Infernal Revolutions by Stephen Woodville Page A

them myself, but I never get the time, and even if I did, I doubt whether they would reach their destination. Yours might get through, but they need to be sent urgently, before I’m carted off to America.’
    Mrs Pomeroy looked doubtful.
    â€˜I am assuming you can write, of course,’ I faltered, beginning to wish I’d never asked.
    â€˜Of course I can,’ she said. ‘But what happens if I get caught?’
    â€˜There will be nothing treasonable in them, I assure you. All I want you to write on each one is the address of this inn, the message ‘Help – I have been impressed – Rescue me’, and my name, Harry. Will you do it if I give you the addresses to send them to?’
    â€˜Come down, Oysterman!’ came a shout from Corporal Tibbs outside. ‘Or I will be coming up to winkle you out with my bayonet!’
    â€˜Quick!’ I whisped hotly. ‘Say yes!’
    â€˜Shall we, Peter?’
    â€˜Yes,’ said the Enigmatic One in a puzzled tone, as though struggling as much as me to understand what was going on in the world.
    Snatching the knob of chalk and the torn piece of meat wrapping offered, I scribbled down the names and addresses of my father in London, my mother in Lewes, and Amanda Philpott in Steyning. Whilst writing, the sad and belated thought flashed through my mind that I had no friends in the world other than this motley crew. No wonder I had turned from Life to Poetry.
    â€˜Thank you!’ I enthused, shoving the paper in her hand, ‘Thank you, thank you!’ Carried away perhaps, I moved forward to kiss her, but she grimaced and kept her head stretched just out of reach of my lips. Thwarted, kissing air, I opted instead for the easier gesture of playfully tipping Peter’s tricorne off his head, but this met with an even more disastrous response.
    â€˜Sorry!’ I begged, as Peter’s eyes welled up with tears and he reached blindly for his mother’s skirts, ‘Only trying to be friendly…’
    â€˜OYSTERMAN, GET DOWN HERE, YE DOG!!’
    â€˜Must go. Thank you again. Oh, and can you include me in the dinner today please. I will settle my share of the vegetables on Saturday when I get paid.’
    Feeling much lighter with the knowledge that wheels were at last in motion to secure my release, I ran outside to join the waiting Corporal Tibbs. Behind him, flanked by two nasty-looking members of the provost guard, were my fellow shit-shovellers of the previous day. This time they were all running up and down on the spot, their faces puce, their tongues lolling.
    â€˜Glad you could join us, Oysterman. Nice day for a run, I’m sure you will agree.’
    I looked over his shoulder at the misty fields, the lush foliage of the trees, the early rays of the sun giving promise of another fine day, and agreed that it was. I breathed in deeply of the bacon-scented air, and relished the sensation of approaching freedom. In a week’s time, I was sure, I would be laughing about the whole experience. I would also be more determined to live the rest of my life exactly as I wanted, and I would live it to the full.
    I was less sanguine about my prospects when I returned to the
Martyr
two hours later; at this rate I would not live long enough to see my Salvation Day. My body was drenched in sweat, my tongue was stuck to the roof of my parched mouth, and my ribs creaked like the beams of a stormtossed ship with every desperate breath I took. The environs of Hove, so inspiring for a walker musing on Death, were Death itself to a runner, a fact that did not go unnoticed when I returned to my room, where my messmates were taking breakfast.
    â€˜I don’t know,’ opined Roger Masson, as I shuffled like an old man to my bed, unable to speak, ‘poets ain’t what they used to be. In my day they could wrestle bears to the floor and run to London and back and do all sorts of things. All before breakfast, all without