D Cornish - The Lamplighter

Threnody did not share his enthusiasm for the view. "This is an ugly place," she declaimed darkly as they watched with Theudas after middens. "All I can see is a hundred nooks for bugaboos to flourish."

Even as she spoke there came a single flash of lightning far away north, leaping from the flat cover of cloud straight to the earth. A second distant bolt had Theudas ducking.

"What, by my aching bowels, was that?" the lampsman exclaimed.

The peal of thunder took a long time to reach them, and by then it was only a sullen grumble.

"Maybe Europe has found her rever-man!" Rossamund stared in the direction of the strike, heart thumping with fright.

"Maybe," replied Threnody, her tone saying, Who cares!

Threnody's sour misgivings and the regularity of lamplighting life soon dulled the novelty of a new location. A day's beginning was marked by the usual rattle of drums and its end by the cry "A lamp! A lamp to light your path!" declaring the arrival of the Haltmire lighters-stern, stiff fellows that the Stoolers called "Limpers." Then, as at Winstermill, was a little time for each day-watchman to do as he pleased before douse-lanterns. However, Rossamund found the sameness of each day-as at Winstermill-a real and surprising comfort; for all their overfamiliarity, the routines were powerfully settling.

Different from the manse, however, were Domesdays. Out here they were not free of labor; indeed the lantern-watch had no rest at all. It was a day of reduced work, but House-Major Grystle was of the opinion that idle hands make waste, and the vigil was a make-and-mend day where clothes were patched and proofing was mended.

Yet in between light Domesday duties and any spare moment of an evening, the Stoolers enjoyed what Rossamund soon considered his favorite pastime: sitting in the mess to play at checkers and the card games of lesquin and pirouette. They conducted themselves with far better grace and mirth than the prentices and, though the stakes were high, there was no bickering on the shuffle or squabbling over who could bet what or when. At pirouette-where the winning hand had the losing hand do a silly dance-they went easy on Rossamund, letting him learn; but Threnody they needed to give no such grace. She quickly showed herself a match for all, even Mister Harlock, the sergeant-master, who proved shrewdly adept at outwitting most of his billet-mates. Young Theudas, however, was far too sharp and beat all with great whoops! of victory as he mercilessly had everyone-even Rossamund-hopping one dance or another as they lost the round.

"Kindly Ladies Watch the Happy Aurangs again!" he declared triumphantly, throwing down both queens, both duchesses and both aurangs.

Half the success of the game was knowing precisely what made for a winning hand; there was a long list of combinations, just like the Hundred Rules of Harundo, and Rossamund was slow to remember them all. Once again his own hand was pathetically meager, the worst of the round and now-for the fifth time that night-he was made to gambol about, curling his arms in and out calling, "I'm a monkey! I'm a monkey!" his face attaining the hue of the red side of his quabard.

"Go easy on the new babbies," Lamplighter-Sergeant Mulch chuckled while the other Stoolers guffawed at Rossamund's antics. Threnody looked on with an expression of almost feline satisfaction. Mysteriously, Theudas never seemed to trump her, and she had not yet been made to dance a single turn.

Mulch's well-intentioned interjection only made Theudas more gleefully determined to win, and Rossamund was made to turn a jig many more times before he won his first hand. Of all his billet-mates, Aubergene or Lightbody were perhaps the most unfortunate at cards.

"Ye'd have to be the most losingest two I ever clapped eyes on!" Under-Sergeant Poesides would laugh almost every night as he watched either unfortunate lighter lope about foolishly as the winning cards directed. He and all the others-whether Stooler, Bleaker or Limper-would refuse to play them at the more serious hands of lesquin. Here the spoils of victory were grog rations and favors; the lowest-valued favor was to stand in for kitchen duties or firelock cleaning, the value quickly escalating to the ultimate prize: having another take your place to muck the jakes. Out here sewer-workings were not nearly as sophisticated as at Winstermill, and the water closets needed frequent flushing with buckets of old dishwater and cleaning with broad, blunt shovels on long handles-an odious job, the most unpleasant task for the day-watch.

The house-major would play no game of chance against his men-especially not lesquin-declaring solemnly that "an officer should never take from those under his command nor be seen to be overborne by them either." Near the end of their first week new stores arrived on the back of a long dray that had lumbered the dangerous Wettin Lowroad up from Hurdling Migh. Rossamund knew only vaguely of this city: an isolated settlement-so his peregrinat told him-semi-independent in its remoteness and filled with a stern yet hospitable people. The driver of the dray and his grim-looking side-armsman were both pale-looking fellows. They had apparently made the northward journey often, but the threatening rumor of bogle and nicker had forced them to hire a scourge for protection.

This hireling was called the Scarlet Tarquin. He-she-it-sat stiffly now at the front of the truck swathed entirely in red fascins, bandaged crown to toe in protective cloth with only two round lenses protruding at the eyes. Laden with salumanticums, stoups, powder-costers and all the appurtenances of skolding, the scourge simply watched but did not offer help. Passing the red-wrapped teratologist as he and Threnody tumbled down the steps to help unload, the young lighter was affronted by a faint, yet powerfully unpleasant whiff of potent chemistry. He stayed well clear of this scarlet scourge as he worked.

On the dray were piled crates of musket balls, wayfoods and script parts; butts of rum, wine and black powder; sacks of flour, cornmeal and dried pease; even three bolts of undyed drill for making-and-mending day.While two lighters stood at guard on the road, every item was hauled up by a limber-run sheer on the fourth floor, its winch arm swung out from broad double doors-the store-port high in Wormstool's wall. Climbing onto the dray, Rossamund helped Theudas and Poesides shift and tie each load to the sheer cord.

Standing below by the flat truck, the tired and humorless driver was arguing vociferously with Semple the day-clerk about the excessive charge for service this time.

"Thy wants thy goods timely and whole, do thee not?" the driver was saying. "Safe passage for cargo dern't come cheap nowadays." He glared at the Scarlet Tarquin for emphasis.

Rossamund did not hear the reply, for Poesides moved away with sudden violence, giving a great shout: "Watch it, lad! The knot's come loose! Load's goin' to fall!" The under-sergeant tried to grab at him but did not get a grip as he stumbled away.

"Clear out below!" came a sharp cry from the store-port above.

Rossamund looked up and there hurtling down to crush him was a butt, set free by a poorly tied knot-a knot he had wound himself.The young lighter hesitated in his fright, stupidly heedless of his own danger and more concerned with the possible harm to the stores.

"Rossamund!" Threnody yelped.

Yet he stood transfixed as the heavy barrel dropped on him; instead of leaping aside he caught the entire weight in his arms with little more than a slight huff! — just as you might catch an inflated ball. The weight of the load drove him to the truck-top, pinning him on his back. He held the butt on his chest for several astounded beats before lifting it and setting it carefully back on the tray, keenly aware of the equally astounded faces all turned to him, even peering in amazement from the fourth floor.