1644
DAY SIX: FRIDAY
Ah! The end of the week! And here comes the weekend! Yay?
Oh boy, do I hate travelling by communal cart? Yet here we are, on our way to the battlefield. I suppose you could call it a day trip. Frankly, for me, it’s just an excuse to get to where the Roundabouts are. They’re hiding in plain sight, I might add. Looks like - time’s about eleven? Must be time for tea.
Just listen to that roar! It’s astounding the noise two armies can make. And the nearer we get, the louder it seems to become. There’s certainly an atmosphere of excitement and anticipation building! People are already getting their sashes ready.
In case you don’t know, it’s red for the Royalists, and yellow for the Parliamentarians. Other than that tiny distinction, both sides look virtually identical. It’s because of today’s fashion, I suppose? Or the fact that they get these uniforms wholesale. I hear they’ve got women sewing uniforms through the night in these small towns at the moment? No one from Upper Vaxham is, however. Neutral towns don’t generally supply armies, if they can help it. Oh, food, beer - that kind of stuff is fine. But uniforms are frowned upon and weapons are a big no no.
Still, it happens, here and there. It’s a sellers market, after all. During war, there’s always demand for something, and plenty of people ready to supply it - hence the abundance of camp followers you’ll find here abouts. They set their stalls out, pitch their tents, wash their whores and burn the food, as is their want. It’s the nature of such things that out here, amongst the followers, everything runs more expensive. But it’s the only official place to buy souvenirs, replica uniforms and the like.
Oh, people come to these things all the time, let me tell you. There’s people amongst this day-tripping cart, and very much more on the sidelines of the battlefield, who know the ins and outs of how these things work. They know the right herbs to take and the dodgy sellers from the honest ones - and hark on about how naive these people are who just come for the day, when people like them come to these things regularly. Every day, in some cases. Always with a quip, you know, like ‘where’s your sack?’ You say you haven’t got one, and they snort a derisive laugh, saying, ‘So what are you going to do, then, when it bloody rains?’
And let’s not mention the toilet facilities. Okay, let’s. See that line of trees over there? That’s them, the toilet facilities. Stinks to high Heaven, it does. Plus, and forever heed this warning, never go there without thick sturdy boots. I’ll leave the reason for that to your own imagination. Ah, here we are. The battlefield.
Yes. Soldiers everywhere. Just look at that mess! And there’s the blood thirsty battle-goers, baying for one side or the other; in chanting song, some of them - like a huge sporting event. Just listen to the conversation between these two disparate people -
“Hey! Do you know how long it is until the Harquebusiers?” That’s one of them.
“Dunno, mate. The Pikemen are still on at the moment, down on the lower field.” That’s the other. It’s like some kind of festival for them, if you ask me. But you didn’t. So whatever. I’m educating you, you know? Ah, suit yourself.
It’s all largely pointless, anyway. The only reason I’m here, to be frank, is because I’ve got the money to pay off my debt to the Roundabouts. Freedom awaits. But, and this is a big but, very much akin to the size and capacity of Trish Treyne’s, I have to get to their location first. Which is on the battlefield. I know. I’m literally and figuratively shitting myself.
But freedom is freedom, and if I want it, I’ve got to work for it. But how? I haven’t really thought about it until now. I’ve been concentrating on getting the money in the first place. Coming here, to the battlefield is as far as my planning went. Quite frankly I expected somehow the money was going to get snatched from me somewhere along the way - knowing my luck so far - and I’m well aware that there’s only fifteen days left until - whatever happens, happens. Ah, if only I did what I wanted to do when I was a child, then I wouldn't be in this situation now. What was it I wanted to do as a child, you ask? I wanted to be a bumble bee.
Okay, I was a child, like I say, so my world view was limited. Look, it was a dream, okay? Don't judge me! It could have happened! If - magic existed? Right, well, just forget it! Thought I’d share a little bit about me, but if you're going to mock - back to boring reality then, I suppose.
The combination of sword, musket, the baying crowds and the camp followers calling out their wares is like an explosion in a Loud Noise Factory. I can see now how it’s such big business! Just look at the destruction, the blood, the guts, the tea - it’s enough to turn lesser men than me into a gibbering wreck. To be honest, and yes, I can be sometimes, before you say it - if I wasn't here on business, I’d be one of those gibbering wrecks in a puddle of my own juices about now. Who knows, when it’s all over, I might very well be reduced to it? But for now, I have to focus.
Right. I think I’m going to need a uniform. Perhaps one of those replica ones will do? I only have to appear, from a distance, as one of them? They’re cheaply made, but it should do the trick. Just as long as someone doesn't come up to me, you know, and try and stab me with something large, pointy and menacing? Or get hit by stray ordinance? Or - sod it, I could go on all day and talk myself out of it. So, let’s do it! Actually, you know, I wish Flit was here - to do it instead of me?
“Hey! Want some Beer? Premium grade! Not cut with nothin’! Cake? We got every variety! Cock Fingers! Special Dutch Groin! Every Berry!” Politeness would dictate I reply, but sod him. I’d rather stick the finger of resentment up the arse of politeness, to be frank. Look, they charge over the odds here, you know? I’m only a poor Rector. Okay, so I have a bag full of money, but it isn't mine anymore, not technically. Here we are. The Costume Stall.
“Nice outfit, guv! You look almost like a Rector!”
“Because I am a Rector.” Idiot.
“Begging your pardon, it’s just -“
“I wonder if I could look at what you’ve got in - I don't know - a good Parliamentary Army outfit?”
“Why certainly, sir! Step this way!” If I could step that way I’d - oh, never mind.
Wow! He’s got everything from a - what’s this? A Clubman, to a - well, of course! No costumier would be worth his salt if he didn't have the obligatory tart getup? Ah, this is what I’m after! No, not the whore outfit! The Parliamentary garb. A bit baggy, but it should suffice.
“Would you like me to wrap it for you sir?”
“Oh, no. I’ll wear it out, thank you!” Worth twice as much at half the price! And now the sash - right. Here I go.
I hope that smell is the battlefield and I haven't just crapped myself. Focus. That’s what I need. Concentrate on the middle distance. Okay, not that middle distance. Eww. I didn't realise the insides of someone smoked that way in the open air. I’m most definitely going to be sick. What was that? Oh, God, if you’re up there, and I have no way of knowing for certain, despite the frock, please look after your humble - oooh! That was close! Perhaps he’s a trifle deaf? God! Oh God, oh God! Listen to your attentive - missed! - loving - nearly! - humble - oooh! That was close! - Okay, okay, I get the point! Just, you know, keep an eye out? If you happen to be looking? Or if you’re not too - wow! Another close one! - busy? Signed Wilfred Posster - oww! That one almost touched me! Sod strolling, I’m going to - woo! - run for it!
Okay, it’s a bit quieter up here. I don't much fancy doing that again! Scared the Hell out of me! Damn near shit myself on more than one of those bangs! In fact - in fact I may well have? Right now I don't care.
What a senseless destruction of life! Look!? Everywhere your eyes rest, they fall upon a corpse, or the thieving and looting from the dead, and if they're not quite dead they soon will be - the despicable nature - the true nature of the human being, to murder, to kill, to steal, to desire that which the other has. All I want to know is, where’s my bloody share?! Selfish bastards.
Oh, God. I think I’m here. That man there certainly looks like he prefers to take money with menaces. I’d say he has it tattooed all over his face, but there’s no room in between the thick heavy skull tattoo already covering two thirds of it, all down his neck and probably ending somewhere underneath. I believe his name is Freddie Snaps? Can’t say I’ve heard of the Snaps family, however? Are they the Tottenham Snaps? Or the Snaps from the rolling Yorkshire countryside, amongst its sheep and cattle, grazing in the summer sun -
“What?” I think he wants to say more words, but they must be lost somewhere inside that mush of a brain. I’ve seen boxing injuries before. That and the scabs he has means he probably has syphilis too. I’m surprised he managed that one word, to be honest.
“I’m here to see the Roundabouts -“
“Never use that name ‘round ‘ere, got it?” With your face that close to mine, I’ll be surprised if I haven't got whatever it is you have, that’s for sure.
“Uhm, okay then. Is Major General Francis Laud present?”
“Why?” Oh, God. Do I need to spell it out to him? I doubt he could read it even if I did.
“I have something I owe him. I would like to talk to him, please?”
“Wait.” Yes, sir, Your Idiotness. Even this far away from the action of the front line, it’s still brown breech time. I know, with all logic at my command, which is quite a lot more than you would initially think, that the guns can’t hit me this far out, but, you know -
“Posster. What do you want? Quick, so I can disembowel you here and cut out all that boring waiting.” Got to love Frank Laud. Actually no you haven’t, not unless he wants you to.
“I’ve got it.”
“I can tell. I can smell it from here.”
“Are all of those looters yours? Wait, what was I saying? Oh, no, I mean I have the money I owe you. Here! In this bag!” That’s right, take it from me and let me go!
“Bill!” Who the Hell is Bill? Oh, that’s Bill. I wonder, does that cut right down his face hurt all the time, because he’s got a look to him like it does? And, not that it matters, he doesn't look like a natural born Englishman, “Here, count this, will you, and -“
“Private Wilhelm Freemanns! Frank! And who’s this?” More to the point, who the bloody Hell is that? He looks older than the hills! He’s got a face one dry-spell away from desiccation! If a bit of his skin fell off, you’d use it to buff your windows! Well, you get the point. He looks old. Very old.
“General - Lord Wilberforce Justice, this is - Private Posster, with a message from the front!” I’m guessing that gesture Frank’s giving me is to improvise? Either that or he’s got the worse head tick I’ve ever seen.
“Ah, yes - General! It’s all going well! Should be done by teatime - no, I mean - uhm - it’s nearly tea time? I think I need to -“
“No, stay. Take tea with my men here? They’re always so busy, guarding these retreat lines. They do the very important work with little to no complaint, you know? The best Soldiers I’ve ever had under me. Come. Conor Redmerry?” Ah, I get it. They're using the old duffer, as a legitimate excuse to avoid the battle. Brilliant. I’d admire it further if I wasn't being melted under the murderous gaze of Frankie boy. Oh, and here comes Jimmy Boots. It’s like a little reunion, isn't it? Of homicidal manics who want my head as a storage jar for boiled sweets, and my ribs for a toast rack.
That redhead there, the one who has the impression of a nose, without actually having one, must be Conor Redmerry. I’m guessing he’s one of our North of the Border cousins? But that other one? I’ve no idea. He looks like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. He’s fresh faced and quiet, just sitting there polishing a sword.
I’m not stupid. I know how these things work. He’s obviously the most vicious and hardest of them all. The quiet ones usually are. It’s a kind of cliche, but I wouldn't say that out loud. Besides, it’s from people like the Roundabouts that these cliches start, you know? The blueprint has to come from somewhere. Put simply, annoy one of them and say goodbye to your balls, literally, as they tear them off and throw them to the dogs. That’s if your lucky.
“Posster. Sit.” What choice do I have? Deny Frank? Not if I want children eventually. This is going to be the single most anxious tea I’ll ever drink. That is if I can keep my hand from - shaking - stop it!
“So, how’s your day -“
“Shut up, Posster. I still haven’t got a straight answer out of Sharryn Knibbs yet, about you and her. Right now I have other concerns, but don’t for one micro second think I’ve forgotten about it. There are materials to build gallows even now sitting in that tent over there, getting dusty, desperate for an airing. Wilhelm? What say you?” Shit, I thought he was calling me that then. He hasn't blinked once. Maybe he’s part lizard?
“Zere is the correct amount, Frank. No more no less.” Oh, he’s German? I should’ve guessed!
“Lucky for you I’m in a good mood - no wait, I’m in a horrible, shitty mood, Posster! A horrible, shitty, angry -“
“Everything alright here, lads?”
“Sir! Yes sir! Everything is ticketyboo, General sir!”
“Glad to hear it. Carry on!”
“Where was I? Right. Horrible, shitty and angry. That’s why I’m going to take this money you gave me as a downpayment to your accumulating debt. Don’t look at me like that, Posster! Didn't you realise how money lending is done? You owe at least the same again, my friend! And it accumulates by the day! But - but, I feel lenient right now, so, if you perform a couple of tasks for me, I will give you leave - for a further fortnight. After that -“ Well, we don’t need a map, do we? Fourteen days eh? Wonder what happens in that extra day? I know it’s going to be interesting to find out - relatively speaking.
“So - what is it you need me to do?” I can’t believe I’m asking him this!
“Glad to see you’re not as stupid as you look. Percy Coal over there,” So that’s his name! Sounds like the name of a complete nutter, doesn't it? “Percy is injured, therefore cannot collect a particular delivery we are owed. So, Posster, you are required to go to the Cake Vendor and bring back some of his special cakes. Remember that, Posster. Special cakes. Now, drink up and go.” See? Frank Laud can be reasonable when he wants to be? Bullcrap. He knows it’s a bloody hard task. He just wants some sport. And I want my life, so I suppose I’ve got to do it. Right. Back to the front - with all the enthusiasm of a dead, drowned and badly beaten badger.
I’d say I can’t believe it, this ‘only a downpayment’ rubbish, but quite frankly I think I’m lucky to get away with only that. God only knows how I’m going to find more money now, but there is time. At the least I know I’ve got fourteen days to find it. Or to run away. Or to kill myself. Or, as I’ve always preferred to go, to die from abundant sex. Tell you what, I’ll do this piffling task first, then ponder on that idea - my arse! I’ll be lucky to live through this day as it is. Now, to get these cakes. Should be relatively straightforward. Relative to near suicide from wandering back onto the battlefield, where two sets of people are trying really hard to kill each other, with muskets, swords, pikes and stuff.
You know, going back is a lot easier than going forward, I can tell you? There may be just as many stray objects flying about your head, but once you’ve spent more than five minutes in that Viper’s Den - the Roundabouts Encampment - life takes on a new invulnerability. The only problem that remains, however, is - oops! - is avoiding slipping on bits of other and very dead people. Oh! Look! One of the looters missed something! I’ll just - pull - right, now I know why they left it alone. Eww. I’ll never get that out, not without a good soak! And, of course, there’s the - bloody crows! Like flies! Look, I’m not dead, so stop pecking at my bloody head, you flying rats! Oh, charming! Thanks for that you feathered bastard! Although it is said to bring luck, I suppose? But just look at the state - oh, never mind. Maybe the smell will help me blend in? I’ve yet to see an Officer, except for General Lord Wilberforce Justice, and he barely qualifies as a human being. It’s going to be a challenge if I do come across a real, ball-busting Officer.
Ah, this is where I came in, literally! By that, I mean this is the spot I crossed into the battlefield. Quick change, and - a Rector once more! Like magic! Well, not actually magic, because then I’d be burned - oh, whatever. Let’s get on with this? I’ve got to find more money from somewhere.
So, I see the day trippers are still here? Thought they might have gotten bored. How can this be exciting to watch? I blame the Catholics. Too much violence toward them has desensitised the war-going public to severed arms, severed legs and the occasional disembowelling. I tell you, once you’ve witnessed a Catholic burning, you never forget it. It’s amazing how rich meat tastes after being cooked over a Catholic Pyre. No, of course I don’t mean the meat of the Catholic! What do you take me for? Some kind of animal?
Ah there’s the Cake Vendor. I certainly hope he’s expecting someone from the Roundabouts, or I’m about to look very strange, “Sir? Hello?”
“How can I help you Rector?” Seems pleasant enough?
“I - I need some cakes.”
“Don’t we all, sir! Don’t we all!”
“No, I mean I need some of yours.”
“Oh, no, Rector! We can’t just give ‘em away! There are overheads, you know!” I think this man is currently at least one cake short of a picnic, that’s for sure.
“Alright. I - would - like - to - buy -“
“Oh, right! Why didn't you say?” Because I thought it implicit in my words, you idiot?
“Your special cakes, in fact.”
“Sorry. Sold out.” Did he just turn his back on me? What a rude -
“I need them! Look -“
Ow. What is it with people pinching my chest hair when they grab me? Is it some kind of bloody fetish? “I said, quite clearly, we are sold out. Now go, before I get the Roundabouts -“
“It was the Roundabouts who sent me -“ Right. Now we see the correct attitude to a man of the sodding cloth! Oh, a chair too? A shot of rum? Don't mind if I do!
“God’s sake, why didn't you say so in the first bloody place, pardoning my sodding language?”
“Well -“
“Whatever. It doesn't matter now. Take your time. Sip away, and I’ll get them special cakes for you. Just, you know, take care of them, alright? Like your life depends on it. And mine.” Alright, kid! They’re only confectionery! It’s not like they're bags - of - holy shit! They're bags of money! Dare I? Dare I take them? And run away, make a new identity? Surely theres enough to - no, wait. Think about it, Wilfred. There are Roundabouts all over the country. Some abroad too. They're difficult to navigate at the best of times, but get on the wrong side of them and there’s a mountain of trouble ahead! No, think sensibly. Better to get on their good side than have it scraped off slowly by someone like Percy Coal or Freddie Snaps. I know which side my loyalties lie, and they lie very much in the lap of the ones who might kill me if I don’t. Great, now I’ve got two bags full of money and a battlefield to traverse again. It never rains, but it always bloody pissing well pours!
Right, back on with the uniform. God, help me - oh, right, we’ve already been over this bit. I don’t think Him Upstairs is overly thrilled with me at the moment? Better not piss Him off again. I’ve still got all my bits and pieces more or less where they should be. I’d very much like to keep it that way for as long as I can.
Nearly there. Again. You know, if I walk left, or walk right on this battlefield it seems much the same. Either way at this moment could spell painful, malicious cutting off of bits of me from the rest of me. The only difference would be speed of cut, I suppose? Frankly, right now, given the choice I’d prefer the cannon shot to the Jimmy Boots straight razor approach.
Here it comes, that rising bile feeling again. Not from the scattering of rotting corpses, you understand. Oh no. From the sight of the tops of the tents that mark out the Roundabouts Encampment. And now, again, I walk through the jaws of the Devil to appease the creature within - who many describe as worse than the Devil himself. Frankly I wouldn't disagree. There’s a certain Hellfire about it, the stench as you walk in? At least I don't have to explain myself to Freddie Snaps again. I don't think I have the constitution for that too.
“Here you go, Frank.” Shit! I didn't just say that did I? Oh God! Is that look in his eye murder, or a stye? Please be a stye!
“Bill.” Yes, here, Bill. Take the attention off me. Please, “Posster, sit.” I hope he means on a chair, and not on an iron spike.
“It’s all zere, Boss.”
“Percy will be happy.” Good. As long as Percy is bloody happy. I’m not stupid, you know. I’m well aware that money is supposed to be Soldier’s Pay. But who am I to argue? Nobody, I hope, and never will be. Still -
“Forgive me for asking, but why don’t you just send for the Field Surgeon? I mean, he would be able to help Mr Coal, surely?” What’s that look? It’s like I said I was going to crap on the floor or something.
“No, Posster. Percy Coal, you see, is the Field Surgeon.”
“Ah.” I see. Well shut my mouth.
“Ah indeed. I commend you, Posster, on your ability to do as instructed. It doesn’t, however, let you off what you owe. But for now, you get to live. About my woman and the creature that grows within her, we shall leave for another day. Let that be a warning to you, Posster. Now get out of my sight, before I change my mind.” I certainly don’t need to be told twice. So why am I still sitting? “Go!” Apparently I do need to be told twice. It seems it takes a while for my guts to reach my feet and move me.
Oh, thank God that’s over! Well, that part, at least. So much relief! All I’ve got to do now is think up a way of getting that kind of cash again. Maybe I could - no, not a good idea. They hang people for that. No, it’s got to be something - artistic? Clever? Amazing. Why am I walking into the centre of the battle?
Shit! Shit! What happened there?! Quick, you idiot! Get out of here! Run!
“Halt! That man! Not deserting are we? I said halt, or I shall fire!” Oh sweet Jesus! He means me!
“I’m - I’m not supposed to be here! I’m -“
“You are a Soldier of the Parliamentary Army! Pick up your weapon!”
Uhm, God? I know I haven't been the best, but, you know, could you see your way clear to -
Flit! Where the Hell did he come from! Whoops, sorry, Your Lordship On High! Tell you what, we’ll square it when I next get the opportunity! You know how it is?
But thank - whatever - for Flit!
Of course I’m not going to tell him that -
Ah! The end of the week! And here comes the weekend! Yay?
Oh boy, do I hate travelling by communal cart? Yet here we are, on our way to the battlefield. I suppose you could call it a day trip. Frankly, for me, it’s just an excuse to get to where the Roundabouts are. They’re hiding in plain sight, I might add. Looks like - time’s about eleven? Must be time for tea.
Just listen to that roar! It’s astounding the noise two armies can make. And the nearer we get, the louder it seems to become. There’s certainly an atmosphere of excitement and anticipation building! People are already getting their sashes ready.
In case you don’t know, it’s red for the Royalists, and yellow for the Parliamentarians. Other than that tiny distinction, both sides look virtually identical. It’s because of today’s fashion, I suppose? Or the fact that they get these uniforms wholesale. I hear they’ve got women sewing uniforms through the night in these small towns at the moment? No one from Upper Vaxham is, however. Neutral towns don’t generally supply armies, if they can help it. Oh, food, beer - that kind of stuff is fine. But uniforms are frowned upon and weapons are a big no no.
Still, it happens, here and there. It’s a sellers market, after all. During war, there’s always demand for something, and plenty of people ready to supply it - hence the abundance of camp followers you’ll find here abouts. They set their stalls out, pitch their tents, wash their whores and burn the food, as is their want. It’s the nature of such things that out here, amongst the followers, everything runs more expensive. But it’s the only official place to buy souvenirs, replica uniforms and the like.
Oh, people come to these things all the time, let me tell you. There’s people amongst this day-tripping cart, and very much more on the sidelines of the battlefield, who know the ins and outs of how these things work. They know the right herbs to take and the dodgy sellers from the honest ones - and hark on about how naive these people are who just come for the day, when people like them come to these things regularly. Every day, in some cases. Always with a quip, you know, like ‘where’s your sack?’ You say you haven’t got one, and they snort a derisive laugh, saying, ‘So what are you going to do, then, when it bloody rains?’
And let’s not mention the toilet facilities. Okay, let’s. See that line of trees over there? That’s them, the toilet facilities. Stinks to high Heaven, it does. Plus, and forever heed this warning, never go there without thick sturdy boots. I’ll leave the reason for that to your own imagination. Ah, here we are. The battlefield.
Yes. Soldiers everywhere. Just look at that mess! And there’s the blood thirsty battle-goers, baying for one side or the other; in chanting song, some of them - like a huge sporting event. Just listen to the conversation between these two disparate people -
“Hey! Do you know how long it is until the Harquebusiers?” That’s one of them.
“Dunno, mate. The Pikemen are still on at the moment, down on the lower field.” That’s the other. It’s like some kind of festival for them, if you ask me. But you didn’t. So whatever. I’m educating you, you know? Ah, suit yourself.
It’s all largely pointless, anyway. The only reason I’m here, to be frank, is because I’ve got the money to pay off my debt to the Roundabouts. Freedom awaits. But, and this is a big but, very much akin to the size and capacity of Trish Treyne’s, I have to get to their location first. Which is on the battlefield. I know. I’m literally and figuratively shitting myself.
But freedom is freedom, and if I want it, I’ve got to work for it. But how? I haven’t really thought about it until now. I’ve been concentrating on getting the money in the first place. Coming here, to the battlefield is as far as my planning went. Quite frankly I expected somehow the money was going to get snatched from me somewhere along the way - knowing my luck so far - and I’m well aware that there’s only fifteen days left until - whatever happens, happens. Ah, if only I did what I wanted to do when I was a child, then I wouldn't be in this situation now. What was it I wanted to do as a child, you ask? I wanted to be a bumble bee.
Okay, I was a child, like I say, so my world view was limited. Look, it was a dream, okay? Don't judge me! It could have happened! If - magic existed? Right, well, just forget it! Thought I’d share a little bit about me, but if you're going to mock - back to boring reality then, I suppose.
The combination of sword, musket, the baying crowds and the camp followers calling out their wares is like an explosion in a Loud Noise Factory. I can see now how it’s such big business! Just look at the destruction, the blood, the guts, the tea - it’s enough to turn lesser men than me into a gibbering wreck. To be honest, and yes, I can be sometimes, before you say it - if I wasn't here on business, I’d be one of those gibbering wrecks in a puddle of my own juices about now. Who knows, when it’s all over, I might very well be reduced to it? But for now, I have to focus.
Right. I think I’m going to need a uniform. Perhaps one of those replica ones will do? I only have to appear, from a distance, as one of them? They’re cheaply made, but it should do the trick. Just as long as someone doesn't come up to me, you know, and try and stab me with something large, pointy and menacing? Or get hit by stray ordinance? Or - sod it, I could go on all day and talk myself out of it. So, let’s do it! Actually, you know, I wish Flit was here - to do it instead of me?
“Hey! Want some Beer? Premium grade! Not cut with nothin’! Cake? We got every variety! Cock Fingers! Special Dutch Groin! Every Berry!” Politeness would dictate I reply, but sod him. I’d rather stick the finger of resentment up the arse of politeness, to be frank. Look, they charge over the odds here, you know? I’m only a poor Rector. Okay, so I have a bag full of money, but it isn't mine anymore, not technically. Here we are. The Costume Stall.
“Nice outfit, guv! You look almost like a Rector!”
“Because I am a Rector.” Idiot.
“Begging your pardon, it’s just -“
“I wonder if I could look at what you’ve got in - I don't know - a good Parliamentary Army outfit?”
“Why certainly, sir! Step this way!” If I could step that way I’d - oh, never mind.
Wow! He’s got everything from a - what’s this? A Clubman, to a - well, of course! No costumier would be worth his salt if he didn't have the obligatory tart getup? Ah, this is what I’m after! No, not the whore outfit! The Parliamentary garb. A bit baggy, but it should suffice.
“Would you like me to wrap it for you sir?”
“Oh, no. I’ll wear it out, thank you!” Worth twice as much at half the price! And now the sash - right. Here I go.
I hope that smell is the battlefield and I haven't just crapped myself. Focus. That’s what I need. Concentrate on the middle distance. Okay, not that middle distance. Eww. I didn't realise the insides of someone smoked that way in the open air. I’m most definitely going to be sick. What was that? Oh, God, if you’re up there, and I have no way of knowing for certain, despite the frock, please look after your humble - oooh! That was close! Perhaps he’s a trifle deaf? God! Oh God, oh God! Listen to your attentive - missed! - loving - nearly! - humble - oooh! That was close! - Okay, okay, I get the point! Just, you know, keep an eye out? If you happen to be looking? Or if you’re not too - wow! Another close one! - busy? Signed Wilfred Posster - oww! That one almost touched me! Sod strolling, I’m going to - woo! - run for it!
Okay, it’s a bit quieter up here. I don't much fancy doing that again! Scared the Hell out of me! Damn near shit myself on more than one of those bangs! In fact - in fact I may well have? Right now I don't care.
What a senseless destruction of life! Look!? Everywhere your eyes rest, they fall upon a corpse, or the thieving and looting from the dead, and if they're not quite dead they soon will be - the despicable nature - the true nature of the human being, to murder, to kill, to steal, to desire that which the other has. All I want to know is, where’s my bloody share?! Selfish bastards.
Oh, God. I think I’m here. That man there certainly looks like he prefers to take money with menaces. I’d say he has it tattooed all over his face, but there’s no room in between the thick heavy skull tattoo already covering two thirds of it, all down his neck and probably ending somewhere underneath. I believe his name is Freddie Snaps? Can’t say I’ve heard of the Snaps family, however? Are they the Tottenham Snaps? Or the Snaps from the rolling Yorkshire countryside, amongst its sheep and cattle, grazing in the summer sun -
“What?” I think he wants to say more words, but they must be lost somewhere inside that mush of a brain. I’ve seen boxing injuries before. That and the scabs he has means he probably has syphilis too. I’m surprised he managed that one word, to be honest.
“I’m here to see the Roundabouts -“
“Never use that name ‘round ‘ere, got it?” With your face that close to mine, I’ll be surprised if I haven't got whatever it is you have, that’s for sure.
“Uhm, okay then. Is Major General Francis Laud present?”
“Why?” Oh, God. Do I need to spell it out to him? I doubt he could read it even if I did.
“I have something I owe him. I would like to talk to him, please?”
“Wait.” Yes, sir, Your Idiotness. Even this far away from the action of the front line, it’s still brown breech time. I know, with all logic at my command, which is quite a lot more than you would initially think, that the guns can’t hit me this far out, but, you know -
“Posster. What do you want? Quick, so I can disembowel you here and cut out all that boring waiting.” Got to love Frank Laud. Actually no you haven’t, not unless he wants you to.
“I’ve got it.”
“I can tell. I can smell it from here.”
“Are all of those looters yours? Wait, what was I saying? Oh, no, I mean I have the money I owe you. Here! In this bag!” That’s right, take it from me and let me go!
“Bill!” Who the Hell is Bill? Oh, that’s Bill. I wonder, does that cut right down his face hurt all the time, because he’s got a look to him like it does? And, not that it matters, he doesn't look like a natural born Englishman, “Here, count this, will you, and -“
“Private Wilhelm Freemanns! Frank! And who’s this?” More to the point, who the bloody Hell is that? He looks older than the hills! He’s got a face one dry-spell away from desiccation! If a bit of his skin fell off, you’d use it to buff your windows! Well, you get the point. He looks old. Very old.
“General - Lord Wilberforce Justice, this is - Private Posster, with a message from the front!” I’m guessing that gesture Frank’s giving me is to improvise? Either that or he’s got the worse head tick I’ve ever seen.
“Ah, yes - General! It’s all going well! Should be done by teatime - no, I mean - uhm - it’s nearly tea time? I think I need to -“
“No, stay. Take tea with my men here? They’re always so busy, guarding these retreat lines. They do the very important work with little to no complaint, you know? The best Soldiers I’ve ever had under me. Come. Conor Redmerry?” Ah, I get it. They're using the old duffer, as a legitimate excuse to avoid the battle. Brilliant. I’d admire it further if I wasn't being melted under the murderous gaze of Frankie boy. Oh, and here comes Jimmy Boots. It’s like a little reunion, isn't it? Of homicidal manics who want my head as a storage jar for boiled sweets, and my ribs for a toast rack.
That redhead there, the one who has the impression of a nose, without actually having one, must be Conor Redmerry. I’m guessing he’s one of our North of the Border cousins? But that other one? I’ve no idea. He looks like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. He’s fresh faced and quiet, just sitting there polishing a sword.
I’m not stupid. I know how these things work. He’s obviously the most vicious and hardest of them all. The quiet ones usually are. It’s a kind of cliche, but I wouldn't say that out loud. Besides, it’s from people like the Roundabouts that these cliches start, you know? The blueprint has to come from somewhere. Put simply, annoy one of them and say goodbye to your balls, literally, as they tear them off and throw them to the dogs. That’s if your lucky.
“Posster. Sit.” What choice do I have? Deny Frank? Not if I want children eventually. This is going to be the single most anxious tea I’ll ever drink. That is if I can keep my hand from - shaking - stop it!
“So, how’s your day -“
“Shut up, Posster. I still haven’t got a straight answer out of Sharryn Knibbs yet, about you and her. Right now I have other concerns, but don’t for one micro second think I’ve forgotten about it. There are materials to build gallows even now sitting in that tent over there, getting dusty, desperate for an airing. Wilhelm? What say you?” Shit, I thought he was calling me that then. He hasn't blinked once. Maybe he’s part lizard?
“Zere is the correct amount, Frank. No more no less.” Oh, he’s German? I should’ve guessed!
“Lucky for you I’m in a good mood - no wait, I’m in a horrible, shitty mood, Posster! A horrible, shitty, angry -“
“Everything alright here, lads?”
“Sir! Yes sir! Everything is ticketyboo, General sir!”
“Glad to hear it. Carry on!”
“Where was I? Right. Horrible, shitty and angry. That’s why I’m going to take this money you gave me as a downpayment to your accumulating debt. Don’t look at me like that, Posster! Didn't you realise how money lending is done? You owe at least the same again, my friend! And it accumulates by the day! But - but, I feel lenient right now, so, if you perform a couple of tasks for me, I will give you leave - for a further fortnight. After that -“ Well, we don’t need a map, do we? Fourteen days eh? Wonder what happens in that extra day? I know it’s going to be interesting to find out - relatively speaking.
“So - what is it you need me to do?” I can’t believe I’m asking him this!
“Glad to see you’re not as stupid as you look. Percy Coal over there,” So that’s his name! Sounds like the name of a complete nutter, doesn't it? “Percy is injured, therefore cannot collect a particular delivery we are owed. So, Posster, you are required to go to the Cake Vendor and bring back some of his special cakes. Remember that, Posster. Special cakes. Now, drink up and go.” See? Frank Laud can be reasonable when he wants to be? Bullcrap. He knows it’s a bloody hard task. He just wants some sport. And I want my life, so I suppose I’ve got to do it. Right. Back to the front - with all the enthusiasm of a dead, drowned and badly beaten badger.
I’d say I can’t believe it, this ‘only a downpayment’ rubbish, but quite frankly I think I’m lucky to get away with only that. God only knows how I’m going to find more money now, but there is time. At the least I know I’ve got fourteen days to find it. Or to run away. Or to kill myself. Or, as I’ve always preferred to go, to die from abundant sex. Tell you what, I’ll do this piffling task first, then ponder on that idea - my arse! I’ll be lucky to live through this day as it is. Now, to get these cakes. Should be relatively straightforward. Relative to near suicide from wandering back onto the battlefield, where two sets of people are trying really hard to kill each other, with muskets, swords, pikes and stuff.
You know, going back is a lot easier than going forward, I can tell you? There may be just as many stray objects flying about your head, but once you’ve spent more than five minutes in that Viper’s Den - the Roundabouts Encampment - life takes on a new invulnerability. The only problem that remains, however, is - oops! - is avoiding slipping on bits of other and very dead people. Oh! Look! One of the looters missed something! I’ll just - pull - right, now I know why they left it alone. Eww. I’ll never get that out, not without a good soak! And, of course, there’s the - bloody crows! Like flies! Look, I’m not dead, so stop pecking at my bloody head, you flying rats! Oh, charming! Thanks for that you feathered bastard! Although it is said to bring luck, I suppose? But just look at the state - oh, never mind. Maybe the smell will help me blend in? I’ve yet to see an Officer, except for General Lord Wilberforce Justice, and he barely qualifies as a human being. It’s going to be a challenge if I do come across a real, ball-busting Officer.
Ah, this is where I came in, literally! By that, I mean this is the spot I crossed into the battlefield. Quick change, and - a Rector once more! Like magic! Well, not actually magic, because then I’d be burned - oh, whatever. Let’s get on with this? I’ve got to find more money from somewhere.
So, I see the day trippers are still here? Thought they might have gotten bored. How can this be exciting to watch? I blame the Catholics. Too much violence toward them has desensitised the war-going public to severed arms, severed legs and the occasional disembowelling. I tell you, once you’ve witnessed a Catholic burning, you never forget it. It’s amazing how rich meat tastes after being cooked over a Catholic Pyre. No, of course I don’t mean the meat of the Catholic! What do you take me for? Some kind of animal?
Ah there’s the Cake Vendor. I certainly hope he’s expecting someone from the Roundabouts, or I’m about to look very strange, “Sir? Hello?”
“How can I help you Rector?” Seems pleasant enough?
“I - I need some cakes.”
“Don’t we all, sir! Don’t we all!”
“No, I mean I need some of yours.”
“Oh, no, Rector! We can’t just give ‘em away! There are overheads, you know!” I think this man is currently at least one cake short of a picnic, that’s for sure.
“Alright. I - would - like - to - buy -“
“Oh, right! Why didn't you say?” Because I thought it implicit in my words, you idiot?
“Your special cakes, in fact.”
“Sorry. Sold out.” Did he just turn his back on me? What a rude -
“I need them! Look -“
Ow. What is it with people pinching my chest hair when they grab me? Is it some kind of bloody fetish? “I said, quite clearly, we are sold out. Now go, before I get the Roundabouts -“
“It was the Roundabouts who sent me -“ Right. Now we see the correct attitude to a man of the sodding cloth! Oh, a chair too? A shot of rum? Don't mind if I do!
“God’s sake, why didn't you say so in the first bloody place, pardoning my sodding language?”
“Well -“
“Whatever. It doesn't matter now. Take your time. Sip away, and I’ll get them special cakes for you. Just, you know, take care of them, alright? Like your life depends on it. And mine.” Alright, kid! They’re only confectionery! It’s not like they're bags - of - holy shit! They're bags of money! Dare I? Dare I take them? And run away, make a new identity? Surely theres enough to - no, wait. Think about it, Wilfred. There are Roundabouts all over the country. Some abroad too. They're difficult to navigate at the best of times, but get on the wrong side of them and there’s a mountain of trouble ahead! No, think sensibly. Better to get on their good side than have it scraped off slowly by someone like Percy Coal or Freddie Snaps. I know which side my loyalties lie, and they lie very much in the lap of the ones who might kill me if I don’t. Great, now I’ve got two bags full of money and a battlefield to traverse again. It never rains, but it always bloody pissing well pours!
Right, back on with the uniform. God, help me - oh, right, we’ve already been over this bit. I don’t think Him Upstairs is overly thrilled with me at the moment? Better not piss Him off again. I’ve still got all my bits and pieces more or less where they should be. I’d very much like to keep it that way for as long as I can.
Nearly there. Again. You know, if I walk left, or walk right on this battlefield it seems much the same. Either way at this moment could spell painful, malicious cutting off of bits of me from the rest of me. The only difference would be speed of cut, I suppose? Frankly, right now, given the choice I’d prefer the cannon shot to the Jimmy Boots straight razor approach.
Here it comes, that rising bile feeling again. Not from the scattering of rotting corpses, you understand. Oh no. From the sight of the tops of the tents that mark out the Roundabouts Encampment. And now, again, I walk through the jaws of the Devil to appease the creature within - who many describe as worse than the Devil himself. Frankly I wouldn't disagree. There’s a certain Hellfire about it, the stench as you walk in? At least I don't have to explain myself to Freddie Snaps again. I don't think I have the constitution for that too.
“Here you go, Frank.” Shit! I didn't just say that did I? Oh God! Is that look in his eye murder, or a stye? Please be a stye!
“Bill.” Yes, here, Bill. Take the attention off me. Please, “Posster, sit.” I hope he means on a chair, and not on an iron spike.
“It’s all zere, Boss.”
“Percy will be happy.” Good. As long as Percy is bloody happy. I’m not stupid, you know. I’m well aware that money is supposed to be Soldier’s Pay. But who am I to argue? Nobody, I hope, and never will be. Still -
“Forgive me for asking, but why don’t you just send for the Field Surgeon? I mean, he would be able to help Mr Coal, surely?” What’s that look? It’s like I said I was going to crap on the floor or something.
“No, Posster. Percy Coal, you see, is the Field Surgeon.”
“Ah.” I see. Well shut my mouth.
“Ah indeed. I commend you, Posster, on your ability to do as instructed. It doesn’t, however, let you off what you owe. But for now, you get to live. About my woman and the creature that grows within her, we shall leave for another day. Let that be a warning to you, Posster. Now get out of my sight, before I change my mind.” I certainly don’t need to be told twice. So why am I still sitting? “Go!” Apparently I do need to be told twice. It seems it takes a while for my guts to reach my feet and move me.
Oh, thank God that’s over! Well, that part, at least. So much relief! All I’ve got to do now is think up a way of getting that kind of cash again. Maybe I could - no, not a good idea. They hang people for that. No, it’s got to be something - artistic? Clever? Amazing. Why am I walking into the centre of the battle?
Shit! Shit! What happened there?! Quick, you idiot! Get out of here! Run!
“Halt! That man! Not deserting are we? I said halt, or I shall fire!” Oh sweet Jesus! He means me!
“I’m - I’m not supposed to be here! I’m -“
“You are a Soldier of the Parliamentary Army! Pick up your weapon!”
Uhm, God? I know I haven't been the best, but, you know, could you see your way clear to -
Flit! Where the Hell did he come from! Whoops, sorry, Your Lordship On High! Tell you what, we’ll square it when I next get the opportunity! You know how it is?
But thank - whatever - for Flit!
Of course I’m not going to tell him that -
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