Free Infernal Revolutions by Stephen Woodville Page A

overdo it in front of me; I’m only a corporal, see. Non-commissioned, for your information. Not considered good enough, but we’re better than most of ‘em and we’re certainly better than you lot, so get down those stairs and into the back yard before I throw you down.’
    I rose to the perpendicular and twitched past the corporal and his foul breath with gratitude, desperate to breathe fresh air again. To my surprise, however, the air outside smelled even worse, and I could not understand why. It was no use asking Sergeant Mycock the reason, for he was busy thrashing the ground with his stick every few seconds and glaring at each new arrival as if they had had him impressed. Nervously sneaking to the back of the group, I eyed the other recruits to see if they were as scared of him as I was. They weren’t, for I saw with horror that my fellow sufferers were the most hard-boiled villainous-looking crew imaginable. They all had the sly, hangdog expression of the seasoned murderer, along with other features equally unappetizing, such as glittering eyes, low brows, lice-ridden hair, and ricket-ridden pockmarked skin. Many appeared as old as forty or fifty, but compassion for them did not seem appropriate – it looked as though they had merely used the extra time to pack more vice in. Shuddering, I found myself edging back towards Sergeant Mycock.
    â€˜Well, what a gathering of bright young blades!’ came the welcoming words, after a nod from Corporal Tibbs signified the arrival of the last scraping. ‘And pretty with it! Never in my life have I seen such an attractive assembly of men.’
    Sergeant Mycock paused to cow us with his glare, but only I was cowed; the others simply returned a dead-eyed stare. Mutual hatred crackled in the air.
    â€˜But don’t get too carried away with your beauty; you’re in the army to obey orders, not to flounce. And the first order to be obeyed every day is the roll call. Answer
Sir
when Corporal Tibbs calls your name.’
    A mixture of envy and elation went through me when the roll call revealed that six men had deserted already. If these fools could do it, then surely I could too, should the need arise. Sergeant Mycock’s eyes and veins bulged with fury. When he did speak, ‘twas the product of prodigious self-control.
    â€˜Well, well, what desperadoes we had in our midst. No doubt some of you have drawn inspiration from this news, but let me tell you now, when these men are caught – and caught they will be – they will be thrashed so hard they will piss and cough blood for the rest of their lives. Provided, that is, they are not killed outright on the flogging triangle. And the same punishment will be applied if orders are disobeyed. So if an officer tells you to run straight at a loaded cannon, what do you do, Oysterman?’
    â€˜Run straight at a loaded cannon, Sir.’
    â€˜And if you disobey?’
    â€˜I will be punished, Sir.’
    â€˜Not just punished, Oysterman, STROKED, and stroked good. Believe you me, lads, you have to be brave to be a coward in this army. But ‘tis not all blood and guts. There are benefits to being a soldier too. You will have the inestimable solace of
knowing
yourself superior to other men. You will see sights that other men would die for. You will experience things that other men would die for. You will travel far afield. You will have opportunities to cover yourself in glory. You will have your pick of any whores you can afford. And eventually, when ‘tis all over, you will be able to settle down with your lass and your bottle, and reflect on a life full of adventure.’
    I felt a spark of excitement in the dogs around me; indeed, I felt a stirring of my own passions. Even the horses in the stables around the yard started to snort and kick their stalls.
    â€˜But first,’ went on Sergeant Mycock, ‘there’s this to clear.’
    Corporal Tibbs, holding a