All the Dead Are Here (13 page)

“
No Ted. Don’t do this please, please just let me die,” said Paul, his voice shaking with terror, his eyes wide as he gawped at the demon in front of him. He remembered using the pistol bullet as a decoy earlier and starkly realised there wasn’t one left for him even if he’d had the strength to lift the pistol once again.

“
But I have to Paul, because this is what the Lord wants, this is whit I want, and do you know why else?” Paul shook his head, trying to turn away, but was transfixed in horror.
“
Because I AM!” the Minister screamed, the last word turning to a gurgle as he bit down on Paul’s neck. He felt the warmth of the blood running down his chest and felt the rip of skin, tendons and sinews. The last thing he heard was the triumphant roar of the new zombie army in the Stadium beyond and the last thing Paul realised before the blackness enveloped him was that the Minister, The Zombie Messiah, was now unstoppable.

Really, it is only when one comes to write one's memoirs that one finds oneself in remembrance of things that previously were forgotten. Perhaps ‘forgotten’ is too strong a word. Perchance I had chosen not to relive the memory of those terrible days. Perchance subconsciously I had chosen to push them back into the rear of my mind, to cover them over with memories of happier times: garden parties and long firelight discussions with good friends, fine port and cigars; British summers and the resonant crack of leather on willow in a good game of cricket with which I used to occupy my life. Now, as I sit here in my London town house, recounting tales of excitement and derring-do on which I have occasionally embarked, I find I must tell this tale to complete my story. Although my hands tire easily now and I occasionally forget the spelling of words as old age seeps through my body, my memoirs will not be complete without the retelling of this ghastly tale. So I give you, (with more than a little reluctance for fear you think I should be sent to Bedlam), ‘The Island of the Ungodly Dead’.

It was the summer of 1870 and Queen Victoria reigned supreme. Although not a young man any more I was still within my prime. I had worked for a number of years as a reporter for The Times, a newspaper, I am sure you are aware, of great standing within the Empire.

Unfortunately, at that time, I was a bullish gentleman with more than a little ambition. Therefore, I had made an enemy of my employer, a Mr Simpson, who drew the title of Under Editor to the Editor of The Times, a position I wished to hold myself one day. Hence, when we received a missive from a Gentleman Scientist in the Caribbean who called himself Dr Baker, which talked about ‘The greatest scientific discovery of the age’ and ‘an experiment to cure the woes of the world’, Simpson had me in mind.

It was a vague and meandering letter, scruffily if not hurriedly written yet it was malodorous, smelling faintly of mould. As I read it I distinctly remember a slick, oily feeling pervading my skin and coalescing into a feeling of dread that made me compelled to place it lightly on the desk and only look at it from a distance. That feeling of dread stayed with me for the remainder of the day, as I remember. Mr Simpson decided to despatch me forthwith to meet with this man and interview him for an article for The Times. Truth be told, I had made Mr Simpson look like a dullard the week before in the office and no doubt he wished for me to be out of his sight for a time.

The letter may have normally been ignored as the work of a charlatan or madman, however, Mr Simpson took it as an opportunity to be rid of me. Not being well travelled within the world at that time, I took it as an opportunity to see some more of the Great British Empire and perhaps make myself more interesting at fashionable London dinner parties. Such parties were frequented by fashionable London ladies in whom I took great interest at the time. Yet, as I read the letter again that evening in the comfort of my own home, the oily horror of it returned and I found myself in a drunken state at the effort of trying to remove it from my mind's eye.

So it was that I was despatched on the morning of June 12th with a small, nay, tiny allowance from The Times to join, by arrangement, the HMS Endeavour on a voyage to the Caribbean. I would be set off at the port of Montserrat to find my own way to the even smaller Island of St John's, where, according to his letter, Dr Baker resided. A missive had been despatched on an earlier ship to inform the governor of Montserrat of my arrival and beg him provide me with the means to complete Mr Simpson’s task.

Arriving by coach at Plymouth docks I was stunned by the sheer level of activity, of the humanity that swarmed around that great ship. After the French had made the first Ironclad in 1862 the might of British Industry had swung fully into motion in the creation of equal or better ships so as to counter the French in their ambitions. The HMS Endeavour was part of a growing fleet of metal
monstrosities that now keep the sea-lanes around the globe free of vicious piracy and those vile French.

The docks themselves writhed like a sea of humanity that stank of molten steel and that slightly rotten, brackish air associated with all ports. Workers busied around like ants carrying ironworks and wood from carts and narrowboats to the place of fitment on the large ships in dock. The air was thick with steam and smoke from the variety of engines and machineries used to construct and bend the heavy steel used in the manufacture of Her Majesty’s fleet.

The carriage could take me no further due to the morass of activity in front but the coachman kindly agreed to carry my travelling trunk to the Endeavour for a small fee. I regret to say that I was not one to travel light and feel I had the better of the deal as I paid the sweating, red-faced coachman his dues. I stood in awe at the huge steel monolith that was the Ironclad before me and for no reason I could fathom, I was compelled to run in panic from the scene, the letter heavy in my pocket as, in my mind, the ship took on the appearance of a monstrous gravestone. At the time I had never seen such a construction, surely it must have been as large as St Paul’s Cathedral. I stood in the shadow of the ship, its huge, black hull looming like a wall in front of me and there, barely in view above that, the masts and elongated funnel that spewed steam high up towards the Lord himself. I mused that perhaps that God must be in awe of such achievements of The Empire. Blasphemous, perhaps, but I was a younger man and prone to such flights of fancy. As I gazed I saw the huge rotating blades at the rear of the ship, taller than several men stood atop each other and wondered, as I gaped, what possible machinery could have constructed such items. If truth be known, I was a man more of the arts than a scientist or engineer; such things were unfathomable to me.

“She’s a beauty isn’t she?” asked someone close by, making me start.

“Quite wonderful,” I replied as I composed myself and turned to see a man about my age, but beardless, dressed in full Admiralty Regalia.

“You must be the reporter,” said the Gentleman.

“And I presume, you, sir, are the Captain of this vessel?”

“You are correct, sir, Captain William Burrington at your service.”

“Phineas Smith,” I said, “reporter for The Times, at yours, sir.”

We shook hands. He was altogether not what I imagined of a naval Captain, in fact he seemed quite personable.

“I do hope you are not writing about Her Majesty’s Navy during your voyage?” he smiled.

“If I do Sir, it will only be complimentary, this is quite a wonder,” said I, glossing over the way my skin crawled and perspired at the thought of the journey ahead.

“Let’s see if you say that after several weeks aboard her,” he chuckled. I smiled politely, slightly bemused by the comment. “I will have a boy come and collect your baggage, you are welcome to join me on the bridge if you like, Mr Smith, for you are our only passenger on this voyage, and the tide turns within the hour.” I thanked him for his hospitality and climbed the long gangplank to the deck of the Ironclad.

The voyage was uneventful except for the constant rumbling of the massive engine and even after all these years I swear my hearing was never the same after that journey. Below decks, bouts of fearful panic overcame me whenever I considered the journey's end. Yet my rational mind could
find no cause for this fear and I set it aside as traveller's nerves. I found myself bored and wishing I had brought more books. Indeed, if it hadn’t been for the company of Captain Burrington and his deck of cards, I may have flung myself to the mercy of the sea.

The Captain and I spent many a pleasant hour in discussion and we quickly discovered that we had a like mind in nearly all matters both political, (Disraeli was a cad of the highest order), religious (God save the Queen) and in matters of the heart. (Our ‘dance’ cards were closely matched in terms of ‘conquests’, if you take my meaning.) Truth be told, we formed a fine friendship and both commented on a desire to remain friends after this voyage. He had a house in London where he chose to reside when not at sea, and by pure chance we both had knowledge of an ale house of fine repute where we both had occasion to drink, but on separate
times
.

After several weeks, and a distinct change in the weather for the better, we arrived in the Caribbean. The HMS Endeavour, it turned out, was merely there to show the might of the Empire to our colonial cousins and the colonial cousins of our enemies, who inhabited the surrounding islands along the Caribbean. This meant that the ship would be returning to England in two weeks. I hoped that my business on St John’s would be concluded within that time, and so the good Captain offered to return to Montserrat or indeed St John’s if no transport could be found, to pick me up for the return journey. I was happy at this thought for a number of reasons: firstly, I enjoyed his company immensely and secondly, the romance of travelling perhaps outweighed the practicality of it; I longed to return to England with its fine ale houses and busty women. I would also perhaps be rid of the sweaty dreams and irrational panics, for there is nothing more lonely to an English Gentleman than a ship full of sailors, unless, of course, one is a sodomite. I am happy to say that a succession of beautifully pleased women would testify that I am not.

I bade my farewells to the good Captain and was taken by steam launch to the port of Montserrat. From a distance it looked a beautiful place, the sea a shining, graduated, green and blue; golden sandy beaches and luscious green palms. In the misty distance rose the mountainous volcano from which the island itself had been formed. The port town itself was a rambling site of white wooden housing, truly colonial in appearance. As we approached, I could clearly see a busy market and the juxtaposition of the Negro natives and the white colonials, those brave souls who left Queen and Country for this gorgeous but Godforsaken land.

I spent an uneventful evening with the Governor, a most frightful bore, demanding news of London society and talk of people of whom I had never heard nor met. The only light relief from his tedium was the vista of his beautiful wife, a vision if I may say so. Unfortunately, she was smitten with the fellow and barely cast a glance in my direction. Consequently, I made my excuses and went to bed, feigning some form of sickness caused by so many weeks at sea. The only curious event was when I questioned the Governor about the Island of St John's and the good Dr Baker. He would not linger on the subject and gave the shortest, curtest answer available to him. Tired and a little drunk at this point, I did not press him on it.

The following morning the weather had not changed and I purchased myself a wide brimmed hat, fashioned from leaves, to protect myself from the bright sunshine. I was transported through the town to a waiting sail ship to take me the ten nautical miles to St John's. The hat looked faintly ridiculous I feel, but needs must when the Devil drives, and I thought the protection would outweigh my mild embarrassment. Besides, I was in a rum mood, as a night in a real bed on land had lifted my spirits somewhat.

At the far end of the beach there was a small sloop, a swarthy Negro standing by it. They were both as scruffy as each other, the man dressed in little more than rags, in contrast to some of the other well tended fishing boats and sloops in the bay. I was not best pleased by this turn of events and asked the coach driver why I must use this boat. Curtly I was told that this was the only boat that
would go to St John’s and looking back I feel it was the tone in the driver's voice that began the feelings of foreboding that came to dominate the remainder of the journey. The boat itself needed a lick of paint, to say the least, and the sails where a patchwork of differing cloths, stitched together at random.

The coach driver loaded my items onto the boat and I approached the ‘Captain’ of the ‘ship’ with my hand out to shake his. Well, the fellow just looked me in the eye and spat on the floor before turning and climbing aboard. I was shocked but before I made an issue of it I reminded myself that foreigners had different customs and perhaps I had misinterpreted his gesture. However, I am ashamed to say that it crossed my mind that if was a result of the repeal of slavery perhaps it had not been the right thing to do. As I have stated previously, I was a younger man then and prone to such idiotic fancies.

The journey took some considerable hours so I read a little and played solitaire to pass the time. Eventually, I saw a small island in the distance, no more perhaps than a mile in diameter. As we approached I could pick out a series of huts dotted amongst the trees that made the verdant paradise of the island look scruffy. The owners seemingly cared little for civic pride.