Monstrous Regiment

by Pratchett, Terry

  ‘For the good of our great countries,’ said Heinrich, ‘it is suggested that we publicly shake the hand of friendship.’ He smiled again, or at least allowed the corners of his mouth to turn up.

  Because she could think of no other way out, Polly took the huge hand and obediently shook it.

  ‘Oh, ver’ good,’ said Otto, grasping his picture box. ‘I can only take zer vun, of course, because unfortunately I shall have to use flash. Just vun moment . . .’

  Polly was learning that an art form which happens in a fraction of a second nevertheless needs a long time to take place, allowing a smile to freeze into a mad grimace or, in the worst cases, a death rictus. Otto muttered to himself as he adjusted the equipment. Heinrich and Polly maintained the grip and stared at the picture box.

  ‘So,’ muttered the Prince, ‘the soldier boy isn’t a soldier boy. That is your good luck!’

  Polly kept her fixed grin. ‘Do you often menace frightened women?’ she said.

  ‘Oh, that was nothing! You are only a peasant girl, after all! What do you know of life? And you showed spirit!’

  ‘Everyone say chiz!’ Otto commanded. ‘Vun, two, three . . . oh, bug—’

  By the time the after-images had died away, Otto was back on his feet again. ‘Vun day I hope to find a filter zat vorks,’ he muttered. ‘Thank you, everyvun.’

  ‘That was for peace and goodwill between nations,’ said Polly, smiling sweetly and letting go of the Prince’s hand. She took a step back. ‘And this, your highness, is for me . . .’

  Actually, she didn’t kick. Life was a process of finding out how far you could go, and you could probably go too far in finding out how far you could go. But a mere twitch of a leg was enough, just to see the idiot collapse in the ridiculous, knock-kneed, protective crouch.

  She marched away, singing inside. This was not a fairy-tale castle and there was no such thing as a fairy-tale ending, but sometimes you could threaten to kick the handsome prince in the ham-and-eggs.

  And now, there was one other little thing.

  The sun was setting before Polly found Jackrum again, and blood-red light shone through the high windows of the keep’s biggest kitchen. He was sitting alone at a long table by the fire, in full uniform, and he was eating a slab of thick bread plastered with pork dripping. A mug of beer was not far from his other hand. He looked up as she approached, and nodded companionably towards another chair. Around them, women ran to and fro.

  ‘Pork drippin’ with salt and pepper, and a mug of beer,’ he said. ‘That’s the ticket. You can keep your cuisine. Want a slice?’ He waved a hand at one of the kitchen girls who was dancing attendance on him.

  ‘Not right now, sarge.’

  ‘Sure?’ said Jackrum. ‘There’s an old sayin’: kissing don’t last, cooking do. I hope that it’s one you don’t have cause to reflect upon.’

  Polly sat down. ‘Kissing is lasting so far,’ she said.

  ‘Shufti get sorted out?’ said Jackrum. He finished the beer, snapped his fingers at the serving girl, and pointed to the empty mug.

  ‘To her own satisfaction, sarge.’

  ‘Fair enough. You can’t get fairer. So what next, Perks?’

  ‘Dunno, sarge. I’ll go with Wa— with Alice and the army and see what happens.’

  ‘Best of luck. Look after ’em, Perks, ’cos I ain’t coming,’ said Jackrum.

  ‘Sarge?’ said Polly, shocked.

  ‘Well, looks like we’re going to be short by one war at present, eh? Anyway, this is it. The end of the road. I’ve done my bit. Can’t go on now. Shot me quiver with the general, and I dare say he will be glad to see the back of me. Besides, old age is creepin’ on. I killed five poor devils when we attacked today, and afterwards I found meself wonderin’ why. Not good, that. Time to get out before I blunt me own edge.’

  ‘You’re sure, sarge?’

  ‘Yeah. Seems to me the ol’ “my country right or wrong” thing has had its day. Time to put my feet up and find out what it is we’ve been fighting for. Sure you won’t have any dripping? It’s got crunchy bits. That’s what I call style, in dripping.’

  Polly waved away the proffered slab of grease-smeared bread, and sat in silence while Jackrum engulfed it.

  ‘Funny thing, really,’ she said, at last.

  ‘What’s that, Perks?’

  ‘Finding out that it’s not about you. You think you’re the hero, and it turns out you’re really part of someone else’s story. Wazz— Alice will be the one they remember. We just had to get her here.’

  Jackrum said nothing but, as Polly would have predicted, pulled his crumpled bag of chewing tobacco out of his pocket. She slipped a hand in her own pocket and pulled out a small packet. Pockets, she thought. We’ve got to hang on to pockets. A soldier needs pockets.

  ‘Try this, sarge,’ she said. ‘Go on, open it.’

  It was a small, soft leather pouch, with a drawstring. Jackrum held it up so that it twisted this way and that.

  ‘Well, Perks, upon my oath I am not a swearing man—’ he began.

  ‘No, you’re not. I’ve noticed,’ said Polly. ‘But that grubby old paper was getting on my nerves. Why didn’t you ever get a proper pouch made for yourself? One of the saddlers here sewed that up for me in half an hour.’

  ‘Well, that’s life, isn’t it?’ said Jackrum. ‘Every day you think “ye gods, it’s about time I had a new bag”, but then it all gets so busy you end up using the old one. Thank you, Perks.’

  ‘Oh, I thought, “What can I give the man who has everything?” and that was all I could afford,’ said Polly. ‘But you don’t have everything, sarge. Sarge? You don’t, do you?’

  She sensed him freeze over.

  ‘You stop right there, Perks,’ he said, lowering his voice.

  ‘I just thought you might like to show someone that locket of yours, sarge,’ said Polly cheerfully. ‘The one round your neck. And don’t glare at me, sarge. Oh, yeah, I could walk away and I’d never be sure, really sure, and maybe you’d never show it to anyone else, ever, or tell them the story, and one day we’ll both be dead and . . . well, what a waste, eh?’

  Jackrum glared.

  ‘Upon your oath, you are not a dishonest man,’ said Polly. ‘Good one, sarge. You told people every day.’

  Around them, beyond the dome, the kitchen buzzed with the busyness of women. Women always seemed to be doing things with their hands – holding babies, or pans, or plates, or wool, or a brush, or a needle. Even when they were talking, busyness was happening.

  ‘No one would believe yer,’ said Jackrum, at last.

  ‘Who would I want to tell?’ said Polly. ‘And you’re right. No one would believe me. I’d believe you, though.’

  Jackrum stared into his fresh mug of beer, as if trying to see the future in the foam. He seemed to reach a decision, pulled the gold chain out of his noisome vest, unfastened the locket, and gently snapped it open.

  ‘There you go,’ he said, passing it across. ‘Much good may it do you.’

  There was a miniature painting in each side of the locket: a dark-haired girl, and a blond young man in the uniform of the Ins-and-Outs.

  ‘Good one of you,’ said Polly.

  ‘Pull the other one, it’s got bells on,’ said Jackrum.

  ‘No, honestly,’ said Polly. ‘I look at the picture, and look at you . . . I can see that face in her face. Paler, of course. Not so . . . full. And who was the boy?’

  ‘William, his name was,’ said Jackrum.

  ‘Your sweetheart?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you followed him into the army . . .’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Same old story. I was a big strong girl, and . . . well, you can see the picture. The artist did his best, but I was never an oil painting. Barely a water-colour, really. Where I came from, what a man looked for in a future wife was someone who could lift a pig under each arm. And a couple of days later I was lifting a pig under each arm, helping my dad, and one of my clogs came off
in the muck and the ol’ man was yelling at me and I thought: the hell with this, Willie never yelled. Got hold of some men’s clothes, never you mind how, cut my hair right off, kissed the Duchess, and was a Chosen Man within three months.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It’s what we used to call a corporal,’ said Jackrum. ‘Chosen Man. Yeah, I smiled about that, too. And I was on my way. The army’s a piece of piss compared to running a pig farm and looking after three lazy brothers.’

  ‘How long ago was that, sarge?’

  ‘Couldn’t say, really. I swear I don’t know how old I am, and that’s the truth,’ said Jackrum. ‘Lied about my age so often I ended up believing me.’ She began, very carefully, to transfer the chewing tobacco into the new bag.

  ‘And your young man?’ said Polly quietly.

  ‘Oh, we had great times, great times,’ said Jackrum, stopping for a moment to stare at nothing. ‘He never got promoted on account of his stutter, but I had a good shouty voice and officers like that. But Willie never minded, not even when I made it to sergeant. And then he got killed at Sepple, right next to me.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You don’t have to be, you didn’t kill him,’ said Jackrum evenly. ‘But I stepped over his body and skewered the bugger that did. Wasn’t his fault. Wasn’t my fault. We were soldiers. And then a few months later I had a bit of a surprise, and he was called William, too, just like his father. Good job I had a bit of leave, eh? Me gran raised him for me, put him to a trade as an armourer over in Scritz. Good trade, that. No one kills a good armourer. They tell me he looks just like his dad. A captain I met once had bought a bloody good sword off him. Showed it to me, not knowin’ the hist’ry, o’ course. Damn good sword. It had scrollwork on the hilt and everything, very classy. He’s married with four kids now, I heard. Got a carriage and pair, servants, big house . . . yeah, I see you’re paying attention . . .’

  ‘Wazzer – well, Wazzer and the Duchess said—’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, they talked about Scritz, and a sword,’ said Jackrum. ‘That’s when I knew it wasn’t just me watchin’ over you lads. I knew you’d survive. The old girl needed you.’

  ‘So you’ve got to go there, sarge.’

  ‘Got to? Who says? I’ve served the old girl the whole of my life, and she’s got no call on me now. I’m my own man, always have been.’

  ‘Are you, sarge?’ said Polly.

  ‘Are you crying, Perks?’

  ‘Well . . . it’s a bit sad, sarge.’

  ‘Oh, I dare say I sobbed a bit too, once in a while,’ said Jackrum, still tucking the tobacco into the new pouch. ‘But when all’s said and done, I’ve had a good life. Saw the cavalry break at the Battle of Slomp. I was part of the Thin Red Line that turned aside the Heavy Brigade at Sheep’s Drift, I saved the Imperial flag from four real bastards at Raladan, and I’ve been to a lot of foreign countries and met some very interesting people, who I mostly subsequently killed before they could do me over good and proper. Lost a lover, still got a son . . . there’s many a woman who’s faced worse, believe me.’

  ‘And . . . you spotted other girls . . .’

  ‘Hah! Became a kind of hobby, really. Most of ’em were frightened little things, running away from god knows what. They got found out soon enough. And there were plenty like Shufti, chasin’ their lad. But there were a few who had what I call the twinkle. A bit of fire, maybe. They just needed pointing in the right direction. I gave them a leg up, you might say. A sergeant’s a powerful man, sometimes. A word here, a nod there, sometimes even doctorin’ some paperwork, a whisper in the dark—’

  ‘—a pair of socks,’ said Polly.

  ‘Yeah, that sort of thing,’ said Jackrum, grinning. ‘Always a big concern to them, the whole latrine business. Least of your worries, I used to say. In peace no one cares, in battle everyone takes a piss the same way, and damn quickly, too. Oh, I helped ’em. I was their whatsit, their eminence grease, and grease it was, too, slidin’ them to the top. Jackrum’s Little Lads, I called ’em.’

  ‘And they never suspected?’

  ‘What, suspect Jolly Jack Jackrum, so full of rum and vinegar?’ said Jackrum, the old evil grin coming back. ‘Jack Jackrum, who could stop a bar fight by belchin’? No, sir! I dare say some of ’em suspected something, maybe, I dare say they worked out that there was something going on somewhere, but I was just the big fat sergeant who knew everyone and everything and drank everything, too.’

  Polly dabbed at her eyes. ‘What are you going to do now, then, if you don’t go to Scritz?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve got a bit put by,’ said Jackrum. ‘More than a bit, in point of actual fact. Pillage, plunder, loot . . . it all adds up, whatever you call it. I didn’t piss it all up against a wall like the other lads, right? I expect I can remember most of the bleedin’ places I buried it. Always thought I might open an inn, or maybe a knocking shop . . . oh, a proper high class place, you don’t have to look at me like that, nothin’ like that stinking tent. No, I’m talkin’ about one with a chef and chandeliers and a lot of red velvet, very exclusive. I’d get some nobby lady to front it and I’d be the bouncer and run the bar. Here’s a tip, lad, for your future career, and it’s one some of the other Little Lads learned for ’emselves: sometimes it’ll help if you visits one of them naughty places, otherwise the men’ll wonder about you. I always used to take a book to read and advise the young lady to get some sleep, ’cos they does a tough job.’

  Polly let that pass, but said: ‘You don’t want to go back and see your grandchildren?’

  ‘Wouldn’t wish meself on him, lad,’ said Jackrum firmly. ‘Wouldn’t dare. My boy’s a well-respected man in the town! What’ve I got to offer? He’ll not want some fat ol’ biddy banging on his back door and gobbing baccy juice all over the place and telling him she’s his mother!’

  Polly looked at the fire for a moment, and felt the idea creep into her mind. ‘What about a distinguished sergeant major, shiny with braid, loaded with medals, arriving at the front door in a grand coach and telling him he’s his father?’ she said.

  Jackrum stared.

  ‘Tides of war, and all that,’ Polly went on, mind suddenly racing. ‘Young love. Duty calls. Families scattered. Hopeless searching. Decades pass. Fond memories. Then . . . oh, an overheard conversation in a bar, yeah, that’d work. Hope springs. A new search. Greasing palms. The recollections of old women. At last, an address—’

  ‘What’re you saying, Perks?’

  ‘You’re a liar, sarge,’ said Polly. ‘Best I’ve ever heard. One last lie pays for all! Why not? You could show him the locket. You could tell him about the girl you left behind you . . .’

  Jackrum looked away, but said: ‘You’re a shining bastard of a thinker, Perks. And where would I get a grand coach, anyway?’

  ‘Oh, sarge! Today? There are . . . men in high places who’ll give you anything you ask for, right now. You know that. Especially if it means they’d see the back of you. You never put the bite on them for anything much. If I was you, sarge, I’d cash in a few favours while you can. That’s the Ins-and-Outs, sarge. Take the cheese while it’s there, ’cos kissin’ don’t last.’

  Jackrum took a deep, long breath. ‘I’ll think about it, Perks. Now you push off, all right?’

  Polly stood up. ‘Think hard, sarge, eh? Like you said, anyone who’s got anyone left is ahead of the game right now. Four grandchildren? I’d be a proud kid if I had a grandad who could spit tobacco juice far enough to hit a fly on the opposite wall.’

  ‘I’m warning you, Perks.’

  ‘It was just a thought, sarge.’

  ‘Yeah . . . right,’ Jackrum growled.

  ‘Thanks for getting us through it, sarge.’

  Jackrum didn’t turn round.

  ‘I’ll be going, then, sarge.’

  ‘Perks!’ said Jackrum, as she reached the door. Polly stepped back into the room.

  ‘Yes, sarge?’

  ‘I . . . expected better
of ’em, really. I thought they’d be better at it than men. Trouble was, they were better than men at being like men. They do say the army can make a man of you, eh? So . . . whatever it is you are going to do next, do it as you. Good or bad, do it as you. Too many lies and there’s no truth to go back to.’

  ‘Will do, sarge.’

  ‘That’s an order, Perks. Oh . . . and Perks?’

  ‘Yes, sarge?’

  ‘Thanks, Perks.’

  Polly paused when she got to the door. Jackrum had turned her chair to the fire, and had settled back. Around him, the kitchen worked.

  Six months passed. The world wasn’t perfect, but it was still turning.

  Polly had kept the newspaper articles. They weren’t accurate, not in the detail, because the writer told . . . stories, not what was actually happening. They were like paintings, when you had been there and had seen the real thing. But it was true about the march on the castle, with Wazzer on a white horse in front, carrying the flag. And it was true about people coming out of their houses and joining the march, so that what arrived at the gates was not an army but a sort of disciplined mob, shouting and cheering. And it was true that the guards had taken one look at it and had seriously reconsidered their future, and that the gates had swung open even before the horse had clattered on to the drawbridge. There was no fighting, no fighting at all. The shoe had dropped. The country had breathed out.

  Polly didn’t think it was true that the painting of the Duchess, alone on its easel in the big, empty throne room, had smiled when Wazzer walked towards it. Polly had been there and didn’t see it happen, but lots of people swore it had, and you might end up wondering what the truth really was, or whether there were lots of different kinds of truth.

  Anyway, it had worked. And then . . .

  . . . they went home. A lot of soldiers did, under the fragile truce. The first snows were already falling and, if people had wanted a war, then the winter had given them one. It came with lances of ice and arrows of hunger, it filled the passes with snow, it made the world as distant as the moon . . .

  That was when the old dwarf mines had opened up, and pony after pony emerged. It had always been said there were dwarf tunnels everywhere, and not just tunnels; secret canals under the mountains, docks, flights of locks that could lift a barge a mile high in busy darkness, far below the gales on the mountain tops.