Gentleman of War

by Chris Yeoh

  Now Anthony lay among it all, dead as the animals for which he had tended to so diligently. The smell was the worst part. She could not help but gag, and that gave away her position. Garden's eyes darted like a weasel to her and, having made out friend or foe, the most evil of grins played across his thin lips.

  "Well, well, well," he snarled. "Apple girl."

  She took off at a modest pace, needing no further encouragement to fly from the scene. But her bare feet were now betraying her, and the bags were suddenly heavy. She felt the prick of every twig, the prod of every stone and the squelch of every patch of mud. Garden, still high on his adrenaline, caught her before she had gone twenty paces.

  "Get off me," she commanded. She was too proud to scream for help, and in a way, she wondered if Garden knew it.

  "How about that lesson I promised?" he breathed rotten breath into her ears, and then smacked her on the back of the head.

  The force dazed her, and she fell into the ground. Her body seemed content to lie there for a little while longer, despite her brain's protests. He straightened up, tossed aside his jacket, and began unbuttoning his trousers. The window of opportunity, however, was open to all.

  Phillipa rolled over onto her back and sat up. Having freed herself from the awkward posture, she readily slipped a hand down her dress and pulled out the revolver that she had stolen from Neven.

  Garden had but a split second to understand what was happening before his mouth, jaw and upper neck disintegrated. He had even less time to understand, and less ability before the second bullet exploded his eye and felled him once and for all.

  "You cavalry fuck," she spat, rising to her feet. The see-saw motion of the two was complete and she dusted herself off, handling the pistol fondly. It was a nice weight, she thought, well worth holding on to.

  Others thought differently.

  "Drop the weapon, bitch!"

  The revolver fell to the ground along with her heart, while her stomach did a turn.

  Hillmarton was there, holding a rifle to her head, having run from his guard post, alerted by the noises. She was sure he would not be the only one.

  "Costly mistake," he said, still quite loudly. "Now I'm gonna have to do for you what you did for him." He spoke as if he couldn't quite believe what he saying.

  Phillipa imagined this was true, but she waited for death nonetheless.

  It did not come, but something else did.

  Out of the bushes, a big dark shape rushed. Phillipa half-imagined it was the creature from before, granted life anew to take revenge on those who had killed it. But the silhouette was too human, too familiar.

  Church barrelled into the cavalryman and began throwing some serious punches. He did not stop, even as his opposite number found the strength to wring his neck. Church did the same back, and the two men began rolling about on the grass, their respective uniforms dirtied. Church had the upper hand and, once he was back on top, used his size to messily hold Hillmarton down in a flowerbed. It was an inelegant fight, but Phillipa could not remove her eyes from it. She fumbled back down in the grass for her weapon but it was too late.

  "Everybody put your hands up!"

  The game was up. Gower and Southampton were at the scene. Phillipa left her gun and instead reached for the moon. Church took a little more persuading and Gower had to hit him on the back of the head with Hillmarton's rifle before he would release his strong, bloody grip. Hillmarton was barely conscious, but still alive.

  "Get in the fucking house, now!"

  Phillipa and Church shared a look, before moving slowly towards the manor, followed angrily by Gower, and then by Southampton who propped up Hillmarton's battered body.

  *

  "Cave," Neven said, directed to Gifford but addressing the assailant behind him. "You have to listen to me, it wasn't like that."

  "Shut up, you betrayed Whiskers, Smithers and everyone!" the squeaky man, back from the dead, barked as officially as he could manage. "I saw you run!"

  "Yes," Neven rounded upon the minuscule man. "And it saved not only my life, but the life of Church and the life of a civilian. What, you would rather I stayed and died with the rest of you?"

  Neven, no longer a rag-doll in the mouth of a dog, found such sudden strength in himself that he had not the time to consider its genesis.

  "Yes! It's the proper thing!" Cave implored.

  "Then you are stupid," Neven roared, the first time he had done so.

  "Steady on, lad," Vernon said, half out of worrying for Neven's life, but also out of a still-lingering sense of respect for his captors and the dealings of rank and file. “We can sort this all out, I have no doubt. Let's all just remember who we are, that we are all brothers in arms.”

  "Major Vernon, this is bullshit," Swinton said.

  “Oh shut up, both of you,” Gifford spat. The door opened, announcing the return of the other officers.

  Whatever strength that Neven found deep in his bones was suddenly drained from his body when Phillipa walked through the door. Oh no, he thought, anyone but her. Church followed, never looking worse for wear. Gower carried in a lifeless Hillmarton, and Southampton closed the door. He walked up to the table, slammed down a gun.

  My gun, Neven realised.

  "Caught her with this, Lieutenant," Southampton said. "She's offed Garden and the other one nearly did for Hillmarton here."

  "Maybe if one of your soldiers hadn't tried to fucking rape me I wouldn't have needed to blow his stupid brains out," Phillipa hissed. It wasn't an apology, nor was it an explanation. It was born out of pure rage. "Also, that meat they're eating is the horses'".

  "That's it!" Gifford pronounced with a bundle of spittle and rage. Everyone in the room was taken aback. He looked to Neven for some reason, the beacon and the scapegoat. "You and your kind are nothing but trouble here. First: an abomination of suicide out on the staircase, and then insubordination, and then your women-folk have the gall to murder with wanton abandon!"

  Neven could see a short fuse burning down, its target ever closer, its light ever brighter.

  "You are a black spot upon this house! You will all pay for your insolence."

  Neven's body coiled and tensed. He was just waiting for the speech to end before all hell broke loose. They were at one heck of a disadvantage, but that was irrelevant to him. Some of his closest friends, whether they admitted it or not, were in this room, and he was ready to fight like hell.

  Every speech the Lieutenant gave had been sacrificial. He was delivering England to the enemy on a plate by his shutting off from the rest of the world in his decision not to act. His new world was deluded and could not be kept up; the monster at the wall this morning attested to this fact. His estate was a new coalition of values and rules which could not possibly be held up - an idealised island run by a man with no ideas.

  The more Neven thought about this, the angrier he grew. He had stopped listening to Gifford's ramblings, though they still continued when he threw an elbow into Cave's throat.

  The small man gurgled and fell back, smashing his spine against a dining cart which toppled beneath him. His gun was scattered away. Church sprang into action as the first bullet was fired. Sensing he wasn't dead, Neven went for Phillipa, and found himself bundling into Gower, who still struggled to hold up the defunct Hillmarton. The men came crashing down.

  As he fell, he glanced Swinton launch himself across the table top at Lieutenant Gifford. The burly sergeant had not crossed three steps, hands outstretched before the Lieutenant cracked off a round from his pistol at him. Then another, and another. Swinton, bloodily and felled, toppled onto Gifford, who collapsed from the weight.

  Church grappled with Southampton with surprising tenacity for one so beaten and bruised already. His spirit was worth twice the manpower, but Southampton was twice a man already. Their struggle was brutal, and it took them to the other side of the room, tossing and turning like a dust storm.

  Gower lashed out with a boot and kicked Neven in th
e face, who finally experienced some semblance of pain. He knew his seemingly invincible streak couldn’t have lasted long, and as Gower kicked again he heard and felt his nose break.

  Phillipa was struggling out of the mess when she felt a hand upon the top of her ankle. It was Hillmarton, risen from his slumber but still not entirely mobile. He was gripping her with a weak hand, and pulling her away from the table. Having her balance taken from her left her flailing; her chin slammed into the table top, shaking the already shaken dinner places. She spat out a tooth into Neven's untouched equestrian steak. She kicked with her free soft foot, and while the arch and heel of it connected with Hillmarton's chest, he did not desist, and pulled her further away from her prize.

  Church was having little more success; he was pinned against the wall. Southamton had one muscular hand against his throat and another punching him in his likely broken ribs. Church's eyes bulged. He freed the hand that was protecting his throat, and brought it to his back. Slipping it inside, he retrieved a knife he had neglected to surrender. It shimmered in the light from the candles that were still burning as, with one fluid motion, he brought it into the side of Southampton's head, entering through the Sergeant's ear.

  "Fuh... fuh.. fuck," the man said. It had taken the blade several seconds to register its presence in his thick head.

  The hand around Church's oesophagus released itself and he nearly vomited from the lack of oxygen. He did not relent, however, and as his combatant toppled he went over with him and worked upon him with his knife again and again until there was more blood upon himself than inside Southampton's body.

  Gower sat up and grabbed Neven's face, head butting him. Neven was dazed and shocked. He imagined himself to be in quite a state, and he was having trouble seeing properly. They tussled on the floor some more.

  Phillipa reached for Neven's plate, found a hand upon his butter knife. As Hillmarton dragged her further towards him, he scratched deep wounds into her unprotected legs. To save him from clawing any further up her body, she allowed herself to fall back onto him as he wished. As she did, she relied upon a strong arm and a sheer force of will to drive the blunt blade into the man's groin. He shrieked a shriek that took the breath away from every able-bodied man in the room. It was a piercing, banshee howl, but she was beyond eliciting sympathy. She hauled herself up the table once more, and threw herself upon the revolver. Spinning around as she adjusted her grip, she felt the itch of her cuts and wounds as fiercely as she felt the anger in her boiling blood. She fired into Hillmarton's face and the writhing, crying man was still once again.

  Gifford had alleviated himself of Swinton's bloated corpse and, caked in blood and food, rose from behind the table.

  Phillipa barely had time to fall upon the floor as the first bullet whistled past her. The door was thrown open and three familiar faces entered and fanned out quickly. Clutching a rifle each, Frank and Privates Thornhough and Brunswick – came into the room. Brunswick only relieved a hand from his rifle to briefly tug at the collar of his ridiculous new shirt.

  Thornhough, noticing that Neven was having the life beaten out of him, lowered his rifle and shot Gower in the throat. The cavalry officer gurgled and poured blood onto Neven's face from his gushing wound before falling on top of him. Neven was distinctly grateful, but, had not the time to convey his thanks before he saw Frank fall from the Lieutenant's next shot.

  From behind an overturned table, his own makeshift fortress, Gifford was shooting like a madman. Phillipa crawled past Neven, as he struggled to remove the corpse of his assailant, and she tended to his wounds.

  "Get down!" Brunswick yelled, indicating the besieged Gifford's intentions. He looked over to see Cave rising from his slumber, and smacked him with the butt of his gun. The soldiers crouched behind the table.

  But the Lieutenant did not get to fire another shot at them. The fight was over, and Gifford must have known. He levelled his revolver at the group once again, but Church had risen from his butchery and had crossed unseen by all, to tackle the insane man to the ground. The bullet whizzed away and buried itself in the ceiling.

  The others stood, finally, or at least those that could. Phillipa dragged a chair out and, with the help of Brunswick, lifted Frank onto it. The old man had taken a bullet in his thigh, but it appeared to have gone straight through him and thus he still drew breath. Thornhough yanked Gower's body off of the struggling Neven and helped the Corporal to his feet. Neven thanked him and looked across the room.

  Church had bent Gifford over the table. The bruised and bloody Lieutenant was missing teeth and had a black eye, his face was caked in the rapidly cooling food that he was currently buried face-down in.

  "Church, wait," Neven's mouth had never been drier. The only sustenance that met his lips however, was his own blood. The pain was so harsh that he had trouble maintaining consciousness.

  "The problem with you cavalry lads," Church hissed and spat. He grabbed a tuft of Gifford's hair and raised the man's head up to see the group at the other side of the room Church leaned in. "Is that you're all fucking cunts."

  He brought his knife down in one fluid motion and slit the Lieutenant's throat deeply. Gifford gurgled, gushed blood. His eyes rolled back in his skull and he went limp after a few seconds. Church relinquished his grip and allowed the Lieutenant to finish his meal.

  "I think we're done here," Church said, wiping his blade upon the coattails of the dead victim. Decked head to toe in blood of others, he looked like the demon spawn of hell. Inwardly, Neven could tell that Church was revelling in it.

  Chapter 14

  The Aftermath

  That night was a busy one. Brunswick, who was least the bloodied, left the room to inform the civilians to hide the children's eyes. He dared not tell them to lock themselves in their rooms; there was a sense that equality should now reign in the group, and the days of giving orders were over. There was a mutual respect. Those who wanted to could come and see the massacre in the dining room, just as those who wished to could deal with the removal of the bodies. But spare the children the indignity of what we have done, is what they agreed. Margaret took Polly, Simon and her own little one to their room, where they sat and played games by the light of candles.

  Neven walked around the room. The carpet was dirty, now dyed and stained with thick beetroot blood. He put a hand upon Major Vernon's shoulder. Vernon had taken the first bullet from Gifford's gun, right between his eyes. He was sat back, slumped into his chair dead, the blood had poured to the base of his neck where his napkin was still tucked, and a red flower bloomed upon the dainty white material.

  Neven closed his eyes and laid him upon the floor.

  "Hang on, I'll help you," Frank said. He grunted as he tried to rise up, using a rifle as a walking stick.

  "Frank, you cannot be serious. Please sit down and stop making everyone feel bad," Neven attempted a smile, but none was forthcoming.

  Luckily, Thornhough was back at the scene, and he took the Major's feet while Neven cradled his head and shoulders. They eased him out of the room and down the corridor, until they came to a rest outside of the house. Covering him in a variety of towels and teacloths and some of the torn up tablecloth, they laid him upon the soft grass of the garden.

  Next to him they placed Swinton, who required three men to carry. They retrieved the body of North, who had been confined to the corner of the grounds among the wood-chopping equipment, and lined the three up. They stood there in silence; they did not even consider removing the bodies of the cavalry men.

  "How did you get the rifles?" Neven asked.

  "We broke into the armoury," Thornhough replied with a smile. "Brunswick said you had a premonition, and to be honest, we were tired of taking orders from these cavalry shites."

  Neven had scarcely been more proud. He looked about the manor, and caught sight of the Baton of Britain, his cape billowing in the wind, standing heroically upon the top of the wall above the gate.

  "And Frank?"
>
  "Couldn't stop him from coming along!" Thornhough laughed. "Brave old bastard."

  "Oh hang on," Neven looked behind them and saw Charlie and Enoch each carrying one end of another body. "Oh no."

  "It's Anthony," Charlie said without prompting. "He was in the stables."

  "Not the only thing," Enoch said. He was close to tears. "They killed my bloody horses, too."

  "This day gets worse and worse," Neven breathed.

  They set Anthony down, but, through lack of having anything with which to cover him, took an errant coat from a now departed cavalry officer and placed it over him as best as they could.

  "Corporal," Brunswick said, having left Phillipa binding Frank's wound.

  "Yes?"

  "Should we bury them?"

  "Do we have time?" Charlie asked, practically.

  "We should make time," Brunswick chided. "Give them a good Christian burial that they deserve. Well, some of them, I suppose." He threw his head back in the direction of the still lit dining room. Light eked through the curtains; from the outside it looked so peaceful.

  "We don't have to do anything until morning," Neven said, hoping to avoid another quarrel.

  "This is making you still believe in God?" Charlie asked over Neven.

  "I have to believe in something, sir," Brunswick said. "Or I believe that my friends just died for nothing."

  "They did just die for nothing," Charlie said, exasperated. "They just died fighting their own fellow man. Where's the nobility in that?"

  Neven shook his head and walked away. "You make peace in whatever way you see fit, but don't step on each other's toes."

  He caught sight of Phillipa, who was sitting upon the step of a porch. In her hand, she held one of the long cigarettes that Gifford had been fond of. She smoked it greedily, but let her intense grip upon it slip as she saw Neven approach.

  "You look awful," she said, wincing at his face.

  "I'll be fine, thank you," he sat heavily next to her. "Just need to wash it off."

  She licked her finger and brushed some of the detritus off of his face. It was a surprisingly personal move, but he was quite happy for it.