by Chris Yeoh
"We were waiting to see your... motivations," Vernon replied. His eyes swept the battlements. "And your reactions."
"And what of your motivations, Major?" the man asked.
"I couldn't have possibly made them any plainer," Vernon said, his palms outstretched. "For Christ's sake man, we are all in the same war. This infighting and suspicion does nothing for us! Now, in the name of the King, will you open the doors for us and let us pass?"
There was a pause. Hardly a day went by since when Neven heard such an impassioned and desperate plea.
"Surrender your weapons," the man said. "And we will let you through."
"Oh for fuck's sake," Church said. All eyes were on him. "You people! You don't know when to say boo and when to shut up!"
"Surrender your weapons for now, and curb your men's tongues and we will get along famously," the man assured the newcomers.
All eyes then turned towards the Major. He looked grim, but he nodded.
"Do it," he ordered, through gritted teeth.
And slowly, they all did. The only other option was a farmhouse some days behind them. They did it out of lack of choice. Once again, Neven and his weapon parted ways.
"Open the gates," the lead man yelled.
"Lieutenant wants the gate open!" a man behind him re-enforced the point loudly.
Another man hurried forwards, a ring of keys jangling around in his hands. He slid one into the lock, and, with some rusty resistance, got it open. The gates slid out and back, another man came to open the other door. The cavalrymen all walked out, and gathered the pile of defunct weapons lying at the feet of every man. The coercion ended. Had there been any doubt of who was in control of the situation, it was abated. The men stood aside.
"Please," the Lieutenant beckoned. "Come in."
*
"It's not so bad in here," Anthony remarked. There was a pause.
No one spoke in response. It was the first time they had all been in a room together, soldiers and civilians alike. It was a large dining room, full of round tables fit for Arthur and his Knights. The ornate decoration, beautiful paintings and plush cushions provided scant distraction from the sinking feeling in Neven's stomach.
"Are we prisoners?" Phillipa asked, into the void of silence.
"Of course not, dear," the Lieutenant entered, flanked by the man with the keys from before.
Phillipa went beetroot red.
"I wanted to show you around actually," the man assured them. "But first, let me introduce myself. I am Lieutenant Rupert Gifford. And you, I assure you, are most welcome. Please, let me give you a tour of the marvellous estate. After which, I'm sure you are all tired and hungry, so my men will prepare a light dinner for everyone." He turned to the soldiers. "Allow me to apologise for earlier. You can never tell in times like these. We shall have a proper introduction tomorrow, after all the business has been dealt with."
"Can we have our guns back?" Church asked.
Gifford shot a knowing look at him. He opened his stance, he too was unarmed. "When you are posted to your duties, you will be assigned a gun. But for now, especially with children around, I dare say it is a touch unsafe to be waving rifles and pistols around, don't you?"
Church thought No. The Simpsons and Polly thought Yes.
Neven dared not to think anything, lest the probing gaze of the Lieutenant find him and see into his mind.
"Come along," Gifford said simply, walking out of the room.
The room instinctively looked to Vernon, but the Major was gazing into space. Eventually he nodded.
"Yes, come along," he had the expression of one who had forgotten something very important.
They filed from of the room, down the hallway, and out, blinking into the light once more.
"This estate," the Lieutenant guided. "Has been property of the Second Royal Lancers since the beginning of the century, when it was gifted by the late Lord and Lady Chalmers. Since then, it has been a home, a barracks, and an armoury for cavalry.
"The ample stables already in place required little modification to fit our needs, and the grounds are big enough to have enacted our training programs."
"Where are our horses?" Charlie asked. Not an hour ago they had drawn up to the front door, been escorted off the wagons, and been put into the house.
"In an auxiliary stables."
"Lieutenant," Anthony spoke up. "If it pleases you, I would like to check up on the horses we brought, and, if you'll let me, on your own stock. I'm a veterinarian, you see."
"Quite unnecessary," came the reply
The vet was deflated. They continued walking, a sweeping and quick tour.
"It's a big house, sir," Brunswick ventured. "Where are all the other men?"
Gifford stopped and about-faced.
"Not all of us were lucky enough to be called to war," he spoke sternly.
Church nudged Neven in the ribcage.
"Bloody ridiculous," the burly man whispered. Neven was unsure.
"About the horses..." Anthony attempted to pick up the dropped thread of conversation.
"Mr..." The Lieutenant affixed the sexagenarian veterinarian with a beady eye. A smile flashed across his face.
"York. Doctor. Doctor York," Anthony himself seemed unsure, repeating it as though a mantra. "About the horses," he broke again into a canter of pleading. "I'm a vet, you see. I can look after them."
"Well, Doctor York, I assure you that will b most unnecessary. We are cavalrymen, born on a horse and all that. It is our duty to look after our own steed. It wouldn't do to entrust them to the care of... quite frankly, an unknown, if I may be so bold."
"Speak for yourself," Frank spoke up.
The Lieutenant, either having not heard or choosing not to hear, ignored the comment. It was probably for the best, Neven noted.
"You, of course, will be notified in the case of an emergency. Okay," Gifford said. "That about does it for the tour. I hope you make your stay here as productive as possible. These are troubling times, and Britain is not what she once was. I hope you can appreciate the measures we take to protect us and our own."
He looked at Major Vernon and the two men shared a reciprocal glance of mutual understanding.
"As productive as possible?" Phillipa asked.
"Yes," The Lieutenant reiterated. "We all have to pull together if we are to make this new commune as fruitful as possible. And that means hard work."
They began walking back towards the house. Its door hung open hungrily.
"Hard work," Gifford continued. "The backbone of a productive Britain. We won't easily get out of this pickle our dear countrymen find themselves in, but we will. One way or another, we can return to normalcy, to a semblance of a society we are proud of."
It felt all too much like a well-rehearsed speech. Neven caught a cavalry officer roll his eyes when Gifford had started speaking.
"So we'll have chores, sir?" Polly squeaked. She looked perturbed by the very idea of having any housework tasks. The girl suddenly looked so young the presence of everyone else.
"I'm afraid so, little girl. Everyone must do their part. Maybe your brother here can be a soldier one day," he looked down lovingly at Simon, who shrank behind Polly. The officers and a few of Neven's group laughed.
"Okay," Gifford stomped his feet on the boot-cleaning rack that hung limp in the porch. "Sergeant Gower will lead the civilians upstairs to their quarters. The third floor is a dedicated room and boarding house which will suit your needs perfectly. Second floor is strictly off limits, I'm afraid. Soldiers' quarters, you see."
With a nod at the man beside him, his eyes glazed over and the group seemed to no longer exist to him. He stepped from the porch back into the courtyard and passed by the rush of people clambering inside the house.
"Major, if you would be so kind as to gather your men."
Neven had never seen the Major so eager to obey. Following a rocky start, he was in his element, back within an operating unit of the armed force
s.
"Seventeenth and Fortieth! Attention!" He commanded. Neven was compelled bodily into a straight position he had not attempted in weeks. His back cracked as it re-discovered the focus it had lost previously.
"Very good, thank you," Gifford said, as if he were about to pat the Major on the head and offer him a treat.
The front door to the house closed, the last of the civilians had been swallowed up and Sergeant Gower of the cavalry officers had returned. His head was low and he was frowning.
"Okay men," Gifford shot a look that went through Neven to his very core, and he was sure it did the same to the others. "The easy days are over. You are now under my command. You are no longer living the good life in London, nor are you basking in the fields of a farm somewhere in Oxfordshire. You are in Chiswell House, ancestral home of the Second Royal Lancers. Professionalism is our business, and you will at the very least entertain the notion that I, and all of my fellow officers, have a handle on the situation far beyond yourselves."
Neven noticed it was rather like the speech he had given previously, but with a newly-grown set of teeth.
"We have had no communication from Headquarters, logistics, or any of top brass. You will be tasked with the same purposes as my men. This purpose is to protect this house and its holders, at all costs."
Neven looked up; saw a streak of blond hair at one of the uppermost windows. Phillipa was watching.
"The fight-back has not begun, and probably will never begin. We have lost,” Gifford gave little time for the shock of his home-grown truths to sink in. It was the most complicit defeatism Neven had never heard outside of his own head. “I'm not going to sugar-coat it. There is no more ground we can gain by throwing ourselves needlessly into conflict. Your reality is this very structure," he reached to touch the bricks themselves, as if they would agree with him.
"But... we are fighting back at some point?" Brunswick ventured.
Neven was surprised at himself for never having considered that. The past weeks had been a disjointed mish-mash of running and hiding, gathering survivors and generally looking for safety. It was surprising to him to find people who entertained an idea of actually fighting a war. He was a soldier who had not considered battle.
"No, not that I can see, Private," Gifford said. "It's time to rebuild. To look ahead to what future we can scrape together. These things can't be stopped, and they can't be reasoned with. Their fate is not ours to decide, but we still have the opportunity to decide our own."
"So we are cutting our losses," Church said a little more derisively than was probably wise.
The Lieutenant became ice to Church's hot-headedness. Church felt he had over-stepped the mark but knew he couldn't back down, as he had gained the respect of the farmhouse soldiers, to some degree.
"No, Private," Gifford spoke as though the last word were a poisonous piece of apple he were eschewing from his mouth. His eyes fell to survey his garden, his Eden. "The only thing we are cutting is ourselves away from our past. There is nothing left to go back for. Your propensity for nostalgia will only get you killed. It is time to start anew. Is that clear?"
No response was forthcoming from Church.
"Well, I suppose we have a volunteer to take the first guard duty," Gifford snarled. "Your shift is until dusk. Does anybody else want to join Private Church?"
The others looked away sheepishly.
"I will," Neven said before his brain had figured out what was happening. His hand shot up out of the cloister of soldiers. Like the Red Sea, they parted before him.
"Very good, Private..."
"Corporal Plumsworthy, sir," Neven replied attentively.
He looked at Church, whose expression betrayed that he was as close to being touched emotionally as the burly man could get.
"Very good. Sergeant Southampton!"
From around a corner, an unseen man with a vicious, rat-like face appeared.
"Relieve Tavistock and Hillmarton of their duties. Get these two men a gun from the armoury and set them to their posts."
Chapter 10
First Watch
"You stand here. You look out here." Southampton was rough-housing Neven like he was a meaningless animal. He stood uncomfortably askew on the wall next to the gate.
"Got that?" Southampton asked gruffly, as if Neven didn't already know, as if this hadn't been his second watch at the manor in as many days. He left, making his question entirely rhetorical.
Neven shivered, though it was not cold. The rifle was unfamiliar, heavier and slightly older. For the first time, he missed the comfort of his old gun. He reflected upon his situation.
It was normality, of course, or at least as close to being normal as he could imagine, given their situation. But it was skewed. It was like looking into a pool of water, dropping a penny in, and letting the ripples distort reality. It was like a dream where you know everything is normal, but there is still a sinister undertone, a smell in the air, in the atmosphere. The whole estate felt like a bomb ready to go off.
He turned around for a glance at the house, before resuming his duty. It was at least an hour before he hazarded another glance. The sun was slowly setting, but there was more than enough light for Neven to see that same familiar streak of hair that had previously passed by the window inside. Phillipa was crouched down, behind some trees, in amongst the bushes that lined the far side of the estate.
He thought of his duty, but decided instead to move down the wall. When he reached the stone staircase, he peered casually around, eyes and ears pricked. Then he flew down the steps, with maximum speed and minimum sound. The soft grass flopped beneath his boots. He passed around an errant flowerbed, picking up speed.
"... picking fruit," he heard her say. He had been walking for a minute and was finally around the house.
"Phillipa?" Neven passed through an awning and found himself in a hidden grove.
Bent down, Phillipa was collecting apples from the ground and putting them into a basket that was fast becoming full. A few yards away, Neven saw the familiar Church leaning against a tree, munching an apple of his own.
"Look at that," Church remarked, mouth open and displaying half-chewed fruit. "Reunited. The three of us again."
Neven did not give credence to his statement.
"What are you doing?"
"One of my chores, they've started us as of now. That Gifford wasn't kidding," Phillipa had a smock on that was becoming wet and slick with apple juice and mud, which sometimes rubbed onto her clothes underneath.
"Is everything okay?" Neven asked, judging the tone the girl was taking.
"We found them going through our things. Two soldiers. They said we wouldn't need them, that we're sharing everything from now on."
"It is a bloody prison," Church said.
"What do we do?" Phillipa asked, stopping and looking up. She cast a peek at the house that loomed over them, dominating their field of vision."
Neven contemplated this. Church seemed to be intent on capturing his answer too.
"It's... not perfect," Neven began slowly. "I'll admit that. But it's certainly the best situation we'll find ourselves in. There simply isn't anywhere else for us to go."
Church sighed pointedly, shaking his head.
"I'm sorry," Neven shrugged and levelled with the man he felt like he had known a lifetime. "I do genuinely think we'll be better off here. It won't be easy to adjust, but in the long run we'll be safe."
"Will we?" Church asked.
"What makes you think otherwise?"
Church, in a move that surprised only Neven, un-shouldered his rifle, levelled it at the young Corporal, and pulled the trigger. Neven had barely any time to scream.
But nothing happened.
No death was forthcoming.
"What..." Neven was building himself to shout. His heart was beating out of his chest.
"My gun doesn't have any fucking bullets in it!" Church hissed.
"That... that must be a mistake
," Neven stuttered, coming down from the adrenaline trip of a lifetime.
"You think these people trust us? Do you think they're sane, and of sound mind? They're keeping us all here whether we like it or not!" Church raised his voice a little more.
"No... you must be mistaken," Neven was a little terrified.
"Check your gun."
"I'm..."
"Check your fucking gun, Corporal."
Neven took his rifle firmly in his hand.
"Hey!"
All three of them spun around. A bristled and mean-faced cavalry officer was standing on the wall above them. He was tall, lanky and had a mop of straw-like hair, which was currently flopping over his eyes as he peered down.
"What are you three doing?"
Church looked over, willing bullets into his rifle through magic.
"We thought we heard a noise here," Neven explained unconvincingly.
"I fell," Phillipa backed him up. She wiped mud off of her smock to corroborate her own story.
"What, it takes two of you boys to help her up? What are you, nancies?"
"Apparently," Church replied casually.
"You should be more careful where you walk, miss," The cavalry officer shouted. Much to Neven's chagrin, he adjudicated from the man's stripes that he was of no higher rank than Neven himself. "And get back to your chores, or I'll deal with you myself."
"She's doing her share," Church said.
"Fuck off, Private. She needs to know her place if we're to having any peace in this commune."
"And who's going to teach me it, you? Many more handsome and probably better endowed have tried. If you want apples, you will have to get them yourself, your Lordship." Phillipa was standing strongly, but Neven just wanted to shelter her.
The Cavalry Corporal, whose name was Garden, was brimming with rage. A courtesy glance to the window on the second floor stopped him from whatever he was planning next. Instead, bristled moustache twisting on his maleficent lips, he stormed off and out of sight around a corner.
"Thank you," Phillipa said to Church and then to Neven. "I had better get on with this."
The two soldiers said goodbye and walked back to their posts.
"Do you see what I mean?" Church asked. "There is so much pent-up anger here."
"It's authoritarian, I'll concede that point."
"Oh for God's sake, Plumsworthy!" Church was having no nonsense. "We're all fucked here and you're not even worried. We've come to a bad place. You're so desperate for someone to tell you what to do you've forgotten how to think for yourself.”
