"Well, sir, soldierin' is my job," said Jackrum, climbing onto the cart and gathering up the reins. "But you'll note how at this moment in time I am not killin' you. Let's go, eh?"
Polly climbed into the back of the cart as it lumbered off. It was full of boxes and equipment, and while it might once have been neatly organized, that organization was now but a distant memory, a clear indication that this cart was the property of a man. Next to her, half a dozen of the largest pigeons she had ever seen dozed on a perch in their wire cage, and she wondered if they were a living larder. One of them opened one eye and lazily went "Lollollop?" which is pigeon for "Duh?"
Most of the rest of the boxes had labels like - she leaned closer - "Capt Horace Calumney's Patent Field Biscuits", and "Dried Stew". As she was musing that Shufti would have very much liked to get her hands on one or two of those boxes, a bundle of clothes hanging from the ceiling of the rocking cart moved slightly and a face appeared.
"Good mornink," it said, upside down.
William de Worde turned round on the seat in front. "It's only Otto, private," he said. "Don't be afraid."
"Yes, I vill not bite," said the face cheerfully. It smiled. A vampire's face does not look any better upside down, and a smile in these circumstances does nothing to improve matters. "That is guaranteed."
Polly lowered the crossbow. Jackrum would have been impressed by how quickly she had raised it. So was she, and embarrassed too. The socks were doing the thinking again.
Otto very elegantly lowered himself to the bed of the cart.
"Vere are ve goink?" he said, steadying himself as they bounced over a rut.
"A little place I know, sir," said Jackrum. "Nice and quiet."
"Goot. I need to exercise the imps. Zey get fretful if zey are cooped up for too long." Otto pushed aside a stack of paper and revealed his large picture-making box. He lifted a small hatch.
"Rise und shine, lads," he said. There was a chorus of high-pitched voices from inside.
"I'd better just give you the heads up re Tiger, Mr de Worde," said Jackrum, as the cart rolled up an old logging track.
"Tiger? Who's Tiger?"
"Oops," said Jackrum. "Sorry, that's what we call the lieutenant, sir, on account of him being so brave. Forget I said that, will you?"
"Brave, is he?" said de Worde.
"And clever, sir. Don't let him fool you, sir. He is one of the great milit'ry minds of his generation, sir."
Polly's mouth dropped open. She had suggested they lied to the man, but... this?
"Really? Then why is he just a lieutenant?" said the writer.
"Ah, I can see there's no fooling you, sir," said Jackrum, oozing knowingness. "Yes, it's a puzzler, sir, why he calls himself a lieutenant. Still, I dare say he has his reasons, eh? Just like Heinrich calling himself a captain, right?" He tapped the side of his nose. "I see everything, sir, and I don't say a word!"
"All I could find out was that he did some kind of desk job at your HQ, sergeant," said de Worde. Polly saw him taking his notebook out, slowly and carefully.
"Yes, I expect that's what you would find out, sir," said Jackrum, with a huge conspiratorial wink. "And then, when things are at their worst, they let him out, sir. They unleash him, sir. Me, I don't know a thing, sir."
"What does he do, explode?" said de Worde.
"Haha, nice one, sir!" said Jackrum. "No, sir. What he does, sir, is assess situations, sir. I don't understand it myself, sir, not being a big thinker, but the proof of the pudding, sir, is in the eating of same, and last night we were jumped by eight - twenty Zlobenian troopers, sir, and the lieutenant just assessed the situation in a flash and skewered five of the buggers, sir. Like a kebab, sir. Mild as milk to look at, but rouse him and he's a whirlwind of death. Of course, you did not hear it from me, sir."
"And he's in charge of a bunch of recruits, sergeant?" said de Worde. "That doesn't sound very likely to me."
"Recruits who captured some crack cavalrymen, sir," said Jackrum, looking pained. "That's leadership for you. Comes the hour, comes the man, sir. I'm just a simple old soldier, sir, seen 'em come and seen 'em go. Upon my oath I am not a lying man, sir, but I look at Lieutenant Blouse in wonderment."
"He just seemed confused, to me," said de Worde, but there was a hint of uncertainty in his voice.
"That was a bit of concussion, sir. He took a wallop that would have felled a lesser man, and still got back onto his feet. Amazing, sir!"
"Hmm," said de Worde, making a note.
The cart splashed across the shallow little stream and rocked into the gully. Lieutenant Blouse was sitting on a rock. He'd made an effort, but his tunic was grubby, his boots were muddy, his hand was swollen and one ear, despite Igorina's ministrations, was still inflamed. He had his sword on his knees. Jackrum carefully brought the cart to a halt by a thicket of birch trees. All four of the enemy troopers were tied up against the cliff. Apart from them, the camp appeared to be deserted.