‘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. ‘Half-a-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 nine pence 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, crepe 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 hig
h 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 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.
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