Free The North Water by Ian McGuire

loophole a crouching sepoy ready to shoot. He thinks that the risk they are taking is too great and that the treasure itself is probably a lie, but he knows it would be foolish to refuse a man like Corbyn. The British army is built on influence, and if a man wishes to rise he must be careful who he knows. Corbyn has friends on the Army Medical Board, and his brother-in-law is an inspector of hospitals. The man himself is boastful and dull, to be sure, but to be connected to him by this shared secret, this pile of illegal loot, would not be a bad thing for Sumner at all. It might even, he thinks, be his path out of the Sixty-First Foot and into a more respectable regiment. But only, of course, if the loot is real.
    They turn a corner and come across a gun emplacement and a gaggle of drunken infantrymen. One of them is playing the squeeze-box, another has his britches down and is evacuating into a wooden bucket; empty brandy bottles are scattered around.
    â€œWho goes there?” one of them shouts.
    â€œSurgeons,” Wilkie says. “Does any man here require treatment?”
    The soldiers look at one another and laugh.
    â€œCotteslow over there needs his fucking head examined,” one of them says.
    â€œWhere are your officers?”
    The same man gets to his feet and, squinting, walks unsteadily towards them. He stops a foot or two away and spits. His uniform is ragged and stained with blood and gun smoke. He smells of vomit, piss, and beer.
    â€œAll dead,” he says. “Every single one.”
    Wilkie nods slowly and looks off down the street past the gun emplacement.
    â€œAnd where is the enemy?” he says. “Is he close by?”
    â€œOh, he’s close enough,” the man says. “If you look over yonder he may even blow you a wee kiss.”
    The other men laugh again. Wilkie ignores them and turns back to confer with the others.
    â€œThis is a fucking disgrace,” he says. “These men should be hanged for dereliction of duty.”
    â€œThis is as far as we can get,” O’Dowd says. “This is the limit of the advance.”
    â€œWe are very close now,” Hamid says. “Two minutes more.”
    â€œToo dangerous,” O’Dowd says.
    Wilkie rubs his chin and spits.
    â€œWe’ll send Price,” he says. “He can go on ahead and report back. If it looks safe, the rest of us will follow.”
    They all turn to Price.
    â€œNot for a fucking tithe,” he says.
    â€œWhat say we double it?” Wilkie suggests. He looks at the other two, and the other two nod in agreement.
    Price, who has been squatting, stands up slowly, shoulders his rifle, and walks across to Hamid.
    â€œLead on,” he says.
    The others sit down where they are and wait. The drunken soldiers ignore them. Sumner lights his pipe.
    â€œHe’s an avaricious little shit,” O’Dowd says, “that Price.”
    â€œIf he gets killed, we’ll have to make up some tale,” Wilkie says. “Corbyn won’t be happy.”
    â€œCorbyn,” O’Dowd says. “Always fucking Corbyn.”
    â€œIs it his brother or his brother-in-law?” Sumner asks. “I can never remember.”
    O’Dowd shrugs and shakes his head.
    â€œBrother-in-law,” Wilkie says. “Sir Barnabas Gordon. I saw him lecture in chemistry at Edinburgh.”
    â€œYou’ll get nothing out of Corbyn,” O’Dowd says to Sumner, “don’t think you will. He’s an ex-Guardsman and his wife’s a baroness.”
    â€œAfter this he’ll feel obliged,” Sumner says.
    â€œA man like Corbyn doesn’t care to feel obliged. We’ll get our share of the loot if the loot exists, but believe me, that will be it.”
    Sumner nods at this and thinks for a minute.
    â€œHave you tried him already?”
    Wilkie smiles at this, but O’Dowd says nothing.
    Ten minutes later, Price comes back and reports that they have