Infernal Revolutions by Stephen Woodville

and the players. There were groans of disgust and anger, but I was too far gone to care. I staggered backwards, fell over a chair and crashed into a wall, which I slid down like a bayoneted Frenchman, tongue lolling and eyes crossed. The last thing I saw before Oblivion descended was the chief bragger himself, the Knave of Clubs, lying next to me with most of his clothes covered in a sort of wine-coloured porridge, as if a casualty of an attack by the Scotch.
    â€˜Idiot,’ he seemed to look up at me and groan, ‘stupid, drunken, bloody idiot!’

4
    The Glorious 85 th Foot

    Though I could barely open my eyes, I somehow sensed I was no longer in the
Ship
. The combined reek of sweat, rotten cheese and some sort of clay was wholly unfamiliar. As if a splitting head, desperate thirst and swelling nausea were not enough, panic now began to seep into my veins.
    â€˜Where am I?’ I said to someone moving around in the room. ‘How did I get here?’
    â€˜A crimper brought you in on the back of a cart. Dead to the world, you were.’
    â€˜Then the crimper can take me out again, can’t he? I’m almost well enough to move now.’
    I tried to raise myself from the bed, but ‘twas like pushing against a coffin lid after burial. I collapsed groaning to the horizontal.
    â€˜It looks like it,’ said the rough voice, ‘but even if you were well, there’s no way out now, Wheyface. At least not until the American War’s finished. You’ve signed up for the duration. I’ve seen the papers.’
    â€˜And who might you be?’ I asked, struggling to keep my composure.
    â€˜I’m William Tremblett, the Master of this house. I’m up here to see if the rogues are keeping my fixtures and fittings as they found them. Now, let’s have a look…furniture, rotten…windows, dirty and cracked…bedding, filthy…pisspots, putrid…Yes, all in order, they’ve touched nothing…’
    He sounded disappointed, but I was in no mood to enquire why.
    â€˜William, I demand to see either the colonel of this regiment, or the rogue who tricked me into signing, namely one Mr Burnley Axelrod. You have heard of him, I trust.’
    â€˜Never. Tch, tch, look at this. A sheep’s bladder. Wonder where he got this from? And more to the point, who’s the lucky lady?’
    â€˜Then get me the colonel, if you would be so kind, William.’
    â€˜No chance of that, Wheyface. He’s in Brighthelmstone, living it up.’
    â€˜What! Aren’t I in Brighthelmstone now?’
    â€˜No, you’re in Hove.
The Forgotten Martyr
ale house to be precise. Temporary quarters of Colonel Packham’s Glorious 85th Regiment of Foot.’
    â€˜Then who can I speak to about my predicament.’
    â€˜Sergeant Mycock. He’ll be back from drilling soon. Speak to him about it; he’s an understanding cove.’
    Either Mr Tremblett found this remark amusing, or he was laughing at something outside my limited range of vision. Still, I was sure that however fearsome Sergeant Mycock might be, Right would prevail in the end. I had been caught up in navy press-gang sweeps before – indeed, ‘twas a hazard for any young man living in a coastal town – but I had always been laughingly returned to civilization by the captains of the ships within seconds of presentation. Precedence, therefore, had been established, and surely if I was no material for the rigging, I was no material for the battlefield either.
    â€˜Though ‘tis not so bad if ye cannot wriggle out of it,’ went on Mr Tremblett, vicariously fatalistic. ‘Many people I know would be glad to be in the army. Think of all the benefits. Only a nine hour working day; free rum; free quarters; free postage; subsidized clothing; chance of booty; twenty days leave every six months…’
    â€˜That is some comfort, Mr Tremblett. If for some unimaginable reason I