where-the-poppies-blow

[where-the-poppies-blow]

Me and @a-french-guardsman right now

[where-the-poppies-blow]

Chapter 3:

"It's all there", the magistrate huffed as Elaine counted the sack of coins with growing annoyance.

"I told you the printing press is broken, there's nothing to be done about writing you a cheque", he leaned over the wood of the desk, practically breathing down her neck. "If it don't look official, ya won't get paid lil miss", he tugged at his neat moustache before drawing a pipe from his coat and lighting it.

He adorned himself in the garb of an Old World British Officer, aristocratic pomp pouring from the gilded fastenings and colourful piping that festooned the khaki garment. Slimy arrogance seeped from his gaze.

"Yes, but carrying two sacks of sovereigns like this is sure to bring every bandit and brigand for miles sniffing around when they hear my saddle bags clanking from Paris".

Elaine tossed the flap of the bag shut impatiently, she had half a mind to take the bodies back and find a settlement with a better offer.

Instead she sighed, hefting a bag over each shoulder and staggered out to her waiting steed.

He shrugged in her wake before slinking back to his desk.

Ellaine swore, kicking a rock halfway across the street once she had fastened her cargo.

Upon releasing her frustration, she shot the sleazy official a glance through the window as she mounted up and made for the hotel.

The Goose down feathers were sharp against her neck as Elaine flopped onto her rented bed, tossing aside her broken watch onto the nightstand.

A day on the river had left her weary and exhausted, she had stowed her burdensome treasure beneath a loose floorboard.

Best not doze yet, Sam would be expecting her soon, the gunfighter thought to herself and yet sleep took her anyway.

~~

August 1918

The smell of smoke drifted across Brighton pier, the close press of thousands of bodies crushed Elaine and yet her small hand clung tightly to her fathers thumb.

The night sky was rife with stars, ash and embers, the girl caught scarce glimpses of it through the dense forest of legs that towered all about her.

The roar of fire and the frantic shouts snatched away her father's words, sending them swirling in the chaos.

The crowd marched on beneath awnings and webs of bunting, past the Indian hospital and the ornate pavilions.

Elaine struggled on little legs to keep up as he stumped along with haste towards the mass gathering at the end of the Pier, dodging abandoned trunks and suitcases.

Folk jostled and writhed, coughing and holding masks to their faces as they fought one another to find refuge on the ships gathering out in the channel, the girl caught many knees and thighs against her head.

The tide broke against the wooden railing, sailors helped folk down into the awaiting rowboats, throwing aside their belongings.

Elaine's father stopped, hefting her up into his arms, straining on his prosthetic as the pair made one final effort to the end of the Pier.

He kissed the girls brow, his moustache scratching her forehead.

The ships out in the channel took up in a chorus of horns and whistles, snatching the words exchanged between the one legged man and a sailor clinging on the outside of the bannister.

“yes I know that……….but……..she's only four………don't make me leave her…….”

With tears in his eyes, Elaine's father stepped to the side, clinging to her tightly, she clung back with equal ferocity.

He dug in his pockets clumsily for a moment, drawing money and his pocket watch, pressing them into her tiny hands with sincerity.

“Darling….we will see each other again…..I promise”.

Tears burned in the girl's eyes, she kicked and screamed as her father handed her down to the sailors, clinging to him with desperation with her one free hand.

Strangers' hands passed her to the back of the rowboat, from where she caught one final glimpse of a tear streaked face before it disappeared into the gloom and smoke.

The men cast off, the weathered hull thunked against the jetty, the resounding knock seemed to echo through the night, endlessly until it near drove her mad.

~~

The knocking continued, Elaine sat up in her bed, the hotel room about her, the smoky seaside chased away into the furthest reaches of her dreams.

“Mademoiselle? A gentleman is here to see you”, the muffled voice of the hostess passed through the closed door.

“Shit” the hired gun swore as she shot up and smoothed her ruffled feathers.

“Please, tell him I'll be down in a moment”, Elaine spluttered as she checked herself in a mirror from her satchel.

She had overslept and missed her rendezvous with the clerk from earlier.

She descended the stairs into the lobby moments later, teeth clenched at the ache in her leg.

Sam sat beside the fire, blonde hair shining in the flickering light.

Upon hearing the ponderous clomp of her shoes on the wooden floor, he rose, turning to face Elaine.

The sun had not long set, long gloomy shadows were cast through the windows.

“I didn't plan on falling asleep, I hope you didn't think I was standing you up”, she laughed nervously.

The blind man held out his arm for Elaine to loop hers through.

“It's quite alright”, his mouth, the dominating feature of his obscured face, curled into a beautiful smile.

Sam's other hand, which until now had hovered out of sight behind his back, now emerged clutching a poppy, offered up to the tall woman.

Elaine gave a small tsk of gratitude tucking it in her hat.

The pair went arm in arm out of the hotel and in search of food.

Read the first chapter here.

[where-the-poppies-blow]

Chapter Two

The folk from the nameless village had swarmed past Elaine to loot the outlaw's hideout, as she stood bruised, under the eaves of the bank, smoking her cigarette.

She had only interrupted them to collect the corpses, leaving the settlers to party with their recaptured food and drink.

Some had asked her to stay, calling upon her to join them in the revelry but the wary glances of most had warded her away.

She had laid them out on an old pallet as a pair of settlers took to the hatch on the Armoured Car with a hammer and chisel, she mounted up with a long tether tied to the horn of her saddle, disappearing into the night.

That was days ago, she had been eager to get her burden to an office where she could collect her cheque and be on her way to the next job.

Luckily she had managed to convince a canal barge captain to take them all, living, dead and equine to Saint Quentin.

The only snag seemingly, was the limp she had earned, the bandits had been caught without their guns for the most part, only Marcelle had thought to wear his holster to dinner.

That didn't prevent one of them from coming at her with a cavalry sabre, he swung in a high arc over his head.

Elaine had only stepped aside in time to avoid being split in half, the blow still caught her leg, the blade biting into her skirt and catching her pocket watch.

The blade had done no damage in itself yet the force had driven the metal of the timepiece into her leg.

She had wrapped it in bandages but faint red lines crept along her skin, radiating from the cut.

The wound had ached and panged, a gnawing feeling of worry had begun to drape itself over Elaine's mind and yet she soldiered on.

Her horse, a grey mare named Puddles, was not fond of boats and took much coercion by way of carrots to actually get on the ferry.

The country rolled past in all its vast ugliness, shattered towns and wreckage strewn battlefields stretched onwards to either horizon.

Elaine sat at the bow of the old boat, her newly acquired rifle lay across her lap, doing her best to ignore the gnaw of pain blossoming from her leg.

She chatted amicably in French with the owners as they both took long strokes with their paddles, he was portly and bald with a walrus moustache, she, a grey haired wisp of a woman with a wrinkled face that had done much smiling.

The day wore on peacefully, the silence only disturbed by the splash of the oar and an occasional duck.

Elaine kept an eye on the old derelict houses that overlooked the Canal, frontier ruffians were known to take up such high bastions to harass traders and travellers along the waterways.

She felt a jolt of unease bloom through her stomach when the brazen cry of a trumpet cut across the serene stillness of the afternoon.

Soon a great clattering came echoing along the rail bridge that cut across the canal from above.

Marie, the bargemans wife spat into the water and muttered a few choice words as a tremendous crowd of folk came clanking along the bridge, clad in rags and chains.

This mob pulled behind them a line of a half dozen railway cars filled with ore, along the rails.

Guards and drivers patrolled mounted about them with guns and whips in hand.

Elaine had a rush of emotions not dissimilar to her guide, her knuckles white as she clenched the wooden frame of the gun across her knees.

In her early days in the business, she had worked for unsavoury folk like the Queen of Zeebrugge and the Black Iron Captain of Koekelare.

Elaine had been a lean and hungry teenager then, fresh off the boat and desperate for work, but once they had started dealing in people, she had gone her own way.

Slaver Lords had cleared and repaired the rails in many places around the Scar, repurposing trains into mobile fortresses, auction-houses and factories where they sold minerals, produce, manufactured goods and people.

These Lords held the town of Cambrai and were known to send out bands of Raiders to steal folk into the night and fill their slave pens. These outlaws had a far reach, paid in booze and cigarettes, they often patrolled the rails to keep them in good repair and capture vulnerable wayfarers.

As the barge glided below the bridge they caught the last glimpse of the rear of the Slave Train.

An ornate passenger carriage rumbled on by, from where a group of well to do persons peered down in a combination of uppity curiosity and boredom.

The bounty hunter averted her eyes, the colour beginning to drain from her face as she shook in anger.

Elaine knew that she was outmatched, two dozen mounted mercenaries would be far more of a challenge than seven drunk bandits who had left their gun belts in another room.

She twisted her mouth in frustration, hearing the poor devils clank off into the distance made her heart heavy.

Martin the bargeman placed a meaty hand on her bony shoulder, raising his sleeve to reveal a branded serial number.

"They will get what's coming to them, they all do", he returned to his paddles after receiving a brief nod, Elaine sat quietly, thinking of the bored faces peering down in disgust, wondering if they had glared so disdainfully at the people they owned as they were worked to death.

She sat rather forlorn for the final leg of the journey, staring off into the mists that began to curl atop the water as the sun drifted ever lower toward the horizon.

Martin spoke only when Saint Quentin loomed into view further down the canal.

"Here we are", the old man looped a lash of rope about a wooden post with his large weathered hands as they drew in close to the settlement.

The warm glow of lamps bloomed among the houses on the canal side, folk had begun to close up for the evening, tucking away their clapboard signs and pressing coins into the palms of the boys who skittered about watering the hanging plants that adorned the awnings of store fronts.

Martin and Elaine began piling her cargo onto the wharf, "christ, don't they stink" he spluttered as he hauled a blanket wrapped corpse up out of the ferry.

As Elaine clambered up onto the rickety wooden platform a burst of pain shot through her leg, the wound from the bank made itself known with a wave of aches that were worse than before.

Marie gave her a look as she hissed with pain, Elaine waved her off with some half hearted assurances.

A young man sat at the end of the pier with his upper face wrapped in off-white linen bandages.

An old church lectern sat before him, functioning as his desk as he collected tariffs from the new arrivals.

He turned sightless head towards the sound of their approach, blonde curls waving in the wind.

A tidy gentleman who had disembarked a pole boat before them handed the man his anchorage fee, "bit young to have a war wound, ain't you son?", he asked.

He shook his head, "I wasn't born till 1914 sir, I got this…", he gestured at the bandages, "....from the iron harvest".

Martin and Marie clucked sadly behind Elaine, "poor boy" she heard the woman mutter. A man who set his plough in his field had to be very brave, four years of unexploded shells lay buried beneath the Scar, there must have been millions of them out there, this man was particularly unlucky however, he had struck a gas shell by the look of the marks that peaked from beneath the linen.

The gentleman before them in the queue clapped the lad on the shoulder before heading into town.

Elaine stepped forward next, holding Puddle's bridle, Martin behind her.

The blind man produced a card for them to fill out and collected their toll.

"Seven corpses?" He exclaimed after inquiring about their cargo, passing the note along to a scribe.

"I would very much like to hear this tale in its entirety, madam bounty hunter".

Elaine laughed, her stomach giving a nervous little flutter, the man was attractive despite the fact half his face was obscured by linen, he had a delicate prettiness to him that worried at her thoughts.

"Well perhaps you might need to take me out for dinner then" Elaine replied, a small blush creeping across her smiling face.

The blonde smiled up at her, "Perhaps I'll do just that, I'll be finished here in an hour, that should give you enough time to cash those in".

Martin nudged her playfully, wiggling his eyebrows as he passed Elaine to set about finding her a cart.

She shooed him before turning back towards the tollmaster, drawing her pocket watch only to be reminded by its cracked face that it was broken.

"It's four-thirty" Marie offered helpfully with a wink.

"I'll meet you back here at seven, I'm Elaine by the way" she winced, adjusting herself on her injured leg.

"Sam", the man extended a hand to shake, she felt a giddy rush as his soft palm slipped into her hand, feeling rather self conscious about her calluses.

"Seven it is", he gave her a small wave before addressing the next group of fresh arrivals.

When she turned back, Martin had already loaded the six bodies into a waiting cart, Marie stood next to him both wearing wide smiles, almost like proud parents.

Elaine batted away that thought, leading Puddles over, she hugged each of them in turn.

"Thank you so much, I could not have asked for better guides", Elaine gushed, digging in her pockets to pay them.

The pair smiled at each other knowingly.

"The pleasure was ours, my darling" Marie answered with a papery kiss on her cheek.

"Enjoy your date love", Martin scooped her up into a breathless hug, "and remember, you're welcome at our table anytime".

They both gave Puddles a friendly pat down before returning to their Barge, not before Elaine had to force them to accept their due.

"Have fun tonight", Martin called back with a cheeky smile as he disappeared from view.

The bounty hunter shook her head before mounting up, she called down to the cart driver, "I'm not going far, just to the courthouse", he nodded and set his mule off at a brisk trot.

[where-the-poppies-blow]

Chapter One

The heavens beat down their percussion on the old tin roofs.

A gaggle of washerwomen sang softly in French on a covered porch, voices wafting across the avenue as the deep blue of this rainy afternoon wore on into evenfall.

Elaine strode on up the street, her heeled boots clopping on cracked flagstones, long black skirt swishing about her legs, the blue ribbon in her hat trailing behind.

This town is where she would find her quarry, a hamlet cobbled from earth, logs and the ruins of some town whose name had long been lost to memory.

What few folk had decided to brave the drizzle to chatter in the eaves of the stores that lined the street, stopped and stared as she bustled past, eyeing the pistol that she held in her gloved hand.

It was an ugly thing, a boxy, mechanical, evil shape of sable steel with a strange wooden handle, it's barrel a fat angry needle that seemed almost hungry for blood.

Elaine came to a halt outside the old bank, its crumbling stone facade towered over her.

Boarded windows withheld all but the barest slivers of golden lamplight that glimmered and rippled on the wet ground.

A Gramophone whispered, muffled through the walls, a long dirge echoing out into the growing twilight.

French shop signs called down from every wall, their once bright words now faded and flaked with time.

Off to her left, a man sat high up on a ladder, lighting the oil lanterns that lined the footpath.

He watched Elaine, frozen, his match burning down to his fingers, he swore as the flickering orange kissed his fingers and as if broken from a trance he slid down to the ground and hurried off into the gloom, with more than a few wary looks thrown over his shoulder.

The match lay smouldering where the old man had dropped it, soon extinguished by the growing puddles that rippled in the light downpour.

Eight men sheltered in the building before her, a gang of highwaymen who had taken to using a rusted old armoured car to pillage outlying farms and trade caravans to the north.

Some wealthy aristocrat from the channel had evidently grown sick of their exploits and issued a bounty out of pocket.

Elaine had found their poster on some Tavern Wall in Belgium, the car and the number of men had scared away most other hired guns.

Yet the reward had piqued her interest, a pretty sum, far more than she would ever earn hunting down debtors, thieves and errant gamblers whose luck had run dry.

So she had tracked them, riding far to the south where the Alps loomed up beyond the long abandoned battlefields of the Western Front.

A farmhand had pointed her to this small outlying town, the group had only been seven when she had first picked up their trail but they had stopped a few miles up the road and taken on food, water, fuel and a hanger-on, the farmhand's 16 year old brother.

Elaine had made some promises of not hurting the would-be bandit in order to get the location she needed, but her intentions were her own and if he drew on her, she'd defend herself.

Upon seeing the boarded up state of the front door, Elaine decided to edge her way down an alley and try round back.

Her boots sloshed in muddy puddles as she sidled over heaped rubble.

She came to a sudden stop as she rounded the corner,she found a youth, remarkable in his resemblance to a certain farmhand she had conversed with earlier that day.

He sat on the wet ground, against an armoured car.

The machine, despite being swaddled in cloth, was unmistakable, it's colourful chassis ornamented in Dazzle Camouflage.

The lad was skinny, his dark hair draped about his shoulders as he buried his face in his knees.

A rifle lay propped against a wall far out of reach, an open door farther along spilled warm light into the alley, the alluring scent of a hot cooked meal came with it.

Mirth, laughing, joking and music.

They had left him outside to guard the car in the rain while they all sat in the warm drinking and eating, Elaine felt sorry for the boy, no doubt he had been lured away with promises of loot, food and drink only to be turned into a servant.

She went on quietly, her foot falls slow and deliberate until she had found herself between him and the rifle.

She had almost been content to leave him to sulk but decided it was better to send him on his way.

Elaine's boot nudged him in the ribs, the sodden lad sat up with a start only to find his mouth clamped over with a leather clad hand, staring down the barrel of a box cannon.

Elaine made a shushing motion, backing away to shoulder the rifle, all the while her pistol remained levelled on the wayward youth.

"How many?" She whispered as she yanked him to his feet.

The lad stared at the ground for a long while, "seven", his voice barely a whisper.

"Go home" Elaine retorted as loudly as she dared, shoving him down the muddy side street, “Be thankful I'm giving you this chance".

He shot her a look before slinking off down the alley and out of sight.

Elaine turned her attention back to the others in the building, she had caught them at an ideal time, out of their armoured motor carriage, drunk and likely less armed than usual.

She would have taken them on the road but she feared what that armoured beast's gun would do to her horse.

The doorway cast its amber light upon her willowy frame as she stepped through the threshold.

She took measured short steps, rounding each doorway with her handgun raised, a cloakroom that stank of mildew, a pair of abandoned offices overflowing with guns, a dusty counting room, all devoid of her prey.

At last she fell upon them in the old Vault, it's treasure long looted, now a trestle table had been erected in place, seven men sat around it enjoying wine and decadent food, the stench of cigarette smoke hanging heavy in the air.

They all turned with a start, despite their faces contorted in confusion, she knew their names, a rough likeness of each had been scrawled in charcoal on the poster Elaine had snatched down from that tavern wall.

Marcelle Dupont, the leader, rose first, scrambling for his revolver but Elaine was faster.

~-~

Across the street a throng had joined under the verandah of the old barber, the townsfolk had gathered in Elaine's wake, eager to see the outcome of this confrontation, others hung out of windows or lingered on balconies, nervous chatter rippling through the crowd.

Their voices rose to a clamour as the dark haired youth, who only hours before, had pilfered food, tobacco and alcohol from each of their homes and businesses at gunpoint, scampered from behind the building and off down the street, struggling to keep his suspenders up on his shoulders.

A hail of stones and insults in a dozen languages followed him long after he had disappeared into the distance.

It was then the shooting started, shouting came first from within the bank, then the loud clap of gunfire, pinpricks of light burst through the boarded windows as they were riddled with shot.

The townsfolk scattered, screaming as shards of wood and brick flew left and right, the rattle and roar of battle echoing down the street.

It seemed to go on for an eternity, only those brave enough to continue watching now lingered in the mouths of alleyways at a safer distance while everyone else took to basements and attics to cower.

Eventually the sound died away and tentatively the throng regathered around the Bank Doors.

Night had fallen proper by then, the inky blackness cast long shadows about them.

The crowd receded in fright when a blow hammered on the inside of the front doors, then came another and another before the tired old wood gave way.

The gentle clop of her boots on the brick stairs preceded her as she stepped from the cloud of smoke and into the rain, an oblong of light burst out onto the waiting crowd as she descended.

That elegant willowy young woman, who had come to town atop a grey horse in a fine white blouse and a straw hat tied with a blue ribbon, now stood before them smeared with dirt and blood.

She tucked away her pistol, limped down the steps and over to the old man from before.

"Have you still got those matches?" Elaine fumbled in her satchel.

"I need a smoke".

[where-the-poppies-blow]

It Begins!

After much back and forth and some support from friends on Discord, I have finally decided to start posting my writing here on Tumblr.

This particular blog will be focused on what started off as a world building exercise (and quickly evolved into a full story).

Where the Poppies Blow is a tale set in a world where The Great War does not with an armistice in November, instead ends similarly to as it began, the last throes of Summer, shattered by the guns of August and the end of all things.

In early 1918 the Trench Flu spread faster than anyone could have imagined, mankind was ravaged to near extinction and scattered bands of diverse survivors carve out a meagre existence among the ruins of the old Western Front, the battered remnants of a dozen Armies.

This Wasteland, known as the Great Scar, is a lawless frontier, infested with Bandits, Outlaws and Pirates, a savage place, and yet the goodness of everyday folk endures.

In this series, I hope to tell a series of vignettes in a semi-regular, serialised format, chapter by chapter. The first of these will follow a down-on-her-luck bounty hunter experiencing the highs and lows of life as a hired gun in the Wasteland.

Finally, some quick housekeeping, this is purely a hobby, I will be the first to admit that I am an amateur writer, you may find my prose and writing style to be painfully pedestrian.

I'm happy to take constructive criticism but if you've got nothing nice to say, I wont hesitate to block you.

Feel free to make suggestions in DMs or Asks.

If you are looking for a story that focuses on the minutia of militaria, weapons and war machines, your mileage may vary.

(This story will feature "the gays" ™️, don't like, don't read, simple)

My aim is to tell a compelling story first and foremost, with a lived in world and interesting characters.

The first chapter will be up shortly, so hold tight!

(~Gassed by John Singer Sargent)