Land of Hope and Glory

by Geoffrey Wilson

  Charles stood in his army uniform on a raised platform at one end of the hall. He fidgeted and appeared uncertain whether to begin. The St George’s cross on his chest shone faintly in the haze.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he called out, but no one paid him the slightest attention. ‘Gentlemen!’ he called louder, and now the talking subsided and the men looked up from their mugs. Soon it was completely silent, save for the clucking of the chickens and the bubble of the hookahs.

  ‘Thank you all for coming.’ Charles’s voice wavered and he looked at his feet for a moment before continuing. ‘You all know me. I grew up here. Most of you have known me all my life. You also probably know why I’m here. You don’t need me to tell you there’s a war on. Now, I’m not much good at giving speeches. But what I’ve got to say is important.

  ‘The heathens have taken our lands. Their black magic is everywhere. Long ago King Arthur’s knights freed this country with the power of the Grail. King Edward and his knights found the Grail again and fought off the Caliph. The Grail’s coming back and now we have to fight again.

  ‘The heathens will march on London any day now. They want to sack the city and murder our King. They’ll burn our churches. They’ll kill our women and children. The King has called on every able-bodied man in England to go to London to defend the city. I leave tomorrow. Who’ll come with me?’

  The room was silent.

  Jack thought Charles’s claims were somewhat overstated – the Rajthanans wouldn’t destroy London or murder the innocent. They would simply put down the mutiny as quickly and efficiently as they could.

  After a few seconds, a middle-aged man with curly hair stood and rested his hands on his round belly. His cheeks were tinged red and he smiled broadly as if he were proud of something he’d just accomplished. ‘This isn’t our fight. This is Wiltshire – an independent state. The Earl has not in any way supported these rebels.’

  A few of the men muttered their agreement into their mugs.

  Charles met the gaze of the middle-aged man. ‘Bailiff Warburton. Glad you could come.’

  The crowd laughed. The Bailiff, as Jack knew, would be the representative of the local lord.

  ‘True, Wiltshire is independent,’ Charles continued. ‘But only at the whim of the Maharaja. It is a part of England. We’re English. While the Rajthanans are here we’ll never be free.’

  A murmur rippled around the room.

  ‘England,’ the Bailiff said. ‘There is no England. It’s an idea from the past. There’s been no England since the Rajthanans got here a hundred years ago.’

  ‘Then it’s high time we reclaimed our country,’ Charles said. ‘Gentlemen, this is an opportunity that may not come again. Ever. If we don’t fight now, we never will.’

  ‘A lot of our young men have gone already,’ said an old man with only a single tooth in his sunken mouth. ‘Three of my sons are in London now. Do you want me to send my youngest as well? Do you want me to go there myself with my walking stick?’

  Glancing around the room, Jack noted that there were indeed few men under the age of thirty in the alehouse.

  ‘Of course not, George,’ Charles replied. ‘We can all only do what we’re able to. But we have to realise this is our chance now. Our one chance. We have to give everything we can.’

  He turned to a group of lads, all no more than sixteen years old, who sat together at one of the tables. ‘How about it? Who’ll come with me?’

  The young men looked at the ground nervously and smiled at some secret joke between themselves.

  ‘You stay where you are, Henry,’ called out an older man with wild hair that was speckled with straw and burrs. ‘I’ll not have my son running off with no rebels.’

  Henry stared harder at the ground and went bright red. The crowd sniggered at the exchange.

  ‘Saleem.’ Charles turned to a young man who sat on his own near the front. ‘What about you?’

  ‘You even taking Mohammedans now,’ someone called out, to loud laughter around the room.

  Jack peered over the heads of his neighbours and could see that the young man indeed wore a Mohammedan skullcap. It was common enough to find a few Mohammedan families in the villages the further you travelled into the south-east.

  ‘Of course we’ll take Mohammedans,’ Charles said. ‘You’re still an Englishman, aren’t you, Saleem?’

  Saleem mumbled something that was impossible to hear.

  ‘What was that?’ Charles put his hand to his ear. He seemed to be enjoying himself now, buoyed by the laughter from the crowd.

  Saleem mumbled more loudly, but was still inaudible.

  ‘He says he’s a proud Englishman, happy to serve the Christian King of his country,’ Charles reported.

  The crowd roared with laughter at this. Jack knew it was unlikely a Mohammedan would ever say such a thing. The Mohammedans might be born in England, but their allegiance was to their religious leaders in far-off countries.

  ‘So, gentlemen,’ Charles called out above the now raucous gathering. Men shouted at each other across the room, the banter lively, but good-natured.

  ‘Gentlemen!’ Charles tried again, and his audience quietened enough for him to be heard. ‘As you may know, a friend has been staying with my mother over the past few days. He’s an ex-soldier, a veteran of Ragusa . . . Stand up, Jack.’

  Everyone in the room turned in their seats to look at Jack.

  Jack shook his head at Charles. This wasn’t what he’d expected.

  ‘Come on, Jack,’ Charles said.

  There didn’t seem to be any way out of it. Reluctantly, he stood up and the crowd stared at him – the proud war hero.

  ‘Jack’s changed sides and he’s coming with me to fight,’ Charles said. ‘He’s an inspiration to all of us.’

  A few men clapped and many talked amongst themselves. Jack nodded his acknowledgement to the crowd and sat back down quickly. It was awkward. He didn’t want to be an impostor, but what else could he do?

  The man next to him patted him on the back. ‘Wondered who you were, stranger. Have another ale.’

  ‘I leave tomorrow,’ Charles said. ‘From the marketplace, at sunrise. There’s room in my cart for six more men. I hope to see some of you there.’

  ‘Buy me an ale and I’ll be there,’ one man shouted.

  ‘Buy me six and I’ll bring six men with me,’ shouted another.

  The crowd laughed and talked excitedly, calling for more ale and more tobacco, the alehouse owner and her daughters running about as quickly as they could to serve everyone.

  ‘You spoke well,’ Jack said as he walked back with Charles after the meeting, still limping from his injuries.

  Charles grinned. ‘Did my best. We’ll see if anyone comes.’

  Jack looked across at Charles. It was such a waste – a young man like that, going off to fight in a war that could never be won. He wanted to talk him out of it. But Charles was his only way of getting to London, and he doubted the lad would listen to him anyway.

  ‘When did you join the . . . crusade?’ Jack asked.

  ‘A couple of months ago. Missed the first lot of fighting. I’ll make up for that when we get to London, though.’

  ‘Why’d you join?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What convinced you? You know, how did you finally decide?’

  Charles shrugged. ‘Same as everyone else, I guess. The lads in the regiment were talking about it for weeks. After London and Westminster fell, the talk got louder and some of the men even started answering back to the officers. There was a secret meeting one night, just outside the barracks. I went there with all the other lads and a rebel leader came and spoke to us. He made us all see how we’ve been treated like slaves in our own country. What he said, the way he said it, you just knew he was right. He’s famous now, that man. You might have heard of him. They call him the Ghost—’

  Jack tripped on a stone and almost fell. Charles rushed to his side and supported him. />
  ‘I’m all right,’ Jack said.

  ‘You need to watch yourself.’

  ‘Just tripped, that’s all . . . so you know the Ghost?’

  ‘No. Only saw him speak the one time.’ Charles frowned. ‘You look pale. You sure you’re strong enough to go to London?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Jack pulled away.

  Charles smiled and shook his head. ‘You’re really an inspiration, you are. Wish there were more like you around.’

  Charles turned and continued to walk back to the cottage. Jack felt tired. The light seemed greyer now, wintry. He didn’t want to deceive Charles, but he had no choice. For a moment, he wished the mutiny could be over and everything could go back to the way it had been. He recalled Jhala’s sagging face as he’d said in the gazebo that it was a pity for all of them to live in these days.

  Jhala was right.

  Perhaps it would have been better to have been killed on that battlefield at Ragusa, rather than go through these dark times.

  Jack stood in the empty marketplace. Dawn etched in the surroundings, the sleeping cottages, the sullen church, the fields beyond. The cart rested nearby. Anne patted the mule and glanced at the growing light on the horizon as if it were an enemy. Charles stood a short distance away, with a young woman who’d been introduced to Jack as Mary. The two youngsters held hands and Charles stroked Mary’s long brown hair. They looked at each other intently and spoke in hushed voices.

  A cock crowed in the distance.

  Jack walked over to Anne, his boots crunching on the stony ground. ‘Doesn’t look like anyone’s coming.’

  ‘No.’ Anne avoided looking at him and instead stared at the mule’s neck.

  ‘I’m sorry about Charles going. It wasn’t my idea—’

  ‘I know. He would’ve gone without you.’

  ‘He’s a good lad. He wants to fight for what he believes in.’

  ‘And that’s a good way to live, is it?’ She looked up at him, her bottom lip trembling.

  He gazed at his boots and coughed awkwardly.

  ‘You look after him,’ she said suddenly.

  ‘I will. I promise.’

  ‘If he doesn’t come back . . . I don’t . . . She stared across the grey fields, eyes crystal.

  ‘I’ll look after him.’

  Charles walked over, holding Mary’s hand. ‘We’ll wait a few more minutes. After that, we’d better go.’

  Mary sniffled and tears streaked her cheeks. Charles massaged her hand as he held it.

  Then there was a crunch, crunch as someone walked across the square. They all turned and saw a figure emerge from the shadows – Saleem, the Mohammedan. He was a young man, around sixteen, with ginger hair that coiled out from beneath his cap. The beard he was trying to grow was also ginger. With his sleepy eyes and wide smile he looked as though he were drunk, but this was impossible as it was forbidden by his religion. He wore a white tunic that was too big for him and the sleeves hung down, almost covering his hands.

  He stopped in front of them. ‘Greetings.’

  ‘Saleem.’ Charles blinked in surprise. ‘You’re coming with us?’

  ‘Yes.’ Saleem looked at the ground shyly, his smile broadening further.

  ‘To London?’ Charles asked.

  Saleem nodded.

  Charles gave Jack a questioning glance. Jack was uncertain what to say. Saleem looked harmless enough – he was no threat, even if he was a Mohammedan. On the other hand, he could be a liability. His youth and naivety might put them in danger. And beyond that Jack felt a tug in the pit of his stomach – did he really want to encourage any young man to go to London, perhaps to his death? But he couldn’t say this. He had to pretend to believe.

  ‘Can you shoot a musket?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’ Saleem didn’t meet Jack’s gaze. ‘Had an uncle in the army. He showed me.’

  Jack dithered. He couldn’t think of any obvious reason for rejecting Saleem. Resigned, he nodded his assent to Charles.

  ‘All right,’ Charles told Saleem. ‘You can come with us.’

  Saleem had a few possessions wrapped in a piece of cloth, which they threw into the cart, along with some provisions, tensils, blankets, an army-issue musket and an ancient-looking pistol. They hid the weapons beneath a sheet of canvas.

  Jack and Saleem sat in the back as they pulled out, while Charles was in front, driving the mule ahead. Anne and Mary stood close together, waving, faces sombre. The two women faded into the semi-dark as the cart clattered away, the white cottages and fields to either side of them and the black forest behind. Soon they were no more than two pale blots, unreal, before they were gone completely.

  11

  Three soldiers stood in the distance, blocking the road through the vast plains. A chessboard of green and yellow fields rolled in all directions, dotted with villages, the church spires of which were like playing pieces: rooks, bishops, kings and queens.

  ‘They’re the Earl’s men,’ Charles said to Jack as the cart juddered over the uneven path. ‘They won’t give us any trouble.’

  As the cart drew closer one of the soldiers held up his hand and Charles brought the mule to a halt. The man wore a surcoat with the crest of the Earl of Wiltshire – a blue and yellow shield with a knight’s helmet above – emblazoned on the chest. He carried an ageing musket over his shoulder.

  Charles jumped to the ground and smiled. ‘Richard’.

  The two men embraced, slapping each other on the back.

  ‘Where you headed?’ Richard asked.

  ‘London.’

  Richard breathed in sharply. ‘Wouldn’t do that. Big Rajthanan army on the move – they say it’s headed there.’

  ‘I know. We’re going to defend the city.’

  Richard smiled and shook his head. ‘Always looking for trouble, aren’t you?’

  ‘You should come too. We need good men.’

  ‘Can’t do that. The Earl’s forbidden us to take part, on pain of death.’

  ‘Well, that’s too bad.’

  Richard went silent for a moment. He glanced at Jack and Saleem sitting in the cart, using his hand to shield his eyes from the sun. ‘You going through Hampshire?’

  ‘That’s the plan,’ Charles said.

  ‘Not a good idea. Been a lot of fighting there the last few days. The Rajthanans sent in an advance party.’

  ‘But we have to get to London quickly.’

  ‘Then go north-east to Oxford and south again after that. Only way you’ll avoid the fighting.’

  ‘Oxford? That’s right out of our way. How long would it take us to get to London?’

  Richard rubbed his chin. ‘Bad roads that way. About four days by cart, I’d say.’

  ‘Risky. The army might get there before us.’

  Charles looked back at Jack, who climbed down from the cart and joined the two men. He gazed out over the plains: the scene was tranquil, expansive. Wars and fighting – it all seemed impossibly distant, something happening in another world.

  ‘How many days to London if we go straight through Hampshire?’ He’d never been to the south-east of England, never even been to London. It was strange to think that he’d travelled to so many foreign places and yet had little knowledge of his own country.

  ‘You could make it in two or three days,’ Richard replied.

  ‘Two days is possible.’ Charles said.

  ‘And the army?’ Jack asked. ‘How long to march from Christchurch?’

  ‘Four or five days – that’s what my commander told me,’ Charles said.

  Jack nodded. ‘Doesn’t look like we have much choice.’

  ‘Seems that way,’ Charles said. ‘Through Hampshire it is.’

  ‘Then the best of luck to you.’ Richard patted Charles on the shoulder.

  Charles forced a smile but said nothing.

  They travelled on across Salisbury Plain, the day bright and hot. They saw men and women at work in the fields, oxen with ploughs, sheep, goats, and endless fa
rmland flowing to the horizon.

  They constantly passed through strong sattva streams, Jack shivering each time. Salisbury seemed to have more than its fair share of sattva.

  At midday Saleem, who’d been virtually silent the whole trip, said, ‘Can we stop, please?’

  ‘What for?’ Charles asked.

  ‘Prayers.’

  Jack knew Mohammedans were required to perform five daily prayers – he’d seen this often in the army – but he knew this number could also be reduced when on campaign. ‘You can just pray in the morning and evening. That’s all that’s needed when you’re travelling.’

  Saleem looked at the bottom of the cart, still with the usual slight smile on his face. ‘That’s not what my father says.’

  Jack gritted his teeth. Mohammedans – they were always a problem. In the army the French, Andalusians, Neapolitans – all the Mohammedan troops – had always been impossible to get on with. ‘Your father’s not here now.’

  Then Saleem’s eyes widened and moistened and Jack regretted his harsh words. He sighed. ‘All right, let’s stop for lunch.’

  Charles brought the cart to a halt. Saleem laid his mat on the side of the road and studiously did his prayers, standing, kneeling and prostrating himself in turn.

  Jack and Charles munched on bread and ate an apple each. In the distance they saw a grass-covered mound topped by a circle of standing stones. Shadows collected at the base of the stones and rippled a short distance out across the grass.

  ‘You see them all over the place around here,’ Charles said.

  ‘I heard.’ Jack remembered Jhala explaining the theory that the circles had been built by the ancient Britons as a way of marking the sattva streams.

  ‘It seems your ancestors may have known a little about sattva,’ Jhala had said. ‘At least, they knew it was strong in some places and weak in others and that the strongest strands are stretched into streams. They may have had superstitions about the streams or regarded them as sacred.’

  That might be true, but the Britons had never developed this knowledge further. That was one of the differences between Europeans and Rajthanans. Europeans had lived with sattva all around them for millennia, but had never thought to do anything with it. It was only the Rajthanans who had discovered how to harness the secret power.