Land of Hope and Glory

by Geoffrey Wilson

  They continued through the afternoon and eventually dusk crawled across the countryside. They came to a stretch of grass beside a brook.

  ‘Good place to camp,’ Charles said.

  ‘We should keep going,’ Jack replied.

  ‘Could be dangerous travelling at night. You get bandits around here sometimes.’

  ‘We have to get to London in time.’ Jack was well aware that if they didn’t get to the city before the Rajthanans there would be little chance of him finding William. William could be killed or captured – in the chaos of battle anything could happen – but neither occurrence would ensure his friend was taken back to Poole. Jack would have to make sure that happened himself.

  ‘We’ll be there in a day and a half, well before the army,’ Charles said. ‘Besides, I fancy a drink.’ He reached back and flung aside a piece of cloth, revealing a cask of ale.

  Jack shook his head. He couldn’t believe Charles had brought along such a lot of alcohol. He was reluctant to stop now – he would have happily travelled through the night – but he didn’t want to risk an argument. It was Charles’s mule cart, after all.

  The campfire was dwindling, the embers shivering in the chill breeze. The sky burned with stars, the night hummed with the sound of frogs and crickets, and the plains were hidden in the dark.

  The cask was half empty, most of it having been drunk by Charles. Jack had sipped down a couple of mugs to keep the lad company, but the ale tasted sour and he was in no mood to drink. All the same, the alcohol seemed to go to his head more quickly than he’d expected and he felt surrounded by a vague bubble of drunkenness.

  ‘Saleem,’ Charles said, voice slurred. ‘Why don’t you have a drink?’

  Saleem, who’d sat quietly during most of the evening, stared at the fire and shook his head.

  ‘Go on,’ Charles said. ‘Just one little drink. It’ll do you good.’

  Saleem resisted Charles’s continued goading.

  Eventually, Charles stood unsteadily and walked over with his mug. He crouched and pushed the mug into Saleem’s chest. ‘It’ll make a man out of you.’

  ‘All right,’ Saleem said finally. ‘Just a sip.’

  Charles watched intently as Saleem put the mug to his nose and crinkled his face in disgust. ‘Get on with it,’ he said.

  Gingerly, Saleem took a sip. He thought about the taste for a moment, then grimaced and spat it out into the fire. He coughed and wiped his mouth.

  Charles roared with laughter, rolling back into the darkness, shaking.

  ‘Don’t know how you can drink that stuff.’ Saleem wiped even his tongue on his sleeve as he tried to expunge the taste.

  Charles sat up and patted Saleem hard on the back. ‘We’ll get you drinking yet.’

  He staggered over to the cask, filled his mug from the tap, then sat back down against a tree and waved his mug in Jack’s general direction, spilling some ale. ‘A toast to you, old soldier.’

  Jack raised his own mug in an effort to be sociable.

  ‘So tell us about the old days, Jack,’ Charles said. ‘Tell us about the battles you were in.’

  ‘Not much to tell,’ Jack replied.

  ‘What about Ragusa?’

  Jack hesitated. For a moment he saw that barren plain, grey in the dawn, the bodies in the mud, the seething pit of the dying at the base of the wall. ‘How many battles you been in?’ he asked Charles.

  Charles’s head lolled to one side as he tried to focus. His eyes wandered about like drowsy flies. ‘A few . . . the Scottish brigands.’

  Jack knew all about the brigands on the Scottish border – he’d served there himself for three years. It was wild country – Scotland had never been conquered by the Rajthanans. But at the same time chasing bandits around the hills was hardly a battle. The bands of Scotsmen were small and usually went into hiding as soon as they were confronted. The entire time Jack had been posted there he’d hardly fired a shot.

  He looked at Charles, the lad’s youthful face swaying and ruddy in the firelight. He could see bravado there, but what was there to back it up? Nothing. The lad was inexperienced, had never even seen a proper fight.

  And then there was Saleem, looking into the flames with a dreamy expression on his face. He was no more than a boy, with no idea what he was getting himself into.

  Jack stood suddenly and the ale rushed to his head. The night air roared around him. ‘Back in a moment.’

  He stumbled into the darkness and urinated against a tree, the liquid rumbling as it hit the bark.

  What was he doing? Why was he here, slightly drunk, on Salisbury Plain? Why was he still following William? He had no plan of any sort. Was he going to capture William? Kill him? And how would he do that and get out of the city before the Rajthanans arrived?

  It was going to be hard enough just getting to London. He had to get past the Rajthanans in Hampshire, and his companions were two lads who had virtually no fighting experience. He glanced back at the camp and saw the two figures dark against the glow of the fire. They were just boys . . .

  And he recalled Private Robert Salter, who’d also been just a boy – sixteen years old – when he’d joined Jack’s regiment. Jack could still see the lad’s pale face with a bowl of straight, black hair and a mouth continually pursed as if he were about to spit. The boy was useless. He was sullen, given to complaining and often out of time during musket drill. Jack wasn’t sure if he could ever be turned into a proper soldier.

  Jack was nearing thirty at the time and had reached the rank of sergeant. They were on campaign in Swedeland, their mission a simple matter of clearing some hills of bandits. The bandits were poor fighters, easy to track, and they often surrendered.

  The regiment had set up camp in one of the larger valleys and forays were sent into the surrounding hills. Jack and his platoon, seconded to a unit under a captain named Roy, were charged with hunting a band of more than sixty bandits, who’d proven to be a more difficult quarry than the others. They tracked them for three days, winding all over the hills in the biting cold, Jack following the sattva trail.

  Roy, a thin man with a quartz scar over one eye, became increasingly irritated at their failure to catch the Swedes. He ordered the men to keep marching through long days with little rest, and his commands were short, sharp and peppered with the constant threat of flogging.

  On the third night they made camp with the wind moaning in the dark and the desolate hills laced with moonlight. As sergeant, Jack was in charge of assigning the sentries, but he was tired and frustrated from a fruitless day – Captain Roy had bellowed at him for half an hour for losing the trail on several occasions.

  He stood in the camp, trying to remember who he’d assigned to sentry duty the night before. But he couldn’t think straight.

  ‘Anderson, Wills, Salter – you’re on tonight,’ he said to his men.

  ‘Pardon me, sir—’ Salter began.

  ‘Just get on duty.’ He waved away the Private. The boy had been annoying him for days. He was too slow and kept complaining of a sore foot. He literally jumped every time he heard a musket fired. He was a liability more than anything else.

  The next morning Jack woke to the sound of Roy shouting. He got up and walked across the camp to where the Captain was berating Salter, with a group of the men gathered around. Roy was red in the face and spat as he raged, while Salter stood with his head bowed, terrified.

  ‘This is the worst flouting of campaign rules I’ve seen for years,’ Roy shouted. ‘You’re a disgrace, Salter. A complete disgrace.’

  Roy turned as Jack arrived. ‘Sergeant Casey, I found this man asleep on sentry duty this morning.’

  Jack froze. This was a serious dereliction. On campaign it was punishable by death, which was why it happened so rarely. He glanced at Salter, who was visibly shaking.

  ‘It was a mistake, sir,’ Salter said. ‘Must’ve only been for an hour. No more.’

  ‘One hour, two hours – we could’ve all been shot in
our sleep, you pink bastard,’ Roy said. ‘Sergeant, this man is under arrest. Bind his hands.’

  Roy strode away across the camp.

  Jack knew what was coming. He told the other men to leave and they skulked off, but stood around watching from a few yards away.

  ‘What the hell did you think you were doing?’ Jack hissed to Salter.

  Salter was sweating despite the chill in the air. ‘I was tired. I didn’t mean to.’

  ‘Tired? We’re all bloody tired.’

  ‘But it was my third night on duty. I haven’t slept for three days.’

  Jack’s skin prickled. ‘What?’

  ‘I tried to tell you.’

  ‘Christ. I forgot. I thought you were off the night before.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Look, I have to tie your hands now. Don’t worry, I’ll talk to the Captain.’

  Jack fetched a piece of rope from a nearby packhorse and tied Salter’s hands behind his back. He then walked across the camp and met Roy striding in the opposite direction, his red and white turban bobbing up and down, pistol in his belt.

  ‘Sir,’ Jack said. ‘There’s been a mistake. Salter’s been on duty three nights running.’

  Roy’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why’s he been on so many nights?’

  Jack went silent. ‘It was my fault, sir. Made a mistake.’

  ‘A bloody stupid mistake.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll be mentioning it to the Colonel.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But it’s still a dereliction of duty. Salter will have to be shot.’

  ‘Sir, I thought that given the circumstances—’

  ‘The rules are clear. Salter should’ve stayed awake regardless.’

  ‘But sir—’

  ‘Out of my way, Sergeant.’

  Roy marched on and Jack followed, feeling sick.

  Salter stood beside a boulder on the edge of the camp. His hair was slick with sweat and he blinked constantly. He looked like a dog who’d just been kicked by its master.

  ‘Up there.’ Roy pointed to the slope above them.

  The three of them walked uphill, Salter stumbling a few times on the rocky ground, finding it difficult with his hands tied. He glanced at Jack, raw fear in his eyes. Jack looked away and cleared his throat.

  They came to a group of pines and Roy led them into the trees until they were out of sight of the camp. The fallen needles were soft beneath their boots and the sharp scent of pine surrounded them.

  Roy pointed at a tree. ‘That one there.’

  Jack took Salter over to the tree and tied him firmly to the trunk, facing outward. Roy stood a short distance away, watching, the pistol now in his hand.

  ‘Thought you were going to talk to him,’ Salter said.

  ‘I did,’ Jack said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  His mind was racing. He tried to think whether there was anything he could do. But Roy was in command and there was no way he could question the decision of an officer.

  He stepped away and Roy walked over.

  ‘Private Salter,’ Roy said. ‘You are guilty of dereliction of duty whilst on campaign, namely sleeping whilst assigned to a sentry post. I hereby sentence you to be shot until you are dead.’

  Jack smelt piss. A dark stain spread down Salter’s trousers from under his tunic.

  Roy stepped to the side, lifted the pistol and held it near Salter’s temple. Salter shivered fiercely and made small choking sounds. He squeezed his eyes shut and twisted his body slightly as though in some way he could avoid the bullet.

  Roy fired. The sound echoed across the valley and birds flew squawking from the trees.

  ‘Be more bloody careful next time, Sergeant.’ Roy turned and marched back down to the camp . . .

  Jack stared up at the night sky, at the stars reeling over Salisbury Plain. He hitched up his hose.

  It was Salter’s death that had made him leave the army. It was a strange thing – it was just the death of one young man. He’d seen so many die, young and old. He’d thought he was immune to it. But the death had haunted him. Even back from campaign he’d dreamt about that final moment in the forest. He’d spoken to Jhala, but the Captain had pointed out that Roy had followed the regulations to the letter.

  And, of course, Jhala was right. Jack himself was to blame. He was the one who had made the error. And this weighed on him. He should have listened to what Salter was trying to tell him that night. He shouldn’t have let tiredness get in the way of doing his job properly. If only there were some way he could correct the mistake.

  Three months later, on a battlefield in Denmark, a stray sattva-fire ball struck him and he was laid up in hospital for a month. During that time he realised he’d been punished for Salter’s death. Karma must have caused the accident. Or perhaps it was God. He wasn’t sure. But he’d undoubtedly been punished.

  Once he recovered, he tried to continue with his duties, but in secret he felt he no longer deserved his sergeant’s cap-stripes. He didn’t deserve to wear an army uniform at all.

  Within months he’d handed in his resignation.

  Jhala had tried to convince him to stay, saying ‘There’s no need for you to leave, Casey. You’ve recovered well enough to serve, even if you can’t use your power as often as before. I don’t tell many people this, but I was once badly injured myself. I got better, though, and I carried on. You should too.’

  But the words weren’t enough to change Jack’s mind . . .

  Now he wandered back to the campfire, where Charles and Saleem were discussing something, Charles’s voice loud and Saleem’s soft and barely audible.

  Charles belched as Jack approached. ‘We were just talking about . . . What were we talking about?’

  Saleem shrugged.

  ‘Oh, yes. How we’re going to give the Rajthanans a thrashing.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Jack sat down. He tipped the remains of his ale into the fire where it hissed and bubbled.

  ‘You’ll meet my regiment in London,’ Charles continued. ‘The 12th. They’ll all be there. Greatest bunch of lads. You’ll meet them—’

  ‘We should get some sleep,’ Jack said.

  ‘A few more pints,’ Charles drawled.

  ‘You’ve had enough. Get some sleep.’

  Charles’s head wobbled. He peered at Jack across the fire, puzzled. ‘You’re right. Sleep.’

  And he slumped to the earth and lay there, blowing dust across the ground with his open mouth.

  Charles let Jack drive the cart the next day, while he lay in the back, hand on his forehead, groaning each time they went over a bump. Jack admonished himself for letting Charles drink so much. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. They had to get to London before the army and he couldn’t let anything slow them down.

  At around ten o’clock in the morning, hills appeared in the distance.

  Charles sat up. ‘Hampshire Downs. We’re near the border of the Earl’s lands.’

  ‘You’d better get out of that tunic,’ Jack said.

  Charles frowned and looked at his dark-blue uniform. ‘You think so?’

  ‘If we come across Rajthanans you’ll attract attention.’

  Charles nodded, took off the tunic and replaced it with an old jerkin. He slid the tunic underneath the canvas, with the firearms.

  ‘No,’ Jack said. ‘Better get rid of it. They could search the cart.’

  Reluctantly, Charles held up the tunic, looked at it for a moment, as if inspecting it before going on parade, then rolled it into a tube and threw it out into a field.

  A cloud of dust appeared across the road ahead. At first it was a tiny smear, but then it grew into a huge globe that obscured the hills. Jack held the reins tightly.

  ‘What is it?’ Charles asked.

  ‘Don’t know.’ Jack stopped the cart and climbed down. He knelt on the pitted road, put his ear to the ground and listened intently to the vibrations in the earth. The immediate surroundings were deserted, but far off
he could detect the tread of thousands of feet.

  ‘The army?’ Charles asked as Jack climbed back into the cart.

  Jack shook his head. ‘A lot of people, but they’re not marching in time. Just ordinary walking.’

  ‘Who are they, then?’

  ‘Can’t be sure. Give me that pistol.’

  Charles took the pistol out from under the canvas. Jack examined the weapon. It was an ancient flintlock single-shooter, with a prowling lion etched along the side. Similar weapons were being phased out of the army when he’d first joined twenty-three years ago. He wondered whether it would even work. He checked the pan and the barrel – they were both clean. He then measured and poured powder into the muzzle, and rammed in a ball along with a greased patch of cloth. After priming the pan, he balanced the weapon carefully on the seat beside him, under a blanket.

  ‘You’d better load that musket too,’ he said.

  Charles bit open a cartridge. He stood in the cart as they bounced along, jabbing with the ramrod and watching as the dust cloud spread before them.

  The countryside changed. The farms thinned out, then vanished, leaving open, uncultivated grassland. No one worked the fields, no other travellers moved along the road.

  Figures formed in the dust: peasants, thousands of them, trudging along the road in a vast, broken column that snaked away into the distance. As they came closer Jack could see their ragged clothes and gaunt features. They dragged their feet as if carrying heavy weights. There were men and women, children, babies clinging to their mothers, all staring straight ahead.

  The first groups barely acknowledged Jack and his companions. They walked, with their heads bowed, on one side of the road so that the mule cart could pass. Some had sacks with a few possessions on their backs, but many carried nothing at all. They were thin, the skin hanging from their faces, their arms feeble sticks. Soon they were all about the cart.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Jack called out.

  A bearded man scowled at him. ‘Away from here.’