The songs had been part of her childhood. She knew all the words of “The World Turned Upside Down” and “The Devil Shall Be My Sergeant” and “Johnny Has Gone For A Soldier” and “The Girl I Left Behind Me” and, after the drink had been flowing for a while, she’d memorized “Colonel Crapski” and “I Wish I’d Never Kissed Her”.

And then, of course, there had been “Sweet Polly Oliver”. Her father used to sing it when she was small and fretful or sad, and she’d laughed to hear it simply because it had her name in it. She was word perfect on the words before she’d known what most of them meant. And now…

…Polly pushed open the door. The recruiting sergeant and his corporal looked up from the stained table where they were sitting, beer mugs halfway to their lips. She took a deep breath, marched over, and made an attempt at saluting.

“What do you want, kid?” growled the corporal.

“Want to join up, sir!”

The sergeant turned to Polly and grinned, which made his scars move oddly and caused a tremor to shake all his chins. The word “fat” could not honestly be applied to him, not when the word “gross” was lumbering forward to catch your attention. He was one of those people who didn’t have a waist. He had an equator. He had gravity. If he fell over, in any direction, he would rock. Sun and drink had burned his face red. Small dark eyes twinkled in the redness like the sparkle on the edge of a knife. Beside him, on the table, were a couple of old-fashioned cutlasses, weapons that had more in common with a meat cleaver than a sword.

“Just like that?” he said.

“Yessir!”

“Really?”

“Yessir!”

“You don’t want us to get you stinking drunk first? It’s traditional, you know.”

“Nosir!”

“I haven’t told you about the wonderful opportunities for advancement and good fortune, have I?”