CATCH UP SAMPLER 4 – IN THE CALIFORNIA

Hello Again – I am updating the web page once more to include a fourth excerpt from Black Hearts, previously posted on the Facebook page. In the text from the actual novel, characters’ thoughts are in italics. I can’t include italics on this page, so I have replaced with brackets which I hope will serve to get the idea across. So –

‘G’day to all you black-hearted little devils out there, blue or otherwise. Toaday I’m posting another sampler from Black Hearts And Blue Devils. In this scene Sergeant Abe Lively enters the California public house in old Blackheath, accompanied by his younger brother, PC Joshua Lively as part of their investigation of a recent road traffic accident – to wit, as readers of this page might guess, the unfortunate death of the young miner John Till under the wheels and hooves of a runaway horse and cart (the subject of a previous sampler). Josh gets collared by old soldier Reg Phillips who served in the Crimea. His service medal becomes the object of another investigation when it goes missing. I’ve included images of the type of medal in question, except that old Reg’s medal had two clasps rather than the one shown. So – here’s that episode:

“Against the panelling sat three men and an old woman, each nursing a half pint of a brown beverage, barely enough sipped to remove the frothy heads, and talking in tired, low tones, conspirators in indolence. Above their heads, eavesdropping, a moth-eaten buffalo’s head stared across at the coal fire, feigning indifference through coal black eyes.

The owner of the establishment stood at the bar, looking at a bit of a loose end. Still, he would have no doubt preferred that status quo to the appearance of two uniformed police officers on the threshold.

“I’ll take the landlord Josh, you try the customers,” said Abe nodding in the direction of the quartet. “Morning Reg,” he continued.

A small and slight figure under a billycock hat and wearing the distinctively striped workhouse pattern shirt and waistcoat beneath an equally give-away fearnought cloth jacket had been perched at the other end of the bar guarding a lonely pint. At the sound of Abe’s voice, this dapper old gentleman jumped down from the bar stool with alacrity, a ready albeit toothless smile and a sharp, left-handed, military salute announcing, “Corporal Reginald Phillips, 38th. Of Foot, reporting for duty sergeant.”

Practised in the routine, Abe responded. “At ease corporal.”

“Thank you, sergeant.”

Abe approached the landlord and Josh drew the short straw.

“Good morning constable. What’s your name lad?”

“Hello Reg. We’ve met before, haven’t we?”

“No. I don’t think so. Never forget a face me.”

In fact, these days Reg did occasionally forget a face. He had forgotten Josh’s face, as well as his name.

“It’s constable Lively Reg. Josh.”

“Pleased to meet you Josh.” Reg. stuck out his good hand which Josh dutifully shook.

“Sorry about the left hand, but as you can see, the right one’s missing.” As per usual, ex corporal Reginald Phillips, late of the South Staffs, had neatly tucked and folded his right sleeve at elbow level – where his right arm terminated – and pinned it to his upper arm.

“It’s an honour to shake an old soldier’s hand, either one,” said Josh.

“Old soldier? Yes, that’s me. I’m fifty-four you know!”

And you look it Reg, you poor old bugger.

“It’s been thirty-four years since I lost me arm you know. Bet you can’t guess where?”

{In the Crimea by any chance?}

“In the Crimean War. You’re too young to remember that of course. It was the Russian Bear against the British Lion, and the Frogs. And some Turks an’ all. Turks was on our side, but they didn’t amount to much. Foreign Johnnies; can’t trust ’em. Look, that’s where I got this.” Reg gestured to his chest whereto was affixed the still bright sky blue and yellow ribbon threaded through his shining campaign medal. Josh knew, because he had been told before, that the two oak leaf clasps signified that Reg had seen action in two battles during the campaign.

“These two bars,” went on the old man, “mean that I was at Inkerman and Sebastopol…”

{Yes, I think you might have mentioned that.}

“Did you ever hear about the siege of Sebastopol?”

“I heard it was a living hell.” {From you!} “A freezing hell with cholera and snipers ready to put you out of your misery. Trench warfare, wretched business.”

“Yes. Wretched business, trench warfare. You took the words right out of my mouth.”

“Were you in here last night Reg.?”

“No. Can’t afford to drink all the time. And it’s not always that easy to get out of the workhouse. Depends on what’s cooking,” continued Reg with a knowing wink which escaped the young policeman entirely.

“Right then. I just need to go and…”

But the old soldier’s timing was impeccable and Josh never stood a chance. “There was a group of us,” he said as he grasped the young man’s forearm and looked earnestly into his eyes.

“There was fifteen or twenty of us, sent to storm the Russian rifle pits. We showed ’em. The ones that ran was lucky. Only I got shot, in the hand. Surgeon took the hand; gangrene took the rest.”

{Oh. He’s missed out the captain. Forgotten him no doubt.}

“Captain Vam, he was our captain. Dutch he was, originally; I think. Foreign anyway. But more than a match for them poncy public school English officers. He was a good man, and a damn good C.O. Yes, I’ll always remember what he said…”

At this point Reg was staring into space, a momentary time traveller, retrieving memories. Josh would have not made a good military officer, though, for instead of seizing this opportunity and making a tactical withdrawal, he found himself drawn back into the skirmish.

{Decisive.}

“Decisive he said it was. Clearing them Russkis out. Decisive.”

As Reg took a self-congratulatory, but expertly timed, swig of beer, Josh was looking round with what felt absurdly like a growing panic. Abe had finished with the man behind the bar and was talking to the buffalo party. May as well stay put.

“Buy you a half Reg?”

“That’s very kind of you son. What did you say your name was?”

“It’s Josh.”

“But I only drink pints Josh,” said Reg as he produced as if by magic a now empty pint pot. “Bitter please Josh.”

When Reg’s refill had arrived, he attacked another favourite theme. “You’ve heard of Florence Nightingale? Yes of course you have. Well I met her, in hospital. Scutari…”

{Saved your life, she did. An angel she was.}

“She saved my life you know. They called her the Lady With The Lamp. I called her an angel.”

“Well she did a good job. You’re still here.”

“Yes, cleanliness and fresh air. That’s the secret to health and long life.”

{Sure it’s not hot air?}

But Josh had to admit that, on the cleanliness front, you couldn’t fault this old man. He kept his hair and beard in trim, or somebody did; his clothes were unsoiled; and he kept his old boots bulled to a mirror shine which put Josh’s efforts to shame…”

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