Next morning, I learn a valuable lesson.  He who fails to get up when the horn blows, gets no breakfast.

I wake up in my clothes, every bone aching, having slept like the dead.  However Mo Jiang’s smelly ointment has definitely reduced the soreness inside my thighs.  By the time I drag myself out, the whole camp’s already in motion.  I get no food and have forgotten about filling my water bottle.  As I gaze around, bemused, Doctor Liang comes over.

“The Commander wants you to help me today, so come over to the medical wagon,” he says.

The medical wagon’s a covered wagon like my own, but smaller.  Its walls are lined with solid wooden cabinets with numerous small drawers. In the middle is a long low table, upon which are piled a dozen or so full sacks.  There’s a pungent herbal smell.  The doctor says, “I bought more herbs in town the other day and need to inventory them.  I thought I’d do the whole lot while I’m at it.  So, here’s brush, ink-stone and paper.  Your job is to write everything down.  Do you know anything about medicinal plants?”

“A little,” I say, remembering far-off sessions with my tutor.

“Excellent.”

The drawers each contain a different herb.  Doctor Liang takes out the contents of each one, weighs it, tells me the name of the herb and the weight.  He also mentions what the plant is used for.  I sit on an inadequate cushion on the floor and write.  To tell the truth, it’s unremittingly tedious.  The wagon jolts its way forward and it’s difficult to keep the brush steady.  After a while, my empty stomach emits an embarrassing noise.

“You missed breakfast,” says the doctor.  Then he adds, “Did anyone tell you that when we’re on the move, you need to stock up enough food in the morning to last till we camp?  There’ll be no food wagon at midday.”  I look up in horror.  He smiles.  “Don’t worry, I’ll ask my orderly to bring something at noon if you can last that long.”

I soon learn that the medical wagon also doubles as a mobile clinic.  A man hitches himself aboard as we move slowly forward, his forearm bundled up in a bloody rag.  The doctor unwraps it to reveal a long deep cut.

“How did you do this?” the doctor asks and the soldier replies, “Accident, sir.”

Even I can tell that this is a knife wound.  The doctor says nothing.  He boils up water in a pan on a small squat portable stove and cleans the wound carefully.

“I’ll need to stitch it,” he says.  He takes out a thin curved needle and holds it in a flame for a moment, then threads it with what look like silk.  The wounded soldier turns a faint shade of green.
“If you’d hold the arm, Young Master Yan, we can begin.”

I grip the tanned, hairy arm and, as instructed, hold it down on the table.  The injured man has begun to tremble.  His eyes bulge.  Sweat starts to pour off him.

I say,” That’s an interesting tattoo you’ve got,” and his eyes flick quickly at me and away again.  “They do that with needles, don’t they?”  I pursue.  “How long did it take?”

He licks his lips and mutters, ”Six hours.”

The doctor looks at me thoughtfully and makes no move, the needle in his hand.

“It must have hurt a lot.” I observe.

He nods.

“So you put up with the pain for six whole hours?” I say. 

His eyes settle on mine and he nods, a hint of pride in his face.

“Well, if you could do that, you’ll be able to put up with this.  It’ll only take a few minutes, after all.”

I feel the trembling arm quieten down and become still.  He gives me another nod, a firm one this time.  Then he closes his eyes and grits his teeth.  The doctor bends to his task.  He’s very deft and in a short time the arm is stitched and bandaged.  The soldier thanks us, accepts a bag of herbal remedy and hops down off the back of the wagon.

By noon, we’ve dealt with boils, saddle-sores, poisoned insect bites, a case of acute toothache and a dislocated shoulder.  I discover a talent for inconsequential chit-chat which seems to keep the patients calm while the doctor operates.  By this time, I’m ravenous, but the doctor’s orderly rises to the occasion and produces what seems like a feast.  Restored, we continue with the inventory.

I haven’t really been able to see much of the countryside we’re travelling through because of the dust kicked up by the horses, but when we stop to make camp and the doctor dismisses me, I find that we’re in a pleasant green valley with a small river running through it.  Horses are unsaddled, oxen unharnessed, and all the animals in turn are taken down to the water to drink.  Men splash themselves to get the dust off.  Tents go up.  The smell of cooking starts to spread.

Outside my wagon, I find Old Hong and the loathsome horse from yesterday, waiting to give me my second riding lesson.  I’ve forgotten Mo Jiang’s instructions to pad my thighs and there’s no time now.  But at least I manage to get the saddle and bridle on without incurring too much damage to myself, and once I’m aboard, Old Hong swings onto a horse himself and leads me out of the camp.  It’s not just the rubbed skin on the insides of my legs, but also the unaccustomed thigh muscles which protest, but there’s nothing for it but to grit my teeth.  On the positive side, I’m starting to feel more at home on the wretched animal, learning to use my heels and sorting out what to do with the reins.

This pattern repeats itself during the next few days as we progress out of home territory and into what everyone calls the badlands.  I get used to the routine of the march and start to understand how everything’s organized.  I begin to appreciate the amount of forethought that’s gone into the planning.  We have to follow water because of all the animals.  We have to maintain our supplies, so every time we pass near a village or small town, a wagon goes out to glean what it can.  I deduce that we must be carrying silver to pay for it all.  My deduction proves correct when I’m assigned the task of keeping the accounts, in addition to helping the doctor out.  I wonder about the amount of fresh meat that seems to turn up in the evening meal, until I realize that every morning a small group of hunters rides out, their bows on their backs, returning in the afternoon with their catch.  Participation in these hunting groups is fiercely contested, as it’s a heaven-sent way to escape the routine of the march.  Sometimes the Commander goes with them.  According to gossip, he’s a formidable shot with a bow.

We’re following a well-marked road, so occasionally we encounter groups of people travelling together, sometimes heavily-guarded merchant caravans, sometimes peasants with hoes over their shoulders or baskets of goods for market.  Every so often Imperial couriers pound past, going to or from the capital.  Messages come to the Commander, presumably orders from his superiors.  And now and then we see small groups of armed people on the hills in the distance, but they disappear quietly when they see how numerous we are and how well-armed.

At the same time, the anonymous mass of soldiery starts to take on individual faces. They’re cavalrymen, used to the freewheeling life of the plains, but they turn their hands willingly to the different tasks involved in defending this caravan.  They are hardy, cheerful and frequently obscene.   I meet the other sub-officers.  Apart from Lin Chen, the two other Young Masters are Qin Feng and Wu Shun, both sons of ministers in my father’s government.  The fourth sub-officer’s a sharp-faced agile young man called Yu Kang, who regards me with ill-concealed contempt.  Apart from Old Hong the horse-master, there’s master-at-arms Fan Feng, Quartermaster Mao Yun and, most importantly, chief cook Zu Lin.  He’s a man whom you definitely don’t want to upset.  There’s also a small community of hired wagon-men, who generally keep themselves to themselves.  My own driver’s one of these.

The Commander rules this diverse community with apparent ease.  His word is law.  The men respect his fairness, admire his courage and fear his temper.  He’s seconded by Shao Ru, rumoured to be unbeatable in hand-to-hand combat and certainly unbeatable in the filthiness of his observations.  And the third officer’s the doctor, whose quiet competence commands everyone’s respect. 

I feel myself gradually becoming part of this community, no longer an unwelcome encumbrance, but an unremarkable cog in the general wheel.  Mo Jiang plays a huge part in this.  He turns up quietly at my side when I’m queueing for food, turns aside some of the more extreme comments and comes over to my wagon in the evening to chat and carve wooden figures out of bits of wood he picks up.  I’m being kept so busy that I hardly have time to think about what awaits me in Qiu.  At the end of every day I collapse gratefully into bed, too tired to do anything except sleep.  But sometimes just before I fall asleep, I find myself wishing that this could go on forever.