by Jeffrey Cook
We found York within, along with more of the men in red coats and a woman near the window. He had the obviously drugged Sir James on his feet, supported by two other men, with the stern looking woman near the window. York himself held a pistol to Sir James's head and demanded we stop. Eddy arrived soon after with news of more prisoners and that the inn was entirely secured, but this did not deter York in the least. Seemingly trapped in a standoff, I ordered the men to keep their guns on him, but to not fire until Sir James was safe.
York demanded that we release the poisoner, a Miss Rebecca Larkin of Oxfordshire, and that they be given free passage from the place. We were resolute, and I reminded him that he had only one chip remaining to him, and if he lost it, not only was his ambition lost, but he would be arrested not simply as a kidnapper, but a murderer in cold blood as well. It seemed to particularly get his attention and ire when I challenged whatever honor he had remaining as a man, that sending mercenaries after men was one thing, but to kill in cold blood would make him the worst kind of villain.
He gave some small signal to the woman near the window, and at once she broke the window out and fired once. York informed us we had not seen his entire hand yet, and only a moment later, there was such a terrible roar that some of the men behind me retreated in confusion. Eddy and I placed it at once: the trackless engine we had seen in the American plains.
Apparently it had been placed in some storage place nearby, perhaps taken apart and reassembled within so it might be secreted away. That is only guessing now, but the truth then was that it was outside and bearing down upon the inn. It crashed into the inn with such force that it shook upon its foundations and took out a good portion of the wall. York and his men backed away, destroying what remained of the window and wall about it, and leaped out onto their metal beast, taking Sir James with them. More of his troops arrived with this reinforcement, and a new firefight started at once, but this time with our men at great disadvantage with fear and confusion.
Somehow in all of this, the Irishman also escaped us, fighting his way through smaller men and fleeing soldiers until he reached that infernal engine. They disappeared through a hatch just as our own match for it had arrived. With no more chance for stealth and our airship arriving overhead, Sir James's monster deployed, leaping down from on high into the New Orleans streets, greatly aiding the morale of our troops.
It fired once upon the trackless engine as it sought to free itself from the side of the building, but though the shell impacted it hard, it was not enough to put a stop to it. Had it been Sir James piloting, perhaps it might have been better able to put up a fight, but the engine successfully freed itself and turned about, opening fire with guns of its own as it charged at Miss Coltrane in the suit. The two exchanged fire until the inevitable collision, with the trackless engine knocking the Coltrane battle suit aside and through the front of a pastry shop.
Through some sort of amplification device, York informed us of our options. Specifically, he stated that with their retreat back to the city, they had left the bases in Florida and just to our west with inexperienced officers in charge and severely undermanned, promising them reinforcement would arrive before the Spanish came. We could pursue them and seek to effect a rescue of Sir James, or we could prevent the war effort from collapsing and leaving New Orleans vulnerable.
The engine then started again, picking up speed and momentum as it went, with the battle suit still struggling to find its feet amidst the wreckage of the shop. We pursued them, but were not able to reach their mooring station in time to prevent them from launching their dirigible. Meanwhile, the soldiers aiding us had heard what was now at stake. York had gone to so much trouble in order to preserve Sir James's life, but had not yet gained what he wanted to out of him. We therefore remain fairly certain that they will not kill him, but we are just as certain that Sir James is more important to him than his poisoner, who remains our prisoner.
We have arranged an emergency meeting with the leaders of the town and the highest ranking of the troops within the city to determine what to do. This writing has helped in some part to settle my nerves before this event, for it seems, with Eddy needing to act mostly independent and Sir James gone, the people of New Orleans are now looking to me for leadership. Having led one partial disaster, I can only now pray that my second venture into the officer's role should be more successful.
(1) The incident involving an opinionated, protective sheep dog, a prototype ornithopter, and an electrically-charged explosion in the lab of Dr. Mitchell has never been fully explained or investigated. Somehow, not long after Miss Bowe brought 'Bubsy' out into the world, news of the matter got out to one of the late Mrs. Mitchell’s young friends, the former Miss Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin, who infamously fictionalized the event. -C B-W
From the diaries of Jillian Coltrane, (Translated from the original ancient Greek)
January 26th, 1816
Disaster, my dear brother, and you are nowhere near to advise, nor can I know when you will read this after-mission report.
I failed to rescue you. Even with all the power of the suit, I was simply not strong enough. I will repair and re-design and make this better. Unfortunately, I will have to do it all while pretending to do nothing of the sort. I still do not trust the whole of our crew, and recent events – and your absence – only make me more willing to lock away my trust.
I cannot help but feel that your current distress is my fault. I designed the suit. They want to know how it works, and thus they are questioning you horribly. If I had never...
Mrs. Fisher interrupts me to hand me tea. I shall cry out the worst of my female frailties on her shoulder, and write my report coherently when I return. I know how your jaw tightens whenever you see a lady's tears, even if only blotted in a journal. Our mother taught you well.
[Specifics of the battle suit and its repair removed -C B-W]
Would that you were here to soothe my distress with your horrible puns. Although if you were here, I would not be in distress.
My one consolation is Harriet's quick thinking. It didn't even strain anyone's skill at dissimulation. Thinking the best, against all odds, of some handsome stuffed shirt is well within her capacity. And Harriet had indeed held out hope of a misunderstanding, or of being the one to save York's soul, until his threatening 'proposal.' That set her properly against him, but she followed her established momentum without raising suspicion. She was determined to find out more of his plans – and is now providing help both geographic and technical. We will find you, when we can. I may not fail against that machine again. It is some cold comfort.
Eddy saw me return from my sessions with Mrs. Fisher's tea set and handkerchiefs. His jaw tightens like yours does.
February 2nd, 1816
Louisiana
30º38' N 092º03'W
Dear Sir,
By now, you almost certainly must know something of the situation here. I must apologize that our missions about the world have been delayed so severely, but we could not leave so many brave young men, who have risked so much, to die because of a coward who fancies himself a gentleman.
Eddy and Miss Bowe have moved to fortify Florida, for they know the territory, and it suits their style. Some of the woodsmen of this region have gone to support them for much the same reasons. I have been given command of the rest of the troops we were able to gather in New Orleans to fortify the western front.
Even undermanned, enthusiasm remains high under our leadership. We remain hopeful, particularly after my and Miss Coltrane's letters, that reinforcement will arrive soon. Then we may move to rescue Sir James from the former Colonel Bartholomew York and his entourage. I can hope that my letters have been sufficient to have an investigation launched into the traitor and his accomplices.
We were at last provided some much-needed added detail when Mr. Franzini finally rejoined our company after the violence in New Orleans. His rough outline of intelligence from his disreputable contacts has been filled
in by an even more unpleasant source.
The Irish giant is Aiden Reilly, once a strongman with a traveling troupe. Mr. Franzini made an extended investigation once he came across rumors of the large bald Irishman among York's men: a fellow performer and all. It seems that as they traveled, Mr. Reilly's appetite for prostitutes and women of few virtues got him into nearly as much trouble and debt as Mr. Franzini's tastes for games of chance. To try to meet his debts, he traded a performer's wage for that of muscle for a notorious moneylender. After the death of his employer, he found another who would pay his sum, for he had proven to have both a talent and taste for the work of violence and intimidation. His womanizing ways apparently have required his increased income as a mercenary for some time, including his current assignment.
The Spaniard is perhaps the strangest of the men and, in his own way, the most notable. Cristobal Ramirez was once the child of a nobleman with considerable land in New Spain. He grew up with all of the habits of the wealthy: hunting, riding, and managing his father's estate. Apparently he was quite the noted hunter, as we have seen. When Napoleon came to power and the Spanish first considered alliance with France to try to take British land and technology, several noble families objected to the idea and preferred to remain out of the war. They lost considerable popularity, and some lost their lives when the alliance was sealed. Many remain mysterious deaths, but the timing is convenient. Cristobal's family lost their land, and his father died of heart troubles soon after, one of the wealthiest landless men of New Spain.
In reaction, Cristobal joined in raids and acts of sabotage by some of the native peoples objecting to Spanish rule. Though his actions seem more out of vengeance than any true loyalty to the local cause, he has become something of a minor folk hero in certain circles, and his ability to evade capture has earned him many enemies in New Spain. Despite his seeming much the type of man we could use as an ally now, his mercenary tendencies and drive for revenge make him the most undependable of men, though there is no question he is deadly and capable. I have never seen Miss Bowe so challenged by an opponent, now in both the wilds and the city. I would have thought her displeased to have met such an enemy, but instead, she seems quite energized by the challenge he presents, if as determined as the rest of us to see Sir James freed.
The scarred man is a Mr. Ian Wyndham, part of a family of old money and status which has expended much of the former in order to retain the latter. He attended Oxford for a time, but his father's money ran out, as did the goodwill of the faculty in the face of frequent workroom carelessness. He disappeared after that, and it seems that he has found the resources to turn his education to bad ends, including picking up the terrible scarring we have witnessed. Perhaps he was hoping to earn enough that he might return to Oxford and gain the prestige and access to work for England's military and business that graduation offers.
The African whom Matthew saw last year seems something of a peer to our Miss Penn for this other crew. Specifically, he is apparently a Moroccan mystic, a man trained in the old superstitions of Africa, fancying himself a diviner and worker of curses. How, precisely, he came into contact with York and his crew is unclear, however. Mr. Franzini found little information suggesting that he has worked as a mercenary in the past.
Even the name obtained from Miss Larkin, Ualu, had Miss Bowe's eyes rolling. “His mother never called him that.”
Miss Penn started to mutter, “Not surprised. Do you think mine – never mind.” She and Mr. Franzini exchanged strange glances. The Europeans of our company serve you reasonably well, sir, but they have odd ways.
The older woman in fact was, in much younger days, the York family governess. Sir James was not the only one to retain familiar staff in the face of this undertaking, and Miss Gardiner seems to have willingly followed her employer into infamy. She is entrusted with handling his accounts and with enforcing what passes for respectability on the criminals’ ship. This apparently has not endeared her to at least one of her charges.
Finally, our prisoner, Miss Larkin, is not only a woman of no discernible virtue, but no character either. We have been holding her in New Orleans for questioning. She showed little loyalty to her former company before answering our questions. According to her, they had planned for this contingency. Even if our notes and revelation of their treachery cuts them off from Montague and their planned funding, York is carrying on anyway. He apparently believes that what treasures, discoveries, mapping routes and notoriety they may gain, combined with what they can learn from Sir James, will be sufficient they can find themselves back in grace either somewhere in England, or, far worse, they can combine this information and a functioning airship to gain fame and fortune in some other nation.
Neither of our less reputable sources was certain of York's current destination, but Miss Wright had apparently seen him in conference with the Spaniard and the governess over a map of South America. She was able to recite enough of this that, between our informants and Miss Bowe's expertise, we could surmise something. So when we are ready, if we are able to hurry, it seems we should be able to find them in Peru.
At a minimum, it provides us with some leads now that they have left us so far behind. We still possess the faster craft, while they are laden down with more troops and weight, so we might catch them yet, or be just on their tail. Speed is our only hope in that regard, however, for while we have had plenty of volunteers to follow them when we are able, we have so far had to turn them down and hope we will find means to make up numbers when we arrive after them. For the moment, I would gladly take every capable and armed man I can get in my company, for the Spanish will be arriving soon.
I will look forward to hearing account of you, sir, and being relieved of this command.
Yours,
Gregory Conan Watts
From the journals of Gregory Conan Watts,
February 7th, 1816
Fort San Juan Bautista/St. Jean-Baptiste/St. John the Baptist
31º45' N 093º05'W
My second command has produced my first true victory. If this is victory, though, it is difficult for me to imagine how our most successful officers have managed to sleep at night after successful careers, let alone unsuccessful ones. It is one thing to be a reporter, messenger, or aide and be among the men who sacrifice in the name of country and Crown, and another entirely to command those men, not knowing ahead of time which assignment shall lead to tragedy and which to glory. I know something of the art of command, having worked under many great men, excited to serve and willing to give my life in service if it came to that. But I felt little of the impact before now, because my only responsibility was to survive and deliver what messages I was given, complete the reports I was assigned, and give what advice I could, based upon my observations. At most, I might briefly guide a handful of men in battle on the plans of others, as I did last summer. Now, various fates are my fault and responsibility.
I learned that few of those who had been passing for officers had any real battlefield leadership experience. They seemed good men, but very relieved indeed to no longer be in command, merely responsible instead for giving their opinions and advice, passing on their observations, experience, and knowledge of the enemy. Even those who were closest to me had some separation from true responsibility, for even if it was their idea I had chosen to follow, I had opportunity to reject it. I listened to the best advice I could from those who seemed most astute and had been fighting this battle for some time.
We manned the fort and readied the guns, putting the best shots where they might do the most good on the walls and ensuring they had the best rifles. The doors were reinforced, and those people with the least experience at combat were given positions where they might serve in support, and if they failed us at some critical moment, it might do the least amount of harm. Green men are always a risk, and feeling most nervous about this conflict myself, I tried to limit our risks, for we had many men who had enthusiasm but had never seen combat.
We
also ran into one additional difficulty. I was familiar with the concept of troops who did not wish to work together on religious, national, or racial grounds, but had never had to lead through such difficulties or command mixed units. Here, however, many of the men with the most reliable combat experience were Negroes who earned their freedom during the war with Europe and have now returned. Many of the local colonists still do not trust the Negroes not to betray them in combat, and the tension on both sides was palpable. A few Northerners who arrived had mitigated the situation somewhat and served between both. Those troops, however, quickly grew thin in number, and with a new command in place, everyone very much wanted to test my limits and see whom I might favor. After some consideration of options and their implications, I came to my conclusion and issued orders that I felt had sufficient clarity and decisiveness. (2)
As soon as the men were deployed and rotations given, the only thing remaining was to hurry up and wait. Here I wish I'd had Sir James's knack for passing the time and inspiring his men, for while I attempted his methods, I do not have his gift for remaining a cool presence – or his wealth to throw away in games of cards in order to endear officers to me that much more quickly. Nonetheless, his method seemed to work well enough, and cards and gambling for small coin was an activity it seems almost every man of the military can embrace. We played for hours, and in that time, I learned a great deal of my officers, of what they had seen and experienced, and in many cases, what they had left behind. Certainly some of the men who had before barely known one another came to know one another quite well, and some few gained a grudging respect for one another's experiences. I could but hope it would pass onto the troops under their individual commands.