Infernal Revolutions by Stephen Woodville

army.’
    â€˜Already?’
    â€˜No-one else wants me.’
    â€˜Poignant, Harry. Very.’
    â€˜Besides, I can’t risk another whipping; any more strokes would be hitting bare kidney, and I don’t fancy that.’
    â€˜I’ve known men survive a thousand strokes before now. Where’s your bottom, man?’
    â€˜Have you been stroked, Dick?’
    â€˜Well, no.’
    â€˜Shut thy mouth then. And get me a drink of ale. My mouth is as dry as a nun’s fireplace.’
    â€˜Twas time, I had decided, to start acting and talking like a soldier if I was to be one. And a great relief it was too – thinking and plotting and dreaming ecstatic dreams of anything, be it fame or escape, was a tiring fruitless business, and I’d had enough of it. Now I could just put my body and brain and soul in the hands of George III, and let him do my worrying for me, at least for the duration of the American war. This change of heart must have become apparent to everyone over the next few days, for as soon as I was well enough I was taken to the quartermaster’s store and kitted out in the regulation uniform, which consisted of a red coat, a cocked hat, a white stock, half-length gaiters, white stockings, white breeches, linen socks and black boots. Issued also with a tin canteen, a knapsack, a haversack, combs, brushes and blankets, I was instantly transformed from creeping Night Poet to brazen Soldier, shockingly conspicuous to all adversaries.
    So, subdued and acquiescent, I knuckled down to my duties, which, thanks to my new attitude, became almost enjoyable. For a couple of weeks, these consisted entirely of learning the dull mechanisms of drill practice, but then I was issued with my very own firelock and bayonet, complete with ammunition pouch and cartridge box, and the world became a brighter place, for I found I had a special knack for impersonalized murder. The technique and ritual involved in loading and firing the musket was very conducive to my temperament, and soon I was spraying balls around with surprising speed and facility. Despite this accomplishment, however, I was never considered good enough to join the elite Grenadier or Light Infantry battalions, scouts of which came round occasionally to claim the better amongst us as their own. Big, brave and handsome recruits, of which in my opinion there were none, were destined for the Grenadiers, there to be heartily backslapped and pumped with over-estimation of their own worth; while small, wiry, witty men ended up in the appropriately-named Light Infantry, to be trained for all sorts of skirmishing and nimble errands when real battle commenced. Hurt at first that I hadn’t been selected for either, I consoled myself with the pleasing reflection that I was too intelligent for the Grenadiers, and too big and handsome for the Light Infantry squirts, thereby falling into an even-more-elite middle category, of which, looking around me, I was the only member.
    Still, this oversight was perhaps a blessing in disguise, because it meant that I could continue the friendship I had struck up with Dick and the boys. For now that Little Bob was talking to me again the camaraderie in our quarters was excellent, and we all played very well together. This
esprit de corps
particularly manifested itself on company marches, when the open air and the music and the heroic nature of our calling made us feel a cut above ordinary mortals. We even felt superior to our superiors, thanks to their appearance of doing nothing in particular. Indeed, ‘twas not until five days before our departure that I caught my first proper glimpse of our commissioned officers.
    â€˜Dick,’ I said, pointing, ‘Who are they coming out of the houses over yonder?’
    Resting at midday in the middle of a pointless ten-mile march, our company was seated on a hill with good views of both the sea and the countryside. Whilst pouring out tepid tea from my