Land of Hope and Glory

by Geoffrey Wilson

A tall man strode out of the village and up the road. He wore a dusty brown tunic and, over this, the gold-coloured surcoat of a sheriff. The Rajthanans, or their English officials, normally appointed sheriffs, but it seemed this man was continuing in office despite now being in rebel-controlled lands.

  ‘Greetings.’ The sheriff held up one hand.

  ‘Good day to you, brother.’ Kendrick put his hands on his hips and cast his eyes about the crowd. ‘And to all your people.’

  ‘You’re welcome in our village. We’d be honoured to have you spend the night here.’

  ‘I thank you for that. But we’re headed to London, as quickly as we can. The heathens are on the way.’

  ‘We heard. But word is they’re moving slowly. They’re three days off at least.’

  Kendrick scratched his head. ‘Three days, you say? London’s only half a day away.’

  ‘Go on, Sergeant.’ One of the soldiers took off his cloth hat and mopped the sweat from his forehead. ‘We’re all parched, we are, and me feet are ready to burst out of me boots.’

  Kendrick smiled and rested his hands on the belt that stretched over his ample belly. ‘Very well. We’ll stay the night here. But we leave at first light.’

  Jack was surprised at Kendrick’s lax discipline. As sergeant, he should be the one deciding whether to make camp or continue marching. And he shouldn’t tolerate griping from the men. All the same, a break would be welcome. Even though Jack wanted to get to London quickly, his eyes were scratchy from lack of sleep, his legs were sodden with tiredness and there was a twinge in his chest. He needed to rest and gather his strength.

  Only God knew what awaited him in London.

  Jack lifted the axe, glanced up at the midday sun for a second, then swung the blade in a wide arc until it battered into a block of wood. The wood split halfway through. He stuck his foot on the block, wrenched out the axe and blinked as sweat ran into his eyes. It was a hot day. He would have preferred to rest, but you couldn’t laze around while others were making camp.

  He went to lift the axe again, then stopped and put it back down. He squinted across the field, which lay on the outskirts of the village. Nearby, the men of the 9th Native Infantry were carrying buckets from a well, peeling parsnips and carrots, or cleaning their muskets. But further away stood a bare knoll, on top of which rose a single blackened post. A witch burning – here in lands that the Rajthanans had held for a hundred years. Was this what the rebels were fighting to bring back?

  ‘Jack.’

  Jack tore himself away from the sight of the post and saw Charles walking towards him.

  ‘It’s Saleem.’ Charles nodded over Jack’s shoulder.

  Jack turned and saw the boy sitting alone under a tree on the edge of the field. ‘What about him?’

  ‘He’s . . . well, he’s not in the best of spirits.’

  ‘That so.’ The boy deserved to be dispirited.

  ‘Thought maybe you could talk to him.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Don’t know. Buck him up a bit.’

  ‘Reckon he’ll need to buck himself up.’

  ‘I know he’s made a few mistakes. But he wants to fight, and we need all the men we can get. Go on – to help the crusade.’

  Jack glanced over at Saleem again. The lad looked small and lost sitting there.

  ‘Just a few words,’ Charles said. ‘I know he’d appreciate it.’

  Jack sighed. ‘All right. Just a few words.’ He was getting too soft these days.

  He picked up the musket, which Kendrick had issued to him earlier, and slung it over his shoulder. He felt strange carrying a firearm again and making camp with soldiers. He’d sworn never to go back to the army after Robert Salter, but now it was almost as though he’d joined up again. He was even wearing a pair of grey infantry trousers that one of the men had given him to replace his torn hose.

  Saleem glanced up as Jack walked over, then looked down again quickly. His eyes were red and there were grey smudges down his cheeks. A musket lay in front of him, along with an oil bottle, a small brush, a rag, a Y-shaped musket tool and a tin kettle. The musket’s wood and metal gleamed – the lad had cleaned them well – but the thin knife blade and its rod were lying unattached to the weapon.

  ‘Looks like you’ve got a problem there.’ Jack had seen this many times before. A musket was easy enough to take apart, but putting it back together was much more difficult. The knife blade especially caused confusion for new recruits.

  Saleem stared at the musket as though it were a dead child.

  Jack squatted down. The weapon was a new model, but similar to the last musket he’d had in the army, back when the percussion lock was only just being issued to Europeans. He screwed the rod back into the end of the blade, then picked up the musket tool and unscrewed the lock and the knife plate.

  ‘Here.’ He pointed to the spring and the latches of the knife mechanism. ‘You’ve got to lift those latches and get the knife in there first.’ He wriggled the rod and blade into place, then took them out again. ‘You try.’

  Saleem took the blade and tried to get it into place, without any success.

  ‘Lift the end latch with your finger,’ Jack said.

  Saleem curled his little finger against the largest latch and the blade popped into place easily.

  ‘Good. Now put it back together again.’

  Saleem reattached the knife plate and the lock without any difficulty. His dreamy, distant smile crept across his face when he’d finished – Jack hadn’t seen that smile since they’d arrived at the mills.

  ‘Well done,’ Jack said. ‘Now check the knife mechanism’s working.’

  Saleem stood, picked up the knife-musket and looked uncertainly down the barrel.

  ‘Stop. Your knife catch isn’t locked. Never do that without locking the knife. If the catch slips out it’ll have your face off.’ Jack had seen more than one young man get a knife in the head by mishandling a musket.

  Saleem reversed the musket quickly, locked the catch and then lifted the weapon, holding it at waist height as if against an enemy. He then unlocked the catch and pressed it forward. The knife shot out beneath the end of the barrel with a loud clack and he jumped a little at the sound.

  ‘Good. Now relock the knife.’

  Saleem pulled the catch back to retract the blade.

  Jack nodded. The lad had done well. He’d cleaned the musket and reassembled it, which was harder than it looked.

  Jack took the musket from Saleem, weighed it in his hand and gazed at the shining, richly engraved metal. ‘You want to be a soldier, then?’

  ‘I want to fight for England.’ Saleem stared at the ground, cheeks reddening.

  ‘Well, then. This musket will be your best friend. A fine weapon. Nalika the Rajthanans call it – that’s the real name. But we Europeans call it a musket. French word, I think. Maybe Neapolitan . . . You know how to fire it?’ Saleem had originally said he could handle a musket, but Jack was sure the lad had little real experience.

  Saleem nodded.

  Jack handed the musket back. ‘All right, then. See if you can hit that tree over there.’ He pointed to an ash tree about sixty yards away. A musket wasn’t a weapon for a marksman, but it was still accurate at that distance.

  Saleem bent and picked up his ammunition satchel. He put the musket butt-down on the ground, took out a cartridge and tentatively bit it open. He stared at the grey powder inside the paper.

  ‘Quickly,’ Jack said. ‘Before it blows away.’

  Saleem poured the powder, then jammed in the other end of the cartridge, which contained the spherical lead bullet. He slid the ramrod out from its loops beneath the barrel and thrust the bullet down to the base of the musket. After returning the ramrod, he lifted the weapon and cocked the hammer.

  ‘No, no,’ Jack said. ‘You haven’t got a cap in there, have you?’

  Saleem’s cheeks went red again and he fumbled in his ammunition satchel for a percussion cap. His hand
shook as he lifted out one of the tiny copper cups. He tried to press the cap into the nipple, but his hand shook so much it almost slipped out of his fingers.

  ‘Easy now, for God’s sake,’ Jack said.

  Saleem swallowed and got himself under control. He got the cap in place, then lifted the musket again and lined up the sights. Finally, he pulled the trigger. The musket burst and sulphur-scented smoke puffed from the barrel. Saleem jerked back as the butt slammed into his shoulder. A duck quacked and flew away above the trees.

  Jack took a step to the right so that he could see around the smoke. He shook his head. ‘No. Missed it. Try again.’

  Saleem reloaded. He did it more quickly and deftly this time – a good sign. He was learning already. Of course, it would be best to take him through the full drill so that he would be able to fire in time with his fellow soldiers, but that would have to wait.

  Saleem raised the musket again and this time took at least twenty seconds to line up a shot. When he fired, he stood firm and absorbed the kick of the weapon without flinching.

  Jack looked around the smoke. There was a yellow wound in the centre of the tree trunk. Well, well. Saleem had got lucky. ‘Good shot.’

  As the smoke cleared and revealed the tree, a broad grin slipped over Saleem’s face.

  ‘All right,’ Jack said. ‘You’ve done well, but don’t get cocky. You’ve got a long way to go yet.’ But he found himself grinning back at Saleem. The lad was trying – he might be a fool, but he was trying. Maybe he could be turned into a soldier after all.

  Five fires roared in the darkness. The villagers had come out to the field that evening to offer a feast to the men of the 9th Native Infantry. Now the soldiers and peasants sat together, tinged yellow, laughing, talking and warming their hands before the flames. Casks of ale had been opened and boars hung on spits over the fires, the juices sizzling and falling into the embers, producing a rich, smoky scent. Garlands of flowers and lanterns had been hung from the branches of the trees, and minstrels played lutes, pipes and drums. Women from the village danced with the soldiers.

  Jack sipped a mug of ale slowly – he had no intention of overdoing it. Charles, on the other hand, was drinking furiously and already seemed to be best friends with everyone. Saleem sat huddled to one side with his knees drawn up and his head resting in his arms.

  The music stopped abruptly and several of the dancers voiced their disappointment, until a tall, bearded minstrel stepped out into an open space between the fires, clapped his hands and called out, ‘Listen. Listen, all of you.’

  The crowd quietened and gathered around.

  ‘Listen. I’ll tell you the story of King Edward and the Caliph.’

  Everyone cheered and clapped.

  The minstrel gestured theatrically at the dark sky, as if the story were about to be played out there. His whole body swayed and his red ankle-length robe swirled about him.

  ‘It is two hundred years ago. For two centuries, the wicked Moors have ruled this country. Now the land is in the clutches of the latest Caliph and his black magic, known as dhikr.’

  The minstrel hurled a handful of powder into the nearest fire, which rumbled and exhaled a cloud of sparks and scented smoke. The crowd gasped and murmured.

  ‘Back then, all good Christians were beaten down and lived in fear of the Caliph’s army. None dared speak out against the cruelty. Then the Caliph decreed that every person in England must become a Mohammedan. He planned to crush the Christian soul of the country.’

  The minstrel raised his hand and clenched it into a fist.

  ‘Some turned to the Pope in Dublin, but he had no power to help. People prayed and wept and hoped for a saviour. And God, in his kindness, sent Edward V, rightful descendant of the kings of England.

  ‘Edward was a man beyond all others: tall, proud, fierce in battle. He told the people never to surrender to the Caliph’s wickedness. He remembered the stories of King Arthur, and he summoned the bravest knights of the land and formed them into a company based on the brotherhood of the Round Table. Then he travelled the country, raising an army against the Caliph.

  ‘But Edward also knew the Caliph’s magic would be impossible to beat. The English needed a power to rival or better it. In the old stories, Arthur used the Grail to free the land from enchantment. So Edward assembled his knights and told them that once again they must search for the Grail.

  ‘The knights set out, following in the footsteps of Arthur’s men. They searched the land, but like Gawain, Lancelot, Hector and the others, they found nothing. The Grail is elusive. Only those pure in heart will ever reach it. The impure can search for as long as they like, but they will not see it, even if it stands right before their eyes.’

  The minstrel cast his eye about the onlookers, as if judging who amongst them was suitably pure. He pursed his lips and nodded slowly.

  ‘Just like Arthur’s knights, Edward’s men began to abandon the search. In the end, only one, Sir Oswin, continued, accompanied by his squire.

  ‘In the meantime, the Caliph learnt of Edward’s army, and marched his forces north to meet it. The two armies clashed near the River Humber and Edward’s men were trounced and driven back. The Caliph’s troops pursued the English, who were forced to make a stand at Garrowby Hill.

  ‘Edward’s men were weary. The enemy outnumbered them three to one. Many gave up hope. But Edward rallied them, told them to fight on. He promised them that one day God’s will shall return to England.’

  The minstrel thrust a stick into the sky, as if it were a sword. Then he lowered it and gazed at his audience. Everyone was silent. The only sound was the crackling of the fires.

  ‘The Caliph marched his army up the hill. There were thousands of men, amongst them fakirs with the power of dhikr. Edward’s men shook with fear but they stood firm. They would not betray their country.

  ‘At the same time, far away, Oswin and his squire finally discovered the castle that housed the Grail. They entered the gate, the first to do so since Bors, Perceval and Galahad had come there centuries before. They found the Grail shining in a grand hall. The squire cowered from the blinding light, but Oswin – who, like Galahad, was completely pure of heart – strode forward and placed his hand upon the Grail. At his touch, the power flowed out across the country.’

  The minstrel waved his arm, rippling his fingers.

  ‘The power flooded through King Edward’s men. With renewed strength, they charged the Caliph’s army and smote it down.’

  The minstrel swung the stick, the swish audible.

  ‘The Mohammedans fled and Edward marched to London and there took his rightful place upon the throne. But everyone asked: “Where is the knight who found the Grail? Where is the man who released the power?”

  ‘Soon, Oswin’s squire arrived in London. He was weary, broken and barely able to walk. He explained how he and Oswin had found the Grail and how Oswin had touched it. Oswin had then been taken up to heaven by a host of angels, leaving the squire to make the long journey back alone.’

  The minstrel smiled.

  ‘The Caliph fled across the sea to France and was never seen in this country again. But King Edward was a kind ruler, and he pardoned those Englishmen who had fought with the Caliph – even those who had taken on the Caliph’s religion.’

  The minstrel nodded at Saleem, the lone Mohammedan, standing at the edge of the crowd. The onlookers all laughed and Saleem went bright red and looked at his feet.

  ‘Down with the Mohammedans,’ someone shouted.

  ‘Now, now,’ the minstrel said, still smiling. ‘Let us keep King Edward’s example . . . King Edward then ruled from that day forth, and his kingdom was fair and just – a true Christian kingdom. And Edward died an old man many years later, peacefully drifting off while asleep in bed.’

  The minstrel held up his arms and gazed about him for a moment, then took a deep bow. The crowd burst into applause, and several men rushed forward to slap the minstrel on the back and offer
him drinks. He took a mug of ale and raised it to the crowd, to yet more cheers.

  Jack had heard the story many times before, in different forms. Every minstrel had a slightly different version. Much of it was true, of course, but much of it wasn’t. Jhala had said that King Edward really had defeated the Moors at Garrowby Hill, and the Moors really had possessed powers they called dhikr, although these came from a handful of yantras smuggled out of Rajthana.

  But as for the Grail, that was just a myth. There were miraculous powers in the world, but they came from yoga, not some magical chalice.

  ‘All right everyone,’ Kendrick shouted as he strode into the open space. ‘I’ve got a few things to say. Firstly, thank you to all you good people of Berkshire for your warm welcome.’

  The crowd clapped and cheered.

  ‘Secondly, a toast to the newest recruits to our regiment – Jack, Charles and Saleem.’

  Everyone cheered again and stamped their feet.

  Kendrick motioned at one of his men, who walked over with a bundle of clothing. ‘Now. We can’t have our new recruits going around looking like civilians.’

  Everyone laughed at this.

  ‘So, here are uniforms – gifts from our fallen comrades.’ He unfurled one item. It was a blue European Army tunic with a St George’s cross sewn on to the left side of the chest. Uniforms were expensive and were often retrieved from dead soldiers if they weren’t badly damaged.

  Charles went first. He bounded over, took the tunic and lifted it over his head. It was slightly too small for him, but not enough to hinder his movement.

  ‘Jack . . . Saleem.’ Charles gestured for the two of them to follow suit.

  Saleem walked over and put on a tunic, which fitted him perfectly. He stood smiling and fidgeting as he looked at the ground.

  Jack took the final tunic and thanked Kendrick.

  ‘Put it on, Jack.’ Charles was slurring.

  Jack looked around. Everyone was watching him, flames in their eyes. There was no way out of it.

  Slowly he removed his old brown tunic and put on the uniform. The fit wasn’t bad and the tunic felt comfortable. The cloth had a distinctive smell that was intensely familiar. The weight of it was familiar too, and the feeling of it across his back and shoulders.