But that wasn’t good enough because here I was, so I had to know, if for no other reason than to have an idea of what to expect come the conclusion of this journey north. So I considered the most likely candidates.
Clayton had taken a fall for me and I’d not bothered paying him a visit in the months since. But no, he’d owed me that and was far too much a wet blanket to orchestrate my abduction. Most of all he lacked the capability to carry off something like this.
What about Colonel Fitzgibbon? He’d never liked me and I’d humiliated him and undermined his position, not to mention the small matter of losing the colours and the subsequent disbandment of his beloved 8th, both of which no doubt he suspected I had something to do with. But a kidnapping? He had cause, alright, and the capability but no, it just wasn’t his style. The man was too decent for a thing like this, especially when he could simply call me out for a dawn meeting in a field somewhere outside the city boundaries.
Which left only one person. One person who possessed money, was connected, had motive and was quite possibly angry enough to go through with it - Prince Albert.
I’d humiliated the man and taken his betrothed and even if he weren’t minded to see me off himself, there’d surely be those within the House of Hanover who would be. And it wasn’t merely our own monarchy who had reason to hold a grudge against me, but surely those of several German states also, given I’d singlehandedly prevented their princess from marrying our prince. It would be convenient for some that I should disappear and, being who I was now, having moved up in the world, I was good enough to be in the sights of royalty, quite. For all I knew it was Herr Brunch, the fat Kraut himself who sat mere feet from me, through the cabin walls and was downing the dead by the dozen for sport. He’d even boasted about his shooting prowess. But then I’d gone straight from our last angry exchange to The White House from where I was taken. Would it have been possible for him to organise an abduction so quickly? Perhaps - German efficiency and organisation - It had to be the porker.
We came off the Great North Road before the River Tyne, angling north and west along another Roman road that went arrow straight through the Middle Marches, reaver territory of yore. I grew up on tales of Scotch and English peasants riding into the rival countryside to steal sheep, hens, pigs or anything else that wasn’t tied down. If there was one area of the country that was best placed to deal with zombies, it was the middle border regions of the two nations. Looking out for one’s own was in their blood and they were born into a mind of suspicion of the outsider. In addition, the terrain was sparsely populated, hilly, wide and open and although large forests loomed over much of the landscape, it didn’t present me with the same kind of fear I’d instinctively felt in Ireland. The villages would see any group of zombies long before they made it close enough to pose a threat and, as long as they were small of number, by which time, I fancied, my northern English brethren would be ready to take them down. Indeed, it was like the dead knew this themselves, even if instinctually, and the only zombies I saw in these parts were deep into Northumberland where the road ran parallel to the River Reed. There were dozens of them flapping about waist deep in water, their skin sagging off bony frames like they’d spent too long in the tub. They howled and thrashed and moaned but for whatever reason wouldn’t, or couldn’t, move. A group of kids on the far bank took glee from throwing stones, aiming for the heads, scoring points, as adults watched on, rifles at the ready should they be required, which they weren’t. It would have been a perfect place to make camp, for no other reason than I’d feel safe, but we’d only been travelling four hours this day and weren’t far from the Scotch border.
Hadrian’s Wall was now far to the south, which we passed without heed nor notice, most of the stone having been pillaged over the last thousand years to build barns and shacks for the farmers and now the modern day border was marked not by the greatest wall ever constructed but by a toothless villager lounging against a tree, flogging gimcrack and other such useless rubbish from a cart. We careened past and then we were in Scotland, as though I had any doubt that was where we were heading. Then the rifle reported but I saw no zombie lying dead at the roadside.
The Southern Marches of Scotland were much like their northern English counterparts and the road continued to cut through toward Edinburgh almost in a straight north by northwesterly line. But this was where it got interesting.
Just like their English reaver cousins, the Scots too had bolstered their villages, having chopped down the trees within the vicinity to take away the dead’s cover, to be used instead for walls or traps to protect themselves. Small or large gatherings on the roadside watched as we rattled through village after village, daring not stop lest they take what they wanted from the boxes and crates on the roof. Eventually, we had to stop, so the horses could rest, forage and water.
I was permitted, accompanied of course, to take a piss with the McGurns around the side of a barn, the boss and his halfwit evidently having sojourned to the local alehouse for sustenance and booze. It was now that I saw just how lawless Scotland had become.
The locals fought amongst themselves in the street - And that was just the women. They wore strange red and green checked skirts - And that was just the men.
I’d heard the highland regiments wore such garb but to see it was something quite unexpected, their blue legs pale from exposure.
To witness drunkenness on an Irish scale was nothing after seeing Scotland and it seemed like every man, woman and child was in a state of whisky induced intoxication. And where the Irish were small, on account of a famine or two, the Scots were tall and strong in comparison to their Celtic brothers across the sea. They had height on the English even and we were no short breed. It was no wonder Britannia conquered much of the world with men like these making up a large part of the army and I hoped they’d prove useful in fending off our new threat, and that the new threat did not consist of too many former Scots.
To be asked politely about our travels was to feel unduly threatened, such was the natural aggression to their faces and accents, hard as they were to understand anyway, even as they stood in your space with toes touching yours. Aye, if I’d struggled to understand the Mick tongue, I’d be in for a shock here with the added drunkenness rolling their r’s yet further.
I was dragged back to the carriage, where an urchin or four lined the roadside waiting for the boss to return, doubtless to ask for a toll payable in gold or our lives but the McGurns thrashed them with whips and they ran scattering into the nearby huts.
As we continued northbound, I saw the Scots had succeeded where the Irish had failed, which might ultimately prove to save them. The smaller settlements had been abandoned, especially the further north we travelled away from the Marches and it was soon clear they’d moved into the larger villages or towns where they could expect to maintain a better resistance. It made sense and we soon learned the cities of Edinburgh, Stirling and St Andrews with their ancient walls had especially received large intakes of people. I brimmed in the hope we were travelling to one of these safer places, my experiences of Londonderry with its impenetrable fortifications reminding me how the dead knew not to bother, at least not whilst easier pickings existed.
This hopeful expectation proved premature because even in the twilight, as we entered Edinburgh, I could see the walls surrounded the castle only, which sat snugly atop a large rock in the centre of the Old Town. The eleven hundred year old castle had made itself visible from many miles out and I longed for it, to be there for two reasons. First, even a lightly armed garrison of Frenchmen could hope to hold out into perpetuity, it was that formidable with its cliffs and steep slope and impossibly high walls and draw bridge and gun batteries and experience of no fewer than twenty six sieges through its history. Second, I knew it to be the home of several infantry regiments, which not only meant extra safety, but more importantly for me right now, officialdom. God save the Queen indeed and Britannia too, with our ways of doing things proper,
by the bloody book, what, habeas corpus and all that and woe betide any man who kidnaps another without good reason, because Britannia will come down on you hard, bigad, and at first opportunity I fully intended on running screaming toward the first burly sergeant I could find, and cared not for what anybody thought.
Most appallingly, we angled west, away from that great stronghold with all its promise and toward some place else, far to the south of the city, as my bowels reminded me of their existence.
I frantically searched for the old city walls, or lack thereof, finding its pilfered stone only in newer structures, most notably the stinking tenements which housed the majority of Edinburgh’s poor and other such delinquents. It was a poor trade off, if anyone were to ask me, which they wouldn’t. Worse still - We now trudged through those slums and tenements, having had to slow to a silly pace lest we plough through the raggedy kids who accosted us from all sides, banging on the doors, their scrawny mitts opened and begging for handouts. I was all in favour of trampling over them myself, which would be doing them a kind turn knowing they were all dead anyway and it was because of these misfits that the dead would eventually emerge en masse - Easy pickings you see, and that would place old Strappy in even more danger, and we couldn’t have that.
The tenement housing, of which Edinburgh largely comprised; cramped, filthy and disgusting, three, four, even five levels high, each crammed with families sharing small spaces would prove irresistible for the dead - It was just a matter of time. Why, oh why were we here?
And with everything else there was the sense of nearing, of the impending, that the journey was ending and that we’d soon enter a place that would torment me greatly. It was my cowardly nature for sure, honed and practiced, telling me I’d better run for the hills with a rifle and a good pair of boots.
And then we clattered into our destination, a sign on a post stating ‘Redford Barracks, Home of the Royal Scots Greys.’
The large and imposing building in the courtyard’s centre dwarfed the homes of the 8th and 11th combined, but it was to the barrack defences where my cowardly eyes automatically roamed. They were made up of smaller out buildings, latrines, stores, stables and such, each connected by brick walls at least seven feet high which meant we were enclosed - Adequate perhaps, but not nearly enough for me. And such was my funk that I missed the most obvious detail that stood out above all else. In fact, this detail astounded me because it could well change everything.
Lined up either side along the approach were the cavalry, at a guess over two hundred, perhaps two hundred and fifty, each horse grey as a London weekend, saluting our arrival with blades touching shako visors. The colours flew proudly in the chilly Scotch breeze, held by a brace of burly kilted ruffians in bearskin hats that added an extra two feet to their already large forms.
I inhaled my first breath of hope since this whole nasty business began - Officialdom and all it entailed would deliver me. Or perhaps this whole display was all for me? The famous Captain Jack Strapper, the nation’s hero. Did they really love me in the land of the Jock as much as they did in England, the land of civilisation? Well why not? We were all Britannia.
I couldn’t help but grin at my two guards, for they were about to be taught a lesson in who they should and shouldn’t detain against their will. I readjusted myself against the seat and fixed my gaze out the window as we ground to a stop and at least one of our horses neighed, happy to be arriving home. Best of all, Herr Brunch or whoever sat out front would be arrested and detained at one word from me - Everything would be alright from now on.
There was the landing of boots on cobbles, the cavalrymen extended their blades to make an arch for me to walk beneath, footsteps clipped near the cabin door and then a big ginger head appeared through the glass.
I jumped back hitting my head and the McGurns laughed. “What the devil?”
Dolan opened the door, his mutton chop burners coarse like moss in an unkempt yard. “Bring him out.” He said, pulling down the steps.
I blinked over and over.
How?
Not only was it Dolan who’d shanghaied me four hundred miles north, but he wore the grey breeches and red tunic of the regiment to which I now found myself.
Worse still - On his gorget patch was emblazoned the image of a French eagle, of which the Greys had taken at Waterloo…
…and below that was stitched the one word…
…Colonel.
Pigeon Post
He couldn’t wait and I was hauled by the neck straight into his office that more resembled a pigeon coop than the perch of the regiment’s apparent commanding officer.
The room was incessant with the never ending twittering of several hundred of the filthy vermin, all kept in cages arranged around the walls with more than a few flying freely about the room or strutting across the flags like they owned the place, perhaps after having flown in through the opened window. A solitary desk and chair were positioned in the room’s centre, almost as an afterthought. Oh but the smell - And for the man to spend his time here - The genuine lunatic.
And to watch his smug expression was to wonder how he’d managed to conceal himself for so long, he was absolutely bursting and slapped a hand against the table as he bounced into the chair, kicking off his boots and planting his heels on the desk as he leaned back. He removed his shako, exposing more of that ridiculous face before tossing it beside his feet.
“Chain him to the rail and leave us…can’t take any chances with this one.” He told the McGurns and then the filthy birds chirped to life as my sinuses were even more offended by their proximity.
The brothers left, closing the door and for the first time I was left alone with the boss.
I was still too disturbed to speak, with so many questions and potential implications galloping through my mind.
He placed his hands behind his ginger head and beamed my way. “Surprised?” He examined his fist and blew his knuckles, still gashed red after colliding multiple times with my chin. “Never had such fun in all my life, I can tell you.” Oddly, he’d lost his Paddy accent and now sounded not much unlike myself with a home counties dialect, though not quite as refined and upstanding. It was all an act of course, but to be taken seriously as colonel, of all things, especially considering his age and facial features, he needed to sound the part and being Irish was no help at all.
“You fiend!” I spat. “Was the welcoming method really necessary?”
He grinned and gave a small nod. “Of course…bloody good fun, no? Besides, I wanted to experience your bravery for myself.”
I tried to ignore the pain in my jaw. “Well, now you’ve experienced it, I demand that you take me back to London this minute.” How I longed right now for that rat infested rubbish pile with its tramps and beggars and pickpockets and gypsies.
“Oh no, Strappy, we won’t be doing that.” He left it there, leaving me guessing as to his plans but for now it was as though he simply enjoyed seeing me before him, chained to a cage rail, helpless and under his control. “It was never a risk purchasing that brothel, was it? I always knew you’d return and so you did. And now look where you are.” He shook his head and tutted.
All I could do was make an over exaggerated shrugging of my shoulders, extending out my palms as I did. “But how? You’re a poor man, remember?” I shook my head. “The White House? A lieutenant colonelcy? These things don’t come cheap.”
“Well, evidently Strappy, I’m a poor man no longer.” He laughed and crossed one foot over the other. “And to think the lieutenant colonelcy was all your idea.” He opened a drawer from within his desk, delved his hand inside and pulled out a fistful of seeds, throwing it toward the nearest cage. The birds chirped with insanity.
But colonel of one of the great regiments of Britannia? If it weren’t for the welcome party and the very word stitched upon his arm I wouldn’t have believed it, and who would blame me? I’d seen him fight and yes, he could certainly handle a blade and could ride well too but w
as he really made out for colonel? One only need take a single look at the man’s appearance for that alone was enough to know he shouldn’t be taken seriously. For one, his hair was ginger and the red sweeping brushes planted over his cheeks were hard to take your eyes off. But it was the twitching that set him apart, or at least it had been, because thus far he’d not once twitched, that I’d noticed, and I wondered how he’d managed to keep that under control. A twitcher was a twitcher and since when was one ever held in high esteem? How could a regiment of men and horse be expected to follow into battle a man with such an affliction? The very notion was absurd and I knew he must be under great strain to keep a straight face. His head was rectangular, flat on top with a square jaw at its base. He had tiny green eyes below thick red brows - All taken together quite comical. His build was lean and strong enough but nothing exceptional when placed within a cavalry regiment. Why would anyone look up to him when surely there were others better qualified to lead?
The answer to that was simple. The best systems were always those where the rich could purchase their way up at the expense of the gifted and hard working and in Britannia’s army, commissions could be bought all the way up to the lofty level of lieutenant colonel. I owed my own present unwanted position of captain to that very system and it would seem the same had now dealt me another foul blow. The difference was the most a cavalry captain could hope to command was a mere hundred men, but most often it was far fewer than that. Colonels were the figureheads of battalions numbering in the many hundreds. They needed to be respectable and respected. Dolan, from what I knew of the man, was neither and never would be, on account of his appearance alone, oh, and the fact he was a poor man, supposedly. And if there was one thing I knew for sure, it was that poor men ought never be trusted. They all wanted what the rich had, and would stop at nothing to thieve it from you.
Not Dead Yet: A Zombie Apocalypse Series - Books 1 - 2 Page 26