Excerpt: The Buff and The Blue

On the cusp of eighteen twenty-four, a single snowflake is illuminated by the gas lights that line Whitehall. It’s edged softened by the drag of the air against it as it fell through, it landed with a gentle puff onto the frozen ground beneath. It fell solitary, but before too long others were joining it, all softened by the bitter air around it, as a literal silver lining. As it landed, it proceeded to cover everything – the pavement, the gas lights, the occasional passing carriage, the barren trees and the crowds that gathered on the street. Ladies edged closer to their husbands and children towards their mothers and fathers, all wanting escape the sting in the tail that graceful but sharp snowflakes left, but simultaneously unwilling to retreat back to their homes or stationary carriages on this most magical evening, in the critical moments. Eighteen twenty-three had proven itself to be an invigorating year, with the early days seeing Weddell reach the furthest south any nation had gone before, and Peel heading a movement to reform the social conditions of the country’s gaol system. Danger also hung in the air, the still recent news from Shapura about the Burmese attack on six British guards fresh in the minds of some, and with it a threat of increased deterioration in the Anglo-Burmese relationship. However, for the most part on this blissful eve, such troubling thoughts were banished from the mind as all awaited the end of eighteen twenty-three and the first minutes of eighteen twenty-four. The crowd shifted restlessly, eager to both greet the new year with open and wide eyes that are capable of appreciating all that the fresh beginning represents, and to escape the biting cold that is nipping at any exposed flesh, waiting for an opportunity to pounce onto what is not rightfully its. To the south of Whitehall comes a chime, faint at first but gathering in tone and decreasing in register as it reaches the ears of the crowd. One… Heads turn, searching for the source, quickly alighting upon the unassuming clock tower of the Houses of Parliament. Two, Three, Four… Breathing activity was suspended temporarily as the crisp atmosphere of this moment overtook the impulses of all bodies, and any activity that broke the suspenseful silence was harshly and abruptly ceased. Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine… The chimes seemed to taunt the crowd, almost slowing as if to deny them of their pleasure. Ten, Eleven… As one, the crowd drew in deep. Twelve. The end of the pattern and the end of the year; as the snow fell thicker than ever, families celebrated, distinguished couples marvelled upon another year spent together and young courters celebrated their own beginning with chaste kisses up and down the crowd. Slowly, as if reluctant to leave such jubilation, people begin to drift away, returning to the warmth of flickering fires the servants have started at home, or to their carriages; before too long, only a small minority remain along Whitehall. Still, it feels that there remained no individual within the surroundings of Whitehall who had no ushered in the new year on that night.

Such pronouncements were, of course, inaccurate to say the least. It said nothing of the young children, the elderly or the poor individuals who lay in their beds, possibly not expecting to see another year. Such a claim speaks not of the people whom had been discouraged by the cold, nor of husbands and wives who had taken advantage of the opportunity to clandestinely celebrate in private, whether by one another or with someone who did not belong to them. Further down the moral scale, to pronounce that all had gathered to see the new year ignored the multitudes who would have retired to the brothels of Covent Garden and, more disgracefully, Whitechapel, for any number of reasons ranging from the availability on such nights to the desperate despair in celebrating another beginning alone, knowing that it would ultimately end in the same way as well. It also made no mention of William Carter, who had been sat by himself in his rear facing office a few streets away from Whitehall. A young enough man in his mid to late forties, and therefore still able to hear without the aid of a horn unlike many of his peers, Carter had not been oblivious to the celebrations that were taking place a few hundred yards away. It was with a slight twinge of pain that he listened to the chimes of the Houses of Parliament clock tower begin at midnight, and with more discomfort that he listened to them end, knowing that he had missed the refreshment of ushering in the new year, and that, for him, eighteen twenty-four had simply slipped by unnoticed, passing into his life without celebration, without any attention being paid for it. But Carter knew that tonight’s work could not wait, and could not have waited fifteen minutes ago to allow him to join the celebrations in Whitehall. And so Carter kept on at his work, hardly noticing when another fifteen minutes past – indeed, it made no more impression upon his determination that the beginning of eighteen twenty-four had a short time before. The start of the new year was no to be the only thing that Carter barely noticed; outside his office building, a figure struggled through the snow that had piled up for quarter of an hour to reach the ground floor, where an arm clothed heavily in thick fabrics and furthers reached out to push it open – not unusually, it was unlocked. The stairs creaked as they were trod upon, and it was this creak that first alerted Carter that he was no longer alone in the building. He idly wondered whether his office door was locked, but this question was rendered moot when it was pushed open; Carter put his imported American fountain pen down and readied himself for the intrusion. A person became distinguishable in the doorway, the blackened corridor detracting from the already poorly lit doorway. In stepped the figure, and Carter was finally able to recognise it as a specified human form.
“What are you doing here?” he called out, his voice steady and not betrayed his confusion.
“I’ve come to wish you a happy new year, ‘Liam,” came the response. One penetrating sound followed, then all was silent.