The McGurns laughed and one of them spoke from behind. “Aye, yee never get used to ‘em, do yee, but we like to keep a good few aroond for treening purposes, oh and foor Saturdee nights.”
I straightened and wiped the mess from my mouth. “Why risk it? It’s bloody madness! They belong in a blast furnace. And why keep so many?” Judging from the bone dissolving noise beyond the door, there were uncountable numbers cramped within.
“We doon’t ask the colonel and I suggest yee doon’t ayther. Besides, yee never knoo when a mob of dead let loose can come in handy.” He gave me a deliberate glare and spoke again after a pause. “Yee might want to ensure yee doon’t end up back doon here, me laddy.” And he gestured back from where we came. “I believe there’s a meeting of officers in the mess and if yee have any breens, yee’d maybe want to nod yeer head to every little thing the colonel says.”
So to the officers’ mess I was escorted, where I found myself at a large table in a smoke and Scotch stinking room wedged between a large captain and an obscenely large captain with arms like cabers and a face you could use to cut granite. It was the berserker from the gauntlet, and they both donned skirts and contemptuous expressions, along with everyone else. Indeed, they all looked so similar in their red jackets and white sashes, red hair and whiskers, all apart, that is, from the giant to my right who leaned back, belly hanging out through an unbuttoned tunic to drip over his waistband, revealing a huge muscular chest of red. For whatever reason, he’d made a point of situating himself beside me, shifting aside a young lieutenant as he did and spreading himself out with a grunt, turning his mountainous frame inwards with the creak of his straining seat and maintaining the posture as we awaited the colonel. Oh, he knew of me and my reputation, alright, and doubtless needed me to understand who the top man still was - He’d have no arguments from me on that score.
I dared not move nor barely breathe in the rather awkward situation I found myself, each Grey to the man squinting my way at various intervals whilst remarking something about me to their neighbour in a tongue that might as well have been foreign, and of course it was always I who looked away first, cowed as I was. I found myself taking in the minutiae of the table, walls and ceiling, pretending to smile at the swirly patterns above, and back to the table in an effort to appear distracted and busy.
The surface was cluttered with tiny dram glasses, which the kilted mess waiter had a full time job refilling. In the centre lay a large platter brimming with glistening sacks filled with something or other, each the size of a child’s head. I watched with fascination as one Jock brought a sack to his plate and sliced it down the middle causing brown filling to burst out. Then I blanched as the substance was scooped into his mouth at which point I realised it was haggis. I’d heard about this monstrosity at a Scottish fayre in Sussex but at the time had been lucky enough not to see it up close. Now, there was no escaping the sight and smell of sheep heart, liver and lungs minced with onion and yet more bloody oats. Oh, and it was all encased in a sheep’s stomach and served with ‘neeps and tatties’ which to the non-Scot meant turnip and potatoes. It was enough to make one yearn for the gruel and I shrank back in my seat as each man took one of the gooey balls and commenced scooping out the substance which quite closely resembled zombie brain matter.
We officers numbered ten, which showed the regiment’s present state of depletion, a range of ages, myself by far the youngest and most feeble bodied which, due to my broad shoulders and adequate frame was making a statement. Each Grey was large as expected and, despite the hard times and Judas at the helm, had dutifully managed to maintain the air of proud cavalrymen in immaculate uniforms, apart that is from the berserker who, as I was beginning to suspect, was too large for his tunic to button, so why bother washing it at all? For the rest, it was comforting to see they hadn’t quite debased their appearances like they had their morals and doubtless each man of the officer class, like myself, had come from money, which meant they couldn’t be all bad. Like myself, they’d each have a story and their own reasons for ditching what was right to take the lucrative, profitable and let’s face it, easier path.
What would their Battle of Waterloo predecessors make of we bunch of traitors? The lads who brought about the fable of the Stirrup Charge, where each horse carried a 92nd Highlander on its side to add musketry to the advance before Sergeant Ewart of the Greys took the French eagle and brought glory and legendary status upon the regiment. Would they think us fit to muck out their horses’ shit?
For me, the awkwardness continued when the giant to my right said something and upon my asking him to repeat it for the third time, was finally addressed like a five year old with hearing difficulties.
“I seed, yee’ve got a lot to do to ween us aroond after that horrific displee last neet.” His voice was a deep rumble, almost volcanic like and came from deep within that enormous chest.
I took a moment to decipher the words and thought carefully about my response, knowing full well he should probably be humoured. “Thank you.” I smiled with a supplicating nod.
“Aye.” He shook his head and in so doing gave me a quick glimpse of his right side and the sabre scar that cut down from eye to jowl, his full facial beard covering most, but not all of it. “What is it they say yee did in Ireland?”
The rest had now ceased their conversations and stared at me with expectation, not only because they wanted my story, but because it was impossible, and probably unwise too, to speak above the berserker’s rumble.
I baulked and tried to think of an appeasing answer, even as the horrific images of Ireland flashed through my head. Luckily, the Mac three seats down interjected on my behalf, I think.
“They say he deloped three consecutive duels, saved quadruplets from the dead in a foort and single handedly defended the same from an attack by thoosands of ‘em.” He stroked his whiskers and regarded me with scepticism - I couldn’t blame him.
The Scar almost choked on his whisky. “Is that soo? The seem boy who shits his breeches at the veery sight of one? Aye, well, even if all that be true, which I dooubt, but even if it is, not any of that matters here. And I bet yeer average Scotch zombie is twice the size of a Paddy one…or an English one foor that matter.” He belched Scotch in my direction. “Yee English may meek the best horses, but we Scots meek the best men…aye, would yee care to poot it to the test?”
In a rare moment of daring do, I was about to come back with the witty retort that it must be the haggis and oat diet when for the first time I noticed the major sat directly opposite. He must have been watching the interaction and studying me in particular because he coughed and shook his head for my benefit, but it was all in the way he did it that demanded I check my remark. It was the eyes, the warning, the fear and something else that couldn’t be explained and then I recognised the man as the same who’d protected Jimmy from the fun at his expense in the courtyard.
I studied the Jock, by far the oldest hand at the table and because he was the only one not conversing with the rest, I’d not noticed him present. An unassuming and gentle looking man with grey hair and hawkish features despite his face being war withered, weather beaten and worn like your father’s birch. He’d seen it all, Waterloo included possibly, which had to put him in his sixties at least. It was hard to imagine such a man being with this band of rotters and I wondered what his reasons were; money, fear, misguided loyalty? Or, like me, had he been kidnapped, held and coerced against his will?
Whatever the truth, we were all here and supposedly on the same side, for the same reasons, to enrich ourselves at the expense of Britannia, even as she crumbled and her people died.
Dolan entered as each head swivelled toward him. Then each eye dropped to his boots, caked in pigeon shit. It was no example to set and he traipsed a white path to the head of the table, this eighteen year old upstart, who’d already left a large impression on the regiment, imprisoning perhaps a third of their number and now I’d get to see a glimpse of what each remaining
officer truly thought of him.
I’d noticed in Ireland how when Fitzgibbon entered, the chat gradually died down, or else he had to demand silence. With Dolan, every man had silenced at once, but it couldn’t be out of fear, surely? These war hardened veterans of the Crimea couldn’t be afraid of this twitching fraud. The reactions were a mixture; some men leaning back in their seats, folding large arms over barrel chests. One or two were amused and chuckled to themselves. Others sneered and rolled their eyes as Dolan fumbled through his papers, smearing something over them as he did. Some were more curious, studying him with tilted heads, while I simply tried to use The Scar to shield me from his view.
He cleared his throat, then did so again, rubbed the back of his neck, dropped his papers, coughed into his fist and when he finally came round to addressing us, did so whilst looking down at the table in a voice a few pitches higher than when I’d last heard it.
“Stirling!” The out of depth charlatan scratched his muttons. “It’s under siege, so that’s where we’re heading.” Dolan was undergoing his own private battle to conceal his Irish accent, the words coming out in a curious mixture of Paddy and Strappy’s own home counties respectable toff. “Stirling’s under siege, you see, and…well, that’s where we must go…to lift the siege. We’ll slaughter the dead and lift the siege. And I’m sure the good people of Stirling will be very grateful we helped out…by lifting the siege, you see. Um, any questions?”
After hearing that, even I’d come out from behind cover to lean forward and raise an eyebrow in our commanding officer’s direction, his freckled skin turning pink as I did. Oh aye, didn’t think much beyond your revenge did you my lad. Didn’t realise there’s more to being a lieutenant colonel than barking out orders to your subordinates from the comfort of your bird cage, did you? It was almost enough to feel sorry for him, almost.
Someone coughed and then Dolan’s eyes flicked once toward the doors, a visible bead running down his forehead. I coughed once myself, just to add a little more pressure and then he bit down on his lips, like he was struggling to suppress an almighty twitch. He couldn’t do that though, because whilst these hardened thugs might follow a nervous Paddy to the hangman’s noose, they certainly wouldn’t follow a convulsing jerker who could barely even maintain control over his own body.
It was the most fun I’d had since my arrival north of the border, watching this most unfortunate of souls who doubtless couldn’t wait to get back to his room from where he could cut himself in privacy.
“Good!” Our esteemed commander declared before hurrying out the mess, leaving myself somewhat bemused and not without some hope that this nut, with the right amount of persuasion from the right people, strategically aimed, could be mutinied upon.
Stirling
Any hopes of a potential mutiny were quashed the minute Dolan fled the officers’ mess because almost immediately the men began discussing the likely spoils, what Stirling might offer and who was there to prevent them taking it, which was enough to make each man fall in behind like good soldiers. There was not so much planning being discussed as mere speculation as to the existing garrison, of former soldiers who’d likely be there and the potential of the locals possessing their own guns, which was all enough for me to know I’d want as little to do with it as possible.
The Scar, who went by the name of Skinner, was clearly the ringleader and I listened with apprehension from my position next to the man as he sank dram after dram to little effect, belching, whilst being less than subtle as to the repercussions for any man, officer or trooper, who fell out of line. If I’d wondered how Dolan was keeping the officers in check, I had my answer now his enforcer had revealed himself and at one point the man even stood to reprimand the waiter for being too slow with the Scotch and to damn him for not spreading down enough haggis - The situation was rectified at once. He had to be six and a half foot of sheer red bricked shithouse, not unlike the latrines back in Rochester and it had to be noted that although the senior captain, doubtless because Dolan had promoted him, our elderly major, who should’ve been Skinner’s superior, was in fact compliant and submissive toward the ogre.
And who could blame him? Skinner had an overbearing presence that made men, veterans and all, question themselves, his shoulders overlapping the sides of his creaking seat by a foot either way, his loud obstructed breathing alone reminding everyone there was a big man in the room. He was the only officer present, myself included, who possessed not the cavalry whiskers that were all the rage, for we knew the ladies desired them. No, Skinner had foregone the whiskers for that grisly beard of red and it was no easy task deciding where the bristles ended and his long coarse red woolly hair began, for they seemed of one. Indeed, the berserker required no scar to appear menacing and I decided on the spot there’d be no further interaction with him.
And such was my instinct for self-preservation that as soon as we began the thirty five mile westward journey to Stirling, I sought out the regiment’s one approachable officer.
“My name’s Major Muir,” the man extended his hand across the short gap between our horses, “and may I say, it’s a pleasure to meet a soldier of such standing as yourself.” One would hope a man of his age and experience would know better. “Read about your exploits, bigad, and ne’er was I so impressed nor moved since we took the French eagle at Waterloo. Knew Sergeant Ewart…I did…and like to think I played a small part in capturing the thing alongside him.” He shook his head with sadness. “If he could see us now…”
I had many questions, but how to put them to a chap I wasn’t yet completely sure of? The old man may have exhibited redeemable qualities but he was still riding to Stirling in the expectation of sacking the place. Luckily, he volunteered the information.
“I see you’re here against your will, which means that like myself, you’re probably not like the rest of ‘em. In fact, if your reputation is anything to go by, I’m sure that like myself, you’re undergoing your own internal battle with your conscience.” I wouldn’t have put it quite like that. He continued, akin to everyone else who seem to think they can instantly trust me, “and I reckon to think you’re curious why I’d be willing to commit treason and throw in my lot with this bunch of cutthroats.”
I leaned in closer, ensuring nobody else in the column was near enough to overhear. “I was wondering, yes.”
Muir understood the sensitivity of the situation and spoke sotto voce. “Aye, well, let me just say, I fought with the Greys at Waterloo and, as I say, I knew Sergeant Ewart when he was a mere heavy cavalryman like the rest of them.” He glanced across the divide and paused for my reaction, like I was meant to be impressed he’d once been pally with another of these highly decorated lunatics. After the passing of several seconds, sans reaction from me, he sighed and continued. “Aye, well, let me tell you, Captain, that I love this regiment, so you could say I’m here out of loyalty and that I hope to steer the old reg back to Britannia. I’m in a better position to do that whilst I can ride and influence from a position of some power rather than rotting below the barracks in the prisons. But what hope of that, I ask, with a mad colonel and a lunatic hatchet man as wide as he is tall?” He took a moment to consider his next point and I wondered if he truly wanted to divulge it. “Maybe I’ve a family to care and provide for and that, to my eternal shame, I put them before my honour.” He clenched his fist and nodded toward the regimental flags which were under the care of the usual colour sergeants on horseback a score of files to the fore. “Or perhaps I do it for those.”
My head jerked back of its own accord as I let out an involuntary gasp the major overheard. It was incredible - Another psychotic rag worshipper who’d gladly put the longevity of a piece of cloth ahead of himself and doubtless everyone else too. It was the most confounded luck that I could never escape these people and I’d stupidly thought this man might have been better.
“Well? Which one is it, Major?” There was irritation in my tone. I wanted to know quick if I should ad
d the Mac to the growing list of people to avoid.
“Maybe it’s all three, Captain.” He spoke without hint of offence and glared into the back of Captain Skinner, whose horse laboured and toiled under his girth, and who rode with one hand clutching a holstered pistol. “But just like yours, my reasons hardly signify. Either I comply and make myself rich or suffer the consequences. It’s an easy decision to make.”
Finally he was speaking some sense, something I could understand, even if Muir himself was struggling with his own conscience, deep down he knew he was complying because he too was afraid of the big man who rode four ranks in front.
“He’s the Highland caber tossing champion, did you know?” Muir continued. “Six years running and the present record holder…can lob a trimmed tree trunk further than any man in the history of Scotland and don’t he like to show it bigad.”
I twisted uncomfortably in my saddle. “Show it? How?”
“Get on his bad side and you’ll find out, Captain.”
I had literally no desire to ever find out and found myself glaring into his back for a long time, praying he’d take a tumble from his overworked mount and break his neck, but with a scruff like that it was more likely he’d only end up breaking the ground instead.
And Skinner was such a distracting sight, as the column trotted through the open fields of the Firth of Forth’s south bank, that one could be forgiven for missing entirely the fellow who rode on his left. Apart from Dolan, who was stark staring insane, this other man had been the only one I’d yet to see speak with Skinner, and he did so with apparent ease, removing his shako to brush and pat down his side parting with a hand before placing the same on his hip and tilting to the side. He’d not been present in the officer’s mess prior to our leaving the barracks, but I did recognise him as the slender chap who was sat next to Skinner at the gauntlet.
Not Dead Yet: A Zombie Apocalypse Series - Books 1 - 2 Page 31
