The city walls stood wide, tall and imposing and filled me with fuzzy feelings knowing that should there be the customary sectarian violence between Catholics and Protestants, or either of those against the English, I’d be safe and secure behind them and I made sure to spot one especially formidable bastion far away from the city’s main gates which, should it be necessary, I could bolt towards before cowering behind my men. After all, what was the point in being a captain, if you didn’t use your company for protection?
Londonderry, supposedly the fourth largest city in Ireland could have been anything but. To my eyes, it looked similar to Belfast except it lacked the early morning hustle and bustle you’d expect of a populated city. Businesses lay empty, dingy and cramped rows of back to back terracing that should’ve housed many, didn’t, save for the usual idlers who leaned against walls waiting for something and nothing. The main thoroughfares were practically empty of all life and the desolation I’d experienced in the villages on the drive west had followed through into the city. In parts, it looked like nature was attempting to reclaim what had once belonged to it. Grass, weeds, plants and even small trees had sprung from the dirt roads where birds made their nests. In truth, Londonderry almost resembled a ghost town, stripped of all but a last remaining token population.
It was a relief to finally arrive at the barracks, which was saying something, and the coach rumbled through the gates and along the cobbled approach as I beheld the garrison that would be my place of employment.
In comparison, the barracks were lively with small knots of cavalrymen gathering to smoke, trotting horses around for exercise, rushing about for some such reason and at the brick walls by the north side, one squad of cavalry were assembling in preparation for a drill and I watched, fascinated yet terrified as they charged across the courtyard, sabres held aloft to plunge them into padded posts at the far end.
I’d have fun here - Just so long as no war broke out.
With the essentials of life to take care of first, I left my baggage in the officers’ mess before braving the town in search of accommodation.
The nicer part of Londonderry was only a short walk from the barracks and I came to a detached abode with a ‘Bed and Board’ sign hanging lopsided from a window. I was shown inside by a man who spoke to the air above my head in another one of those indecipherable dialects.
“Room an’ meals fur foyve poynds a mont’.”
After several times, demanding he repeat himself, I gave him my return.
“Five bloody pounds? The devil with it…” I pointed outside the cracked window, “…have you seen the place? I could find board anywhere and they’d be all the more glad for it. Four pounds a month or I’ll take my business to one of the hundreds of other empty establishments.”
He accepted and, under the threat of my riding crop, I put him immediately to work fetching my baggage from the barracks. On account of my hunger, I soon realised this had been a mistake, but he returned twenty minutes later whence he was then put to the task of making breakfast.
A bowl of carrot broth and some bread were placed before me, which to my credit, I tasted. It wasn’t that it was bad, but I was a soldier, and would require a soldier’s bounty.
“I don’t know what the devil you’re playing at, Mr…um?”
“…Maguire.”
“Maguire…but this will not do at all. Now listen here…” the beanpole tried to interject but I shouted above him, “…I’m an Englishman from a grand country estate in Sussex and where I come from we’re used to breakfasting on ham, on eggs, on proper toast…you understand? Some bacon would be good if you have it…oh and some fresh coffee too. Bigod but this is what we feed our horses and if you’d had an education you’d understand. Now, I’ll let you off on this occasion, on account of us not understanding each other, but tomorrow I’d like that of which I’ve just stated.”
“Mr Strapper, sor…” he persisted, but I’d be damned if I could understand a single word of it, though by the way his arms were waving about his face, I could tell he was unable to comply with my request.
I pushed the soup away and found a nearby tavern that served something that could be described as decent English fare. Impressed, I summoned the chef to my table and offered him employment with a twenty percent increase on whatever he was already earning. He accepted on the spot and I told him that from now on he’d be cooking for me, to mind out of my way when I had lady company, to serve my meals on time lest he take a whipping and that when he goes to the butchers to ask only for the very best cuts of meat.
It was middle of the afternoon when I arrived back in the mess in time to meet some of my fellow officers. A notice on the message board had requested that the new intake be present to meet the colonel and now, spanking in fresh uniform, I was standing with a small glass of ale when every eye in the room clamped upon the old bugger as he emerged.
My commanding officer - The first thing one couldn’t help noticing was the limp, but what was it? Had he fallen off his horse, did he receive a bullet or trip descending the stairs? And the limp was so severe it had somehow distracted from his most prominent feature, that ridiculous moustache that projected either side of his chops far beyond what physics deemed possible and which contained enough tar to seal the hull of HMS Victoria; it sure put my cavalry whiskers in their place, aye. He spoke, or rather shouted, like he’d once been caught flatfooted too close to an exploding cannon, the madman, but it was what came next which confirmed to me, beyond any doubt, the degree of his psychosis.
Because his uniform was adorned with medals and I squinted at one in particular, one which was hardly conspicuous but was recognisable all the same. A small iron cross with the imprinted words ‘For Valour.’
It was a Victoria Cross!
And far from being awestruck that my colonel was one of the bravest men in the army, instead I experienced the same sensation I had the first time I went swimming as a child and thought I was drowning. Because what we had here was a genuine lunatic, and one who’d somehow been bestowed command over us. A man who’d throw his battalion at the enemy for the sake of the mission. A man who wouldn’t think twice before ordering his men to charge into an enemy cavalry brigade. A real fighting bastard. If nobody else had them, my instincts told me all I needed to know, and damned if I needed to speak to the man to know it. Oh, I had him marked alright.
Whilst the colonel made his way around the new intake, I tried to distract my mind from my trembling knees by turning my attention toward my fellows, in search of one saviour who might be a likeminded individual, another who was here largely against his will. I’ve found it never harms to be around one’s own in unfamiliar situations.
Between us, there were four lieutenants, two captains and even one who’d purchased a full majority, a chubby man in his mid-twenties with glasses and soft features who didn’t look like he’d stand one minute against even the French. For some reason, I was put off acquainting myself with him, probably on account of his superiority, at least with regards to rank.
But my eye did linger over one particular ginger captain whose uniform wasn’t quite so pressed as the rest, who didn’t stand with quite the same air of assurance and cool. Quite the contrary in fact, as his head hung as though he were out of his depth in a roomful from the upper crust. His red mutton chop sideburns made him stand out yet further, surrounded by men with the prevailing, definitive and established cavalry whiskers of our day, and I wondered if he was the only one who didn’t get the telegraph, he’d been turned down by the infantry, which was hard to achieve, or perhaps we merely had a natural rebel on our hands, a man who would hardly be out of place haranguing the wealthy in London’s East End, touting to spit shine your boots for a penny. He was my man, alright, and the fact we were both captains would put us on an even footing.
“Captain Strapper.” I held my hand out to the man whilst keeping a cautious eye on the approaching colonel.
He looked up and took my hand. “Strapper?”
He twitched, “an unusual name that I think I envy. It sure beats Dolan.” It was a roundabout way of introducing himself but I’d take it. We glanced at the colonel together as he moved one officer down the line and I wondered if, like mine, Dolan’s intestines were also dissolving within him. “I must say, I’m nervous as all shite bein’ here, so I am.”
I’d chosen well but I couldn’t risk having him know I was just like him. “Why? There’s no war and…” and here I decided to waste no time in feeling him out a little further, “…and even in the unlikely event of one breaking out, I fully intend on selling my commission and taking the first boat back to England.” And that was no word of a lie.
He squinted and twitched again, a trait that was already beginning to grate. “War? What in da bejesus have yee taken?”
I cringed as Melville adjusted his position. “Will you keep still! Not only are you rubbing against me but you’re interrupting my flow, damn your eyes.”
Above our heads, Lady Fitzgibbon squealed with delight and my friend waited for her to settle down before speaking. “And quite remarkable a flow so far it is, and that you made it all the way to Londonderry without realising the entire country was undergoing an apocalypse…quite remarkable.” He shook his head with sarcastic admiration at my sheer lack of awareness.
I grimaced from the memory I was about to regurgitate for no better reason than to pass the time whilst we waited out the rogering above. “Looking back, I should have sold my commission right there, but who’d have been crazy enough to buy it?” I thought about Dolan, his stupid twitching face and sideburns. “The clues were there but it wasn’t until Dolan asked me ‘what in da bejeesus have yee taken?’ when my inbuilt coward’s advanced alarm system began ringing in my head.”
Melville touched my arm. “That’s what I was meaning to say…your Irish accent is atrocious, so why don’t you leave it out of the story from now on?”
“Oh charming, sir.” I cringed again. “And then I met the bloody colonel…”
Colonel Lord John Charles Henry Fitzgibbon, VC
To this day, it was the stupidest thir ng I’ve ever said and that I’d said it to none other than the commander of the regiment about summed it up. And not only did my opening words to the commanding officer permanently alienate him from me, on some levels, it alienated my fellow officers too - Word gets around, you see, especially when an insensitive young English upstart arrives in an already hostile part of the Empire and begins spouting his mouth with little or no knowledge of recent events or the place he’s at. Personally, I blame Eton. And the whole damned business probably cost me a promotion too.
Ironically, it was this moment, along with many others, that played its part in raising me to my present lofty position within the nation’s hearts. If only they knew the truth.
“Ah, my boy, you must be our English lad…stand out like balls on a bulldog, what?” He clapped me on the shoulder as my mind went fuzzy and all I could stare at was the horrifying VC pinned to his breast, evidence to his madness, which for some ungodly reason, he wore with pride. “Compliments on the whiskers, I dare say you’ll drive the ladies wild. And that you chose us and came all the way here of your own volition, you must be by far the bravest man in the room, no? Tell me, my boy…how was the journey?”
And then I opened my big mouth. “To be honest, sir, I found it all a bit dead.”
One of the lieutenants absolutely dropped his ale glass, smashing it against the floorboards, as the entire mess descended into a deafening silence.
“Oh, bejesus.” Whimpered another and even Dolan stepped away.
Then I winced from the pain in my shoulder because the colonel’s hand, which was still clasped around it, unconsciously gripped, and he began literally quivering while I could see the fury boiling inside of him. Like I said, he had it in for me from the start.
By now it was clear I’d said something unseemly because at least a minute had past and the atmosphere was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Then, finally, the colonel let me have it…
“You fucking ignorant brute!” In contrast to his usual thundery voice, this was spoken through gritted teeth and to this day is the quietest I’ve ever heard him. “You complete fucking ignorant brute of a heartless English animal.” And to this day, the pain he caused my shoulder still affects my sword swing, not that I use it a great deal.
Thankfully he let go and wobbled from the mess for an intermission, mumbling something on the way about everybody staying put and leaving me with a roomful of unsympathetic fellows, and myself somewhat confused.
Suddenly, I found myself about as popular as a debt collector arriving unannounced at a wedding and it took ten minutes to work up the courage to ask the fat major just what it was I’d supposedly said.
“Bit of a sensitive one for a VC, ain’t he?”
He plonked a fresh ale down at my fore and took a perch at the table as the others reluctantly did the same. “Captain Strapper, you’re young and I can see you’re probably not aware with regards to current events.”
“Current events?” I shrugged and he exhaled, rubbing his forehead.
“We’re…that is, the whole of Ireland, is still recovering from the potato famine. You are aware of this, yes?” Blankness from me. “One million deaths? Another million had to leave? We’re down by a quarter of our population? And nothing of this is familiar to you?”
They might have mentioned something about it at Eton but I was young and hadn’t much cared at the time. Under the circumstances, I thought best to say nothing and to simply allow the major to continue.
“Colonel Fitzgibbon,” and he spoke the name with reverence, “as with the rest of us, lost many members of his family. And you, Captain Strapper, made light of it.”
I wasn’t quite sure at this stage what to make of it all. How could I be blamed for a simple ignorance? Surely he wouldn’t hold it against me forever? Surely? Surely?
“But don’t you worry, because from what I hear about the colonel, he’s a fair man, a good man and above all a brave man, whom we should all attempt to emulate.”
There it was again and my belly sounded the alarm. And it was saying something when even the fat major, who I’d earlier put down as a man too soft to last, was beginning to sound just as psychotic as Fitzgibbon himself.
“I’m sorry, Major, what’s your name?”
“Major Murphy.” And he held out a damp plump hand which, out of decency, I had to clasp, whilst making a mental note to avoid him at all costs.
“Tell me, Major…Colonel Fitzgibbon,” and I pointed to my breast, “he has a VC?”
The chubby faced bespectacled Murphy glanced up to the heavens. “Indeed…won the iron at the Charge of the Light Brigade, although he was a mere captain at the time, just like you, Strapper…so there’s hope for us all. Lost half the regiment and nearly all the officers, so naturally, he got bumped to colonel. Took shrapnel to the leg too…never even came off his horse…killed several Ruskies with his sword whilst half bleeding to death, rescued a brigadier-general…returned to the British lines and refused medical attention until all his men had been treated first…by that time his old peg needed removing…hacked it off without sound nor complaint.” And now his eyes were watering with admiration. “That is our colonel and we should all be proud to serve under him.”
I glanced around the table, to each whiskered face captivated by Murphy’s Paddy eloquence and if I hadn’t known it before, I knew it now, that I’d genuinely arrived at Bedlam and had real reason to fear for my wellbeing. At least I could be thankful there was no war on and that, thank God, was something to cling to.
He pulled his chair closer. “Captain, I can see it in your face…you feel upset about having caused such grievous offence. But if the colonel admires anything, it’s bravery…and you Jack…if I may call you Jack? You Jack, merely by your being here, with us, at this terrible time, have already demonstrated such bravery as the rest of us mere mortals at this table can only hope to m
odel ourselves upon.”
This was the second strange reference to my supposed bravery in only the short time I’d been amongst these strange people and subconsciously, I began scanning the table for some kind of drug they’d all been taking.
I was almost too afraid to ask. “I’m sorry, bravery?”
He clasped his hands together and again looked up to the heavens. “Oh, Jack…and I see you’re modest too. Did you hear that boys? Our English friend thinks nothing of travelling to Ireland to help us in our most dire hour of need. And as I look about the room, I see no other English, or anyone who ain’t Irish, even. Only you, Jack.”
It looked like he’d forgiven my earlier insensitivity, and although I had not the slightest idea as to what he was babbling about, my eyes, seemingly of their own accord, began scouring the room for the nearest exit.
“And yes, although you may have deeply offended the colonel, I’m sure if ever there was a man who could see his way to overlooking your indiscretion, then it’s he. After all, one must make special considerations for our brave English friend.”
I could see it in all their bright and glossy eyes, gazing at me as though Fitzgibbon weren’t the only VC around here and not knowing what in all of Ireland Murphy was even talking about and becoming more alarmed by the second, I had no choice but to seek clarification or else go insane. “Brave? How hard can it be to recruit local likely lads for the regiment?”
The room flared into laughter, two or three slapped the table and spilt ale over their tankards while Murphy patted me on the back with a clammy paw.
“You hear that boys? And he has a sense of humour to boot. A sense of humour fit for an honorary Irishman. You’ll fit in here just great, Jack.” He leaned back and raised his glass. “Recruiting, says he. Why, half the young men have left for the Americas and who could blame them? But, of course, you already knew all this, which is why you’re risking your life to help a neighbour in the first place.” The drunk placed his arm around me, pulling me close. “When we few remained behind to fight, our countrymen ran the other way, but you Jack, you were the only one who sailed against the flow, against the tide, who came to Ireland to fight. You truly are a stout fellow.”
Zombie Revolution Page 47
