Infernal Revolutions by Stephen Woodville

and collapsed fully-clothed on one of the empty beds. Like Goldilocks, no doubt, before the return of the bears, I just had time to enjoy a
frisson
of freedom before oblivion wiped me out once more. When I awoke the drum was still rattling away, but the room had got lighter, not darker. I was still puzzling over this anachronism when all hell broke loose.
    â€˜TURN OUT, MY LITTLE LADIES, TURN OUT!! OUT, OUT OUT!!’
    A boot clonked me full in the face, and I raised my head to see a hazy image of Sergeant Mycock laying into the huddled masses with his cane. I watched uncomprehendingly as he hawked and spat what looked like a ragged oyster straight down the open hatch of Ned Lester’s throat. The effect, after a few seconds of suspense, was terrific: Ned gasped, choked and thrashed his arms around wildly before jumping upright to retch, cough, pant and dribble spittle all over the floor. A new day, I now realized, had arrived.
    â€˜See what trouble you have getting it up, Lester? That’s the trouble I have with you lot. Can’t get you up, can I, Jepson? Too much fackin’ ram weighin’ yer dahn.’
    The cane swished through the airy space just vacated by Claude’s head.
    â€˜Up now, Zir. Ready, Zir.’
    â€˜AND THE REST OF YER!!!’
    We all jumped up in terror, banging into each other in the process.
    â€˜ABOUT FACKIN’ TIME!!!’ he yelled when we were all standing to attention. ‘CAN’T HAVE YER LYING IN BED ON A LAVVERLY MORNIN LIKE THIS, CAN WE, OYSTERMAN?’
    â€˜No, Sir.’
    He brought his face up to mine, and glared deep into my soul. A headbutt, I felt sure, was imminent, and I braced myself accordingly. Disconcertingly, however, he must have struck out blindly to his side, for Dick suddenly gasped and fell clutching his stomach, as though hit by a speeding cannonball.
    â€˜Take nothing for granted, Lickley. I would have thought that you understood that better than most.’
    â€˜Now, out on the grounds, all of yer. Except you, Oysterman. Corporal Tibbs will be round for you and the rest of the young ladies shortly. Tpah!’ Another volley of phlegm splattered directly into my forehead, and slid down over my face in a very slimy manner. It still did not seem the right time to broach the subject of my illegal impressment, somehow.
    Muskets were collected, my comrades departed coughing and cursing, and I was left to wipe my face clean and ponder the prospect of another day in Hell. Already I felt physically and mentally soiled, and ‘twas clear that unless I roused myself to letter-writing activity soon I would never escape. My mind and my ability to hold a pen would atrophy, and I would become completely submerged in the quagmire of army life. The longer I left it the harder it would get, but where was I to get the pen, paper and time from? I was pondering this question with my hand on my aching back when the door creaked slowly open and two dour faces peeped in.
    â€˜He’s a brute, that Sergeant Mycock is,’ said Anne Pomeroy. ‘Wish he’d die.’
    â€˜He will one day, Mrs Pomeroy. Nothing is so certain.’
    â€˜Wish he’d die soon, then.’
    Peter Pomeroy, tricorne already in place, looked up at his mother enigmatically.
    â€˜Everyone’s been stroked by him,’ Ann went on. ‘It’ll be your turn soon, you know, whether you do anything wrong or not.’
    â€˜So I may as well try and escape, is that what you’re saying?’
    â€˜No, I’m not saying that,’ said Anne, shocked. ‘I’m no devil’s advocate. No, not I.’
    Still, her presence and the subject matter of the conversation had fused together an idea in my mind.
    â€˜Mrs Pomeroy. I wonder if I could beg a favour?’
    Immediately she clutched her son, and shrank away from me.
    â€˜No, no….I don’t mean that. I mean could you possibly write and post a few letters for me? I would write