Ripping Yarn – 10
Moved to pick this one up again after a long break. One of those situations – plenty of ideas and a sketched-out plot, but no time to do anything with them!
Sir Joshua Ramkin put down the urgent despatch from the Palace, in which it was confirmed that a Klatchian "military delegation" was currently in the Kwa'Zulu territory, observing and training the Zulu army, and no doubt instructing it to use crossbows, perhaps even putting together the nucleus of Zulu cavalry regiments.(1)
He sighed. He'd deal with this when he had to. Then he looked over the breakfast table to Lady Ramkin's slightly annoyed face, having belatedly registered something she was saying.
"Pregnant?" he exploded. "How the Hells did that happen?"
"Well, you should know, Joshua!" she said, through pursed lips.
Mingled feelings passed through him. Ramkin men tended to marry late and reluctantly. He was nearly twenty years older than Lady Ramkin, and she was no spring lamb herself, in her middle forties. He'd been afraid the whole damn lot would have to be willed to his wastrel nephew. But this altered things…
"Damn inconvenient time." he grumbled, but he was beginning to smile. "Just a shame I won't be here to see it happen…"
"You go away and do your duty." she proclaimed. Her voice brooked no argument. "I'm best here. And besides, Ramkin women have carried heirs in far worse places than this!"
He knew she was right. He himself had drawn his first breaths in a partially ruined Embassy under siege by Klatchistanian tribesmen. His mother, apparently, had taken five minutes rest, then toured the defences brandishing him like a battle-flag, to drive it home to the exhausted defenders what exactly they were fighting for and for them not to even dream of letting the side down by surrendering. She had capped her performance by picking up a crossbow in her spare arm, and winging a Klatchi tribesman who was stealthily angling for a sniper shot.
A fine woman, Mother, and in the best Ramkin tradition.
He sighed. Would he have a victory to name his son after?(2) Time would tell.
Sidney Colon swallowed hard. Under the unblinking scrutiny of a group of Llamedosian sergeants and corporals, who, wouldn't you know it, were talking among themselves in their own heathen lingo the way they did, he felt intimidated. He and Mrs Colon had once rented a caravan in Llamedos for a holiday. He deeply suspected they used their language as a weapon, something to use to put one over on innocent holidaying Morks to make them feel uncomfortable. It must be, they could all speak perfectly good Morporkian when they wanted to…
"Can you sing, boy?" said one, in a deep bass voice.
"Sing? Er…"
"Give us a few lines, then. Anything."
Sidney looked at the ring of expectant dour faces and swallowed. The only song he could think of was "Advance Morporkia Fair." He hoped they didn't take it as an insult.
The Llamedosians looked at each other and nodded.
"Good untrained tenor."
"Aye. Good enough, for a morc. He will fit."
"Give the man practice. Good build for a tenor, too."
Then the most senior NCO, RSM Dickens, had stepped forward. He looked Colon over, gravely.
"As of this moment, boy, I would be obliged if them corporal's stripes came off your arms."
Colon's face fell. The RSM held out a small knife. Colon took it, and with as much dignity as he could muster, he cut through the stitches securing a stripe. You did not refuse the RSM.
"All the way off, if you please. Thank you. "
Colon wondered how Mrs Colon would take the news of his demotion. Then the RSM grinned broadly and held out a new set of stripes.
"As of this moment you is now a Sergeant, see. We is going to war, I feel it in my bones, I needs sergeants, and you has seen service. Do not disappoint me, and somebody get our new sergeant a beer, he looks like he has need of one!"
Then Sergeant Sidney Colon fell into a flurry of welcoming smiling faces and backslaps. He hurriedly revised his opinion of Llamedosians. Fine fellows and grand company.
Doctor Mortimer Lawn scowled over his rimless spectacles. An Army doctor to his core, he had seen malingerers by the score. He had even written the book on dealing with the idle and lazy. But this one took not only the biscuit, but the whole afternoon teaset, and if he wasn't carefully watched, the table too, plus cloth and dainty lace doilies.
"Your last doctor pronounced you a terminal case of ergonophobia, Nobbs?"
"Oh, yes, sir!" said Hookey Nobbs, brightly. "He said it was so deeply ingrained nothing could be done about it, and the only cure was complete abstinence from all heavy lifting and carrying. Sir."
"And the mere sight of, say, a troopship needing to be loaded with five weeks worth of provisions for a long sea voyage brings you out in dizziness and a cold sweat?" Doctor Lawn probed, deciding this was worth at least an appendix in the Revised Expanded Edition.
"Oh yes, sir, and don't forget the fits of physical weakness what it brings on."
Doctor Lawn nodded, in a way that might have been mistaken for sympathetic.
"I see. Well…" he donned heavy surgical gloves and a facial mask, and reached for certain items of equipment in a sterile dish. Large, sharp, items.
"Well, I'd be remiss in my medical duty if I didn't at least lance those boils. Take his arms, please, gentlemen."
Two burly medical orderlies stepped forward and forced Nobbs face-down over an examination couch.
Hookey's eyes opened wide. He hadn't been expecting this…
"This will not hurt a bit, Lance-corporal Nobbs!" the doctor said, with complete honesty.
A few pain-filled minutes later, Nobbs looked up through suddenly moist eyes.
"I'm a great believer in shock therapy for curing really stubborn neurological cases." the doctor said, conversationally, as he gingerly dropped the lancet in the steriliser. "The idea that a cure is affected by unflinching contact with the thing most feared. Works wonders with phobics of all sorts! So I'm writing you a prescription for hard work, to be taken three times daily for a week. Show it to the Provost-Sergeant on the way out, if you will. Oh, and Nobbs? Kindly turn your pockets out and surrender the bottles of pills you filched on the way in, if you'd be so kind. I have a good cure for kleptomania, as well. Quite shockingly painful, but works wonders!"
Congratulations were extended at the Palace at the news of Sir Joshua Ramkin's belated fatherhood. But this was about the only civility of an otherwise angry and heated senior officers' conference.
"Any news of Purdeigh's company?" Ramkin had asked. The ability of Roderick Purdeigh to get lost on the march was legendary.
"I believe they were intercepted up towards the Hub." Patrician Samphire said, amiably. "Captain Purdeigh has been persuaded to surrender the map and the lodestone to his senior sergeant, and I believe they will now be here within the week. There is the little matter of the diplomatic incident with Hubsvensska, whose border guards thought we were invading them, but I believe this has been amiably sorted out. Purdeigh's ability with a map is internationally renowned, after all.(3) But now to business?"
Lord Rust stepped forward on cue, his face an angry mask.
"See here, Joshua!" he barked. "What the hell is all this about a new uniform? You're dressin' the men to look like labourers! Or worse, like unwashed red-necked Boor farmers! They look positively scruffy! I'm not havin' it, not in my regiments!"
Ramkin noted how the other Lords fell in behind their spokeslord, and he sighed heavily.
"Let's go through the arguments again, shall we, gentlemen? One: comfort. I know the comfort of your men is an alien combination of words to you, but the fact is that we are going to be dealing with a climate that can kill men ill-prepared for it…"
This was going to be a long morning.
Johanna did not like sharing her coach with the man who had been paid to kill her husband, even if he had failed. If it was down to her, she'd have taken his boots away and made him bleddy well walk. But Charles was hospitality itself to the wretched man, who seemed relieved to be still alive and out of the clutches of the unspeakably brutish Els.
As her temper boiled off, she realised Charles was being his usual clever self. The would-be assassin was relieved to be alive, and was making the mistake of relaxing in unexpected comfort and the congeniality of a would-be client for his professional services who appeared to be bearing no grudge at all. With a glass of good wine inside him – from a precious bottle of Stellenbosch Caubernet Sauvignon that had travelled with them from Home – the two men had a leisurely conversation about the respective merits of Central Continent versus Howondalandian wines.
After about the third glass, the Assassin was relaxed enough to start really talking, Charles listening intently and prompting every now and again.
"You need have no fear of the party of Guild affiliates who will be taking ship with you to Howondaland, sir." the young Assassin assured him, his tongue loosened by the best wine Howondaland had to offer. "They will be aware that there is a contract out on you, of course, but they will be constrained from attempting to realise it. I say, this is remarkably good wine, isn't it? Hub-facing terraces, you say? And grapes grown from Quirmian stock by emigrants. Of course. It's that they will be the party tasked with the contract on the Paramount King. They will be relying, of course, on the good graces of your father while in a foreign country, and to make an attempt on you would be rather unwise, as well as a conflict of interests. Quite apart from which, a ship at sea is a closed community, and we do rather like to be able to get away as soon as possible after the conclusion of a contract. Nowhere to run or hide, you see And too far to swim."
The young man winced. Charles obligingly topped up his glass.
"In Ankh-Morpork you are safe, of course. And our attempt on you failed. I do not believe there will be another."
Johanna smiled at his cleverness, and returned to making rough notes for her Journal again. She hoped her account of her journey to Ankh-Morpork and the Central Continent would become a family heirloom, passed on from daughter to daughter down the family line as a guide to any descendent who was crazy enough to make the long, hazardous, journey to this strange and absurd place. Charles was certainly giving her a lot to write about. She fervently hoped he would survive long enough to give her a daughter.
They were met on the outskirts of the City by a despatch rider, who she recognised as the clever young Lieutenant on Sir Joshua's staff, the one who made all the bad jokes in Morporkian.
"You've been busy, I see!" he said to Charles.
"Oh, we picked up a few friends on the way!" Charles said, airily.
"So I see. Sir Joshua has had tent lines prepared for you all, if you'll just step this way? You'll need to organise fatigue parties for latrines and so forth, but you've certainly got the manpower. We've got the spades you can borrow!"
They were led to a large open space on the city limits, where fatigue parties were already setting up large tents and were off-loading others from carts.
"You and your senior officers are required at the Palace, sir. Perhaps your sergeants can take over here?"
Charles delegated officer-of-the-day duties to the two subalterns, with orders for them to establish a camp. He nodded at the way the less inexperienced of the two said "Sergeant deGloem?" in a voice part authority and part pleading.
As the veteran sergeant set to, Charles relaxed. He'd have an orderly camp to return to later. He left deGloem and the others cheerfully barking orders to the footsore recruits, and the coach set off to the Palace, pausing briefly to drop off at the guild of Assassins, where one living and one dead Assassin were handed over at the gate. Charles shook hands with his erstwhile killer and handed him back a parcel of weapons, then waited for long enough to see the duty porters stepping out with a stretcher and blanket. Pausing only to get the head porter to sign a receipt, he waved goodbye, and the coach drew off again in the direction of Turnwise Broadway and the Palace.
"Stylish." said Johanna. "Done with cool. They will hate you for that!" She had been in Ankh-Morpork for long enough to have learnt a few things. And she was a fast learner.
Charles smiled a long slow smile.
"Entirely my intention." he said. "And done completely within their rules, too. The perfect insult."
They smiled at the thought of the failed Assassin having to explain himself to authority. Neither of them was naturally unkind, but however personable the young man had turned out to be, he had put a large hole in Charles' hat.
They were still smiling when they arrived at the Palace, to be met by Lord Samphire's personal secretary, who rushed their party up the stairs to the Oblong Office. The sound of arguing braying voices drew louder as they approached.
"Damn it, Ronald! I shouldn't have to make it a direct order with men at your level, but if I have to, I will do! Will you not listen to sweet reason, man?"
"I am not having my men in those damn' rags! You've done this before, Joshua, but at least it was with your own regiments! You took them out of perfectly good scarlet and put them in green, as if…as if…. they were some sort of Forest elves!"
"You have to admit, my Lord, it worked!" Charles said, mildly.
Lord Rust, red in the face, turned and gave him a look of glassy-eyed surprise.
"I read a little of the history of the Regiments of Ankh-Morpork on the voyage from Home" he said. "When the Toledans tried to gain advantage from the ongoing war in Zlobenia and Borogravia, and sent an army to occupy disputed borderland, they marched right past the Ramkin Brigade, who were in concealment. None of the Toledan scouts registered they were there. In the subsequent rather one-sided battle, a full Toledan division was routed by a well-camouflaged unit a third of its size. Who then went on to capture the border fortress of Badacojonez."
"Is this relevant?" Lord Venturi said, icily.
"Indeed, my lord. It was apparent that the fighting spirit of the Ramkin Brigade was not sapped by wearing a colour other than scarlet, and their fighting ability was enhanced by intelligent use of camouflage, in the form of their green uniforms. Therefore surely a precedent exists…"
"But green, man!" exploded Lord Eorle. "Green! That's the Zlobenian colour. Look, you're a colonial and you can't be expected to know the niceities of warfare, but each nation has its own colour. It's long-standing tradition! We, of course, bagged good bright martial scarlet first. Quirmians wear dark blue."
He numbered them off on his fingers. "Zlobenians wear green. Überwaldeans have that damn very dark blue-grey, almost black"
"Feldgrau" Sir Joshua Ramkin said, helpfully. "Also known as Cyanidesauerblau, Prussic Blue. A good neutral colour that's almost as dam' good as camouflage."
Eorle ploughed on, not acknowledging him.
"Dam' Toledans wear yellow. Follows on. Hubsvensskans favour a pale sky blue with yellow trim. Dam' Brindisians wear white. Genua puts its chaps in stone-grey with pumpkin-coloured britches. Borogravia has that rather fetchin' lavender-purple.(4)
"But the point is, every country, by default, has its own colour and you don't go messin' with that. You just don't. Goes against all the rules! How are we supposed to know who's who on a battlefield, if you go messin' with the colours?"
Eorle nodded and stepped back, as if he had made an unassailable point. Charles shook his head.
"In any battle in my colony, my Lord, we don't concern ourselves so much with the niceties of what colour jacket the enemy is wearing. The general rule is that our enemies wear no jackets at all, and we identify them on a rather more fundamental issue of colour!"
Patrician Samphire intervened, seeking to change the topic.
"Welcome back to Ankh-Morpork, Mr Smith-Rhodes. I hear you've been busy these last few days?"
"I believe we succeeded in raising a Regiment in Sto Kerrig, sir. I am pleased!"
"Six hundred men, I hear." Sir Joshua Ramkin said, approvingly. "Dam' good work for two or three days!"
"And of course, the national colour of Sto Kerrig is of course orange."" Lord Eorle remarked. "Worn by their armies in the field for four hundred years now. Served this city well, gave those damned Hergenians a nasty shock in more robust times when our Kerrigian soldiers put down one of their bloody revolts!"(5)
He smiled a large self-satisfied smile.
"The Kerrigian Regiment will, of course, be wearing its traditional orange?"
Charles took a deep breath.
"No, my Lord." he said, firmly.
"No?"
"No. We will dress appropriately for the heat and the climate. We intend to wear the khaki uniform and the bush hat. I concede sergeants may need to be easily recognisable in the heat of battle, and an orange sash can be useful there, but I am not going to take men from this continent, who are not acclimatised to the dry heat of my homeland, and compound their discomfort by making them march in tight thick layers of woollen clothing buttoned up to the neck-stock."
He paused, looked directly into the eyes of each of the Lords in turn , and added:-
"And if you are wise, gentlemen, neither will you. We want an Army capable of fighting, not wards full of sunstroke and heat exhaustion cases!"
"That sounds eminently reasonable to me!" Lord Samphire said, firmly. He addressed the Lords.
"I am mindful to go with Sir Joshua's earnest advice and with the opinions of Mr Smith-Rhodes." he said. "As things stand, this is an academic point, as the factories have not yet turned out enough of this new pattern Howondalandian Service Uniform to equip all men who will be embarking. And I know I cannot easily command you to wear the uniforms, as I am not paying for the upkeep of your Regiments. You are. But at the very least…"
Samphire produced one of the new pattern lightweight tropical helmets.
Wee are agreed that in the blistering heat of Howondaland, this is a far more practical and somewhat stylish item of headwear than the shako. It covers the whole head and part of the shoulders, it is light, it is in a pale material that may easily be blancoed to white, and it carries a hatband which may be used to mount badges and plumes. All of you agree you would have no problem with such an article of headwear being issued to your men. Therefore I decree that at the very least, your men leave the shakoes at home and wear this pattern of helmet. Supply dictates that further supplies of this item will follow you in later ships in the convoy; Sir Joshua estimates that enough can be constructed for the entire expedition in six to eight weeks."
"Fectories in Howondaland can elso menufecture uniforms end headwear, given the petterns. Perheps the plens should be sent with us?" Johanna offered. She had a mental picture of Rust, Eorle and Selachii deciding to tip the unwanted new uniforms overboard as useless weight, halfway through the voyage. She wondered if her husband and Sir Joshua had the same suspicion.
"Thank you for the excellent submission, Mrs Smith-Rhodes. I'm sure the plans and patterns can be sent with you, for use by local industry in Howondaland, should there be any shortfall in the amount shipped with the troops."
Samphire looked at his army commanders.
"I'm aware I cannot stop you embarking your men in their current uniforms. But at the very least, issue them a tunic and trousers in the new material as well. Perhaps the men can wear them on duties where they are out of the public eye? I am mindful of the need for a few "hearts and minds" parades in the main cities, to advertise the fact we are there and resolute in defence of our colonial kith and kin. I agree these ceremonial, political, duties are best done in full dress. But from everything I have heard, and it is wise to take advice about a country from people who live there ( he nodded at Charles and Johanna) , then you must allow your men, on arrival, time to get used to a new climate! I do not want to hear reports concerning large numbers of men dropping out with preventable heatstroke."
He glared at the generals again.
Borogravia last winter was bad enough, when we had the opposite problem." he remarked. "I did take note that incidence of frostbite and exposure among Lord Ramkin's troops was lass than a sixth of what it was among Lord Selachii's. Sir Joshua's provision of better boots, more blankets, the innovation of sleeping bags, sturdier tents, thicker and more durable overcoats, and a better supply of fuel for camp stoves might perhaps have had to do with that. If his prescient judgement and care for his men was proven then, I believe it is worth taking note of now. That is all."
Johanna had once seen snow, from a distance, as white caps on the high peaks of the Drakensbergs. She tried to imagine what it would be like if it were nearer to, and everywhere. And freezing cold were the default temperature. She failed. Ankh-Morpork in autumn was the coldest place she had ever been to in her life. Being told it got colder, far colder still, was outside her experience. (6)
The subordinate commanders filed rebelliously out.
"Do you think they'll bite the bullet and obey?" Samphire asked Sir Joshua, who shook his head ruefully.
"That lot? Hardly a chance. Issue 'em the new uniforms now, and you can bet given a chance they'll put it aboard as deck cargo and claim it was washed overboard in a storm." Ramkin said.
"How cen people be so stupid?" Johanna asked. "It's obvious any soldiers arriving in Howondaland should wear lightweight loose clothing!"
"We did a lot gettin' 'em to accept the new helmet." said Ramkin. "We'll have to be satisfied with that until we arrive and start taking un-necessary casualties because of the heat. Then they might relent a bit. After all, don't forget they've got to wear even more ornate uniforms in your country's heat. They're Generals, in their own eyes, they insist on the big heavy polished helmet, and the smart tunic with all the braid drippin' off it and the collar buttoned at the neck. That might incentivise 'em to dress down a bit!"
Ramkin grinned.
"Will you be coming with us to review the new Kerrigian regiment?" he asked Samphire.
"There's honestly not a lot to see at the moment." Charles staged, "They need a uniform and equipment issue, for one thing."
"After me Llamedosians are equipped in the new uniform – and Rust is only in charge of them, he ain't paying their costs – the next batch goes to your Kerrigians. For now, get 'em bedded in and fed. I'll see there's an issue of personal kit later today, all the little things like shaving kits, eating irons, mess tins, and so forth. Bucks their morale up no end if little things like this are sorted out at the start. Have your sergeant get them sorting their tent lines out today and setting a routine then we can make a start on drill and weapons training tomorrow."
"I'll have my secretary plan an afternoon of touring the troops." Samphire said. "For now, I'll be here, Sir Joshua."
Almost forgetting, and kicking himself for it, Charles realised his major and captain were in the ante-room . He introduced them to Sir Joshua and the Patrician . Military nicieties were exchanged, and then they were back in the yard again and returning to their coach.
The march to war was progressing. Soon they would be at sea.
(1) A British fear at the time of the Zulu war was that Russia was grooming the Zulus as a client state, possibly hoping to grab a part of Africa for itself as a colony, and to have access to strategically located all-weather ports and naval bases in Africa. By the end of the war, the Zulus had indeed made cavalry units operational, with the intention of using them as dragoons – the horses would have been used to give selected impis even greater mobility and range of movement. But the war ended too soon for this new weapon to be made telling.
(2) He would. His son, (who would, similarly, have a daughter late in life who he would call Sybil Deirdre Olgivanna), would be Lord Lawkes Drain Ulunghi Ramkin, known as "Lawkes" or "Drain-ugly!" to his peers. The ability of some parents not to think when they name their children is a Multiversal phenomenon.
(3) A similar international incident was caused when bad map-reading by a Royal Navy officer saw him set a full Royal Marine Commando ashore, not on a training exercise in Gibraltar, but several miles down the coast in neutral Spain, who were not expecting a British invasion by several hundred fully armed commandos. Diplomatic apologies sorted this out, and the rather surprised Spanish army was demobilised from counter-attacking.
(4) Eorle is describing, in order, the traditional military colours of Great Britain, France, Russia, Prussia, Spain, Sweden, Italy, the Confederate States of America (Well...Genua has a Deep South Louisiana/ Dixie vibe to it) , Austria-Hungary, and Holland.
(5) On Roundworld, King William of Orange, King of Great Britain and Prince of Holland, put down an Irish rebellion at Boyne Water, in which Dutch troops wearing orange figured. Hence the quasi-mystical status of both King William and the colour Orange to Northern Irish Loyalists…
(6) Before they left for Home, Charles, who was also curious about how cold it could get, would fit in a fact-finding trip for their party to the Pork Futures Warehouse. After that she knew what cold was, and she wrote about it in her Journal with the sort of deep eloquence and feeling that left one of her linear descendants fully warned and informed.
