Not Dead Yet: A British Zombie Apocalypse Series - Books 1-3, page 9
From my lofty position, I could see the colonel gritting his teeth and beside him, his wife Lady Fitzgibbon, elegant as ever and straining her neck for a better view of myself.
The whole farce couldn’t have gone any better. I’d demonstrated yet more bravery, apparently, and in addition, had shown myself an honourable man by showing up to defend my name and reputation. Now nobody could level the charge of dishonour at my person, no matter how true it may be. I’d also shown myself to be chivalrous and a crack shot, who could easily have taken out Lynch had I chosen to do so. And I wasn’t to know it then but I’d augmented my fame and reputation in Ireland and beyond.
Indeed, there were calls in England to have their national hero and ‘greatest soldier since Wellington’ brought home so that a spectacle could be made of me and that I could be decorated and meet the Queen and all the rest. In fact, I later heard there were even public demonstrations in the newly completed Trafalgar Square, the occasional idealist demanding the statue of Nelson be replaced by Captain Jack Strapper - It never was, of course, but I did get a statue of myself placed over the vacant fourth plinth that guarded over our great Admiral and to this day, I share the square with the likes of King George IV, General Sir Charles James Napier and Major-General Sir Henry Havelock.
Of course, right now, I was still stuck in Ireland from where finally, news of the dead or ‘zombies’ coming back to life had reached print in England, which only intensified calls to have me brought out, and the whole of the 8th King’s Royal Irish Hussars too if necessary, if only it would guarantee my safety.
Had I known about any of this, I wouldn’t have argued.
But back in 1858 I had other problems to deal with and the first went by the name of Captain Dolan, who saw fit to call round at my residence the evening of the duelling affair, in order to make enquiries upon a certain twenty thousand pounds he’d been promised by a one Captain Jack Strapper.
“Yes?” I asked after opening the door, raising an impatient eyebrow toward his muttons. I was donned in my gown and had a brace of harlots waiting upstairs.
He baulked and looked at me as though I’d gone mad. “Yes? What in Saint Patrick’s name, do you mean, yes? You know damn well why I’m here.”
“I’m sorry?” I bit my lip and frowned. “I do?”
He stepped back, then comically forward again, twitching the whole time. “Yes! Come on, Strapper, don’t play the goat with me…I saved your life today.”
“You did?” I scratched my head. “I’m not sure I’m aware of what you’re speaking, Captain.”
He knew it then, that he’d been stiffed and his expression was a picture. “You…you…you’re not doing this to me, Captain, I’ll have you for this.” His clenched fist absolutely shook and seemed in three minds whether to strike me or not, or reach for his pistol, which thankfully he didn’t. “Now you just listen here, Captain, I carried out my side of the bargain and now you must stump up the agreed sum…twenty thousand pounds sterling, you hear me?”
I checked my timepiece and glanced over my shoulder at the stairs. “Twenty thousand pounds sterling? Why, you must be mad, Captain. That’s enough to purchase three lieutenant-colonelcies with change leftover for your whore.” Who was presently upstairs awaiting my return, but I wouldn’t tell him that. “I can’t imagine where you got that idea. Now, if there’s nothing else…I have two madams up yonder and a riding crop to wear out.”
His mouth plunged open, his ginger chops like broom heads upon his face. “You…you’re unspeakable, Strapper. I’ll have you for this…you’ll see.” In the moment, I almost believed him but we both knew he couldn’t run to the colonel about any of it. He was in it thicker than I was and if word of it got out it’d be a dishonourable disgrace for him, discharge from the cavalry and most likely a life of shame shunned from society. Nope, I knew my man, and that he wasn’t stupid enough to do anything rash on that front.
Of course, my pretending not to know anything about it only riled him up further and looking back, if only I’d known, perhaps I should have taken less pleasure from the whole dupe and at least sent him on his way with an apology because I didn’t possess the necessary tin. But no, I had to play ignorance, didn’t I, the dishonourable rogue that I was and sent him off swearing vengeance by any means necessary. If only I’d known at the time what he’d end up doing to me, I probably would have just paid him, twice, even thrice over. I’d have spared myself from arguably the worst experience of my life.
Colonel Fitzgibbon had finished boarding his wife. Unfortunately for us, they were now taking tea at the table in the corner, speaking mostly waffle about the night’s impending theatre, of which they intended on seeing Charles Kean’s The Corsican Brothers at the Adelphi.
“I must say, good sir, the more you regale me with your story, the more I’m convinced you’re destined for a career in law.” Melville tapped my hand. “If we ever get out of our present predicament, you really must look me up. We could use a man like you at the firm.”
I was busy watching the flickering shadows through the tablecloth, trying to discern what they were doing, where they were and above all, when in the blazes they’d leave. It was still afternoon, which potentially meant a long wait until their sojourn to the auditorium. “Sorry, not for me, couldn’t handle the pay cut.”
“Ah, touché, my friend.” His bushy eyebrows moved closer together. “Lord Fitzgibbon despises you, you say? And all for such a minor slight as insensitivity?”
I shook my head. “Oh, I’m sure that if it were merely my insensitivity then eventually he’d have forgotten all about it. No, sir…What I’m about to divulge tops all else and then some besides…well, apart from mounting his wife perhaps?” Which was why I was determined not to be discovered where I presently slumped, not too unlike a common slug.
It was hard to hear my own voice and even harder to hear Melville above the boom of the colonel’s, the silly deaf sod.
“Ah, Earl Grey, so it is…thought I recognised the zing, what?”
“It’s not Earl Grey, you have lemon in there.”
A brief pause. “Ah, so there is, good gosh, how on earth did I miss that?”
“Would you take a scone with your tea?”
“A scone? I don’t see why not…pass the condiments, my dear. Ah, I see you’ve been riding…a nice day for it, what? No, no, just the jam will do.”
“It’s raspberry, which you hate…you know how much I desire a mid-afternoon ride with Claudette…here, have the strawberry instead.”
“Claudette?” A brief pause. “I thought Claudette had been bucking somewhat recently? And a knife, if you would be so kind.”
“There’s no such thing as bad horses, only bad riders. John, you’re dripping over the tablecloth.”
“I am? Oh dear. Ah, well, glad you sorted her out…nothing worse than a horse you can’t ride, eating all the hay and giving nothing back, what? Ah, I see you’ve brought your top hat. Wear that coming from Lady Carrington’s, did you? Darling, you know that’s for behind closed doors only.”
“Oh, John, but I thought we might crank things up a notch.”
“Oh, did you bejesus? Oh, good gosh.”
Ten seconds later the table recommenced shuddering.
And Melville rubbed his bald head. “My hat.”
The Idiotic Expedition South
“I’ve never seen such a shameful display.” It was one of the only times I ever saw the colonel’s ridiculous iron bar moustache move and right now it was positively lopsided by at least five degrees, its tar having failed the man this day. “By Jove, if you must break the law and start duelling, the least one of you can do is kill the other. My regiment will be the laughing stock of Britannia, and you Lynch…claiming to be our best shot…haw…haw…haw…well, that’s all gone to the blazes now, what?”
Captain Lynch had not once acknowledged me since entering the colonel’s office. “Sir, if I may…there was a stiff breeze and…”
“…You were at twenty paces, by God…I could piss on him from that distance and you Strapper, you insensitive swine, why didn’t you finish him instead of making a mockery of the whole bloody army…no, no…of the whole bloody upper class?”
I debated in my mind whether to say it, but I could hardly sink any lower in the man’s estimation anyway, no matter what my heroics. “I fancied pigeon pie, sir.”
He thumped the table. “Damn you Strapper, and damn your presence in my beautiful regiment.”
For a moment I dared to hope, dared to dream he’d send me back home, either with or without my credit and honour intact. I didn’t give a damn either way, just as long as I didn’t get hurt. Instead, and much to my mortification, he dropped the whole damned point at issue and introduced the sallow looking chap I recognised from the duel, who’d been loitering in the shadows at the back of the room. “I’d like you both to meet Mr Pumphrey, who’s here from Horse Guards.”
The individual had a crooked face that one instantly disliked, as had the colonel judging from his tonality during the less than enthusiastic introduction. A man sent from London, for whatever reason, who our commander had to humour and should the colonel not wanting him around mean that I should?
Pumphrey stepped out from the gloom most sinisterly, “gentlemen,” and gave the merest tipping of his head, prim and proper in London cut suit with educated home counties accent, not unlike my own, betraying his superior birth and station.
The colonel cut in. “Mr Pumphrey is here to assess the regiment and make resolutions on funding and other such nonsense. As usual the government’s short on tin, despite being the richest bloody country in the history of the world, and even when Ireland’s facing annihilation, decisions have to be made as to the 8th’s viability as an independent regiment.”
Pumphrey took another step forward and regarded us almost apologetically. “Look, fellows, I won’t waste your time, you all know I’m not here to be liked, but somewhere, some regiment will have to either disband or else amalgamate into one of the other, larger regiments.”
Fitzgibbon slammed the table with a closed fist, further unsettling the bar, and shouted in his usual booming voice which I was sure could be heard all the way to Strabane. “The only reason we’re no longer a large regiment is because we lost half our number at the Charge, sir, fighting and dying for Britannia.” Ooh, how scornful the words. “It was that bloody idiot Raglan who fluffed the bloody thing, and Nolan, of course, but at least he did the decent bloody thing and galloped into a cannon.”
“Raglan died a year later, my lord, of dysentery.” Pumphrey was quick to pacify Fitzgibbon with a concessionary bow. “My lord, I’m aware of your losses and exactly how they were sustained, and I also recognise that the 8th are one of the bravest regiments in Britannia and easily one of the finest cavalry regiments in all the world, but…reputation alone will not fund you into perpetuity, anymore than incompetent generals will cultivate any favour with the accountants, which is why I suggest, saving for some miraculous act of soldiering on the regiment’s part, that you consider the likelihood of, and prepare for, the likely merging with an English regiment of horse.”
I was absolutely salivating at this and didn’t much care that Lynch caught me grinning uncontrollably because there I was, fully expecting to be riding out in two days hence, surrounded by more than a hundred bloodthirsty lunatics hell-bent on seeing their’s, and everybody else’s, blood shed just to save a few others who, let’s face it, probably shouldn’t be there anyway. It wasn’t my fight, I tell you.
However, I had to admit the “saving for some miraculous act of soldiering on the regiment’s part,” did worry me a little, but it would have to take a miracle, surely? As always, it was the pounds, shillings and pennies that mattered, and if London wanted to waste the nation’s funds educating the lower classes, or other such useless guff they were presently discussing, then for once, I could see the benefit.
I’d been wondering why myself, a mere captain, along with Lynch, were being made privy to the regiment’s dilemma before everyone else, considering neither of us were exactly popular with the commanding officer at this time. I soon found out why.
“Now, as for the pair of you,” Fitzgibbon began, “let’s show Mr Pumphrey it’s all bridge over the water and done business, now, what? Shake hands the two of you, that’s an order.”
I turned immediately to Lynch and beamed, almost said, it’s what Sinead would want, but thought better of it at the last moment. No, I was better than that, marginally.
His head slowly swivelled and his one functional eye pierced through me like cold steel, which wasn’t nearly as menacing with witnesses. “Why didn’t you just shoot me?”
“Now, now, Captain, I didn’t tell you where to place your shot, so don’t presume to tell me where to put mine.” I was baring too many teeth, enjoying my immunity more than I should, and held out my hand as Pumphrey sniggered loudly and I noticed that even the colonel was smiling at my witty retort.
No doubt feeling demeaned by me yet again, Lynch, however, was not smiling but he took my hand and squeezed, his years of sword practice bestowing the maniac with a strength that hurt like bloody hell, and it took all my grit not to grimace or retract early. In that moment, I most definitely felt a chill from the man.
“Good.” The colonel said as Pumphrey manoeuvred around the table to approach me.
“I must say, Captain Strapper, I was most impressed at the way you handled the morning’s business.” He looked on admiringly, patting my shoulder. “A mere captain?” He shook his head. “No, no, that won’t do. Horse Guards will hear about your heroics, you can be sure about that. You’ll go far, Captain Strapper.”
I had two regrets with this. One; that I may have inadvertently done myself a mischief by not shooting Lynch, if I, and the regiment by extension, received credit for my earlier actions. And two; that during my praise, Pumphrey had blocked both the colonel and Lynch from my line-of-sight.
If listening to the colonel moaning and fussing and complaining and whining the one time wasn’t enough, I then had to sit through it again that very afternoon, when he called a general meeting of all officers in the mess. And if the colonel had felt the need to restrain his feelings in the presence of Pumphrey, now that the toff was supposedly surveying the state of the barracks with one of the colonel’s brown noses, Fitzgibbon was now able to unleash all without holding back.
“I will not have it! You understand? One hundred and seventy years of history, fighting for Britannia, will not be rolled up and swept away like we never even existed, by God.” I could almost see the steam rising from his grey hair. “They’re shuffling regiments about like they were damned pieces on a chess board…money, you see…means more to these people than history, tradition, soldiering…and to even suggest absorbing us…us…into some damned English regiment…I tell you…Balaklava, Inkerman, Sevastopol…the feckin’ Charge, by God.” He went on to name a bunch of other long forgotten battles the 8th had apparently been involved in, them all news to me, whilst he clutched unconsciously to the crossbelt over his heart. “All our dead…oh, they’d spin in their graves, so they would. But I will not have this happen on my watch, you understand me? No sirs, not on mine.”
If I didn’t understand before, I understood it all now. Because how much of this was truly about the history and men of the regiment and how much was actually about Lord Fitzgibbon not wanting to be the 8th’s final commander on account of having failed? Not once did the man mention the most important thing, or what I assumed was the most important thing and for the moment, the regiment’s raison d’être - Protecting Ireland.
Whilst I cautiously allowed the hope of salvation to brim within, I studied the faces of my fellows, for any evidence as to their thoughts.
Mostly, there was concern, the desire to do the right thing, but for what reason, I couldn’t comprehend. It was all in the eyes, the sadness, the helplessness. They wanted to do something, anything, to ensure their survival, but what, short of pulling fully trained recruits from our arses, could we do?
Sheehan rubbed at the red stubble upon his handsome face, casting the occasional respectful glance at me. Murphy, who’d fought for the seat next to me, could likewise hardly look away. Dolan was sitting opposite and seemed to stare emptily through me, a slight tilt of his ginger head, his chops somewhat raggedy this day as though he’d foregone the brush. It was hard not to be distracted by it, aye. Lynch was seated beside him and likewise stared at me, though unlike Dolan, his look was not absent but deliberate, whilst he repeatedly drew a finger up and down his cavalry issue short blade. Oh, he was incensed all right, and hated that the entire regiment were eating out of my hand even more than they were before, and all at his expense. Best of all, there was nothing he could do, I was safe now, at least from him.
But clearly, all things taken into account, the sooner this rotten regiment could be disbanded, the better for my immediate and longterm prospects because already, I’d upset a few too many people, even if the better part of the garrison knew me to be the hero that I wasn’t. None of it would do me any good, however, when running from the dead on one side and my own comrades on the other.
I recognised though, that if ever there was a chance to get away from this rotten place, this was it.
Or so I thought…
…Because unfortunately, being the exact opposite to our brave colonel, I wasn’t to know how his mind worked. And having a nosey over from Horse Guards only served to make the mad colonel even more set upon being seen to be useful and I should have known not to allow my hopes to blossom because Fitzgibbon now crushed them all.
“We’re bringing forth our advance south by one day, which means I want you all ready for the march come dawn.” He slapped his thigh with a renewed confidence. “I want you all ship shape. Let’s not give this London toff any reason to shut us down.”
