Barrow was very much aware of Parry’s astuteness. The moment the gentlemen left the room, he was quite certain his actions to the exterior world would appear desperate, dare he say, gallant, in acting to save the remaining Admiralty Board. William Parry might think otherwise if ever questioning Barrow’s reasoning for not acting with haste sooner before Viscount Melville began service to Satan. If Captain Parry survived London until morning-the-next, that is.
“Whatever are we going to do?” Sir George Cockburn mumbled, grimacing at the splash of red soaking through his white stockings and the silk of his buckled shoes. Cockburn had lost his wig in the rush and now ambled about, lost like a doughy lamb. Years of proud service to His Majesty’s Navy had earned the veteran Admiral of the Fleet, a comfortable position behind Dundas and his preceding rank-holders. Barrow had little distaste for useless, gibbering men such as John Franklin and quite a few of the Lords, without Dundas.
Barrow didn’t answer right-away, reloading his pistol with spares from a secret cubbyhole in his desk, knowing it only a matter of time before First Lord Dundas or the unfortunate Clerkenwell arose into undead life.
“Why cast votes to choose the vacant seat.” Remarked Second Lord, snowy-haired Sir William Johnston Hope, Vice-Admiral. Knowing very well how they would all vote for themselves, thus unable to break majority.
“That is most irregular, my honorable Sir William.” Cockburn declared, “we must follow protocol if the Admiralty is to survive this crisis. That being stated, I personally wish to see this sad state of affairs closed. I nominate myself to become First Lord.”
Instantly, the remainder of the Lords were up in arms, each pushing their own cases to fill the undead Lord Melville’s seat. Barrow finished the tedious reloading of his favorite handgun, sighing to himself over their collective absurdity. The only man fit to take up Dundas’s mantle...was...himself. Unfortunately, none would ever see eye to eye with his brilliancy nor would they ever stop bickering long enough to notice the First Lord’s slack black-tinged gums falling open wider than any living mouth should part and rise into a sitting position. Pity.
Sir William Hope let loose a particularly unmanly shriek as Lord Melville arose from his cadaver-like state, taking a bite out of the portly man’s thigh. Blood streamed down the powder white stocking, riblets of flesh quivered from the First Lord’s grayish-colored lips. Barrow took aim as the Lords scattered once again. Robert Dundas collapsed into pool of his congealing lifeblood, a fresh divot between his colorless eyes.
“Second Secretary Barrow, you are out of hand!” Cockburn declared, clutching someone’s wig to his chest, gasping by the door. John Barrow chose not to respond, plucking up a silver letter opener from his desk, he strode over to Hope’s writhing figure beside Clerkenwell and Dundas.
“Truly sorry, sir.” Barrow murmured, plunging the blade through the pineal gland. Hope’s whimper died into a gurgling choke, at last the large man became still with the motionless of absolute death.
“Murderer!” Cockburn screamed; the frightened Lords took up the chant at once, their ragged voices echoing to the domed ceiling. Barrow calmly overrode them, walking over to his desk, stroking the warm wood fondly. “I have done only what is required as a loyal subject to the King!” His bass voice raised in subdued fury startled them. As one, the remaining seven shrunk away from his tall figure. “Lord Johnston-Hope’s fate was sealed as an emissary of Satan as many have been prior. I suggest, now, sirs.” Barrow loaded the extra munitions into a spare bag, including an inkwell and spare sheets. “You remove yourselves from this place and make whatever preparations you see fit. There is only the night to survive before dawn’s light brings with it our salvation.”
Donning his modest black ankle-length coat, hat tucked beneath his arm, keeping his pistol close at hand. To the doors he went, passing by the pale-faced Lords watching him with distinct distrust and suspicion. “Good day, gentlemen.” Barrow said, exiting the inner doors of the Admiralty chambers for he felt the last time.