Casca 21: The Trench Soldier Read Online Free

summer weather—he invited his landlady and her children to spend the day with him at the beach.
    The hour-long ride in the train was the first time ever outside the village for the children, and the beach was an undreamed of experience for Gwyneth.
    They walked the length of the pier and ate ices while they watched a Punch and Judy show. The children paddled in the shallows, shrieking whenever they splashed themselves. Casca stood with Gwyneth on the pebbles of the beach and watched and thought of other beaches with golden sands and golden-skinned, naked women.
    He took the little family to a restaurant and treated them all to fish and chips and persuaded Gwyneth to join him in a glass of bitter.
    That night he went to bed as usual but was awakened after a few minutes by a knock at his door. Wrapping himself in a towel, he opened it to the outside darkness, but by the starlight he could just see Gwyneth wearing a nightdress. She walked into the room and over to his bed. "Do close that door and come to bed," she said matter-of-factly. And as he joined her she added, "I'm not going to make a habit of this, and I don't expect you to marry me, but I need a man, and I think maybe you could use a woman."
    Casca didn't argue. She never did mention marriage again, but she came to sleep in his bed every night.
    Casca's routine was very much improved. By day he admired the cheerful fatalism of his workmates, and by night he enjoyed their company over darts and beer and politics.
    Hugh Edwards, a straw-headed giant, was one of his favorites. The big Welshman had educated himself by countless nights in the Mechanics' Institute Library and was an entertaining source of invective in the cause of Welsh nationalism.
    Hugh wanted a free Welsh state with its own parliament, taxes, and customs. He also argued that Wales should have its own army but was agreeable to it being always available to British command in time of war.
    He also insisted that Wales should have its own king. "There's plenty of the old noble blood," Edwards insisted. "We don't need to import inbred German princelings. We'll have a Welshman for King of Wales—the first true Briton to sit on an English throne since Henry the Eighth." Casca ordered a pint of bitter and smiled into it as he remembered the mixture of Italian blood that the Romans had contributed to the Briton strain. He was sipping at it slowly when he heard a cheerful voice at his ear. A widely grinning face appeared behind another pint pot at the other side of the table. "Wot'cha cock? Down the mine ain't cha?"
    "Yeah." Casca looked at the Cockney stranger.
    "Me too. Saw yer in the cage when I was signin' on at the pit 'ed this mornin'. Me first day down a mine. Bleedin' 'orrible ain't it?"
    "It sure is," Casca smiled.
    "Dave's me name,” the Cockney went on. "Dave Prince, but I ain't Welsh. Straight Lunnoner. You're not from here either?”
    “I sure am not, mate. I'm an American. My name's Rufus Casterton. Friends call me Cass.” He appraised the lightly built Cockney. “You a miner?”
    “No way, mate. Jes bein’ down there’s enough fer me. I’m a tally clerk. Heaviest thing I lift is me pencil – and it’s still it's the worst job I've ever had—or even heard of—in me life. But it is a job, and there ain't none in Lunnon.
    "Shouldn't be here, really," he went on, " drinkin' money I ain't really got. But me landlady made it plain she fancies me. She's a mine widder—the mine company allows her to keep renting her cottage so long as she takes in single mine company workers like me. She's nice enough, but blimey, I don' want to get settled in this burg. Nor would I want to knock 'er up and shoot through on 'er. She's got two brats already from her miner."
    Casca found that he was nodding in agreement.
    "The mines is tough enough on men," Dave said, "but they're bloody 'ell for women. Town's full of widder women."
    "There were nearly some more today."
    "So I 'eard. Were you in that