Текст книги "Lord John and the Hand of Devils"

Автор книги: Diana Gabaldon

Соавторы: Diana Gabaldon,Diana Gabaldon
сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

Twelvetrees coughed explosively and the illusion was broken. With bewildering suddenness, they resumed questioning him about the battle.

“How long had you been fighting the gun when it exploded?” Marchmont asked, drumming his fingers on the table.

“Roughly half an hour, sir.” No idea, sir. Seemed all day, sir.Couldn’t have been, though; the battle itself had taken no more than three or four hours. So he’d been told, later.

He realized, with a faint sense of nightmare, that his hands were beginning to tremble, and as unobtrusively as possible, curled them into fists on his knees.

They returned to the battle, making him go through it again, and once more, and then again: the number of men in the gun crew, their separate offices, how the gun was aimed—a pause, while he explained to a frowning Marchmont exactly what quoins were and that, no, the placement of these wooden wedges beneath the cannon’s trunnions affected nothing more than the altitude of the barrel, and could not possibly have contributed to the explosion—what shot had they been using—grapeshot, for the most part—what was the fucking weather like, which member of the crew had been killed—the loader, he didn’t know the man’s name—and exactly who had put the linstock to the touchhole during that last, fateful firing?

He clung to the colorless, rehearsed words of his testimony, a feeble shield against memory.

A faint haze of smoke from the proving ground had seeped through the cracks of the windows and hung near the egg-and-dart molding of the ceiling, gray as the rain clouds outside.

His left arm ached where it had been broken.

Sweat ran over his ribs, slow as seeping blood.

The ground shook under him, and he felt in his bones the invisible presence of Prussian dragon-riders.

He wished to God they had not told him Lister’s name.

The thump and rumble of distant explosion had resumed. He began to try to identify the sounds as a means of distraction, wondering, An eight? Or a coehorn?at a series of regular, hollow thumps, or thinking with more confidence, Twenty-four pounder,when the chandelier rattled overhead.

“It rained in the night,” he repeated for the fourth time, “but it was not raining heavily during the battle, no, sir.”

“Your vision was not obscured, then?”

Only by the sweat burning in his eyes and the billows of black powder smoke that drifted like thunderclouds over the field.

“No, sir.”

“You were not distracted in mind?”

He gripped his knees.

“No, sir.”

“So you claim,” Marchmont said, with distinct skepticism. “Do you not think it possible—or even likely, Major—that in the heat of battle, you might conceivably have ordered your crew to load a second charge before firing the first? I think such an eventuality would have provided an explosion of sufficient force as to rupture the cannon, would it not, Colonel?” He leaned a little forward, raising an interrogative brow at Twelvetrees, who looked more po-faced than usual, but nodded.

A small smirk of satisfaction oiled Lord Marchmont’s lips, as he looked back at Grey.

“Major?”

Grey felt a sharp jolt in the pit of his stomach. He’d come expecting official tedium, the meticulous dissection of accident required by those whose business such things were. He hadn’t looked forward either to the endless questions or to the inescapable reliving of the events at Crefeld—but the last thing he’d expected was this.

“Do I understand you aright, my lord?” he asked carefully. “Do you insinuate—do you dareto insinuate—that I…that my actions causedthe explosion which—”

“Oh, no, oh, no!” Oswald leapt in hurriedly, seeing Grey draw himself up. “I am quite sure his lordship insinuates nothing.” But Grey was already on his feet.

The clerk looked up, startled. There was a smut on his nose.

“Good day, my lord, gentlemen.” Grey bowed, jammed the hat on his head, and turned on his heel.

“Major! You have not been dismissed!”

Ignoring the outbreak of exclamations and orders behind him, he strode beneath the trembling chandelier and out the door.

Grey was so exercised in mind that he took no notice at all of his surroundings. Emerging into the portrait hallway, he did not wait to be shown out, but stamped off via the most direct route that presented itself. In consequence, he found himself a few moments later outside the house, in the midst of a raging downpour, but with Bell Street, where he had come in, nowhere in sight.

He paused, breathing heavily, thought of skulking back into the manor house to ask direction, dismissed that notion instanter, and looked round for an alternate means of egress.

He was surrounded by a cluster of smaller buildings, mostly wet brick, roofed with rain-slick slates, and with a profusion of small, muddy lanes leading to and fro among them.

No wonder they called the bloody place “the Warren,” he thought grimly, and was inclined to find his present confusion merely a continuation of the morning’s aggravation. He chose a direction at random and set off, cursing the Arsenal and all its works.

Ten minutes of tramping through rain and mud left his clothes wet, his boots fouled, and his temper fouler, but he was no closer to escape. A shattering boom!from very close at hand made him veer suddenly sideways, fetching up against one of the myriad brick buildings, heart thundering in his chest. He pressed a hand hard over it, and tried without effect to calm his breathing.

His hands and feet were chilled to the bone, but he felt fresh sweat trickle down his ribs, further dampening his already clammy linen. Not that it mattered; he would be soaked to the skin in another few minutes.

“Oh, the devil with it,” he muttered to himself, and seizing the nearest door handle in sight, shoved it open.

He found himself in a low-ceilinged room that smelt strongly of sulfur, hot metal, and other noxious substances. It did, however, have a fire in the hearth, and he headed for this like a racing pigeon homing to its cot.

He slung his cloak forward over his shoulder and closed his eyes in momentary bliss at the feel of heat on his legs and backside.

A sound caused him to open his eyes, and he saw that the noise of his entry had attracted a young man, presently gaping at him from a door on the far side of the room.

“Sir?” said the young man tentatively, taking in Grey’s uniform. The young man himself was in shirtsleeves and breeches, a slender chap with dark, curly hair and a face of almost girlish delicacy, perhaps a few years younger than himself.

“I beg your pardon for my unseemly intrusion,” Grey said, letting his cloak fall and forcing a smile. “I am Major John Grey. I was unfortunately—” He had begun some explanation of his presence, but the young man’s eyes forestalled him with an exclamation of surprise.

“Major Grey! Why, I know you!”

“You do?” For some reason, this made Grey somewhat uneasy.

“But of course, of course! Or rather,” the young man corrected himself, “I know your name. You were called before the commission this morning, were you not?”

“I was,” Grey said shortly, fury returning at the memory.

“Oh—but I forget myself; your pardon; sir. I am Herbert Gormley.” He bobbed an awkward bow, which Grey returned, with mutual murmurs of “your servant, sir.”

Glancing round, he saw that the strong odors came from an assortment of pots and glass vessels scattered higgledy-piggledy across an assortment of tables and benches. Wisps of steam rose from a small earthen pot on the table nearest him.

“Could that be tea?” Grey asked dubiously.

It could. Gormley, clearly grateful for the opportunity to be hospitable, snatched up a filthy cloth, and using this as a pot holder, poured hot liquid into a pottery mug, which he handed to Grey.

The tea was the same grayish color as the mud on his boots, and the smell led him to suspect that the mug was not employed strictly as a drinking vessel—but it was hot, and that was all that mattered.

“Er…what is this place?” Grey inquired, emerging from the mug and waving at their surroundings.

“This is the Royal Laboratory, sir!” Gormley said, straightening his back with an air of pride. “If you please, sir? I’ll fetch someone directly; he will be so excited!”

Before Grey could speak to stop him, Gormley had darted back into the recesses of the building.

Grey’s uneasy feeling returned. Excited? The revelation that everyone in the Warren seemed to have heard about his appearance before the commission was sufficiently sinister. That anyone should be excited about it was unsettling.

In Grey’s not inconsiderable experience, for a soldier to be talked about was a good thing only if the conversation were in reference to some laudable feat of arms. Otherwise, a prudent man kept his head down, lest it be—this unwary thought evoked a sudden memory of Lieutenant Lister, and he shuddered convulsively, slopping hot tea over his knuckles.

He set the cup down and wiped his hand on his cloak, debating the wisdom of absquatulating before Gormley returned with his “someone”—but the rain was now slashing ferociously at the shutters, driven by a freezing east wind, and he hesitated an instant too long.

“Major Grey?” A dark, burly soldier in a Royal Artillery captain’s uniform emerged, a look of mingled welcome and wariness upon his heavy face. “Captain Reginald Jones, sir. May I welcome you to our humble abode?” He offered his hand, tilting his head in irony toward the cluttered room.

“I am obliged to you, sir, both for shelter from the storm and for the kind refreshment,” Grey replied, taking both the offered hand and advantage of the pounding rain to indicate his reason for intrusion.

“Oh, you did not come in response to my invitation?” Jones had thick brows, like woolly caterpillars, which arched themselves in inquiry.

“Invitation?” Grey repeated, the sense of unease returning. “I received no invitation, Captain, though I assure you—”

“I did tell you, sir,” Gormley said reproachfully to the captain. “When I took your note across to the manor, they said I had just missed the major, who had already left.”

“Oh, so you did, so you did, Herbert,” Jones said, smacking himself theatrically on the forehead. “Well, then, it seems good luck or Providence has delivered you to us, Major.”

“Indeed,” Grey said warily. “Why?”

Captain Jones smiled warmly at him.

“Why, Major, we have something to show you.”

He had no time to dwell upon the Commission, at least.

It was a long gallop from the laboratory, through a maze of smaller outbuildings and sheds, then into what Gormley—shouting to be heard above the noise of rain and hammering—told him was the Royal Brass Foundry, a large, airy stone and brick building, through whose archways Lord John glimpsed strange marvels: casting pits, boring machines, a gigantic beam scale large enough to weigh a horse…and a horse. Two, to be accurate, their wet flanks gleaming as they backed a wagon filled with barrels of clay and burlap bags of sand in through the high vestibule door.

The air was thick with the scents of wet rope, drying clay, hot wax, tallow, fresh manure, and the acrid, fiery odors of an unseen forge somewhere in the recesses of the place. Gormley shouted brief descriptions of the various activities they passed, but Jones was leading the way at the double-quick, and Grey had barely time to inhale the fascinating aromas of gun-founding before he found himself propelled once more into the open air and the cold smell of rain on stone, tinged with a miasma of rot and ordure from the prison hulks on the river nearby.

The air shivered periodically with explosion; they were drawing nearer to the proving grounds. The bangs echoed in the hollow of his stomach. Jesus, they weren’t going to try to make him reenact the events leading up to the demise of Tom Pilchard, surely?

The pitted landscape of the proving grounds stretched away to the left; he could see it now. Acres of open ground punctuated by earthen bunkers, outposts of heaped sandbags, and tents of various shapes and sizes, canvas darkened by the rain. Here and there, the glint of muted light on the barrels of the bigger guns.

To his relief, though, Jones veered right and down a muddy path lined with the dismounted carcasses of ruined guns, neatly laid out like dead bodies.

He had no time to study them, but was impressed by both their number—there must be fifty, at least—and by the size of some. There must be half a dozen cannon royal, whose monstrous barrels weighed eight thousand pounds or more and must be drawn by a dozen horses.

Ahead lay a very large, open-sided shelter, roofed with canvas. Long tables lay bleak under the canvas, covered with debris. Here lay half a Spanish culverin, the breech blown off. There the twisted remains of a short gun he could not identify.

The thump of a fresh explosion reached him, muffled only slightly by the rain that drummed on the canvas overhead as he followed Gormley into the shelter.

“Why do they test ordnance in the rain?” he asked, to cover his unease, and by way of making conversation.

“Do you not sometimes fight in the rain, my lord?” Gormley sounded amused. “Useful to have bombs and grenades that will still explode when the casing is wet, don’t you think?”

“Ah…quite.” The Commission’s harping insistence upon the weather at Crefeld seemed suddenly to acquire some meaning. Likewise their insistent questioning regarding his perceptions of the powder…Edgar. Goddammit, Edgar!

It was the juxtaposition of his half brother with the notion of gunpowder that finally triggered realization.

Rain would certainly dampen the firing powder, no matter what precautions were taken. Normally, damp was less of a problem with the bombs and grapeshot cartridges, they being well wrapped, but even these would now and then fail to explode. A certain number of them simply failed to explode in any case, weather notwithstanding. And when this happened, the dummy charge must be removed from the breech before a fresh load was rammed down the barrel. Otherwise, the impact itself might cause the faulty load to go off. Or—he remembered Marchmont’s accusation with a fresh surge of fury—a hasty or incompetent gun crew occasionally didneglect to remove the faulty load, ram a fresh one, and then touch off both charges together, which might indeed fracture a gun.

And Edgar owned a powder mill. The insinuation, he supposed, was that Edgar’s mill had supplied dud powder, which had by coincidence been used to make the grapeshot cartridges he had used in Crefeld. One of these failing to go off, his own inattention or stupidity had…But this was the sheerest idiocy, even for someone like Marchmont. What—

But these fevered speculations were interrupted as Jones came to an abrupt halt beside one of the tables and turned, looking expectant.

The table was littered with shattered chunks of verdigrised and blackened brass. It had been a large cannon, a twenty-four pounder; most of the barrel forward of the trunnions was intact. And it was an English cannon—the royal cypher of George the Second showed clearly, though the reinforcing band upon which it was stamped had cracked through and the breech of the gun lay in a rubble of twisted pieces, blackened with powder.

“Do you recognize it, Major?” Gormley asked.

Grey felt an odd sense of shock, and something strangely like sorrow, as he might for an unknown soldier blown to bits beside him. Would he care, he wondered, if he didn’t now know the gun by name?

“Tom Pilchard, is it?” He reached out and touched the broken barrel, gently.

“Yes, sir.” The young man seemed to share his sense of loss; he bowed his head respectfully, and spoke with lowered voice, as one might at the bier of a friend. “I thought you might wish to see him, sir—or what’s left.”

Grey glanced at Gormley, rather surprised—and caught sight of Captain Jones on the far side of the table, staring at him intently. Blank puzzlement was succeeded by a fresh wave of anger, as realization struck him. God damn them, they’d brought him to view the carcass in order to see whether he might betray some manifestation of guilt!

He hoped no sign of his fury showed on his face. Heart thumping, he moved slowly down the table, examining the wreckage.

They had laid out the broken chunks in rough order, a giant bronze clutter of jagged pieces. Near the shattered butt, he caught sight of an oddly curved piece, and despite his awareness of Jones’s scrutiny, put out a hand to it.

It was what remained of a leopard, couchant, part of the ornamentation from one of the cannon’s dolphins. No more than the head remained, split right through. The face snarled intact on one side of the small chunk of metal, ear laid back. The other side was broken, the pitted brass already greening.

“My lord?” Gormley’s voice was questioning. Paying no attention, Grey reached into his pocket and drew out a small piece of bronze, smoothly cast on one side, rough on the other. It was heavy in his hand, dark, clean, and cold. The last time he’d held it thus, it had been still warm from his body, and darker yet, slick with his blood.

There was a murmur of interest and excitement. Gormley leaned close to see, and Captain Jones, in his haste to look, too, caught his hip a wallop on the corner of the table, making the pieces of the cannon rumble and clang. Grey hoped it would leave a bruise.

“Where did you get that, Major?” Jones asked, rubbing his hip as he nodded at the fragment Grey held.

“The surgeon who removed it from my chest gave it me,” Grey answered, very cool. “A memento of my survival.”

“May I?” Gormley extended a hand, face eager.

Grey wished to refuse, but a glimpse of Jones’s hard interest prevented him. He tightened his lips and handed the cat’s face to Gormley. Cupping the larger remnant in his hand, the young man fitted the smaller one to it, restoring the leopard’s head.

Gormley made a small noise of pleasure at adding this bit to his jagged puzzle. Grey was more interested at what was still missing.

There was a dark crack between the halves of the leopard’s head, where a two-inch sliver of metal was still missing. Missing, but not gone. He still retained thatsmall souvenir of his brief acquaintance with Tom Pilchard—lodged somewhere in the depths of his chest. He was interested to see the dimensions of it—longer than he’d thought, but very slender—no more than a hair’s width at the narrower end.

The surgeon, digging through his chest with urgent fingers, had touched the end of the bronze splinter but been unable to take hold of it with forceps in order to draw it out—and after prolonged consultation with his learned German colleague, had decided that to leave it in situwas less risk than to attempt removal by cutting through his ribs and opening his chest.

Grey had been in no condition to contribute to that debate, nor did he remember everything they’d done to him, but he recalled—and with no sense of shame whatever—the warmth of tears running down his face at the news that they did not propose to hurt him any more.

He hadn’t wept through all that terrible day, nor the ones that went before it. The dissolution, when it came, had been a blessing, acknowledgment of mourning for the lost, acceptance of what remained of his life.

“Major Grey?” He became aware that Gormley was squinting curiously at him, and shook off his memories abruptly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I only asked, sir—when the gun blew up, did you hear anything?”

The question was so incongruous that he actually laughed.

“Did I hearanything? Beyond the explosion, you mean?”

“Well, what I mean, sir…” Gormley struggled for clarity. “Did you hear just a loud bang, same as you would when the gun was fired? Or perhaps twobangs, right close together? Or a bang, and then a…clang? Metal, I mean.” He hesitated. “I mean…did you hear the sound of the gun breaking?”

Grey looked at him, arrested.

“Yes,” he said slowly. “I believe I did. A bang and a clang, as you put it. So close together, though…I couldn’t swear…”

“Well, they would be,” Gormley said eagerly. “Now, what I understand, sir—this wasn’t your regular gun?”

Grey shook his head.

“No. I’d never seen it before.”

Gormley—Grey could not help thinking of him as “Gormless,” the name was so the opposite of his small, quick cleverness—creased his narrow brow in a frown.

“How many times did it fire before it exploded?”

“I have no idea,” Grey answered shortly. This was beginning to echo the bloody inquisition he’d been through half an hour before, and he had no intention of repeating himself ad infinitumto a series of questioners of descending seniority. To forestall more questions, he seized the moment to ask his own.

“What are those?” He pointed to the broken barrel where several half circles scalloped the edge, quite unlike the jagged shear of the rest.

To his surprise, Gormley stiffened and glanced uneasily at Jones, who gave the young man a flat, blank sort of look.

“Oh. That’s…nothing, sir.”

The devil it is,thought Grey. But he had had enough of mystifications and dark hints. Moved by impulse, he picked up the smaller fragment of the leopard’s head, restored it to his pocket, and bowed to Jones and Gormley.

“I have business elsewhere, gentlemen. I bid you good day.”

He turned on his heel, ignoring cries of protest. To his surprise, Captain Jones positively sprinted after him, catching him by the sleeve at the edge of the shelter.

“You can’t take that!”

Grey glanced at the captain’s hand on his sleeve, keeping his eyes fixed there, until Jones’s grip relaxed.

“I beg your pardon, Major,” Jones said stiffly, standing back. “But you must leave that bit of metal here.”

“Why?” Grey lifted a brow. “The fragments will be melted down, surely?” Such a small bit of brass couldn’t be worth the tenth part of a farthing.

Jones looked taken aback for an instant, but rapidly regained his confidence.

“That bit of metal,” he said in severe tones, “is the property of His Majesty!”

“Of course it is,” Grey agreed cordially. “And when His Majesty likes to ask me for it, I shall be quite happy to give it to him. For the moment, though, I shall keep it safe.”

Taking a deep breath in preparation, he wrapped the edges of his cloak around himself, pulled his hat well down, and dived into the rain. Jones didn’t follow.

He had a decent sense of direction and was used to finding his way through foreign towns and open country alike. Keeping in mind the directions Gormley had given him as they sped through the Warren, he was able to find his way back past the maze of the proving grounds to the foundry, pausing only now and then to take his bearings.

The din in the foundry seemed almost welcoming, a cheerful, self-absorbed racket that was completely uninterested in Major Grey and his experiences on the battlefield at Crefeld. He paused for a moment to watch a moulder beating with an iron rod at a great heap of clay that sat on a bench before him, while an assistant shoveled handsful of horse dung and wool clippings into the mix, counting as he did so.

In the next bay, men were winding rope carefully round a tapered wooden spindle, some ten feet long, that sat in a sort of large trough, suspended in notches at either end—the cannon mould to which the clay would be applied, he supposed.

“Beg pardon, sir.” A young man appeared out of nowhere, pushing him politely aside in order to retrieve a bucket of soft soap, which he then rushed back and began daubing onto the tight-packed grooves of the rope with a large brush.

He would have liked to loiter and watch, but he was clearly in the way; already, men were glancing at him, curiosity mingled with a mild hostility at his unuseful presence.

The rain had at least slackened; he walked out of the main foundry building, his hand curled round the fragment of brass in his pocket, thinking of that missing sliver.

For the most part, he was unaware of it, and often forgot its presence altogether. Now and then, though, some postural shift would send a brief, piercing pain through his chest, freezing him in place. The English surgeon, Dr. Longstreet, had told him that there might remain some harmless irritation of the nerves, but that the spasms would eventually pass.

The German surgeon, evidently unaware of Grey’s fluency in that language, had agreed, but remarked in his own tongue that there was of course a slight possibility of the sliver’s turning suddenly, in which case it might pierce the pericardium, whatever that was.

But no need to think of that,he had concluded cheerfully, as if so, he will be dead almost at once.

He had recalled Gormley’s directions aright; directly ahead was what the young man had called Dial Arch. Beyond that lay Dial Square, and beyond that in turn he should find the exit he sought to Bell Street, where, no doubt, his long-suffering valet was still waiting for him.

He smiled wryly at thought of Tom Byrd. He had insisted that there was no need for his valet to accompany him all the way out to Woolwich—it was ten miles, at least—but Byrd would not hear of his going out alone. Tom, bless him, had scarcely let him go anywhere alone since his return from Germany, fearing—and with some reason, Grey was grudgingly forced to admit—that he might collapse on the street.

He was much better now, though; quite restored, he told himself firmly. Hand still curled round the tiny leopard’s head, he paused under the arch to brush and shake himself into order before facing the critical eye of Tom Byrd, aged eighteen.

A huge stone sundial lay in the center of the square, giving it its name. It was of course not working at the moment, but it did remind Grey of time. He had been engaged to his mother and step-father, General Stanley, for supper, but it was already growing dark; there was no hope of making the long and dangerous carriage ride in time. He’d have to spend the night in Woolwich.

Unpleasant as that prospect was, it carried with it a sense of relief. He’d seen the general since the “unfortunate occurrence,” as Hal so tersely termed it, but only briefly. He hadn’t been looking forward to a long tкte-а-tкte.

A movement on the other side of the sundial made him look up. A man was standing there, regarding him with a faintly puzzled, somewhat offended look, as though considering his appearance exceptionable in some way.

Grey might have been offended in turn, were he not taken aback in his turn by the other’s appearance, which was most certainly exceptionable.

He wore an unfamiliar uniform, old-fashioned in appearance, of a regiment that Grey did not recognize. The hilt of a dress sword showed beneath his coat—this a full-skirted garment, blue with scarlet facings, and two antique pistols were thrust through his belt. Below were breeches of a grossly unfashionable cut, baggy at the knee and so loose through the leg as to swim about his figure, stocky as it was. His wig, though, was the most remarkable thing, this being unpowdered, long, and curled upon his shoulders in a glossy profusion of dark brown. It was a most unmilitary sight, and Grey frowned at the man.

The soldier appeared no more impressed with Grey; he turned upon his heel without a word and walked toward the opening at the other side of the square. Grey opened his mouth to hail the fellow, then stood with it open. The soldier was gone, the archway empty. Or, no—not empty. A young man was there, looking into the square. Another soldier, an artillery officer by his dress—but certainly not the gentleman in the old-fashioned wig.

“Did you see him?” A voice at Grey’s elbow turned him; it was a short, middle-aged man in uniform, faintly familiar. “Did you see him, sir?”

“The strange gentleman in the ancient wig? Yes.” He frowned at the man. “Do I know you?” Memory supplied the answer, even as the soldier knuckled his forehead in salute.

“Aye, sir, though little wonder should you not recognize me. We met—”

“At Crefeld. Yes. You were part of the gun crew serving Tom Pilchard, were you not? You were—yes, you were the rammer.” He was sure of it, though the neat soldier before him bore little resemblance to the black-stained, sweat-soaked wretch whose half-toothless savage grin was the last image he recalled of the battle of Crefeld.

“Aye, sir.” The rammer appeared less interested in picking up the threads of past acquaintance, though, than in the old-fashioned gentleman who had so abruptly departed. “Did you see him, sir?” he repeated, clearly excited. “It was the ghost!”

“The what?”

“The ghost, sir! ’Twas the Arsenal ghost, I’m sure it was!” The rammer—Grey had never known his name—looked at once terrified and thrilled.

“Whatever are you talking about, Private?” Grey asked sharply. His tone brought the rammer up short, and he stood stiff at attention.

“Why, sir, it’s the Arsenal ghost,” he said, and despite his pose, his eyes sought the opposite side of the square, where the apparition—if that’s what it was—had vanished. “Everybody knows about the Arsenal ghost—but damn few has seen it!”

He sounded almost gloating, though his face was still pale.

“Folk say as he’s the ghost of an artillery officer was killed on the proving ground, fifty years or more ago. It’s good luck, they say, for an artilleryman to see him—not so good, maybe, was you not of his h’occupation.”

“Good luck,” Grey repeated, a little bleakly. “Well, and I’m sure we can all use a bit of that. Come to that, Private, how do you come to be here?”

The ghost—if that’s what he was—had raised not a hair on Grey’s head, but the rammer’s presence had set the back of his neck to prickling.

“Oh.” The man’s look of avid interest faded a little. “I’m summoned, sir. They’s a Commission of Inquiry, regarding the h’explosion. Poor old Tom Pilchard,” he said, wagging his head mournfully. “’E were a noble gun.”

The rammer glanced at the sundial, gleaming with rain.

“But I come here,sir, for to see was there enough light to tell the time by the dial, see, sir, not to be late.”

A sense of movement on the other side of the square made Grey look up quickly. It was not the ghost, though—if it had been a ghost—but the small, black-coated functionary who had taken him before the commission, wearing a large handkerchief spread over his wig against the rain, and an annoyed expression.