Infernal Revolutions (7 page)

‘Well, well, what desperadoes we had in our midst. No doubt some of you have drawn inspiration from this news, but let me tell you now, when these men are caught – and caught they will be – they will be thrashed so hard they will piss and cough blood for the rest of their lives. Provided, that is, they are not killed outright on the flogging triangle. And the same punishment will be applied if orders are disobeyed. So if an officer tells you to run straight at a loaded cannon, what do you do, Oysterman?'

‘Run straight at a loaded cannon, Sir.'

‘And if you disobey?'

‘I will be punished, Sir.'

‘Not just punished, Oysterman, STROKED, and stroked good. Believe you me, lads, you have to be brave to be a coward in this army. But ‘tis not all blood and guts. There are benefits to being a soldier too. You will have the inestimable solace of
knowing
yourself superior to other men. You will see sights that other men would die for. You will experience things that other men would die for. You will travel far afield. You will have opportunities to cover yourself in glory. You will have your pick of any whores you can afford. And eventually, when ‘tis all over, you will be able to settle down with your lass and your bottle, and reflect on a life full of adventure.'

I felt a spark of excitement in the dogs around me; indeed, I felt a stirring of my own passions. Even the horses in the stables around the yard started to snort and kick their stalls.

‘But first,' went on Sergeant Mycock, ‘there's this to clear.'

Corporal Tibbs, holding a handkerchief to his nose, ran to the barn door in the corner of the yard, and quickly threw the gates open wide. There before us, oozing and glistening in the sun, lay the source of the pervasive stench.

‘'Tis only offal and human shit, lads. The locals have asked us to bury it, so bury it we will. Buckets are in this corner, spades in that, burial ground over there. Now get cracking and show me what you're made of.'

I stared at the putrid mound in horror, and felt the gorge rise in my throat. This seemed a good time to bring up other things too, such as the subject of my illegal impressment. Bucket in hand, I was on my way to Sergeant Mycock to discuss it with him when I saw him turn and strike a fellow gloryseeker full in the groin with his fist, presumably for some behavioural misdemeanour. Veering quickly towards the spade corner, I picked up a tool and started shovelling, peeping all the time at the victim writhing on the ground and thinking how easily it could have been me. Before long, however, I was too busy retching dryly to ponder anything but my own misery, and as the backbreaking heartbreaking afternoon wore on I was reduced to just one repetitive thought: How on earth was I going to get out of this mess?

In order to avoid a slumped, stroked body which had collapsed near the yard door, I was escorted back to my room via the front garden of the
Martyr
. Though those of us still standing had been allowed to wash our hands in a horse trough, much to the whinnying disgust of the watching horses, my clothes and shoes still stank of Essence of Putrescence, and this did not endear me to the more delicate spectators of the still-parading regulars. I heard one elegant old lady heave drily as I passed, while a young baby in swaddling clothes seemed to go into some sort of spasm. Otherwise, it was just the usual barrage of common laughter and abuse from people who didn't know what genuine suffering was. Indeed, I wasn't sure that I knew its full measure, because my load of it was getting heavier by the hour, and still there seemed room for more. For now, in addition to my usual woes, I had bleeding palms and a lower back that ached to snapping point, both infirmities consequent upon the unwonted wielding of a vile spade. As I hobbled along next to Corporal Tibbs, wincing in agony, a tattoo started up a short distance to my left. Over the top of it I heard the chirpy voice of Little Bob call out.

‘Enjoy that, Harry?'

‘Not much,' I mumbled bitterly, not bothering to look up.

‘Never mind. It gets better. Wait till you're marching with us.'

I snorted ironically, barged through a knot of early-evening civilian drinkers, and – to my amazement – walked not onto the front lawn of the
Martyr
, as expected, but straight onto an improvised bowling green. I had no time to step back before a bowl came rolling out of nowhere like a spent cannonball and struck me cruelly on the foot. As if this was not enough it then bounced up and cracked into my shin, causing me to let out a howl of agony. Incensed by the pain, the imprecations of the bowlers and the hammering I was taking from Providence, I hopped around cursing loudly. Then, in a great pique of anger that overrode my pain, I picked up the bowl, looked around, and vindictively rolled it into the centre of a nearby duckpond.

‘Fish that out, peasants!' I cried, before limping back to my room through a jostle of infuriated players and spectators.

‘That's it, Lobby, ruin people's pleasure.'

‘God bless America and all her marksmen!'

‘Make him get it out, Jack! He bloody threw it in.'

‘Go on, up to your room, Oysterman,' said Corporal Tibbs. ‘Leave them alone to enjoy their drinking in peace.'

Only too willing, I pulled myself up the narrow stairs – ignoring calls from somebody or other to join them in the taproom – and collapsed fully-clothed on one of the empty beds. Like Goldilocks, no doubt, before the return of the bears, I just had time to enjoy a
frisson
of freedom before oblivion wiped me out once more. When I awoke the drum was still rattling away, but the room had got lighter, not darker. I was still puzzling over this anachronism when all hell broke loose.

‘TURN OUT, MY LITTLE LADIES, TURN OUT!! OUT, OUT OUT!!'

A boot clonked me full in the face, and I raised my head to see a hazy image of Sergeant Mycock laying into the huddled masses with his cane. I watched uncomprehendingly as he hawked and spat what looked like a ragged oyster straight down the open hatch of Ned Lester's throat. The effect, after a few seconds of suspense, was terrific: Ned gasped, choked and thrashed his arms around wildly before jumping upright to retch, cough, pant and dribble spittle all over the floor. A new day, I now realized, had arrived.

‘See what trouble you have getting it up, Lester? That's the trouble I have with you lot. Can't get you up, can I, Jepson? Too much fackin' ram weighin' yer dahn.'

The cane swished through the airy space just vacated by Claude's head.

‘Up now, Zir. Ready, Zir.'

‘AND THE REST OF YER!!!'

We all jumped up in terror, banging into each other in the process.

‘ABOUT FACKIN' TIME!!!' he yelled when we were all standing to attention. ‘CAN'T HAVE YER LYING IN BED ON A LAVVERLY MORNIN LIKE THIS, CAN WE, OYSTERMAN?'

‘No, Sir.'

He brought his face up to mine, and glared deep into my soul. A headbutt, I felt sure, was imminent, and I braced myself accordingly. Disconcertingly, however, he must have struck out blindly to his side, for Dick suddenly gasped and fell clutching his stomach, as though hit by a speeding cannonball.

‘Take nothing for granted, Lickley. I would have thought that you understood that better than most.'

‘Now, out on the grounds, all of yer. Except you, Oysterman. Corporal Tibbs will be round for you and the rest of the young ladies shortly. Tpah!' Another volley of phlegm splattered directly into my forehead, and slid down over my face in a very slimy manner. It still did not seem the right time to broach the subject of my illegal impressment, somehow.

Muskets were collected, my comrades departed coughing and cursing, and I was left to wipe my face clean and ponder the prospect of another day in Hell. Already I felt physically and mentally soiled, and ‘twas clear that unless I roused myself to letter-writing activity soon I would never escape. My mind and my ability to hold a pen would atrophy, and I would become completely submerged in the quagmire of army life. The longer I left it the harder it would get, but where was I to get the pen, paper and time from? I was pondering this question with my hand on my aching back when the door creaked slowly open and two dour faces peeped in.

‘He's a brute, that Sergeant Mycock is,' said Anne Pomeroy. ‘Wish he'd die.'

‘He will one day, Mrs Pomeroy. Nothing is so certain.'

‘Wish he'd die soon, then.'

Peter Pomeroy, tricorne already in place, looked up at his mother enigmatically.

‘Everyone's been stroked by him,' Ann went on. ‘It'll be your turn soon, you know, whether you do anything wrong or not.'

‘So I may as well try and escape, is that what you're saying?'

‘No, I'm not saying that,' said Anne, shocked. ‘I'm no devil's advocate. No, not I.'

Still, her presence and the subject matter of the conversation had fused together an idea in my mind.

‘Mrs Pomeroy. I wonder if I could beg a favour?'

Immediately she clutched her son, and shrank away from me.

‘No, no….I don't mean that. I mean could you possibly write and post a few letters for me? I would write them myself, but I never get the time, and even if I did, I doubt whether they would reach their destination. Yours might get through, but they need to be sent urgently, before I'm carted off to America.'

Mrs Pomeroy looked doubtful.

‘I am assuming you can write, of course,' I faltered, beginning to wish I'd never asked.

‘Of course I can,' she said. ‘But what happens if I get caught?'

‘There will be nothing treasonable in them, I assure you. All I want you to write on each one is the address of this inn, the message ‘Help – I have been impressed – Rescue me', and my name, Harry. Will you do it if I give you the addresses to send them to?'

‘Come down, Oysterman!' came a shout from Corporal Tibbs outside. ‘Or I will be coming up to winkle you out with my bayonet!'

‘Quick!' I whisped hotly. ‘Say yes!'

‘Shall we, Peter?'

‘Yes,' said the Enigmatic One in a puzzled tone, as though struggling as much as me to understand what was going on in the world.

Snatching the knob of chalk and the torn piece of meat wrapping offered, I scribbled down the names and addresses of my father in London, my mother in Lewes, and Amanda Philpott in Steyning. Whilst writing, the sad and belated thought flashed through my mind that I had no friends in the world other than this motley crew. No wonder I had turned from Life to Poetry.

‘Thank you!' I enthused, shoving the paper in her hand, ‘Thank you, thank you!' Carried away perhaps, I moved forward to kiss her, but she grimaced and kept her head stretched just out of reach of my lips. Thwarted, kissing air, I opted instead for the easier gesture of playfully tipping Peter's tricorne off his head, but this met with an even more disastrous response.

‘Sorry!' I begged, as Peter's eyes welled up with tears and he reached blindly for his mother's skirts, ‘Only trying to be friendly…'

‘OYSTERMAN, GET DOWN HERE, YE DOG!!'

‘Must go. Thank you again. Oh, and can you include me in the dinner today please. I will settle my share of the vegetables on Saturday when I get paid.'

Feeling much lighter with the knowledge that wheels were at last in motion to secure my release, I ran outside to join the waiting Corporal Tibbs. Behind him, flanked by two nasty-looking members of the provost guard, were my fellow shit-shovellers of the previous day. This time they were all running up and down on the spot, their faces puce, their tongues lolling.

‘Glad you could join us, Oysterman. Nice day for a run, I'm sure you will agree.'

I looked over his shoulder at the misty fields, the lush foliage of the trees, the early rays of the sun giving promise of another fine day, and agreed that it was. I breathed in deeply of the bacon-scented air, and relished the sensation of approaching freedom. In a week's time, I was sure, I would be laughing about the whole experience. I would also be more determined to live the rest of my life exactly as I wanted, and I would live it to the full.

I was less sanguine about my prospects when I returned to the
Martyr
two hours later; at this rate I would not live long enough to see my Salvation Day. My body was drenched in sweat, my tongue was stuck to the roof of my parched mouth, and my ribs creaked like the beams of a stormtossed ship with every desperate breath I took. The environs of Hove, so inspiring for a walker musing on Death, were Death itself to a runner, a fact that did not go unnoticed when I returned to my room, where my messmates were taking breakfast.

‘I don't know,' opined Roger Masson, as I shuffled like an old man to my bed, unable to speak, ‘poets ain't what they used to be. In my day they could wrestle bears to the floor and run to London and back and do all sorts of things. All before breakfast, all without breaking sweat.'

‘Killed a poet, I have,' growled Ned Lester.

‘They're floppier these days,' said Dick Lickley, eyeing me with amusement. ‘More doomed.'

‘'Ee's doomed, all right, ‘ee be,' said Claude Jepson, ‘garspin' n wroithin' loik a landed troit.'

Unable to respond at first, I eventually recovered enough to take the offered breakfast of dry bread and diluted rum. I was just about to join in a conversation on the demise of bearbaiting when the dreaded cry of
Turn Out! Turn Out!
came blasting once more through the door.

‘For God's sake,' I cried. ‘Is there no rest?'

No
, was the unspoken answer, and ‘twas off again for the main working session of the morning, which in my case turned out to be musket drill.

In my former life I would have welcomed a session with the Brown Bess – what poet currently writing could claim firsthand knowledge of the foremost military icon of the age? – but now I was so tired I doubted my ability even to pick one up. However, in the fields where we practised there was no room for doubt, acquaintance with the beast was forced, and soon I was staggering around beneath the weight of it like the rest of the rogues. We were not trusted with trying to fire it yet, but perhaps there was no need to learn, for in a morale-boosting speech Corporal Tibbs explained to us with great asperity that the musket was absolutely useless in the wet, and not much better in the dry, being badly engineered and appallingly crafted. Chances of hitting a barn door fifty yards away were minimal. Nevertheless, according to Corporal Tibbs, it did have one saving grace: ‘twas an admirable pole on which to stick a bayonet. To prove this, he ran screaming at a bluecoated scarecrow and plunged the blade in up to the hilt. Almost drooling with pleasure as the scarecrow shuddered and popped its turnip eyes out, my fellow recruits could not wait to get started on their own specially-prepared scarecrows, which were waiting anxiously in line not ten yards away. I, however, was not so keen, having neither the passion nor the abandon required for such primitive work. Energy being missing too, I spent the morning miserably tickling my appointed scarecrow until it seemed almost to smile. Indeed, my response was so feeble that I would have been in trouble with Corporal Tibbs had he not been kept busy trying to prise the others off their bewildered victims. By the end of the session, mine was the only scarecrow not shredded, dismembered and scattered to the four winds, and I trudged back to the
Martyr
feeling even more ineffectual than usual.

‘Never mind,' said Dick Lickley, as he ladled me some of Anne's scrag-end and vegetables, ‘this afternoon won't be as bad.'

He was right there – it was worse, for we were returned once more to the noisome monstrosity in the barn, there to finish off the job before the next pile built up. Even the confirmation that Ann had sent my letters could not cheer me, and by the time I was back in quarters for the night I was again at the end of my tether. At this rate I would be dead before anyone came to rescue me.

‘Remind me again, Dick,' I groaned from my bed, as I examined blisters the size of eggs on my hands and feet, ‘What date do we sail for America?'

‘16th of July. Why, thinking of deserting?'

‘No,' I lied. ‘Just that I can't see myself being a soldier by then.'

‘Because if you are,' went on Dick, ‘you're right to think about it now. Nowhere to desert to on a troop ship, is there? Remember though, you'll upset Little Bob if you're caught.'

‘Dick, I told ye, I am not going to desert. Help will come before I am reduced to that course of action.'

‘Nothing wrong with that course of action,' said Dick, to my surprise. ‘Don't demean it. I've even been thinking about it myself of late. But I've decided, if I'm going to desert anywhere, it'll be in America. New start, new land. Let the army pay for my passage, is what I say.'