Monstrous Regiment

by Terry Pratchett

  In a thicket some way off, a nightingale sang. For quite a while, uninterrupted. Then Blouse said, ‘Hah, no, you are in fact wrong. The man was Captain Horentz—’

  ‘Yeah, right, like he’d tell you who he was with you pointing swords at him!’ said Towering. ‘I heard from one of my mates that one of you kicked him in the meat-and-two-veg, but I haven’t seen the picture yet.’

  ‘Someone took a picture of him getting kicked?’ squeaked Polly, drenched in a sudden horror.

  ‘Not of that, no. But there’s copies all over the place of him in chains and I hear it’s been sent by the clacks to Ankh-Morpork.’

  ‘Is . . . is he annoyed?’ Polly quavered, cursing Otto Chriek and his picture-making.

  ‘Well, now, let me see,’ said Towering sarcastically. ‘Annoyed? No, I shouldn’t think he’s annoyed. “Livid” is the word, I think. Or “raging” ? Yeah, I think “raging”’s the word. There’s a lot of people looking for you lads now. Well done!’

  Even Blouse could see Polly’s distress. ‘Er . . . Perks,’ he said, ‘it was you, wasn’t it, who—’

  Over and over in Polly’s head the words ogodIkickedthePrinceinthefruitandveg were going round and round like a hamster in a runaway treadmill until, suddenly, it ran up against something solid.

  ‘Yessir,’ she snapped. ‘He was forcing himself upon a young woman, sir. If you recall?’

  Blouse’s frown faded, and became a grin of childlike duplicity. ‘Ah, yes, indeed. He was “pressing his suit” in no small way, was he not?’

  ‘He didn’t have ironing in mind, sir!’ said Polly fervently.

  Towering glanced at Wazzer, grimly clutching a crossbow that Polly knew for a fact she was scared of, and Igorina, who’d much rather be holding a surgeon’s knife than the sabre in her hand and looked worried sick. Polly saw his brief smile.

  ‘And there you have it, Sergeant Towering,’ said the lieutenant, turning to the prisoner. ‘Of course, we all know there is some atrocious behaviour in times of war, but it is not the sort of thing we would expect of a royal prince.5 If we are to be pursued because a gallant young soldier prevented matters from becoming even more disgusting, then so be it.’

  ‘Now I am impressed,’ said Towering. ‘A real knight errant, eh? He’s a credit to you, lieutenant. Any chance of that tea?’

  Blouse’s skinny chest visibly swelled at the compliment. ‘Yes, Perks, the tea, if you would be so good.’

  Leaving the three of you with this man who’s positively radiating an intention to escape, Polly thought. ‘Could perhaps Private Goom go and fetch—’ she began.

  ‘A word in private, Perks?’ snapped Blouse. He drew her closer, but Polly kept her eye on Sergeant Towering. He might be bound hand and foot, but she wouldn’t have trusted a man who grinned like that if he’d been nailed to the ceiling.

  ‘Perks, you are making a great contribution but I really will not have my orders continually questioned,’ said Blouse. ‘You are my batman, after all. I think I run a “happy ship” here, but I will be obeyed. Please?’

  It was like being savaged by a goldfish, but she had to admit he had a point. ‘Er . . . sorry, sir,’ she said, backing away as long as possible so as not to miss the end of the tragedy. Then she turned and ran.

  Jackrum was sitting by the fire, with the prisoner’s bow across his huge knees, slicing some sort of black sausage with a big clasp-knife. He was chewing.

  ‘Where’s the rest of us, sir?’ said Polly, scrabbling for a mug.

  ‘I sent ’em to scout a wide perimeter, Perks. Can’t be too careful if matey-boy’s got pals out there.’

  . . . which was perfectly sensible. It just happened to mean that half the squad had been sent away . . .

  ‘Sarge, you know that captain back at the barracks? That was—’

  ‘I’ve got good hearing, Perks. Kicked him in the Royal Prerogative, eh? Hah! Makes it all more interestin’, eh?’

  ‘It’s going to go wrong, sarge, I just know it,’ said Polly, dragging the kettle off the hob and spilling half the water as she topped up the teapot.

  ‘D’you chew at all, Perks?’ said Jackrum.

  ‘What, sarge?’ said Polly distractedly.

  The sergeant held out a small piece of sticky, black . . . stuff. ‘Tobacco. Chewing tobacco,’ said Jackrum. ‘I favour Blackheart over Jolly Sailor, ’cos it’s rum-dipped, but others say—’

  ‘Sarge, that man’s going to escape, sarge! I know he is! The lieutenant isn’t in charge, he is. He’s all friendly and everything, but I can tell by his eyes, sarge!’

  ‘I’m sure Lieutenant Blouse knows what he’s doing, Perks,’ said Jackrum primly. ‘You’re not telling me a bound man can overcome four of you, are you?’

  ‘Oh, sugar!’ said Polly.

  ‘Just down there, in the old black tin,’ said Jackrum. Polly tipped some into the worst cup of tea ever made by a serving soldier and ran back to the clearing.

  Amazingly, the man was still in a sitting position, and still bound hand and foot. Her fellow Cheesemongers were watching him dejectedly. Polly relaxed, but only a little.

  ‘—nd there you have it, lieutenant,’ he was saying. ‘No disgrace in calling it quits, eh? He’ll hunt you down soon enough, ’cos it’s personal now. But if you were to come along with me, I’d do my best to see it goes easy with you. You don’t want to get caught by the Heavy Dragoons right now. They ain’t got much of a sense of humour—’

  ‘Tea up,’ said Polly.

  ‘Oh, thank you, Perks,’ said Blouse. ‘I think we can at least cut Sergeant Towering’s hands free, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Polly, meaning ‘no, sir’. The man offered his bound wrists, and Polly reached out gingerly with her knife while holding the mug like a weapon.

  ‘Artful lad you’ve got here, lieutenant,’ said Towering. ‘He reckons I’m going to grab his knife off of him. Good lad.’

  Polly sliced the rope, brought her knife hand back quickly, and then carefully proffered the mug.

  ‘And he’s made the tea lukewarm so’s it won’t hurt when I splashes it in his face,’ Towering went on. He gave Polly the steady, honest gaze of the born bastard.

  Polly held it, lie for lie.

  ‘Oh, yeah. The Ankh-Morpork people’ve got a little printing press on a cart, over on the other side of the river,’ said Towering, still watching Polly. ‘For morale, they say. And they sent the picture back to the city, too, on the clacks. Don’t ask me how. Oh yeah, a good picture. “Plucky Rookies Trounce Zlobenia’s Finest”, they wrote. Funny thing, but it looks like the writer man didn’t spot it was the Prince. But we all did!’

  His voice became even more friendly. ‘Now look, mates, as a foot soldier like yourselves I’m all for seeing the bloody donkey-boys made to look fools, so you come along with me and I’ll see to it that at least you don’t sleep in chains tomorrow. That’s my best offer.’ He took a sip of tea, and added, ‘It’s a better one than most of the Tenth got, I’ll tell you. I heard your regiment got wiped out.’

  Polly’s expression didn’t change, but she felt herself curl up into a tiny ball behind it. Look at the eyes, look at the eyes. Liar. Liar.

  ‘Wiped out?’ said Blouse.

  Towering dropped his mug of tea. He smacked the crossbow out of Wazzer’s hand with his left hand, grabbed the sabre from Igorina with his right hand, and brought the curved blade down on the rope between his legs. It happened fast, before any of them could quite focus on the change in the situation, and then the sergeant was on his feet, slapping Blouse across the face and grabbing him in an arm lock.

  ‘And you were right, kiddo,’ he said to Polly, over Blouse’s shoulder. ‘Cryin’ shame you ain’t an officer, eh?’

  The last of the fallen tea dribbled into the soil. Polly reached slowly for her crossbow.

  ‘Don’t. One step, one move from any of you, and I’ll cut him,’ said the sergeant. ‘Won’t be the first officer I’ve killed, believe me—’


  ‘The difference between them and me is, I don’t care.’

  Five heads turned. There was Jackrum, outlined against the distant firelight. He had the man’s own bow, drawn taut, and aimed directly at the sergeant in complete disregard of the fact that the lieutenant’s head was in the way. Blouse closed his eyes.

  ‘You’d shoot your own officer?’ said Towering.

  ‘Yep. Won’t be the first officer I’ve killed, neither,’ said Jackrum. ‘You ain’t going anywhere, friend, except down. Easy or hard . . . I don’t care.’ The bow creaked.

  ‘You’re just bluffing, mister.’

  ‘Upon my oath, I am not a bluffing man. I don’t think we was ever introduced, by the way. Jackrum’s the name.’

  The change in the man was a whole body event. He seemed to get smaller, as if every cell had said ‘oh dear’ very quietly to itself. He sagged, and Blouse slumped a little.

  ‘Can I—’

  ‘Too late,’ said Jackrum.

  Polly never forgot the sound the arrow made.

  There was silence, and then a thump as Towering’s body finally overbalanced and hit the ground.

  Jackrum laid the bow aside carefully. ‘Found out who he was messing with,’ he said, as if nothing much had happened. ‘Shame, really. Seemed like a decent sort. Any saloop left, Perks?’

  Very slowly, Lieutenant Blouse raised his hand to his ear, which the arrow had perforated en route to its target, and then looked with strange detachment at the blood on his fingers.

  ‘Oh, sorry about that, sir,’ said Jackrum jovially. ‘Just saw the one chance and I thought, well, it’s the fleshy part. Get yourself a gold earring, sir, and you’ll be the height of fashion! Quite a large gold earring, maybe.

  ‘Don’t you all believe that stuff about the Ins-and-Outs,’ Jackrum went on. ‘That was just lies. I like it when something’s up. So what we do now is . . . can anyone tell me what we do now?’

  ‘Er . . . bury the body?’ hazarded Igorina.

  ‘Yeah, but check his boots. He’s got small feet and the Zlobenians have much better boots than us.’

  ‘Steal the boots off a dead man, sarge?’ said Wazzer, still in shock.

  ‘Easier than getting ’em off a live one!’ Jackrum softened his voice a little when he saw their expressions. ‘Lads, this is war, understand? He was a soldier, they were soldiers, you are soldiers . . . more or less. No soldier will see scran or good boots go to waste. Bury ’em decent and say what prayers you can remember, and hope they’ve gone where there’s no fighting.’ He raised his voice back to the normal bellow. ‘Perks, round up the others! Igor, cover the fire, try to make it look like we were never here! We are moving out in number ten minutes! Can make a few miles before full daylight! That’s right, eh, lieutenant?’

  Blouse was still transfixed, but seemed to wake up now. ‘What? Oh. Yes. Right. Yes, indeed. Er . . . yes. Carry on, sergeant.’

  The fire gleamed off Jackrum’s triumphal face. In the red glow his little dark eyes were like holes in space, his grinning mouth the gateway to a hell, his bulk some monster from the Abyss.

  He let it happen, Polly knew. He obeyed orders. He didn’t do anything wrong. But he could have sent Maladict and Jade to help us, instead of Wazzer and Igor, who aren’t quick with weapons. He sent the others away. He had the bow ready. He played a game with us as pieces, and won . . .

  Poor old soldier, her father and his friends had sung, while frost formed on the window panes, poor old soldier! If ever I ’list for a soldier again . . . the devil shall be my sergeant!

  In the firelight the grin of Sergeant Jackrum was a crescent of blood, his coat the colour of a battlefield sky. ‘You are my little lads,’ he roared. ‘And I will look after you.’

  They made more than six miles before Jackrum called a halt, and already the land was changing. There were more rocks, fewer trees. The Kneck valley was rich and fertile and it was from here that the fertility had been washed; it was a landscape of ravines and thick scrub woodland, with a few small communities scratching a living from the poverty-stricken soil. It was a good place to hide. And, in here, someone had already hidden. It was a stream-carved gully, but here at the end of summer the stream was just a trickle between the rocks. Jackrum must have found it by smell, because you couldn’t see it from the track.

  The ashes of the fire in the small gully were still warm. The sergeant got up, awkwardly, after inspecting them. ‘Some lads like our pals from last night,’ he said.

  ‘Couldn’t it just be a hunter, sarge?’ said Maladict.

  ‘It could, corporal, but it ain’t,’ said Jackrum. ‘I brought you in here ’cos it looks like a blind gully and there’s water and there’s good vantage points up there and over there,’ he pointed, ‘and there’s a decent overhang to keep the weather off and it’s hard for anyone to creep up on us. Milit’ry, in other words. And someone else thought the same as me last night. So while they’re out there looking for us, we’ll sit snug where they’ve already looked. Get a couple of lads up on guard right now.’

  Polly drew first watch, atop the small cliff at the edge of the gully. It was a good site, no doubt about it. A regiment could hide here. No one could get near without being seen, too. And she was pulling her weight like a proper member of the squad, so with any luck Blouse would find someone to shave him before she was off duty. Through a gap in the treetops below she could see a road of sorts running through the woodland. She kept an eye on it.

  Eventually, Tonker relieved her with a cup of soup. On the far side of the gully, Wazzer was being replaced by Lofty.

  ‘Where’re you from, Ozz?’ said Tonker, while Polly savoured the soup.

  There couldn’t be any harm in telling. ‘Munz,’ said Polly.

  ‘Really? Someone said you worked in a bar. What was the inn called?’

  Ah . . . there was the harm, right there. But she could hardly lie, now. ‘The Duchess,’ she said.

  ‘That big place? Very nobby. Did they treat you okay?’

  ‘What? Oh . . . yes. Yes. Pretty fair.’

  ‘Hit you at all?’

  ‘Eh? No. Never,’ said Polly, nervous of where this was going.

  ‘Work you hard?’

  Polly had to consider this. In truth, she worked harder than both the maids, and they at least had an afternoon off every week.

  ‘I was usually the first one up and the last one to bed, if that’s what you mean,’ she said. And to change the subject quickly, she went on: ‘What about you? You know Munz?’

  ‘We both lived there, me and Tilda— I mean Lofty,’ said Tonker.

  ‘Oh? Where?’

  ‘The Girls’ Working School,’ said Tonker, and looked away.

  And that’s the kind of trap small talk can get you in, Polly thought. ‘Not a nice place, I think,’ she said, feeling stupid.

  ‘It was not a nice place, yes. A very nasty place,’ said Tonker. ‘Wazzer was there, we think. We think it was her. Used to be sent out a lot on work hire.’ Polly nodded. Once, a girl from the school came and worked as a maid at The Duchess. She’d arrive every morning, scrubbed raw in a clean pinafore, peeling off from a line of very similar girls led by a teacher and flanked by a couple of large men with long sticks. She was skinny, polite in a dull, trained sort of way, worked very hard and never talked to anybody. She was gone in three months, and Polly never found out why.

  Tonker stared into Polly’s eyes, almost mocking her innocence. ‘We think she was the one they used to lock up sometimes in the special room. That’s the thing about the school. If you don’t toughen up you go funny in the head.’

  ‘I expect you were glad to leave,’ was all Polly could think of to say.

  ‘The basement window was unlocked,’ said Tonker. ‘But I promised Tilda we’d go back one day next summer.’

  ‘Oh, so it wasn’t that bad, then?’ said Polly, grateful for some relief.

  ‘No, it’ll burn better,’ said Tonker. ‘Ever run across someone called Father Jupe?’
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  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Polly, and, feeling that something more was expected of her, added, ‘He used to come to dinner when my mother— he used to come to dinner. A bit pompous, but he seemed okay.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tonker. ‘He was good at seeming.’

  Once again there was a dark chasm in the conversation that not even a troll could bridge, and all you could do was draw back from the edge.

  ‘I’d better go and see to the lieu— to the rupert,’ Polly said, standing up. ‘Thank you very much for the soup.’

  She worked her way down through the scree and birch thickets until she emerged by the little stream that ran through the gully. And there, like some awful river god, was Sergeant Jackrum.

  His red coat, a tent for lesser men, was draped carefully over a bush. He himself was sitting on a rock with his shirt off and his huge braces dangling, so that only a yellowing woolly vest saved the world from a sight of the man’s bare chests. For some reason, though, he’d kept his shako on. His shaving kit, with a razor like a small machete and a shaving brush you could use to hang wallpaper, was on the rock beside him.

  Jackrum was bathing his feet in the stream. He glanced up when Polly approached, and nodded amiably. ‘’morning, Perks,’ he said. ‘Don’t rush. Never rush for ruperts. Sit down for a spell. Get yer boots off. Let yer feet feel the fresh air. Look after your feet, and your feet will look after you.’ He pulled out his big clasp-knife and the rope of chewing tobacco. ‘Sure you won’t join me?’

  ‘No thanks, sarge.’ Polly sat down on a rock on the opposite side of the stream, which was only a few feet wide, and started to tug at her boots. She felt as though she’d been given an order. Besides, right now she felt she needed the shock of clean, cold water.

  ‘Good lad. Filthy habit. Worse’n the smokes,’ said Jackrum, carving off a lump. ‘Got started on it when I was but a lad. Better’n striking a light at night, see? Don’t want to give away your position. ’course, you gotta gob a bundle every so often, but gobbin’ in the dark don’t show up.’