Land of Hope and Glory (33 page)

J
ack woke when he heard the clomp of marching boots. He jolted up and for a moment didn’t know where he was. Then, as he looked around, he remembered. He was in a shallow hollow surrounded by trees and bushes. They’d taken shelter there a few hours before dawn. After escaping from the pit, they’d run for several miles and then hidden for the rest of the day. During the night they’d stolen across the Thames basin, finally leaving the mill district behind.

It was Saleem’s watch, but the boy was curled up asleep with a slight smile on his face.

The bloody fool. He’d put them in danger again – just like that Private Salter.

Jack held himself back from shouting to wake the lad – he couldn’t risk it with the sound of the marching growing louder. He crept to the edge of the hollow and looked through a mesh of gorse bushes. Below him was a short slope and, beyond that, a road that was little more than a cart track. Thirty men were marching down the path. Although they were too far away for him to see clearly, it looked as though they were wearing European Army uniform.

‘What is it?’ Saleem whispered. He’d woken up and stood staring at Jack, sleep still clogging the edges of his eyes. He was toying with his beard and from the grey look on his face he seemed well aware he’d done something wrong.

‘You idiot,’ Jack hissed. He jabbed his finger at Saleem. ‘You’ve bloody done it again. You’d be shot in the army for that.’

Saleem backed away. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Sorry’s not good enough.’ Jack took a few steps forward. ‘I’ve a good mind to thrash you—’

‘Hey,’ Charles said. While Jack had been berating Saleem, he’d woken up and had slipped over to the edge of the hollow. ‘They’re crusaders. Look.’ He pointed through the bushes and down the slope.

Jack walked across and squinted in the mid-morning sunlight. The marching men were now close enough for him to see the patches on their chests bearing the cross of St George.

Charles went to stand, but Jack yanked him down again. ‘Could be a trick.’

‘There’s no trick.’ Charles pulled himself free and pushed through the bushes. He waved his hands and shouted. The soldiers stopped and in a fluid, unified movement whipped their muskets from their shoulders and formed two rows, the first row kneeling, pointing their weapons straight up at Charles. The crosses gleamed on their chests.

‘Wait.’ Charles held his hands above his head. ‘We’re friends. We’re going to London.’

A man in his forties, with a moustache and goatee, lowered his weapon slightly. ‘Who are you?’

‘Private Charles Carrick, 12th Native Infantry.’

‘Who’s your sergeant major?’

‘Peter Turnbull.’

The man broke into a grin and lowered his firearm completely. ‘One of Peter’s lads. Well, well. Used to serve with him myself a few years back. Namaste, Private.’

Charles put his hands together and bowed slightly. ‘Namaste.’

The soldiers slung their firearms back on their shoulders.

Charles turned back to the bushes. ‘You can come out.’

Saleem shot Jack a questioning look, but Jack just grabbed the boy by the scruff of the neck and thrust him through the gorse. Saleem cried out and stumbled down the slope. Then Jack himself climbed out and limped wearily down towards the soldiers.

As Jack, Charles and Saleem approached, the man with the goatee presented himself. ‘Sergeant Howell Kendrick, 9th Native Infantry.’

Jack was surprised to hear a Welsh lilt to Kendrick’s voice. Were the Welsh joining the mutiny now? It made some sort of sense – Wales, like England, was ruled by the Rajthanans. Of course, the Irish would stay out of the fight – why should they get involved when Rajthana had never occupied their lands? And as for the Scots, they were nothing but primitive tribes, on no one’s side but their own.

‘This is Saleem al-Rashid,’ Charles said. ‘And Sergeant Jack Casey, 2nd Native Infantry.’

Kendrick’s face brightened and he gave Jack a deep bow. ‘A pleasure to meet a fellow native officer.’

‘Left the army quite a while ago,’ Jack mumbled.

‘He was at Ragusa,’ Charles said. ‘And he’s led us from Wiltshire, across the mills.’

Kendrick’s eyebrows gathered. ‘You came through the mills? We heard it was too dangerous – poisoned after the fighting.’

Charles opened his mouth, but seemed unsure what to say and looked to Jack.

‘There’s
something
wrong with the place, that’s for sure,’ Jack said quietly.

‘Well, you made it at any rate,’ Kendrick said. ‘All the land from here to London is under the control of King John and his general, Sir Gawain.’

As Jack had heard, the area had been taken early on in the mutiny and held by the rebels since then.

‘We’re falling back to London,’ Kendrick said. ‘You can come with us.’ He looked them up and down. ‘Are you fit enough to march?’

It was only now that Jack noticed how dishevelled he and his companions were. Their clothes were torn and filthy, their hair matted and faces haggard. They looked like vagrants.

‘Of course we can march,’ Charles replied.

Kendrick beamed and slapped Charles on the shoulder. ‘Good lad.’

As Jack, Charles and Saleem fell into line at the back of the platoon, the men grinned and wished them well. One offered them a drink from his canteen, which they gratefully accepted.

They trudged through the increasing heat of the morning. The countryside quivered in the sunlight – green fields, hedgerows, stands of trees. The smoke and dismal plains of the Thames basin were now far behind them.

Jack noted that the soldiers didn’t march in proper formation, or step in time. Their uniforms were flecked with dust, with threads unravelling in places and buttons missing. They would have been flogged in the army for this lapse. No discipline. At least, not enough. How could these men hope to take on the Rajthanans?

But at least he was getting closer to London. He saw Elizabeth in the cell and calculated that there were ten days left. He felt a flush of nerves. Just ten days.

Saleem was subdued and hardly spoke during the march. He appeared exhausted and often stumbled. Charles, on the other hand, seemed to have more life in him than ever and spoke to his new comrades enthusiastically whenever they stopped to rest.

Towards midday, a village bordered by willows appeared ahead beside the banks of a shallow river. It was little more than a collection of huts, although there was a larger stone house to one side and a small church.

As the platoon marched closer, villagers walked across from the fields and stood to either side of the road. The peasants cheered, clapped and whooped. Some shook pitchforks and hoes at the sky. Women in dirty bonnets held out tankards of water and pieces of fruit for the passing troops.

‘Long live King John!’ many shouted. ‘Long live Sir Gawain! God’s will in England!’

A tall man strode out of the village and up the road. He wore a dusty brown tunic and, over this, the gold-coloured surcoat of a sheriff. The Rajthanans, or their English officials, normally appointed sheriffs, but it seemed this man was continuing in office despite now being in rebel-controlled lands.

‘Greetings.’ The sheriff held up one hand.

‘Good day to you, brother.’ Kendrick put his hands on his hips and cast his eyes about the crowd. ‘And to all your people.’

‘You’re welcome in our village. We’d be honoured to have you spend the night here.’

‘I thank you for that. But we’re headed to London, as quickly as we can. The heathens are on the way.’

‘We heard. But word is they’re moving slowly. They’re three days off at least.’

Kendrick scratched his head. ‘Three days, you say? London’s only half a day away.’

‘Go on, Sergeant.’ One of the soldiers took off his cloth hat and mopped the sweat from his forehead. ‘We’re all parched, we are, and me feet are ready to burst out of me boots.’

Kendrick smiled and rested his hands on the belt that stretched over his ample belly. ‘Very well. We’ll stay the night here. But we leave at first light.’

Jack was surprised at Kendrick’s lax discipline. As sergeant, he should be the one deciding whether to make camp or continue marching. And he shouldn’t tolerate griping from the men. All the same, a break would be welcome. Even though Jack wanted to get to London quickly, his eyes were scratchy from lack of sleep, his legs were sodden with tiredness and there was a twinge in his chest. He needed to rest and gather his strength.

Only God knew what awaited him in London.

Jack lifted the axe, glanced up at the midday sun for a second, then swung the blade in a wide arc until it battered into a block of wood. The wood split halfway through. He stuck his foot on the block, wrenched out the axe and blinked as sweat ran into his eyes. It was a hot day. He would have preferred to rest, but you couldn’t laze around while others were making camp.

He went to lift the axe again, then stopped and put it back down. He squinted across the field, which lay on the outskirts of the village. Nearby, the men of the 9th Native Infantry were carrying buckets from a well, peeling parsnips and carrots, or cleaning their muskets. But further away stood a bare knoll, on top of which rose a single blackened post. A witch burning – here in lands that the Rajthanans had held for a hundred years. Was this what the rebels were fighting to bring back?

‘Jack.’

Jack tore himself away from the sight of the post and saw Charles walking towards him.

‘It’s Saleem.’ Charles nodded over Jack’s shoulder.

Jack turned and saw the boy sitting alone under a tree on the edge of the field. ‘What about him?’

‘He’s . . . well, he’s not in the best of spirits.’

‘That so.’ The boy deserved to be dispirited.

‘Thought maybe you could talk to him.’

‘What about?’

‘Don’t know. Buck him up a bit.’

‘Reckon he’ll need to buck
himself
up.’

‘I know he’s made a few mistakes. But he wants to fight, and we need all the men we can get. Go on – to help the crusade.’

Jack glanced over at Saleem again. The lad looked small and lost sitting there.

‘Just a few words,’ Charles said. ‘I know he’d appreciate it.’

Jack sighed. ‘All right. Just a few words.’ He was getting too soft these days.

He picked up the musket, which Kendrick had issued to him earlier, and slung it over his shoulder. He felt strange carrying a firearm again and making camp with soldiers. He’d sworn never to go back to the army after Robert Salter, but now it was almost as though he’d joined up again. He was even wearing a pair of grey infantry trousers that one of the men had given him to replace his torn hose.

Saleem glanced up as Jack walked over, then looked down again quickly. His eyes were red and there were grey smudges down his cheeks. A musket lay in front of him, along with an oil bottle, a small brush, a rag, a Y-shaped musket tool and a tin kettle. The musket’s wood and metal gleamed – the lad had cleaned them well – but the thin knife blade and its rod were lying unattached to the weapon.

‘Looks like you’ve got a problem there.’ Jack had seen this many times before. A musket was easy enough to take apart, but putting it back together was much more difficult. The knife blade especially caused confusion for new recruits.

Saleem stared at the musket as though it were a dead child.

Jack squatted down. The weapon was a new model, but similar to the last musket he’d had in the army, back when the percussion lock was only just being issued to Europeans. He screwed the rod back into the end of the blade, then picked up the musket tool and unscrewed the lock and the knife plate.

‘Here.’ He pointed to the spring and the latches of the knife mechanism. ‘You’ve got to lift those latches and get the knife in there first.’ He wriggled the rod and blade into place, then took them out again. ‘You try.’

Saleem took the blade and tried to get it into place, without any success.

‘Lift the end latch with your finger,’ Jack said.

Saleem curled his little finger against the largest latch and the blade popped into place easily.

‘Good. Now put it back together again.’

Saleem reattached the knife plate and the lock without any difficulty. His dreamy, distant smile crept across his face when he’d finished – Jack hadn’t seen that smile since they’d arrived at the mills.

‘Well done,’ Jack said. ‘Now check the knife mechanism’s working.’

Saleem stood, picked up the knife-musket and looked uncertainly down the barrel.

‘Stop. Your knife catch isn’t locked. Never do that without locking the knife. If the catch slips out it’ll have your face off.’ Jack had seen more than one young man get a knife in the head by mishandling a musket.

Saleem reversed the musket quickly, locked the catch and then lifted the weapon, holding it at waist height as if against an enemy. He then unlocked the catch and pressed it forward. The knife shot out beneath the end of the barrel with a loud clack and he jumped a little at the sound.

‘Good. Now relock the knife.’

Saleem pulled the catch back to retract the blade.

Jack nodded. The lad had done well. He’d cleaned the musket and reassembled it, which was harder than it looked.