Monstrous Regiment

  ‘Ooo, er,’ said Jackrum theatrically, fishing his screwed-up paper of tobacco out of his pocket.

  ‘What?’

  Jackrum sat down on the remains of a wall. ‘Just injecting a little sauciness into the conversation,’ he said. ‘Carry on, Perks. Have your say. I thought it’d come to this.’

  ‘You know I’m a woman, sarge,’ said Polly.

  ‘Yup. I wouldn’t trust you to shave cheese.’

  The squad stared. Jackrum opened his big knife and examined the chewing tobacco as though it was the most interesting thing present.

  ‘So . . . er . . . what are you going to do about it?’ said Polly, feeling derailed.

  ‘Dunno. Can’t do anything, can I? You were born like it.’

  ‘You didn’t tell Blouse!’ said Polly.

  ‘Nope.’

  Polly wanted to knock the wretched tobacco out of the sergeant’s hand. Now that she had got over the surprise, there was something offensive about this lack of reaction. It was like someone opening a door just before your battering ram hit it; suddenly you were running through the building and not certain how to stop.

  ‘Well, we’re all women, sarge,’ said Tonker. ‘How about that?’

  Jackrum sawed at the tobacco.

  ‘So?’ he said, still paying attention to the job in hand.

  ‘What?’ said Polly.

  ‘Think no one else ever tried it? Think you’re the only ones? Think your ol’ sarge is deaf, blind and stupid? You could fool one another and anyone can fool a rupert, but you can’t fool Jackrum. Weren’t sure about Maladict and still ain’t, because with a vampire, who knows? And not sure about you, Carborundum, because with a troll, who cares? No offence.’

  ‘None taken,’ rumbled Jade. She caught Polly’s eye and shrugged.

  ‘Not so good at reading the signs, not knowing many trolls,’ said the sergeant. ‘I had you down pat in the first minute, Ozz. Something in the eyes, I reckon. Like . . . you were watching to see how good you were.’

  Oh hell, Polly thought. ‘Er . . . do I have a pair of socks belonging to you?’

  ‘Yep. Well washed, I might add.’

  ‘You’ll have them back right now!’ said Polly, grabbing for her belt.

  ‘In your own time, Perks, in your own time, no rush,’ said Jackrum, raising a hand. ‘Well washed, please.’

  ‘Why, sarge?’ said Tonker. ‘Why didn’t you give us away? You could’ve given us away any time!’

  Jackrum slewed his wad from cheek to cheek and sat chewing for a while, staring at nothing.

  ‘No, you ain’t the first,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen a few. Mostly by themselves, always frightened . . . and mostly they didn’t last long. But one or two of them were bonny soldiers, very bonny soldiers indeed. So I looked at you lot and I thought to myself, well now, I thought, I wonder how they’ll do when they find out they’re not alone? You know about lions?’ They nodded. ‘Well, the lion is a big ol’ coward, mostly. If you want trouble, you want to tangle with the lioness. They’re killers, and they hunt together. It’s the same everywhere. If you want big grief, look to the ladies. Even with insects, right? There’s a kind of beetle where she bites his head off right while he’s exercisin’ his conjugals, and that’s what I call serious grief. On the other hand, from what I heard he carries on regardless, so maybe it’s not the same for beetles.’

  He looked around at their blank expressions. ‘No?’ he said. ‘Well, maybe I thought, a whole bunch of girls all at once, that’s . . . strange. Maybe there’s a reason.’ Polly saw him glance briefly at Wazzer. ‘Anyway, I wasn’t goin’ to shame you all in front of a little toad like Strappi, and then there was all that business in Plotz, and then, well, we was gallopin’, as it were, caught up in things with no time to get off. You did well, lads. Very well. Shaped up like good ’uns.’

  ‘I’m going into the keep,’ said Polly.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about the rupert,’ said Jackrum. ‘Probably he’s enjoying a nice bowl of scubbo right now. He went to a school for young gentlemen, so prison will be just like old times.’

  ‘We’re still going, sarge. Sorry,’ said Polly.

  ‘Oh, don’t say sorry, Perks, you were doing well up ’til then,’ said Jackrum bitterly.

  Shufti stood up. ‘I’m going too,’ she said. ‘I think my . . . fiancé is in there.’

  ‘I have to go,’ said Wazzer. ‘The Duchess guides my steps.’

  ‘I’ll go, then,’ said Igorina. ‘I’m probably going to be needed.’

  ‘I shouldn’t fink I could get by as a washerwoman,’ rumbled Jade. ‘I’ll stay here and watch over Mal. Hah, if he’s still after blood when he wakes up he’s gonna have blunt teeth!’

  They looked at one another in silence, embarrassed but defiant. Then there was the sound of someone clapping, slowly.

  ‘Oh, very nice,’ said Jackrum. ‘A band of brothers, eh? Sorry . . . sisters. Oh dear, oh dear. Look, Blouse was a fool. It was prob’ly all them books. He read all that stuff about it being a noble thing to die for your country, I expect. I was never that keen on readin’, but I know the job is making some other poor devil die for his.’

  He slewed his black tobacco from side to side. ‘I wanted you to be safe, lads. Down in the press of men, I reckoned I could get you through this, no matter how many friends the Prince has sent after you. I look at you lads, and I think: you poor boys, you don’t know nothin’ about war. What you goin’ to do? Tonker, you are a crack shot, but after one shot who’s backing you up while you reload? Perks, you know a trick or two, but the blokes in the castle will maybe know a trick or five. You’re a good cook, Shufti; too bad it’s going to be too hot in there. Will the Duchess turn aside arrows, Wazzer?’

  ‘Yes. She will.’

  ‘I hope you are right, my lad,’ said Jackrum, giving the girl a long slow look. ‘Pers’nally, I’ve found religion in battle is as much use as a chocolate helmet. You’ll need more than a prayer if Prince Heinrich catches you, I might add.’

  ‘We’re going to try it, sarge,’ said Polly. ‘There’s nothing for us in the army.’

  ‘Will you come with us, sarge?’ said Shufti.

  ‘No, lad. Me as a washerwoman? I doubt it. Don’t seem to have a skirt anywhere about me, for a start. Er . . . just one thing, lads. How are you going to get in?’

  ‘In the morning. When we see the women going in again,’ said Polly.

  ‘Got it all planned, general? And you’ll be dressed as women?’

  ‘Er . . . we are women, sarge,’ said Polly.

  ‘Yes, lad. Technical detail. But you kitted out the rupert with all your little knick-knacks, didn’t you? What’re you going to do, tell the guards you opened the wrong cupboard in the dark?’

  Another embarrassed silence descended. Jackrum sighed. ‘This ain’t proper war,’ he said. ‘Still, I said I’d look after you. You are my little lads, I said.’ His eyes gleamed. ‘And you still are, even if the world’s turned upside down. I’ll just have to hope, Miss Perks, that you picked up a few tricks from ol’ sarge, although I reckon you can think of a few of your own. And now I’d better get you kitted up, right?’

  ‘Perhaps we could sneak in and steal something from the villages where the servants come from?’ said Tonker.

  ‘From a bunch of poor women?’ said Polly, her heart sinking. ‘Anyway, there’d be soldiers everywhere.’

  ‘Well, how do we get women’s clothes on a battlefield?’ said Lofty.

  Jackrum laughed, stood up, stuck his thumbs in his belt and grinned. ‘I told you, lads, you don’t know nuffin’ about war!’ he said.

  . . . and one of the things they hadn’t known was that it has edges.

  Polly wasn’t certain what she’d expected. Men and horses, obviously. In her mind’s eye they were engaged in mortal combat, but you couldn’t go on doing that all day. So there would be tents. And that was about as far as the mind’s eye had seen. It hadn’t seen that an army on campaign is a sort of large, portabl
e city. It has only one employer, and it manufactures dead people, but like all cities it attracts . . . citizens. What was unnerving was the sound of babies crying, off in the rows of tents. She hadn’t expected that. Or the mud. Or the crowds. Everywhere there were fires, and the smell of cooking. This was a siege, after all. People had settled in.

  Getting down on to the plain in the dark had been easy. There was only Polly and Shufti trailing after the sergeant, who’d said that more would be too many and in any case would show up. There were patrols, but their edge had been dulled by sheer repetitiveness. Besides, the allies weren’t expecting anyone to make much effort to get into the valley, at least in small groups. And men in the dark make a noise, far more noise than a woman. They’d located a Borogravian sentry in the gloom by the noise of him trying to suck a morsel of dinner out of his teeth. But another one had located them when they were a stone’s throw from the tents. He was young, so he was still keen.

  ‘Halt! Who goes there? Friend or foe!’ The light from a cooking-fire glinted off a crossbow.

  ‘See?’ whispered Jackrum. ‘This is where your uniform is your friend. Aren’t you glad you kept it?’

  He swaggered forward, and spat tobacco between the young sentry’s boots. ‘My name’s Jackrum,’ he said. ‘That’s Sergeant Jackrum. As for the other bit . . . you choose.’

  ‘Sergeant Jackrum?’ said the boy, his mouth staying open.

  ‘Yes, lad.’

  ‘What, the one who killed sixteen men at the Battle of Zop?’

  ‘There was only ten of ’em, but good lad for knowin’ it.’

  ‘The Jackrum who carried General Froc through fourteen miles of enemy territory?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Polly saw teeth in the gloom as the sentry grinned. ‘My dad told me he fought with you at Blunderberg!’

  ‘Ah, that was a hot battle, that was!’ said Jackrum.

  ‘No, he meant in the pub afterwards. He pinched your drink and you smacked him in the mouth and he kicked you in the nadgers and you hit him in the guts and he blacked your eye and then you hit him with a table and when he came round his mates stood him beer for the evening for managing to lay nearly three punches on Sergeant Jackrum. He tells the story every year, when it’s the anniversary and he’s pis— reminiscing.’

  Jackrum thought for a moment, and then jabbed a finger at the young man. ‘Joe Hubukurk, right?’ he said.

  The smile broadened to the point where the top of the young man’s head was in danger of falling off. ‘He’ll be smirking all day when I tell him you remember him, sarge! He says that where you piss grass don’t grow!’

  ‘Well, what can a modest man say to that, eh?’ said Jackrum.

  Then the young man frowned. ‘Funny, though, he thought you were dead, sarge,’ he said.

  ‘Tell him I bet him a shilling I’m not,’ said Jackrum. ‘And your name, lad?’

  ‘Lart, sarge. Lart Hubukurk.’

  ‘Glad you joined, are you?’

  ‘Yes, sarge,’ said Lart loyally.

  ‘We’re just having a stroll, lad. Tell your dad I asked after him.’

  ‘I will, sarge!’ The boy stood to attention like a one-man guard of honour. ‘This is a proud moment for me, sarge!’

  ‘Does everyone know you, sarge?’ whispered Polly, as they walked away.

  ‘Aye, pretty much. On our side, anyway. I’ll make so bold as to declare that most of the enemy that meets me don’t know anything much afterwards.’

  ‘I never thought it was going to be like this!’ hissed Shufti.

  ‘Like what?’ said Jackrum.

  ‘There’s women and children! Shops! I can smell bread baking! It’s like a . . . a city.’

  ‘Yeah, but what we’re after isn’t going to be in the main streets. Follow me, lads.’ Sergeant Jackrum, suddenly furtive, ducked between two big heaps of boxes and emerged beside a smithy, its forge glowing in the dusk.

  Here the tents were open-sided. Armourers and saddlers worked by lantern-light, shadows flickering across the mud. Polly and Shufti had to step out of the way of a mule train, each animal carrying two casks on its back; the mules moved aside for Jackrum. Maybe he’s met them before, too, thought Polly, maybe he really does know everyone.

  The sergeant walked like a man with the deeds to the world. He acknowledged other sergeants with a nod, lazily saluted the few officers there were around here, and ignored everybody else.

  ‘You been here before, sarge?’ said Shufti.

  ‘No, lad.’

  ‘But you know where you’re going?’

  ‘Correct. I ain’t been here, but I know battlefields, especially when everyone’s had a chance to dig in.’ Jackrum sniffed the air. ‘Ah, right. That’s the stuff. Just you two wait here.’

  He disappeared between two stacks of lumber. They heard a distant muttering and, after a moment or two, he reappeared holding a small bottle.

  Polly grinned. ‘Is that rum, sarge?’

  ‘Well done, my little bar steward. And wouldn’t it be nice if it was rum, upon my word. Or whisky or gin or brandy. But this don’t have none of those fancy names. This is the genuine stingo, this is. Pure hangman.’

  ‘Hangman?’ said Shufti.

  ‘One drop and you’re dead,’ said Polly. Jackrum beamed, as a master to a keen pupil.

  ‘That’s right, Shufti. It’s rotgut. Wheresoever men are gathered together, someone will find something to ferment in a rubber boot, distil in an old kettle and flog to his mates. Made from rats, by the smell of it. Ferments well, does your average rat. Fancy a taste?’

  Shufti shied away from the proffered bottle. The sergeant laughed. ‘Good lad. Stick to beer,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t the officers stop it?’ said Polly.

  ‘Officers? What do they know about anything?’ said Jackrum. ‘An’ I bought this off of a sergeant, too. Anyone watching us?’

  Polly peered into the gloom. ‘No, sarge.’

  Jackrum poured some of the liquid into one pudgy hand and splashed it on to his face. ‘Ye-ouch,’ he hissed. ‘Stings like the blazes. And now to kill the tooth worms. Got to do the job properly.’ He took a quick sip from the bottle, spat it out, and shoved the cork back in. ‘Muck,’ he said. ‘Okay, let’s go.’

  ‘Where are we going, sarge?’ said Shufti. ‘You can tell us now, can’t you?’

  ‘A quiet little place where our needs will be met,’ said Jackrum. ‘It’ll be around here somewhere.’

  ‘You don’t half smell of drink, sarge,’ said Shufti. ‘Will they let you in if you smell drunk?’

  ‘Yes, Shufti, lad, they will,’ said Jackrum, setting off again. ‘The reason being, my pockets jingle and I smell of booze. Everyone likes a rich drunk. Ah . . . down this little valley here, that’ll be our . . . yeah, I was right. This is the place. Tucked away, delicate like. See any clothes hanging out to dry, boys?’

  There were a few washing lines strung behind the half-dozen or so drab tents in this side valley, which was little more than a wash gouged out by winter rains. If there had been anything on them it had been taken in against the heavy dew.

  ‘Shame,’ said Jackrum. ‘Okay, so we’ll have to do it the hard way. Remember: just act natural and listen to what I say.’

  ‘I’m sh-shaking, sarge,’ Shufti muttered.

  ‘Good, good, very natural,’ said Jackrum. ‘This is our place, I think. Nice and quiet, no one watching us, nice little path up there to the top of the wash . . .’ He stopped at a very large tent and tapped on the board outside with his swagger stick.

  ‘The SoLid DoVes,’ Polly read.

  ‘Yeah, well, these ladies weren’t hired for their spelling,’ said Jackrum, pushing open the flap of the tent of ill repute.

  Inside was a stuffy little area, a sort of canvas antechamber. A lady, lumpy and crowlike in a black bombazine dress, rose from a chair and gave the trio the most calculating look Polly had ever met. It finished off by putting a price on her boots.

  Th
e sergeant doffed his cap and in a jovial, rotund voice that peed brandy and crapped plum pudding said, ‘Good evening, madarm! Sergeant Smith’s the name, yes indeed! An’ me and my bold lads here have been so fortunate as to acquire the spoils of war, if you catch my drift, and nothing would do for it but they were clamouring, clamouring to go to the nearest house of good repute for to have a man made of ’em!’

  Little beady eyes skewered Polly again. Shufti, ears glowing like signal beacons, was staring fixedly at the ground.

  ‘Looks like that’d be a job and a half,’ said the woman shortly.

  ‘You never spoke a truer word, madarm!’ beamed Jackrum. ‘Two of your fair flowers apiece should do it, I reckon.’ There was a clink as, staggering slightly, Jackrum put several gold coins on the rickety little table.

  Something about the gleam of them thawed things no end. The woman’s face cracked into a smile as glutinous as slug gravy.

  ‘Well now, we are always honoured to entertain the Ins-and-Outs, sergeant,’ she said. ‘If you . . . gentlemen would like to step through to the, er, inner sanctum?’

  Polly heard a very faint sound behind her, and turned. She hadn’t noticed the man sitting on a chair just inside the door. He had to be a man, because trolls weren’t pink; he made Eyebrow back in Plün look like some kind of weed. He wore leather, which was what she’d heard creaking, and he had his eyes just slightly open. When he saw her looking at him, he winked. It wasn’t a friendly wink.

  There are times when a plan suddenly isn’t going to work. When you’re in the middle of it is not the time to find this out.

  ‘Er, sarge,’ she said. The sergeant turned, saw her frantic grimace, and appeared to spot the guard for the first time.

  ‘Oh dear, where’s my manners?’ he said, lurching back and fumbling in his pocket. He came up with a gold coin which he folded in the astonished man’s hand. Then he turned round, tapping the side of his nose with an expression of idiot knowingness.

  ‘A word of advice, lads,’ he said. ‘Always give the guard a tip. He keeps the riff-riff-raff out, very important. Very important man.’