Monstrous Regiment

  ‘Didn’t he come in here with you?’

  ‘No, sarge. We thought he was with you.’

  Not a muscle moved on Jackrum’s face. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Well, you heard the lieutenant. The boat leaves at midnight. We should be well down the Kneck by Wednesday’s dawn. Get a few hours’ sleep if you can. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day, if you’re lucky.’

  And with that, he turned and went out again. Wind howled outside, and was cut off when the door shut. We’ll be well down the Kneck, Polly noted. Well done, Threeparts.

  ‘Missing a corporal?’ said Scallot. ‘Now there’s a thing. Usually it’s a recruit that goes ay-wole. Well, you heard the sergeant, boys. Time to wash up and turn in.’

  There was a washroom and latrine, in a rough and ready fashion. Polly found a moment when she and Shufti were in it alone. She’d racked her brains about how best to raise the subject, but as it turned out just a look was all it took.

  ‘It was when I volunteered to do the supper, wasn’t it?’ Shufti mumbled, staring into the stone sink, which had moss growing in it.

  ‘That was a clue, yes,’ said Polly.

  ‘A lot of men cook, you know!’ said Shufti hotly.

  ‘Yes, but not soldiers, and not enthusiastically,’ said Polly. ‘They don’t do marinades.’

  ‘Have you told anybody?’ mumbled Shufti, red in the face.

  ‘No,’ said Polly, which was, after all, strictly true. ‘Look, you were good, you had me fooled right up until “sugar”.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know,’ Shufti whispered. ‘I can do the belching and the walking stupidly and even the nose-picking, but I wasn’t brought up to swear like you men!’

  Us men, thought Polly. Oh, boy.

  ‘We’re the coarse and licentious soldiery. I’m afraid it’s shit or bust,’ she said. ‘Er . . . why are you doing this?’

  Shufti stared into the dank stone sink as if strange green slime was really interesting, and mumbled something.

  ‘Sorry, what was that?’ said Polly.

  ‘Going to find my husband,’ said Shufti, only a little bit louder.

  ‘Oh, dear. How long had you been married?’ said Polly, without thinking.

  ‘. . . not married yet . . .’ said Shufti, in a voice as tall as an ant.

  Polly glanced down at the plumpness of Shufti. Oh, dear. Oh, dear. She tried to sound reasonable. ‘Don’t you think that you should—’

  ‘Don’t you tell me to go home!’ said Shufti, rounding on her. ‘There’s nothing for me back home except disgrace! I’m not going home! I’m going to the war and I’m going to find him! No one’s going to tell me not to, Ozzer! No one! This has happened before, anyway! And it ended right! There’s a song about it and everything!’

  ‘Oh, that,’ said Polly. ‘Yes. I know.’ Folk singers should be shot. ‘What I was going to say was that you might find this helps the disguise . . .’ She produced a soft cylinder of woolly socks from her pack and wordlessly handed it over. It was a dangerous thing to do, she knew, but now she was feeling a kind of responsibility to those whose sudden strange fancy hadn’t been followed by a plan.

  On the way back to her palliasse she caught sight of Wazzer hanging his little picture of the Duchess on a handy hook in the crumbling wall above his mattress. He looked around furtively, failed to spot Polly in the shadows of the doorway, and bobbed a very quick curtsy to the picture. A curtsy, not a bow.

  Polly frowned. Four. She was barely surprised, now. And she had one pair of clean socks left. This was soon going to be a barefoot army.

  Polly could tell the time by the fire. You got a feel for how long a fire burned, and the logs on this one were grey with ash over the glow beneath. It was gone eleven, she decided.

  By the sound of it, no one was getting any sleep. She’d got up after an hour or two of lying on the crackling straw mattress, staring at darkness and listening to things move about underneath her; she’d have stayed on it for longer, but something in the straw seemed to want to push her leg out of the way. Besides, she didn’t have any dry blankets. There were blankets in the barracks, but Threeparts had advised against them on account of their carrying, as he put it, ‘the Itch’.

  The corporal had left a candle alight. Polly had read Paul’s letter again, and taken another look at the piece of printed paper rescued from the muddy road. The words were fractured and she wasn’t sure about all of them, but she didn’t like the sound of any of them. ‘Invas’ had a particularly unpleasant ring to it.

  And then there was the third piece of paper. She couldn’t help that. It had been a complete accident. She’d done Blouse’s laundry and of course you went through the pockets before you washed things, because anyone who’d ever tried to unroll a soggy, bleached sausage that’d once been a banknote didn’t want to do it twice. And there had been this folded piece of paper. Admittedly, she needn’t have unfolded it and, having unfolded it, needn’t have read it. But there are some things that you just do.

  It was a letter. Presumably Blouse had shoved it in a pocket and forgotten about it when he’d changed his shirt. She needn’t read it again but, by candlelight, she did.

  My Dearest Emmeline,

  Fame and Fortune await! After only eight years as a 2nd Lieutenant I have now been promoted and am to have a command! Of course this will mean that there will be no officer left in the Adjutant-General’s Blankets, Bedding and Horse Fodder Department, but I have explained my new filing system to Cpl Drebb and I believe he is Sound.

  You know I cannot go into matters of detail, but I believe this will be a very exciting prospect and I am anxious to be ‘at the Foe’. I am bold enough to hope that the name of Blouse will go down in military history. In the meantime, I am brushing up my sword drill and it is definitely all ‘coming back’ to me. Of course, the promotion brings with it no less than One Shilling extra ‘per Diem’, plus Three Pence fodder allowance. To this end I have purchased a ‘charger’ from Mr ‘Honest’ Jack Slacker, a most entertaining gentleman, although I fear that his description of my steed’s ‘prowess’ may have been prone to some exaggeration. Nevertheless, I am ‘moving up’ at last and if Fate smiles on me this will hurry forward the day when I can

  And that was it, fortunately. After some thought, Polly went and carefully damped the letter, then dried it quickly over the remains of the fire and slipped it into the pocket of the washed shirt. Blouse might scold her for not removing it before washing, but she doubted it.

  A blanket-counter with a new filing system. An ensign for eight years, in a war where promotion could be rather fast. A man who put inverted commas round any word or phrase he thought of as even slightly ‘racy’. Brushing up on his ‘sword drill’. And so short-sighted he’d bought a horse from Jack Slacker, who went around all the horse fairs’ bargain bins and sold winded old screws that dropped a leg before you’d got home.

  Our leader.

  They were losing the war. Everyone knew that, but nobody would say it. It was as if they felt that if the words weren’t said out loud then it wasn’t really happening. They were losing the war and this squad, untrained and untried, fighting in dead men’s boots, could only help them lose it faster. Half of them were girls! Because of some bloody stupid song, Shufti was wandering off into a war to look for the father of her child, and that was a desperate errand for a girl even in peacetime. And Lofty was trailing after her boy, which would probably be romantic right up until five minutes into a battle. And she . . .

  . . . well, yes. She’d heard the song, too. So what? Paul was her brother. She’d always kept an eye on him, even when she was small. Mother was always busy, everyone was always busy at The Duchess, so Polly had become a big sister to a brother fifteen months older than her. She’d taught him to blow his nose, taught him how to form letters, went and found him when crueller boys had got him lost in the woods. Running after Paul was a duty that had become a habit.

  And then . . . well, it wasn’t the only reason. When her father died The Du
chess would be lost to her side of the family if there was no male to inherit. That was the law, plain and simple. Nugganatic law said that men could inherit ‘the Things of Men’ such as land, buildings, money and all domestic animals except cats. Women could inherit ‘the Things of Women’, which were mostly small items of personal jewellery and spinning wheels passed from mothers to daughters. They certainly couldn’t inherit a large, famous tavern.

  So The Duchess would go to Paul if he was alive, or if he was dead it was allowable for it to go to Polly’s husband if she was married. And since Polly saw no prospect of that, she needed a brother. Paul could happily carry barrels around for the rest of his life; she would run The Duchess. But if she was left alone, a woman with no man, then at best all she’d get was maybe the chance to go on living there while the deeds went to cousin Vlopo, who was a drunkard.

  Of course, all that wasn’t the reason. Certainly not. But it was a reason, all the same. The reason was, simply, Paul. She’d always found him and brought him home.

  She looked at the shako in her hands. There had been helmets, but since they all had arrow holes or gaping rips in them the squad had wordlessly gone for the softer hats. You’d die anyway, and at least you wouldn’t have a headache. The shako’s badge showed the regimental symbol of a flaming cheese. Maybe one day she’d find out why. Polly put it on, picked up her pack and the small bag of laundry, and stepped out into the night. The moon was gone, the clouds had come back. She was drenched by the time she’d crossed the square; the rain was coming horizontally.

  She shoved open the inn door and saw, by the light of one guttering candle . . . chaos. Clothing was strewn across the flagstones, cupboards were hanging open. Jackrum was coming down the stairs, cutlass in one hand, lantern in the other.

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Perks,’ he said. ‘They’ve cleaned the place out and buggered off. Even Molly. I heard ’em go. Pushing a cart, by the sound of it. What’re you doing here?’

  ‘Batman, sarge,’ said Polly, shaking water off her hat.

  ‘Oh, yeah. Right. Go and wake him up, then. He’s snoring like a sawmill. I hope to hell the boat’s still there.’

  ‘Why’d they bug— scarper, sarge?’ said Polly and thought: Sugar! If it comes to it, I don’t swear, either! But the sergeant didn’t appear to notice.

  He gave her what is known as an old-fashioned look; this one had dinosaurs in it. ‘Got wind of something, I don’t doubt,’ he said. ‘Of course, we’re winning the war, you know.’

  ‘Ah. Oh. And we’re not going to be invaded at all, I expect,’ said Polly, with equally exaggerated care.

  ‘Quite right. I detest those treacherous devils who’d have us believe that a vast army is about to sweep right across the country any day now,’ said Jackrum.

  ‘Er . . . no sign of Corporal Strappi, sarge?’

  ‘No, but I haven’t turned over every stone yet— ssh!’

  Polly froze, and strained to listen. There were hoof-beats, getting louder as they approached, and changing from thuds into the ringing sound of horseshoes on cobbles.

  ‘Cavalry patrol,’ Jackrum whispered, putting the lantern down on the bar. ‘Six or seven horses.’

  ‘Ours?’

  ‘I bleedin’ doubt it.’

  The clattering slowed, and came to a stop outside.

  ‘Keep ’em talking,’ said Jackrum, reaching down and sliding the door’s bolt across. He turned and headed towards the rear of the inn.

  ‘What? What about?’ whispered Polly. ‘Sarge?’

  Jackrum had vanished. Polly heard murmuring outside the door, followed by a couple of sharp knocks.

  She threw off her jacket. She wrenched the shako off her head and tossed it behind the bar. Now she wasn’t a soldier, at least. And, as the door was shaken against the bolt, she saw something white lying in the debris. It was a terrible temptation . . .

  The door burst open at the second blow, but the soldiers didn’t immediately enter. Lying under the bar, struggling to put the petticoat on over rolled-up trousers, Polly tried to make sense of the sounds. As far as she could tell from the rustles and thuds, anyone waiting inside the doorway with ambush in mind would have been briefly and terminally sorry. She tried to count the invaders; it sounded as though there were at least three. In the tense silence, the sound of a voice speaking in normal tones came as a shock.

  ‘We heard the bolt slide across. That means you’re in here somewhere. Make it easy on yourself. We don’t want to have to come and find you.’

  I don’t want you to either, Polly thought. I’m not a soldier! Go away! And then the next thought was: What do you mean, you’re not a soldier? You took the shilling and kissed the picture, didn’t you? And suddenly an arm had reached under the bar and grabbed her. At least she didn’t have to act.

  ‘No! Please, sir! Don’t hurt me! I just got frightened! Please!’

  But inside there was a certain . . . sock-ness that felt ashamed, and wanted to kick out.

  ‘Ye gods, what are you?’ said the cavalryman, pulling her upright and looking at her as if she was some kind of exhibit.

  ‘Polly, sir! Barmaid, sir! Only they cleared out and left me!’

  ‘Keep the noise down, girl!’

  Polly nodded. The last thing she needed now was for Blouse to run down the stairs with his sabre and Fencing for Beginners.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she squeaked.

  ‘Barmaid, eh? Three pints of what you’d probably call your finest ale, then.’

  That at least could happen on automatic. She’d seen the mugs under the bar, and the barrels were behind her. The beer was thin and sharp but probably wouldn’t dissolve a penny.

  The cavalryman watched her closely as she filled the mugs. ‘What happened to your hair?’ he said.

  Polly had been ready for this. ‘Oh, sir, they cut it off, sir! ’cos I smiled at a Zlobenian trooper, sir!’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘In Drok, sir.’ It was a town much nearer the border. ‘And me mam said it was shaming to the family and I got sent here, sir!’

  Her hands shook as she put the mugs on the bar, and she was hardly exaggerating. Hardly . . . but a bit, nevertheless. You’re acting like a girl, she thought. Keep it up!

  Now she could take stock of the invaders. They wore dark-blue uniforms, and big boots, and heavy cavalry helmets. One of them was standing by the shuttered windows. The other two were watching her. One had a sergeant’s stripes and an expression of deep suspicion. The one who’d grabbed her was a captain.

  ‘This is terrible beer, girl,’ he said, sniffing the mug.

  ‘Yes, sir, I know, sir,’ Polly gabbled. ‘They wouldn’t listen to me, sir, and said you have to put a damp sheet over the barrels in this thundery weather, sir, and Molly never cleans the spigot and—’

  ‘This town’s empty, you know that?’

  ‘They all scarpered, sir,’ said Polly earnestly. ‘Gonna be an invasion, sir. Everyone says. They’re frightened of you, sir.’

  ‘Except you, eh?’ said the sergeant.

  ‘What’s your name, girl who smiles at Zlobenian troopers?’ said the captain, smiling.

  ‘Polly, sir,’ said Polly. Her questing hand found what it was seeking under the bar. It was the barman’s friend. There always was one.

  ‘And are you frightened of me, Polly?’ said the captain. There was a snigger from the soldier by the window.

  The captain had a well-trimmed moustache which had been waxed to points, and was over six feet tall, Polly reckoned. He had a pretty smile, too, which was somehow improved by the scar on his face. A circle of glass covered one eye. Her hand gripped the hidden cudgel.

  ‘No, sir,’ she said, looking back into one eye and one glass. ‘Er . . . what’s that glass for, sir?’

  ‘It’s a monocle,’ said the captain. ‘It helps me see you, for which I am eternally grateful. I always say that if I had two I’d make a spectacle of myself.’

  That got a dutiful laugh from the sergeant. Polly looked
blank.

  ‘And are you going to tell me where the recruits are?’ said the captain.

  She forced her expression not to change. ‘No.’

  The captain smiled. He had good teeth, but there was, now, no warmth in his eyes.

  ‘You are in no position to be ignorant,’ he said. ‘We won’t hurt them, I assure you.’

  There was a scream in the distance.

  ‘Much,’ said the sergeant, with more satisfaction than was necessary. There was another yell. The captain nodded to the man by the door, who slipped out. Polly pulled the shako out from under the bar and put it on.

  ‘One of them gave you his cap, did he?’ said the sergeant, and his teeth were nowhere near as good as the officer’s. ‘Well, I like a girl who’ll smile at a soldier—’

  The cudgel hit him along the head. It was old blackthorn, and he went down like a tree. The captain backed away as Polly came out from behind the bar with the club readied again. But he hadn’t drawn his sword, and he was laughing.

  ‘Now, girl, if you want—’ He caught her arm as she swung, dragged her towards him in a tight grip, still laughing, and folded up almost silently as her knee connected with his sock drawer. Thank you, Gummy. As he sagged she stepped back and brought the cudgel down on his helmet, making it ring.

  She was shaking. She felt sick. Her stomach was a small, red-hot lump. What else could she have done? Was she supposed to think We have met the enemy and he is nice? Anyway, he wasn’t. He was smug.

  She tugged a sabre from a scabbard and crept out into the night. It was still raining, and waist-deep mist was drifting up from the river. Half a dozen or so horses were outside, but not tied up. A trooper was waiting with them. Faintly, against the rustle of the rain, she heard him making soothing noises to comfort one of them. She wished she hadn’t heard that. Well, she’d taken the shilling. Polly gripped the cudgel.

  She’d gone a step when the mist between her and the man fountained up slowly as something rose out of it. The horses shifted uneasily. The man turned, a shadow moved, the man fell . . .

  ‘Oi!’ whispered Polly.

  The shadow turned. ‘Ozzer? It’s me, Maladict,’ it said. ‘Sarge sent me to see if you needed help.’