Absolute Honour (34 page)

‘Great Christ!’ Jack groaned aloud, one hand over his eyes, feebly trying to block out the vicious sunlight invading the room
through the half-open shutters. He shifted slightly and other aches came to his attention. His thighs, unused lately to sitting
a horse, throbbed; his knuckles were raw from
scraping the sword hilt; his toes had a blister apiece from being crammed into a dead man’s too-small boots, while the skin
that had been protected by a full beard was burnt and raw from exposure to the sun. Yet these were minor inconveniences compared
to the agony of gut and head. In prison in Rome, with only his own company to keep, he had never drunk to excess. One could
be as out of training with liquor as with any other exercise.

Someone knocked. Snatching up the sheet, he crawled onto the bed and whispered, ‘Enter!’

A face thrust around the door, framed in ginger curls. ‘Good morning, sir. And a fine one, is it not?’

‘It will be better one if you desist from shouting,’ Jack snapped, the effort of raising his head causing it to pulse violently,
a tremor that spread to his stomach, which jiggled and tried to eject something. Swallowing hard, Jack fell back and muttered,
‘Who the hell are you and what do you want?’

‘Worsley, sir. Do you not remember? Your fellow from the West?’

Jack opened one eye. He did seem familiar. ‘Worsley,’ he croaked. It came back. ‘Cornet Worsley.’

‘Cornet no more.’ The man came in, putting a bucket of water down beside the bed, dipping a wooden cup into it and handing
that to Jack, who sat up too quickly, drank too fast, retched, steadied, drank more. ‘Back to the ranks, me, and happier than
a pig in shit about it.’

Jack stared at him, at the orange hair, the face reddened by sun and youthful spots. Memory stirred. ‘But you were there last
night, weren’t you? In the mess?’

‘I was. My last act as an officer, for the present.’ He refilled Jack’s cup. ‘But now it’s been settled that one of you will
be Lieutenant and one Cornet, there’s no need for me, is there?’

‘I will be Lieutenant,’ Jack muttered. ‘I
am
the Lieutenant, damn it.’

‘That’s what I like, sir. Confidence.’ Worsley got up, began
to collect the various pieces of clothing Jack had managed to discard before he collapsed.

Jack continued to regard him with just one eye. ‘What are you about, fellow?’

Worsley straightened. ‘Thought I might be your batman, sir, if you’ve need of one.’

‘From cornet to servant in a night? Don’t you mind it?’

‘I don’t if you don’t.’ He grinned. ‘Rather serve a West Countryman – even if you are from the wrong county – than one of
them society officers, if you get my meaning.’

‘Why serve at all?’

Worsley sighed. ‘Do you remember how much they pays us? Lucky if we get three pence a day and doubly so if we ever sees it.
Haven’t for weeks now, anyhow.’ He grinned. ‘And it’s well known how liberal Cornishmen are with their money, ain’t that the
truth of it, sir?’

‘It’s well known that Devonians are a soft-brained bunch of knucklydowns.’ Jack smiled, the first time he’d felt like doing
so that morning. It hurt. ‘Why do you assume I’ve got any coin?’

‘You will have, now the regiment’s on the march. Always issue the officers something to settle up with when we move bivouacs.’

Jack swung his legs onto the floor. ‘Move? Does that mean I should be,’ he shuddered, ‘on parade now?’

‘You may rest easy, sir, for the moment. Parade’s not till evening on account of us riding out tonight. Time for those who
can do to settle their liquor bills, those who can’t to stay hidden and those who have them to kiss their sweet’arts goodbye.’

Jack lifted his hand from his face. ‘Do you have one, Worsley?’

‘Oh, aye. Lass by the name of … Jacinta? Jocasta?’ He leaned forward, his voice quieter. ‘I could send her to see you, if
you like. Lovely girl if you don’t look too closely in
her mouth. Arse like an Exmoor heifer.’ He whistled, spreading his arms wide.

Jack shook his head. ‘I think I’ll leave it, thank ’ee all the same.’

The man shrugged. ‘Just part of a servant’s duty to his officer, like.’ He cocked his head. ‘If I am your servant, that is?’

Jack thought for just a moment. He had few enough allies as it was. None, in fact. And a servant was a source of information
also. ‘Why not,’ he said, extending a hand.

‘Whoo-hoo!’ Worsley shook the hand once then did a little jig. Stopping, he said, ‘Then I’ll be about your business, sir.
If you let me have that shirt and them britches …’

Jack struggled out of them, then sat back naked on the bed. Worsley stopped his scurrying to look down with some concern.
‘I do hope, sir, that I have backed the right horse here. I’d far rather be the batman of a lieutenant than the man what got
my cornetcy.’

‘And you are.’

Jack rubbed his head then looked up. Worsley was staring at him hard. ‘You do remember last night, don’t you, sir?’

‘Of course.’ Jack nodded. ‘Um, what specifically?’

‘The wager?’

‘Ah yes. The wager. What wager?’

Worsley looked heavenwards then down again. ‘You was complaining about the stew. Stokey, who had volunteered the meal on account
of his promotion, asked you to provide something better. You declared you’d be hard pressed to find worse.’ He sighed. ‘And
on it all went from there.’

Jack searched his mind. He did have the vaguest recollection of such a conversation, but not its conclusion ‘And where did
it all end?’

‘With him challenging you to obtain decent meat for the Queen’s birthday feast in two days’ time. And you not only
agreein’ but also wagering your lieutenancy against a cask of brandy that you would do it.’

Jack looked at the man in the alarm of sudden recollection. ‘But no one took me seriously, surely? I mean, it can’t be binding,
can it? I am still Lieutenant by virtue of seniority and …’ He became aware that his voice was rapidly rising to a whine and
stopped. While what he had just said was true, he also knew that if he had agreed to step down in Stokey’s favour before all
their brother officers he must do so. It was his word, his honour pledged to it.

He reached over to his satchel, took out his purse. He had four gold scudi left from what he had split with Pounce in Rome.
Though he was sure he would get an appalling rate, there would be someone who would give him Portuguese coin for the gold
at least. ‘How much will we need to buy, say, a cow?’

‘A cow?’ Worsley laughed. ‘Sir, this land’s in a drought and has armies criss-crossing it. I’ll warrant Stokey paid more than
what’s in your hand for the dog you ate last night.’

Jack felt his gorge rise, quelled it. ‘So what do I do?’

‘Well, you was boasting of your time in Canada …’

‘Boasting? I recall a few small anecdotes …’

‘… and told of some painted savage what could track game ’cross forest, marsh, mountain, lake, through the very air, you said!
And how he taught you everything he knew.’

Até had also taught Jack not to make promises with his mouth that his arse could not keep. ‘Is there game here?’ he asked
tentatively.

‘I don’t know. I’m from Barnstaple. Only thing we hunt is crabs. Both kinds!’ He grinned. ‘But,’ he went behind the door,
pulled out a long, slim leather satchel, ‘I was batman to the late Sir William afore ’ee, and his everything you have inherited.
He was very proud of this.’

He handed the case over. Jack undid the buckles and
gasped. For out slid a simply beautiful gun, with a stock of polished walnut, its silver mounts and thumb plate engraved with
scenes from the chase. The lock was signed ‘Tanner à Gotha’, a renowned Saxon gunsmith. It was not the very latest of designs,
but a quick glimpse down the barrel showed it was rifled, and it was certainly a better weapon than any he’d hunted with in
the Colonies. ‘Is there flint and ball for it?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Worsley waved at the chest.

‘How d’you manage to preserve this booty from the other officers?’

‘First thing I hid.’

Jack laid the stock to his shoulder. ‘Clever lad.’

‘A bit of Sir William’s brains must ’ave rubbed off.’ He grinned. ‘If you’ll forgive the expression.’

Jack laughed, lowered the gun. ‘What time do we ride tonight?’

‘Not till midnight. Out of the sun and to keep the movements secret, ’tis said.’

‘Where are we bound?’

‘Secret, too. But forward, not back. Seems we’re going to war at last, ’Bout time, I says. Soldier can only have so much rum
and women afore ’ee fights, don’t ye agree, sir?’

He left. Jack raised the weapon again, sighted on a crow atop a neighbouring roof. His vision was still a trifle impaired
but it would clear. A smile came on a realization. He had, perhaps too swiftly, tried to integrate back into army life in
ways that befitted his rank and station. He had gotten horribly drunk. He had made a reckless wager. And he was headed for
war. There was just one thing left for an English gentleman to do.

Hunt.

When the regiment reached its destination, the town of Castelo de Vide – near the Spanish border – in the early
evening of the next day, Jack set out immediately. There’d been no occasion to hunt on the forced march, so relentlessly did
they travel. But tiredness, compounded with the lateness of the hour, turned up no deer, though skulls and antlers displayed
on the walls of taverns indicated that deer were to be found. Or had been, at least, though God only knew where the drought
might have driven them.

The rising sun had not yet crested the hills above the town when he climbed into them the next day. As Até had taught him,
he travelled light: a rope-wrapped bottle of water mixed with wine; the half-loaf of bread Worsley had miraculously scrounged;
a length of rope, all carried in his satchel; a large knife on his belt that he’d taken off the Maltese sailor in Valetta
to prevent the man sticking it into him; the rifle and the pouch, which contained just six cartridges of paper, gunpowder
and ball. He’d only need one, though. If he missed he’d not get a second shot.

The cork trees soon merged into aspen, and there were signs here of deer, some pellets, crumbled to disgorge the tree’s small
black seeds, that could not have been upon the ground for very long. There was also the thinnest of creeks still running,
concealed under brush. It was barely deep enough to wet his feet. But deer in Portugal would, he felt sure, be little different
from their American equivalent. They would seek shelter, food and water. In this arid land, this tiny creek was perhaps one
of their few sources.

As he traced the trickle higher up, he thought about how the day might end – a Queen’s birthday feast consisting of beans
and a few pieces of stringy chicken. The only man who would be pleased with the fare would be Stokey, for he would have the
lieutenancy and, as he had not failed to remind Jack, command over him.

‘We’ll see if we cannot make you into a soldier again, Absolute. You are slack, sir. Devilishly slack. Can’t have the
Cornet of
my
troop let me down,’ he’d said, when Jack had returned empty-handed the previous night.

A rabbit ran across his path but there was no point even reaching for the gun. The wager had been clarified by a quorum of
officers as requiring enough meat to feed the entire mess with flesh, not the flavouring for a soup! Still, the sign of even
so much life was better than none at all. With that little hope he pressed on, to an area he’d scouted the day before that
contained other features a deer might like.

He took the last few hundred yards most carefully, rifle loaded and at port, eyes seeking between the trunks. But nothing
moved as he came up to a thicker stand that concealed what he’d noticed the day before – a slight flattening of the land,
the barest pooling of water. Before the drought this was undoubtedly a pond some four foot across. Jack bent to look. Yesterday
there had been a congregation of hoof prints on the pool’s western edge. He had used a branch to obliterate all trace, creating
a smooth surface to the dust. And, today, right in the middle of the swept area was the unmistakeable sight of a new hoofprint.

Jack rose, scanned the area. The slope rose up steeply from this point, increasingly tree-less, climbing toward the high bluffs
above. It was the sort of land deer loved – a north-facing slope to shelter from the worst of the sun’s heat; pockets of brush
for concealment; good views over all approaches; and, above all, good escape routes. Even through the trees Jack could see
trails through the shrub, disappearing up over the granite cliffs.

He stepped over the puddle and climbed a little way up the slope. A crag of rock gave him a natural wall to shelter behind
and slashed branches, from the pines that now predominated, provided a roof. For the moment he was downwind of the pool. Jack
took a sip of water, checked that powder was still in the pan and lay down.

The scent of pine sap from the cut branches, the steady
drone of flying insects, the call of cicadas and the heat all conspired to take Jack back to his time in Canada, in 1760,
when he and Até had acted as scouts for Murray’s army, as it chased the French from Quebec back to Montreal. They had supplemented
their meagre allowance with money paid for game supplied for the camp cook’s pot, competing as they always did in everything,
to bring in the most. Até had had a clear advantage in the beginning, his forest skills honed by virtue of hunting from the
moment he could stand. He had taken three to Jack’s one in the first month. However, Jack was – disputedly, of course – the
better shot, and his own tracking skills developed in observation of his companion; Até gave no lessons but by the end of
that campaign, Jack was level in kills.

‘Até,’ he whispered, missing him suddenly. He would have enjoyed this whole situation, hunting and war and wagers. He’d also
have relished the chance to mock Jack for the choices that had brought him here, via Bath and Rome. Where was his Mohawk blood
brother now? Probably at the school he’d told Jack he was hoping to be sent to, somewhere in Connecticut. It made Jack chuckle
to think of Até in a shirt and collar, diligent over his grammar, passionate about his verse. If he was still there then they
had shared another experience – a winter in prison. Yet Jack had no doubt that Até would stay the course. If he set his mind
to something, he would see it through, his desire for knowledge outweighing his longing for freedom.