Precipice

by Thomas Webb

  Montclair trotted his brute up the road, the boughs of the ancient oak trees on either side forming a canopy overhead. Every nerve ending tingled. All five senses danced on a razor-honed edge. This could all be a trap. If it was, he had no choice but to find out.

  An old man waited at the end of the road, standing patiently in front of the manse. Montclair scanned the area around the house. The old man looked to be alone.

  “I’ll see to your mount, suh,” the old man croaked.

  He was an ancient and withered creature, his hair a tangled mass of gray wool, his skin the color and texture of driftwood.

  “Calgary?” Montclair asked.

  The old man squinted. “Beggin’ your pardon, suh. Eyes ain’t what they once was. Have we met?”

  Montclair removed his mask. He leapt down from the brute and faced the old man his father had once owned.

  The old man’s face cracked into a wide smile. He embraced Montclair. “Young master Julius!” he beamed. “You’re a sight for these old eyes! Master Randall said we might expect you, but I didn’t half believe him. Good to have you home again, suh.”

  Montclair hugged the man then extricated himself and took a step back. He clapped Calgary on the shoulder and smiled down at him. “No need to call me ‘master’, Cal. You’re free now, aren’t you?” A thought occurred to Montclair. He looked around. “What are you still doing here, Cal? I’d have thought that by now you’d have gone on to join one of the Freedmen communities.”

  Calgary shook his head, the action slow and deliberate. “When all that freed-man business happened and the clock men replaced us, I asked Master Randall if I could stay on. He said I could. Even pays me a li’l wages.” Calgary shrugged. “Wouldn’t know what to do with myself anyway, suh, if I did leave.”

  Montclair nodded. Calgary had spent his entire life in servitude. The life of Freedman must have seemed a thing of mystery to him, and mystery was sometimes terrifying. Montclair tried to understand, but his understanding did nothing to alleviate his sadness or his anger. The stain of slavery would take generations to repair, if not longer.

  “They’re a-waiting on you inside, Master Julius,” Calgary said.

  Montclair put his hand on the old man’s shoulder. “Thank you, Cal. I can show myself in.”

  Montclair turned and started for the house. With every step closer, his legs grew heavier until they felt like leaden weights. Each step up to the porch seemed an eternity. At the front entrance, he stopped. His gloved clockwerk hand flexed open and closed, open and closed. Montclair took a deep breath and set his jaw. He crossed himself then turned the handle.

  When he walked through the French doors, memories assaulted him like a conquering army. The smell of the fine meal, the faint aroma of pinewood floors on a warm autumn afternoon, the sounds of boys playing as he and his brother chased one another through the halls of the manse.

  “I’ll catch you, Randall!”

  Montclair started, thinking the sound from his childhood had somehow bled into the present. Then, a boy with hair the color of chestnuts rounded the corner, bumping square into Montclair’s leg in his haste.

  “Oh! Begging your pardon, sir,” the little boy said.

  He was the spitting image of Randall. Montclair didn’t know if it was vanity or a genuine family resemblance, but he imagined he even saw a bit of himself in there as well.

  Montclair knelt down. He reached out and adjusted the boy’s neckerchief. “I used to run these same halls with my brother back when we were your age.”

  A second boy, older than the first, rounded the corner and came to a skidding halt. He was handsome like his younger brother, but with soft, intelligent eyes. He stood stock-still.

  Montclair lifted an eyebrow then looked back at his youngest nephew. “You must be Randall,” he said to the little one. “And your brother’s name is…”

  “Boys!” a voice called. “What in tarnation are the two of you-“ Her eyes met Montclair’s, and she froze.

  She was a tall, fair-skinned beauty with cornflower blue eyes, dark hair, full red lips, a prominent air. Randall had done well for himself.

  Montclair stood.

  Her eyes never left his. There was wariness there but curiosity as well.

  “Mama.” A young woman’s voice, clear and bright, rang from behind her. “Papa says supper is almost-Oh!” The girl, spitting image of what had to be her mother and every bit as lovely, froze in her tracks.

  Before Montclair could introduce himself, a ghost, or what may as well have been one, walked around the corner and into the foyer of the Montclair manse.

  “Julius,” Montclair’s brother said.

  He’d aged somewhat in the ten years since Montclair had left. Montclair imagined he had, too. There was military school — West Point in New York for Montclair and the Citadel in South Carolina for Randall — not to mention a war since last they’d seen one another. Although the lines in his face were etched a bit deeper than they had been, Randall still looked as strong and youthful as Montclair remembered.

  Montclair stiffened as Randall approached. His body relaxed when Randall embraced him.

  “Welcome home, Julius,” Randall said. He stepped back, examining his brother. He nodded, his eyes lingering only a second on Montclair’s clockwerk hand. “The years have been kind to you, brother.”

  Montclair, unsure of what to make of his return to a place he never thought he’d see again, didn’t know what to say. Finally, he settled on, “Will you introduce me to your family?”

  Randall laughed. “Of course! How could I be so foolish?” He scooped up his youngest son and took his older boy’s hand. “These are my boys. My oldest is Phineas.” He hugged the older boy next to his leg. ”And this one,” Randall tickled the boy under his arm, causing the boy to squeal with delight, “is little Randall. Boys,” the elder Randall said, addressing his sons, “this is your Uncle Julius.”

  “I knew it!” the younger Randall chirped. “You look just like us, Uncle Julius, ‘cept for your Creole blood.”

  “Randall!” the boy’s mother said. Color rose to her porcelain cheeks.

  “Well, it’s true, mamma!”

  That brought a smile to Montclair’s face.

  Randall waved the woman and the girl over. “This is my daughter, Madeline. Maddy,” Randall said. “Tell your Uncle Julius hello.”

  “Hello, Uncle Julius,” his niece said with a curtsy. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  Montclair smiled. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Madeline.”

  “And this,” Randall said, “is my Rebecca.”

  Rebecca Montclair inclined her head slightly, nodding. “A pleasure to meet you, Julius. Randall has told me so much about you—oh!” she said with a start as Montclair took her hand and kissed it.

  “The pleasure is mine, Rebecca,” Montclair said.

  Her skin flushed a deeper shade of crimson.

  Randall laughed. “I didn’t tell you everything about my brother, Rebecca. Now, Julius, if you’re quite done flattering my wife, the table’s set for dinner. I don’t know about you, but I am starving. Rebecca, could you take Madeline and the boys and get them settled? Julius and I will be along in a moment.”

  Randall’s wife took their daughter and their sons from the entryway, the youngest still chattering about his Uncle Julius, Madeline, the oldest, doing her best to shush him. Phineas, the middle child, took a look back at Montclair but remained quiet.

  Randall turned to Montclair. “It’s good to have you home,” he said.

  “What is this all about, Randall?” Montclair asked. He’d had a plan in mind. Take this slow, get a feel for the situation, let it all play out before he acted. A plan that had immediately went to shit. “When the war broke out and I threw in with the Union, it was just the excuse your mother needed to disown me. Then, when father died—”

  Randall held up a hand. “When I discovered you were on your way back to New Orleans, I had to see you. You’re unde
r no threat here, Julius. I promise you we’ll talk about everything later. For now, let’s just sit down and enjoy a meal, all right? Come get to know your sister-in-law and your niece and nephews.” Randall looked at Montclair like he would a man returned from the grave. “It’s been far, far too long.”

  Montclair followed his brother through the familiar foyer, around the corner, and down the long hall to the dining room. The experience felt surreal, like walking through a dream. The dining room was just as he remembered, right down to the linen napkins and the plates, imported from France. They’d even kept the white drapes, wispy as a bayou breeze, that he and Randall used to hide behind.

  Montclair noticed the enslaved men and women from his childhood had mostly been replaced with clockwerks. Thank the Healer. Knowing no better, he’d actually once thought of them simply as servants.

  They were gone now, but the grand oaken table with his father’s chair at the head remained. Only now that chair was occupied by another.

  Montclair’s stepmother, Sadie Montclair, watched him walk in. Her face twisted into a cruel snarl.

  Montclair bowed low in greeting, barely able to contain his contempt for the woman. “Ms. Sadie,” he said. “You’re looking well.”

  The pure hatred on Sadie Montclair’s face seemed carved from granite. Montclair’s skin crawled as he felt her eyes. His stepmother glared at him as if he were something she’d scraped from the bottom of her heel.

  She turned to Montclair’s brother. “Even when you told me what you’d planned, I refused to believe that you would truly bring this filth back into our home.”

  “I’ll not have you speak to Julius that way, Mother. He is blood, after all.”

  “Blood? Bah!” the old woman spat. “This bastard is no more blood than the slaves were! I overlooked your father’s dalliances because I had no choice. I won’t dishonor his memory by speaking ill of him, but neither will I tolerate his Creole bastard under this roof and him a traitor to boot!” Sadie Montclair’s eyes, dark as an adder’s, bore into Montclair. “Left to fight for the Yankees, didn’t you?” she asked. “Couldn’t even be bothered to attend your own father’s funeral, est-ce que? Not that I'm surprised. I gritted my teeth and suffered your presence when your father was alive. I’ll not do it anymore, you—you monster!”

  Rebecca looked down at her empty dinner plate. The children sat quietly in their seats, mouths agape. Montclair, having expected much worse, made a point of casually studying his fingernails.

  Montclair’s brother’s eyes narrowed. “You promised you’d be civil, Mother, but clearly that was too much to ask. I think it’s time for you to excuse yourself.”

  His stepmother gave Montclair one last look before she stood. She laughed. “You’ll get what’s coming to you, bastard. Mark my words.”

  “Enough, Mother!” Randall shouted.

  At the snap of Randall’s fingers, a clockwerk came from the kitchen and helped Montclair’s stepmother out of her chair. Something about the evil grin on her face unsettled Montclair, but Sadie left without another word.

  “I—I’m sorry, Julius,” Rebecca began. “Randall’s mother can be…”

  “Grandmother doesn’t like you very much, does she, Uncle Julius?” Little Randall asked.

  Montclair laughed. “Sadie’s always had an interest in me,” he paused and winked, “being far away from here.”

  With his stepmother gone, the mood lightened. Montclair listened as his niece and nephews regaled him with their own stories of the place where he’d grown up. Clockwerks brought in platters of roast lamb, fresh greens, and potatoes roasted to perfection. For dessert, a berry cobbler with whipped cream. Normally a man of tremendous appetite, Montclair did little more than pick at the sumptuous food.,

  “Is that all you’re going to eat, Uncle Julius?” little Randall asked.

  “You mind you clean your own plate, young man,” Montclair said.

  They talked until long after the dishes were cleared. Montclair found himself enjoying the company of his brother's family. He’d been preoccupied with war and duty these past years. It didn’t leave much time for thoughts of a family. But now…

  Randall caught Rebecca’s eye and pointed to the grandfather clock. She nodded and informed the children it was time to retire. Montclair waited for little Randall’s wails to subside before wishing the children goodnight.

  “It was a pleasure meeting you, Madeline,” Montclair told his niece. “You are a vision, young lady. You’ll be beating the suitors off with a stick before you know it.” He winked at her.

  “Thank you, Uncle Julius,” the girl replied. She blushed. She had her mother’s beauty and her father’s strength but with a poise that was somehow all her own.

  “Will we see you again, Uncle Julius?” Little Randall asked.

  Montclair looked at Little Randall then at his older brother, Phineas. “I certainly hope so,” he replied.

  To his surprise, he found he meant it.

  Rebecca shooed the children out before turning to look at Montclair. Christ the Healer, how her eyes sparkled in the aether lamplight. Montclair had a hard time concentrating.

  “I simply do not know what to make of your brother, Randall,” she said. Her eyes never left Montclair’s. She kissed her husband goodnight then was gone.

  Randall smiled, watching her leave. “She’s something, isn’t she?”

  “To say the least.”

  Randall laughed. “Easy, Julius.”

  “You have a gorgeous family, Randall.” One I very much envy you.

  Montclair’s family reunion had been… nice, but it was time to get back to the business at hand. Time for Montclair to ask the question that had been gnawing at him ever since he’d stepped foot off that riverboat and received Randall’s invitation.

  “How did you know I was back in New Orleans?”

  Randall frowned. “You’ve been away for so long, Julius. Much has changed. Can I persuade you to join me for brandy and a cigar?”

  Montclair hesitated a heartbeat then nodded his agreement. “Of course, brother,” he said.

  He needed to know if his mission was still secret or if he’d been compromised. He needed to get to the real reason Randall invited him here. Brandy and a cigar seemed as good a way to do that as any.

  It took a moment for Montclair to realize what he’d done. It was that word: brother. How easily it had rolled off his tongue despite the muscles required to form it being long out of use.

  He followed Randall through their father’s study, the painting of General Montclair staring imposingly down at the two of them. The man in the portrait possessed the same firm jawline and broad shoulders Montclair and Randall shared. The smell of their father’s pipe smoke lingered still, as if it were forever instilled in the wood and plaster and fabric of the place. A globe of the earth stood in the corner by the door. Trinkets won on campaigns long past sat on shelves, gathering dust like forgotten memories. He and Randall’s laughter still rang in his ears, echoes of when they would run and hide amongst their father’s trophies of war. Montclair sighed. This house was full of ghosts.

  They crossed the threshold of the study and stepped outside onto the veranda. The wide porch afforded a view of the entire plantation, from the sugar cane fields to the east and west and the bayou to the south. Montclair’s eyes drifted to a round patch of red dirt. They’d spent countless hours on that circle of red-orange clay, enduring punishing repetitions as their father drilled them in the disciplines of boxing, wrestling, and swordsmanship.

  A clockwerk servant activated when they walked by. The mechanical man began to fan them with a large artificial feather until Randall shooed it away. A crystal decanter and two glasses rested on a small table by the veranda door. Randall picked up the decanter with one hand, the tumblers in the other. He gave one glass to Montclair before pouring for the both of them. He pulled two cigars from his breast pocket and handed one to Montclair, struck a match, and held it out for his brother.
/>
  Montclair leaned in, letting the flame kiss the tip of the stogie before puffing it to life. He took a sip of his brandy, staring out as evening settled over the swamp.

  “How did you know I was here, Randall?”

  Randall lit his own cigar. He drew the smoke into his cheeks then exhaled a blue plume before he responded. “I have eyes everywhere, Julius. You remember what Father used to say about spies?”

  Montclair did remember. He nodded. “‘Knowledge of the enemy’s dispositions can only be obtained from other men,’” he quoted. The same words Ueda had uttered back in Vindication’s war room. It was more than coincidence, the way the past and the present had seemed to collide so much of late.

  Randall smiled. “That’s right. Wisdom courtesy of the honorable Sun Tzu, legendary strategist from the Celestial Empire of Chen.”

  “So I’m the enemy, am I?”

  Randall shook his head. “No, Julius. Not anymore.” He took a sip of his brandy. “My people had you made the moment you stepped onboard the Lady Luck. I have eyes everywhere now, Julius.”

  Montclair swore to himself. He hadn’t even suspected he was being watched. They’d been that damned good. He knew when he’d been beat.

  He took a deep breath. “You know why I’m here, then?” he asked.

  “Some skullduggery for the Union, I imagine.” Randall shrugged. “Honestly? I couldn’t care less why it is you’re here. Just that you are.”

  Montclair raised an eyebrow. “You don’t care? Not turning me in would be considered treason by some.” By all, actually.

  Randall stared out at the deepening evening. The smell of the swamp drifted on the breeze. The croaking of bullfrogs rose up from the marsh to serenade them.

  “The blood oaths of kinship prevent me from turning you in, Julius.” Randall turned to face him. “I heard when you made Colonel, you know,” he said, changing the subject. “Battlefield promotion when your commander died in the skies over Antietam.” Randall nodded to himself. “The very worst kind. They threw you right in there, didn’t they? I still remember when I got the dispatch. I was leading an assault up in Tishomingo County, Mississippi at the time. Rosecrans stopped us cold with three-hundred men and a battalion of Union clockwerks.” The ghost of a sad smile touched Randall’s lips. “Even though you were on the opposite side of the war...I was proud of my brother. So very proud.”