You all right, corporal?’ she said.
‘You go away, Parts,’ said the corporal, in a low voice that was much
worse than
his normal petulant shout. ‘Just go away, all right?’
She shrugged, and followed the others. But she had noticed the
steaming dampness
round the corporal’s feet.
There was chaos inside. The barracks was really just one large room
which did
duty as mess, assembly room and kitchen, with big bunk rooms beyond
it. It was
empty, and well on the way to decay. The roof leaked, the high windows
were broken,
dead leaves had blown in and lay around on the floor, among the rat
droppings. There
were no pickets, no sentries, no people. There was a big pot boiling
on the sooty
hearth, though, and its hiss and seethe were the only liveliness in
the place. At some
point part of the room had been set up as a kind of quartermaster’s
store, but most of
the shelves were empty. Polly had expected some sort of queue, some
kind of order,
possibly someone handing out little piles of clothes.
What there was, instead, was a rummage stall. Very much like a rummage
stall, in
fact, because nothing on it appeared to be new and little on it
appeared to be worth
having. The rest of the squad were already pawing through what might
have been
called merchandise if there were any possibility that anyone could be
persuaded to
buy it.
‘What’s this? One Size, Doesn’t Fit Anyone?’
‘This tunic’s got blood on it! Blood!’
‘Well, it is one of the thtubborn thtainth, it’s alwayth very hard to
get it out
without—’
‘Where’s the proper armour?’
‘Oh, no! There’s an arrow hole in this one!’
‘What dis? Nuffin fits a troll!’
A small, leathery old man was at bay behind the table, cowering under
the ferocity
of Maladict’s glare. He wore a red uniform jacket, done up badly, with
a corporal’s
stripes, stained and faded, on the sleeve. The left breast was covered
in medals.
One arm ended in a hook. One eye was covered by a patch.
‘We’re going to be pikemen, the lieutenant said!’ said the vampire.
‘That means a
sword and pike per man, right? And a shield if there’s an arrow storm,
right? And a
heavy helmet, right?’
‘Wrong! You can’t yell at me like that!’ said the man. ‘See these
medals? I’m a—’
A hand descended from above and lifted him over the table. Carborundum
held the
man close to his face and nodded.
‘Yah, can see ‘em, mister,’ he rumbled. ‘And . . . ?’
The recruits had fallen silent.
Tut him down, Carborundum,’ said Poily. ‘Gently.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s got no legs.’
The troll focused. Then, with exaggerated care, he lowered the old
soldier to the
ground. There were a couple of little tapping sounds as the two wooden
peg-legs
touched the planking.
‘Sorry about dat,’ he said.
The little man steadied himself against the table and shuffled his
arms round a
couple of crutches.
‘All right,’ he said gruffly. ‘No harm done. But watch it, another
time!’
‘But this is ridiculous!’ said Maladict, turning to Polly and waving a
hand at the
heap of rags and bent metal. ‘You couldn’t equip three men out of this
mess. There’s
not even any decent boots!’
Polly looked along the length of the table. ‘We’re supposed to be well
equipped,’
she said to the one-eyed man. ‘We’re supposed to be the finest army in
the world.
That’s what we’re told. And aren’t we winning?’
The man looked at her. Inside, she stared at herself. She hadn’t meant
to speak out
like that.
‘So they say,’ he said, in a blank kind of way.
‘And w-what do you say?’ said Wazzer. He’d picked up one of the few
swords. It
was stained and notched.
The corporal glanced up at Carborundum, and then at Maladict.
‘I’m not s-stupid, you know!’ Wazzer went on, red in the face and
trembling. ‘All
this stuff is off d-dead men!’
‘Well, it’s a shame to waste good boots—’ the man began.
‘We’re the last o-ones, aren’t we?’ said Wazzer. ‘The last r-
recruits!’
The peg-legged corporal eyed the distant doorway, and saw no relief
heading in his
direction.
‘We’ve got to stay here all night,’ said Maladict. ‘Night!’ he went
on, causing the
old corporal to wobble on his crutches. ‘When who knows what evil
flits through the
shadows, dealing death on silent wings, seeking a hapless victim who—’
‘Yeah, all right, all right, I did see your ribbon,’ said the
corporal. ‘Look, I’m
closing up after you’ve gone. I just run the stores, that’s all.
That’s all I do, honest!
I’m on one-tenth pay, me, on account of the leg situation, and I don’t
want trouble!’
‘And this is all you’ve got?’ said Maladict. ‘Don’t you have a little
something . . .
put by . . .’
‘Are you saying I’m dishonest?’ said the corporal hotly.
‘Let’s say I’m open to the idea that you might not be,’ said the
vampire. ‘C’mon,
corporal, you said we’re the last to go. What are you saving up?
What’ve you got?’
The corporal sighed, and swung with surprising speed over to a door,
which he
unlocked. ‘You’d better come and look,’ he said. ‘But it’s not
good . . .’
It was worse. They found a few more breastplates, but one was sliced
in half and
another was one big dent. A shield was in two pieces, too. There were
bent swords
and crushed helmets, battered hats and torn shirts.
‘I done what I can,’ sighed the corporal. ‘I hammered stuff out and
washed out the
clothes but it’s been weeks since I had any coal for the forge and you
can’t do nothin’
about the swords without a forge. It’s been months since I got any new
weapons and,
let me tell you, since the dwarfs buggered off the steel we’ve been
getting is crap
anyway.’ He rubbed his nose. ‘I know you think quartermasters are a
thieving bunch
and I won’t say we might not skim a bit off the top when things are
going well, but
this stuff? A beetle couldn’t make a living off this.’ He sniffed
again. ‘Ain’t been paid
in three months, neither. I guess one-tenth of nothing is not as bad
as nothing, but I
was never that good at philosophy.’
Then he brightened-up. ‘Got plenty to eat, at least,’ he said. ‘If you
like horse, that
is. Personally I prefer rat, but there’s no accounting for taste.’
‘I can’t eat horse!’ said Shufti.
‘Ah, you’d be a rat man?’ said the corporal, leading the way out into
the big room.
‘No!’
‘You’ll learn to be one. You’ll all learn,’ said the little one-tenth
corporal, with an
evil grin. ‘Ever eaten scubbo? No? Nothing like a bowl of scubbo when
you’re
hungry. You can put anything in scubbo. Pork, beef, mutton, rabbit,
chicken, duck . . .
anything. Even rats, if you’ve got ‘em. It’s food for the marching
man, scubbo. Got
some on the boil out there right now. You can have some of that, if
you like.’
The squad brightened up.
Thoundth good,’ said Igor. ‘What’th in it?’
‘Boiling water,’ said the corporal. ‘It’s what we call “blind scubbo”.
But there’s
going to be old horse in a minute unless you’ve got something better.
Could do with
some seasonings, at least. Who’s looking after the rupert?’
They looked at one another.
The corporal sighed. ‘The officer,’ he explained. ‘They’re all called
Rupert or
Rodney or Tristram or something. They get better grub than you do. You
could try
scrounging something at the inn.’
‘Scrounge?’ said Polly.
The old man rolled his one eye.
‘Yeah. Scrounge. Scrounge, nick, have a lend of, borrow, thieve, lift,
acquire,
purrrr-loin. That’s what you’ll learn, if you’re gonna survive this
war. Which they say
we’re winnin’, o’ course. Always remember that.’ He spat vaguely in
the direction of
the fire, possibly missing the cooking pot only by accident. ‘Yeah,
an’ all the lads I
see coming back down the road walking hand in hand with Death, they
probably
overdid the celebrating, eh? So easy to take your hand right off if
you open a bottle of
cham-pag-nee the wrong way, eh? I see you’ve got an Igor with you, you
lucky
devils. Wish we’d had one when I went off to battle. I wouldn’t be
kept awake by
woodworm if we had.’
‘We have to steal our food?’ said Maladict.
‘No, you can starve if that takes your fancy,’ said the corporal.
‘I’ve starved a few
times. There’s no future in it. Ate a man’s leg when we were snowed up
in the
Ibblestarn campaign but, fair’s fair, he ate mine.’ He looked at their
faces. ‘Well, it’s
not on, is it, eating your own leg ? You’d probably go blind.’
‘You swapped legs?’ said Polly, horrified.
‘Yeah, me an’ Sergeant Hausegerda. It was his idea. Sensible man, the
sergeant.
That kept us alive for the week and by then the relief had got
through. We were
certainly relieved about that. Oh, dear. Where’s my manners? How d’yer
do, lads, my
name’s Corporal Scallot. They call me Threeparts.’ He held out his
hook.
‘But that’s cannibalism!’ said Tonker, backing away.
‘No it’s not, not officially, not unless you eat a whole person,’ said
Threeparts
Scallot levelly. ‘Milit’ry rules.’
All eyes turned to the big pot bubbling on the fire.
‘Horse,’ said Scallot. ‘Ain’t got nothing but horse. I told you. I
wouldn’t lie to you,
boys. Now kit yerselves up with the best yer can find. What’s your
name, stone man?’
‘Carborundum,’ said the troll.
‘Got a wee bit o’ decent snacking anthracite saved up out the back,
then, and some
official red paint for you ‘cos I never met a troll yet that wanted to
wear a jacket. The
rest of you, mark what I’m telling yer: fill up with grub. Fill yer
pack with grub. Fill
yer shako with grub. Fill yer boots with soup. If any of you run
across a pot of
mustard, you hang on to it - it’s amazin’ what mustard’ll help down.
And look after
your mates. And keep out of the way of officers, ‘cos they ain’t
healthy. That’s what
you learn in the army. The enemy dun’t really want to fight you, ‘cos
the enemy is
mostly blokes like you who want to go home with all their bits still
on. But officers’ll
get you killed.’ Scallot looked round at them. ‘There. I’ve said it.
And if there’s a
political amongst you: mister, you can go an’ tell tales and to hell
with you.’
After a few moments of embarrassed silence Polly said: ‘What’s a
political?’
‘Like a spy, only on your own side,’ said Maladict.
‘That’s right,’ said Scallot. ‘There’s one in every battalion these
days, snitching on
their mates. Get promotion that way, see? Don’t want dissent in the
ranks, eh? Don’t
want loose talk about losing battles, right? Which is a load of bloody
cludgies, ‘cos
the infantry grumbles all the time. Moaning is part of bein’ a
soldier.’ He sighed.
‘Anyway, there’s a bunkhouse out the back. I beats the pallyarses
regular so there’s
probably not too many fleas.’ Once again he looked at blank faces.
‘That’s straw
mattresses to you. Go on, help yourselves. Take what you like. I’m
closing up after
you’ve gone, anyway. We must be winning now you rattling lads are
joining, right?’
The clouds had broken when Polly stepped out into the night, and a
half-moon
filled the world with cold silver and black. The inn opposite was
another rubbishy
alehouse for selling bad beer to soldiers. It stank of ancient slops,
even before she
opened the door. The sign was flaked and unrecognizable, but she could
read the
name: The World Turned Upside Down. She pushed open the door. The
smell got
worse. There were no customers and no sign of Strappi or Jackrum, but
Polly did see
a servant methodically spreading the inn’s dirt evenly across the
floor with a mop.
‘Excuse m—’ she began, and then remembered the socks, raised her voice
and
tried to sound angry. ‘Hey, where’s the lieutenant?’
The servant looked at her and gestured up the stairs with a thumb.
There was only
one candle alight up there, and she knocked on the nearest door.
‘Enter.’
She entered. Lieutenant Blouse was standing in the middle of the floor
in his
breeches and shirtsleeves, holding a sabre. Polly was no expert in
these matters, but
she thought she recognized the stylish, flamboyant pose as the one
beginners tend to
use just before they’re stabbed through the heart by a more
experienced fighter.
‘Ah, Perks, isn’t it?’ he said, lowering the blade. ‘Just, er,
limbering up.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘There’s some laundry in the bag over there. I expect someone in the
inn will do it.
What’s for supper?’
‘I’ll check, sir.’
‘What are the men having?’
‘Scubbo, sir,’ said Polly. ‘Possibly with hor—’
‘Then bring me some, will you? We are at war, after all, and I must
show an
example to my men,’ said Blouse, sheathing the sword at the third
attempt. ‘That
would be good for morale.’
Polly glanced at the table. A book lay open on top of a pile of
others. It looked like
a manual of swordsmanship, and the page it was open at was page five.
Beside it was
a thick-lensed pair of spectacles.
‘Are you a reading man, Perks?’ said Blouse, closing the book.
Polly hesitated. But, then, what did Ozzer care? ‘A bit, sir,’ she
admitted.
‘I suspect I shall have to leave most of these behind,’ he said. ‘Do
take one if you
want it.’ He waved a hand at the books. Polly read the titles. The
Craft of War.
Principles of Engagement. Battle Studies. Tactical Defence.
‘All a bit heavy for me, sir,’ she said. ‘Thanks all the same.’
‘Tell me, Perks,’ said Blouse, ‘are the recruits in, er, good
spirits?’
He gave her a look of apparently genuine concern. He really did have
no chin, she
noticed. His face just eased its way into his neck without much to
disturb it on the
way, but his Adam’s apple, now, that was a champion. It went up and
down his neck
like a ball on a spring.
Polly had been soldiering for only a couple of days, but already an
instinct had
developed. In summary, it was this: lie to officers. ‘Yes, sir,’ she
said.
‘Getting everything they need?’
The aforesaid instinct weighed the chances of their getting anything
more than
they’d got already as a result of a complaint, and Polly said, ‘Yes,
sir.’
‘Of course, it is not up to us to question our orders,’ said Blouse.
‘Wasn’t doing so, sir,’ said Polly, momentarily perplexed.
‘Even though at times we might feel—’ the lieutenant began, and
started again.
‘Obviously warfare is a very volatile thing, and the tide of battle
can change in a
moment.’
‘Yessir,’ said Polly, still staring. The man had a small spot where
his spectacles
had rubbed on his nose.
The lieutenant seemed to have something on his mind, too. ‘Why did you
join up,
Perks?’ he said, groping on the table and finding his spectacles at
the third attempt.
He had woollen gloves on, with the fingers cut out.
‘Patriotic duty, sir!’ said Polly promptly.
‘You lied about your age?’
‘Nosir!’
‘Just patriotic duty, Perks?’
There were lies, and then there were lies. Polly shifted awkwardly.
‘Would quite
like to find out what’s happened to my brother Paul, sir,’ she said.
‘Ah, yes.’ Lieutenant Blouse’s face, not a picture of happiness to
begin with,
suddenly bore a hunted look.
‘Paul Perks, sir,’ Polly prompted.
‘I’m, er, not really in a position to know, Perks,’ said Blouse. ‘I
was working as a .
. . I was, er, in charge of, er, I was engaged in special work back at
headquarters, er . .
. obviously I don’t know all the soldiers, Perks. Older brother, w— is
he?’
‘Yessir. Joined the Ins-and-Outs last year, sir.’
‘And, er, have you any younger brothers?’ said the lieutenant.
‘No, sir.’
‘Ah, well. That’s something to be thankful for, at any rate,’ said
Blouse. It was a
strange thing to say. Polly’s brow wrinkled in puzzlement.
‘Sir?’ she said.
And then she felt an unpleasant sensation of movement. Something was
slipping
slowly down the inside of her thigh.
‘Anything the matter, Perks?’ said the lieutenant, catching her
expression.
‘Nosir! Just a . . . a bit of cramp, sir! All the marching, sir!’ She
clamped both
hands around one knee and edged backwards towards the door. ‘I’ll just
go and . . . go
and see to your supper, sir!’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Blouse, staring at her leg. ‘Yes . . . please . . .’
Polly paused outside the door to pull her socks up, retucked the end
of one under
her belt as an anchor, and hurried down to the inn’s kitchens. A look
told her all she
wanted to know. Food hygiene here consisted of making a half-hearted
effort not to
gob in the stew.
‘I want onions, salt, pepper—’ she began.
The maid who was stirring the soot-black pot on the soot-black stove
glanced up,
realized she had been addressed by a man, and hastily pushed her damp
hair out of her
eyes.
‘It’s stoo, sir,’ she announced.
‘I don’t want any. I just want the stuff,’ said Polly. ‘For the
officer,’ she added.
The kitchen maid pointed a soot-blackened thumb to a nearby door and
gave Polly
what she probably thought was a saucy grin.
‘I’m sure you can have anything that takes your fancy, sir,’ she said.
Polly glanced at the two shelves that had been dignified by the name
of pantry, and
grabbed a couple of large onions, one in each hand.
‘May I?’ she said.
‘Oh, sir!’ giggled the maid. ‘I do hope you’re not one of them coarse
soldiers
who’d take advantage of a helpless maiden, sir!’
‘No, er . . . no. I’m not one of them,’ said Polly.
‘Oh.’ This didn’t seem to be the right answer. The maid put her head
on one side.
‘Have you had much to do with young women, sir?’ she asked.
‘Er . . . yes. Quite a lot,’ said Polly. ‘Er . . . lots, really.’
‘Really?’ The maid drew closer. She smelled mostly of sweat, tinged
with soot.
Polly raised the onions as a kind of barrier.
‘I’m sure there’s things you’d like to learn,’ the maid purred.
‘I’m sure there’s something you wouldn’t!’ said Polly, and turned and
ran.
As she made it out into the cold night air, a plaintive voice behind
her called out,
‘I’m off at eight o’clock!’
Ten minutes later, Corporal Scallot was impressed. Polly got the
feeling this did
not happen often. Shufti had wedged an old breastplate beside the
fire, had hammered
some slabs of horse-meat until they were tender, dipped them in some
flour, and was
frying them. The sliced onions sizzled next to them.
‘I always just boil ‘em,’ said Scallot, watching him with interest.
‘You just lose all the flavour if you do that,’ said Shufti.
‘Hey, lad, the stuff I’ve ate, you wouldn’t want to taste it!’
‘Saute stuff first, especially the onions,’ Shufti went on. ‘Improves
the flavour.
Anyway, when you boil you ought to boil slow. That’s what me mam
always says.
Roast fast, boil slow, okay? This isn’t bad meat, for horse. Shame to
boil it.’
‘Amazin’,’ said Scallot. ‘We could’ve done with you in Ibblestarn. The
sarge was
a good man but a bit, you know, tough in the leg?’
‘A marinade would probably have helped,’ said Shufti absently,
flipping over a
slice of meat with a broken sword. He turned to Polly. ‘Was there any
more stuff in
the larder, Ozz? I can make up some stock for tomorrow if we can—’
‘I’m not going in that kitchen again!’ said Polly.
‘Ah, that’d be Roundheels Molly?’ said Corporal Scallot, looking up
and grinning.
‘She’s sent many a lad on his way rejoicing.’ He dipped a ladle in the
boiling scubbo
pot next to the pan. Disintegrated grey meat seethed in a few inches
of water.
‘That’ll do for the rupert,’ he said, and picked up a stained bowl.
‘Well, he did say he wanted to eat what the men eat,’ said Polly.
‘Oh, that kind of officer,’ said Scallot uncharitably. ‘Yeah, some
young ones try
that stuff, if’n they’ve been readin’ the wrong books. Some of ‘em
tries to be friends,
the bastards.’ He spat expertly between the two pans. ‘Wait ‘til he
tries what the men
eat.’
‘But if we’re having steak and onions—’
‘No thanks to the likes o’ him,’ said the corporal, ladling the slurry
into the bowl.
‘The Zlobenian troops get one pound of beef and a pound of flour a day
minimum,
plus fat pork or butter and half a pound of pease. A pint o’ molasses
sometimes, too.
We get stale horse-bread and what we scrounge. He’ll have scubbo and
like it.’
‘No fresh vegetables, no fruit,’ said Shufti. ‘That’s a very binding
diet, corp.’
‘Yeah, well, once battle commences I reckon you’ll find constipation’s
the last
thing on your mind,’ said Scallot. He reached up, pushed some rags
aside, and pulled
down a dusty bottle from a shelf.
‘Rupert’s not having none o’ this, neither,’ he said. ‘Got it off’f
the baggage of the
last officer that went through, but I’ll share it with you, ‘cos you’s
good lads.’ He
casually knocked the top of the bottle off against the edge of the
chimney.’ ‘s only
sherry, but it’ll make you drunk.’
‘Thanks, corp,’ said Shufti, and took the bottle. He sloshed a lot
over the sizzling
meat.
‘Hey, that’s good drink you’re wastin’!’ said Scallot, making a grab
for it.
‘No, it’ll spice up the meat a fair treat,’ said Shufti, trying to
hang on to the bottle.
‘It’ll— sugar!’
Half the liquid had gone on the fire as the two hands fought for it,
but that wasn’t
what had felt like a small steel rod shooting through Polly’s head.
She looked round at
the rest of the squad, who didn’t appear to have—
Maladict winked at her and made a tiny gesture with his head towards
the other
end of the room, and strolled in that direction. Polly followed.
Maladict always found something to lounge against. He relaxed in the
shadows,
looked up at the rafters, and said: ‘Now, I say a man who knows how to
cook is no
less of a man for that. But a man who says “sugar” when he swears?
Have you ever
heard a man say that? You haven’t. I can tell.’
So it was you who gave me the socks, thought Polly. You know about me,
I can
tell you do, but do you know about Lofty? And maybe Shufti was very
politely
brought up . . . but one look at Maladict’s knowing smile made her
decide not to try
that road. Besides, the moment you looked at Shufti with the idea that
maybe he was a
girl, you saw that he was. No man would say ‘Sugar!’ Three girls
now . . .
‘And I’m pretty sure about Lofty, too,’ said Maladict.
‘What’re you going to do about . . . them?’ she said.
‘Do? Why should I do anything about anyone?’ said Maladict. ‘I’m a
vampire
officially pretending not to be one, right? I’m the last person who’ll
say anyone has to
play the hand they were dealt. So good luck to . . . him, say I. But
you might like to
take him aside later on and have a word with him. You know . . . man
to man.’
Polly nodded. Was there a knowingness to that comment? ‘I’d better go
and take
the lieutenant his scubbo,’ she said. ‘And . . . blast it, I forgot
about his laundry.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that, old chap,’ said Maladict, and
flashed a little
smile. ‘The way things are going around here, Igor’s probably a
washerwoman in
disguise.’
Polly did the laundry, in the end. She wasn’t sure that she’d be able
to dodge Molly
a second time, and there wasn’t that much of it. Afterwards she hung
it in front of the
fire, which was roaring.
The horse had been surprisingly good, but not as surprising as
Blouse’s reaction to
the scubbo. He had sat there in his evening dress uniform - wearing
special clothes
just to sit down and eat all by yourself was a new one on Polly - and
had yummed it
up and sent her back with the bowl for more. The meat had been boiled
white and
there was scum on the top. The squad wondered what kind of life an
officer could
have led that inclined him to like scubbo.
‘Dun’t know much about him,’ said Scallot, upon questioning. ‘He’s
been here two
weeks, frettin’ to get to the war. Brought a whole cartload of books
with him, I heard.
Looks like a typical rupert to me. They were all behind the door when
the chins were
handed out. A sergeant who went through said he’s not really a soldier
at all, just
some wonk from headquarters that’s good at sums.’
‘Oh, great,’ said Maladict, who was brewing his coffee by the fire.
The little
engine gurgled and hissed.
‘I don’t think he can see very well without his glasses,’ said Polly.
‘But he’s very,
er, polite.’
‘Not been a rupert for long, then,’ said Scallot. ‘They’re more “Hey
there! You!
Damn your eyes, fwah fwah fwah!” I seen your sergeant before, though,
old Jackrum.
Been everywhere, he has. Everyone knows old Jackrum. He was with us in
the snow
up at Ibblestarn.’
‘How many people did he eat?’ said Maladict, to general laughter. The
dinner had
been good, and there had still been enough sherry for a glass each.
‘Let’s just say I heard he didn’t come down much thinner than when he
went up,’
said Scallot.
‘And Corporal Strappi?’ said Polly.
‘Never seen him before, either,’ said Scallot. ‘Cross-grained little
bugger. Political,
I’d say. Why’s he gone and left you here? Got a nice cushy bed in the
inn, has he?’
‘I hope he’s not g-going to be our sergeant,’ said Wazzer.
‘Him? Why?’ said Scallot.
Polly volunteered the events of earlier in the evening. To her
surprise, Scallot
laughed.
‘They’re trying to get rid of the old bugger again, are they?’ he
said. ‘That’s a
laugh! Bless you, it’ll take more’n a bunch of gawains and rodneys to
lever Jackrum
out of his own army. Why, he’s been court-martialled twice. He got off
both times.
And d’you know he once saved General Froc’s life? He’s been
everywhere, got the
goods on everyone, knows more strings than me and I know a good few,
mark my
words. If he wants to march with you tomorrow he will, and no skinny
little rupert’ll
get in his way.’
‘So what was a man like that doing as a recruiting officer?’ said
Maladict sharply.
‘ ‘cos he got his leg cut open in Zlobenia and bit the sawbones who
tried to look at
it when the wound went bad, clever dick,’ retorted Scallot. ‘Cleaned
it out himself
with maggots and honey, then drank a pint of brandy and sewed himself
up and lay on
his bed with a fever for a week. But the general got him, I heard,
came and visited
him while he was too weak to protest and told him he was going on the
drumming for