‘No coffee,’ moaned Maladict.
‘Foul muck, anyway,’ said Jackrum, walking away. ‘A cup of hot sweet tea is the soldier’s friend.’
Polly grabbed the kettle for Blouse’s shaving water, and hurried away. That was another thing you learned in the milit’ry: look busy. Look busy and no one worried too much about what you were busy at.
Bloody, bloody Strappi! He’d got her hair! He’d try to use it against her if he could, that was certain. That’d be his style. What would he do now? Well, he’d want to keep away from Jackrum, that’d be another certainty. He’d wait, somewhere. She’d have to, too.
The squad had made camp upwind of the smoke. It was supposed to be a rest stop, since no one had got much sleep last night, but as Jackrum handed out tasks he reminded them: ‘There is an old milit’ry saying, which is: Hard Luck For You.’
There was no question of using the woven hut, but there were a few tarpaulin-covered frames built to keep the coppiced wood dry. Those not given jobs to do lay down on the stacked piles of twigs, which were yielding and didn’t smell and were in any case better than the inhabited palliasses back at the barracks.
Blouse, as an officer, had a shelter to himself. Polly had stacked bundles of twigs to make a chair that was at least springy. Now she laid out his shaving things and turned to go—
‘Could you shave me, Perks?’ said the lieutenant.
Fortunately, Polly’s back was turned and he didn’t see her expression.
‘This damn hand is quite swollen, I’m afraid,’ Blouse went on. ‘I would not normally ask, but—’
‘Yes, of course, sir,’ said Polly, because there was no alternative. Well now, let’s see . . . she’d got quite good at scraping a blunt razor across a face bare of hair, yes. Oh, and she’d shaved a few dead pigs in the kitchens at The Duchess, but that was only because nobody likes hairy bacon. They didn’t really count, did they? Panic rose, and rose faster at the sight of Jackrum approaching. She was going to cut an officer’s throat in the presence of a sergeant.
Well, when in doubt, bustle. Milit’ry rule. Bustle, and hope there’s a surprise attack.
‘Are you not being a little strict with the men, sergeant?’ said Blouse, as Polly flapped a towel round his neck.
‘No, sir. Keep ‘em occupied, that’s the bunny. Otherwise they’ll mope,’ said Jackrum confidently.
‘Yes, but they have just seen a couple of badly mutilated bodies,’ said Blouse, and shuddered.
‘Good practice for ‘em, sir. They’ll see plenty more.’
Polly turned to the shaving gear she’d laid out on another towel. Let’s see . . . cut-throat razor, oh dear, the grey stone for coarse sharpening, the red stone for fine sharpening, the soap, the brush, the bowl . . . well, at least she knew how to make foam . . .
‘Deserters, sergeant. Bad business,’ Blouse went on.
‘You always get ‘em, sir. That’s why the pay is always late. Walking away from three months’ back pay makes a man think twice.’
‘Mr de Worde the newspaper man said there had been a great many desertions, sergeant. It is very strange that so many men would desert from a winning side.’
Polly whirled the brush vigorously. Jackrum, for the first time since Maladict had joined, looked uncomfortable.
‘But whose side is he on, sir?’ he said.
‘Sergeant, I am sure you are not a stupid man,’ said Blouse, as, behind him, foam poured over the edge of the bowl and flopped on to the floor. ‘There are desperate deserters abroad. Our borders appear to be sufficiently unguarded to enable enemy cavalry to operate forty miles inside “our fair country”. And High Command appears to be so desperate, yes, desperate, sergeant, that even half a dozen untrained and, frankly, very young men must go to the front.’
The foam had a life of its own now. Polly hesitated.
‘Hot towel first, please, Perks,’ said Blouse.
‘Yessir. Sorry, sir. Forgot, sir,’ said Polly, panic rising. She had a vague recollection of walking past the barber shop in Munz. Hot towel on face. Right. She grabbed a small towel, tipped boiling water on to it, wrung it out and placed it on the lieutenant’s face. He did not actually scream, as such.
‘Aaaaagh something else worries me, sergeant.’
‘Yessir?’
‘The cavalry must have apprehended Corporal Strappi. I cannot see how else they found out about our men.’
‘Good thinking, sir,’ said the sergeant, watching Polly apply the lather across mouth and nose.
‘I do hope they didn’t pff torture the poor man,’ said the lieutenant. Jackrum was silent on that issue, but meaningfully so. Polly wished he wouldn’t keep glancing at her.
‘But why would a deserter pff head straight for the pff front?’ said Blouse.
‘Makes sense, sir, for an old soldier. Especially a political.’
‘Really?’
‘Trust me on that, sir,’ said Jackrum. Behind Blouse, Polly brushed the razor up and down the red stone. It was already as slick as ice.
‘But our boys, sergeant, are not “old soldiers”. It takes pjf two weeks to turn a recruit into a “fighting man”,’ said the lieutenant.
‘They’re promising material, sir. I could do it in a couple of days, sir,’ said Jackrum. ‘Perks?’
Polly nearly sliced her thumb off. ‘Yes, sarge,’ she quavered.
‘Do you think you could kill a man today?’
Polly glanced at the razor. The edge glowed. ‘I’m sorry to say I think I could, sir!’
‘There you have it, sir,’ said Jackrum, with a lopsided grin. ‘There’s something about these lads, sir. They’re quick.’ He walked behind Blouse, took the razor from Polly’s grateful hand without a word, and said: ‘There’s a few matters we ought to discuss, sir, private like. I think Perks here ought to get some rest.’
‘Of course, sergeant. Pas devant les soldats jeuttes, eh?’
‘And them too, sir,’ said Jackrum. ‘You’re dismissed, Perks.’
Polly walked away, her right hand still trembling. Behind her, she heard Blouse sigh and say: ‘These are tricky times, sergeant. Command has never been so burdensome. The great General Tacticus says that in dangerous times the commander must be like the eagle and see the whole, and yet still be like the hawk and see every detail.’
‘Yessir,’ said Jackrum, gliding the razor down a cheek. ‘And if he acts like a common tit, sir, he can hang upside down all day and eat fat bacon.’
‘Er . . . well said, sergeant.’
The charcoal-burner and his wife were buried to the accompaniment of, to Polly’s lack of surprise, a small prayer from Wazzer. It asked the Duchess to intercede with the god Nuggan to give eternal rest and similar items to the departed. Polly had heard it many times before; she’d wondered how the process worked.
She’d never prayed since the day the bird burned, not even when her mother was dying. A god that burned painted birds would not save a mother. A god like that was not worth a prayer.
But Wazzer prayed for everyone. Wazzer prayed like a child, eyes screwed up and hands clenched until they were white. The reedy little voice trembled with such belief that Polly felt embarrassed, and then ashamed and, finally, after the ringing ‘amen’, amazed that the world appeared no different from before. For a minute or two, it had been a better place . . .
There was a cat in the hut. It cowered under the crude bed and spat at anyone who came close.
‘All the food’s been taken but there’s carrots and parsnips in a little garden down the hill a bit,’ Shufti said, as they walked away.
‘It’d be s-stealing from the dead,’ said Wazzer.
‘Well, if they object they can hold on, can’t they?’ said Shufti. ‘They’re underground already!’
For some reason that was, at this time, funny. They’d have laughed at anything.
Now there was Jade, Lofty, Shufti and Polly. Everyone else was on guard duty. They sat by the fire, on which a small pot seethed. Lofty tended the fire. She always seemed more animated near a fire, Polly noticed.
‘I’m doing horse scubbo for the rupert,’ said Shufti, easily dropping into a slang learned all of twenty hours ago. ‘He specifically asked for it. Got lots of dry horse jerky from Threeparts, but Tonker says she can knock over some pheasants while she’s on duty.’
‘I hope she spends some time watching for enemies too,’ said Polly.
‘She’ll be careful,’ said Lofty, prodding the fire with a stick.
‘You know, if we’re found out, we’ll be beaten and sent back,’ said Shufti.
‘Who by?’ said Polly, so suddenly she surprised herself. ‘By whom? Who’s going to try, out here? Who cares out here?’
‘Well, er, wearing men’s clothes is an Abomination unto Nuggan—’
‘Why?’
‘It just is,’ said Shufti firmly. ‘But—’
‘—you’re wearing them,’ said Polly.