Family of the Empire

by Sheelagh Kelly

  Daunted, even before setting one foot on the stairway, Probyn was nevertheless obliged to climb after his commanding officer who led the way with a sprightly air. To take his mind off the ordeal, he began to enumerate, but had not even gone half way when a look down onto the tiny iron rooftops, a threadlike maze of lanes and the white postage stamp that was the castle way below and the ocean all around them, caused him to flinch and lose count. Thereafter, he tried to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, upwards ever upwards, the steepness increasing with every step – it must be forty-five degrees here – muscles aching, lungs panting, brows oozing sweat until they eventually came to the barracks at the top.

  Congratulating his perspiring troops, the amused captain went off with his lieutenants and the colour-sergeant, leaving their sergeants and corporals to direct them to their barrack rooms.

  ‘What d’you think to this then, Pa?’ asked Bumby, throwing his valise on his cot and studying his antiquated surroundings.

  Probyn looked unsure. ‘I think it might get a bit claustrophobic.’

  ‘What’s that mean?’

  ‘Well, like prison,’ explained Probyn.

  ‘I wouldn’t know, I haven’t been in clink.’ Bumby tested the mattress.

  ‘Neither have I, you cheeky blighter!’ Probyn upbraided him.

  ‘Yes, you have,’ Queen reminded him, ‘for insulting that red cap.’

  ‘Oh aye, I’d forgotten about him.’ Probyn looked gloomy. ‘But that was only for one night. I wonder how long we’ll be stuck here?’

  ‘A long, long time if I have my way.’

  All eyes turned to the doorway, their hearts falling as the speaker made his entrance, a strutting bantam cockerel with a large gap where his front teeth had once been.

  ‘And I’m gonna make your bleeding lives a misery,’ sneered Corporal Wedlock.

  * * *

  It transpired that the hated corporal had only been on the island a matter of months, posted here to replace a time-expired soldier, and now transferred to this unfortunate detachment. It also emerged that Wedlock had a long memory, and Probyn, for his role in scalding the corporal’s groin two years ago, was now to come in for harsh treatment, being sent down and up Jacob’s Ladder several times a day for no feasible purpose. He could now state with certainty that there were seven hundred steps.

  It seemed unjust, after all his brave deeds in Matabeleland, to be reduced to the role of corporal’s plaything. But if that awful trek had taught him anything it was endurance, and he bore Wedlock’s petty atrocities without a murmur. If Napoleon Bonaparte could withstand such exile then surely an English soldier could.

  What was truly unfair was the non-fraternization rule which Wedlock enforced with zeal. The island existence might not have been so bad had Probyn been allowed access to one of the beautiful girls there, but Wedlock made sure there was to be no such fun. This injustice was compounded by the fact that Dinizulu, the king they were guarding who had been sent here for rebelling against the British, was furnished with a tutor, had been taught to play the piano, and had all manner of home comforts, including two wives who had during his stay provided him with a number of children! How ironic, thought Probyn, that the captive was allowed such human pleasures whilst he, the guardian, was not even permitted to exchange niceties with a girl. Would he ever find a wife?

  It seemed likely that he would be spending yet another Christmas under the sun. Often, as he carried out Wedlock’s idiotic orders on this isolated rock he wondered what his family would be doing at home. The islanders were a warm and closely-knit people, every weekend large family groups gathering after church to picnic together, to play with their children, to fish or to swim, making this onlooker all the more conscious of his loneliness. Every day since his ominous convergence with the corporal he had looked out over the glistening ocean for a sign of the ship that would bring news of Aunty Kit or Merry, anything that might brighten this prison-like existence.

  Finally, at last there came a sighting.

  At his shout, Barnes, Bumby, Rook and Queen came pelting from the barracks in eager anticipation.

  Balanced at the top of the mountainous ladder, high above the ocean, Probyn made a daredevil challenge. ‘I’m going to do it!’ Others before him had devised an ingenious way of descending the steps, but until now the very thought of this had produced tremors.

  ‘Two bob, says you don’t!’ Queen had won this way before.

  ‘Right!’ Closing his eyes to the perilous drop, Probyn took a deep breath, braced himself, then gingerly hooked his ankles over one rail, and edged his shoulders over the other, spreading his arms along the iron bar and clinging on for all he was worth whilst below lay certain death.

  Waiting for him to make his move, the white knuckles advertising his dread, Queen laughed at the others. ‘Told you he wouldn’t!’

  With that, Probyn released his grip and immediately began to slide down the rails, drawing whoops of admiration from his pals as he gathered speed. Down, down he went, slithering over the rails, accelerating at an alarming rate, the rooftops growing bigger and the ground hurtling towards him.

  ‘He’s going too fast!’

  Probyn heard Barnes’s faint yell from above as he plummeted towards the ground and, at the last minute using his arms as a brake, landed on his feet unscathed, laughing triumphantly up at his friends, his heart thumping. ‘Come on you sissies! You owe me two bob!’

  One by one they came careering down then to join him, apprehensive faces growing nearer and nearer until he caught them at the bottom, all offering each other congratulations for their intrepid descent before running to join the townsfolk in their excited rush to meet the ship.

  After all that, there was no mail for Private Kilmaster. Bitterly disappointed, he was forced to make do with snippets from his roommates’ letters, afterwards mooching despondently from chore to chore for the rest of the day.

  ‘Private Kilmaster!’

  Probyn closed his eyes at Wedlock’s loud demand, but turned to answer it with cool detachment. ‘Yes, Corp?’

  ‘Captain’s office, now!’

  Deducing from this tone that he was in trouble, Probyn wondered over the reason. Perhaps it was his foolhardy descent of the steps, though with others similarly guilty it could not be that. Accompanied by Wedlock, he went to find out.

  ‘Stand easy, Lance-Corporal Kilmaster,’ murmured the captain, looking down at the record sheet in front of him.

  Probyn relaxed, then frowned.

  The captain glanced up, smiling. ‘No, your ears did not deceive you, I’m about to authorize your promotion.’

  ‘Thank you, sir!’ Thrilled, Probyn could not help a glance at Wedlock, but the other betrayed no emotion.

  ‘Not at all, it’s thoroughly deserved,’ replied Captain Galindo, putting his signature to the record sheet. ‘I hope you will continue to maintain such efficiency.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ Probyn could hardly wait to get out of the office, racing to broadcast his good luck to all who would listen, before rushing off a letter to inform his father, and also scribbling excitedly to Aunt Kit and to Meredith.

  After this, his exhilarated mood preventing him from sitting still, he continued to bore his roommates. ‘I wonder which squad I’ll get put in charge of?’

  ‘I’d have thought there’d be a more pressing matter on your mind,’ said Queen.

  ‘How so?’ In the act of sewing on his stripe, he barely looked up.

  ‘Well, you’ll be messing with your little pal Wedlock, won’t you?’

  With a loud groan, Probyn fell back on his mattress to contemplate this double-edged sword.

  * * *

  Prior to taking up his role, the new lance-corporal was granted a day off and, eager for the world to behold his new status, decided to go for a walk around the town, travelling first down one side of the main street, then up the other, trying to catch a glimpse of his reflection in even the smallest of windows. Eyes to the ri
ght, seeking another window in which to admire himself, he almost barged into a post, but stepped aside just in time and threw an embarrassed grin at the group of islanders seated on the post office steps observing him. Returning his smile, their brown treacle eyes followed him up the slope, in fact everyone seemed to be smiling over his well-turned out appearance. With a grin of pride, he returned to barracks.

  It was not until he visited the latrine that he realized his trousers were already unbuttoned.

  Anxious not to repeat this same mistake in front of his new charges, he spent much time the next morning in checking his buttons before going to introduce himself to the small squad of youngsters who had only recently come from England. It was obvious from their deferential treatment that he had created a good impression. Keen to make his mark as a non-commissioned officer, one who was not simply there to make life as miserable as possible for the young infantrymen, but would share his experience, Probyn began his introduction by saying that he wanted to be proud of them and therefore would allow no foul language nor drunkenness. Other than this, his attitude displayed him as a kindly master, one devoted to sharing the benefit of his knowledge with those less able, for to his mind kindness always won respect.

  ‘Eh lad, you’re making a right pig’s ear of that,’ he told one of the youngsters who was applying his pipeclay in much the same manner as he himself had once done. ‘How long have you been in the army?’

  ‘Eighteen months, Corp.’ The speaker seemed apprehensive.

  ‘Eighteen months, and nobody’s ever taken the time to show thee where you’re going wrong? Here, let me. There’s always an easy way if you care to look for it,’ he found himself quoting Felix Lennon’s words, and cocked his head in sage-like manner. ‘Consider this, you’re locked in a cell, its walls are twelve inches thick, there’s a window but it has iron bars on it, the only items are a stone slab for your bed, and a bucket. How do you escape?’

  Muttering amongst themselves, the youngsters failed to come up with a solution.

  Probyn spread his arms and smirked. ‘Why don’t you just use the door?’

  The youths exchanged glances, one of them daring to say, ‘But you said it was locked, Corp.’

  ‘No I didn’t.’ Realizing his mistake, Probyn flushed and made blustering attempts to get out of it. ‘Anyway, lads, I think I’ve showed you enough! Just you remember what I told you, no swearing, keep yourselves dapper and we’ll get along fine!’ He turned and beat a hasty retreat, almost colliding with Wedlock in the doorway. It became obvious then that the boys’ deferential treatment had not been for Probyn at all, but for Wedlock of whom they were terrified and who had been standing there all along, smirking.

  ‘Knocking them into shape are we?’ Wedlock was most amused.

  ‘They’re doing all right.’ With the other blocking his exit Probyn was compelled to remain at the source of his embarrassment. He felt an utter fool.

  ‘Call this heap of shit all right?’ Wedlock patrolled the room, tossing clothing and equipment hither and thither, swearing and even hitting one youth across the face.

  Probyn had been humiliated enough for one day. He held the bully with glittering blue-grey eyes. ‘It was good enough until somebody started throwing it around!’ It was a rash exclamation and not the done thing to have this exchange in front of underlings, but if he was to maintain what little authority he had he needed them to witness his stand.

  Immediately Wedlock abandoned his victim and marched from the room, signalling with a crooked finger for Probyn to exit too.

  Outside the door, he asked the other, ‘You wouldn’t be arguing with me would you?’

  ‘I meant no disrespect, but if the captain thinks I’m proficient enough to look after a squad I’d like to be able to do it in my own way.’

  ‘Without me interfering?’ Wedlock put his face nearer, challenge in his voice. ‘Come on don’t mince words say what’s on your mind.’

  ‘I don’t want to fight—’

  ‘Good, ’cause you’d end up worst off.’

  Probyn knew this well enough, but the cause exceeded the risk. ‘I don’t think us brawling would be a very good example to set young uns, would it?’ he asked calmly, his eyes continuing to penetrate the other’s. ‘Corporal Wedlock, I’m beholden to you for saving me from a thumping all those years ago but don’t expect me to stand by and let you walk all over me.’

  ‘I told you at the time,’ said Wedlock, ‘it wasn’t done for you but to defend the uniform.’

  ‘Well, I share your pride in the regiment,’ replied Probyn. ‘and I respect you as a fellow soldier,’ in spite of disliking Wedlock on a personal level he knew such a man could be relied upon in battle, ‘but you have your methods and I have mine—’

  ‘How long have you had that stripe, a few days isn’t it? Think it spoils the line of your sleeve do you? Because we can always arrange to have it ripped off.’

  Probyn’s heart sank, but he managed to uphold his level gaze as he formed his rejoinder. ‘And what reason will you give the CO for having me reverted? I wasn’t the one who struck a soldier.’

  Wedlock was not slow to grasp the threat, and nodded knowingly, answering with a snorting laugh. ‘You expect that little shit in there to make a complaint against me? It’d be your word against mine.’ However, his attitude seemed to undergo a conversion then. ‘Ah, don’t worry! I’ve decided to let matters lie for now, but just remember that’s one stripe not three, it qualifies you for supervising shit-shovelling and little else. Got it?’

  13

  Surprisingly, despite the threat to remove his stripe, it seemed that Probyn’s attempt to make a stand had had the desired effect. Following their altercation, Wedlock left him alone to do the job and, with renewed confidence, he was able to set about moulding the little squad under his command into the kind of soldiers of whom he could be proud.

  Yet the life of a non-commissioned officer was turning out to be a lonely one. No longer allowed to socialize with his friends, and less popular with them for having to dole out orders, he began to feel more isolated than ever. Though it was true that there was great advantage in not having to do fatigues, the very act of having to associate with Wedlock was punishment enough, and it was all he could do to share two words with the man. And though the other corporals might be less offensive, they were not the type with whom he would choose to spend his free time.

  To add gravitas to his role, he decided to grow a moustache and, after only a few weeks of effort, was pleased with the result, waxing and cultivating the red-blonde whiskers at every opportunity, and wondering how long it would be before he had the chance to show it off to those at home. He had finally heard from his stepmother who must obviously have written before receiving news of his promotion for there was no congratulations, but she told him that his father was managing well, and that the area was beginning to recover after the strike. Though she had seen nothing of Owen, reportedly his injury had not been too serious and the Earl had responded to his workers’ violence against him with charity, though certain masters had been less forgiving and many had been sacked. There had also been a dreadful storm in Pontefract which had blown down the massive barracks gates and thrown tiles about like confetti. Never had Probyn thought to feel such homesickness for that colliery town, but, imprisoned by an ocean, month after month, the novelty of his stripe was beginning to wear off.

  To stave off boredom he had written to everyone he could think of, including Greatrix who, in his reply, had stated that he too had been promoted, so at least they would still be able to associate whenever they might be granted the opportunity.

  He had also applied for the second-class certificate needed to become sergeant, and studying for this helped to take up some time, buffing up on his arithmetic, reciting poetry to himself and balancing the accounts of the mess.

  It was a great achievement when he passed. But with no more studying to do for the time being, his only other means of escape was to go for long
walks around the island, for, within the desolate cliffs that imprisoned him and the cannons that dotted the rocks, he had discovered rich green meadows, tilled over the centuries by English immigrants to resemble their motherland, with cattle, sheep and rabbits and even the troublesome briars that grew in the hedgerows of home.

  Yet rounding the corner into the next valley, one would be presented with a grandeur one could never find in England: dramatic escarpments of pink basalt, swathes of pine and eucalyptus, cactus and aloe and sunbursts of hibiscus, banana fronds and bougainvillaea, and acres of New Zealand flax, its spiky ten foot clumps towering above him, all abetting to remove the fantasy that he was at home.

  The youngsters under his supervision were also growing restless, and beginning to fight amongst themselves. To prevent the list of defaulters from becoming too long, he set them the task of reproducing the regimental colours in patchwork and embroidery, which had the desired effect for a time, although the stock of material was now becoming low. He would have to find more from somewhere.

  One summer’s evening, whilst supervising two members of his squad through the town, he paused outside the tiny gaol next to the church to share a few words with a colonial policeman who was enjoying the last rays of sunshine. He had come to know and like many of the inhabitants and loved to hear their accent, the strangest he had ever heard, a kind of mixture of Cockney, West Country and African and all manner of other nationalities thrown in, yet far removed from being mongrel, its inflection rather genteel. Asked a question, the policeman obligingly entertained him with that engaging lilt, the pair of them quickly becoming hemmed in by a flock of mynah birds who waddled and pecked around their feet.