The spike fell to floor and Stewart ran in the direction of the barracks, hands covering his ears as the VC called after him.
Worried now, I enquired as to the identity of Stewart.
The caber tosser looked at me like I was daft. “Yee mean, yee doon’t knoow? Twas none other than the man whose layf he seeved back in the Crimea.”
All I can say is that I’m glad it wasn’t I who later found Stewart in the dormitory, his uniform discarded but folded neatly on a nearby chair, as he dangled from a support beam by his regimental cross belt, the same he’d worn at Balaclava on that fateful day.
THE ARTILLERYMEN, which General Mackenzie had earlier promised, arrived later in the day, pulling their guns, but they weren’t exactly what we’d expected.
They weren’t guns of the heavy variety I could place in front of the gates and use to blast shot or explosive canister at the dead from close range or a distance. No, they were smaller and mounted on carriages, highly mobile and light. I knew exactly what they were, even before the major introduced himself.
“Major Duff, of the Shropshire Royal Horse Artillery, sir.” He squinted at Dolan’s gorget patch, double checking he had the right man. “My compliments, sir, and General Mackenzie requests your urgent presence at the castle…quick smart…and don’t make him come down here himself, perhaps with a battalion or two for company, sir.”
Dolan nodded and consulted a shiny new timepiece, no doubt filched in Stirling. “Yes, I met with the general not one hour ago, so about your business, Major Duff.”
There were four crews, each consisting of four horsemen and I wondered what we were supposed to do with horse artillery considering we were planning on holing up in the barracks in defiance of orders, from a bloody general, no less.
The major surveyed the barracks interior; men carrying spikes, the construction of a watchtower, an idiot carrying slop pointing that eager to please grin at anyone who’d look, pigeons chirping from somewhere nearby, a twitching adolescent colonel and if he’d noticed the hundred shackled cavalrymen digging ditches on the perimeter, like we were planning on defending the place instead of sallying out, he said nothing of it.
“Sir,” Duff continued, “we’re to support your advance against the dead when you attack their left flank. He wants to face them at a place named Braid Hills, east of here, where his division will be waiting in line atop the hill. His left flank will be protected by the hills and a golf club hotel, which leaves only his right exposed. That’s where we’re to come in and it’ll be a pincer movement. My horse artillery will soften them up with shot and canister and you’re to mop up the stragglers, prevent the line from being outflanked on our vulnerable right. You understand? It’ll be a bloody struggle and most of us’ll die, but by Jove, we’ll save Britannia.”
Militarily speaking, it sounded reasonable, if suicidal. It would mean the dead would be faced before they reached the bulk of the capital, where the vulnerable population waited in their homes. It would save civilian lives but place at greater risk the lives of the soldiers, because they’d be facing the dead in an open field where the only thing that would stand between General Mackenzie and certain death was the firing rapidity of the Enfield rifle, accurate to four hundred yards, still a tad too close for me. Two and a half thousand soldiers standing in a long line across a hilltop would provide a far too tempting and obvious target for the dead, but there were far too few of us to put down a quarter of a million of them. No, the only chance anybody had of surviving this was by being inside Redford Barracks, or the castle where doubtless the important people were even now gathering, and it mattered not whether we sallied out to attack the left flank of the overwhelming zombie multitudes.
Major Duff asked again if Dolan had understood.
He tucked the timepiece back inside his pocket and kicked at something on the ground. “Yeah, um, can I get you anything? Perhaps you’d like to see your billets?”
Duff was about to respond but then we were all shook into silence as the distant boom of cannons echoed across the sky.
The Horde Cometh
The thunder of cannons?
Naturally, I was the first to react and wasn’t surprised to find I was already using a horse from one of the artillerymen as cover. Troopers and officers raised questioning eyebrows in my direction, from whence I commenced patting the mount like it had always been my intention.
But it was overcautious even for me because the source of the booms was far in the distance. And so I scaled the watchtower for a better look and saw at once the two dozen twelve pounder guns in a neat line atop a hill maybe three miles to the east, and the smoke billowing out from each in large clouds that obscured many of the men stood behind. I scanned further to the right, south of the guns but saw no target, no dead over the hills which blocked the view of whatever came from yonder and nor did I see the shot or where it struck.
That place, where the artillery stood in a perfect line of death must have been Braid Hills and I thanked my deity, Dolan in a way, that at least I wouldn’t be seeing it up close.
Then the first gunner teams, the faster to reload were firing again and I saw three black balls arc through the sky, splitting the air before exploding and spraying its contents like a fan on whatever lay below.
Case shot - Like canister but for long range and ignited by a fuse and as long as the fuses were cut to the right length, they could be deadly, even against the dead. They’d be the best option for the kind of range they were firing at, assuming the dead were scattered and not yet massed into an unstoppable block.
“Colonel, sir, clearly the dead are in range of the artillery on the hills. It can only be a matter of time before the infantry will engage. I respectfully ask that we make our final preparations to sally out, no time to waste, what?” Major Duff, Scot by name, English by accent and regiment, along with his men, donned a brown tunic quite unlike any I’d seen in the army. He was slight of build and fragile to the eye with a slim worm over his upper lip and spectacles.
Dolan stared at the man for a while before finally removing his shako and scratching his head. “McAirey…my chess set…bring it up would you…bring a table and chair too and a nice glass of Guinness.”
“We have noo Guinness, ser.”
“Then some Scottish stout will have to suffice.”
I watched from above as the man ran toward the principle barrack building. Duff straightened and looked about his men as Dolan calmly replaced his shako and strolled off, hand in pocket. Meanwhile, the scattering of gathered Greys appeared confused and I knew what they’d be thinking, that it was a surprise no orders had yet been issued with regard to the disposal of the artillerymen and I wondered what our glorious leader had waiting for them, given they could be either useful or trouble.
“Colonel?” Duff shouted after him and received no acknowledgement. “What the devil is going on here?” He searched about for another officer, myself being closest, yet still too far away and up high, which made ignoring him easy. “What is this?”
By now the artillery were firing freely, a constant crashing in the distance with its secondary explosion of metal. It would’ve been something on a scale the people of Edinburgh would not have witnessed through history and now the inhabitants around Braid Hills rushed from their homes, some carrying babies and small infants, to run in the direction of the Old Town, to scatter amongst the streets, charging to a place of greater safety, wherever that was.
The constant crashing dampened much of Duff’s complaints and now he paced from Grey to unsympathetic Grey, demanding an explanation of what in the blazes we were about and why was that particular trooper lying back on the step asleep when he, along with the rest of us, should be fastening his saddle, readying his mount and preparing to unleash all bloody hell upon the dead.
It was a speech that had little effect on any Grey and even his own men shuffled about uncomfortably. In contrast to their commanding officer, the horse troopers kept to themselves, standing in a c
learing at the barrack entrance, and being mindful of not getting too close to any cluster of Greys, of whom, I’m sure, they were probably getting uneasy feelings.
But to Duff’s credit, he didn’t give up, because he was a soldier and had his orders and so he continued, stomping from one man to the next, officer or trooper, shouting, screaming, threatening, doing all but dare lay one of his slight mitts on a larger cavalryman’s frame. His face flashed red, nostrils flared outwards and his neatly parted hair became ruffled. I couldn’t remember a time I’d seen an officer so publicly lose control, it just wasn’t British for one, and in Dolan’s absence, all anyone could do in response was shuffle about and glance at the floor whilst trying to look occupied by readjusting uniforms before repeating the process.
“I will have you! I will have you all, by Jove, unless you prepare to sally at once. The fate of all Edinburgh…no, no…of all Scotland rests upon your actions this very minute and all you can do is gurn like circus chimps. I will have you all, mark my bloody words. I have orders from General Mackenzie and he will hear about your refusal to carry them out. And where’s the rest of you, bigad?”
If the highly strung major had questions by the barrel load, he was about to have one more as Skinner and friends trotted calmly into the barracks, towing on ropes a seemingly never ending train of cows, sheep, whores and pigs. Then came the chickens in cages, a gaggle of goats, three bulls and for some reason, what had to be a llama. Not like we were preparing for a long siege or anything, but it did the job of muting the major, at least temporarily. He glared wide eyed at the display, from the cows shitting over the cobbles to the pigs snorting and grunting at anything they took a curiosity to, such as the major’s artillery crew. The animals were tethered to various posts and pillars before being left to themselves and the barracks was filled with all manner of noises and the air with that distinctive sweet smell of animal shit.
But something else now took my attention, because the dead had emerged, preceded by a herd of charging sheep, at the hill summit and were even now pouring, scattered from tree cover over a wide area to converge and mass because they all sensed the target right before them, atop the next hill, from where cannons were feverishly loaded with their payload.
I watched one particular gunner crew as they sloshed their cannon with water from a bucket, extinguishing the naked flames from within the iron before a fresh charge was thrust down its gullet. A bag of powder was pushed inside then prodded down before being skewered with a blade. One man surveyed the new length and trajectory, adjusted the fuse accordingly then placed it inside the ball, ignited it then dropped it home. Another stood ready with the light and touched it to the cannon’s touch hole as the others stood well away. A second later it exploded and I struggled to trace the ball as it arced through the sky, toward the dead, and detonated above the heads of a group of five sending hundreds of fragments in all directions. Three of them went down, the other two lost limbs or had chunks carved out of them, but carried on regardless. Then the process began again as the never ending stream of dead continued to spill from the trees.
Behind the guns, twenty boys were arranged in a chain, passing from hand to hand empty buckets one way and filled ones the other. And behind them the infantry were now arriving in a long two and a half thousand man column, what had to be General Mackenzie, small and harmless at this distance, and staff at the front, the three regiments distinctive by the difference in uniform and the three sets of colours that sagged against staffs. They halted a hundred yards from the artillery’s rear and I saw the three colonels on horseback riding around excitedly and then I was treated to the beautiful sight from above when the division, almost like they were a single organism, fanned out from the centre, in perfect symmetry to form into a single line, arranged by companies of a hundred and again by regiments of eight companies, two men deep across the entire hillside. They were the greatest, most disciplined soldiers in the world, indeed they’d conquered it, but now, thanks to us and our treachery, were about to face their stiffest test yet.
The dead were still too far away for the infantry to be useful, so they awaited the moment that was sure to come, because the dead were now unconsciously forming into a wedge, aiming for the centre of the line, like a single organism themselves and drawing ever closer by the second.
I’d been enthralled by the display and when I turned around, Duff was stood alone in a space, hand on chin where he remained for several minutes before stomping in the direction of Skinner who was kneeling whilst sharpening his blade in the vicinity of a lamb. I wouldn’t have hoped to hear the exchange, but for a strange lull in cannon fire, animal bleating and the conversations of every man within the courtyard as all heads moved with the unwitting major.
“You there, Captain…you are a captain, yes? Ah, yes, I see you are. And perhaps you’d like to explain to me why in the blazes you’re bringing goats into a cavalry barracks? Last time I checked it was horses you rode, not goats, not cows and certainly not ruddy llamas. Well sir? What do you have to say for yourself?”
Skinner took a few seconds to exhibit any response, probably because he was so struck dumb by being verbally accosted. Finally, he ceased activity, patted the lamb and pushed it away before slowly straightening, back to his feet, with a grunt. He rose far above the slight major, who by now was staring into Skinner’s sternum and who took an instinctive step back, tilting his head up. A slow grin stretched across Skinner’s lips and then to my relief, he merely turned away and laughed before heading off to find another animal to butcher. Doubtless the ogre had found the whole thing amusing, but who could tell with a man like that.
Not discouraged, Duff stamped his boot and shouted to the big man’s back. “I insist that you answer or I’ll have you for insubordination.”
Well, he was a braver man than I and when no response was forthcoming, the major stepped back and made a strange barking noise, but could do little else. Finally, he found his senses and began demanding, to nobody in particular, that he and his men be shown to their billets and served their vittles and Scotch, again nobody listening.
Back in the field the enemy were making unsteady progress through no man’s land and had bunched up so much that the artillery had now switched to round shot. The frequency of shots, whether consciously or not, had increased as dense clouds of filth now completely obscured the gun crews. I tried to imagine what it’d be like to be down there, the choking, eye stinging smoke obscuring the view of the dead they were firing at. But continue they did as the solid balls of iron ripped through entire rows, each ball throwing back in a straight line up to ten dead at a time, bowling them over in sprays of red, leaving behind on the grass a trail of guts, limbs and shredded clothing. But despite nearly every ball striking home, it barely diminished the numbers as they still stumbled out from the trees, but also from further south where the terrain was mostly barren, thousands, tens of thousands even, zombies completely covered the land to the extent the breeze now brought over not only the stench of gunpowder, but also that familiar decay of rot.
I was torn between keeping my eyes clamped on the battle and peeling them away to watch Major Duff, on the verge of apoplexy, brought on by not taking enough breaths between berating Scots Greys, or anyone else who happened to be nearby. It was all rather amusing and something to keep my mind off the hordes of death who closed in on the city. Some animals hadn’t even been tethered and Duff now moved between them, stepping on a heap of droppings before turning red faced at the sight of one eager trooper bartering for favours from one of the whores.
When I looked back to the battle, the artillery had switched to canister. I could tell because the zombies were no longer being thrown back by the tens, but were instead flecked across a broader front by yet more shrapnel that separated on ignition to fan out in a wave of death. No human army could ever hope to withstand such a barrage but the dead were different. I saw zombies struck multiple times as large fleshy chunks exploded or sprayed or otherwise separa
ted from them. But shrapnel had little effect, unless of course a nail, musket ball or piece of fragment from the tin can itself struck the head, then they’d go down. But the kill ratio was now yielding a diminished return because a head is only so big and the ranks behind were largely shielded by those in front.
Directly below me the prisoners were sensing the urgency because they were shovelling harder than I thought any deliberately starved man could, but at least they were on side and had the good sense to recognise their lives were in danger too. The trenches would hopefully be adequate, we did what we could with the time we had, but I’d gladly flog every single one of ‘em for an extra day.
The dead were now so close to the thick clouds of black smoke, maybe four or five hundred yards, that the gunners were ordered to abandon their posts and flee behind that thin red line of infantry that now paced slowly forward as one. If it were any other enemy in the world, they’d have spiked the guns before running, driving a nail into the touch hole before quickly filing away the head to prevent the enemy from using them. But what use had the dead for field artillery? The gunners had done the best they could against an enemy that didn’t know how to stop, or slow, or surrender, but as for changing the direction of the battle, they’d barely told at all.
Now it was the infantry’s turn as two and a half thousand red coated Scotsmen stood two ranks deep, stretching from the 90th Perthshire Light Infantry positioned on the impossibly steep hill with its nearby hotel on their covered left flank, across the Braid Hill top with the 78th Highlanders resplendent in kilts and bearskin hats which made them appear even taller and more demonic, to end with the famed Black Watch on the exposed right. There was nothing there to protect them; no forest, no river, no hill or cliff face and certainly no cavalry and horse artillery. But did the dead know how to take advantage of this weakness?
Not Dead Yet: A Zombie Apocalypse Series - Books 1 - 2 Page 37