Chapter Text
“I had another dream.” Abraham Jenkins of the 23rd Regiment of Foot. Eccentric bastard they call him. Shorter than most of the men, his temper even shorter. His unnerving baby face for someone who is in his early twenties made him look almost unserious most of the time. It was hard to believe he is a grown adult man. Commanding Officer Victor White sits opposite of him on the concrete bench of the cell. Pale moonlight leaks through the iron grills of the prison, overlooking a cramped six by seven feet room jam packed with British soldiers, illuminating the area after the bastard French took the remaining oil reserves for their own purposes.
Not that the lamp would do much anyways. It’s the 15th of July in the fortress of San Sebastian, Spain. A surgeon had noted that dry summer heat killed more men than bullets ever will. Today’s dead pile has nineteen men and counting. Perhaps by the morning the number would double as death gripped the soldiers in their sleep. Officer White stares at the blonde boy. He’s a prophet.
Usually, one would ignore Abraham’s nonsensical ramblings. Soldiers of all stripes and colors have been woken up by his gibberish in the middle of the night at least once. But be a redcoat in the 23rd and the wiser of men would know to listen even to his tiniest whispers. The man lets out a shaky exhale and reaches for a piece of paper and a quill. “What did you see this time?”
“Bodies sir, bodies.” Abraham turns over to face the wall, stormy blue eyes staring into nothingness. “Two men will die in a week's time.”
The rest of the soldiers groaned. Who of the remaining twenty six of them will die? The younger of the men, still filled with the naivete of being a new recruit, piles their remaining pounds onto the ground making their bets. Some pray that the French will take a casualty for once. But knowing God and his cruel games, that probably will not be the case.
“Did you see their faces, Abraham?” Officer White asks.
“No, sir. I did not.” He pauses trying to jog his memory a bit, but to his dismay, nothing comes up.
Stunning. Absolutely stunning.
One of the redcoats pipes up, his voice rife with delusion. “Can’t we sacrifice Abraham to God like a pig? Perhaps the smell of his blood will earn us deliverance from this forsaken fortress! And God will grace us all with the sweet relief of a slow and painful death!”
Cheers erupt from the rest of them. The deranged-ridden redcoat’s laugh joins the symphony of bitter voices. Abraham just scoffs and laughs at the man’s lunacy, the blonde has a sick sense of adrenaline and often enjoys pushing his squadmates teetering to the edge of insanity. If he had just a sip of rum and sherry he’d be pounding them with his fists a mile a minute. He has a reputation and he’d rather die than prove them wrong.
The officer dismisses him. “Silence, Grant. Remember what happened to the captain.”
Of course. Nobody could forget what happened to him. The night before they were bound for Spain, Jenkins had a dream of the ship’s captain writhing on the floor. ‘ His heart could take no more breaths, don’t make the surgeons bother him, he’s got no longer than half six.’ he told everybody. Days later, en route to their post, a cook had opened the door to the captain lifeless on his bed. The surgeon confirmed his cause of death. Heart attack. It was 6:13 in the morning. That was the first time the men witnessed his prophecies come true and learnt a lesson that will be seared into their brains like a dogma. Abraham’s dreams never lie. Never.
Officer White stands up and gazes out at glimmering Spanish waters. French ships made their nightly rounds to ensure not a single one of them was to escape by sea. Spain has fallen and Napoleon be damned. He spots his own reflection in a puddle in front of the cell. Curled brunette hair, fine grey eyes and a sharp and clean shaven chin. Being of Italian descent, some of the rich folk he knew called him ‘Botticelli’s Man’, an epitome of beauty and a painting brought to life. The officer pinches the bridge of his nose and holsters his double-barrel pistol back into its case, securing it on his belt.
The ten o'clock church bells ring like it does for every hour. White watches as the 1e Regiment d'Infanterie switches guards for the night. Each passing soldier gave a salute and a box of matchsticks to the next watchmen. Among the returning men is Officer Claude Badeuax. A caricature, in the English’s eyes, of the typical Frenchman. Stuck up, effeminate, and ineffable to the senses. He waits by the entrance of the prison patiently. Among other things, besides the fact they smell like animal piss, the French here are slow. Impossibly slow compared to how fast Napoleon’s tactics are said to be.
He had organised to meet with the opposing officer to discuss what he had read in a newspaper days ago. Underneath one of the stacks of hay that serves as a bed is a rather crusty and beaten up piece of paper. A headline typed in bold print that said ‘ VARDOHUS FORTRESS HAS FALLEN TO CANNIBALS’ haunts his conscience. It was to be noted that it had made less than a dozen sales in Britain. White has since concluded that the British have no other interest than nonsensical tomfoolery and buffoonish neighbourhood gossip. He rolls the paper into his hands and tightens his grip. A French soldier comes over with a key, muttering something that he can’t even understand. Maybe he was cursing his entire bloodline. Maybe he was uttering something about bad teeth. Noone will know.
The soldier ushers him into a secret library two floors above. A soot smeared statue of Atlas sits at the end of the room and the smell of alcohol reeks from bottles of rum in the corner. Badeaux is seated on the floor cross legged with an impatient look on his face and a sense of ennui to his form. His eyes sag into its sockets as he motions for White to come forward.
“Exhausted from the first watch I see?” The redcoat asks, taking a seat in front of him, unfurling the newspaper and laying it neatly on the floor.
“ En effet, je le suis, monsieur. ” He sighs. “Make whatever you wish to discuss quick, my dinner will go cold.”
“Vardohus, Officer Badeaux. They say that it was overrun by cannibals.”
The officer lets out a snort. “Cannibals? I’m not surprised. The Russian brutes up north would do anything for a pound of meat.”
“Do you think they’ll reach here?” White asks, allowing himself to take a sip of whiskey.
“Cannibals from Norway reaching Spanish shores? Officer White, please, use your head and make it spew common sense.” His dismissive tone of voice oddly irks the Brit.
Is it his tone deaf ignorance? Or is it his confidence that bordered on arrogance? Whatever it is, it did not sit right with him. “With all due respect Officer, if the Black Death came by ship then the cannibals can come by ship just as well.”
“And pray tell, Sir White, if these cannibals are as monstrous as you say, wouldn’t your British frigates handle them with ease?” Badeaux says as he swirls a bottle of rum. “Don’t you have a lyric that goes- Oh what was it again? Ah yes, ‘Rule Britannia! Britannia rule the waves!’”
Dead silence. The Frenchman’s snappy remark caught him off guard. Officer White ponders his words carefully. In a sense, he was right, the Royal Navy could handle the undead with ease. But what about his Majesty’s Army? No. They don’t stand a chance. None of them stand a chance. Not the British, not the French, nobody. How did he know the danger these cannibals present? The only answer he has is his gut. He’s seen the survivors himself as they were fresh out the HMS Undaunted. Around thirty men in Vardohus, only six unboarded the ship. Not that the sight was pretty either. Two were missing an arm, another had to be carried in a stretcher and the last three had fresh blood dripping on their clothes.
Whatever happened in that forsaken fortress, it was gory. He is not going to allow that to happen in San Sebastian. “Officer Badeaux. Please consider-”
The Frenchman stands up and makes his way to the door. “I do not have any more time for this nonsense, Officer White. For now I must go-”
“Wait!”
The opposing man stops in his tracks. His hand is already gripping the handle but Badeaux relents and turns to him.
“I am allowing you one last word.”
“‘Two men will die in a week’s time.’ That’s what one of my men said.” White’s hand grips the newspaper. “We don’t know who will take the casualties. It can be from my side, or yours.”
“What kind of grandeur claim is that? No man can predict the future.” The Frenchman exits the room, hungry for dinner. A sweet fragrance drifts along the warm and compact hall, it seems tonight the cooks will serve him some pot roast. Something he has been waiting for the entire time he was here.
“But this man can, sir. Everyone in my regiment knows to listen to him. His predictions have come true multiple times before.” White follows him back to the dining hall.
Cet idiot britannique. “Oh? Then tell me an-”
“Officier Badeaux!” Another French soldier shouts from across the hall. “Notre chirurgien est mort! Quelque chose l'a mordu alors qu'il était dans les toilettes!”
He freezes. That’s not possible. The surgeon is dead. Their only surgeon is dead. Badeaux swiftly turns back to the man and grabs him by the collar. “Impossible! Je pensais qu'il n'y avait pas d'animaux enragés ici!”
“Did someone die?” The redcoat asks cautiously.
“Yes, someone died! Our only surgeon!” Badeaux groans in frustration. “Comment est-ce arrivé? Avez-vous trouvé l'animal qui l'a mordu?”
The infantryman shakes his head. “Non monsieur. Sa gorge a été arrachée.”
“Arraché!? Quel genre d'animal- Trouvez cette bête maintenant et tuez-la! Peu m'importe si c'est l'heure du dîner, envoyez nos gardes!” The soldier nods and scurries out to the guard post.
White looks between the entrance and the officer, folding his arms in the process. Abraham never lies. “That was your first death.”
“It is just a coincidence! It’s impossible for a man to predict death. Impossible!” Badeaux’s ears fumes red as he stomps off to the dining hall. “Gardes! Ramenez l'agent Victor White dans sa cellule! Nous parlerons demain matin.”
More lower ranking soldiers came to fetch and cuff him with rope. The Brit sensed the tension in the air. They had tied him with such haste and efficiency that it was safe to assume that they were worried their talk was an escape attempt. Even if that was the case, most of the redcoats dared not to even think about such things. Only the day before did a brave soul try to break free. That brave soul never returned. Complaints and whispers of the stench of fresh blood ravaged the French troop. One can only assume what had happened.
They shove him back into the compact prison. But the sight before him caught his surprise. Four of the ten men huddle around Abraham, the boy himself sound asleep, yet faint traces of his voice are heard. A sapper already doing the duty of writing anything he’ll say makes him relax. The officer lets out a heavy sigh and sits next to one of his remaining seamen.
Should he tell them what happened earlier? No. He decides, they’re probably experiencing another revelation. It would be best to keep quiet in order to save their sanity. For now. The seaman offers him a stale loaf of bread, it looks like they had given them their ‘dinner’ for the night.
“Have the men eaten yet?” He asks exhaustedly.
The man nods. “Yes, sir. They have gotten their fill. But the bread’s dwindling, only five loaves tonight.”
“Five? You had to portion it for all of them?”
“Yes, sir. We saved this one for you.” The seaman gingerly pushes the palm sized bread in his hand.
“No. I’ll take a quarter, give the rest to the men who need it.” He rips off a small piece of bread and hands the rest back to the soldier.
“But sir-”
“No. I don’t need that much. Feed it to the sick.”
Defeated, the seaman reluctantly nods and walks over to the ill stricken. White quietly listens to the murmurs of men surrounding Abraham. Cannibals? That word made his ears perk. He discreetly leans in to eavesdrop on what they were saying. The sapper taking notes was shaking his head of disbelief. Their two fool headed musicians blabbered too loud, the rest of the men were up and uneasy. What did he miss?
“Dead men walking?” Another line infantry asks.
His eyes tell people that he's seen his fair amount of battles. Most of the men can assume his past is as dark and long winded as his hair, which is tied into a deceivingly short ponytail for ease in combat. Abraham coined the nickname “Black-Eyed Bobby” since all he could read from him is the fact that he has an eternally gloomy attitude and he is utterly miserable. Robert Smith is one of the older men in the regiment. Only based on assumption though as he is terribly secretive of his personal life, so secretive that no one knows his real age. He only got captured two days before after being part of the first attempt to retake the fortress but ultimately failing.
The sapper exhaled shakily. “Yes. That is what he said.”
All of them continued to stir, earning them a few bangs on the cell door and a couple of curses from the sentry assigned to them. They ignored him and continued on with their discussion.
“What is Abraham seeing this time?” Robert asks again.
“No one knows, we wait until he awakens.” The sapper replies.
He raises his eyebrow at the fact. “We have to wait? Couldn’t we wake the lad up right now?”
“It’s too risky. If we wake him up now, he won’t be able to finish the dream.” One of the musicians reasons. “Last time we woke him up ourselves, he only managed to reveal part of the prophecy. Next thing we knew, an entire troop got wiped by cannonfire.”
“Let him finish the dream. We’d be saving lives if we listen.” White intervenes.
Robert backs down and sighs. Waiting for the boy to wake up. In all his years of living in this accursed earth, he has never encountered men so delusional that they rely on the dreams of a boy to dictate their fate. These are the same men that his Majesty relies on to claim victory over Napoleon. They’ll never win if people like them are deployed in droves.
The distant crackle of thunder rings through the ocean. The inky night sky blankets itself in cold and distant storm clouds. Pitter-patter of rain droplets start to drown out the concerned murmurs of the British men. Before anyone knew it, rain began to fall on San Sebastian. Robert knows that somewhere out on the moonless ocean, a ship bearing the flag of Britain sails ever closer to the shoreline. There’s going to be a second attempt at liberating them all. And if the new troop is competent enough, or if they’re lucky enough, they’ll manage to retake the coastal town with little effort.
He slams his first into the wall and a tiny blood splatter stains his knuckles. Damned mosquitoes. Men getting bombarded with these tiny good-for-nothing bugs on nights like these are uncommon. Seeing the routinely arid and humid Donostia being draped in grey stormy skies is a tad bizarre for him. He’d gotten comfortable with the fact that Spain was all sunshine and cruel heatwaves. In fact he much prefers it. London never let the sun shine.
Abraham’s eyes burst open and he clutches his chest. Ragged breaths choked at his words, White quickly wrapped his arms around him and props him into a seating position. “He’s awake!”
The troop shifts their attention onto him waiting expectantly. Robert and the sapper, paper and quill ready, quickly kneel down beside him to see what he has to say.
“So? What did you see, boy?” The officer gently asks. “Go on, we’re all listening.”
“Corpses. Walking corpses.” The blonde replies. There is no hint of fear in his eyes.
The sapper quickly scribbles it down. The rest of the regiment look at him with bewildered faces. They tried to be patient with him, they tried to believe whatever he said. They’ve heard Abraham predict utter horse and bull before, but this? This crosses the line and the entire cell erupts into uproar.
“He can’t be serious! Undead? Really?”
“This has to be a lie, I can sense it in my blood.”
“He’s gone mad! Put him out of his misery!”
White quickly interrupts again. “Enough! Abraham, did you see anything else?”
The room reduces to a deafening silence. Awaiting another answer from the prophet. The lad’s fingers shifted and tinkered with his blunderbuss and red tinted glasses, perhaps afraid about what they’ll say. Since when was he ever afraid of another person’s opinion? Only something Godlike will scare him into silence. That is how he operates.
“I dreamt of three men. And I…” Abraham pinches the bridge of his nose. He himself can’t believe that he’s saying this. “I am instructed to save them.”
“Save them? How?” White asks.
Robert groans. “Instructed by who? Or better yet- Instructed by what? ”
“Listen, do you think I have control on who sends me these visions? That’s not how prophets work. I am the middle-man and messenger between you and whatever higher power graciously haunts me.” Abraham puts his hands on his hips and gives him a sarcastic glare.
“What? Is this ‘higher power’ the Almighty Lord himself?” The infantryman scoffs.
“Might as well be, Black-Eyed Bobby.”
“Why you-”
Bang! At the crack of a pistol, a bullet ricochets off a barrel and dents itself into the wall next to the bickering men, stunning them into silence. The smell of smoke and a light sizzle on the metal barrel stares them down in the eye. White blows on his gun and holsters it onto his belt again.
“You made me waste a bullet.” He says.
Abraham whines. “But Sir Victor!”
“That’s enough. Go to bed Abraham.”
That tone of voice is enough to send him back to his own personal nook in the cell. It is a truth universally acknowledged that a father figure is a need for the peculiar Abraham Jenkins amongst his peers. If no one in the 23rd had the courage or motivation to spank his arse for his shenanigans, White is usually the one to step in. The rest of the men slowly begin to sleep and recite their nightly prayers, the officer himself resting on the wall to give more room.
Something claws at Abraham’s sense of morals. Well not that he had much anyways. He grabs the notebook and begins to write. One thing is for certain. This seemingly sense of saintly heroism wasn’t given to him simply because he wanted to do good.
Not at all. They’ve given him an incentive. A simple goal that he could easily accomplish and a reward that is infinitely worth more than he sowed. Save these three men whatever means necessary, and be happy for the rest of his life. He’s seen this one dream over and over again, he just never told a soul. Within a few minutes, a passage of chicken scratch only readable to him is on the page, at least he had finally gotten it down on paper.
A ginger headed fool who doesn’t pay attention, the bald idiot who didn’t pick a longer fuse and an ignorant officer who doesn’t think twice about his superior’s ‘illness’.
These three men are somehow the keys to his happiness and without them, the voices in his dreams say, he’ll be dead before hell has room to claim him. A selfish goal really. There will be blood, there will be bodies. The rules of equivalent exchange are ever fairer. Lives for lives.
Add to the equation the dangers of unyielding cannibals? A sense of dread and sick adrenaline tugs at him. He quietly laughs. Oh what a future he will behold.