Cloud Walker, All Fools' Day, Far Sunset

by Cooper, Edmund

Along with the other men, whom Big Tom was attempting to forge into a commando unit for the coming war against the annies, Greville was put through all the acute miseries of an assault course. He was too weak to resist. In fact he was still too weak even to last out the morning. After physical exercises, there was archery and knifemanship; and after that there were more exercises. Greville collapsed long before the midday break. Big Tom had a bucket of water thrown over him, then he was carried to a large wooden hut with straw-filled mattresses on the floor and left there to dry off and meditate. He was too exhausted to do either. He fell asleep wet and woke up wet and shivering.

  It was almost dark and somebody was shaking him. It was a man who introduced himself as Nosey.

  ‘Wake up, mate,’ said Nosey. ‘I’ve got a ration of stew here for you. Better get it down. There’s nowt else till tomorrow.’

  The stew was in an old tin can. It smelt nauseating; but Greville was suddenly and dreadfully hungry.

  ‘Stewed cat,’ said Nosey. ‘It’s better than dog – more like rabbit. Except that the bleeding cook doesn’t know what to do with decent meat … Here, I’ve got a bit of news for you. She’s alive.’

  ‘Alive?’ repeated Greville blankly.

  ‘Your old woman, mate. The Squire had her put in the pen – that’s the place where he keeps women that are not for the likes of you and me … She’s got a duck in the oven, I hear. So nobody gets her until she’s foaled down. The Squire’s very proper about things like that.’

  During the ten minutes or so that passed before the rest of the men returned to the barracks, Greville learned quite a lot about the Squire and his little community. But the thought that dominated him was that Liz was still alive. It was an elixir. It seemed to pump the will to live back into his veins.

  When the other men came, Nosey immediately switched his conversation to obviously safe subjects – food, women and Big Tom. Food and women, it appeared, were strictly rationed. Big Tom, on the other hand, was completely unrationed. He was also universally disliked. Not hated, just disliked. For though he had fought and beaten every man in the barracks – it was all part of the basic training – he had enough sense to be magnanimous in victory. He respected men who could fight well; and anyone who was fortunate enough to give almost as good as he got could be sure of the occasional extra ration of both food and sex. Big Tom could lift a hundredweight sack of corn in each hand simultaneously. He offered every recruit the choice of fighting him or lifting the corn. If they chose to lift the corn and failed he would beat them until they were unconscious. Big Tom was a third-generation Liverpool-Irishman. He was also a devout Catholic. The Squire had given him a woman, and he had given the woman three children. Every Sunday he walked with her to Brabyns Church where the Squire, also a Catholic, officiated as part-time priest.

  Conversation in the barracks was of brief duration, for the men were tired out. Nosey took a palliasse next to Greville’s. Presently they were both surrounded by snores and heavy breathing. But Nosey remained awake.

  ‘Hey, Greville,’ he whispered at length ‘Think you’ll stick it?’

  ‘Stick what?’

  ‘This here feudal lark. The Squire’s dead keen on it. Gives us history lessons. Says we’ve got to go backwards before we can go forwards … Maybe he’s got something. But I shouldn’t like to be one of his villains, or whatever he calls ’em. He has ’em branded, you know. A big V stuck right in the middle of the forehead. Keeps ’em in the old stables … Mind you he only makes villains out of blokes that give a bit of sauce … Think you’ll stick it?’

  ‘No,’ said Greville. ‘I don’t think I’ll stick it. I think I’ll get my girl back and take off.’

  Nosey smothered a laugh. ‘You’ll be lucky. You’ll be bloody lucky, mate. The Squire may be a bit weak in his nut, but he’s got this whole place sewn up tight. The last bloke that tried it was hunted down like a fox … Tally-ho, and all that. The old Squire still keeps a pack of hounds. Would you believe it – dogs all over the damn country, and he keeps a pack of hounds … They made a right mess of this bloke I’m telling you about. All that was left was his shoes.’

  ‘Then why the hell did you ask me whether I was going to stick it?’ demanded Greville irritably.

  Nosey laughed quietly. ‘ ’Cos I ain’t going to stick it, neither, mate. My old bag wasn’t much, but he didn’t have no call to put her in the bawdy house.’

  Greville remained silent.

  ‘Know why he put her in the bawdy house?’ demanded Nosey rhetorically. ‘ ’Cos she wouldn’t wash his bleeding feet … Anyway, sleep on it mate – and thank some bastard or other that you ain’t dead yet.’

  ‘I’ll sleep on it,’ agreed Greville. ‘Thanks for the stew – and other things.’

  ‘Pleasure,’ whispered Nosey. ‘Sweet dreams.’

  Oddly enough, Greville’s dreams were extraordinarily sweet. He dreamt about Liz. She was still alive, and that was all that mattered.

  The next morning, after a breakfast that was a replica of the previous day’s, there was Big Tom and basic training once more. Part of the basic training appeared to consist of felling trees to make a clearing all round what Big Tom called the defence ‘perry-meter’. In between spells with seven-pound axes and two-handed saws there were more archery sessions. Greville could not get the hang of the longbow. It made his wrists ache. The arrows either fell short or went gloriously wide. His ineptitude seemed to please Big Tom enormously.

  ‘No wonder you got white hair,’ he boomed jovially. ‘You think too much. You’re a bloomin’ intellectual. Now stop holding the bow like you was trying to play a one-string harp. Fit the arrow, draw it back – and give us a bit of time to get in front of the target, so we’ll be safe.’

  The men rose to Big Tom’s unsubtle humour with Pavlovian reflexes. Pretty soon Greville was the butt of the entire group. He accepted the role with equanimity. He felt it might be useful to establish a reputation for being unable to do anything satisfactorily that required skill or sustained physical effort.

  The day passed without incident. By the time they returned to the barracks after the evening meal, Greville was worn out. Most of his companions were younger men and had adjusted more easily to the rigorous training. Also none of them had been recently blown up by a land-mine.

  Greville felt that his aches and pains were not entirely futile, however. He had acquired quite a knowledge of the topography of the Squire’s dominion; and such knowledge was going to come in useful sooner or later.

  That night Nosey again found a palliasse that was next to Greville’s. ‘Have you had any bright thoughts yet?’ he asked, when it was apparent that the others were asleep.

  ‘Not yet,’ Greville admitted.

  ‘Not to worry, mate.’ Nosey chuckled grimly. ‘We got all the time in the world … Me, I’m no good at working out what to do, so you’ll have to be the brains. But when you’ve sorted out what’s necessary, I reckon I’ll be as useful as the next man.’

  ‘We need guns,’ said Greville, ‘not bows and arrows.’

  Nosey laughed. ‘You’ll be lucky. Think again, mate. The only gun you’re likely to get near to is the one Big Tom wears – unless the Squire decides he can trust you, or unless they send us out to mop up the annies.’

  Greville fell asleep trying to devise ways of getting at Big Tom’s revolver – not that it would be of much use, because as far as he could make out the rest of the men in his group were sufficiently frightened or sufficiently stupid to be loyal. Some of them were already excellent longbowmen. And whereas a rifle might hold off archers, a revolver was worse than useless.

  The next day was pretty much the same as the day before, except that in the afternoon, while he was recovering from a session of unarmed combat, Greville saw a team of six of the Squire’s villeins drawing a single-furrow plough. Since the Squire had a number of horses, the sight puzzled him – until Nosey explained that it was a punishment detail. The villeins were supervised by a couple of
louts with rifles and truncheons – presumably members of Sir James Oldknow’s Praetorian Guard. Greville watched, fascinated, as the men strained to draw the plough through the half-frozen soil. He felt as if the centuries were being stripped away, as if indeed it was possible to make a literal return to the Dark Ages.

  Days followed each other. Greville’s muscles and spirit toughened. At night, in the blissful few minutes when he was relaxed before sleep came, he thought alternately about Liz – he had already discovered which of the manor house buildings was the pen – and methods of escape. But first, he must find a means of communicating with her. It would be stupid to start anything until he was certain of success. After all, as Nosey had said, there was all the time in the world.

  As it turned out, Nosey was wrong. There was very little time left for either of them; and certainly not enough time to establish communications with Liz.

  It was on the eighth day of his basic training that Greville was given the choice of lifting two one-hundredweight sacks of corn or fighting Big Tom. In his own peculiar way, Big Tom was fair-minded. He had waited patiently until he judged that Greville was fully recovered. Then he decided to have his bit of fun.

  Big Tom was about eighteen stone and Greville was about twelve stone. He chose to lift the corn. Big Tom laughed aloud. He sent two men for the sacks, then lifted them himself and dumped them at Greville’s feet. ‘There you are, me boy. And the saints help you if you can’t move the dear little darlings.’

  Greville had already considered the problem and thought he had an answer. He laid both sacks on their sides, about two feet apart, and pushed most of the corn to the top and the bottom of the sacks, so that each was rather slack in the middle. Then he crouched down, put an arm securely round each sack, and attempted to stand up. He managed to lift both sacks about a foot off the ground before he fell flat on his face.

  Some of the group who had been watching applauded, being of the opinion that he had succeeded in the terms of the challenge. But Big Tom was angry. No one else had ever lifted both sacks simultaneously clear of the ground. He felt that Greville had somehow deceived him. He was also determined not to be deprived of his simple pleasure.

  ‘A good try, me boy. But you didn’t quite make it.’ Then to demonstrate what he meant, he hoisted both sacks shoulder high. ‘So now you’ll have to be spanked for being too clever by half.’

  Whereupon he seized Greville as if he were a child, lifted him horizontally and then dropped him heavily, face down, so that his stomach hit the knee that Big Tom had extended.

  Big Tom did not let him go; and while Greville hung there winded and retching, Big Tom brought the flat of his free hand down humiliatingly and heavily on Greville’s bottom. The spanking did not last long. It was simply a demonstration of overwhelming superiority.

  During the rest of the afternoon, Greville was taciturn and submissive. He wore the aspect of a beaten man – beaten spiritually as well as physically – and because of that Big Tom did not indulge in his customary horseplay. Indeed he seemed to go out of his way to make sure that Greville did not have any strenuous tasks. It was his way of showing that the encounter was past and done with, and that now that Greville knew his place he could be accepted as one of Big Tom’s happy family. Oddly enough, a few of the other men were fairly subdued, too. Some of them felt that Big Tom had overdone it. Because Greville’s hair was white, they assumed he was quite old; and it seemed to them that Big Tom had deliberately taken advantage of his age.

  That night in the barracks men whom Greville did not know by name dropped by to exchange a few words with him. No one mentioned the incident of the sacks of corn; but their very avoidance of the subject made it an unspoken topic for which they were offering unspoken sympathy.

  ‘Don’t let it get you,’ said Nosey, sitting on his palliasse. ‘From what I can gather, that big bastard didn’t do his self no good. He just lost friends and influenced people, like.’

  ‘I’m not crying about it, Nosey,’ remarked Greville evenly. In the dim light he was examining his boots. They were good, solid boots, ex-W.D., with studs in the thick leather soles. ‘It’s all in the day’s work.’

  ‘You’re still going to bust loose?’

  ‘When the time comes.’ Greville had no idea when the time would come. He was too tired to make plans. He could only hope that after he had done Big Tom’s basic training and become the Squire’s P.R.O. an opportunity would present itself.

  But Greville reckoned without spontaneity, impulse and his own emotions. If anyone had asked him why he was examining his boots in the barracks just before he went to sleep, he could not have given a satisfactory answer. But something deep inside him knew; and something deep inside him was merely waiting for the opportunity.

  It came just before midday on the ninth day. Another new recruit had been added to the group – a big, strapping boy of perhaps eighteen. Big Tom had switched his attentions from Greville to the youngster who, becoming bored with his lot as a pig-keeper, had been so rash as to volunteer for special training. He was already regretting the decision; for Big Tom had presented him with the traditional choice, and he had elected to fight. Now he lay on his back, a bruised and bleeding mass, feeling very sorry for himself.

  Brief though it was, Greville had watched the fight carefully. Big Tom, he noted, liked to rush in and finish things as quickly as possible. He was an aggressive fighter whose only instinct – fortunately supported by great strength – was to charge and destroy.

  Greville chose his position carefully. He was standing on a slight rise in the ground. Then, while Big Tom was preening himself on the easy victory, Greville said in a loud voice: ‘Nobody but a loud-mouthed overweight idiot could get any glory from beating old men and boys.’

  Big Tom gazed at him in amazement. ‘Say that again, me boyo,’ he grated. ‘You must be very tired of living.’

  ‘Take off that gun,’ said Greville, glancing at Big Tom’s revolver, ‘and you’ll take off half your courage. Liverpool Irishmen were never much good in a fair match.’

  Big Tom took the revolver out of its holster. For a moment, Greville thought he had overdone it. For a moment, he thought he was going to collect a bullet for his pains.

  But Big Tom laid the revolver carefully down on the grass. ‘Nobody touch that mind,’ he warned the now silent group of men who were gazing at Greville in awe. ‘Nobody touch that. It’s going to take me just thirty seconds to break the spine of yon fellow with the sharp tongue – enough time for him to make his peace with God.’

  Greville did not move. ‘Your mother must have been a worn-out old cow,’ he called encouragingly. ‘You have that sort of face.’

  With a roar of rage Big Tom charged. Tank-like, he charged up the slight rise at Greville, who waited until he was less than three yards away. Then Greville jumped, drew up his feet, half-twisted sideways and simultaneously straightened both legs as if they had been bent spring steel.

  Both boots hit Big Tom full in the face. He catapulted backwards and fell flat on his back with a sickening thud. He did not move.

  Greville picked himself up, saw that Nosey had got the revolver, and went to inspect Big Tom. So did one or two of the other men. The rest seemed dazed by the speed of it all.

  Big Tom’s face was a mess. But that wasn’t going to worry him at all. He was dead. In falling, his head had struck a fairly large stone and the stone had smashed his skull.

  Someone lifted Big Tom’s head, and then there were angry murmurs. But Greville heard Nosey’s voice.

  ‘The first man that tries anything gets a bullet in his guts. I’ve only got six, so that’ll leave quite a few of you. But who wants to be one of the six?’

  No one answered. Suddenly Greville felt an icy calmness coming over him. It was not working out as he had planned. He had been going to wait; but it was no use waiting now. He had been going to wait until he could get Liz – but now she would have to be abandoned. For a time … His mind began to work like a
computer.

  ‘Give me the gun, Nosey,’ he said.

  Nosey handed it over cautiously.

  ‘Now break all their longbows. We don’t want—’

  Someone started to run. Greville shot him in the back. ‘We don’t want anybody popping off at us when we push off, do we?’ he said imperturbably.

  Two deaths in less than five minutes were quite sufficient to demoralise twenty men. They stared hypnotically at Greville as if he were holding a magic wand.

  It took Nosey an incredibly long time to break twenty longbows.

  ‘What next, mate?’ he asked.

  ‘Next,’ said Greville, ‘you use the string to tie these gentlemen’s hands together.’

  That took even longer. One man grabbed Nosey while he was busying himself with the bow-strings and tried to use him as a shield. But Nosey had the good sense to drop to the ground, and Greville managed to shoot the offender through the shoulder. That left four bullets.

  Greville looked back across the fields to the manor house, less than four hundred yards away. He thought that when they left the hue and cry would be raised pretty quickly. Ahead, about the same distance from them, lay the line of trees that marked Brabyns Wood. The wood, he had learned from previous talks with Nosey, was about half a mile across. On the other side was more open country, and beyond that was the village of Lower Brabyns where the Squire’s so-called anarchists lived.

  Nosey, at least, had recovered from the shock and speed of events. ‘Everybody trussed something beautiful, mate,’ he reported with a grin. ‘We’re doing a great job.’

  ‘Now,’ said Greville, eyeing the sullen line of men with their hands tied behind their backs, ‘now, we all play ring-a-roses and lie downs.’

  Nobody moved. So another bullet crashed into the leg of the nearest man. He fell down. The rest lay down.

  ‘Well?’ said Nosey. ‘You’ve dropped us into the shit, proper, haven’t you?’

  For the first time Greville smiled. ‘I think it’s about time we joined the annies,’ he said. ‘Are you any good at running?’