“I freed my pistol from within my jacket, and had its square, Irish head in my sights when, with a leap, it landed on the nearest bystander and scurried up inside his nightshirt. It was one of those foul drunkards whom I had seen earlier, an elderly man whose body bore the ravages of premature aging brought on by drink. Now this poor unfortunate had a randy Leprechaun beneath his clothing, trying with all its might to sodomise him. I struck at the vulgar creature through the wastrel's nightdress, and managed to drive it out, but not before rendering its victim unconscious. The tiny, evil sodomite leapt at the other members of the impromptu audience and they ran about in circles, screaming. Several times I fired my pistol at it, and lashed out with my stick, until in the confusion I managed to catch hold of the filthy beast's ankle with one hand.
“Triumphantly I lifted it into the air, carefully keeping it far from my face. It twisted itself upwards and gnawed at my hand with its needle-sharp teeth, sending daggers of agony shooting up my arm. But I had steeled myself for this, and I called out to Mrs. O’Hanlon:
‘Stoke a fire in the kitchen hearth, old hag. Hurry! Stoke it bright and hot.’
She stumbled ahead of me as I raced through the black hallways. I leapt over the bodies of dissolute alcoholics passed out with fear, and I pushed past staggering half-wits whose terror had reduced them to drooling idiots. All the while, the Leprechaun snapped and bit at my hand, tearing my flesh to bloody shreds.
“I arrived in the kitchen to find the fire barely smoldering and Mrs. O’Hanlon struggling to open a bottle of cheap whiskey. Knocking her to the floor I wrested the whiskey bottle from her and threw it into the hearth where it exploded into roaring flames. The hearth was now crackling as merrily as the gates of hell, and the degenerate faerie struggled mightily as it perceived my plan.
‘Arh, me boy. Don’t yew wan’ ta fine me pot o’gold? Aye can promise ye treasures th’ laiks of which ye’ve never seen! Ye’ve caught a leprechaun, m’boyo, an’ ye’ve airned yerself a booty. Let me go, an’ claim yer due.’
“But a lifetime of reading and intellectual cultivation has made me a cruel man, and so I tossed him into the blaze. The Leprechaun staggered across the hot, whiskey-soaked coals, consumed by flames, beating its arms helplessly at its burning body. Some of the heartier tenants were peeking around the doorframe by now, and Mrs. O’Hanlon was bestirring herself as the smell of scorched corned beef filled the room. All eyes were drawn to the blazing hearth and the stumbling shape within.
“Suddenly, with a savage scream, the blazing Leprechaun launched itself at my throat. It sailed out of the hearth, its flaming arms outstretched, its eyes burning red in the middle of its blackened face, a hateful cry upon its scorched lips. The crowd stumbled backwards in horror and Mrs. O’Hanlon fell to the floor and covered her face. I calmly drew my pistol and with one shot I neatly decapitated the vile thing. Its headless body fell to the floor, while its shaggy head sailed backwards into the fire, where it crackled and popped for some time.
“Sensing that the drama had passed and that shortly I would be petitioned to part with more money and listen to the further ramblings of degenerates, I left that vulgar house and made for fresh air and safety. But as I clopped down the wooden front steps of Weeping House onto the muddy track of Little Water Street a sudden consideration brought me to a halt.
“Was not the Irish problem really a Leprechaun problem? These foreigners seemed to have brought their own supernatural oppressors with them to our great country and now they were paying the price. I thought of savage, yet fair, Mrs. O’Hanlon. Of brave, lewd Kathy. Of the horrible Leprechaun that had turned this house into a den of wanton buggery. Acting on a sudden surge of sentiment I brought out a box of matches from my waistcoat and burned Weeping House down. It caught quickly and its flimsy framework went up like a torch. I watched it burn for some time, bemoaning the fate of the poor Irish who came to our shores so full of hopes and dreams only to have them dashed by Leprechauns, and then I returned to my apartments uptown where Charles prepared for me a wonderful meal in the French style and I had a hot bath with plenty of carbolic soap.
“But there is one thing that haunts me still. Before I left Little Water Street I saw their eyes. Hundreds and hundreds of them, staring out at me from chinks and crannies, through broken windows, from under mountains of dung: Leprechaun eyes, blazing with hatred. I saw them and counted their number, and my blood froze in my veins. They are a blight, and one day they shall overrun us all. They shall tear down our churches, our art galleries, and our great halls of government and make of them a muddy swamp of moral degeneracy. They shall usurp democracy, and decency, and goodness, and make us all nothing more than human cows which they shall milk for food. They are our reckoning. They are the wages of sin. They are our doom.”
Mortimer's tale was finished and we sat in stunned silence until the clubroom clock struck twelve and roused us from our grim contemplation. One by one we took leave of our host.
I was the last to go, and on the front stairs of 44 White Street I took Mortimer's elbow and had a confidential word in his ear.
“Look here, Augustus, if there's a fund for the extermination of these tiny monsters I am good for a substantial contribution. But it must be for their complete and total eradication. Nothing less.”
“No, William,” Augustus said with a rueful smile. “There are too many of them. It is too late for extermination now. We must put our faith solely in God. And in these.”
And he drew back his waistcoat and showed me two pistols tucked into his trousers.
We said our farewells and I walked out onto the cold city streets. New York was silent, and my thoughts were troubled. A stiff wind was picking up from the east. I could not believe that the Lord had abandoned us to this Irish blight. He would hear our prayers. He would deliver us from evil. Turning my steps homeward I resolved that, come morning, I would go to church and light a candle and offer up a fervent prayer for the salvation of our souls — after I had purchased a pair of pistols.
The Corpse Army of Khartoum
It had been some time since last we were called to a meeting of the White Street Society and all of us yearned to quench the thirst for strange adventure these meetings had fostered in our souls. That is why the three of us — Drake, Lewis and myself — finally abandoned formality and stopped by the clubhouse uninvited, fully expecting Augustus to be absent, overseas perhaps, investigating some mysterious mystery. Instead, we stood frozen in surprise and dripping with February rain in the doorway of the clubroom, as we watched our old friend sitting by the fire and reading the ‘papers, as cool as an oyster.
“Augustus,” cried Drake. “What are you doing here?”
“And where’s Charles?,” asked Lewis, as an unfamiliar manservant helped him off with his overcoat.
“Good evening,” Augustus Mortimer said. “Brandy?”
“I say, Mortimer,” Drake chided. “That’s an awfully cool reception. We’ve heard neither hide nor hair from you for months so we come dashing over here, expecting the worst, and instead find you surrounded by unfamiliar servants, acting as if nothing is amiss. If you let Charles go then there had better be an explanation.”
“Calm yourself, Drake,” Augustus said. “Charles is still in my employ, but he attends to other duties now. Why don’t you sit and have a brandy. According to the papers, the weather outside is positively foul.”
Soaking wet, we sat and this new valet poured us each a brandy as Augustus turned his attention back to the newspapers, occasionally circling an item that caught his interest. For some time there was no sound save the ticking of the clock and the occasional pop from the hearth.
“So,” Lewis said.
“So,” I said.
“Mm?“ Augustus replied, conclusively ending the matter.
The silence dragged on.
Finally, Drake could stand it no longer and he leapt to his feet.
“Now look here, Augustus,” he said. “Your brandy is finer tha
n usual, and the quality of your cigars has greatly improved since our last visit. And I admit that your new man seems adequate, but I came for conversation and if you have none to offer then I shall go out and pay for it.”
“I forget that the silence seems inhospitable to you,” Augustus said. “For I have been in Egypt these past months and the clamor there is quite overwhelming.”
“Egypt,” Drake said sitting back down. “That’s more like it. How did you find it?“
“Most Egyptian,” Augustus said.
“Egypt,” Lewis breathed, his eyes shining. “What wonders did you encounter in that land of mystery and antiquity?“
“Not one,” Augustus said. “The food is oily, as are the people. Cairo is like a second rate Philadelphia, only more crowded, and outside of the city the country contains not a single site of any interest.”
“The great pyramids of Giza?” Lewis asked.
“Derelict wrecks.”
“The Sphinx?”
“Covered in guano and with grotesque proportions. A child could sculpt better.”
“The Nile?”
“An open sewer. No, Egypt was entirely devoid of interest,” Augustus said. Then he called his man over, handed him the folded newspaper and gave him whispered instructions. The man slipped from the room on padded feet.
“Then if you’re finished dashing Lewis’s dreams,” Drake declared, “I am going to find more interesting company.”
“As you wish, Drake,” Augustus said. “But you haven’t yet asked me about the Sudan.”
“You went to the Sudan?” Lewis asked. “Was it dreary and awful, too?”
“On the contrary,” Augustus said. “For it was in the Sudan that I encountered a gruesome adventure that has changed my life forever.”
Drake sat back down.
“Caught your interest, have I?” Augustus asked. “Well, stoke the fire and pass around the cigars. While we wait for the rain to pass, I shall tell you of...
THE CORPSE ARMY OF KHARTOUM
“Cairo is a filthy place,” Augustus began. “A wealthy and decadent puppet state with the hand of Lord Salisbury shoved up its backside. The British have blackmailed Khedive Tawfik to keep the Suez Canal open for their goods, forcing this dusky devil to sing ‘God Save the Queen’ in order to keep pounds sterling clanking into his coffers. The Suez Company owns and operates Egypt with a blessing from Queen Victoria herself.
“My older sister, who was something of an adventurer in her earlier years, had the misfortune to marry a Scotsman enrolled in service to the Queen and this ruddy-cheeked blowhard recently relocated their household to Cairo. Before my sister could complain he had filled her to overflowing with babies. I’d been thinking of visiting them in order to discuss some family matters.”
“You needed to borrow money!” Drake cried.
“Well, not just that,” Augustus said.
“You could have asked me for a loan,” Lewis chimed in. “No need to go all the way to Cairo.”
“The main purpose of my journey was to visit my sister’s children,” Augustus snapped.
“How many does she have?” Drake asked.
“Some,” Augustus replied.
“How many is some?”
“Between five and thirteen,” Augustus replied. “The number of children is irrelevant.”
“Not to your sister,” Lewis observed.
“I admit, there was more to my visit than conducting a census of my sister’s brood. My brother-in-law is a financially cautious man and his bank accounts merely sit and gather dust. I thought perhaps I could interest him in some investments. For my sister’s sake.
“And so I traveled to Cairo. My sister was overjoyed at my arrival, and her...many children felt similarly. My brother-in-law was in Luxor and so business matters would have to wait until his return three days later. It took one day to exhaust all that Cairo had to offer and I spent the remaining two in a state of tedium approaching insanity.
“At sunset on the third day I was at the Sheepheard Hotel medicating myself with a whiskey and soda. On the hotel porch hawkers stage fights between trained babies and baboons and I had just lost a considerable sum when my brother-in-law materialized. Imagine a sunburned hippopotamus sporting a great, white beard and wearing a kilt and you have him, a man whose idiocy approaches genius.
‘Douglas,’ I cried, grasping his hand.
‘Shenaurlly,’ he moaned in his incomprehensible brogue. ‘Groustaur. Emborgay.’
“So I ordered him a whiskey and soda. After drinking two more, he reverted to something approaching the King’s English.
‘Yer a cheeky divil,’ he muttered. “Come ‘ere tuh touch me fer a loan.’
‘Now look here,’ I warned him. ‘I’m merely volunteering to guide you in some investments of which I’ve only recently become aware. All your money will return to you, minus a small fee for handling the matter. You’ll find it’s quite in line what any bank would charge you.’
‘Yer nut enny benk, arrh ye?’ he mumbled, while having the gall to order yet another whiskey and soda on my tab. ‘Yer me good gal’s reprobate brother who cahn’t hold a job to save ‘is life an’ hew spinds all ‘is time mucking aboot wi’ spiritualism.’
“My astonishment that he knew a long word like ‘reprobate’ almost kept me from becoming offended that he had characterized my scientific work as if it were the mere twaddlings of some Seance Cindy going to hear the ramblings of dear, dead Uncle Cedric on a rainy Sunday afternoon.
‘Yeh think ye’ come ovar ‘ere tuh pinch summa me cash? Then think agin, boyo. I’m skint! Haven’t had the nerve tuh tell yer sister, but ah cun’t even pay fer these whiskies. Until muh next paycheck I donna have nothin’ in my pocket worth spindin’ sew beg all ye lahk. Ye’ll get naught!’
“And with that, this vile relation heaved himself upright and stumbled off into the dusty, sunset city.
“I sat in a stupor for a moment, feeling the cool touch of despair. It’s a terrible thing to need money when you’re halfway around the world in a filthy foreign city like Cairo. I had bought a one-way ticket, you see, trusting in the investment opportunities I was offering my brother-in-law to see me home. I was on the verge of utter desolation, so perhaps that explains why I screamed when I felt a touch upon my arm.
‘My apologies, sir,’ said a dapper fellow. ‘I heard a bit of that conversation with Red Harry and I wanted to let you know that we’ve taken up a collection in your honor and would like to buy you a drink.’
“It was the first decent thing I’d heard in days, and so I joined the party of this silky, well-dressed gentleman and his glittering young friends. They were like visitors from another world. How on earth did they keep themselves so clean in Cairo? After a few hour’s conversation I understood that they had come to Egypt to make their fortunes but once here they had no idea what to do next. They were young and idealistic, full of God and Empire and eventually I found myself so intoxicated by their company that I went to the bar to buy another round with money I did not have.
‘Excuse me,’ I said to a grizzled, sunburnt man with no arms or legs perched on a stool and lapping whiskey from a saucer. He began to weep.
‘There, there,’ I said to the sobbing stump. ‘It’s not that bad.’
I wanted the bartender to hurry over so I could distance myself from this mockery of a man making a spectacle of himself, especially as he was now leaning against my side and sobbing.
‘It is that bad, sir,’ he said. ‘I served with Chinese Gordon and lost everything in Khartoum. My mates. My fortune. My arms and legs.’
‘They’ll grow back,’ I said.
‘They will?’ he asked, through his tears.
‘Of course they will. I’m a doctor. You just have to give them time and... and drink more whiskey.’
‘I loved Chinese Gordon,’ he moaned. ‘He was God’s General. God’s General here on Earth, but the woolies hate God, don’t they?’
“Some people will nev
er be happy. I had just told this grotesque fellow that his arms and legs would grow back and he had the gall to whine on about some romantic attachment to his military superior, who was Chinese Gordon of all people.
“I had, generally, a low opinion of Chinese Gordon at the time, the abolitionist British general sent to the Sudan to wipe human trafficking from the map. But the British were never quite comfortable with their religious visionaries and so when, against all human reason, Gordon’s mad crusade seemed to be bearing fruit they abandoned him in Khartoum while the Ansar laid siege for almost a year before taking the city and chopping off his head. The beheading of Chinese Gordon marked the expulsion of the white man from the Sudan and the beginning of that land’s long descent into a nightmare of unreason and superstition ushered in by the Mahdi and the Ansar, his fanatical Musselman army.
“But then this alcoholic amputee began to tell me a different story and gradually my impatience faded. I shan’t bore you with the details but suffice it to say that when he finally stopped talking I was convinced that not only had this man lost his limbs in a manner involving iron hooks and crocodile fishing, and that not only were the Ansar cruel beyond all human understanding, but also that through some quirk of the paranormal, Chinese Gordon’s decapitated head was still alive and supposedly possessed of oracular powers.
“Perhaps my trip to Egypt was not a waste after all. What a discovery: the living head of the world’s most notorious abolitionist, able to peer into the future? It was a must-have item.
“But how to equip an expedition five hundred miles up the Nile to Khartoum? How to fight the thousands of Allah-mad Ansar who would butcher us as soon as we landed? How to make my way into the heart of these Musselman fortifications and steal this mystical relic without losing any or all of my limbs?
“At that moment I heard ‘O Send Them To Golgotha,’ that week’s chosen song of the abolitionist movement, rising up like some repellant dirge in the lounge. I winced in embarrassment as I realized it came from the young gentlemen I had recently befriended, and then my shame turned to elation as I looked at their expensive clothes, listened to their abolitionist moanings, and observed their irrepressible high spirits. I ordered pink gins all around and explained to them my unique proposition.
Dead Leprechauns & Devil Cats Page 3