‘You cannot do it now, you fool. I have no intention of attending on the dowager countess this evening stinking like a damn navvy. Go and wash your hands thoroughly. I’ll do it myself.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Jack muttered a curse under his breath. He had forgotten to have his master’s finest uniform ready. The list of chores to be done in a single day was taking him too long. He knew he would have to work harder if he were to remain in his new position. He turned to hurry from the room, determined to wash quickly and make up for his error. He would not throw away the chance he had been given. An orderly was a step up from being an ordinary redcoat and Jack was desperate to succeed.
‘Wait.’ Sloames snapped the curt command. ‘You can help me with my boots before you go.’
The young captain turned his back and offered up his foot for Jack to hold. The two men were of a similar height, both a shade under six feet tall, yet their faces betrayed their relative status as eloquently as the badges of rank that adorned their uniforms. Sloames’s fleshy face and thick waistline betrayed his privileged lifestyle, his blue Oxford uniform trousers straining across his generous backside. Where Sloames was portly, Jack Lark was gaunt, his hard face and wiry physique the result of a youth spent in London’s slums. His ill-fitting fatigues may have hung from his sparse frame but his rolled shirtsleeves revealed a pair of finely muscled forearms. Jack may have lacked his officer’s bulk but there was strength in his sinewy build, strength that he needed as he strained to pull the tight, calf-length boots from his master’s feet.
‘You must try to improve, Lark,’ Sloames grunted as the first boot was tugged free. ‘I’d have thought you would’ve begun to get the hang of things by now.’
‘Sorry, sir.’ Jack bit his lip as he took a firm hold on the second boot. ‘I lost track of time.’
‘What were you doing?’ Sloames sighed with pleasure as his right foot found freedom.
‘I was polishing your sword, sir. Coxy, I mean Private Cox, told me you would be likely to inspect it to make sure I was keeping on top of everything.’
Sloames chuckled. ‘He was right. You would do well to listen to Cox. He is a good man. Major Hume is fortunate indeed to have him. Let us hope you are as good one day.’
‘I’ll try my best, sir.’ Jack stood up and looked his officer in the eye. ‘Sorry about the uniform.’
Sloames dismissed Jack’s apology with a wave of his hand. ‘Quick now. Wash up and hurry back to help me get dressed. The colonel hates to be late and I cannot risk keeping him waiting.’ He fixed Jack with a warm smile. ‘Even us captains have to do as we are told.’
‘You’ll throw this chance away if you’re not careful.’
Jack twisted away from Molly, his pleasure at seeing her waning in the face of her criticism.
‘I know, Molly. I’m not soft in the head.’
‘Well, you will be if you mess this up.’ Molly stepped back into Jack’s arms, ignoring his churlish response. ‘You have to make something of yourself or we’ll never get anywhere.’
She and Jack had been together for nearly three months. He came to visit her in the garrison laundry often, his new life as an officer’s orderly giving him a freedom he could have only dreamt of as a simple redcoat.
‘I won’t mess it up.’ Jack’s pride had been stung. He knew he had forgotten his master’s instructions and Captain Sloames was well within his rights to admonish him but he had hoped Molly would be more sympathetic.
‘You’d better not. I can’t waste my time on a redcoat. I want to make something of my life, even if you don’t.’
‘I’m not a waste of time. Sloames picked me to be his orderly, didn’t he?’
‘Well, just don’t make him regret it.’ Molly moved back and brushed at his lapel where a few of her hairs lay. ‘I know you like being a servant but it’s not that much of a step up, is it? It’s not like being a corporal, or a sergeant.’
‘I’m not a servant. I’m an orderly. It’s different.’ Jack’s fragile pride was offended. ‘It keeps me away from Colour Sergeant Slater and that is good enough for me.’
‘I don’t know why you’re so frightened of Slater. He’s not that bad. I think he’s a fine figure of a man and he’s always nice to me when he comes in here. And he’s a sergeant.’ Molly reached for Jack’s face, her finger sliding over Jack’s smooth and unfashionably hair-free cheeks.
‘Slater’s not a fine figure of a man.’ Jack looked at Molly warily, sensing she was showing more than a passing interest in his company’s colour sergeant. ‘He’s a bastard. If that’s what it takes to become a sergeant then it’s not for me, thank you very much.’ Jack’s words belied the ambition that burned brightly inside him. To be a sergeant would be the pinnacle of his time as a soldier. It was a position he was determined to achieve, his role as an orderly merely a stepping stone on his climb up the ranks.
‘Well, I can just see you with them stripes. Why, you could even become an officer and have your own servant.’
‘Orderly,’ Jack rebuked her. ‘I’m not about to become an officer. It’s not for the likes of me. You have to be born with a silver spoon in your muzzle to become an officer. If you have the money, you can become an officer. If you don’t then forget it.’
‘Some do it.’
‘Some do. But they never go far. Quartermaster is about all they’re good for. And even that’s as rare as finding gold in horseshit.’
‘You give up too easy. You’ll never get anywhere if you don’t try. I can see it even if you can’t – you this big handsome officer and me your lady,’ Molly giggled at the wild fancy.
Jack smiled at the notion. ‘It’s never going to happen.’
Molly’s hands disappeared behind her back, untying the knots that held her apron in place, her teasing smile making Jack’s heart race as he began to hope the afternoon’s visit would not be completely wasted.
‘My mam says you lot are going to be posted.’
‘What?’ Molly’s darting train of thought often left Jack lumbering to keep up with her.
‘You lot is going to be posted. Mam says that Billy who looks after Major Dansen told her.’ Molly tossed her apron to one side and started to undo the buttons of her blouse.
‘Billy Burton don’t know shit.’ Jack tore his eyes from the glimpse of flesh and took hold of Molly’s hands to stop her undoing any more buttons. Her words had changed the focus of his thoughts. It was exciting news if it was true. The battalion had been stationed in Aldershot on garrison duty ever since he joined it four years previously. It was dull and Jack chafed at the routine life that ground out through the days and months. A posting would mean going abroad, seeing the world and, with any luck, doing some proper soldiering.
‘Well, my mam says he said it, so there. You don’t have to believe me.’ Molly pouted.
Against his tanned skin the red rawness of her hands stood out vividly, the countless hours spent in hot water dealing with the battalion’s laundry taking its toll even on her young, seventeen-year-old skin.
‘I believe you. It’s that fool Billy I don’t trust.’
‘I hope you don’t get posted. I wouldn’t know what to do if you up and left.’ Tears welled in Molly’s eyes.
Jack brushed the tears from Molly’s cheeks. ‘Don’t fret. There’s always talk. Nothing is going to happen. It never does.’ Molly nestled into his arms, consoled and safe in his embrace. Jack rested his chin on the unruly curls pinned on top of her head. His heart raced, his hopes coming alive at the idea of leaving. For a posting might mean facing the harshest test a soldier could imagine: battle.
Jack paused at the door to the barrack room, the stench emanating from the confined space like a physical wall barring his progress. The smell was always worse when he had stayed away for a while. The small box room Sloames allowed Jack to use in his suite was a pa
lace compared to the confines of the rank barrack rooms the other redcoats were forced to live in.
The air was thick with the smell of pipe clay, boot blacking, damp clothing, and lamp oil. The forty redcoats who called this their home ate, slept, cleaned their kit, cussed, complained, drank, pissed and farted in the one small area. In summer they boiled, sweating and stinking through the warmer months, the meagre windows firmly shut and barred no matter how hot the room became. In winter, they froze; a single stove and limited ration of fuel left the accommodation cold, damp and inhospitable. But no matter what the season the room still stank, the smell of forty unwashed bodies and the sour smell of urine from the single piss pot ever present.
‘Have you boys been eating dead dog again? It smells like Satan’s arse in here.’ Jack pushed his way into the room, greeting his former messmates with a warm smile. He missed being with his fellow soldiers. The long hours he spent with his officer took away the companionship of his brother redcoats. Despite his best efforts, his new role had created a barrier between them, something he regretted.
The soldier closest to the door looked up briefly then returned his attention to the cross-belts of his uniform, which were laid carefully on his bed as he applied the thick layer of pipe clay that gave them their smart, white colour. A few other members of the mess greeted Jack’s arrival with a brief comment before they carried on with the serious task of preparing their uniforms for the parade their captain had ordered.
One burly redcoat ambled towards Jack, a wide smile spread on his face.
‘Hello, Mud. Come to check up on us?’
‘I couldn’t stay away.’ Jack took the meaty hand thrust towards him and shook it vigorously. He had been known as Mud ever since joining the regiment, a reference to the mudlarks of the River Thames that more than one of the redcoats had been before they had taken the Queen’s shilling.
‘You’re looking good. Being Sloames’s orderly is obviously good for you. I wish I’d taken the chance when he offered it to me.’
‘You had a lucky escape. Just think of all the extra bull, and Sloames can be a hard taskmaster.’
Private Jonathan Pike nodded his agreement. Of all the redcoats in the company, Pike had been Jack’s closest friend, the one who had looked after him in his earliest days in the battalion, saving him more than once from falling foul of Colour Sergeant Slater, who ran the company with an iron fist. ‘You got that right. Making us go through this bloody malarkey just because it takes his damn fancy.’
Jack slid the tall, black shako off his head, careful not to touch any of the polished brasswork. He ran his hand over the stubby red and white plume on its crown, picking away imaginary tufts of fluff. ‘You have it easy. What time did you start this morning?’
‘Four o’clock.’
‘See! I was up at three. Not only have I got to get my uniform ready, I also have to do his.’
‘All right. You win. Is it still raining?’
‘Only a little.’
‘It’ll still make everything get rusty. Which means more bloody work. So, Sloames didn’t need you to button his breeches this morning then?’
‘I don’t button his breeches, you daft clot. And no, he doesn’t. He spent the night at the Horse and Hounds in town. It was Lady Catherine’s ball last night which means he probably got boozed up.’
‘The lucky bugger. I expect he spent the night with that barmaid, Sally.’
‘Probably. He’s going to be knackered.’ Jack laughed at the notion. He was enjoying being back with his friend. The camaraderie the common soldiers enjoyed was the best thing he had discovered since joining the army. The bond that was formed from shared hardships and from surviving everything their officers and sergeants demanded of them tied the men together, creating friendships that many would never have experienced in their former lives.
The door to the barrack room was flung open. ‘Stand by your beds!’
The shout of command had an instant effect on the barrack room. The bustle of quiet industry evaporated, replaced with a palpable tension. The men stood rigidly to attention at the foot of their iron bedsteads, their eyes fixed, and staring forward.
A finely dressed redcoat with the golden chevrons of a sergeant on his sleeve strode into the room, his two black, beady eyes sweeping the room above a mass of moustache.
‘Attention!’
The forty redcoats tensed their already stretched muscles even further, striving to attain the perfect position of attention. Jack pressed himself into the tiny space between two of the closely packed bedsteads, forcing his shoulders back, his heart sinking as he realised his rare presence was sure to attract attention.
The sergeant snapped to attention as he held the door wide open. There was a moment of complete silence, broken by the sound of heavy boots thumping along the short corridor to the barrack room. Tension rippled through the air, barely a single redcoat daring to breathe as they awaited the tempest that was surely about to break over their heads.
Colour Sergeant Slater loomed large in the doorway. The man who ran the company had arrived to inspect his charges.
Slater strode down the narrow aisle that ran between the feet of the iron beds. He was a bear of a man and dominated the enclosed space. He was easily the tallest in the company and every man lived in fear of him. It was a fear based on bitter experience and in the cold silence that followed his arrival, the men felt it flutter and stir in their bellies as Slater stalked the room.
‘You should be ready. That means dressed and booted.’ Slater did not raise his voice as he rebuked them; his icy tone betrayed his anger more effectively than if he had been screaming with rage. When he reached the far end of the barrack room, he swung round to face the soldiers whose lives he ruled, his thick moustache twitching. Above the sergeant’s chevrons, the badge denoting the rank of colour sergeant flashed in a beam of sunlight, its crowned Union flag and crossed swords reminding the redcoats that they faced their company’s most senior non-commissioned officer.
‘Captain Sloames has asked you to parade and you should be honoured to have been asked. Is that not so, Sergeant Attwood?’
The first sergeant to have entered the room slammed the door shut, taking up position as if blocking any of the redcoats from bolting from the room, an idea many entertained but would never act upon.
‘That is correct, Colour Sergeant. These miserable bastards should be honoured.’
Despite his ready agreement, Attwood was no stooge or lickspittle. He was as brutal and as uncompromising as his colour sergeant. Together they abused those under their command at will, punishing any who showed even the remotest sign of disobedience. Beatings were commonplace and it was rare for a redcoat to avoid being on the receiving end of the two sergeants’ wrath for long. If a simple slating was not enough, then the two had a long list of other ways to break a man’s spirit. They were not shy of framing an innocent soldier, forcing them to face the more formal list of army punishments that could be administered by the battalion’s officers, and more than one man in the company had been flogged at their instigation. To take a stand against the pair was to court disaster.
‘Hello, hello,’ Attwood shouted. ‘Why, it is us who should be honoured. Look here, Colour Sergeant. Mr Lark has condescended to join us this morning.’ Attwood offered Jack a mock bow; Slater narrowed his eyes.
Jack had been one of the very few men in the company foolish enough to stand up to the two sergeants. His independent spirit had cost him dear, the last beating the sergeants administered one of the most brutal they had ever inflicted. Had Jack not escaped their clutches by becoming Sloames’s orderly, it was almost certain that he would have been up before the colonel on a trumped-up charge of theft or insubordination, the result of which would have been a brutal flogging. Instead, Slater and Attwood had been cheated of their victim. Neither had been quick to forge
t.
‘My, oh my. To what do we owe the pleasure, Lark? Have you had enough of wiping the captain’s arse?’ Attwood sneered as Slater came close. Jack could not help but cringe. He had the sense to remain silent, fixing his eyes on a rusty nail head that stuck out of the wall opposite.
‘Cat got your tongue?’ Slater whispered.
‘Beg your pardon, sir?’
Slater stood in front of his former charge, his head thrust forward so it was a matter of inches from Jack’s own. ‘Dear, oh dear. I can see your time spent away from me has done little to improve your manners. You are still beholden to me. You would do well to remember that.’ The menace contained in his quiet words and the warning they gave was clear.
‘Yes, Colour Sergeant.’
‘Do you miss me, Lark?’
Jack lowered his eyes so he met Slater’s. The colour sergeant’s eyes were a soft, moist brown. On a woman, they would be beautiful. On Slater, they were pure evil.
‘No, Colour Sergeant.’
A very faint ripple of laughter went round the room. It was enough for Slater to twist on the spot, his eyes roaming over the men, his fierce stare silencing the redcoats in an instant. He turned back to Lark.
‘You should miss me. Because if I am not looking after you then who is?’ Slater smiled as he spoke. He turned and looked quickly around the room of silent redcoats. Each man stared into space. The silence seemed to please the huge man and he let out a bark of laughter. ‘You all need me looking after you. Because without me you’d be nothing. Now, as soon as the bugle calls you get yourselves out on that square. Do not let me down.’
With that Slater stalked from the room, Attwood following closely in his wake.
The room stayed silent until the sound of heavy footsteps had faded.
Then the redcoats grudgingly returned to their preparations. Slater’s presence was still heavy in the confined room. None of the men would risk not being ready for the parade. A few shot Jack a reprimanding glare, the men painfully aware that his presence had contributed to Slater’s mood. Their disapproval saddened him. He had once counted many in the room amongst his closest friends. His desire to better himself had come at a heavy price.
The Scarlet Thief Page 2