Forever the Colours (11 page)

‘You have to take it steady, Thomas. It's not some cheap ale, you know.'

The coughing subsided, and Tommy held out his cup for another drink.

‘Aha, it seems my elixir is doing its job. But be warned, my friend, this mellifluous intoxicant can surprise even the hardiest dipsomaniac.'

Tommy stared at Maurice. ‘If you're gonna use big words, mate, then this chat is going to last a helluva long time, because I haven't the foggiest about what you're on about,
old
bean
!'

‘Very well. As you say, Thomas, I shall endeavour – sorry, try, to limit my vocabulary to something more unambiguous to suit your simpler tastes, no offence intended.'

‘None taken, old boy, and I know what bloody endeavour means. I'm not thick, you know. Now fill that cup up, that stuff's not bad.'

With a smile, Maurice refilled Tommy's cup and his own, then he stoppered the bottle and returned it to his bag. ‘So, my friend, do you have a plan as to your unusual predicament?'

Tommy sipped his drink this time. It still burned its way down his throat, but felt soothing. He smacked his lips. ‘That is quite good Maurice, really good, in fact.' Then he shook his head.

‘No, I don't actually, but I was thinking that I can't sit in here playing the nutter or they'll ship me off to India. At least that's what it said in the doc's diary over there.' He indicated the Major's desk with a nod of his head. ‘So I was thinking “when in Rome” and all that, and trying to fit in a bit until I wake up, if you know what I mean.'

‘You still think you're asleep, then. Very well, seeing that I am a part of your vagary, I shall offer my services as a guide through this torment of yours. How say you to that, old man?'

‘Thanks, Maurice, that would be a big help.' He smiled at his new friend, who politely inclined his head. ‘I think I have to have a look outside, though; I don't actually want to, but it needs to be done.'

Maurice slipped off his bed. His knees wobbled for a moment, but then he straightened. ‘Very well, Thomas, let us take this road together,' and he indicated toward the tent opening.

Tommy hesitated. He didn't want this dream to get any bigger, but he had to see what was outside. Yet still he could not move.

‘Just a quick peek, that is all, Thomas. Then back to our beds and my delicious elixir.' He indicated for Tommy to take the lead. ‘After you, old man.'

Tommy moved towards the opening; the noises from outside the tent seemed to grow more terrifying with each step. Sweat broke out on his forehead and terrifying childhood thoughts played in his mind, the times his friends used to dare him to open the door to the cellar knowing full well that the beast that lurked inside would drag him to his death. He stopped before the opening, shaking slightly.

‘All you have to do, Thomas, is open the flap and all will be revealed,' said Maurice, standing by his side.

Tommy reached a shaking hand out towards the flap, stopped halfway, then continued. He grabbed hold of a piece of rope attached to the edge, tensed, held his breath, and thought,
Should
I
do
it
slowly
or
snatch
it
open?
Just at that moment, he heard a snuffling sound. Confused, he looked down and saw a large pair of brown eyes looking up at him. Startled, he dropped the rope and stepped back, and for a split second it was the beast from the cellar come to get him.

‘Well hello there, Fido,' said Maurice.

Tommy realised after a moment that it wasn't the beast
but a dog, a medium-sized dirty-white, fluffy dog with tan ears. And a playful one at that, by the look of it, as he or she barked, turned and flew back through the opening.

‘Isn't that lovely? You seemed to have made a new friend already,' said Maurice.

Tommy smiled at him, reached for the flap and pulled it aside, and was blinded by sunshine. He was taken aback for a moment and blinked hard to try and focus. As the scene before him started to materialise, he felt his legs start to wobble; he felt dizzy with the magnitude of what he was seeing. A hand grasped his elbow to steady him.

‘Easy now, Thomas, I don't think I have the strength to pick you up if you fall,' whispered Maurice.

Tommy turned his head away from the scene outside, a scene of hundreds of tents stretching into the distance, of men – soldiers, most of them carrying out every sort of imaginable task – smoke from camp fires, shouting, laughing; he even saw a couple of children running in and out of the tents. Cannons in the distance, rows of cannons, horses everywhere, tethered in enclosures; Indians, there were Indians also, some in uniform, some not, some idly chatting with each other, some bent over large cooking pots, stirring the contents.

‘Maurice,' said Tommy in a whisper. ‘It's real, it's all bloody real.'

Chapter 6

The Camp

A
fter
Tommy had managed to gulp down another cup of cognac, stop shaking and stop repeatedly pointing towards the entrance of the tent Maurice had managed to get him back onto the bed and calm down a little.

‘Feeling any better now, Thomas?'

‘Oh shit, Maurice. You know what, I still thought this was some massive joke the lads were playing on me, like maybe they had gotten actors in or something, you know, to make it convincing.' He shook his head and felt like crying. ‘Maurice, have you seen that out there? That's a real army camp, I mean, not a modern one, but an old one. Shit, you know, like one you'd see in a period drama or Sharpe
or something.'

‘Thomas, my dear chap, I would love to understand what you are trying to say, but just to be clear on this, I have no idea what you're talking about. You might as well be speaking the local dialect, for the sense you're making.' He looked at Thomas with pity. ‘Now see here, Thomas, you certainly ought to get a grip, you know. I can only help you if you endeavour to help yourself. Have another drop of this,' he said, and indicated the now half-empty bottle of cognac.

Tommy took another large swig and tried to relax a little. He could feel the alcohol starting to work. His muscles were softening, and after a few minutes of controlling his breathing, the situation didn't seem quite so grim. Well, not if you compare it to death anyway.

Maurice gave him a shrewd look. ‘Thomas, are you quite sure this isn't some criterion for myself by our friend the Surgeon Major? Because, if it is, I can assure you now, my disingenuous highbinder, that I will not fall for your little codification!'

‘Now who's talking crap,' replied Tommy. ‘Why don't you stop showing off, dictionary boy, and talk normal, eh?'

Maurice sat on his bed. ‘So be it. Then is this some sort of test on me by the good Major? Just because I had some sort of fever on the way here doesn't make me mad, you know, and trying out this preposterous story on me to see if I would fall for it, well, it won't work, damn you. I am as fit as a butcher's hog.'

‘Dog,' said Tommy.

‘Pardon?'

‘You mean dog. It's “fit as a butcher's dog.”'

‘That's what I said.'

‘No, you said hog.' Tommy started to smile; he had noticed Maurice's cheeks had started to flush.
It's
the
drink
, he thought.

‘Hog, dog, it makes no difference, as they are both quadrupeds, in any case.'

Tommy could see that Maurice was becoming a little worse for wear, so decided to end the drinking session. ‘A toast,' he said and held up his cup. ‘The Queen.'

‘The Queen,' said Maurice, and both took a large swig of the fiery liquid. Maurice belched and said, ‘A toast,' and held up his cup.

Tommy followed suit.

‘To Joseph. May all his dreams come true, the good for nothing shit!' They both fell back onto the beds, laughing so hard they both produced tears.

Just then Major Preston entered the tent, and without as much as a glance, went straight to his table, opened his journal, picked up his quill and dipped it in a little bottle of ink and started writing.

The two friends looked at each other with a barely suppressed giggle. They shrugged and sat up on their beds, looking at Preston.

After a minute or so, and without looking up Preston, stopped writing, carefully placed his quill on the desk next to the ink pot, closed his journal and placed his hands on the desk in front of him. ‘I will assume,' he said slowly, ‘that your parents did not inform you that it is rude to stare.'

Before Tommy could say anything, Maurice said, ‘I do apologise, Major Preston, sir, you are quite right, it is rude to stare. But you have piqued our curiosity with the, well, sombre appearance, if you don't mind my saying so.'

Preston turned and looked at Maurice, and held his gaze for some moments.

‘You are remarkably astute, Mr Rayner, as always, and yes, I am a little out of sorts.'

‘May I be so bold as to the reason, sir?'

Preston nodded to himself and stood. ‘Yes,' he said, ‘you may,' and walked over to Maurice's bedside.

‘I have recently returned from visiting some of the men from the 66th, who have been attached to the smoothbore battery, and the reason, I think I mentioned it, was a suspected case of cholera.
Well, after examination, I found it was not cholera but fatigue caused by hunger, little water and forced marching across this God forsaken hell.' Preston took a breath, and with an angry edge to his voice said, ‘I have recently returned from giving my findings to one of General Burrows's staff, asking that the men be given enough water and time to recuperate, but I was informed that the British Army does not show weakness at the first sign of adversity. Apparently we will shortly be engaged with the enemy, and
that
is when it will be slightly uncomfortable for the men.'

‘Ah,' said Maurice.

‘Ah, indeed,' said Preston.

Tommy was just about to ask what enemy they were shortly to engage when Preston frowned and, with his nose slightly raised, started to sniff the air like a hunting dog.

‘What is that smell?' asked Preston.

‘Oh, I do apologise, sir,' said Maurice. ‘Must have been the nosh the wallah gave me. My stomach is terribly upset, you know.'

Tommy snorted a laugh through his nose, but was silenced quickly by the look from Preston.

‘That is not flatulence, Mr Rayner.'

Tommy was bursting to laugh and had to look at the ground to keep from doing so.

‘If I am not too mistaken, that is the smell of alcohol.' And with that, he looked at the two friends one at a time. ‘If I find, gentlemen, that you two have been at my medicinal liquor stock, there will be hell to pay. Do I make myself clear?

The two friends looked at each other and then cast their eyes down to the floor.

‘Perhaps I should fetch the Sergeant Major and he can make some enquiries.'

Maurice sighed. ‘The alcohol is mine, sir. It has travelled with me from London,' he said, and he pulled the bottle from his bag.

Preston raised his eyebrows. ‘Would that be a bottle of Hardy's you have, Mr Rayner?'

‘Why yes, sir, it is.' And, seeing his chance, said, ‘Would you care for a nip?'

‘You know, it
has
been a somewhat tiring day.' He turned on the spot, walked over to his desk, opened his ornate case, dug around in the bottom of it for a moment and produced a glass tumbler. He blew some dust off it, picked up his stool and walked back to Maurice's bedside, where he sat and held out his glass to Maurice. ‘An exceedingly tiring day indeed,' he said with a small smile.

The rest of the day was a blur for Tommy. Not only did they finish the cognac, but the Major disappeared for a short time and then returned with a bottle of scotch from his medicinal
stock. Tommy spent the entire afternoon and evening listening to the two officers reminisce about India, England and going to school at Harrow, and how Maurice was a budding cricket
star. Tommy's eyes grew heavy. He lay down on his back, and, still listening, fell asleep.

Pain.

Not
again!
thought Tommy, as he opened his eyes. This time, though, the view was not of a horse's arse or a sexy, hairy man-woman, but of Maurice in the other bed next to him. He was lying on his side facing Tommy with his mouth open, and there was a long line of spittle dribbling from his mouth and onto the lumpy pillow. Even though he had a headache (again), he couldn't help but smile; Maurice had certainly lost his dignified look now.

He lifted his head to scan the tent, and was surprised to find the Major slumped over his desk.
Bloody
hell
, he thought,
I
missed
a
lively
session
here
. Very slowly, he sat up in the bed and tried to gather his thoughts, but found they were a jumble. He suddenly realised he hadn't had a drink like that since England.
No
wonder
my
head's
thumping
, he thought.