"Yeah, but what we're after isn't going to be in the main streets. Follow me, lads." Sergeant Jackrum, suddenly furtive, ducked between two big heaps of boxes and emerged beside a smithy, its forge glowing in the dusk.
Here the tents were open-sided. Armourers and saddlers worked by lantern-light, shadows flickering across the mud. Polly and Shufti had to step out of the way of a mule train, each animal carrying two casks on its back; the mules moved aside for Jackrum. Maybe he's met them before, too, thought Polly, maybe he really does know everyone.
The sergeant walked like a man with the deeds to the world. He acknowledged other sergeants with a nod, lazily saluted the few officers there were around here, and ignored everybody else.
"You been here before, sarge?" said Shufti.
"No, lad."
"But you know where you're going?"
"Correct. I ain't been here, but I know battlefields, especially when everyone's had a chance to dig in." Jackrum sniffed the air. "Ah, right. That's the stuff. Just you two wait here."
He disappeared between two stacks of lumber. They heard a distant muttering and, after a moment or two, he reappeared holding a small bottle.
Polly grinned. "Is that rum, sarge?"
"Well done, my little bar steward. And wouldn't it be nice if it was rum, upon my word. Or whisky or gin or brandy. But this don't have none of those fancy names. This is the genuine stingo, this is. Pure hangman."
"Hangman?" said Shufti.
"One drop and you're dead," said Polly. Jackrum beamed, as a master to a keen pupil.
"That's right, Shufti. It's rotgut. Wheresoever men are gathered together, someone will find something to ferment in a rubber boot, distil in an old kettle and flog to his mates. Made from rats, by the smell of it. Ferments well, does your average rat. Fancy a taste?"
Shufti shied away from the proffered bottle. The sergeant laughed.
"Good lad. Stick to beer," he said.
"Don't the officers stop it?" said Polly.
"Officers? What do they know about anything?" said Jackrum. "An' I bought this off of a sergeant, too. Anyone watching us?"
Polly peered into the gloom. "No, sarge."
Jackrum poured some of the liquid into one pudgy hand and splashed it onto his face. "Ye-ouch," he hissed. "Stings like the blazes. And now to kill the tooth worms. Got to do the job properly." He took a quick sip from the bottle, spat it out, and shoved the cork back in. "Muck," he said. "Okay, let's go."
"Where are we going, sarge?" said Shufti. "You can tell us now, can't you?"
"A quiet little place where our needs will be met," said Jackrum. "It'll be around here somewhere."
"You don't half smell of drink, sarge," said Shufti. "Will they let you in if you smell drunk?"
"Yes, Shufti, lad, they will," said Jackrum, setting off again. "The reason being, my pockets jingle and I smell of booze. Everyone likes a rich drunk. Ah... down this little valley here, that'll be our... yeah, I was right. This is the place. Tucked away, delicate like. See any clothes hanging out to dry, boys?"
There were a few washing lines strung behind the half-dozen or so drab tents in this side valley, which was little more than a wash gouged out by winter rains. If there had been anything on them it had been taken in against the heavy dew.
"Shame," said Jackrum. "Okay, so we'll have to do it the hard way. Remember: just act natural and listen to what I say."
"I'm sh-shaking, sarge." Shufti muttered.
"Good, good, very natural," said Jackrum. "This is our place, I think. Nice and quiet, no one watching us, nice little path up there to the top of the wash..." He stopped at a, very large tent and tapped on the board outside with his swagger stick.
"The SoLid DoVes," Polly read.
"Yeah, well, these ladies weren't hired for their spelling," said Jackrum, pushing open the flap of the tent of ill repute.
Inside was a stuffy little area, a sort of canvas antechamber. A lady, lumpy and crowlike in a black bombazine dress, rose from a chair and gave the trio the most calculating look Polly had ever met. It finished off by putting a price on her boots.