Dolan, Skinner and a bunch of other officers were all scowling at me for holding up the attack.
“Excuse me, let me take position.” I conceded and, unable to twist my horse around to face the enemy within the tight confines of the front rank without causing a scene, I manoeuvred backwards and stepped out toward the right flank, risking a reprimand as I did. But it never came and in the moment, as the horse walked across the front rank and I couldn’t feel my arms and the men were a haze in my vision, I wondered if they just wanted me out of their sight. And then I was positioned on the outside, the nearest horseman to the same river in which I’d feigned apprehension.
“Enjoy it, Captain, it’s likely to be the only good we’ll do under this colonel.” It was Major Muir who was beside me but I could say nothing in gratitude or even acknowledgement. “Your sword, Captain.”
“Huh? Oh, thanks.” I drew the blade, feeling the scrape of metal within its scabbard, hearing that unfamiliar jangle of steel on steel, the heavy weight of the unused ornament numb in my hand and then I vomited my morning oats into the mud at my horse’s feet. Truth was the blade felt most foreign and now was the devil of a time for us to become acquainted.
“Advance at a steady trot,” shouted Dolan, “watch me for the gallop.”
I even pondered the idea of staying in position, to plead an unresponsive horse, for sure it wouldn’t be the first time in military history a cavalryman’s mount had refused the instruction to advance. But there was none of that because as soon as the nine large grey beasts to my left began the advance, my horse, completely of its own accord, went with them.
And then I was moving.
The clipping of eight hundred hooves against cold ground - That was the major sensation as the target to the fore enlarged by the second. The river, just off my periphery raged westwards. Could I abandon horse and jump for the water, or perhaps steer her straight in? No, too dangerous and that I’d rather take my chances with this silly charge was testament to that. Two more zombies had broken away to add to the others, the leaders of which made slow progress over no man’s land and would be struck before we began the gallop. Even at this range the smell of dead was thick and that it overpowered that from two hundred chargers was saying something. Then came the order.
“Keep tight as possible…Chaaaaaaarrrgggeeeee!” Dolan swept his blade down across the neck of the leading zombie, I didn’t see the outcome, nor the horses behind that must have ran through it like a wall falling upon a child.
My horse kept pace with the others, at a gallop now, the sudden acceleration causing me to lean back, the heavy thuds of hooves thumping the earth, jolting through my body, my brain vibrating within its skull, the shouts of men, heavy panting of animals of war. I gripped the reigns with a rare force, squeezing my legs against my steed’s flanks, for taking a tumble and hitting the ground before those behind was certain death. I glanced to my left for as long as I dared, to the mad officers in the front rank, to their sabres pointed aloft, demented looks in each eye.
Another zombie disappeared within the throng, a third collided with Skinner’s mount to be pitched backwards like a perambulator left on a track before a surging locomotive, to be lost, obliterated in the mass of charging Greys.
That wedge of evil neared with alarming speed as the ground kicked up in huge muddy chunks, the roar of thunder enveloping my whole world. I was in a greater state of terror than at any other time in my life but as I’ve always thought, a coward’s mind acts differently to most, and my own moves in more incredible ways still, always thinking three, four or five steps ahead for self-preservation. But I’m here to tell you that one would be surprised at how easily one can avoid the melee in a cavalry charge if one is minded such.
And in that crucial moment, just before the front rank of horse were to slam home, or not, my wayward thoughts were of the Light Brigade and their famous Charge at Balaclava, of how those few bravest at the front were surest of all to die and those behind, more likely to survive. All one need do is find the biggest chap on the largest horse and sit snugly behind as the fire comes your way and should he happen to be unhorsed, find a replacement, even as you hurtle toward the enemy at an unstoppable pace, because your life may depend upon it. Even here, it was easy to reduce speed to allow a more eager fanatic to pull ahead, especially as the good tight order became more scattered with every step. And seconds before impact, the very moment when each horseman is concentrating hardest on remaining upright, is the very best time to veer right and avoid the target altogether. By this time you’re far from the only cavalryman sweeping around anyway, because horses, of their own volition, will never charge straight into what they perceive an immovable object. And when it comes to turning around for close combat, to have another pop at the enemy, the fracas is usually too thick and too confusing with overly keen lunatics slashing sabres to care that you’re hanging around the edges, and nobody’s watching you because they’re all too interested in their own bloodlust. And should a zombie happen slowly my way, I was already moving to avoid it and it was never long before some big fellow on horseback would cut it down anyway.
All I need do was stick my sabre tip into one of the already fallen; zombie, horse or Scots Grey, it made no difference, cover it in blood and guts and hope nobody noticed.
At the end everybody is patting me on the back and saying “tally ho, Strappy, bravo,” and considering me one of them, because I’ve fought alongside them and distinguished myself, what?
Even Dolan was offering his congratulations and saying what an effect I had on the men, morale and that he knew having me around would be a positive influence on everyone, just in case there were any waverers still amongst their number, which there weren’t.
Perhaps it was ironic that the battle took place only a few miles from the site of the Battle of Bannockburn and I wondered what William Wallace would make of me.
STIRLING.
And never was there a sight more handsome.
It wasn’t the river that looped and meandered to surround the city on three sides, it wasn’t the beautiful old buildings that peeped out on the vista, it certainly wasn’t the churches or the stone bridges or the surrounding hills as barren as they were beautiful and I felt very little for the soaring Wallace Monument that stood unfinished and abandoned overlooking the fields of Bannockburn. It wasn’t even the castle that sat formidable upon a hilltop, although that did make me feel warm and fuzzy inside.
No - The sight that brought a tear to my eye was the wall, every bit as tall and imposing as Londonderry, the surest insurance policy there ever was against the dead. Although the wall of Stirling wasn’t as large by comparison and only encompassed a small fraction of the city, it had already proven sufficient to persuade the dead not to bother with the place because even now they were busy shambling around it, toward Edinburgh and easier meals, where I wasn’t, and that was all that mattered in the moment. The Stirling walls were in fact attached to the great historical castle, that according to Muir had, throughout its history, withstood no fewer than eight sieges. I wiped again at my eye and inhaled the marvellous view.
The castle, within the walls - That’s where I’d exercise my officer’s privilege and endeavour to spend as long as possible whilst in Stirling.
We approached the city in close order, meandering between the smart thatched roofed houses, abandoned as they were outside the walls. Ahead and visible behind the opened city gates, a crowd had gathered and the bleating of bagpipes drifted over the remaining distance.
“A welcome party and a Scotch one, Captain. Prepare to feel loved.” Muir straightened on his horse and raised his chin.
After my ordeal on the city outskirts, of having to participate in an actual cavalry charge, like a, um, cavalryman, this was like deliverance itself, where the mundane looked beautiful, the boring fun and the horrendous, such as the squeal from the pipes, almost tolerable. It was no wonder I’d found such joy at the view from outside and I wondered if it would
be too much to hope for a wench this evening?
Dolan lead the way beneath the arch as the regiment trotted in after. He’d removed his shako and presently waved it about, soaking up the cheers as though he was Alexander the Great.
The people were filthy and had the look of malnourishment, but whatever hardships they’d endured did not prevent them smiling and laughing and cheering and weeping as we strolled through, liberators.
An old woman rushed forth and threw at me a bunch of posies and I raised my crop to dissuade her from approaching further. The pipers, four in total, stood two either side of the road and produced that strangled sheep noise that I almost recognised as Scotland The Brave. And there were the usual poor who thrust upon us bread cakes, fruit, even blocks of cheese wrapped in kerchiefs. We’ll be taking more than that, you poor fools, thinks I, so keep your token gestures, save them for yourselves, because you’ll need them more than we.
Three storey houses either side lined the narrow approach and now, from the windows above rained down rice. I shook my head, for they’d be picking it out from the gutters later.
A young maiden ran toward a trooper, holding out an apple but instead, with a single arm, he scooped her up to cheers from the crowd.
And then the narrow approach widened to reveal the city square, the Wallace statue encased in bird shit, and the beaming garrison who stood with rifles presented in our honour.
The garrison, and I use the term loosely, consisted of no more than fifty men, filth ridden and hopeless in faded red jackets. Their expressions told much, even behind the smiles because the eyes always said more than anything else. One or two even swayed with the breeze which was a statement in itself because in times of war and conflict, priority was usually given to feeding the troops before the population. That the garrison was demoralised and starving spoke of how the city itself would be on the breadline and if that was the case, then for how long would we bother remaining before returning to Edinburgh, having done our job, whatever that was.
The final notes from the bagpipers choked out and then stepped forth a weary looking major with bags under his eyes, a lopsided shako, scuffed boots and perhaps most shocking of all, a face that hadn’t seen a razor blade in weeks.
“Major Murgatroyd, King’s Own Scottish Borderers, at your service, sir.” He saluted Dolan with a bony hand. “You’ll forgive us, sir, if we don’t fire a round in your honour…no ammo, you see…wagons not been getting through for weeks. Just don’t tell the dead.”
Dolan didn’t meet the major’s eye and instead surveyed the square, the people, the buildings. “No ammo, you say? Damn rifles only frighten the horses anyway.”
The major shuffled. “Forgive me, sir, what did you say your name was?”
“Where are my manners, Major?” Dolan straightened and shouted for the benefit of the entire square, soldiers, inhabitants and all. “My name is Captain Jack Strapper.”
That I was right next to him made no difference and I rolled my eyes as the men around muttered to their brethren, slapping each other on the back and laughing whilst exchanging monies.
“I toold yee he’d be good oold Strappy next.”
“It was obvious, why else would he want him here?”
“Always the greats, he’ll be bloody Spartacus next.”
The major’s face shot to life and he turned around to check the reaction of his men, who were similarly grinning when they should have been rigid at attention - The effect my legend had on people.
“Well, Captain Strapper, our fortunes truly have changed now you’ve arrived. We saw from the lookouts how you swept away the dead on the road, cleared a path for the wagons, for food, ammo, the life blood of this city. And I don’t know what you did, but that giant blot on the landscape shifted past us altogether.” He shook his head, removed his shako and swept back his scraggly grey hair. “We feared they’d make an attempt on the walls. Oh, they look formidable, at least from the outside, but up close, and this is between you and I, Captain, there are several spots that could topple down with a lick…tried a rushed patching job on the bleeder, but with no cement we’re at the mercy of the elements…and the dead of course.”
And with that revelation went my fuzzy feelings.
“Borderers, you say? Long way from home, aren’t you? That’s Berwick, is it not?” Dolan was still glancing about the square, paying particular attention to the windows, for whatever reason.
“Aye, well, we get sent where we’re told.”
“And a lowly major to greet us? Where’s the colonel?”
Murgatroyd was too weary and weak to take offence. “The colonel…he sallied out last week…attempted to relieve the city, clear a path. We lost seventy men and the CO was brought back on a plank of wood, minus a gaping hole in the ham.” His voice quaked as he recalled the memory. “He turned later that night, though we couldn’t spare the ammo to put him to sleep and try as I did, I couldn’t find a man willing to put a bayonet through his nob…much loved was our colonel, you see. So out the castle window he went, into the moat and you’d think that’d do for him, but next morning he was gone, minus an intact vertebrae no doubt.”
So somewhere around the edges of Stirling there was a high ranking zombie pulling itself around by the arms.
“That’s quite a story, Meejor.” Skinner had ridden over and now scratched at the skin beneath his thick red beard. “But what yee haven’t toold us is what yee have.”
The major took a step back and was having trouble looking The Scar in the eye. “What we have? Excuse my impoliteness. You’ve had a long journey over from the capital, at my request, and I’ve not even had the decency to offer forage for your mounts.”
Skinner leaned toward the man and smiled. “Forage? Is that what yee’re offering us?”
“Excuse me, we don’t have much, but what we have is yours. You’re our guests, after all. We’ll slaughter the last of the lambs and have the cook make up some broth and there’s oats of course and whisky, but we’re out of haggis and just about everything else. I’ll have my men see to your horses and naturally your officers must billet in the castle…with us.”
Skinner twisted in his saddle to share a laugh with those officers close by before turning back to Murgatroyd. “Let me get this straight, Meejor. We lift the siege and rescue yee, yeer men and everybody here and yee insult us by offering broth?”
Murgatroyd’s eyes flicked toward Muir and myself, who must’ve had the most sympathetic faces within the vicinity. “I…I don’t understand, Captain…Captain?” He addressed this second back to Dolan, who mystified the major by taking subordination to a man he’d assumed was the inferior. He then noticed Dolan’s gorget patch and colonel insignia. “Captain Strapper, did you say?” I barely heard the man croak.
Skinner pushed his horse forward a step and leaned down. “Are yee calling the man a liar, ser?”
Murgatroyd straightened and spoke defensively. “I did nothing of the sort, Captain.”
Skinner held his threatening glare. “Good, then perhaps yee’ll stop wasting oor time and tell me where the goold is kept?”
“And the Wallace sword.” Dolan, or was it myself, added helpfully.
The major looked from face to ominous face and swallowed. “The gold?” He shrugged. “Are you under orders to…”
“…The goold. Where is it?” Demanded Skinner and if the man had any sense he’d just relinquish it now, along with everything else.
And Murgatroyd must have read my thoughts or else seen in Skinner what everybody else did, threw up his arms and sighed. “The gold’s in the castle, in the vaults, the sword too, but I don’t see what this has to do with…”
“…Draw your sabres!” Shouted Skinner and he drove his blade through Murgatroyd’s throat.
And then every eye in the square widened as every heart thud against every ribcage.
Two hundred sabres scraped against scabbards as feet shuffled or scarpered and the first shouts of panic screeched out across the sq
uare and the first horses moved, blocking the escape routes and civilians bumped into civilians and infantrymen shot looks at their comrades for a clue, for orders and everybody held their breath.
“Advance on the infantry!” Ordered this psychopath and my first reaction was to look to Dolan.
Even he baulked, his mouth slackening and then it was all lost in the fracas as horses charged beyond me within the tight confines between buildings and monuments and people.
My horse wheeled around, half unsteady and fully shocked by screams and panic and projectiles but from my elevated position I had a good view of the infantrymen who’d formed into a ragged square, rifles and bayonets pointed outwards in the classic defensive position for infantry against cavalry. But it had been too hastily formed with no officers or even sergeants to direct it, they were outnumbered and possessed not the ammo to fight back and then came the cuts and slashes from above as countrymen hacked down on those who would, in ordinary times, have been their comrades.
Everywhere, men and women screamed, unable to pass the big men on horseback who stood blocking the narrow exits though mercifully they were spared the sword if not a multitude of threats and insults. Large groups huddled together, men on the outside, women and children on the in, the occasional civilian maniac thrashing at a Grey with canes or sticks, throwing stones or loose cobbles, masonry falling from above to crack against the ground or horsemen or women, more screams and disbelief, projectiles, dogs losing all control, horses losing it too, throwing riders or plunging into the crowd, shouting, the clattering of hooves, people cramming hard against the walls, furniture tumbling from above to smash against a riderless horse, a pistol shot, tiny wisps of smoke from several locations mingling as one above the square, sabre thrusts, more screams, horses neighing, infantrymen jabbing forth with bayonet tipped rifles, aiming for the horses, missing, falling from sabre cuts, more screams, smoke, fire, a solitary bagpiper playing Auld Lang Syne, death, madness, chaos.
Muir reached for a child who sat crying on the cobbles and pulled her over his horse’s withers before charging for a small opening away from the chaos and shielding her eyes.
Not Dead Yet: A Zombie Apocalypse Series - Books 1 - 2 Page 33