‘Than why are you here, Marshwic?’ Castwood demanded.
‘Because I want to go to the Levant front, Major. I know there are dozens, scores who want the opposite, but I want the Levant, and I would gladly swap.’
‘Why?’ Castwood leant back in his chair, frowning.
‘Because I have a brother-in-law there. Because I had a brother there, until he was killed. Because it was his death that brought me here. Sir.’
Castwood looked at her a long time, and Emily was aware of that long line of hopeful, desperate women outside, who would be noting the seconds as they dragged on. Bloody Marshwic, bloody nob’s daughter, they would be thinking, but they would have been surprised if they could have eavesdropped.
‘A dead brother is a bad reason to choose the Levant,’ Castwood told her. ‘I remember what it felt like to be righteous and noble about things and, believe me, I feel a fool every time I come to shave.’
‘But, sir—’
‘A brother-in-law, though: living family? That’s better,’ he said. ‘Stick close to him. The swamps of the Levant are a difficult place to be new in.’
‘Then you’ll—’
‘I see no problem with shipping anyone who asks to the Levant. As you say, there are plenty who want the opposite.’
‘Could I ask . . . there’s a woman called Elise Hally—’
‘Ensign Marshwic!’ Castwood barked. ‘If I will not dabble in the fate of my recruits for my own pleasure – and the offers I have had today, in money, goods or female flesh would make a bawd and a pawnbroker blush – then I will not do so for you. You yourself have taken the place of one woman who will find the Couchant front more to her liking, but which one you will never know.’
They were kept waiting in the refectory after lunch, and everyone knew that it was going to be then. Master Sergeant Bowler stepped up onto one of the tables with a great long list in his hands, all of four hundred names.
‘These now before me, whose names I read out,’ he called, ‘shall be joining His Majesty’s forces at the Couchant front. Absolon, Theresa; Acherson, Sally; Afland, Leese; Afland, Yolanda; Aillen, Jane . . .’ He marched through the names at a steady, military pace, and pockets of relief burst all over the room as one woman after another heard her name given, and knew that she was to be spared the swamps of the Levant. The quicker women understood, as the alphabet trudged past with no mention of them, and Bowler’s recitation gathered momentum with a growing moan of quiet despair from those who knew that they had been passed over. Emily looked to Elise, beside her, as Bowler ploughed through the H’s, and saw the realization dawn on her friend when the master sergeant got to, ‘Helender, Grace.’
‘I guess you couldn’t do anything for me,’ said Elise, with no blame in her voice. ‘I’m sure you tried.’
‘I did try,’ Emily told her, mentally marking off the names as they came, and waiting. ‘I couldn’t help you one way or another.’
‘One way or . . . What’s that supposed to mean?’ Elise asked, but Emily held a hand up and listened closely as the names paraded across the room, leaving joy and despair in their wake.
‘Mabbins, Cath; Masefield, Bridgett,’ Bowler announced, and then, ‘Matchlock, Gemima,’ and then another name, and another, and Emily waited for Elise to catch up and realize.
‘But . . .’ And then Elise nodded. ‘So, I reckon you couldn’t shift the old bastard either.’
Emily was going to explain then just what had passed between her and Castwood, and even about trying to swap with Elise. It would have been boasting, though, and boasting to cover her own fear. She did fear, despite what she told herself. The reactions of her fellow recruits were contagious.
‘I couldn’t, no,’ she told Elise. ‘Some things just can’t be changed.’
They listened together as the roll call continued, and each woman in the room understood what her fate was to be. Elise was trying to look philosophical, Emily saw, but there were tears in the corners of her eyes, and her lips were pressed tightly together. Emily took her hand and clasped it tight.
‘It will be all right,’ she promised. ‘I’ll look after you.’ What easy words they were to say.
‘Yanlo, Karen,’ said Bowler, and paused a moment before rolling the list up again with the precision of his profession. The room was