Polly glanced down at the plumpness of Shufti. Oh, dear. Oh, dear. She tried to sound reasonable. "Don't you think that you should - "
"Don't you tell me to go home!" said Shufti, rounding on her. "There's nothing for me back home except disgrace! I'm not going home! I'm going to the war and I'm going to find him! No one's going to tell me not to, Ozzer! No one! This has happened before, anyway! And it ended right! There's a song about it and everything!"
"Oh, that," said Polly. "Yes. I know." Folk singers should be shot. "What I was going to say was that you might find this helps the disguise..." She produced a soft cylinder of woolly socks from her pack and wordlessly handed it over. It was a dangerous thing to do, she knew, but now she was feeling a kind of responsibility to those whose sudden strange fancy hadn't been followed by a plan.
On the way back to her palliasse she caught sight of Wazzer hanging his little picture of the Duchess on a handy hook in the crumbling wall above his mattress. He looked around furtively, failed to spot Polly in the shadows of the doorway, and bobbed a very quick curtsy to the picture. A curtsy, not a bow.
Polly frowned. Four. She was barely surprised, now. And she had one pair of clean socks left. This was soon going to be a barefoot army.
Polly could tell the time by the fire. You got a feel for how long a fire burned, and the logs on this one were grey with ash over the glow beneath. It was gone eleven, she decided.
By the sound of it, no one was getting any sleep. She'd got up after an hour or two of lying on the crackling straw mattress, staring at darkness and listening to things move about underneath her; she'd have stayed on it for longer, but something in the straw seemed to want to push her leg out of the way. Besides, she didn't have any dry blankets. There were blankets in the barracks, but Threeparts had advised against them on account of their carrying, as he put it, "the Itch".
The corporal had left a candle alight. Polly had read Paul's letter again, and taken another look at the piece of printed paper rescued from the muddy road. The words were fractured and she wasn't sure about all of them, but she didn't like the sound of any of them. "Invas" had a particularly unpleasant ring to it.
And then there was the third piece of paper. She couldn't help that. It had been a complete accident. She'd done Blouse's laundry and of course you went through the pockets before you washed things, because anyone who'd ever tried to unroll a soggy, bleached sausage that'd once been a banknote didn't want to do it twice. And there had been this folded piece of paper. Admittedly, she needn't have unfolded it and, having unfolded it, needn't have read it. But there are some things that you just do.
It was a letter. Presumably Blouse had shoved it in a pocket and forgotten about it when he'd changed his shirt. She needn't read it again but, by candlelight, she did.
My Dearest Emmeline,
Fame and Fortune await! After only eight years as a 2nd Lieutenant I have now been promoted and am to have a command! Of course this will mean that there will be no officer left in the Adjutant-General's Blanket's, Bedding and Horse Fodder Department, but I have explained my new filing system to Cpl Drebb and I believe he is Sound.
You know I cannot go into matters of detail, but I believe this will be a very exciting prospect and I am anxious to be "at the Foe". I am bold enough to hope that the name of Blouse will go down in military history. In the meantime, I am brushing up my sword drill and it is definitely all "coming back" to me. Of course, the promotion brings with it no less than One Shilling extra "per Diem", plus Three Pence fodder allowance. To this end I have purchased a "charger" from Mr "Honest" Jack Slacker, a most entertaining gentleman, although I fear that his description of my steed's "prowess" may have been prone to some exaggeration. Nevertheless, I am "moving up" at last and if Fate smiles on me this will hurry forward the day when I can
And that was it, fortunately. After some thought, Polly went and carefully damped the letter, then dried it quickly over the remains of the fire and slipped it into the pocket of the washed shirt. Blouse might scold her for not removing it before washing, but she doubted it. -
A blanket-counter with a new filing system. An ensign for eight years, in a war where promotion could be rather fast. A man who put inverted commas round any word or phrase he thought of as even slightly "racy". Brushing up on his "sword drill". And so short-sighted he'd bought a horse from Jack Slacker, who went around all the horse fairs' bargain bins and sold winded old screws that dropped a leg before you'd got home.
Our leader.
They were losing the war. Everyone knew that, but nobody would say it. It was as if they felt that if the words weren't said out loud then it wasn't really happening. They were losing the war and this squad, untrained and untried, fighting in dead men's boots, could only help them lose it faster. Half of them were girls! Because of some bloody stupid song, Shufti was wandering off into a war to look for the father of her child, and that was a desperate errand for a girl even in peacetime. And Lofty was trailing after her boy, which would probably be romantic right up until five minutes into a battle. And she...
...well, yes. She'd heard the song, too. So what? Paul was her brother. She'd always kept an eye on him, even when she was small. Mother was always busy, everyone was always busy at The Duchess, so Polly had become a big sister to a brother fifteen months older than her. She'd taught him to blow his nose, taught him how to form letters, went and found him when crueller boys had got him lost in the woods. Running after Paul was a duty that had become a habit.
And then... well, it wasn't the only reason. When her father died The Duchess would be lost to her side of the family if there was no male to inherit. That was the law, plain and simple. Nugganatic law said that men could inherit "the Things of Men" such as land, buildings, money and all domestic animals except cats. Women could inherit "the Things of Women", which were mostly small items of personal jewellery and spinning wheels passed from mothers to daughters. They certainly couldn't inherit a large, famous tavern.
So The Duchess would go to Paul if he was alive, or if he was dead it was allowable for it to go to Polly's husband if she was married. And since Polly saw no prospect of that, she needed a brother. Paul could happily carry barrels around for the rest of his life; she would run The Duchess. But if she was left alone, a woman with no man, then at best all she'd get was maybe the chance to go on living there while the deeds went to cousin Vlopo, who was a drunkard.
Of course, all that wasn't the reason. Certainly not. But it was a reason, all the same. The reason was, simply, Paul. She'd always found him and brought him home.
She looked at the shako in her hands. There had been helmets, but since they all had arrow holes or gaping rips in them the squad had wordlessly gone for the softer hats. You'd die anyway, and at least you wouldn't have a headache. The shako's badge showed the regimental symbol of a flaming cheese. Maybe one day she'd find out why. Polly put it on, picked up her pack and the small bag of laundry, and stepped out into the night. The moon was gone, the clouds had come back. She was drenched by the time she'd crossed the square; the rain was coming horizontally.
She shoved open the inn door and saw, by the light of one guttering candle... chaos. Clothing was strewn across the flagstones, cupboards were hanging open. Jackrum was coming down the stairs, cutlass in one hand, lantern in the other.
"Oh, it's you, Perks," he said. "They've cleaned the place out and buggered off. Even Molly. I heard 'em go. Pushing a cart, by the sound of it. What're you doing here?"
"Batman, sarge," said Polly, shaking water off her hat.
"Oh, yeah. Right. Go and wake him up, then. He's snoring like a sawmill. I hope to hell the boat's still there."
"Why'd they bug - scarper, sarge?" said Polly and thought: Sugar! If it comes to it, I don't swear, either! But the sergeant didn't appear to notice.
He gave her what is known as an old-fashioned look; this one had dinosaurs in it. "Got wind of something, I don't doubt," he said. "Of course, we're winning the war, you know."
"Ah. Oh. And we're not going to be invaded at all, I expect," said Polly, with equally exaggerated care.
"Quite right. I detest those treacherous devils who'd have us believe that a vast army is about to sweep right across the country any day now," said Jackrum.