Then, and the insensitivity of it astonished me, a shilling was thrust in my hand by one of the newcomers. Was he blind as well as stupid?
‘Awublundswelloopid?’ I exclaimed, clutching the coin and staring at it in my fist. ‘Nostaylaybrag.’
‘All right, you don’t have to play brag with it if you don’t want to,’ said the newcomer mildly. ‘You can do whatever you want with it, because it’s yours.’
‘Thanyouverrmuh.’
I had to get out; sickness was about five strides away. I rose quickly, shuddering with the effort. Still clutching the shilling, I made for the door. I got no further than two inches before a hefty hand pinned my arm to the table.
‘Welcome to His Majesty George the Third’s army,’ said the newcomer. ‘You’ve accepted the King’s Shilling, so where do you think you’re going without permission?’
I stared at him blankly, vaguely aware that something was wrong but too ill to think beyond the rising gorge in my throat. Then it happened – a jet of vomit shot out of me at prodigious speed and splashed noisily all over the table, the cards and the players. There were groans of disgust and anger, but I was too far gone to care. I staggered backwards, fell over a chair and crashed into a wall, which I slid down like a bayoneted Frenchman, tongue lolling and eyes crossed. The last thing I saw before Oblivion descended was the chief bragger himself, the Knave of Clubs, lying next to me with most of his clothes covered in a sort of wine-coloured porridge, as if a casualty of an attack by the Scotch.
‘Idiot,’ he seemed to look up at me and groan, ‘stupid, drunken, bloody idiot!’
4
The Glorious 85th Foot
Though I could barely open my eyes, I somehow sensed I was no longer in the Ship. The combined reek of sweat, rotten cheese and some sort of clay was wholly unfamiliar. As if a splitting head, desperate thirst and swelling nausea were not enough, panic now began to seep into my veins.
‘Where am I?’ I said to someone moving around in the room. ‘How did I get here?’
‘A crimper brought you in on the back of a cart. Dead to the world, you were.’
‘Then the crimper can take me out again, can’t he? I’m almost well enough to move now.’
I tried to raise myself from the bed, but ‘twas like pushing against a coffin lid after burial. I collapsed groaning to the horizontal.
‘It looks like it,’ said the rough voice, ‘but even if you were well, there’s no way out now, Wheyface. At least not until the American War’s finished. You’ve signed up for the duration. I’ve seen the papers.’
‘And who might you be?’ I asked, struggling to keep my composure.
‘I’m William Tremblett, the Master of this house. I’m up here to see if the rogues are keeping my fixtures and fittings as they found them. Now, let’s have a look…furniture, rotten…windows, dirty and cracked…bedding, filthy…pisspots, putrid…Yes, all in order, they’ve touched nothing…’
He sounded disappointed, but I was in no mood to enquire why.
‘William, I demand to see either the colonel of this regiment, or the rogue who tricked me into signing, namely one Mr Burnley Axelrod. You have heard of him, I trust.’
‘Never. Tch, tch, look at this. A sheep’s bladder. Wonder where he got this from? And more to the point, who’s the lucky lady?’
‘Then get me the colonel, if you would be so kind, William.’
‘No chance of that, Wheyface. He’s in Brighthelmstone, living it up.’
‘What! Aren’t I in Brighthelmstone now?’
‘No, you’re in Hove. The Forgotten Martyr ale house to be precise. Temporary quarters of Colonel Packham’s Glorious 85th Regiment of Foot.’
‘Then who can I speak to about my predicament.’
‘Sergeant Mycock. He’ll be back from drilling soon. Speak to him about it; he’s an understanding cove.’
Either Mr Tremblett found this remark amusing, or he was laughing at something outside my limited range of vision. Still, I was sure that however fearsome Sergeant Mycock might be, Right would prevail in the end. I had been caught up in navy press-gang sweeps before – indeed, ‘twas a hazard for any young man living in a coastal town – but I had always been laughingly returned to civilization by the captains of the ships within seconds of presentation. Precedence, therefore, had been established, and surely if I was no material for the rigging, I was no material for the battlefield either.
‘Though ‘tis not so bad if ye cannot wriggle out of it,’ went on Mr Tremblett, vicariously fatalistic. ‘Many people I know would be glad to be in the army. Think of all the benefits. Only a nine hour working day; free rum; free quarters; free postage; subsidized clothing; chance of booty; twenty days leave every six months…’
‘That is some comfort, Mr Tremblett. If for some unimaginable reason I do have difficulty securing my release, I can always take my twenty days’ leave immediately, and spend the time in consultation with the finest lawyers money can buy.’
‘Oh no, you won’t get them immediately. The generals must be sure that you aren’t going to desert before they grant you even one day. Twenty days’ leave eventually, I should have said.’
‘I see, and what about the other benefits? Immediate or eventual?’
‘Immediate. So you can write to your lawyers, by all means.’
I groaned, and made another attempt to rise. This time I was more successful, and managed, after some minutes, to achieve a sitting position on the bed. I shaded my eyes against the sickly sunlight oozing through the smeared window panes, and squinted at Mr Tremblett. He was a florid, bull-necked man with glistening ratty eyes very close together. Everything about him, from his hair to the apron he was wearing, shone with astounding greasiness. I was surveying the rest of the room – the home of three soldiers by the look of the wooden cribs all tightly squeezed together – when the door burst open loudly.
‘Oysterman, eh?’ roared a huge redcoated bruiser of man with a piece of paper in one hand and a bayonet in another. ‘Called that because you’re cheap and plentiful, no doubt.’ He crumpled up the paper in his hand, threw it across the room, and looked down sneeringly at me. I had never seen a face so choleric in my life, and I could not help but give an involuntary squeak. ‘Not easy to prise off your bed in the morning, is that it? You know how I get an oyster off its bed? Like this!’
Eyes starting out of his head in fury, bad teeth bared, face muscles screwed up to snapping point, he proceeded to attack the fireplace with his bayonet.
‘JAM IT IN – TWIST IT – STICK IT IN – RIP IT OFF – RIP IT OPEN – CHURN ITS FUCKING GUTS ROUND – LIKE THIS!!’
The imprecations were fearful enough on their own, but the terrible grunting noises that accompanied them, the gnarled expressions of hatred on the man’s face, and the flying chunks of plaster and wood quite subdued me, and decided me against bringing up the subject of my ill-treatment by Mr Axelrod. Instead, I regarded the shredded fireplace with awe, and tried to stop my hands shaking.
‘Hard shell, soft centre, eh Oysterman?’ said the panting Bedlamite, stepping back to gaze with satisfaction at the damage
caused.
‘Soft shell, soft centre, Sir,’ I quivered.
‘Really? Well, we’ll soon change that. My name is Sergeant Mycock. Some know me as Stroke Mycock, not because I do, but because I’m a great believer in the efficacy of the cat. Cross me, and I cross your back a hundredfold in return. Understand?’
‘A-aye,’ I swallowed.
He turned to glare at me, anger visibly rising again.
‘AYE WHAT, SCUM!!!’
‘Aye, S-Sir.’
‘STAND UP WHEN YOU TALK TO ME!!’
I stood up quickly, oblivious to all my former pains.
‘Damned close to your first thrashing there, Oysterman. Now, Mr Tremblett, get this dog ready for war. I want him presentable for Corporal Tibbs at two o’clock sharp. You know what’s required.’
&n
bsp; ‘What about the bill for the damage, Sir?’ said Mr Tremblett, considerably braver than I.
‘Send it to the usual address. They’ll settle it.’
And off he stormed, stomping down the stairs in maniacal search of other souls to terrify. Recovering my breathing as the sound of his boots died away, I collapsed back onto the bed.
‘You didn’t speak to him about your predicament,’ observed Mr Tremblett, going over to the fireplace to inspect the depth of the bayonet wounds, seemingly unruffled by the wanton destruction of his property.
‘Next time perhaps,’ I answered. ‘For now, please be so kind as to let me have a pen and some notepaper. Quickly.’
Mr Tremblett did not seem to hear me. He just stood there with an abstracted look on his face. At intervals he would count on his fingers and mumble numbers under his breath. Eventually, mental arithmetic clearly not his strongpoint, his countenance brightened and he started to rub his hands with glee.
‘Nice little earner!’ he exclaimed. ‘Why, Sergeant Mycock alone will be paying for my new gig this year. A shame there aren’t more sojers like him. God bless the straps on his knapsack.’
Wondering if this was a saucy double entendre, I reiterated my request.
‘Certainly, Sir. Would you like plain paper or paper headed with the name of my establishment?’
Eyeing him askance for signs of insolence, I ordered the latter. To my not very great surprise, he returned half an hour later with disappointing news.
‘Couldn’t find no pen and paper. Don’t worry, I’ll find you some eventually. Anyway, ‘tis more important to get you rigged up for your afternoon exercise.’ He tapped a bundle of clothes under his arm. ‘You’ve heard what the consequences will be if you don’t comply. And he means it, you mark my words; many’s the man we’ve had to bury following one of Stroke’s floggings.’
Gulping discreetly, I peeled off my vomit-stained finery and took the offered bundle. Only when I prepared to put the clothes on did I notice what I was being asked to wear. Surprise was my first reaction; disgust my second.
‘What are these?’
‘What do they look like?’
‘A pile of filthy rags.’
‘Good. Well done. I shall inform Corporal Tibbs that there is nothing wrong with your eyesight.’
‘No red jacket? No tricorne? No musket?’
‘You won’t be needing those things yet. Basic training comes first. Now get them on and wait until Corporal Tibbs comes to get you.’
I did as I was told only with the greatest of reluctance, grimacing and twitching as the coarse brown rags scraped and pricked my scented skin.
‘But my old clothes,’ I said, as he picked them up without demur, and felt their texture through the slime, ‘You will wash them and bring them back to me?’
‘Oh, certainly, your worship,’ he replied with heavy sarcasm. ‘Ironed and pressed and sprinkled with rose water.’
From the smirk on his face I knew I would never see them again, which was a great shame, as they were made of the finest Italian silk. When cleaned and sold they would provide the robbing dog with enough money to furnish his gig handsomely, but at the moment I was too shaken about to fight for my rights. He left the room cackling with glee at all the good fortune that had come his way in so short a time.
Alone, feeling for all the world like a convict awaiting despatch, I moved stiffly to the diamond-paned windows in an attempt to get my bearings and reassure myself that things were not as bad as I feared. I was in, no doubt about it, a world decidedly military. The front garden of the inn and the village green across the road were swarming with redcoats, replete with regulation tricornes, muskets, white crossed shoulder straps, knapsacks and cartridge boxes. On the village green, most were drilling in a large rectangle under the command of bawling officers; on the garden, some seemed to be on sentry duty while others, perhaps officers of some sort, had their hats and jackets off and were enjoying a pipe, a pot of ale and a game of dice on the several trestle tables. Union and regimental colours were droopily in evidence, as were several small cannon which squatted on the corners of the green, barrels pointing outwards in a protective gesture. At first these cannon had been hard to identify because of urchins crawling all over them in prodigious numbers, but eventually they became visible when the urchins were called away in clumps by their equally excited parents, who were ringed around the perimeter of the green watching with avidity the colourful and stirring proceedings. Beyond the green stood the pale stone cottages of old Hove, some with their inhabitants watching the drama from their bedroom windows like tiny mirror images of me. Beyond the cottages, however, lay the most noble prospect of all – the old familiar Sussex countryside that would shortly have me back in its bosom. Rescue would be all the sweeter for the closeness of the shave.
I had not got five lines into a mental letter to my mother, asking for assistance and rueing the day I was born, when I became aware of a number of voices and boots coming up the stairs. Turning my back on the window, I stiffened with tension as I prepared to meet what were no doubt my temporary comrades. Braced for another shattering Sergeant Mycock-style entry, I was surprised when the door opened with slow deliberation, and in trooped a dispirited scarlet crowd of men and boys. Dispirited, that is, until they saw me.
‘And who might you be?’ asked one of them, regarding me boldly with the attitude of a superior officer.
‘My name is Harry Oysterman, and I’m…er…a new recruit to the cause.’
‘Took the King’s Shilling, did ye?’
‘Yes….at least I think I did. ‘Tis all a bit hazy.’
‘I’ll bet you haven’t got it now, Mister,’ piped up a drummer boy as he carefully laid his instrument down in a corner of the room.
‘It should be in my other coat pocket, if ‘tis anywhere.’ I made as if to go and look, then realized, ‘But oh…my clothes have been taken away.’
‘No point worrying anyway – the rogues would have taken it back long ago, to pay for things like your boots, brushes, stockings and flour.’
‘Flour? I do not intend to bake.’
‘For your hair, you blockhead.’
I nodded knowingly, although I had always thought that the dusting of hair with common flour was a myth, devised by the hoi polloi to extract sympathy from their betters. Enlightened, I watched the soldiers as they stacked their muskets, bayonets and hats around the drum and threw themselves on their beds. There seemed to be a lot of bodies for so few beds.
‘’Tis not one bed apiece then?’ I said.
‘No,’ replied the same gentleman-type soldier. ‘Only the officers and the moribund have their own beds. The rest of us sleep two to a bed, head-to-toe, as demonstrated by Roger and Little Bob over there.’
Roger was a restless-eyed man of middle age, his face pitted with smallpox scars, his fingernails bitten to the quick; Little Bob was the handsome blue-eyed, blond-haired drummer boy, perhaps about twelve. ‘Twas surely good news for Bob that they were not sleeping head-to-head.
‘So who will I be sleeping with?’ I asked, with the insouciance of the temporary.
‘Me, by the looks of it,’ said the officer-type. ‘Dick Lickley is my name.’
He offered his hand, and I shook it warmly, grateful for any show of friendship at this most testing time in my life. I also rather admired his manly demeanour and pleasant facial features. His steadiness of speech and movement inspired confidence, and he fitted my preconceived notions of a good soldier, unlike some of the others he now introduced me to.
‘And these are, sweeping round the room, Little Bob the drummer boy…’
‘Aye!’ cried Bob.
‘…Roger Masson…’
I was honoured with a shifty glance and a mumbled hello.
‘…Ned Lester…’
‘All right?’
‘…Claude Jepson…’
‘Oi Be Doi.’
‘…’ee b
e from Zummerzet, me dear…and finally Thomas Pomeroy, the most complete man since Odysseus…husband, father, adventurer, hypochondriac…’
A thin, shoulderless, gentle-looking man waved out a limp white hand.
‘Come, come, I’m not that bad, Dick. Though, Mr Oysterman, I do not mind confessing that ‘tis indeed my ambition to contract the gout and effect transfer to one of the Invalid Regiments – provided ‘tis not one out in the West Indies. Already I think I might have a rupture coming on, which I will show you if you wish.’
‘Never moind about tharrrt,’ cried the supine Mr Jepson, the back of his scarecrow-like head resting on his folded hands, ‘Where be tharrt woife o’ yours? Oim starvin’.’
‘On her way, Mr Jepson, never fear. In fact, that sounds like her now.’
He leapt up, grimaced as though he wished he hadn’t, and limped to the door. He opened it to reveal a skeletal sourfaced woman carrying a steaming bowlful of some foodstuff or other. Clinging to her skirts was a boy of about eight, all eyes beneath a miniature tricorne hat.
‘My dear, meet our new recruit, Mr Harold Oysterman. Mr Oysterman, this is my wife, Anne Pomeroy, and my young son, Peter.’
I was regarded dolefully by the pair, and quickly forgotten.
‘They all sleep together in the married quarters, in case you’re wondering,’ informed Mr Lickley. ‘Though why they go to such lengths to maintain their privacy, I don’t know. Certainly no action in the sexual field, is there, Thomas?’
‘Oh no, I should say not!’ gasped Thomas, ‘we gave up that unpleasantness many years ago, didn’t we, dearest?’
Mrs Pomeroy looked at her husband with hatred.
‘Never get married,’ whispered Dick to me, noticing the look too. ‘This is what it always boils down to in the end, no matter how ecstatically it starts.’
But not marrying had got me into an even worse state. A lifetime of Amanda Philpott’s daggered glares now seemed like bliss compared to the hell of being a soldier. If the pen and paper ever came, I would write to her immediately, in blood if necessary, begging forgiveness and promising marriage after all, on whatever terms she wanted.
Infernal Revolutions Page 5
