‘And I’m pretty sure about Lofty, too,’ said Maladict.
‘What’re you going to do about . . . them?’ she said.
‘Do? Why should I do anything about anyone?’ said Maladict. ‘I’m a vampire officially pretending not to be one, right? I’m the last person who’ll say anyone has to play the hand they were dealt. So good luck to . . . him, say I. But you might like to take him aside later on and have a word with him. You know . . . man to man.’
Polly nodded. Was there a knowingness to that comment? ‘I’d better go and take the lieutenant his scubbo,’ she said. ‘And . . . blast it, I forgot about his laundry.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that, old chap,’ said Maladict, and flashed a little smile. ‘The way things are going around here, Igor’s probably a washerwoman in disguise.’
Polly did the laundry, in the end. She wasn’t sure that she’d be able to dodge Molly a second time, and there wasn’t that much of it. Afterwards she hung it in front of the fire, which was roaring.
The horse had been surprisingly good, but not as surprising as Blouse’s reaction to the scubbo. He had sat there in his evening dress uniform – wearing special clothes just to sit down and eat all by yourself was a new one on Polly – and had yummed it up and sent her back with the bowl for more. The meat had been boiled white and there was scum on the top. The squad wondered what kind of life an officer could have led that inclined him to like scubbo.
‘Dun’t know much about him,’ said Scallot, upon questioning. ‘He’s been here two weeks, frettin’ to get to the war. Brought a whole cartload of books with him, I heard. Looks like a typical rupert to me. They were all behind the door when the chins were handed out. A sergeant who went through said he’s not really a soldier at all, just some wonk from headquarters that’s good at sums.’
‘Oh, great,’ said Maladict, who was brewing his coffee by the fire. The little engine gurgled and hissed.
‘I don’t think he can see very well without his glasses,’ said Polly. ‘But he’s very, er, polite.’
‘Not been a rupert for long, then,’ said Scallot. ‘They’re more “Hey there! You! Damn your eyes, fwah fwah fwah!” I seen your sergeant before, though, old Jackrum. Been everywhere, he has. Everyone knows old Jackrum. He was with us in the snow up at Ibblestarn.’
‘How many people did he eat?’ said Maladict, to general laughter. The dinner had been good, and there had still been enough sherry for a glass each.
‘Let’s just say I heard he didn’t come down much thinner than when he went up,’ said Scallot.
‘And Corporal Strappi?’ said Polly.
‘Never seen him before, either,’ said Scallot. ‘Cross-grained little bugger. Political, I’d say. Why’s he gone and left you here? Got a nice cushy bed in the inn, has he?’
‘I hope he’s not g-going to be our sergeant,’ said Wazzer.
‘Him? Why?’ said Scallot.
Polly volunteered the events of earlier in the evening. To her surprise, Scallot laughed.
‘They’re trying to get rid of the old bugger again, are they?’ he said. ‘That’s a laugh! Bless you, it’ll take more’n a bunch of gawains and rodneys to lever Jackrum out of his own army. Why, he’s been court-martialled twice. He got off both times. And d’you know he once saved General Froc’s life? He’s been everywhere, got the goods on everyone, knows more strings than me and I know a good few, mark my words. If he wants to march with you tomorrow he will, and no skinny little rupert’ll get in his way.’
‘So what was a man like that doing as a recruiting officer?’ said Maladict sharply.
‘ ‘cos he got his leg cut open in Zlobenia and bit the sawbones who tried to look at it when the wound went bad, clever dick,’ retorted Scallot. ‘Cleaned it out himself with maggots and honey, then drank a pint of brandy and sewed himself up and lay on his bed with a fever for a week. But the general got him, I heard, came and visited him while he was too weak to protest and told him he was going on the drumming for a year and no argument. Not even Froc hisself would hand him his papers, not after Jackrum’d carried him on his back for fourteen miles through enemy lines—’
The door swung open and Sergeant Jackrum walked in, tucking his hands into his belt.
‘Don’t bother to salute, lads,’ he said, as they turned guiltily. ‘Evening, Threeparts. Nice to see nearly all of you again, you artful ol’ god-dodger. Where’s Corporal Strappi?’
‘Haven’t seen him all evening, sarge,’ said Maladict.
‘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’.