A Zombie Christmas Carol by Michael G. Thomas; Charles Dickens Page B

couldn’t have predicted, at any given time, what would have become of them next. And when old Fezziwig and Mrs. Fezziwig had gone all through the dance; advance and retire, both hands to your partner, bow and curtsey, corkscrew, thread-the-needle, and back again to your place; Fezziwig “cut”—cut so deftly, that he appeared to wink with his legs, and came upon his feet again without a stagger.
    As the party danced gleefully, a stranger entered from the darkness outside.  He wore a long, scruffy coat and his face hidden in the shadows as he moved closer. Mrs. Fezziwig squealed with excitement as she ran from the dance to embrace the man.  The old man looked as though he would be knocked backwards by the tumultuous force of the lady, but he managed to regain his balance after much effort.  Separating just a fraction the man pulled down the hood from his coat to reveal the face of a hardened and toughened man.  His eyes softened his face, he was immediately recognised by Mr. Fezziwig.
    “Mr Jenkins!” he cried in joy as he also moved closely to shake the man.
    “What a splendid surprise, we had no idea you were back,” he said.
    The visitor moved to the side of the room, chatting with the pair whilst the rest of the party continued their dancing.
    The Ghost beckoned Scrooge to follow as it moved closer to the little group, allowing them to overhear their discussion.  Scrooge raised his hand in protest but the Spirit pulled him with a force that drained his ability to stand away from his legs.
    “The regiment has returned to England and I have leave for several weeks and I just had to spend the time to see my sister in this wonderful holiday,” explained the man.
    “You are always welcome in our home, sir,” said Mr. Fezziwig as he beamed with pleasure.
    “Thank you, it is good to be away from the barracks and in the company of civility once more,” replied Mr Jenkins with wry grin.
    The Ghost turned back to Scrooge, watching him intently as Mr Jenkins explained his recent activity on the continent and the progress of his regiment’s campaigns.
    “Mr Jenkins was a well-respected officer, when he died his funeral was attended by many, many people.  He died with honour and respect.”
    “I know, I know,” said an irate Scrooge, “I read his obituary in the newspaper.”
    “Yet you failed to attend his funeral even though it was held such a short distance away from your own home,” said the Spirit dismissively.
    “Did you have no feelings or consideration for this man?  Had you never spoken?” he asked, though Scrooge was convinced he already knew the answer.
    “Of course I knew him, Mr Jenkins was the man that showed me a sword for the first time,” said Scrooge.
    As he spoke the room spun and swirled, Scrooge felt he must have been drugged or injured in some frivolous manner.  As the walls slowed, he noticed the party was still going on, but he was now off to the side and watching the young Scrooge talking to the old man.  It was of course him and Mr Jenkins, the old soldier.
    The old man held in front of him a vicious looking sword, it was dulled and pitted from a hard life in Northern Europe.  It reminded Scrooge of the swords he had read about as a young boy in Arabia with its curved blade, much like a scimitar.  It certainly looked far from the weapon of an Englishman.
    “This is my old friend, my trusty cavalry sabre.  We call this the 1796 pattern sword, designed for use by all the light cavalry, including my old regiment. It has served me well these many years. Here, do you want to hold it?” he asked whilst looking at the young man.
    The young Scrooge pushed out his hands in excitement towards the weapon and then stopped just before touching the steel.  The soldier moved it towards Scrooge and then stopped just shy of a few inches.
    “Before you touch it I want you to remember this is a sword of war and not to be trifled with.  I have carried that sword in many countries and used