Читать книгу To Do and Die - Patrick Mercer - Страница 7

There was a stamp of feet as the sentries stepped smartly from their wooden boxes outside the barrack gates and presented arms. Morgan touched his hat in acknowledgement of the salute whilst noting how both men had been alert enough to see an officer in plain clothes approaching in a civilian carriage. What he had failed to see was James Keenan's silent but frantic signals to his confederates from the open top of the vehicle: anything to avoid an officer's displeasure.

As they rattled through the gates of the modern, red-brick and tile barracks, Keenan couldn't resist the time-honoured greeting to those whose lot it was to stand guard. ‘It'll never get better if you pick-et, you bastards!’ whilst he flicked the oldest of discourtesies.

‘For the love of God stop it, Keenan,’ Morgan had half-expected something ribald from his servant as they approached Weedon Barracks – he had been in tearing spirits ever since they had boarded the carriage at Northampton station a couple of hours before.

‘We're not at Glassdrumman now and I've trouble enough with the adjutant without you adding to it!’ He was more giving voice to his own thoughts than trying to reprove Keenan, who in any event ignored his master, leaping from the carriage as it approached the Officers' Mess and busying himself with bags and cases.

‘Your honour will want to be in uniform? The other gentlemen are wearing their shell-jackets, sir, so I'll lay yours out with your sword and cap. Try not to tear that trouser strap again, sir, I had a devil of a job with it last time!’

Keenan's veneer of discipline had always been thin. The time at home in Ireland together had only helped to erode it further, but he could at least be trusted to help Morgan get the all-important details of dress right. He'd noticed that other regiments didn't seem so particular about things as the 95th, but then they had a depth of history and savoir-faire that his corps didn't. Raised only thirty or so years before, what they lacked in self-confidence was made up for by what was officially described as ‘attention to detail’ but which often translated into military myopia.

Keenan prattled as he stored Morgan's clothes and kit in his rooms in the Mess. The doings of this cousin and that, the purchase and subsequent escape of his mother's new sow and Mary Cade's near-perfection – as if Tony needed to be reminded – were a distracting enough backdrop to his dressing. As he levered himself into his plain blue overalls, they both became aware of a commotion below his window. A single voice bellowed encouragement, then others rapidly joined in.

‘That'll be Mister Carmichael: some boy him. Must be the new draft he's got his hooks into.’ Keenan, a second-best sash half-coiled around his fist, stared out of the window into the brassy March-morning sunshine.

Richard Carmichael, paragon and fellow subaltern of the Grenadier Company, stood there in Harrow colours and the lightest and most expensive running pumps. Steaming gently, he bellowed encouragement at the assortment of soldiers who bundled in behind him. Some wore canvas slops, others football shorts and pullovers but all were spattered with mud from the cross-country run. Carmichael had obviously raced them individually over the last part of the course. Fit as a hare and knowing every inch of the route, he'd had no difficulty in coming in a long way ahead of the new men. But why, wondered Morgan wryly, had he chosen to finish the race outside the adjutant's and colonel's office?

‘Where are the new boys from, Keenan?’

‘I don't recognise any of 'em. Sir, but most have come from the Eighty-Second and some from the Sixth, Forty-Eighth and Thirty-Sixth they say. Bag o' shite says I.’

Shite or not, they looked pretty good to Morgan. All volunteers, they seemed big and healthy and would more than plug the gaps left by the 95th's sick. Throwing the window open, he was about to shout across to his brother subaltern when his ear caught a strange thing. As each man came puffing home, Carmichael seemed to be addressing them in their native accents. The Irish and Scots were simple enough to imitate, the odd Geordie got a passable greeting, those from the slums of Derby and Birmingham probably recognized their own flattened vowels, but he saved his best effort for the pair of West Countrymen. They were yokelled in fine style, the young officer having been sharp enough even to learn their names. Carmichael was obviously delighted with his efforts, but Morgan couldn't help but notice the men's wooden faces.

As all the others trooped away a lone figure wheezed in. Younger, smaller, fatter and redder than any of the others, he panted across the finish line. His chest and shoulders heaved as he stooped, hands on thighs.

‘Hey, Pegg, you fat little sod, what about ye?’

‘Keenan, will you kindly remember where you are?’ Morgan elbowed him away from the window but not, he fancied before he saw a movement in the adjutant's office opposite.

Podgy Pegg even at seventeen, he had a man's appetite for ale and women that had him constantly in trouble, but his cockiness usually saw him right.

‘Now then, Mr Morgan, sir, welcome 'ome.’ Pegg braced his chubby arms to his sides – he was just about able to control his breathing enough now to speak coherently. ‘Mr Carmichael's got me showing the new 'uns around the place. Didn't know that meant runnin' with the bleeders an all.’ The warmth had gone from his voice, but instantly returned. ‘How's that Jimmy Keenan twat got on, sir?’

‘Less of the twat, lardy.’ Keenan's hayrick head now jutted from the other window and he was back at full volume. ‘I'm to be wed to Mr Morgan's maid.’

‘Keenan, please, the adjutant has no desire to know that; just get my things ready, will you?’

The commanding officer wanted to speak to the officers in the Mess. Many of the bachelors had been asked to find rooms in the town so that space could be made for a dining-room where they could all eat together. Now it was to be used for Colonel Webber-Smith's address and it buzzed with talk as the officers assembled. Almost all of them were there, including the captain and both subalterns of the Grenadier Company.

Morgan pushed his sword and cap onto the growing pile of others on the table in the hall. The officers were simply dressed in short, red jackets that flattered youthful figures but damned the portly – at thirty-two Captain James Eddington looked very much the part. Whether he had simply fallen lucky was open to question, but as far as the world was concerned, the Colonel's decision to give him command of the premier company in the regiment – the Grenadiers – was no mere chance. Now he lounged studiedly against a table, teacup in hand and whiskers just on the fashionable side of proper, curling around his collar.

‘What are your impressions of the new draft, Carmichael?’

Carmichael's hair was still wet from the tub, his skin glowing from the run.

‘Good enough, sir, but I wonder if their own regiments will have given them the discipline that they'll need to stand up to shot and shell?’

‘Well, we'll have to see about that.’ Eddington replied. ‘My only worry is that by the time we've got stuck into this war, wherever it's going to be, all those regiments that have sent men to us will need them themselves. Mark you, whatever bit of “the East” we're going to, the Russians will fight like fury and every bit of the navy and the army will be needed.’

Morgan agreed with Eddington. The newspapers had all been warning of the power of Russia, her tenacity against Napoleon and the lack of preparation within the British forces for a sustained campaign. Certainly, there had been talk of military reforms for two or three years now and improvements were being made, not least to the weaponry and commissariat, but little would be ready by the time that the troops set sail.

‘I know it goes against the grain, but thank God that the French are on our side this time …’ Eddington continued.

‘You can't mean it… the Frogs?’ interrupted Carmichael.

‘Yes, I do. There's lots of 'em – big conscript army with plenty of recent battle experience in North Africa. They gave my father a run for his money and I guess we'll be glad to have them alongside.’

Anyone else would have been laughed to scorn by Carmichael, but Eddington was not only his immediate superior, he would also deploy a lashing tongue to deflate his senior subaltern when occasion demanded it.

‘And if the Frogs let us down, we've always got the bold Ottomans to help us out.’ Morgan's joke was met by a weak laugh from everyone within earshot.

‘Well, you may mock the Turks and point to their defeat at Sinope …’ the sinking of an entire fleet by the Russians a few weeks before had caused a mixture of outrage and disdain for Britain's ally in the press, ‘… but what d'you know about Oltenitsa?’

‘Er … didn't the Russians get a bloody nose there a few months back?’ Morgan could just remember an account of the battle written by a British correspondent.

‘Yes, last November, a body of Turko cavalry and infantry whipped a much larger force of Russians up on the Danube.’ But before Eddington could continue the commanding officer and Kingsley, the adjutant, swept in.

‘Well done today with those new lads, Carmichael, you seem to have a grip of them.’ This encomium was accompanied by a quick tap on Carmichael's chest from the Colonel's folded gloves as he passed.

‘Thank you, sir, we'll soon have them up to our standard.’

‘Quite so, quite so. By the way, I see that your uncle has been given a prime job.’ Carmichael beamed with pleasure. His uncle, Sir George Cathcart, the only major-general who had seen recent active service in the Cape, had been given command of a Division. Carmichael was going to play the relationship for all that it was worth, whilst the colonel was far from ignorant to the cachet it ought to bestow on his regiment.

‘Why yes, sir, do we know yet whether we'll be in my uncle's Division?’

‘Who knows, Carmichael. It'll do your career no harm if we are.’ The Colonel laughed indulgently. ‘Now gentlemen, I've brought you all together to tell you about the realities of war.’

Morgan and the others knew that Webber-Smith was one of the few present to have seen any fighting, yet he rarely mentioned it. There was no doubt that he ran a smart and taut regiment but, with the exception of the last few weeks when the accent had, indeed, been more upon tactical matters, most of their time was spent in the drill yard. Joining just too late to be with the Regiment at the last big manoeuvres at Chobham, the stories persisted of their being foxed by the 48th, embarrassingly, the commanding officer's original corps. Expecting now to pick up some real tips on leadership in battle, they were all to be disappointed.

There were hints on the selection of sutlers, the best ways to find clean water, the need for regular inspection of the men's feet and – everyone cringed – their members, the most effective way of rigging an awning in a downpour and, in short, any number of other tricks of the trade that would stand them all in good stead during the rainy season in India. Sadly, they weren't bound for India and, spellbinding though the sixty minutes were, none of them was any the wiser about the business of death at the end of it. Morgan wondered if an ancient forty-nine-year-old shouldn't be turning his mind to dog-breeding rather than tropical agues.

As the Colonel left, Hume, the senior major, brought the room to attention and then strolled to the fireplace at the front.

‘Gentlemen, you've heard what the colonel has had to tell you about, er … campaigning: I have little to add.’

Hume was short but what the Irish would call ‘well-made’. His jacket was slightly too tight and his overalls bagged a little at the knee whilst his hair was unbrushed. But there was a composure about him that was reassuring. They all had to strain to hear what he said. He would arrange for them to see and handle the nine- and twelve-pounders of their own artillery for they were bound to need to understand them. Then, at his word, one of the Mess servants produced the new rifle which, it was rumoured, they were about to receive.

‘I trust you all know what this is….’

‘Ask Charlton, his dad makes them,’ half-whispered Carmichael to the subalterns around him. One or two sniggered at the snobbish little dig, but the others were intent upon the new weapon.

‘… and the principle upon which it fires its ball?’ Hume frowned at Carmichael but wasn't going to be distracted. There followed a ten-minute discourse on a rifle that, if they ever got their hands on it, would reduce their enemies' life expectancy very dramatically indeed.

Morgan wondered if all this talk would ever really translate into war. There would be little difficulty in loading, gauging the range, aiming and firing one of these weapons – but at another Christian?

In the name of all that was holy why had he agreed to this? The rite-of-passage that was regimental boxing usually came round once a year but this was an extra ordeal. In an effort, Morgan supposed, to draw the new drafts into the 95th's family, the Colonel had not only ordained an additional session but he had let it be known that young officers would be very strongly encouraged to fight. He'd milled well enough at school, well enough, at least, to keep him out of trouble in the ring with the soldiers.

Every year he swore not to go through it again. Private Pug-Ugly – invariably half a stone heavier and two inches taller – would come out swinging, jabbing and bashing him round the ring. Morgan usually found a reserve of fitness and skill that allowed him to survive and not disgrace himself. That, at least, was how it had gone the last three times: plucky young officer faces his man, gets as good a hiding as he gives, wins narrowly, then wears his bruises gamely round the barracks for the next few days. Subaltern and soldier-honour satisfied, everyone was content.

Everyone except Morgan. He agreed that the officers should muck-in with the men, he knew how good it was for officer prestige to chance their arm with one of the regimental bruisers – but why did he always have to be the one? The whole business appalled him, not so much the fear of getting hurt – though that was bad enough – but the dread of making a fool of himself. No matter what the commanding officer encouraged, no matter what the adjutant said, no matter how much flattery tinged with sadism he got from Carmichael and the other subalterns, he would simply refuse.

So effective had his refusal been that he now sat on the simple stool with the light, leather slips bound at the wrist. Predictably, the Grenadier's Colour-Sergeant, big, florid, Glaswegian Andrew McGucken, was a veritable pugilist. He'd immediately taken the young officer into training – all twenty-four hours of it – and now stood behind him, chafing him with a grubby towel.

‘He's just a lamb, sir.’ McGucken's view of the thug who'd just leapt into the crude, rope ring was rather different from Morgan's. Rather than gambolling, the creature bounced about his corner, thumping the air, emitting little ‘tsh-tsh’ noises like one of the new steam engines in human form. His opponent was called John Duffy and he'd recently volunteered from the 6th. His colleagues from his former corps stood as close around the ring as possible and as the bell rang, a sallow, curly-haired confederate yelled, ‘Break his face’. Duffy clearly heard, for the next four minutes were some of the most punishing that Morgan could recall.

Almost at once his nose bled. Then a splendid hook sent him staggering into the ropes in his opponent's corner, followed by a bruising jab or two to the ribs. Realizing that Duffy was more skilled than most of the men, Morgan rallied, put together some good combination punches that marked his opponent around the eyes and started to get his confidence back.

It didn't last long. Just before the bell rang to end the round, an uppercut felled him. He was suddenly on all fours, gazing at the packed dirt floor and listening to the referee counting down the seconds. He heard ‘four’ and realized that he must stand. On ‘five’ he did, brushing his gloves and coming on guard just on ‘seven’. The referee patted his shoulder and he flung himself onto his corner stool.

‘That's it, Morgan, let him exhaust himself by running round the ring after you and punching you silly. The idea is to hit him, you know.’ Carmichael, smooth, clean, brushed and polished, sneered through the ropes.

‘I don't see yous up here in the ring, sir, so shag-off unless you've got something useful to say to Mr Morgan.’ Subalterns signified little to Colour-Sergeant McGucken.

‘You've got to keep away from his right, sir. Keep circling to his left, your right, and jab with your left as hard as possible. You're doin'grand.’ The red-stained towel that was pulled away from his nostrils suggested something different, but at least the bleeding had stopped.

The second round was bruising. Morgan did his best to keep his flowing nose away from Duffy's flicking left hook, but without total success. Every time he came forward to deliver one of his crushing rights, Duffy found his mark, stinging him hard and making the bleeding worse. Just as the round was in its last seconds, though, Morgan pushed his opponent onto the back foot. Duffy tried a desperate lunge, allowed the young officer to get inside his guard and paid the price. Morgan pushed with his left, another left, both punches rocking the burly private back, before he caught him with a very creditable right on the point of the jaw. Duffy reeled; his gloves came down, but just as Morgan was closing in for what he hoped would be the kill, the bell sounded and the round ended. His opponent slunk back to his stool, bloody but determined to redress the balance. What did a fucking officer know about scrapping anyway?

The next two rounds were not the happiest of Morgan's life. What he'd achieved in round two was more than undone by his now-angry opponent. Whilst he wasn't knocked down again, Duffy concentrated on his already flooding nose, closed his left eye and seemed impervious to all of his blows – or almost impervious. At the end of the fourth, Morgan made him stagger with a left jab and stopped him with the hardest right he could muster just above his enemy's belt. More would have followed had Duffy not held him in a clinch and pushed him hard against the ropes.

As Morgan stumbled back to his corner he noticed the black drips of blood soaking into the ground. All over his torso were red weals where Duffy's punches had smeared his own blood yet with his one, good eye he could see nothing similar on his foe.

‘Well done, sir, you've got him now. See how he's slumped over?’ to Morgan's surprise, McGucken seemed to be delighted. Certainly, Duffy's head was down and his second – a corporal from the Light Company – was working overtime with towel and sponge. Morgan suspected, though, that Duffy was just husbanding his strength.

‘Get out there, Mr Morgan sir, and belt the twat in the ribs, you've broke a couple already, he's on the run.’

Now it was the last round. Morgan had four minutes to salvage the honour of the Officers' Mess, four minutes to burnish his reputation. The leaning, apparently broken Duffy, however, had other ideas. The young officer ran into a barrage of punches that made his nose fountain and blocked any vision at all from his left eye. A flurry of blows had him covering up as best he could in his own corner when broad Glasgow was bellowed into his ear.

‘See his ribs there, sir, leather the bastards!’ And leather them he did. The best right he could find landed just where the earlier blow had and Duffy faltered, both gloves came down, and he sagged back into the centre of the ring. All that now remained was for Morgan to step forward and punch mechanically at a target that could no longer defend itself. Within seconds a towel flew into the ring, within another few seconds the referee had the victor's hands above his head and seconds after that he was receiving the cheers and slaps of every officer and soldier there. He'd never do that again.

A good, hard run was just the way to shift bruises, Finn always said. Got the blood pumping round the system and washed the contusion away from the skin, Finn always said. Certainly, when he'd fallen off his horse as a boy or been in one scrape or another, the groom back at Glassdrumman had always insisted that a run was the treatment; that's why Morgan had risen early, earlier than his aching limbs and muscles would have liked, to run the four miles out of the barracks, up over Todd's Hill and then home. Now he was back, agreeably blown and with his bruised face and ribs complaining in time to the pulse of his heart. As he padded back to the Mess past the stables, though, there was a hubbub of excited voices: men laughing and hooting before breakfast suggested something intriguing.

‘Stand up!’ As Morgan rounded the corner of the stable block still panting in his shorts and jersey, half a dozen men in undress, brown, canvas trousers and shirtsleeves braced to attention.

‘Leave to carry on, sir, please?’ A well-muscled lad whom Morgan recognized as a lance-corporal from Number Three Company, bellowed with a confidence that Morgan knew was designed to hide something.

‘Please do, Corporal…’

‘Fitchett, sir, Number Three.’

‘Sorry, yes of course,’ Morgan replied. ‘Who's this? You're a jewel, ain't you?’ In the arms of one of the other men was the gamest, little Jack Russell that Morgan could remember seeing in an age. His coat was dappled and smooth, his ears short, well-pointed and alert and his eyes like the blackest of coals. As the young officer stretched forward and stroked his muzzle, a tiny pink tongue flicked out and gave him a perfunctory lick, the salute of one sportsman to another.

‘Mine, sir, name o' Derby,’ the soldier, whom Morgan didn't think he'd ever seen before replied, smiling at the officer's obvious interest.

‘Well, Derby, shall we see you at your work?’ At this all the troops relaxed. A circle of bricks three high and about ten feet across had been improvised for the ratting session which, as long as no money changed hands, was winked at in the regiment. But it was quite clear from the time of day and the bearing of the men that this was a serious, commercial affair – quite against Queen's Regulations. That's why they had been worried by the approach of an officer, until Morgan had made his tacit approval clear.

‘We shall, sir,’ the dog's owner replied in a flat, midland accent. ‘Bobby Shone, tell the officer the stakes.’

Shone, saturnine and curly, the shortest of the group, held a leather bag that squirmed and squeaked as he shook it gently. ‘Twenny rats in 'ere, sir. We fancy Derby could earn a penny or two if he gets the practise, so we thought we'd give 'im a bit of a run.’ Shone waggled the bag again. ‘Halfa-crown a shot, Miller's the shortest stake on nothing more than three minutes; Corporal Fitchett's on the clock.’

This was the crudest form of rat-baiting, but excellent training for the serious matches when one dog was pitched against others, with weight taken and handicaps allotted. The rules were simple: the dog had to kill a specified number of rats as fast as possible, the winner taking two-thirds of the purse, the runner-up the rest with a whip-round for the owner. The referee might poke a rat about to see whether it was quite dead or even shamming, but it was no more complex than that.

‘Half-a-crown's a lot of money, boys …’ Morgan replied – and it was. In barracks a private soldier could expect to see no more than ninepence a day, ‘… and I've not a penny-cent on me.’

‘Gerraway, sir, you're bloody made o' money,’ challenged Shone. ‘Anyway, your word's good. You in?’

Morgan couldn't resist. It may have been quite against the rules, but it was more than sporting blood could bear – his rank could go hang.

‘Aye, of course I am. Three minutes, five and twenty seconds for me, is it free?’ he asked, any concerns about discipline or over-familiarity with the men quite forgotten.

‘Free as a hawk, sir, but you'll be skinned by Derby, he's a terror.’ One of the other men wrote Morgan's time down on a scrap of card.

‘Right, let's see the rats.’ Corporal Fitchett craned forward over the ring as Shone emptied the bag.

Twenty black, brown, sleek forms tumbled on to the earth floor, collected themselves in less time than it took to blink and shot for the edge of the circle, clawing at the bricks to find a scrap of cover. Their pink noses twitched – sharp, yellow teeth bared, scaly tails flicking in anticipation of something terrible.

And terrible it was.

‘Go on, Derby, me bucko!’ Morgan was rapt, fists clenched, yelling along with the rest of the men as the dog became a vortex of teeth, tail and death.

Furry forms were grabbed by the neck and shaken with one, two or three swift flicks of the neck till their backbones broke; then they were tossed from Derby's mouth against the bricks, flopping dead on the grit floor below. One rash rodent had the temerity to sink its fangs into Derby's lip and grip there whilst the terrier tried to rip it free. Cling though it did, the rat couldn't survive the dashing of its body against the rough bricks and after a few short but bruising seconds, it let go and fell with its comrades, cooling quickly.

‘Thirty seconds,’ bellowed Fitchett.

‘Nineteen!’ replied the throng, as each death was exulted. ‘Twenty!’ They roared as the last rat had the life snapped from it.

‘Two minutes and fifty on the nose, goddamn!’ Corporal Fitchett's watch was held for all to see. ‘Why, the hound's a bloody goldmine.’

Great silver half-crowns were produced as the brick circle was dismantled and Shone dabbed at Derby's bitten nose with a drop of brandy.

‘Thanks, Corporal Fitchett, that was a grand few minutes, quite unexpected.’ Morgan had hardly noticed the sweat chilling him. ‘Are there any other dogs around who might challenge him?’

‘Doubt it, sir. The Armourer-Sar'nt reckons his hound will be better over thirty or more rats than Derby; says he's got more stayin’ power. Anyway, sir, we'll try 'em out against each other in the next couple o' weeks,' Fitchett replied, formal and regimental now.

‘Well, let's hope they delay the war for a wee bit then.’ The men smiled. ‘Let me know when the match is to be, if you would. I'll send James Keenan to you with the money, Corporal Fitchett, if that's acceptable?’

‘Fine, sir,’ and as Morgan left, ‘Stand up: may I have your leave to carry on, sir, please?’

The gabbled formula reminded Morgan that he'd broken every rule that it was possible to break. Not only had he connived at the men's gambling, he was now in debt to a non-commissioned officer with plenty of witnesses – and he didn't give a damn.

The rat-baiting had made him late. If it had been an ordinary wedding back in Cork then a few minutes here or there simply wouldn't signify, but because soldiers were involved and because he, an officer, was invited then everything had to be organized as if life itself depended upon it.

‘Well, it'll be a hard thing to see that prime little maid of yours married to one of the “sons of toil”, won't it?’ Carmichael lolled against the post of Morgan's door, clicking the cover of his watch open and closed. ‘You wouldn't catch me letting a piece of fluff like that off my mattress.’ The watch was slipped back into Carmichael's pocket, as a sly little grin slid across his face.

‘Well, she ain't been on my mattress, has she?’ Morgan replied just a little too quickly. ‘She's to be married to James Keenan and will have to shift for herself back here when we sail. Or, I suppose she might go back to Ireland and fall back into my father's clutches.’

‘Hmm, I wonder. You think I haven't seen how you look at each other? Mind you, if you're not man enough to keep her content, I'm quite happy to volunteer for the post myself. You certainly cut quite a dash today, why did you let Duffy give you such a hiding?’ Carmichael looked with mock concern at Morgan's cuts and rainbow bruising.

‘You weren't in too much of a hurry to chance your arm, were you, Carmichael?’

‘Why keep a dog and bark yourself? I leave that sort of brutish stuff to the likes of you and those with horny hands – proper officers should lead, not brawl. Also – hope you don't mind me saying it – it's one thing being manly with the troops and letting them thump you about, but should you really be rattin' with them? Bit familiar, don't you think? Give your darling Mary my very fondest wishes.’ Carmichael sauntered off down the back stairs of the Mess.

How the hell, Morgan wondered, had Carmichael found out about this morning's sport so quickly?

Pegg strode as hard and as fast as he could to keep in step with Morgan. Fiddling with belts and sashes with no servant to help him had made him late for the self-same servant's wedding. Now the only two Protestants to be invited to an otherwise exclusively Catholic service were racing to be on time, with poor Pegg in an ecstasy of unease. He was to accompany the two Irish fiddlers from another company on his fife at James Keenan's wedding.

He'd arrived to escort his officer in plenty of time. He'd scuffed the gravel loudly outside Morgan's room; he'd cleared his throat so hard and so often that he now worried that he wouldn't be able to sound his fife; he'd even considered trying out a tune or two just to hurry the young gentleman along. Then, as desperation overtook him and he was about to leave Mr Morgan to his own devices, the officer came out of the Mess like a rabbit with a ferret on his scut.

‘Come on, Pegg, stop hanging around, we'll be late, boy.’

They pelted off to the little church about a quarter of a mile from the barracks. Keenan had enlisted Morgan's help to find a priest to marry them at short notice and he'd lit upon one of the few Catholic deacons who were to escort the troops to the East. As luck would have it, there was a nearby Catholic church whose incumbent was delighted to allow it to be used for a regimental wedding, especially with the promise of war.

‘Jesus, sir, lucky fucking Jimmy Keenan.’

As they rounded the corner thirty seconds late, it was obvious that the groom, bride and the knot of guests were waiting for Himself to arrive. The men were all in uniform, scarlet and blue bisected by white belts, their shakoes set with flowers as the only civilian concession, and at their centre stood Mary. Morgan's stomach tightened at the sight of her. Again, she'd contrived to look entirely out of place beside the men yet totally relaxed with them. A light blue, narrow-waisted, satin dress printed with sprigs of flowers was complemented by the garland set in her hair and the posy that she carried. At her throat was a beaded necklace that could have passed for sapphires whilst her hands and wrists were covered in snowy-white buttoned gloves that Morgan knew to be the height of fashion. She could have strolled arm-in-arm with him in Phoenix Park or, come to that, Hyde Park and been more than a credit.

Mary smiled at James Keenan. A handsome-enough man, his rough scarlet serge and his weather-reddened, calloused hands contrasted uneasily with his wife-to-be's elegance. He had asked Morgan if he might borrow some of his pomade for his hair and whiskers and applied it liberally. Now he stood on the church steps with his betrothed, his hair glistening in equal measure to the beam on his face.

‘Ah, sir, it's yourself, thank you for coming.’ Keenan, bareheaded, brought his heels together and stiffened whilst a dozen hands flew to the peaks of the shakoes around him. Mary executed a mocking little curtsey whilst she stared into his eyes from below her lashes. She said not a thing.

‘Keenan, I'm so pleased for you both,’ Morgan lied as he pulled off his glove and clasped the groom's hand. ‘May I kiss your future wife?’ Morgan saw how Mary bridled, but such a gesture was required.

‘Go on, Mr Morgan, sir, help yourself.’ For a split second Morgan wondered at Keenan's choice of words, but no, they were innocent enough.

One peach-like, gently powdered cheek was presented with a coolness that struck him like a slap. As his lips brushed against her he caught that same scent that haunted his bedclothes back in Glassdrumman.

‘You've made a wonderful choice of husband, Mary, but I don't know how my family will manage without you.’ None of the meaning was lost on Mary and Tony could almost feel the lash of the reply that such a comment would receive in other circumstances. She said not a thing.

The service was short and the hymns were few. Any lack of melody amongst the singers was disguised by the skill of the fiddlers and the shrieks of Lance-Corporal Healey's toddlers. The poor priest had to contend with their babble whilst the first note of every hymn set them howling.

‘Can't Mrs H tek the little sods out, sir?’ whispered Pegg to Morgan.

He made no reply, for the Irish audience would tolerate outrages from children that no English one would. Earlier, Morgan had had to suppress an oath when one of his glistening toe-caps had been scuffed by a rampaging Healey brat. His mother had paid not the slightest attention.

There could be no honeymoon. With the regiment preparing for war, the best that Private and Mrs Keenan could manage was a ceilidh in the other ranks' canteen. A handful of the wives and their husbands had set about the barn-like structure, weaving ivy and other greenery through some bunting, then setting up Union flags and an enormous, crêpe shamrock. A somewhat crumpled, slightly crookedly-painted banner read, ‘Good luck to you both’. Morgan remembered it from the last wedding party he'd attended there.

The group was pathetically small, clustered around the fire at one end of the hall. The priest came, grinned, downed two glasses of whiskey and fled, leaving Morgan as the only impediment to a wholesale onslaught on the liquor. But the group's temperance lasted about as long as it took for the priest to disappear from sight. As soon as his cassock had floated out, the fiddlers and Pegg started to play. Now tots of whiskey many times the size of that given to the divine were handed round.

It was clear to Morgan that the novelty of his presence would very soon wear off. Taking the first opportunity, he drained his whiskey and strode over to Mary, for it had to be done. ‘May I be the first man to dance with Mrs Keenan?’ He gave a little bow.

‘I'd be delighted, Lieutenant Morgan, sir.’ She stood and dropped him a much deeper curtsey than earlier, smiling and bobbing her ringlets most becomingly.

Morgan did his best at the reels and steps, never a natural dancer. The soldiers and women looked on indulgently, just pleased to see one of Themselves mixing with them. His clumsiness was at odds with Mary's easy grace, a grace that he remembered so well from an entirely different setting.

The dancing done, he pumped hands, slapped backs and left. His walk back to the Mess was the loneliest of his life.

‘Come on, Morgan, there's no point in loafing here.’

The days since the wedding had been frantic as last-minute preparations were made for departure and this was to be the regiment's last evening in Weedon, for tomorrow they were to leave for Portsmouth and embarkation for the mysterious ‘East’. So, Morgan had accepted Carmichael's invitation to join him at his rooms in Weedon to ‘raise Cain’.

Carmichael's idea of Cain-raising held little appeal to Morgan. He already spent more than enough time with the regiment's foremost scion and self-appointed rake and, besides, any quiet moment allowed his thoughts to drift back to Mary, of seeing her all the time yet knowing that she was beyond his reach. But Carmichael had chivvied and cajoled him in the Mess in front of the others. The invitation was issued only to him and whilst he knew that he would have to endure a battery of stings and innuendo, even that was better than being alone.

Meanwhile, Keenan had been in an almost indecent rush to get his master respectably into civilian clothes, out of barracks and off his hands. Normally, there would have been much smoothing of Morgan's beaver hat, the watch chain would have had to be fixed just so, and there would be a final rub of a duster over his boots before the young officer was fit to be seen in public. The married Keenan was a different, more perfunctory creature. Morgan found himself adjusting his own braces, fitting his own cuff-links and pulling his stock to just the right position whilst there was little of the barrack tittle-tattle that made such occasions so invaluable.

Now, instead of learning why Private Ghastly felt himself so aggrieved when Lance-Corporal Nasty told him off for kitchen fatigues (after all, they had been good mates when they were privates together, hadn't they?), there was little except a few scrappy questions about what Russ would look like and whether Turkish girls chewed tobacco. His soldier-servant seemed to be in a tearing hurry to get back to the barrack corner that had been screened off with an army blanket for the newly-weds. Morgan understood the urgency only too well.

Carmichael's rooms were a cliché. A bedroom, sitting room and bathroom looked from the first floor of a small hotel onto the cobbled main street of the town below. The wooden floor was awash with coloured woollen rugs whilst the furniture was old but studiedly comfortable. He'd had the walls redecorated in a fashionable lemon (as advised, Morgan recalled, by some London society piece) and on them hung a selection of hunting, boxing and naval prints. His greatest conceit, though, was a pastel nude that hung above his bed.

Morgan's already failing interest in Cain had dwindled to nothing by the time that he arrived. Carmichael's man had just been sent home and with a fire blazing and the gentle light of the oil lamps, Morgan hoped that the next few hours could be spent in an alcoholic cloud, forgetting his gloom and discussing the adventure that lay before them. He might learn Carmichael's secret of shining whenever the colonel or the adjutant were about – he might even learn to like the ambitious, arrogant bastard a little. But no, Cain was a creature of the streets. In high spirits, Carmichael stepped out, dandified in strapped trousers, a waistcoat of the darkest green, stock and pin and a coat cut fashionably long.

They sank a tot of whiskey apiece in the Rodney and the Granby. But in both there were some of their own corporals or sergeants toping steadily. The young officers passed a civil few sentences with them, trying not to make it look as though they were bolting their liquor before moving on. There would be plenty of time to rub shoulders with the men in the next few months.

They settled, unrecognized, in the snug of the the Plough. More drink came and went whilst their talk gathered pace. Carmichael, though, had been distracted from the moment that two unescorted girls came into the room. They sat down a little way from the fire and began to commune in a geyser of giggles and whispers. Sitting in another corner were four young men, farmers or their sons judging by their clothes. Their volume, too, increased as they drank until one of the braver ones rose, very slightly unsteady, and approached the girls.

Despite a lively, good-natured exchange where the farmer's boy did his best to impress both women with promises of untold largesse, he was rebuffed. With a shrug and upturned palms he walked back to his friends.

‘Missing a bed-warmer now that sweet Mary's tucked up with Keenan, Morgan?’ But before Morgan could react to this jibe, Carmichael had lost interest, sensing a different and much more interesting diversion.

The next hour or so were to remain a whiskey blur to Morgan. The girls joined them, they drank, they laughed a little too loudly at the young gentlemen's wit, showing their teeth too readily behind their too-red lips and in no time the four of them found themselves in Carmichael's rooms.

‘Just get some more coal would you, Morgan? We can't let the fire get any lower.’ Carmichael made it quite clear that Morgan had no choice. He knew where the coal hole was, but in the few minutes that it took him to refill the bucket in the dark and to clatter back upstairs, Carmichael and Jane – by far the prettier of the two girls – had disappeared. With wits dulled by drink, Morgan was just about to enquire of Molly where they had gone when a burst of laughter from behind the firmly-closed bedroom door betrayed them. Re-stoking the fire bought him a few minutes to think whilst Molly, silent except for a few rustles and sips from her glass, sat on the sofa behind him.

The lamps had been trimmed low. As he turned, their forgiving light played over Molly who lounged back on the cushions, glass in hand and breasts quite naked. She smiled and did her best to look attractive.

‘Get dressed, girl.’ Morgan was irritated with himself for being drawn into Carmichael's scheme; he reached into his pocket and put a silver crown in Molly's hand. ‘Here, there's better ways of earning money than that,’ and he rattled down the stairs and away as quickly as he could.

By halfway back to barracks Morgan's canter had slowed to a quick-step. The sentries came to the salute, and raising his top hat, he went over to speak to them. Whilst he had no desire whatsoever to talk, he remembered his first captain's advice when he joined the regiment – always be bothered with the troops: one day they'll save your life or your reputation. They weren't from his company, but he recognized them both. In their early twenties they were older soldiers – Morgan mused on why neither was a lance-corporal and how such old hands had managed to get caught for a greenhorn's duty like this.

‘I'm sorry, I can't remember your name, nor where you're from.’ The taller of the two had a round, pock-marked face that split into a surprised grin now that an officer was talking to him.

‘Francis Luff, sir, Number Five Company.’ The man's breath wisped into the cold night air as his gloved fingers played on the stock of his rifle.

‘No, I know that, where's your home town, man?’

‘Oh, sorry, sir, Hayling Island – our Pete's in your company.’ Luff seemed to have no neck at all. His head jutted straight out of the thick collar of his greatcoat, bobbing now with pleasure, the moonlight reflected off the brass ‘95’ on the front of his soft woollen cap.

‘I know him well, he's a good man, up for a tape I'm told. What about you, you must be due promotion soon?’

‘Only thing Luffy'll get, sir, is a bleedin' tape-worm.’ One of the oldest jests in the troops' lexicon was delivered in a flat Manchester accent by the other man, provoking dutiful laughs.

‘You're doing well, lads: stand easy and for pity's sake keep warm.’ Men cheered, bonhomie dispensed, easy, pleasant little job done, it was a good point to leave. Both men snapped their left foot forward, clasped their hands across their bellies and pushed their rifles into the crooks of their arms. The cosiness of the banter was stark against the long, lethal gleam of their bayonets.

‘He's a decent bloke, that Paddy Morgan. Pete says 'e'll be all right when we get to fight.’ The conversation had pleased Luff disproportionately.

‘Don't s'pose it'll come to that. We'll go down to Portsmouth tomorrer an' be stuck there for ever, knowing our luck. Mind you, Mr Morgan did well in the ring t'other night, wouldn't mind having him as our officer, not a stuck-up sod like some o' the others.’ The sentries' muttered conversation helped to pass the long hours of their watch.

The heavy metal key clunked into the back door of the Mess. Morgan's room still felt warm against the cold of the night and as he stripped off coat, hat and muffler he twitched back his curtains. The barracks slept – but not entirely. Over there, at an end of the Grenadier Company's lines he fancied that he could see just one light burning dimly.