Infernal Revolutions by Stephen Woodville Page B

notepaper. Quickly.’
    Mr Tremblett did not seem to hear me. He just stood there with an abstracted look on his face. At intervals he would count on his fingers and mumble numbers under his breath. Eventually, mental arithmetic clearly not his strongpoint, his countenance brightened and he started to rub his hands with glee.
    â€˜Nice little earner!’ he exclaimed. ‘Why, Sergeant Mycock alone will be paying for my new gig this year. A shame there aren’t more sojers like him. God bless the straps on his knapsack.’
    Wondering if this was a saucy
double entendre
, I reiterated my request.
    â€˜Certainly, Sir. Would you like plain paper or paper headed with the name of my establishment?’
    Eyeing him askance for signs of insolence, I ordered the latter. To my not very great surprise, he returned half an hour later with disappointing news.
    â€˜Couldn’t find no pen and paper. Don’t worry, I’ll find you some eventually. Anyway, ‘tis more important to get you rigged up for your afternoon exercise.’ He tapped a bundle of clothes under his arm. ‘You’ve heard what the consequences will be if you don’t comply. And he means it, you mark my words; many’s the man we’ve had to bury following one of Stroke’s floggings.’
    Gulping discreetly, I peeled off my vomit-stained finery and took the offered bundle. Only when I prepared to put the clothes on did I notice what I was being asked to wear. Surprise was my first reaction; disgust my second.
    â€˜What are these?’
    â€˜What do they look like?’
    â€˜A pile of filthy rags.’
    â€˜Good. Well done. I shall inform Corporal Tibbs that there is nothing wrong with your eyesight.’
    â€˜No red jacket? No tricorne? No musket?’
    â€˜You won’t be needing those things yet. Basic training comes first. Now get them on and wait until Corporal Tibbs comes to get you.’
    I did as I was told only with the greatest of reluctance, grimacing and twitching as the coarse brown rags scraped and pricked my scented skin.
    â€˜But my old clothes,’ I said, as he picked them up without demur, and felt their texture through the slime, ‘You will wash them and bring them back to me?’
    â€˜Oh, certainly, your worship,’ he replied with heavy sarcasm. ‘Ironed and pressed and sprinkled with rose water.’
    From the smirk on his face I knew I would never see them again, which was a great shame, as they were made of the finest Italian silk. When cleaned and sold they would provide the robbing dog with enough money to furnish his gig handsomely, but at the moment I was too shaken about to fight for my rights. He left the room cackling with glee at all the good fortune that had come his way in so short a time.
    Alone, feeling for all the world like a convict awaiting despatch, I moved stiffly to the diamond-paned windows in an attempt to get my bearings and reassure myself that things were not as bad as I feared. I was in, no doubt about it, a world decidedly military. The front garden of the inn and the village green across the road were swarming with redcoats, replete with regulation tricornes, muskets, white crossed shoulder straps, knapsacks and cartridge boxes. On the village green, most were drilling in a large rectangle under the command of bawling officers; on the garden, some seemed to be on sentry duty while others, perhaps officers of some sort, had their hats and jackets off and were enjoying a pipe, a pot of ale and a game of dice on the several trestle tables. Union and regimental colours were droopily in evidence, as were several small cannon which squatted on the corners of the green, barrels pointing outwards in a protective gesture. At first these cannon had been hard to identify because of urchins crawling all over them in prodigious numbers, but eventually they became visible when the urchins were called away in clumps by their equally excited