Free Infernal Revolutions by Stephen Woodville Page B

handkerchief to his nose, ran to the barn door in the corner of the yard, and quickly threw the gates open wide. There before us, oozing and glistening in the sun, lay the source of the pervasive stench.
    â€˜â€™Tis only offal and human shit, lads. The locals have asked us to bury it, so bury it we will. Buckets are in this corner, spades in that, burial ground over there. Now get cracking and show me what you’re made of.’
    I stared at the putrid mound in horror, and felt the gorge rise in my throat. This seemed a good time to bring up other things too, such as the subject of my illegal impressment. Bucket in hand, I was on my way to Sergeant Mycock to discuss it with him when I saw him turn and strike a fellow gloryseeker full in the groin with his fist, presumably for some behavioural misdemeanour. Veering quickly towards the spade corner, I picked up a tool and started shovelling, peeping all the time at the victim writhing on the ground and thinking how easily it could have been me. Before long, however, I was too busy retching dryly to ponder anything but my own misery, and as the backbreaking heartbreaking afternoon wore on I was reduced to just one repetitive thought: How on earth was I going to get out of this mess?

5
    Trapped

    In order to avoid a slumped, stroked body which had collapsed near the yard door, I was escorted back to my room via the front garden of the
Martyr
. Though those of us still standing had been allowed to wash our hands in a horse trough, much to the whinnying disgust of the watching horses, my clothes and shoes still stank of Essence of Putrescence, and this did not endear me to the more delicate spectators of the still-parading regulars. I heard one elegant old lady heave drily as I passed, while a young baby in swaddling clothes seemed to go into some sort of spasm. Otherwise, it was just the usual barrage of common laughter and abuse from people who didn’t know what genuine suffering was. Indeed, I wasn’t sure that I knew its full measure, because my load of it was getting heavier by the hour, and still there seemed room for more. For now, in addition to my usual woes, I had bleeding palms and a lower back that ached to snapping point, both infirmities consequent upon the unwonted wielding of a vile spade. As I hobbled along next to Corporal Tibbs, wincing in agony, a tattoo started up a short distance to my left. Over the top of it I heard the chirpy voice of Little Bob call out.
    â€˜Enjoy that, Harry?’
    â€˜Not much,’ I mumbled bitterly, not bothering to look up.
    â€˜Never mind. It gets better. Wait till you’re marching with us.’
    I snorted ironically, barged through a knot of early-evening civilian drinkers, and – to my amazement – walked not onto the front lawn of the
Martyr
, as expected, but straight onto an improvised bowling green. I had no time to step back before a bowl came rolling out of nowhere like a spent cannonball and struck me cruelly on the foot. As if this was not enough it then bounced up and cracked into my shin, causing me to let out a howl of agony. Incensed by the pain, the imprecations of the bowlers and the hammering I was taking from Providence, I hopped around cursing loudly. Then, in a great pique of anger that overrode my pain, I picked up the bowl, looked around, and vindictively rolled it into the centre of a nearby duckpond.
    â€˜Fish that out, peasants!’ I cried, before limping back to my room through a jostle of infuriated players and spectators.
    â€˜That’s it, Lobby, ruin people’s pleasure.’
    â€˜God bless America and all her marksmen!’
    â€˜Make him get it out, Jack! He bloody threw it in.’
    â€˜Go on, up to your room, Oysterman,’ said Corporal Tibbs. ‘Leave them alone to enjoy their drinking in peace.’
    Only too willing, I pulled myself up the narrow stairs – ignoring calls from somebody or other to join them in the taproom –