The fall wafted its breath unto Europe, and therein unto England. Sitting in that place was a long dirt lane, presently eaten by the white of the light snow, and having a young vagabond in discomfort by it. He was a lad of sixteen summers, and only that. Russet hair of his kissed his disheveled shoulders and displeased him, while his legs, which were wonderfully long, battled the stains of purple bruises. Such a desolate human being would have very important needs to please, but the mind fancied in a playful circle, the hinder of the air so cruel. No garment, not enough of any garment, kindled warmth in the Englishman’s body.

  The cold was hollow until a fresh noise made itself known. The Englishman’s ears had to search quite hard for the sound of another man, with the confirmation being its impending increment.

  “Russet!” came the voice, bellowing and devoid of thought.

  Russet himself had to rotate in the most ill manner to see who had spoken, feeling that his spine may very well have been frozen to his inner flesh. Once he had done it, he had to see that the man approaching was not any person he recognised. If an old friend, he would or would not have known, regardless. He was content seeing, however, that some one man knew him.

  “The West Kent looks for your name,” the marching man said.

  “West Kent…? Somebody?” the vagabond helplessly speculated.

  The man, who had a face smothered with freckles, was engulfed in shock from Russet’s expression.

  “You don’t know? Just come with, you will see. I need not ask you questions, you are one of the most pitiful men I have collected this autumn.”

  Russet had no rebuttal to this, nor any complaint. If he had forgotten the occurrences adding to today’s revelation, then so it was. He let the ribbon be fastened to his hair, the ribbon of painter’s pink and blue which sat upon the recruiting man’s spontoon and headdress. Dearly, he was dote, and at that time, something slipped into his pocket.

  When enough time, seeming to be enough time to die, had passed, the pair came upon the alehouse, which sat with robust men indulged in merry horseplay, possessed by gills of gin. Russet’s heart reeled and scurried, fearing his future fellows and their drunken state.

  “Do not fret, they are your brothers this present. Drink and remember you have the choice of life with stability or seven years with pay and subsequent labour for the rest of your life.”

  The freckled sergeant finished his great farewell, then walked as far away from Russet as he could without leaving the house. Glance back, he did not do it even once. He had left Russet to the hands of his joyful companions.

  “Hear what that sergeant says about… about the wenches and I? A coat of crimson will do us all well, they’ll love ‘t!” one rosy-cheeked fellow greets.

  “Nay, that matters n-n-not! I—”

  If the poor lad had finished his sentence! But the will of the first recruit was a tempest of ridiculous dominion over him.

  “Give ‘tis man rum, an’ he’ll be quiet n’more! A quite quiet ‘oun, and I don’o if he’s but living!” the recruit ferried his fist to the face of Russet.

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  Russet’s neck came forth like a gander’s, and his behaviour was of one, too. He bit his fellow recruit’s closed hand as if it were food, and he was a particularly hungry individual nonetheless. It was half a second, and the hand retreated in a fever of agony, but without a drop of blood.

  “‘tis nude-legged gander! See? See? He stretch’d to’rds me ‘is neck and bit me fist! All I’d done is hit ‘im gent’ly! I can’t live with ‘tis pain any longer! Alas!” cried the recruit, and so well was his performance that the freckled sergeant hadn’t a choice but to return.

  Moments passed silently and peacefully, but resolved in the former merry violence. With irony, one recruit enquired the other things of importance, such as first names and tales and such. Russet was able to tell his, being Lane, after the lane at which he was born. He could say he was named by a strange hag when he was an orphan, but no man believed him. Without much thought, though, they could believe every other recruit in the house, and it gave fervor to Lane’s annoyance.

  When the time came, the men were wrung out of the worn tipling, and the freckled sergeant came to deliver words. Falling upon drunken, deaf ears, the sergeant was chilled with heat. When the unmoving ordeal finally perished, he brought all of the recruiting party to the home of a surgeon called “Binkley.”

  This Sir Binkley came about to examine them one by one, having them stripped to nothing, the cold air shaking their pale bodies, and performing whatever task they were told by him. It was from walking some way faster without falling over, or showing the ability to use the eyes and ears. Binkley was a thorough man who pondered every muscle and bone, for he sought sickly men to send home.

  “If any one of you lot are not of age or ill, I pay for it, and I hate it very much. It bores me to endless anger and rage upon each instance in which this process repeats with the aforementioned flaw,” said Binkley, apt to remind the men of his own issue.

  “Russet,” the freckled sergeant speaks, “I would not make such an attempt if you were not but an inch taller. Cut your hair I will, because it is disgusting, as are your bruises. You will be turned away, and I will lose some pay. Hear not Sir Binkley, we are both equally barbaric with money.”

  And, swift as the lightning of storms, the sergeant gave Lane a pleasing trim, close to his head, that Binkley would suspect nothing of that portion. The sergeant gathered the harvested hair and disposed of it with clod, as if it were a corpse to be hidden. Then, Lane was welcomed by Binkley himself, who inspected him, humiliation bloodying his face. Lane looked about and around, shuddering, doing as told, his position becoming more difficult in time. The sight of Binkley found Lane only but well enough, being that he was blessed with a bare inch of height that spared him much scrutiny—five feet and six inches. Yet his weight could not compare to his height, for he was a starving lad who did not get enough bread in the alehouse.

  “How old is this creature with bruises?” Binkley asked of the sergeant.

  “A growing lad of seventeen years, five feet and six inches,” the sergeant replied.

  “Acceptable… with doubt. He is thin as straw, beaten, and yet well-built with a flawless face otherwise. Sergeant Baines, your word I trust. If he falls ill because he is not fed, both our pockets will be empty.”

  Thence, Lane moved on, refitting himself with his torn clothing. He was resolved and happy to be free of Binkley’s residence, letting his legs carry him lightly to the end of the line and out the door, where the temperature was only but cold and not steeped in embarrassment.

  Then, nearly the whole recruiting party moved on, marching after Baines. Bits of the party had been sent home, some being resolute in making a faux interpretation of illness, pressuring that Sir Binkley, who sent them away for the sake of his pay. Baines hurried them until all were before the Justice of Peace. Before the grey magistrate they attested, taking two oaths, and being hasty or willing to stall for refinement. Every recruit made himself a destined soldier, unless faulty and unwilling, some in soundless prayer of what was to come. Lane’s legs stood unstable, waxing nerves, and was among the individuals who spoke to the Lord in silence. Lane had his reception by the attestation form, reading with boredom all details regarding himself.

  He continued with his final oath:

  “So God help me!”