Zombie Revolution

by K. Bartholomew

  Pushing it any further whilst he was in this mood would do no good but after this latest damned fool suggestion, I certainly wouldn’t let the matter rest there either.

  It was English upper-class tradition that the second or third sons would join the army while the first, me, would assume the family business and become rich. I wouldn’t suffer the humiliation of Alfred stealing my comfortable prospects just because some fag named Davis ran crying to Old Tubs.

  I was in a rare rage when I stopped Mrs Clayton by the stairs. “Tell me, how much are you costing him?”

  She almost dropped the books she was carrying. “Such a foul mouth you have on you.” She took a swing with a Bible, missing.

  I grabbed her arms and moved closer. “Wouldn’t you rather have younger, more virile meat than the old man? I bet he paid off all the debts your husband ran up.”

  She struggled and kneed me in the groin. “You wicked boy. I see you’ve inherited your father’s lechery.”

  I doubled over, struggling to breathe. “And I see where your son gets his treachery.” Unfortunately, the pain was too severe to appreciate my impromptu rhyme.

  She raised the Bible, poised for another strike at my head, which I’d take any day over a knee to the ghoulies, when there was a knock at the door.

  And it was the conversation resulting from this moment that was to forever change my life.

  An Uncle With Connections

  I’d only seen him once before my entire life, apparently as a baby, and naturally remembered nothing of him.

  Uncle Luther and I had taken a walk out to the stables where we now conversed as we leant against Bess, one of our English thoroughbreds.

  “You’re a stupid idiot, son.” He regarded me with judgemental eyes whilst jauntily holding onto the lapels of his weskit.

  “For getting kicked out of Eton?”

  “For trying to lift the skirt of your father’s wench.” He lit up a cigar and blew out a plume of smoke. “You never heard the saying, ‘don’t shit where you eat,’ son?”

  I hadn’t, but it made sense. Sure, I’d wanted her in the moment, but probably not enough to risk the consequences of her snitching to the old man. Already, I’d suffered one incident of my inferiors running to higher authority and I considered the likelihood of her blathering to him but reasoned that more likely she’d rather enjoy the thought of my lusting after her and as long as she kept my indiscretion to herself, well then, she could ensure my good behaviour, in the short term at the least. Or was I deluding myself?

  “What do you think will happen?”

  He almost choked on his smoke. “You’ve made the atmosphere toxic, is what will happen. I hope you enjoy being back here, around a drunk father on the warpath and his whore biding her time, maybe even blackmailing you while you go about fixing the shattered remnants of your life.”

  He’d take her word over mine, I was certain of that.

  But worse, I now had the prospect of having to share an abode with the pair of them, without even my idiot brother Alfred around to act as a buffer.

  He smoothed down Bess’s hair, which I didn’t like because the silence meant his shrewd mind was concocting something. Being of money, Uncle Luther was therefore to be liked and trusted, even if he’d been living too much of the good life recently, evidenced by his portliness. He was donning a cravat and shirt below black weskit with top hat and cane, very respectable and I felt in good company.

  “Why are you here anyway?”

  He took another pull from his cigar and spat into the straw. “Jack, your father and I have business to discuss but rest assured, matters of settling a few old scores with him have nothing to do with your ears, so I’ll spare you the particulars.”

  And with that, I knew not to push the matter further. Luther had always despised the old man for the adultery and misery he put my mother through and with my father, apparently in debt, my uncle was likely salivating at the chance to throw some misery back, which meant the Strapper estate would be even more toxic come tomorrow.

  “How is the old man anyway? Still drinking, gambling and whoring away the wealth?”

  I’d witnessed at least two within five minutes of arriving back. “He suggested I join the army,” I said, quite offhandedly as I joined my uncle in petting Bess.

  His hand stopped within her mane. “And what did you tell him?”

  I laughed because he asked with such a neutral expression. “Well, it was a joke, surely. Me, in the army? Oh, I realise he’d love nothing more than to be shot of me, but can you imagine me in front of the enemy?” I laughed again at the absurdity of it.

  His expression remained the same, which was now getting silly. “Why not? You could have a comfortable life as a cavalry officer. You can ride, I assume?”

  It would be hard to deny the fact, given we were presently petting one of our horses. I’d been riding my entire life and apart from plunging myself into deep messes beyond my control, it was probably the one thing I was truly gifted at.

  “Of course, I can ride, but I can think of nothing more petrifying than facing a line of musketry across a battlefield, or God forbid, enemy cavalry.” My hands were literally shaking from the mere conversation, which had to say something.

  He continued to study me, somehow weighing me up and I didn’t like the way his bushy brown brows encircled his eyes. “You don’t read the papers, do you son, and I also assume that expensive public school that contributed to your father’s impending bankruptcy didn’t keep you much in the loop of things either?”

  “What in the blazes are you talking about?” The man was getting tiresome and I had a future to contemplate as well as mistresses to avoid.

  He shook his head with impatience. “There are no more wars, son. We pasted the Chinks and forced them to buy our opium and after the Crimea, the Bear knows not to make any moves that might upset us. And let me tell you this,” he shook his fist in what could only be described as some sort of pride in his nation, “there’s nobody left who’d dare mess with Britannia. The Dagoes are a spent force, Fritz is taking forever to get organised, even the bloody French have learned their lesson, finally.”

  “What about those upstart Americans?”

  “America?” He reserved his loudest laugh for that one. “Son, the way things are going, they’ll soon be too busy having at each other and we ain’t daft enough to get involved with that. I understand your silly father’s been investing in slaves while the smart money,” and at this, he puffed out his barrel chest, “the smart money’s been pulling it out. Made more than a bloody fortune, let me tell you. No, no, son,” and now he reached over Bess to place a hand on my shoulder, “if you sign up, nothing’ll happen except that maybe you’ll be given some dashing uniform the ladies’ll swoon for and perhaps get posted off to some far off distant and exotic land of the Empire, and who wouldn’t want that? Oh, sure, there’ll be the odd skirmish with the local rabble-rousers but didn’t we just put that Indian mutiny down swiftly, right, old boy?”

  “Huh…” I tried to let it all sink in. “No more wars, aye?” I mean, there was no way I’d be so bloody stupid as to actually sign up, but he did paint rather a romantic picture and I could quite imagine myself strutting about in dashing cavalry overalls and sabre the ladies would be sure to lust after, just so long as I never had to use the damned thing. I’d have to avoid India, naturally, and Africa went without saying, as well as all sorts of other nasty places, but I quite fancied The Cape or Bermuda. But of course it was all nonsense, so I flapped a hand at him. “Well, if you’re lucky, you’ll catch the old man awake and not fagged out drunk and drooling in his chair.”

  He took a final tug on his cigar before grinding it into the straw, hardly the sensible thing to do. “You don’t know about my line of work, do you, son?”

  My mother had once mentioned something about him being in the military but at that point, I’d never even met the man so hadn’t very much cared or listened.

  “Jack, it ha
ppens that I hold an administrative position at the Horse Guards and I have my say in who gets sent when and where. What if I were to pull a few strings and have you posted to a nice safe cavalry regiment in a place where nothing much happens or is ever likely to?”

  I flinched because here was this stranger arriving from nowhere with, what at face value, seemed like a genuine and generous offer that would solve all my problems. But there was a hitch that I’d yet to even consider because uncle Luther was not of the common Strappers but of the aristocratic Rocheforts, which meant that now, with my mother dead, he had no reason to do a good turn for a Strapper in need. The fact he was here, for all I knew with the intention of having the estate signed over to him, was testament that I ought to be sceptical.

  “You’d really do this for me?”

  Again, he reached over Bess to place a yellow paw on my shoulder. “Son, we’re family, ain’t we?”

  I considered him as he displayed teeth for my benefit. “Which regiment did you have in mind?”

  He had one of those faces you could probably trust and possessed the smallest resemblance to my mother and now, after my question, his smile grew wider, which put me at even greater ease. “Well, let’s see, there’d be several worthy of taking a squint at, but the one I had in mind was the 8th King’s Royal Irish Hussars.” It meant nothing to me and he must have seen my blank expression. “Irish, as in Ireland, my boy.”

  “Ireland?” I stepped back as something in my belly lurched sidewards, which, as I should have known, is instinct. And as I’ve come to learn, instinct should always be listened to. “I thought you said you’d send me to a place where nothing’s ever likely to happen? The Irish are always rabble-rousing.”

  He raised his voice. “The Irish make up almost a third of the entire British army and those who don’t fight for Britannia are busy digging our ditches. They know which side their bread’s buttered.” I didn’t know what that expression even meant. “And an easier life you’ll not find in all the Empire.” He now placed a hand on each of my shoulders, which made me trust him all the more. “Never fear, my boy. If there was a war on, which there ain’t, but even if there was, after the Crimea, the 8th are in no position to fight anyway.”

  “Why? What happened?” It sounded bad and I had to know.

  He shrugged unconcernedly, “they lost half their number during that bloody Charge of the Light Brigade fiasco and they’re still only at half strength. When you arrive in Ireland it’s likely they’ll give you a nice billet before putting you to work touting for new recruits. And they don’t take just anybody in the cavalry, did you know, no my son, but you’ll be mixing with the upper classes, with high society, the very best.”

  “Indeed. Well, there you have it. Not bad for a lad who got kicked out of Eton, aye?”

  He clapped me on the back. “That’s the spirit, son.”

  Having no other options, I resigned myself to the idea. There was though, the small matter of the purchasing of my captaincy but strangely, Uncle Luther agreed to speak to my father about settling that, who not to my surprise, and despite being in the hole, was more than happy to stump up the £3225 to see the back of me. Not only that, but Luther also managed to broker for me an allowance of £1000 a year, which apparently my father agreed to without hesitation - Charming.

  The only problem was, I still had nearly two weeks of waiting around on the estate until my papers arrived from Horse Guards and I could sail for Ireland. It made for a few awkward meals between Jack Senior, Mrs Clayton and myself, let me tell you.

  Uneasy Feelings

  As fate would have it, I turned eighteen during the painful wait for my permission slips and confirmation of captaincy to arrive via courier. I used the time to brush up on my riding skills, practice jabbing at a hanging bag with a stick, avoiding my father and his whore and to grow a fine, manly set of cavalry whiskers. Now, I didn’t join the army to get into anything physical, so I reasoned that the more stout and gallant I projected myself, the less likely trouble was to find me. I’d also pegged on that the ladies had a thing for a man with the style or, if they didn’t, they soon would.

  My spirits were high and my purse heavy as the coach arrived at the docks in Liverpool, a city if there ever was one, built on Paddy immigration. But as the driver pulled away, leaving me alone in this filthy and unfamiliar pit in the northernmost reaches of our country, I was struck by two things.

  Firstly, given I was to be spending untold years living around the Irish and doing Irish things, whatever that entailed, I realised I’d never actually met one. This was doubly vexing when considering the nature of the family business.

  Second and most worrying of all, given that Liverpool was supposedly the most advanced port system in the world, which happened to face Ireland, there were no ships actually from there. East India Company ships, British, Spanish, American, even French ships meandered in and out of the channels. But no Irish? Did they not trade? Did they not by the hundred thousand offload their burdensome countrymen upon the English?

  Encountering what could only be my very first Mick, who stood in a group of several short, threadbare, ginger haired men with curly whiskers of his ilk, I strained my ears to overhear the conversation between swigs from a bottle of whisky they passed around between them.

  “Why do yee suppose dat is?”

  “Dunno, dey says da boats won’t be comin’ in.”

  “Da boats won’t be comin’ in? What does yee means, da boats won’t be comin’ in?”

  “I mean dey says da boats won’t be comin’ in. An’ no boats means no work and no work means no drink.”

  “No boats?” At this point, the man swooned from early morning inebriation. “But I was expecting me cousins? All twelve of dem.”

  Struggling to comprehend barely a single word of their fast flowing faux English, I grabbed my luggage and stamped toward the ticket office where, between funny looks from the inspector, I managed to ascertain there were no problems with boats departing for Ireland and that mine was expected to leave on time. I recalled the gibberish I’d overheard earlier and almost made further enquiries but then thought better of it, whilst hoping the Paddies where I was heading weren’t quite so stupid through drink.

  The boat pulled in at Belfast and upon disembarkation, I immediately felt my superiority amongst the locals. As a general rule, I’m tall and was the envy of the boys in the Eton changing rooms. At six foot, I loom over all my peers and most of my elders. But here in Belfast, as I examined their malnourished forms and bony faces, they, in turn, probed me, giving admiring glances as to the cut of my cloth, the women in particular, and nor were they afraid to let me know it through overt eye contact and the occasional extroverted grin.

  There was certainly a predominance of ginger, which made me recall the young fag Hulbert at Eton, the chap Clayton and I took such pleasure from stretching. It was all in the way he screamed, see, but unlike some, at least the fellow had stayed true to the honour code, kept away from Old Tubs, and had taken it like a man. After that, it had indeed been noted how he’d become one of the best fast bowlers in the county, on account of the improved trajectory of his throwing arm, and when he was selected to play for Eton, he only had us to thank and would not have taken any of it back.

  Though it wasn’t merely the hair by which one could tell a John Bull from a Paddy. Where we eschewed small talk, other forms of conversation and most types of physical contact, save for the occasional pub brawl, the Irish lazed about in the streets actually talking to one another and seemed, for the most part, to enjoy the company of their companions.

  Naturally, I didn’t speak to any of them, and damned if I could understand them anyway, but I did wonder why so many were loafing about at the docks with bags packed considering there were no boats leaving.

  Or more specifically, boats were leaving, only, passengers weren’t being permitted to board and there was a force of bobbies brandishing truncheons in an effort at keeping order. A few people scream
ed abuse but I didn’t have time to wait around to watch the escalation, fun as it would have been.

  I boarded a carriage bound for Londonderry and was stunned by the low price. My allowance would enable me to live well here but regardless, I bartered the man down further given I suspected he tried swindling me and in the cloth that I donned, along with my imposing figure, he put up small argument.

  After securing my baggage, I settled in for the seventy-mile ride along bumpy cobbles, broken roads and mud paths passing through the occasional rundown village with what few cows, sheep and chickens there were occupying the same living space as their keepers.

  The weary villagers gaped with toothless expressions as we clattered through on our northwestern path, the further we progressed, the more desolate and depressing it got until entire settlements seemed, to the cursory glance, to have been abandoned. This was a problem because I was hungry and hoped to find a tavern for some ale and sustenance, alas, none were forthcoming. If the country continued like this, my earlier fears of encountering anti-British rabble-rousers would prove unfounded, for I was beginning to get the impression that almost the entirety of the country had emigrated to England or elsewhere.

  Not once throughout the drive did we pass any coaches heading in the same direction but the closer we came to Londonderry, the more we saw rattling the other way, filled to the seams with screaming children, the horses sweating and drained and the passengers, through the window, exchanging more of those funny toothless looks of which I was fast becoming accustomed. At one point I stuck my head out the window, only for my driver to shout something back in unintelligible Mick.

  We approached the city next morning, having spent a freezing cold night inside the coach cabin atop a hill with a drunken Irish driver twitching nervously at every noise from outside. He tried explaining his problem, or so I assumed, but damned if I could understand.