And thy life’s blood drain away.
And so shalt thou be trembling
For thus shall I be kissing
And death’s threshold thou’ it be crossing
With fear, in my cold arms.
And last shall I thee question
Compared to such instruction
What are a mother’s charms?”
Barbey clapped.
Colonel Tye bowed toward the four corners of the room, his arms sweeping in exaggerated movements.
“And no, Talako is not a vampire by definition,” Colonel Tye said. “He is something altogether unique. He is quite alive and, as I said, his diet is not limited to blood, but any bodily fluid.”
“Is he the only one of his kind?” Ngozi asked.
“He has been ostracized by his own people due to his condition of birth, so I would imagine so,” Colonel Tye said. “Now go. Talako can explain much better than I.”
####
Women bustled about the Velvet Kitten, flirting with men in the parlor or leading them upstairs.
A burly man dressed in a white tuxedo met Ngozi just beyond the door.
“We don’t hire cargo here,” the man said, smiling broadly. The smell of rancid meat wafted from between his rotting teeth.
Ngozi exploded forward. Her left knee slammed into the big man’s liver.
The man collapsed onto both knees.
Women screamed in horror.
Ngozi drew her flintlock pistol and pressed its muzzle against the side of the man’s head. “What is your name?”
“Ma’am?” the man croaked.
“Your name,” Ngozi said. “What is it?”
“Reed,” the man sputtered. “Bernard Reed.”
“Bernie, I don’t know what is more insulting…you calling me cargo, or you assuming I have the slightest desire to be a whore,” Ngozi said. “Bernie, Bernie, Bernie…what are we to do with you?”
“Please, ma’am,” Bernie cried. “I’m so, sorry.”
Ngozi pushed hard against Bernard’s head with her pistol, pressing his ear toward his shoulder. “The trouble with you, Bernie, is that you lack the power of conversation but not the power of speech.”
“If you blow his head off with that shot, drinks are on me,”
Ngozi snapped her head in the direction of the voice. Talako stood before her, tucking his shirt into his pants.
“By drink, I hope you mean water or wine,” Ngozi said.
Talako laughed. “Tye told you.”
“He did,” Ngozi replied.
“Well, you are my sister,” Talako said. “There should be no secrets between us. So, are you killing him, or what?”
“Later,” Ngozi said, slipping her pistol into her belt. “Right now, we have more pressing issues to attend to.”
Talako picked up a suede bag sitting at his feet and then tossed its strap over his shoulder. “Okay.”
Talako thrust his leg forward, driving his boot-heel into the back of Bernard’s neck.
The big man fell onto his face, unconscious.
Talako turned toward the parlor. “Attention, everyone!”
The bustling and screams stopped. Silence fell over the brothel.
“When we walk out the door, you will forget we were ever here,” Talako said. “Carry on.”
The bustling began anew.
Ngozi and Talako sauntered out the door.
“That was amazing,” Ngozi said. “Is that one of your abilities as a…”
“As a priest,” Talako said. “Imbibing humor enhances my strength, speed, heartiness and ability to sense the physical world. The spiritual world is a different matter, altogether.”
“Your priests have much in common with those of my homeland,” Ngozi said. “However, they avoid war. How do you reconcile the two?”
“Many will argue that there is nothing remotely spiritual in combat,” Talako said. “Consider this: mystical or religious experiences have four common components – constant awareness of one’s own inevitable death, total focus on the present moment, the valuing of other people’s lives above your own, and being part of a larger religious community such as the ummat al-Islamiyah – the collective community of Islamic peoples – or the church.”
Talako reached into his bag and withdrew two tomahawks. He slipped them into his belt; one beside each pistol. “Those same components exist in combat. The big difference is that the mystic sees Heaven and the warrior sees Hell. I see – and reside in – both.”
“When this war is over, what will you do, then?” Ngozi asked. “Will you finally choose the spiritual over the militaristic; priesthood over warriorhood; Heaven over Hell?”
“Most of us, including me, would prefer to think of a sacred space as some light-filled wondrous place where we can feel good; where we can find a way to shore up our spirits against death,” Talako said. “We do not want to think that something as ugly and brutal as war could be involved in any way with the spiritual. However, would not every devout Christian say that Calvary Hill was a sacred space?”
“Point well taken,” Ngozi said. “Hopefully we will get a chance to discuss such things again.”
“We will,” Talako said. “In this world or in the one beyond the veil.”
“So, you think there is a chance we will die?” Ngozi asked.
“There is always a chance,” Talako answered. “Thankfully, that chance is a minute one.”
“How so?” Ngozi inquired.
“Out of every one hundred soldiers in any war, ten should not even be there; eighty are just fodder for arquebus and musket; nine are the real fighters and we are lucky to have them, for they make the battle,” Talako said. “But there is one…one who is a warrior; the one who the enemy prays that when he dies, he comes back fighting on their side. That is Colonel Tye. He is why we will come out of this alive.”
“I look forward to fighting beside him,” Ngozi said.
“Well, then, let’s get to that winding station before we miss the battle!”
####
A ticking din echoed across the township of Shrewsbury.
The residents of the town stood on both sides of Thornebrooke Road, staring – in awe and terror – at the dozen iron horses that sped up the road like an iron wave upon an embittered sea.
Colonel Tye, who rode in the center of the front row, controlled the vehicle with one hand and scanned both sides of the road with the pistol in his other hand.
At the end of the dirt road, atop a hill, loomed a huge, box-shaped house. The wooden house was covered in clapboard painted alabaster. Its tall, central chimney belched white smoke into the sky.
The double doors in the center of the house flew open. A moment later, men dressed in red and blue stormed out of the house, like ants fleeing a burning anthill.
“Forward!” Colonel Tye commanded.
The iron horses built up speed until, to the people standing on Thornebrooke Road, they looked like nothing more than a black and crimson blur.
Such high speeds would deplete nearly all of the iron horses’ energy, but that was fine with Colonel Tye; he had no intention of the Black Brigade returning to New York on them.
The Black Brigade closed on the hill under a storm of pewter shot. The balls bounced harmlessly off the iron horses, falling to the ground before them.
“Break left! Break right!” Colonel Tye shouted.
“Break left! Break right!” each squad leader shouted in unison.
Colonel Tye veered off the road to his left. Barbey and half of the Brigade followed him. The other half veered to the right.
Smart move, Colonel Tye thought. They knew they could not penetrate the iron horses’ armor with their muskets, so they intended to cause collisions by making the wheels slip on the pewter that covers the road.
Townsfolk leapt out of the way of Barbey and the iron horses as they left the road and then zipped just behind the tree line.
The vehicles’ spiked wheels sent chunks of grass and
dirt flying into the air. The vehicles stormed toward the house on the hill concealed in the shadows of the trees.
The British and American armies fired desperately toward the trees, praying to get lucky and hit something, but their God was obviously busy elsewhere for luck was not on their side.
Both lines of iron horses darted back onto the road simultaneously and reformed with amazing speed and precision.
“Battles are won by slaughter and maneuver,” Colonel Tye shouted. “Great leaders contribute more in maneuver and demand less in slaughter and the greatest leaders win with equal portions of both. So, my only orders to you now are maneuver wisely…and kill ‘em all!”
To the inexperienced troops who faced this well-disciplined unit, the shock was devastating. On both sides – Red Coats and Blue – entire units simply melted away, some without firing a shot. The men who stood their ground discovered they could not reload quickly enough to hold off the terrifying sight of so many iron horses coming toward them. From a distance, it was the iron ball – from musket, blunderbuss, flintlock and Barbey’s Nomo – that did horrible work; from up close it was the blade – from sword, dagger and bayonet. Governor Murray’s men, traitors to both Crown and Continent, tried to hold their ground, but they were soon overtaken by the rapid advance of the Black Brigade’s well-disciplined attack. Murray’s men turned toward their one sanctuary, the safety of the house that manufactured the flesh-eating vapor.
Colonel Tye sat upon his iron horse at the end of the road, a couple of hundred yards from the factory and watched, through gaps in the drifting gun smoke, men scurry into the house.
Barbey came to a stop beside him. The rest of the Black Brigade lined up, in three columns, behind their leader.
“Are you ready to burn this wretched place down around them?”
“Yes, sir!” The soldiers roared.
Then let’s finish this and…”
The sound of rolling thunder erupted from the house and tore across the sky.
The ground shook violently.
A moment later, the house vomited a stream of strange and fearsome creatures out of its doors.
“Hessians!” Colonel Tye shouted.
Colonel Tye set his eyes on the Hessians. They were men from the waist up, astonishingly broad and muscular, with brooding expressions. One had the body of a silver horse; the rest were chocolate brown. On their human torsos, they sported a dolman – a close fitting, short-cut black coat, with heavily braided gold buttons and loops. Over the dolman, they wore a pelisse – a similar coat, but with fur trimming – slung over their left shoulders. The creatures wielded Hellebardes – two-handed pole weapons with two whirring steel axe blades. The blades resembled a circular saw as they whizzed around. The Hellebardes were topped by a steel spear point.
“Centaurs?” Robinson said, squinting and craning his head toward the incredible sight.
“They call themselves hussars,” Colonel Tye said. “But yes.”
“Ever fought one?” Robinson asked.
“No,” Colonel Tye said.
“Ever wanted to?” Robinson said.
“They are as strong and swift as a horse, with the intellect, training and skill of a cavalry soldier,” Colonel Tye replied. “What do you think?”
“Yes?” Robinson said.
“Damned right!” Colonel Tye bellowed. “Come on, brothers! Let’s have some fun!”
The Black Brigade spread out into a semicircle, firing their muskets and flintlock pistols at the hussars.
The fast moving horse-men were hard to hit, but a few fell under the volley.
Barbey fired Nomo.
Three more hussars fell.
The hussars were now close enough to slash and thrust at the Black Brigade with their Hellebardes. Coupled with the hussars’ amazing strength – about five times that of the strongest human – the keen, hard blades ripped through the metal hide of the iron horses and tore into flesh behind the armor. Several brigade members were knocked from their horses this way and then trampled to death under might and weight of hussar hooves.
A hussar leapt over Robinson’s iron horse and then thrust downward with the Hellebarde, piercing his skull with the spearhead.
Robinson’s eyes rolled up into his head. His mouth moved, but no sound came out. Whether it was reflex or will would never be known, but Robinson pulled the trigger of his blunderbuss one last time.
The weapon spat a cloud of iron shrapnel that hit the leaping hussar square in the gut. The hussar fell to the ground on its side. Its entrails poured from the gaping hole in its torso.
Barbey stomped on the wounded hussar’s head, flattening it.
A slash across Barbey’s arm drew oil.
Barbey whirled around to face his attacker.
The silver-bodied hussar stood before him. The creature, standing nearly eight feet tall at the shoulder, was bigger than its brethren.
“Ich bin Aldo Ulz,” the silver hussar said. “Kommandant der Husaren.” – “I am Aldo Ulz, Commander of the Hussars.”
Barbey answered with a swift kick to Ulz’s knee.
The bone made a sickening crunch as it bent inward toward the other leg at an impossible angle.
“Verdammt!” Ulz screamed as he collapsed onto his pulverized knee.
The Commander of the hussars slashed upward with his Hellebarde, carving a chasm in Barbey’s face.
Barbey staggered backward. Tiny gears oozed out of his face on rivers of oil.
Barbey charged, pointing Nomo’s muzzle at Ulz.
Ulz slashed with the Hellebarde.
Barbey blocked Ulz’s attack with Nomo and then thrust the arquebus into Ulz’s chest. The muzzle burst through the back of Ulz’s dolman.
Ulz gurgled and sputtered as his heart and a chunk of lung fell to the ground behind him.
Barbey lifted Ulz before him and charged toward the hussars, firing Nomo with one hand, reloading with the other, as he kept Ulz aloft as a shield against the whirring Hellebardes.
Within a few seconds, Ulz was carved to pieces by his comrades’ Hellebardes.
Within those same few seconds, a dozen hussars fell to Barbey’s arquebus.
Colonel Tye leapt from his iron horse and then rolled across the dirt between a hussar’s legs. The creature was busy trying its best to carve through an iron horse’s armor.
Colonel Tye stopped, lying flat on his back beneath the hussar. He drew his pair of knives and thrust upward, with blistering speed, into the creature’s abdomen and girth as he scooted on his back toward the hussar’s tail.
The hussar’s guts rained down upon him as he scooted.
Colonel Tye hopped to his feet just before the hussar collapsed onto its face.
Tye took a moment to peruse his surroundings. The field was bathed in smoke and blood. A fresh wave of iron ball volleys came from the left. His surviving comrades – six in all – fought on against the hussar hordes.
A deep buzzing din came from high above the battlefield.
Colonel Tye gazed skyward. High above him was what looked like a giant creature, with a cigar-shaped body and 40’ long wings like those of a condor. The creature’s body was carved from African black-wood. Whirling brass rotary blades were protruded from both ends of the thing and the wings flapped up and down.
An ornithopter Ngozi had called it. An invention she had kept from the Crown as she planned to use it to carry enslaved Africans to freedom.
The ornithopter’s panel door slid open. Talako kicked a score of grenados out of the vehicle into the open air. The grenados, wicks burning, rained down upon the hussars, blowing chunks of horse flesh all over the battlefield.
The ornithopter circled, dropping more grenados.
More hussars fell dead.
“Rückzug!” A hussar cried. “Retreat!”
The surviving few hussars galloped into the house. The doors closed behind the last one.
A cheer rose from the battlefield.
Talako lowered ten thick rope
s. He then shimmied down one to the ground. He sprinted past the cheering Black Brigade soldiers to Colonel Tye’s side.
“She is amazing,” Colonel Tye said.
“Captain Edochie or the ornithopter?” Talako asked.
“Both,” Colonel Tye said. “When this is all over, I’m going to ask her to marry me.”
Talako raised an eyebrow.
“The ornithopter,” Colonel Tye replied.
The men laughed.
“Everyone, give me your grenados and then gather up those of your fallen brothers,” Colonel Tye ordered.
“Yes, sir!”
The soldiers did as their leader commanded, laying the clay grenades at his feet.
“Talako, tie them all together on one wick,” Tye said.
“Tye…” Talako said, shaking his head.
“Do it!” Tye said.
“Yes, sir,” Talako sighed.
Talako deftly, and with great speed, braided the wicks of over thirty grenados into one long wick her drew from his shoulder bag.
“Good job,” Colonel Tye said, inspecting Talako’s handiwork. “Now, all of you…climb those ropes and get the hell out of here! Barbey, you go east, to the shore. The rest will meet you there.”
“Yes, sir!” The men said in unison. Barbey nodded.
Ngozi brought the ornithopter back around. The soldiers sprinted toward the dangling ropes. Barbey sped off.
Talako hugged Tye. Tye slowly brought his arms up and embraced his brother.
“We will circle around to get you,” Talako said.
“I know you will,” Colonel Tye said. “I’ll be there.”
“I know you will,” Talako said.
“Go.” Colonel Tye said.
“Yes, sir!” Talako said, clicking his heels and pounding his chest. He turned from his friend, sprinted toward the ropes, leapt onto one and climbed up into the ornithopter.
The wings of the ornithopter flapped faster. The airship rose high above the trees and then flew off.
Colonel Tye draped the connected grenados all around his iron horse and then mounted it. He held the long wick that connected the grenados in one hand and then with the other, he drew a striker – a tool that looked like scissors, but with flint on one ‘blade’ and steel on the other – from the pocket of his coat. He rubbed both sides together, producing sparks, which he used to light the long wick. Then, he took off, racing toward the double doors of the house where the vapor was made; the house full of hussars and Murray’s men.
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