LITMIR.BIZ

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That was precisely what the Sergeant was doing, but it didn't save him from a tongue-lashing from Carmichael.

      ‘Beat to arms, Pegg.’ Colour-Sergeant McGucken's crisp order to the drummer seemed to steady Carmichael a little until, it was discovered that the boy was missing. ‘Where's bloody Pegg, has anyone seen him?’ McGucken's voice was already tinged with concern.

      ‘His drum and kit's here, Colour-Sar'nt’ shouted one of the other drummers who had gone in search of the boy.

      ‘Just beat to arms then, son, he can't 'ave gone far.’

      As the tattoo rolled out, the hubbub in the Grenadier Company's lines soon infected the rest of the regiment. In no time, all of the other companies were standing-to, Colonel Webber-Smith was calling for his horse and the adjutant, the transport ponies were having their bran and oat nosebags snatched away, the buglers taking up the call whilst damp, smoky cooking fires were stamped to embers.

      The drizzle had cleared but the light was still not good as the sentries saw two figures, one tall and lean, one small and fat – and weighed down by the hare that he carried by its hind legs – come galloping towards them. Only the scarlet of their coats saved them from a jumpy volley, both pickets having cocked their rifles and brought them to the aim at the sight of movement where only Russians should be.

      ‘Don't shoot, it's us, Pegg and Luff! What's going on?’ The two hunters breathed hard as the sentries lowered their rifles.

      ‘God knows. You must have heard them shots over yonder, more or less where you came from?’ A skinny, sallow-faced lad, the senior of the two sentries, eased the hammer of his rifle forward before absently brushing at his running nose.

      ‘Aye, that was us, just got this.’ Pegg held up the hare: it was almost as big as he was.

      ‘Well, no fucker knew you was out there, the whole lot's standing-to. Best report to Jock McGucken, he'll skin you sooner than he does that bleeder. Sure there's no Russians out there?’

      ‘Not that we saw,’ Pegg shouted over his shoulder as the pair trotted guiltily back towards McGucken and wrath.

      And wrath they got. There seemed to be no end to the pair's sins. First they had neglected to ask a corporal if they could go out to look for game. On top of that, they'd been half-witted enough not to check out with the same pair of sentries through whom they would return. What did they expect the company to do when they heard shooting to their front? And what about the rest of the regiment? Hadn't they made Captain Eddington and himself look utter fools in the eyes of everyone? Didn't they realize that the company commander, even now, was having a strip torn off him by no lesser mortal than the colonel?

      Then, in the name of all that was holy, what would they have done if they met a clutch of bleedin' Cossacks out there just waiting to stick their lances up their fur-framed hoops? How would he have explained that to their mums and, more to the point, Luff was senior enough not to let silly little knobs like Pegg get them all into trouble. They were just downright fuckin' eejits. He was going to rip them a second arsehole, worse, he had a good mind to fuck-them-off-out of the Grenadiers and back to some ‘hat’ company!

      McGucken's riftings were known to be impressive. The two privates stood trembling to attention whilst the storm flickered about them. Minute flecks of foam from the Colour-Sergeant's lips landed on their cheeks but they dared not wipe it away, they just stood there, watching the others – amused yet appalled – go about their business. Then the squall seemed to have abated. McGucken paused, eased his leather cross-belts on his shoulders, pushed his bayonet scabbard back against his thigh and drew breath.

      They were half hoping that they'd get away with just a bollocking and that the ordeal was over. But then another thought occurred to big Jock McGucken.

      ‘What the bloody hell did yous pair of clowns use to kill that hare? It wasn't buck-shot, was it?’

      ‘Yes, Colour-Sar'nt,’ the miscreants muttered.

      ‘Right, that's it! I've had a gut-load of you! You're on company commander's report for damaging your weapons. Now shag off back to your place of duty and get that pox-ridden rabbit out of my sight!’

      With the old, smooth-bored muskets it was quite normal to use buck-shot for killing game, so all the soldiers had brought some pellets with them for just that purpose. The trouble was, the spiral rifling with which the barrel of the new rifle was etched – the very secret of its range and accuracy – was thought to be delicate. Firing even soft lead pellets from it was ordained a sin – though this, Pegg and Luff claimed, had been made far from clear. The only good that might come from the embarrassment of the Grenadier Company, McGucken reasoned, was that the men wouldn't abuse their rifles again.

      Company commander's report, though, was not good. Discipline McGucken-style usually resulted in extra duties or fatigues being awarded, tedious but bearable. Being put in front of Captain Eddington – with all his cold authority – was quite another matter for at the very least their records would be spoilt and the possibility of promotion delayed. They might be stopped pay or their ration of spirits, but much worse, now that they were on active service, a flogging was a possibility. It made sense: the officers would want to underline the fact that discipline had to be sharper in the face of the enemy, that things that might be overlooked in barracks were unacceptable in the field.

      ‘Ever seen a flogging, Luffy?’ Such punishments were almost unknown in the 95th, so it was a fair bet that Luff had no such experience and that its very mystery made the prospect all the worse.

      ‘No, mate. One of the new draft from the 82nd got twenty lashes couple o' years back, he said. Got busted from lance-jack an' all. He reckons it don't hurt that bad, it's just that you feel such a twot if you yell out with everyone watching.’

      The hare had been stuffed into Pegg's haversack as soon as they got back to where they had left their equipment. Now the pair were desperately trying to light a fire. Despite shaving twigs to get finer tinder, the scraps of branches were so wet that everyone had had the devil's own job to get their cooking fires lit. One or two of the older NCOs had lodged bits of lint in their shirt pockets to keep them as dry as possible for the flints and steel. Once their fires were lit, kindling was brought by others and very quickly the whole company was fanning and puffing smokily. Luff and Pegg's episode, though, had ensured that everyone had to start the laborious process again whilst the pair could be sure that no embers would willingly be passed in their direction. Luff had already spent ten minutes with his coatee undone as a windbreak, desperately trying to get a spark to take.

      ‘This'll never work, the wood's too bleedin' wet.’ Luff continued to strike his tinder box disconsolately.

      ‘We'll have to use a cartridge.’ Pegg suggested exactly what was on Luff's mind.

      ‘So long as we don't get caught, we've got enough drama as it is.’ Luff knew that they would have to account for each round.

      ‘We won't get caught. We'll be firing them at Russ tomorrow then no bugger will know how many we've got.’ Pegg's logic was impeccable. He reached into his pouch, took out a bundle of ten waxy paper tubes and split one open, sprinkling the gunpowder over the twigs. The pair crouched over the pyre, Luff tinkering away until a spark took, the flash making them both jerk back in surprise. But the billow of white smoke drifted right through the knots of kneeling, blowing men who were trying to get their own fires going.

      ‘Right, you two, I seen that, you've been told not to use cartridges for fires. You're both on report, get your bodies over to the Colour-Sergeant now!’ Sergeant Ormond had seen exactly what happened – he had little choice: Pegg and Luff had little hope. As they trudged over for their second interview with McGucken in half an hour, they could almost feel the bite of the lash.

      ‘See, I was right, wasn't I?’ Carmichael had indeed been right, the French were marching next to the sea and the support of the ships whilst the British stumped on further inland.

      ‘Yes, we've been seen off again by the Frogs,’ Morgan answered distractedly. Ever since he was a boy he'd hated long

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