Rococoa

by Balogun Ojetade (ed)

  The wind died. The platoon split to either side, crouching and blending their bodies with the outlines of the trees and hills of snow.

  A beefy man, dressed in a thigh-length black robe and bicorn hat, darted out of the shadows and hauled himself onto a boulder with a meaty slap of flesh on stone. The man wore no shoes, or trousers. He perused the area down the barrel of his musket.

  Robinson stalked the man at his rear, bounding across the snow without making a sound.

  He crept up right behind the shoeless man and then, with a powerful thrust, he drove the tip of his blade into the base of the man’s spine.

  The shoeless man opened his mouth wide, but could produce no scream.

  Robinson twisted the knife, withdrew it and then ran the keen blade across the man’s throat.

  Blood erupted from the man’s neck.

  Robinson lowered him to the ground and then snatched the musket from the man’s hands. He searched the man’s pockets and found several small balls of iron. Robinson stuffed the ammunition into his pockets and then crept back to his comrades.

  Again and again, others clambered into the area. In moments, the thugs outnumbered the soldiers.

  Finally, one of the thugs – a lanky man dressed in the fine clothes of a sea captain – pointed toward the trees and snow mounds behind which the soldiers hid.

  “Over there,” he shouted. “I spotted the tip of a boot protruding from behind that tree!”

  The criminals charged toward the hiding soldiers, parting the mist like rotting silk.

  “Damn it!” Ngozi snarled. “Go, go, go!”

  The soldiers bounded across the snow. One of them, a man in his early forties whom the platoon dubbed “Gramps,” peered over his shoulder.

  The thugs were closing on them.

  Gramps opened his mouth to say something. Before he could speak, the muted crack of a rifle shot smothered his words. His face erupted in a spurt of gore. Robinson stopped and then whirled on his heels to face his pursuers.

  “Those bastards got Gramps!” He wailed.

  Robinson dropped to one knee and then fired, carving a trench through the top of a pirate’s skull.

  The pirate crumpled into a moist mass in the snow.

  The other thugs took cover behind the trees.

  “Cover me!” Ngozi shouted.

  Robinson reloaded and took aim.

  Ngozi sprinted toward the dead pirate.

  A dirty faced man dressed in several layers of buckskin and fur stepped from behind a tree, aiming a crossbow at Ngozi’s head.

  Ngozi leapt toward the dead pirate.

  Robinson fired.

  The bullet zipped over Ngozi’s back and struck the fur-covered man in the chest.

  Ngozi landed on top of the pirate. She grabbed his flintlock pistol and fired it as a thug peeked from behind a tree. The thug fell onto his back. One eye was gone, replaced by a black pit.

  The soldiers charged, cursing and screaming, toward the thugs.

  The thugs, believing the soldiers to be armed, remained behind cover for a few moments, until they realized no more shots had been fired.

  The thugs stepped from behind the trees, but the soldiers had already closed on them.

  It was over in seconds. Blood and flesh littered the forest, and clouds of gun smoke, thick and light gray, filled the air.

  Three dozen bodies lay in twitching, leaking heaps. Black soldiers lay alongside white thugs, but thugs had suffered the worst of it.

  The surviving soldiers, twelve in all, were now in possession of flintlock pistols, muskets and blunderbusses.

  “Reload,” Ngozi ordered. Her voice was calm, but her hands shook.

  “I’m bleeding,” one soldier cried, pressing his hand against a gaping wound in his side.

  “Bleed on your own time,” Ngozi said.

  The words were barely out of her mouth when the forest around them erupted.

  The next wave of thugs – about forty of them – rushed toward the soldiers.

  The soldiers ran, adrenaline and purpose kept them moving.

  They reached a fallen tree and took cover behind it.

  They fired in unison, reloaded quickly and fired again, killing scores of thugs.

  But more thugs came; and more after them, their pale skin nearly blending with the snow.

  A soldier the others called “Booker,” because he read a book every three or four days, howled, stepped from behind cover and fired, his blunderbuss rending a thug into mincemeat.

  Booker kept firing.

  Ngozi joined him.

  Robinson joined her.

  The surviving soldiers joined them.

  “Looks like the team has bonded,” Colonel Tye said.

  “They are willing to kill together; to even die together, so they are surely willing to live together,” Talako said, almost pleadingly.

  Colonel Tye nodded. “Barbey!”

  Barbey burst from between the sticks and dead leaves and sped toward the battle. He fired Nomo.

  Five thugs fell.

  Barbey sped past the soldiers and rolled straight toward the thugs.

  Several thugs fired. The bullets ricocheted off of Barbey’s steel hide.

  The thugs ran.

  Colonel Tye and Talako ran toward the soldiers.

  “Give chase!” Colonel Tye commanded. “Do not let one thug leave here alive!”

  The soldiers ran beside Colonel Tye; beside Talako, killing thugs.

  They slew their enemy with zeal unmatched, for they knew that they were no longer their instructor’s subordinates, they were brothers…and sister.

  ####

  Colonel Tye paced back and forth before his platoon. Talako and Barbey stood a few yards from the formation.

  “Every advanced culture on earth has their own naming ceremonies, practices, or manner in which names are given,” Colonel Tye said. “Many of us were given names, quite unceremoniously, by men who would have the unmitigated effrontery to claim human beings as their property – Jones; Culpepper; Robinson.”

  Colonel Tye stopped, front and center before the soldiers. “But your name – all names, in fact and all titles – represents your mission, your power and your challenge. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir!” The soldiers replied sharply in unison.

  “It is not the mission of any man to be a slave to anyone or anything,” Colonel Tye continued. “The enslaved hold no power and their challenges do not serve to build, only to destroy. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir!” The soldiers said again.

  “Talk back to me!” Colonel Tye said, pounding his chest with his fist.

  Yes, sir!” The soldiers boomed.

  “What name should be worn by men and women black of skin and blacker of blood and bone?” Colonel Tye said. “What name should be worn by men and women who, though they be few, have the power of many, yet move as one?”

  Colonel Tye looked from soldier to soldier, locking eyes with them.

  “Today and forever more,” he said, raising his saber high above his head. “We shall be called the Black Brigade. Let Earth and Heaven tremble!”

  A cheer rose from the platoon and shook the morning sky.

  “Who are we?” Talako asked, as the soldiers rallied around their Colonel.

  “The Black Brigade!” They shouted.

  “Who?” Talako asked again.

  “The Black Brigade!”

  “Who?”

  “The Black Brigade! The Black Brigade! The Black Brigade!”

  Three

  Ngozi sat, one leg draped over the other, at Governor Murray’s desk, sipping tea.

  The governor sipped from a mug filled with hot buttered rum.

  Behind the desk, at the Royal Governor’s window, stood a strongly built man. He was of average height, with a large head and square, deft hands. His balding, light brown hair was long, hanging a bit past his shoulders. His clothing was as clean as it was plain. The man stared out the window, his bespe
ctacled gaze focused on the evening sky.

  “Finally, Tye gives his soldiers leave,” the governor said. “I thought I would never get a report.”

  “Colonel Tye maintains a short tether on his dogs of war,” Ngozi said.

  “And what do you think of the Colonel and his officers?” Governor Murray asked.

  “Who is that?” Ngozi said, nodding toward the man at the window.

  “He is a man of no consequence to you,” Governor Murray replied.

  “Then I am a woman of no words,” Ngozi said.

  The man at the window whirled around. His face was a mask of rage. “Impertinent, Black bi…”

  “Ngozi, meet Mr. Benjamin Franklin,” Governor Murray said, interrupting him. “Former Postmaster General of the United States of America.”

  Ngozi sat bolt upright. “America? Wait…the chronomancer who fathered the Franklin Sentinels? Here?”

  “Worry not,” Governor Murray said. “Benjamin is a friend.”

  Ngozi studied Ben Franklin’s face. His eyes were gray and steady; his mouth wide and humorous with a pointed upper lip. His visage bared his brilliance, his hubris, his madness. She thrust her hand toward him. “Friend.”

  Franklin took Ngozi’s hand in his and kissed the back of it. “Apologies for the outburst. It would seem that the stresses of this war have caused me to forget my manners.”

  Ngozi replied with a nod.

  “So, Tye’s soldiers…are they ready?” Governor Murray asked.

  “They are,” Ngozi said. “They are sharp, fearless and so full of piss and vinegar they would kill a brick, choke a stick and drown a glass of water.”

  “And what of Tye?”

  “He is a brutal, but effective teacher,” Ngozi said. “His men admire – and I dare say, love – him because he trains and fights right beside them and regards them as brothers, not subordinates.”

  “So, they would follow him anywhere?” Ben Franklin inquired.

  “Right into perditions flames, if he asked them,” Ngozi replied.

  “Even into a chamber filled with flesh-eating vapors?”

  Ngozi’s eyes darted back-and-forth between Governor Murray and Ben Franklin. “Wait…you plan to use that vapor on the Black Brigade?”

  “Black Brigade…is that what he calls them?” Governor Murray snickered.

  “Us,” Ngozi said. “That is what he calls us. You expect me to step into that flesh-eating vapor, too?”

  “Of course not,” Governor Murray said. “You are too valuable to the Crown. I will send for you just before I send Tye and his men to Monmouth. From here, you will be sent back to England.”

  “And our deal?” Ngozi said.

  “You will be given an estate in London and the release of your parents, as promised,” Governor Murray said. “Just keep making us those weapons and vehicles of yours and all will be fine.”

  “It seems you have another Master Weaponsmith under your employ,” Ngozi said. “One with knowledge of vapors and poisons.”

  “That title belongs to me,” Franklin said with a slight bow.

  “I am still perplexed why a Continental is working with us,” Ngozi said.

  “He is working with me,” Governor Murray said. “When King George ordered that any slave who joined in this war would be given his freedom, I knew it was the end – the end of the Continentals and the Crown. Give hundreds…perhaps thousands of Blacks guns and training in war and soon we will be overrun by pickaninnies out for white blood.”

  “And what does any of that have to do with the vapor?” Ngozi asked. “Does the vapor only target Black flesh?”

  “That would be divine,” Governor Murray replied. “But, unfortunately, no. It is no secret that Colonel Tye and, especially his man, Talako, were born with certain…gifts. They are much heartier than most. If the vapor kills them, killing everyone else would be easy as pie.”

  “Killing anyone,” Ngozi said.

  “Excuse me?” Governor Murray said.

  “You said killing everyone; you meant anyone.”

  Governor Murray just stared at Ngozi. His expression was stone.

  Ngozi shifted her gaze to Benjamin Franklin. He smiled broadly.

  “Oh, good Lord,” Ngozi gasped. “You plan to kill every soldier in this war – on both sides.”

  “Yes,” Governor Murray said. “Is that a problem?”

  “Not at all,” Ngozi said, leaning back in her chair. “Two armies of white men dying is not a problem at all…and well worth the thousands of Black men who will die, too. I am just in awe of the genius of it.”

  Governor Murray laughed. Ben Franklin’s smile broadened.

  “Very good,” Governor Murray said. “Now, tell me all about this Black Brigade. Spare no details…we need to know exactly what we are dealing with.”

  ####

  The High John Clockwork Theatre was a wonder to behold. A collection of automatons that performed a show in a makeshift tent. The show was presented by John De Conquer – showman, raconteur and entrepreneur.

  Some of the mechanical devices were basic and aged; others bore the mark of a more sophisticated designer.

  The newer automatons possessed fine movement, were solidly constructed and had a seemingly militaristic bent.

  De Conquer’s four daughters darted about, winding up the old devices as De Conquer charged up the new ones with small bits of his own sanity – the common fuel for such constructs of metal and magic.

  Colonel Tye, Talako and Barbey sat in the front row; Tye and Talako in the velvet covered chairs and Barbey on the floor beside them, as there was no chair in the theater strong enough to hold his weight.

  “Do you miss it?” Colonel Tye asked.

  “Oh”, Barbey said. “I ah oh-ik. A oh-ik ohg ahk ayk ig hig oh-ig agga ag eggy oggah.” “No. I am a shootist. A shootist should not waste his skills shooting apples and empty beer bottles.”

  “Agreed,” Colonel Tye said. “And thank you, for the tickets.”

  Barbey nodded. He raised his iron arm and pointed a perfectly formed finger at the stage. The show was about to begin.

  The show itself consisted of a risqué dance performed by buxom female automata, accompanied by mechanical drummers and trumpeters; a tap dance to the accompaniment of a four-armed automaton who deftly played a fiddle and hamboned at the same time; and a jaw-dropping battle at the end, the climax of which was the destruction of several life-like wax dummies.

  Midway through the show, Ngozi joined them, taking a seat directly behind Colonel Tye.

  “What is the good word, Captain Edochie?” Colonel Tye said, smiling.

  “As you suspected, Governor Murray is up to no good,” Ngozi said.

  “When is a white man not?” Colonel Tye said.

  “The mission is a trap,” Ngozi said. “Meant to kill the entire Brigade.”

  “We will talk at length later,” Colonel Tye said. “Murray does not suspect where your loyalties actually lie, does he?”

  “I imagine I would be dead, if so,” Ngozi replied.

  “Indeed,” Colonel Tye said. “But let’s worry about the Governor later, for now, just sit back and enjoy the show!”

  Four

  April, 1778

  Colonel Tye, Barbey and Ngozi stood before their brothers of the Black Brigade. Colonel Tye inhaled, taking in spring air and the smell of sycamore and wild leeks. He paced before his soldiers for a while before he spoke.

  “If war is the father of us all, king of us all, a battle is the mother; the queen,” Colonel Tye said. “This war will make some of you men; some it will make slaves again; some free. But this battle will, as mothers are wont to do, birth us anew and make us all gods!”

  The soldiers roared.

  “There is no blasphemy in this,” Colonel Tye said, with a wave of his hand. “Is it not the Christian’s bible – the first book most of you ever read – that says ‘Ye are gods and all of you are children of the Most High’?”

  “Yes, sir!” Th
e soldiers replied.

  “Today, we face the might of both the Royal and the Continental Armies,” Colonel Tye said. Today, we walk into the trap they have set for us. But, do gods tremble in fear?”

  “No, sir!”

  “Do gods die?”

  “No, sir!”

  “Well, the mummy-daddy, big God of gods can,” Colonel Tye said. “In fact, all God does is watch us and kill us when we get boring. So today, at least, whatever you do…be Blacktastic!”

  The soldiers laughed.

  “Black Brigade!” Colonel Tye boomed.

  “Yes, sir!” The soldiers boomed back.

  “Black Brigade!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Mount up!”

  The soldiers pounded their chests in unison. “Yes, sir!”

  Roaring, they sprinted off in single file.

  Colonel Tye turned to Ngozi. “Is the other vehicle ready, Captain Edochie?”

  “Almost, sir!” Ngozi replied. “She’s been at the winding station all night. It won’t be long now.”

  “Good,” Colonel Tye said. “Pick up Talako on your way. He is at the Velvet Kitten.”

  “Had to get one in just in case it was his last?” Ngozi said, shaking her head.

  “No,” Colonel Tye snickered. “Well…yes, but his main purpose was to…sluice his gob.”

  Ngozi scratched her head, frowning. “Take a hearty drink? Of rum?”

  “Of humor,” Colonel Tye replied.

  Ngozi’s face paled. “What?”

  “Humor,” Colonel Tye said again. “Blood, lymph, bile…or worse.”

  “Yes, yes, I know what humor is, thank you,” “But drinking it? Captain Talako is some kind of…Ossenfelder?”

  “Ah, you are familiar with the poem,” Colonel Tye said with a slight bow.

  He danced around the room as he recited the poem:

  “My dear young maiden clingeth

  Unbending. fast and firm

  To all the long-held teaching

  Of a mother ever true;

  As in vampires unmortal

  Folk on the Theyse’s portal

  Heyduck-like do believe.

  But my Christine thou dost dally,

  And wilt my loving parry

  Till I myself avenging

  To a vampire’s health a-drinking

  Him toast in pale tockay.

  And as softly thou art sleeping

  To thee shall I come creeping