Monstrous Regiment - Terry Pratchett [104]
“Yes, lad.”
“What, the one who killed sixteen men at the Battle of Zop?”
“There was only ten of ’em, but good lad for knowin’ it.”
“The Jackrum who carried General Froc through fourteen miles of enemy territory?”
“That’s right.”
Polly saw teeth in the gloom as the sentry grinned.
“My dad told me he fought with you at Blunderberg!”
“Ah, that was a hot battle, that was!” said Jackrum.
“No, he meant in the pub afterwards! He pinched your drink and you smacked him in the gob and he kicked you in the nadgers and you hit him in the guts and he blacked your eye and then you hit him with a table and when he came round his mates stood him beer for the evening for managing to lay nearly three punches on Sergeant Jackrum. He tells the story every year, when it’s the anniversary and he’s pis—reminiscing.”
Jackrum thought for a moment, and then jabbed a finger at the young man.
“Joe Hubukurk, right?” he said.
The smile broadened to the point where the top of the young man’s head was in danger of falling off.
“He’ll be smirking all day when I tell him you remember him, Sarge!” said the sentry. “He says that where you piss grass don’t grow!”
“Well, what can a modest man say to that, eh?” said Jackrum. Then the young man frowned.
“Funny, though, he thought you were dead, Sarge,” he said.
“Tell him I bet him a shilling I’m not,” said Jackrum. “And your name, lad?”
“Lart, Sarge. Lart Hubukurk.”
“Glad you joined, are you?”
“Yes, Sarge,” said Lart loyally.
“We’re just having a stroll, lad. Tell your dad I asked after him.”
“I will, Sarge!” The boy stood to attention like a one-man guard of honor. “This is a proud moment for me, Sarge!”
“Does everyone know you, Sarge?” whispered Polly as they walked away.
“Aye, pretty much. On our side, anyway. I’ll make so bold as to declare that most of the enemy that meets me don’t know anything much afterwards.”
“I never thought it was going to be like this!” hissed Shufti.
“Like what?” said Jackrum.
“There’s women and children! Shops! I can smell bread baking! It’s like a…a city.”
“Yeah, but what we’re after isn’t going to be in the main streets. Follow me, lads.”
Sergeant Jackrum, suddenly furtive, ducked between two big heaps of boxes and emerged beside a smithy, its forge glowing in the dusk.
Here the tents were open-sided. Armorers and saddlers worked by lantern light, shadows flickering across the mud. Polly and Shufti had to step out of the way of a mule train, each animal carrying two casks on its back; the mules moved aside for Jackrum. Maybe he’s met them before, too, thought Polly, maybe he really does know everyone.
The sergeant walked like a man with the deeds to the world. He acknowledged other sergeants with a nod, lazily saluted the few officers there were around here, and ignored everybody else.
“You been here before, Sarge?” said Shufti.
“No, lad.”
“But you know where you’re going?”
“Correct. I ain’t been here, but I know battlefields, especially when everyone’s had a chance to dig in.” Jackrum sniffed the air. “Ah, right. That’s the stuff. Just you two wait here.”
He disappeared between two stacks of lumber. They heard a distant muttering and, after a moment or two, Jackrum reappeared holding a small bottle.
Polly grinned. “Is that rum, Sarge?”
“Well done, my little bar steward. And would be nice if it was rum, upon my word. Or whiskey or gin or brandy. But this don’t have none of those fancy names. This is the genuine stingo, this is. Pure hangman.”
“Hangman?” said Shufti.
“One drop and you’re dead,” said Polly. Jackrum beamed, as a master to a keen pupil.
“That’s right, Shufti. It’s rotgut. Wheresoever men are gathered together, someone will find something to ferment in a rubber boot, distill in an old kettle, and flog to his mates. Made from rats, by the smell of it. Ferments well, does your average rat. Fancy a taste?”
Shufti shied away from the proffered bottle. The sergeant laughed.
“Good lad. Stick to beer,” he said.
“Don’t the officers stop it?” said Polly.
“Officers? What do they know about anything?” said Jackrum. “An