Guns of the Dawn by Adrian Tchaikovsky

Author:Adrian Tchaikovsky
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, azw3
ISBN: 9780230770058
Publisher: Pan Macmillan
Published: 2015-02-11T23:00:00+00:00

18

After the Big Push, they wheeled out Father Burnloft once again, to read the roll of the dead.

Apathy greeted him, and yet I would not have it. I went amongst them, at least the men and women of my company – and especially those I had commanded. I told them that, whatever the deficiencies in the human medium, the message itself still commanded our respect. Let the drunken priest slur the names and gabble them; still our dead comrades deserved our presence.

I think the old priest had never seen such a turnout. I think the whole of Bad Rabbit was there to watch him sway and stammer.

It frightens me. I feel myself a fraud, to be exposed at any given minute. How is it that they all do these things when I ask?

And what happens when the thing I ask them to do is wrong?

‘Brocky’s in love!’ Tubal exclaimed delightedly. He had been bursting with the news ever since the members of the Survivors’ Club had convened this mild evening in the first blush of summer. He had held it in whilst the drinks were poured and the pipes lit, the first hand dealt. Now, as Brocky himself made a cunning play at cards, Tubal came out with it. The quartermaster spluttered and spilled his hand across the table, revealing a mediocre flush at best.

‘I am not. Who ever heard of such a thing?’

There was such a defensive tone to him that he found no sympathy.

‘Evidence?’ Mallen required. ‘Instances, come on, Salander.’

‘You say not a word!’ Brocky insisted.

‘Vote?’ Tubal asked. ‘Mr Mallen has tabled a motion. Who’s in favour?’

Every hand bar Brocky’s was up before he finished speaking.

‘Carried,’ he announced. ‘Yes, my good and dear friends, it is my sad duty to inform you of the death of John Brocky’s common sense at the less than tender age of forty years.’

‘Thirty-seven, you bloody bastard,’ Brocky growled, but Tubal paid that no mind.

‘Who’s the lucky lady?’ Emily asked. Brocky glowered at her.

‘Ah well.’ Tubal teetered back on his stool. ‘Propriety suggests that I name no names, and thus preserve the sweet creature’s modesty.’

‘Damn right,’ snarled Brocky.

‘However, we are at war, friends, and this is no place for niceties.’

‘Bastard.’

‘So I can inform you all that the object of our quartermaster’s affections is none other than Master Sergeant Marie Angelline, of Fat Squirrel.’

There was a speculative pause at that, into which Brocky inserted, ‘Absolute nonsense,’ and was roundly disregarded.

Of course, Bear Sejant had needed a new master sergeant. The former incumbent had never returned, as Emily had more cause to be aware of than most. The surprise was that the new officer was a woman, one of the newcomers who had marched in on the last day of the spring. Emily had seen little of her so far, but had in mind a tall, athletic girl with golden-fair hair, always racing about the camp in her efforts to rebuild her shattered company. It was rumoured that Captain Pordevere was sweet on her, but such rumours were easy to spread about that man, and Emily put little credence in them.

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