Monstrous Regiment - Terry Pratchett [3]
“Yes, sir. No, sir. I just want to join up to fight for my country and the honor of the Duchess, sir!”
“You do?” said the corporal incredulously, but the sergeant appeared not to hear this. He looked Polly up and down, and Polly got the definite impression that the man was neither as drunk nor as stupid as he looked.
“Upon my oath, Corporal Strappi, it seems that what we’ve got ourselves here is nothin’ less than a good, old-fashioned patriot,” he said, his eyes searching Polly’s face. “Well, you’ve come to the right place, my lad!” He pulled a sheaf of papers toward him with an air of bustle. “You know who we are?”
“The Tenth Foot, sir. Light infantry, sir. Known as the ‘Ins-and-Outs,’ sir,” said Polly, relief bubbling through her. She’d clearly passed some sort of test.
“Right, lad. The jolly old Cheesemongers. Finest regiment there is, in the finest army in the world. Keen to join, then, are yer?”
“Keen as mustard, sir!” said Polly, aware of the corporal’s suspicious eyes on her.
“Good lad!”
The sergeant unscrewed the top from a bottle of ink and dipped a nib pen in it. His hand hovered over the paperwork.
“Name, lad?” he said.
“Oliver, sir. Oliver Perks,” said Polly.
“Age?”
“Seventeen come Sunday, sir.”
“Yeah, right,” said the sergeant. “You’re seventeen and I’m the Grand Duchess Annagovia. What’re you running away from, eh? Got a young lady in the family way?”
“He’d have ’ad to have ’ad help,” said the corporal, grinning unpleasantly. “He squeaks like a little lad.”
Polly realized she was starting to blush. But then, young Oliver would blush too, wouldn’t he? It was very easy to make a boy blush. Polly could do it just by staring.
“Don’t matter anyway,” said the sergeant. “You make your mark on this here document and kiss the Duchess and you’re my little lad, you understand? My name is Sergeant Jackrum. I will be your mother and your father, and Corporal Strappi here will be just like your big brother. And life will be steak and bacon every day, and anyone who wants to drag you away’ll have to drag me away too, because I’ll be holding onto your collar. And you might well be thinking there’s no one that can drag that much, Mr. Perks.” A thick thumb jabbed at the paper. “Just there, right?”
Polly picked up the pen and signed.
“What’s that?” said the corporal.
“My signature,” said Polly.
She heard the door open behind her, and spun around. Several young men—she corrected herself, several other young men—had clattered into the bar, and were looking around warily.
“You can read and write, too?” said the sergeant, glancing up at them and then back to her. “Yeah, I see. A nice round hand, too. Officer material, you are. Give him the shilling, Corporal. And the picture, of course.”
“Right, Sergeant,” said Corporal Strappi, holding up a picture frame on a handle, like a looking glass. “Pucker up, Private Parts.”
“It’s Perks, sir,” said Polly.
“Yeah, right. Now kiss the Duchess.”
It was not a good copy of the famous picture. The painting behind the glass was faded, and something—some kind of moss or something—was growing on the inside of the cracked glass itself. Polly let her lips brush it while holding her breath.
“Huh,” said Strappi, and pressed something into her hand.
“What’s this?” said Polly, looking at the small square of paper.
“An IOU. Bit short of shillings right now,” said the sergeant, while Strappi smirked. “But the innkeeper’ll stand you a pint of ale, courtesy of Her Grace.”
He turned and looked up the newcomers. “Well, it never rains but it pours. You boys here to join up too? My word, and we didn’t even have to bang the drum. It must be Corporal Strappi’s amazin’ charisma. Step up, don’t be shy. Who’s the next likely lad?”
Polly looked at the next recruit with a horror that she hoped she was concealing. She hadn’t really noticed him in the gloom, because he was wearing black—not cool, styled black, but a dusty black, the kind of suit a person got buried in. By the look of it, that person had been him. There