Metadata
Author: langbot
Data
English[en]
“‘Spy’? Is there a spy?” I thought. “Who would that be?” It took a minute or two for my woolly-headed self to realize that the only person whose blood they could be baying for was the sower of the seeds of doubt: me! Oh dear. Dragged to the scaffold by the mob when I could hardly stand on my own two feet. This was not entirely what I had hoped or planned for. Then, ‘The Cavalry’ arrived – almost literally. Ingrid and a U.S. Sergeant burst into my room, having vociferously ordered the infirmary guards to stand aside. “Get your goddammed stuff, soldier – and be quick about it,” ordered the Yankee Sergeant. “You’re leaving now – unless you want to be lynched by your fellow countrymen.” (How nice of him to call me ‘soldier’, I thought.) “Move it!” he screamed in my face. I still don’t know his name – but, evidently, he’d been impressed by what I’d had to say at the lecture and believed that ‘his boys’ had been lured to Australia under false pretences. Perhaps Gately and Swooper had spoken to him. In any case, it seemed he considered that my life might be worth saving. I tried to stand once again but my legs buckled underneath me after a few steps. Ingrid, whom I noticed was dishevelled and out of uniform, turned and screamed: “Guard!” One of the three goons, confused and disorientated, came running into the room. Ingrid pointed to me, now lying on the floor. “Pick him up and follow us!” He did. The brutish bastard was surprisingly strong – but, then again, I had lost a lot of weight and condition since arriving at ‘Pucka’. So, I was no great load to carry. Soon, I found myself flung roughly into the back tray of a jeep. It had been parked at the side of the parade ground. Brawling troops surrounded us on all sides but none paid us any attention – there was just too much brawling that needed still to be done.
Cornish[kw]
“ ‘Aspier’? Eus aspier?” a brederis. “Piw a allsa bos?” Wosa unn vynysenn po diw, y teuth dhe’m brys kemmyskys honanieth an aspier: nyns esa saw onan may hallsens bos ow hardha – gonador has dout, my! A Dhuw! Draylyes dhe’n vynk gans an rout ha namna yllyn sevel war’m dewdroes. Nyns o hemma a byth re via dhymm govenek na pyth re dowlsen. Ena, y teuth ‘an Marghoglu’ – moy po le. Y tardhas y’m chambour Ingrid ha Serjont Amerikanek. (Yth erghsens yn ughel dhe withysi an vedhegva dhe sevel a-denewen.) “Kav dha dhaffar euthyk, souder – ha gwra e uskis,” a erghis an Serjont Yankee. “Yth edh jy lemmyn – marnas ty a vynn bos lynchyes gans dha gothmans.” (Ass o hweg dhe’m gelwel ‘souder’, a brederis.) “Gway e!” a skrijas ev y’m fas. Ny wonn hwath y hanow – mes, yn apert, ev a garsa lowr pyth a lavarsen y’n kynsa areth hag ytho ev a grysi ‘y vois’ dhe dhynya dh’Ostrali dre falsuri. Po, martesen, Stevyer ha Porther re lavarsa dhodho. Yn neb kas, del heveli, ev a grysi y talvien bos selwys ow bywnans. My a assayas arta sevel mes ow diwesker a omhwelas yn-dannov wosa nebes kammow. Ingrid, ankempenn ha mes a uniform, a dreylyas ha skrija: “Gwithyas!” Onan yntr’an tri bilen, meur y ankombrynsi, a dheuth yn unn resek y’n chambour. Ingrid a boyntyas dhymm, a’m worwedh war an leur. “Gwra y dhrehevel ha’gan sywya!” Ev a wrug yndella. An bastard milek o pur nerthek – mes, yn fordh arall, my re gollsa meur a boester ha nerth a-dhia ow devedhyans orth selva ‘Pukka’. Ytho, nyns en begh meur. Yn skon, my a omgevis bos tewlys yn harow yn delergh jip. Parkyes re via ryb plen an gerdhva. Yth esa oll a-dro soudoryon yn freudh – mes nyns esa nebonan yntredha a wrug agan attendya – yth esa, dell heveli, re freudh bos gwrys hwath.