Chapter 3
The rain, cold and implacable, tumbled its way down to the earth, where the foliage of a lightly wooded forest waited eagerly to extract the water from the topsoil. The night sky was lit every now and again with the flash of lightning, and the monotonous rattle of raindrops was periodically interrupted with the rumble of thunder. The rain also fell on a massive congregation of canvas tents sporadically arrayed about the forest's glens and rushes, and a series of covered wagons drawn up into a square were to be seen nearby. Twelve tarp-covered cylinders sat on their carriages in a group, with several more box-like wagons rested nearby. An astute observer would have noted the that placement of the tents was designed to make advantage of natural high ground to keep the occupants as dry as possible. The sounds of slumber were to be heard emanating from most of these tents. Not all occupants of this campsite were comfortably dry and asleep beneath canvas covers, however. Several drenched overcoat-clad sentries moved about the camp, their rifles slung on waterlogged shoulders. More were to be found walking about the perimeter of the camp. In one of the larger tents, a makeshift headquarters had been set up, and it swarmed with kilt-clad soldiers. Some were poring over what appeared to be topographical maps, and more were going over paperwork of some sort. In the center of this nucleus of activity, one soldier was sitting behind a collapsible table that served as a desk. He was broad of shoulder, heavy of build, had gray hair turning to silver, was clean-shaven, and his bushy eyebrows were knitted together upon his weathered brow in animosity and concentration. His white helmet with its red plume rested upon the table, next to a stack of papers, and there were epaulets upon his shoulders, each bearing twin stars and a crown.
Colonel Sir Angus MacGilivray; V.C., commanding officer of Her Royal Britannic Majesty's Forty-Second Royal Highlanders (The Black Watch), and commanding officer of the column as a whole, was quite upset, if one is to understand that this particular value of the term "upset" means "As close to being a physical manifestation of Hell's fury as is possible for a mortal man," that is. He had managed to, up to this moment, kept his rancor in check, but his willpower was steadily eroding. Losing one's temper in public was not becoming of an officer and gentleman, but there were limits to even his patience. Of course, from his point of view, his rage was well justified. Here he was, responsible for the lives of nearly three thousand men, not including the families that had tagged along, and he had no clue whatsoever as to his present location, nor did he know how they had been brought there or who the mysterious "Naraku" was. That Naraku was evil, and had naught but destruction planned for him and his column, MacGilivray held no doubt. The massacred militiamen and the evil darkness in Naraku's eyes proved that beyond all uncertainty. He was also certain that Naraku was alive. He would not count that, that monstrosity finished until he himself placed the topsoil over Naraku's cold, lifeless corpse in its grave.
To add to his frustrations, some local warlord and his band of minions had come across his infantry column during their march north, and because the cavalry was away trying to figure out just where the Hell they were, he had no way to avoid them. Of course, he had tried to explain himself and his men in his coarse Japanese, but the Japanese lord had taken one look at the massed ranks of the Black Watch and the Gordons, and then cried out, "Demons! Demons!" and had urged his men to attack. The Japanese vassals had charged highlanders armed with Martini-Henry rifles, and were slaughtered. The armor they wore was woefully inadequate against four hundred and eighty grains of lead propelled by eighty-five grains of black powder, and after two volleys of rifle fire, the survivors, who numbered somewhere between four and seven, fled to the west, routed without even coming close enough to cause a single casualty. Unwilling to just leave their corpses to the birds of the air and the beasts of the field, he had ordered his men to bury the dead, and do what they could for the wounded before marching on. Upon inspection of the bodies left on the field, there proved to be no living wounded, just the slain. The dead were then buried with honor, and the infantry had then continued on its northern march. He knew full well that the graves would be dug up and the dead stripped, but that did not matter to him. That had happend a week ago, and it surprised Angus that the memory still troubled him. His conscience had not bothered him much during Crimea and the Mutiny, nor did it cause him to lose sleep during the three years of campaign in Egypt, and those actions had involved some dire peril and chancy luck on the Black Watch's part. No, the grisly memories of Tel-El-Kebir, Cawnpore, El Teb, and many other bloody battles did not cause him one whit of moral trouble, which made his unease with the slaughtering of what he was certain were Japanese footmen all the more disturbing. He supposed that it was the combined facts that the bloodshed was a result of miscommunication, and that the Japanese were hopelessly outgunned and outnumbered that gnawed at his conscience. The Fuzzy Wuzzies, the rebelling sepoys, and the Russians, they all had a chance. These poor devils never had one, and they never knew it until it was far too late.
The sounds of horses and men were heard above the rain's patter on the canvas tent, drawing the colonel out of the world of his thoughts. MacGilivray looked up from his desk, and peered out into the discouraging, rainy night. The dragoons had returned, and what the Irishmen had to tell him might do something to lighten his mood. Soon afterwards, a middle-aged man in a heavy cloak and wearing the flared riding breeches, curved saber, and tall boots of the cavalry strode into the tent. He was slightly taller than Colonel MacGilivray, but of slighter build. He had dark hair, and had a short, bushy mustache. He removed his cloak, revealing his pistol holster and the crown upon each of his epaulets, and took off his helmet and tucked it under his arm. Major Thomas Clancy, commanding officer of the Second Battalion, Her Royal Britannic Majesty's Sixth Dragoons (The Inniskillings), was now standing before the colonel's ramshackle desk, his right arm held in a rigid salute. He could sense the wrath within the man behind the desk, and while he himself was not currently receiving the brunt of MacGilivray's seething rage, his intuition told him that this could change very, very quickly indeed. Upon receiving a return salute from the colonel, Clancy brought his right arm down, and stood at attention.
"At ease, Major. Please tell me you have good news for a weary old soldier, Thomas?" As aggravated as the colonel had to be at this moment, Major Clancy could detect no malice in the voice, only a sense of distant, cold formality. Even so, Clancy hesitated a moment before continuing, and his Wexford brogue had a slight tinge of nervousness.
"We searched the land within eighteen miles of the field we appeared in, Colonel, and while none of our maps immediately showed our position, we did discover something strange. Captain Hogan found that while none of the man-made landmarks, such as towns and cities, are where the maps say they should be, the major geographical landmarks, such as the river, major forests, hills, and the mountains are located almost precisely where they are displayed on the maps."
"Are ya saying, Major, that in reality we haven't moved, but that someone just walked off with several towns?" The colonel had an eyebrow arched in disbelief.
"I'm not thinking that someone stole them, Colonel, as much as I'm thinking that they just aren't there anymore," he paused here, as if trying to forge gaseous thoughts into solid words, and then continued, "Or they haven't been built yet, sir, like some one picked us up, and hurled us into the past. The geography stayed similar, but the towns disappeared because they haven't been built yet."
"Oh, it's time travel now, is it Major?" The colonel's voice was almost manically cheerful now, and Clancy correctly identified this as a bad sign. "Been reading tae much Jules Vern, have we? Now then, Major, do you have any other ideas," here MacGilivray's voice went harsh, deep, and menacing, and his eyes grew cold and hard, "or are we just tae hop intae our magic submarine and sail through the ages tae our proper era? Is that it, Major? IS IT?" Here the colonel paused, having realized the nature of his words, and after clearing his throat, spoke again. "Er...please continue, Major." It was as if the furies within the colonel had made a final assault upon the ramparts of his patience and broken through, but immediately afterwards his features returned to their previous state, one of agitation and anger held tightly in check.
"Begging the Colonel's pardon, sir, but I think it a strong possibility that we have been transported to the past, and that the figure clad in white fur had a great deal to do with it. All of the evidence points to it, Colonel, including your own testimony as to what this Naraku said." Colonel MacGilivray leaned back in his seat, deep in thought for a moment or two, then his features softened some and he spoke.
"As much as I don't like it, Clancy, you're right. There is nae other available explanation that even approaches believable, let alone viable. You are dismissed. Have Colonel MacLean, Majors Dalton, McDonough, McKenna, Brown, Llewellyn, and yourself report tae me in ten minutes, Major."
"Yes, sir." With this, the major saluted, turned and exited the HQ. MacGilivray regretted his outburst of rancor at the cavalryman, especially since the good major had just as much incentive as anyone to get the column back to where it belonged. Including a seven-year-old fair-haired source of incentive named "Matilda," who called Major Clancy "daddy." The more he thought on it, the more he realized the similarities between himself and Clancy. They had both married, both lost their wives to disease, and each was a soldier trying to survive long enough to raise his only child. His thoughts drifted to his son Todd, who was serving as a lieutenant in B Company, Second Battalion, Ninety-Second Highlanders.
Part of his anger, he knew, was derived from the fact that his son, his only heir and living relative, had been sucked into this hell with him. The Army made it a policy to separate family members, but since the column was not supposed to see combat, they saw no problems if a column contained both a father and his son. Now to him it looked like a disaster waiting to happen. He knew, all the same, that he should not have lashed out at poor Clancy, especially since he needed cooperation if this column was going to survive, and lashing out at others without provocation was not the way to do it. Still, the major hadn't appeared chagrined by his outburst, so perhaps Clancy understood his frustrations. He pulled out an ivory pipe; a memento from a youth spent fighting rebellious sepoys during the Indian Mutiny, and went about filling and lighting it. Five minutes later, a gaunt man with graying brown hair dressed in the coat, kilt, broadsword and revolver of the highland infantry officer stepped through the tent's entrance. His epaulets each bore a crown and a single star, and he sported the eyes of a man who was having sleepless nights. He saluted the colonel and MacGilivray returned it.
"Good evening, Colonel," said Lieutenant Colonel Alistair MacLean, commanding officer of Her Royal Britannic Majesty's Ninety-Second Highlanders (The Gordons).
"Good evening, Lieutenant Colonel. How is your family faring?"
"As well as can be expected. I told Katie tae keep the girls in the wagon, and that they would keep dry that way. Of course, Robina and Jean were not tae keen tae sleep in a wagon with the military chests and such, but they were not going tae sleep out in the rain either, sae they made due." MacGilivray offered MacLean a seat, and the two officers began to speak of times long gone.
Three minutes later, a troop of six majors slogged their way through the entrance of the HQ tent. Two men were instantly discernable from their companions. One was Major Clancy in his cavalry uniform with its riding breeches, and the other was a man of medium height and build, who wore the blue uniform coat and pants of the Royal Horse Artillery, with a pattern eighteen-twenty-two light cavalry saber and a holstered Adams revolver by his side. Major Frederick Llewellyn was his name, and he was in charge of the twelve Armstrong cannon and their crews. The other four were clad in kilts, with holstered revolvers and the broad, straight basket-hilted broadswords of the Highland Line Officer sheathed at their sides. Major Dalton, an aged man with sad eyes, and Major McDonough, a young but competent man, were the two battalion commanders of the colonel's own regiment. Major McKenna, a seemingly ordinary man with extraordinary tactical abilities, and Major Brown, an indefatigable Clydeside native with a barrel chest and arms like hydraulic presses, were MacLean's two able battalion commanders. All six saluted MacGilivray and MacLean, who had risen from their seats, and the pair returned the salute, and put the officers at ease. MacGilivray looked them over for a moment, then spoke in a grim fashion.
"Gentlemen, we have a very serious matter before us. We all ken that something has gone wrong, and that we are no longer where or, as may be the case, when we are supposed tae be. It has been suggested by Major Clancy that we are, in actuality, exactly where we were twa weeks ago, but not when. He believes that the creature we saw when we appeared in that field was responsible for our displacement. What the fiend said, or at least as much of what he said as I could translate, supports this theory. That's all I know on this matter, gentlemen. As far as orders go, keep drillin' your men. The last thing we need is a lapse of discipline. You are also to brief your company commanders as to the content of this meeting, and tell them to brief their section leaders. We will be bivouacking here for at least one more day to give the weather some time to clear up. I will issue more orders then. Any questions?" Major Brown spoke up first, his thick Clydeside accent evident in his speech.
"D'ya think that Naraku bastard is still alive, Colonel sir? I mean, all we found was a splash or twa of some black, oily liquid, and nae body. If'n I had a nice bloody, bullet-riddled corpse a'fore me, I'd feel much better, sir."
"I'm sure you would, Casey, and so would us all. But to answer your question, Major Brown, aye. Aye, I believe that de'il still draws breath somewhere, but I feel that he'll think twice before tangling with us again. Unfortunately for him, however, we are going to go looking for him. At the moment he's our only doorway back to the year eighteen eighty-six. Any other questions?… None? Then you are all dismissed to brief your subordinates." The six majors saluted, and ventured out into the Stygian night, slogging their independent ways to inform their company commanders. Soon afterward MacLean bade the colonel good night, saluted, and went to check on his family. They were, reflected MacGilivray, some of the best officers in the Queen's service today, and he was glad that he had them here, with him in this terrible time of uncertainty.
Something soft and beautiful caught the colonel's attention. The mellow notes of a flute made their torturous way through the drowning effect of the rain to reach the colonel's ear. That would be young Captain McFarland, he thought. The flute was soon accompanied by the sweet, fiery strains of a fiddle, and the two instruments played a beautiful duet that rang out with surprising clarity. And that would be the even younger Lieutenant Scott, ready as ever to prompt his commander to a quicker pace of action. He knew the two officers well; probably better than he knew any other men in his regiment, aside from Dalton, McDonough, and Grant, the Regimental Sergeant Major. And well he should, considering that, for two years, he had been one of their senior instructors at the prestigious Edinburgh Military Academy, before he had left teaching to return to the role of the line officer.
The rain, Colonel MacGilivray noted, had lessened, with a promise of ceasing altogether, but MacGilivray had been an infantryman too long to put much store into such meteorological promises. He would wait one day to give the road time to dry out somewhat, then the column would strike the tents and begin to march south. If Major Clancy was correct, then there was a village approximately one hundred and twenty-eight miles to the south, or had been- whether it existed in their current era was a different story, whose topography made it very defensible, with several areas of high elevation and a large forest nearby to facilitate the building of a fort. God help us all, thought MacGilivray, if the good major is wrong, however.
Note: If anyone is wondering about the creative spelling, it is my own attempt to write an accent into print. Some accents are thicker than others, hence the descrepencies. Bear wit me on dis, alrigh'? 'Cause I'd hate ta have Louie here break yer legs like toothpicks. Dat sort a' ting makes paperwoik, and we's hates paperwoik. Say hi to da audience, Louie. HI TO DA ODD-E-ENCE, LOOIE...