Absolute Honour (33 page)

So intent was he at his task that the sound of many horses barely impinged. It was the voice that roused him, rich in rolling
Welsh vowels and profanity. ‘Oi, you Dago turd, where’s your fucking master?’

Jack – crouched over the bucket, coat in hand – looked up. Standing in the doorway was a man he vaguely remembered from his
scant weeks of training with the Dragoons before he shipped out to Canada. ‘Right here, Sergeant Puxley. Master
and man. Lieutenant Absolute. How very good to see you again.’

He could see shock working its way over the man’s face in the sagging jaw, widened eyes and bushy eyebrows rising to the cavalry
helm on his head. He knew what the man was seeing – thick beard, shaggy long hair, skin darkened from his weeks at sea – the
wagon driver Onslow had labelled him. What distinguished him was obviously the voice, an officer’s undoubtedly, though the
tattoos Até had so painfully embroidered on his body threw everything back into confusion.

‘Who?’ was all the man could manage for the moment.

Jack laid the coat down, wiped his hands on his trousers, stepped forward. ‘Cornet Absolute that was, Sergeant. Promoted to
the vacancy in the third. You may remember me?’

‘Can’t say I do.’ Puxley had taken the proffered hand in reflex and was shaking it mechanically, though his eyes were fixed
on the blue-inked wolf’s head on Jack’s shoulder.

‘I was sent to North America, bearing dispatches at the King’s command?’

Puxley’s eyes rose to meet his. ‘Absolute? You’re dead.’

‘Apparently not,’ said Jack, detaching his hand. ‘And eager to resume my duties. Though, as the Captain pointed out, I may
be a little rusty on the finer points of drill. He said you may be able to refresh me?’

Puxley was obviously not a man to remain perplexed for long. ‘Absolute! Got you, now. Cocky little sh …’ He paused. ‘You could
ride a bit though … sir. Am I right?’

‘Again, it’s been a while but I am confident I’ll recall the mechanics.’

‘Well, we can only hope the rest will come back as well.’ Puxley had straightened, all his discountenance gone. ‘No time like
the present, eh? I was just about to take the troop through some drills. Would you?’

He gestured through the door. ‘Delighted,’ said Jack, ‘but I
think …’ He stroked his beard with the back of his hand. ‘Not regulation, is it?’

‘Hardly, sir. We have a trooper who’s not bad with shears and blade. Shall I send him in?’

‘Do. And could you hang this in the sun to dry?’

Puxley took the jacket. ‘Captain Peers’s, ain’t it? But you’ve stripped off the lace.’

Jack nodded. ‘Learned to do that in Canada. Makes too inviting a target.’

‘So Captain Peers discovered.’ Puxley’s eyes were appraising. ‘Seen some action, have you?’

‘Some.’

‘Good. Many of our officers haven’t. I’ll send Wallace in.’

Puxley left and Jack inspected the rest of his inherited equipment. Aside from the standard lawn shirts, black stocks, white
cloth breeches, boots, gloves and saddlery, the regiment had its distinguishing designations: the japanned, black copper cap
with its ridge plume of reddened horse hair, the King’s cipher and crown enamelled on it; the scarlet cloak with red half-cape
lined with the regimental facings of black. Together with the now-drying short coat, this uniform was nearly as good as the
one he’d had made for himself in Newport. It signified that his days as privateer, prisoner, fugitive and even spy had come,
at least temporarily, to an end. And looking at the scarlet and the black facings of his regiment, Jack found that he was
not at all unhappy at the exchange.

He was not so sure three hours later. Puxley had indeed ‘put him through it’. There did not seem to be a part of him that
was not sore, chafed, aching – and they hadn’t even started riding yet. His right-hand knuckles were skinned because there
were only so many times you could draw and return swords before flesh struck hilt or pommel. His thighs throbbed from the
innumerable times they’d dismounted,
which required at least nine different movements that Jack could count. And his brain ached as he tried to remember the drill
of linking, in which horses could be joined at their collar rings so that one man would take care of up to ten horses alone.
But since the movement to link required one man to step one way and the man next to them to step the other, and since Puxley
kept changing his position, it took Jack some time to remember that when he was right he went left about and when left, the
opposite. Only after numerous errors on his part, each one causing an increase of muttering in the ranks – his clumsiness
was forcing the men to work longer – was Sergeant Puxley satisfied and allowed the troop some water.

‘And now we’ll train for the parade,’ he announced. ‘For Colonel Burgoyne is to rejoin us shortly and will want to review
the regiment. And you wouldn’t want to shame me, would you, boys?’

The sun had the sky to itself the entire day; it was like exercising in a bread oven. The air was oppressive and sweat soaked
their clothes. Jack realized he might have spared himself his washerwoman exertions, for his scarlet short coat was sopping.

Jack took his place – as Lieutenant his position was the first file of the third rank. The gelding he stood beside was large,
upwards of seventeen hands and biddable, though Jack would not know that truly until he had put him through his paces. But
he was obviously a replacement as his coat was distinctly grey and stood out in the troop of almost uniform brown. Jack wondered
if it was just the lace that had drawn the sniper’s fire to its former owner. Grey horses were usually avoided for precisely
that reason.

‘Make ready to mount!’

He placed his left foot in the stirrup, left hand on the pommel, right on the centre of the cantle, fingers turned toward
the crop in the approved manner and waited.

‘Mount!’

The horse shifted slightly under him as he tied up the collar. He chk-chk’d quietly and it settled.

‘Now, boys, let me remind you …’

Laughter interrupted the lesson. It came from the house adjoining the stableyard. Though Jack was meant to face front, he
couldn’t help but look. Three officers strode down the steps, still laughing. As they reached the gate, the eldest of them,
a fellow probably in his mid-twenties, called out, ‘Sergeant Puxley, we’ll practise the parade, if you please.’

‘Yes, sir,’ replied the Welshman, not commenting that they were just about to do that.

The three officers waited as grooms brought their mounts, then each wheeled his horse around the rear of the troop. The Captain
– Crawford, Onslow had named him, new since Jack’s time – took up his position in the first rank, two before Jack. The Cornet,
also unknown, wheeled his horse till its arse was the required one horse length just before him.

‘What the devil?’ The voice came from beside him. ‘Trooper, you are in my place.’

Jack turned. Beside him was a very angry-looking cavalryman. Under the black, jappaned hat he saw a face he vaguely remembered.

‘Hullo, Stokey,’ he said.

The usual mix of confusion and searching went on. This man got it quicker than most. ‘Absolute?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you’re dead.’

Give me strength, Jack thought, but said, ‘No, I am not. Look, I am awfully sorry about this, Stokey. I know how disappointing
my resurrection will be. You see—’

The man’s colour had gone a deeper red, but before he could let loose his temper, the two files before Jack wheeled their
horses. ‘What’s this? What’s this?’ said Crawford, the newly promoted Captain. ‘Who, pray, are you?’

Jack saluted. ‘Lieutenant Jack Absolute, sir. Sixteenth Light Dragoons …’ He paused. Of course, they knew his regiment.

Stokey spoke. ‘Fellow’s a damned interloper. Swans off, comes back, wants my damned commission.’

‘Is that true?’ Crawford was turning as red as his subordinate. ‘Are you trying to usurp Bob’s promotion?’

‘I’d rather not, of course, sir. But I believe you’ll find that I was the senior cor—’

‘And I believe
you’ll
find, Lieutenant whatever-your-blasted-name-is that I make the decisions in my own troop, damn your eyes!’

‘Yes, sir.’ Jack looked right. The whole of the third troop, the men he’d forced to work for so long under a blazing sun,
looked back. He turned again. ‘I was hoping Captain Onslow would have informed you—’

‘As Senior Captain, Onslow is attending upon Major Somerville. So you’d better do the informing and swiftly.’

‘Yes, sir. Might I suggest …’ Jack waved toward the house.

At last, his brother officers became aware of their audience. ‘Well, indeed,’ murmured Crawford. ‘Puxley, you’re in command.’

‘Sir!’

‘You – all three of you – come with me.’

Leaving the third troop temporarily officer-less, the four men dismounted, gave the reins to grooms and entered the house.

The explanation he’d given to Onslow, and partly to Puxley, was given again. It failed to satisfy, and the repeated jeers
and interruptions only confirmed the first impression Jack had made of Bob Stokey. He was the type of officer his father complained
was taking over the cavalry, especially the more prestigious regiments. Too much blue blood, too little
reaching the brain. Jack had schooled with many of that ilk at Westminster.

‘Look here, Chancer Jack, or whatever you call yourself—’

‘Jack will do, though “sir” will be better before the men.’

‘I’ll be damn’d if I’ll “sir” you, sir!’ The repetition reddened the face still further. ‘You suddenly appear from nowhere,
having failed to take part in the regiment’s recent actions, having skulked some place away from the fighting—’

‘I have fought,’ Jack said quietly. ‘Rather more than you, I suspect.’

‘You dare to …’ Stokey stepped forward, meaty hands reaching before him. He was a large man and Jack took a step back. Not
from fear; but if it came to a dance he’d want a little room for the steps.

‘Bob! Desist!’ Crawford’s command brought the younger man to heel like a beagle. He turned back to Jack and though he was
obviously still as angry as his subordinate – and favourite, that was clear – he must have decided that this was an argument
that could not be settled here. ‘I will certainly be hearing all this again from Captain Onslow. I shall complain to the Major.
Indeed, since Colonel Burgoyne is due to take command himself any day, he shall also hear my protest.’

Jack nodded. ‘I shall, of course, be ruled by the Colonel, sir.’

‘I should think you shall, you puppy.’

With that, Crawford, his beagle close behind him – now the image was present in his head, Jack could not shake it – turned
and left the house.

A long silence was finally interrupted. ‘Where I am from, they do say that the more you mess with an old turd the worse ’ee
do stink.’

Jack turned in some amazement to the hitherto silent
member of the triumvirate. His accent was undoubtedly from the West Country. ‘Cornet … Worsley is it?’

‘Aye.’ The man – boy, really, he could have been no more than sixteen, with a sprouting of ginger hair emerging from beneath
his cap, and a rosy glow to match – smiled at him. He was the first soldier to do so since Jack arrived and it gladdened him.

‘Well, I am sorry that you too will suffer from my return, Worsley. You’ve come up from ranks, have you not?’

‘I have. And will be happy to return to them, if I’m honest.’ He grinned. ‘I never wanted the commission, no more than a toad
wants side pockets, if you understand my meaning.’

Jack smiled. ‘We have the same expression where I was born. You’re a Devonian, are you not?’

‘Barnstaple born and … was going to say bred, but my father was a tinker so who knows?’ He winked. ‘And you?’

‘Cornish.’

‘Well,’ the lad sighed, ‘I’ll not hold it against ye.’ He moved to the door, nodded out of it in the direction of the disappearing
officers. ‘
They
might, though.’

With that he was gone. Jack looked out. Puxley was organizing the troop as if for a review. Of the officers there was no sign;
gone, no doubt, to protest. The red ranks shimmered in heat haze and, for a moment, Jack was tempted to remain in the relative
cool of the porch. But ignorance would only give his new enemies something else to hold against him. He had been many things
already in his short life but only briefly a cavalryman.

He went out, strode to his horse, mounted, rode up to Puxley. ‘May I rejoin you, Sergeant?’

‘You may. If you’ll first redress your saddle cloth. Exactly and only one six-inch showing beneath the leather. We are on
parade now, sir! Parade!’

*

Parade was followed by a trot to a piece of scrub land where wheeling, column to ranks, the reverse and finally a charge were
practised. Jack returned exhausted to the stables and was told he was billeted in a nearby house. The dead officer’s trunk
had been brought and Jack pillaged it for the plain, unlaced frock suits that officers inevitably wore in the mess. A glance
in the mirror told him that the rush had not aided his appearance. He was glowing with the exertions of a hot day, and what
had been concealed beneath the beard was now a livid red, contrasting with the sea-brown above. His hair was a little shorter
but still a black tangle. However, for the moment there was nothing to be done.

He had to be in the mess by eight and he pushed open the door of the Praho Taberna as the last toll from a local church sounded.
He entered to a silence, as the men already at the table turned to stare. Stokey was just sitting down, his face as scarlet
as his coat, the heat no doubt conjured by the words he’d just spoken.

Wonder what he’s been saying? thought Jack, though he believed he knew. ‘Lieutenant Jack Absolute, reporting to the mess,’
he said. ‘Good evening, gentlemen.’ He gave a small bow and closed the door behind him.

It was difficult to decide which hurt more – his stomach or his head. The one felt as if washerwomen were trying to squeeze
his innards dry by twisting them into coils, while the other seemed to have been occupied by a marching band consisting mainly
of timpani. It was impossible to tell now which had done the most damage: the filthy, overly-spiced food; or the vast mix
and quantity of liquor. A combination, no doubt, if the contents of the reeking bucket that lay beside his head on the floor
were testament. He’d failed to make it onto the bed; just one of the many things of which he had absolutely no recollection.
Indeed, virtually nothing after his entrance into the tavern was clear to him. There were toasts, he knew, a huge variety
of them. He may even have proposed a few himself. Indeed there was the vaguest memory of … overcompensation, as if, by showing
himself to be a stout fellow, he could overcome the obvious antipathy for the interloper he’d seen on every face.