‘Where’ve you been keeping this fine fellow, Tom? You shouldn’t have brought him to see me so early. I ain’t at my best.’
‘He’s here to help me with the captain.’ Mander clearly liked the barmaid. ‘And you have never looked lovelier.’
‘Well he can help me any time he likes.’ Sally lowered her gaze and flashed Jack a surprisingly demure smile. ‘You boys fancy a quick nip before you go up?’
‘I’m sure we won’t say no.’ Mander turned and beckoned Jack closer. ‘Come on, Jack, take a pew. Sally won’t bite. Well, not unless you pay her to.’
Sally tutted at the comment but still poured a pennyworth of gin into two small glasses.
Jack nodded his thanks. He hated gin, had poured too much himself to ever fancy the stuff. But he still took the measure and knocked it back quickly, keen not to appear rude.
‘Someone’s done that before.’ Sally was watching him closely.
‘Once or twice.’ Jack spoke for the first time. He was taking a liking to Mander’s friend. She had no airs or graces.
‘So you do know what you are about, then?’ Sally narrowed her eyes.
‘I reckon I do.’ Jack flashed a smile.
‘Maybe you can show me one day.’
‘Ease up, you two. We’ve got work to do.’ Mander interrupted the flirting before taking a more circumspect sip of his own drink, closing his eyes as the raw spirit caught the back of this throat. ‘Is the captain upstairs?’
‘He is.’
‘Is he in a state?’
‘Well I don’t see many as could drink as much as he can. Fair packed it away, he did. He’s got young Mary with him, but he was so far gone I suspect she’s had a quiet night.’
Mander looked at Jack, watching for his reaction.
It was not hard for Jack to understand Mary’s role in the officer’s room. The name was another tie to his past, and he felt a cold hand wrap around the back of his neck. He kept his face neutral, the expression of a man used to the world and its more earthly pleasures.
Mander nodded his thanks for the warning. He drank down the last of his gin, then turned to Jack.
‘Ready?’
Jack nodded. He suspected that the next few minutes would somehow have a significant bearing on his fate. He felt a strange form of calmness settle on him, his emotions hidden away. It was a feeling he had experienced before when about to get into a fight or take a beating. He welcomed the sensation and followed Mander up the stairs.
‘Who’s there?’
‘It’s me, sir.’ Mander did not wait to give any further introduction but pushed open the door he had just rapped with his knuckles.
‘Thank God, Tom. I think I am dying.’
Jack slipped in behind the orderly. The air was rank and the room bore the evidence of a night’s debauchery. Several fallen wine bottles rolled on the floor, with many more arranged in a phalanx on the room’s single gate-leg table. In one corner, a well-used leather wingback armchair was smothered with layers of discarded clothing, with still more scattered carelessly across the floor. ‘Nonsense, sir, you just had a bumper or too more than was sensible.’ Tom bustled into the room, collecting bits of Sloames’s discarded uniform as he went, clearly not shocked by the sight that greeted him.
Captain Sloames lay spread-eagled on a chaise longue, a thick smear of saliva crusted to one of his cheeks, which was pressed against a sheet he must have pulled from the bed. He was unashamedly naked, his splayed legs hiding nothing from Jack’s gaze.
Mander was moving around busily. He pulled the corner of the sheet over his officer’s lower body, his only reaction a soft tut of disapproval as he picked Sloames’s fine uniform coatee up from the floor. The heavy scarlet jacket showed the ravages of the night’s excess, and Mander rubbed at a dark stain on one of the cuffs.
Sloames lifted a single heavy eyelid as he watched his orderly stomp around the room. ‘Could you be a little quieter, Tom? You sound like a damned elephant.’
‘Sorry about that, sir.’ Mander paid the comment no heed. ‘Time to start lending a hand, Lark. Open the windows, for starters.’
‘Who the devil is that?’ Sloames’s eye followed Jack as he went to do as he had been told. There was no rancour in the question.
‘That is Private Lark, sir. He’s learning the ropes.’
‘Good for him.’ The eye closed.
Jack opened the first window, blinking hard as the fresh breeze washed over his face. He took a lungful of the sweeter air with some relief, the fug in the room almost overpowering. He was shocked at what he had seen. He had come with Mander expecting to meet a gentleman. Instead he had found a naked drunk.
‘Time to get up, love.’
He turned back in time to see Mander shaking what appeared to be the shoulder of a body lying under the covers on the bed. They were thrown back with a groan of disappointment, and Jack nearly choked as a thin girl slipped out. He could not help but gape as she bent over and began collecting her own clothes.
‘Lark. A gentleman does not stare.’ Mander laughed as he rebuked his protégé.
The girl joined the laughter as she caught Jack ogling her body. ‘Close your mouth, love, else you’ll catch a fly.’
Mander was clearly unconcerned by the sight of the girl’s naked chest. He was busy at the room’s washstand, tossing a jug of cold water into a large blue bowl, which he then held out towards Jack. ‘Lark, take this over. Be careful, mind.’
Jack forced his eyes from the whore’s tits and carried the bowl to the chaise longue, placing it close to Sloames’s sweaty head and doing his best not to spill any water in the process.
‘Time for a wash, sir.’ He spoke to the captain for the first time.
Sloames groaned and gingerly turned his head away. ‘Be gone, Satan. It’s not time for damn reveille.’
Jack stared at the back of the officer’s head. He did not know what to say, so he looked to Mander for support.
‘Come on, Captain. It’s time for a wash.’ Mander was busy. He had rifled through Sloames’s uniform coatee and fished out his master’s pocketbook, and was now paying off the girl, who, much to Jack’s disappointment, had slipped a thin cotton shift over her head. Payment made, he filled his arms with a pair of towels, half a dozen bottles and packets and a fresh sheet before bustling over to where Jack stood awkwardly.
Jack gave one last longing glance at the pretty girl as she was about to slip out of the room. She saw him looking and grinned, then disappeared from sight.
Mander nudged Jack to one side before spreading the sheet on the ground. He then moved the washbowl, using the far end of the chaise longue as an impromptu washstand. ‘Ready for you now, sir.’
Sloames opened his eyes with some difficulty. Jack stood back and glanced around the room. They had only been here a matter of minutes, but already the whore had departed, the windows were wafting away the worst of the smell of sin, and Sloames’s scattered uniform had been gathered in. Jack was impressed. Mander knew what he was about.
‘Do piss off, Mander.’ Sloames waved a limp hand at his orderly. ‘I rather think you would be better employed if you took yourself downstairs and rustled up whatever passes for breakfast in this bloody hovel. Chops would be my choice, but I’ll accept some good thick bacon.’
‘There is no time for that, sir. You need to get yourself washed and dressed and ready for luncheon with the colonel in the mess.’ Mander smiled as his master abused him.
Jack could sense the bond between the two men in the familiarity with which they treated each other. It spoke well of their relationship, and he was beginning to understand just what the role of an orderly might really entail. There was much more to it than he had imagined. An officer’s orderly might fetch and carry, but it was clear that he looked after his master in so many other
ways. He wondered what it would be like to find himself in Mander’s shoes.
‘Do not be so damned impertinent. Since when did you outrank me, you cur?’ Sloames held his hand to his forehead and groaned theatrically. Then he looked at Mander and let out another groan as he levered himself to his feet.
‘That’s the way, sir. A quick wash and brush-up and you’ll feel right as rain.’
Sloames stood and started to wash. Mander was on hand to help, the orderly pre-empting his officer’s every need.
‘Thank you, Tom.’ Sloames stopped washing and fixed his gaze on his orderly. ‘You do me a fine service.’
‘Just doing my job, sir.’ Mander tried to look stern, but he could not help the edge of his mouth curling up at the praise.
‘I shall miss you.’ Sloames spoke with feeling.
‘I should hope so too, sir.’ Mander made the comment lightly.
Sloames glanced across at Jack, who was standing by doing his best to observe Mander’s actions. ‘I am so sorry, what was your name again?’
‘Lark, sir.’
‘A good name!’ Sloames bent low and splashed water over his face before taking the towel Mander offered. He betrayed no embarrassment at his nakedness. ‘If you become my orderly, you will certainly have to be up with the damned larks, is that not so, Tom?’
‘It is indeed, sir. You take a lot of looking after.’
‘You dog. I am grace personified.’ Sloames handed the damp towel back to Mander before turning back to face Jack. ‘I shall certainly look favourably on your application, Lark. If old Tom here saw fit to let you see me at my worst, then I can only suppose he has spotted something about you that leads him to think you would do well in the role.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Jack was astonished.
‘He has a lot to learn, sir. I won’t have the time to teach him.’ Jack could tell that Mander was pleased to hear that Sloames trusted his judgement.
‘He can learn as we go. I am not such a hard taskmaster, am I, Tom?’
‘Not all the time, sir.’ Mander turned to Jack. ‘But I think you’ll like this lad. He is a cut above the rest.’ He winked before holding out the damp towel. ‘You might as well make yourself useful, Lark. Take this, then empty out the bowl and give it a clean.’
Jack nodded and reached for the towel. In his haste, he dropped it on the floor, and bent forward to snatch it up, only noticing his proximity to Sloames’s groin when he was halfway down.
He straightened up and hurried to take the washbowl, doing his best to hide his embarrassment. Yet even his clumsiness could not mar the moment. Thanks to Mander, he had the chance to leave his messmates behind. He reckoned he had gone a fair way to making sure the job was his.
Molly had been right. You did make your own luck in this world. Good things did not happen to the meek or the quiet. They came to those who damned the future’s eyes, grabbed it by the scruff of the neck and took it for their own.
‘Mud! Mud! Mud! Mud!’
The raucous chant reverberated around the cramped barrack room. The occupants had pressed themselves together at the end furthest from the door, and now the small crowd jostled and shoved one another as they vied for the best view of the room’s open doorway.
‘Mud! Mud! Mud! Mud!’
The men chanted in unison, using their hands to beat out a rhythm on the flaked plaster on the walls, or improvising a tin mug as an instrument to tap out a staccato beat against the iron frames of the bedsteads. They were all in their shirtsleeves or in flannel undershirts. Their red coats were hanging from the pegs above their beds, the outer shell of the uniformed soldier put to one side, the man within the formal casing momentarily set free.
It was rare for so many men to still be in the barrack room. The hour of leisure time at the end of the day was usually spent in the canteen, the only place the redcoats could be sure of not being overcharged for their beer. But there was better entertainment laid on that night and so the men crowded together, waiting for the arrival of their messmate.
‘Mud! Mud! Mud! Mud!’
‘Silence! Silence, damn your eyes! What is the meaning of this godforsaken row?’
The wild chant was stifled in a heartbeat. The dramatic appearance of a figure of authority in the open doorway to the soldiers’ shabby accommodation hushed the primeval mantra and stilled the beating hands. The silence that followed was complete, the uneasy peace filled with tension. Yet an air of expectancy was detectable too, the moment when an audience quietened as the curtain went up and the first performer strode on to the stage.
The straight sword that hung on leather slings against the man’s hip told the rowdy audience that their fun had been curtailed by an officer, the pair of gold wire epaulettes on his shoulders denoting his rank of captain. The stiff white pompom that stood proudly to attention on the peak of the shako he carried in the crook of his arm revealed to the soldiers his status as the commander of the grenadiers, one of the two elite companies who would be trusted to fight on the flanks of the battalion in battle.
A captain of grenadiers was a man to be obeyed. He was a man to be feared.
A frisson of excitement rippled through the air as the officer strolled languidly into the room, his white-gloved hand stroking the silver gorget that hung at his throat.
‘What is the meaning of this ruckus?’ He snapped the question, his face creased into a scowl. ‘Why, your damned noise is carrying all the way to the officers’ mess and disturbing us from our games!’ He paused and looked at each man in turn, his chin lifted in angry condescension. ‘It’ll be the black hole for all of you if you persist with this behaviour!’
A half-stifled guffaw escaped from the lips of a thin, ferret-faced soldier perched on the corner of the bed closest to the officer. His wiry features broke into a wide smile, revealing the blackened stumps that were all that remained of his teeth.
‘You! Private Trussler! Do you find my threat laughable! Why, I should have you flogged for such a display of insubordination. Ah, there you go!’ The officer pointed a gloved hand at the errant soldier, who was doing his best to contain himself. ‘I see you are not laughing now, you damned villain.’
The final words were too much for the rest of the audience. The noise that followed was raucous, a sudden barrage of sound that burst forth in one spontaneous roar. The soldiers descended into fits of laughter, many reduced to tears as they lost the ability to control their mirth.
‘Where’d you get the uniform from, Mud?’ shouted a voice from the midst of the laughing soldiers.
‘From Captain Humphrey, you fool. That’s his uniform, ain’t it, Jack?’ Trussler wiped the tears from his cheeks as he answered the man who had asked the question.
The offended soldier answered before anyone else could respond. ‘I’m not a bloody fool, Trussler. Call me that again and I’ll smash your damn mizzen.’
‘Stow it, Thatcher.’ Pike pushed his way out of the crowd and approached Jack with his arms stretched wide. ‘Bloody hell, Mud. Even though I knew it was you, I still nearly shat myself!’
‘Truly?’ Jack glanced down at his borrowed uniform before looking back at his messmate, searching his eyes for any hint of mockery.
‘Truly! I don’t think you know quite how damn good you are at this. I reckon you could even fool the colonel.’
‘Here, Mud! I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes if Captain Humphrey discovers that one of his uniforms has gone missing. They’ll flog you if they find you out.’ Trussler licked his lips anxiously as he called his warning, his nerves obvious.
‘He won’t find out. He’s on furlough for another week.’
Jack did his best to shrug off the risk. It had been Tom Mander who had helped him find the uniform. The old soldier had laughed when Jack had proposed his madcap scheme, but once he had seen that he was serious, he
had gone along with it. Mander had told him that he would not be the first to impersonate an officer. The orderly had seen it done before, something that Jack had found reassuring. But he knew he was risking the skin on his back by going about such a foolish charade. He just hoped it was worth it.
‘Well. You’re taking a chance, that’s all.’ Trussler was not prepared to leave the matter. ‘You could drop us all in the shit.’
‘Don’t be such an old woman, Trussler. Mud knows what he’s about.’ Pike sprang instinctively to his friend’s aid. The thickset soldier put a protective hand on Jack’s arm, scowling at the unwanted objection. ‘No one will find out, will they, Mud?’
‘I bloody hope not.’ Jack revealed some of his own fear. ‘The officers are all at some ball out in the country on the far side of town. At least that’s what old Mander told me. Lieutenant Hook is orderly officer and he’ll be three sheets to the wind already.’
‘Well it’s your back, Mud. Just don’t go asking for any help if you gets rumbled.’ Trussler made his final opinion on the matter known.
‘Mud won’t get rumbled. He’s much too clever for that, aren’t you, Jack? Just hold your fucking peace, Trussler, you little gobshite!’ Thatcher was quick to offer his opinion, and he threw his tin mug at his fellow redcoat to emphasise his displeasure.
The barrack room erupted with glee as Trussler leapt angrily to his feet and rushed at his assailant. The first bets were placed even before the two messmates came to blows. One of their own playing the Jack Pudding was a fine entertainment. But nothing was as good as a fight.
Pike steered Jack out of the melee, holding his elbow carefully, the long-serving soldier reluctant to manhandle an officer even if it was only his own friend dressed as one.
‘You do look good, Jack. I have to say it suits you. Didn’t I always say you would go places?’
Jack Lark: Redcoat (A Jack Lark Short Story) Page 5
