by Thomas Webb
As Montclair worked at regaining his equilibrium, he looked down. Just below his left wrist hung a mangled and bloody mess, a mess which only a moment ago had been his left hand.
He stared at the gory red stump, confused. His thoughts were jumbled, his thinking fuzzy. He tried speaking, but no words came out. He tried walking, but it was like swimming through quicksand.
He looked at his missing hand again. Strange. There wasn’t any pain. As his mind cleared, Montclair remembered something from his training about shock. Something about how the hurt from a wound, even a grievous one, sometimes didn’t set in until the heat of the moment had passed. What kind of pain would his wounds bring? He hoped he would be prepared for it.
Then, he caught sight of what remained of Sandler. The shell had blown the sergeant clean apart. Only his head and part of his torso remained intact. His eyes, still wide open, conveyed the horror he must have felt in his final seconds.
Montclair heard an awful screaming. Who could that be in such pain? he wondered. A moment later, he understood that he was the one screaming. Oblivious to the battle still raging, Montclair dropped to his knees.
Somewhere in the night, Montclair thought he heard his father laughing, but Phineas Montclair, legendary general and statesman, had been dead for years.
Get ahold of yourself, Julius! Montclair scolded himself, his thoughts becoming less scrambled with each passing second. Plenty of time for losing your mind when you’re dead.
Another explosion rocked the ground beneath Montclair, blowing him backward a second time and finally separating him from his rifle. Lying flat on his back, a fit of coughing seized him. There was the warm, coppery taste of blood. He wiped his mouth, the back of his hand coming away wet and red. He managed to roll over onto his belly and, with his remaining good hand, grasped a fistful of cool, dark earth. He began dragging himself forward.
The Confederate clockwerks continued their approach, the force of hundreds of iron feet marching in lockstep sending vibrations through Montclair’s body. They almost had him in range. Little did they know they were almost in his range as well, with the success or failure of his plan requiring split-second timing. If the fuses were lit too soon, not enough Confederate troops would be caught in the blast. And if they were lit too late?
Better not to dwell on it, he thought. A few more yards and it would all be over.
He started to crawl.
With thirty-five feet left until he reached the fuse, sweat poured down Montclair’s face. It soaked through his shirt and jacket, mixing with the dirt and blood.
Twenty-five feet left and the cauterized stump of his left hand began bleeding again, leaving a trail of red in the soil behind him. Montclair shivered. Why did he feel cold all of a sudden?
With only ten feet left, Montclair’s eyelids grew heavy. He blinked, fighting the wave of fatigue which threatened to wash over him.
He woke with a start, his heart threatening to beat from his chest. He’d passed out for what he hoped had only been a few seconds. Was he too late?
“Nation’s last hope,” he muttered to himself, his words slurring.
Through blurred vision, Montclair found what he was searching for, the fuse only a few yards distant. He groped at the earth, clawing and scraping for the last few yards to what he hoped would be salvation.
Then, he heard the most peculiar sound.
Montclair had spent most of his adult life on the field of battle. He’d grown accustomed to the booming of artillery and gunfire, but this was unlike any gun or cannon he’d ever heard. It began with a thunderous whoosh like a titan breathing in deep. The night became still. A deafening crack split the air as if the sky itself had broken apart. Montclair curled into a ball, covering his ears as best he could with one good hand and one mangled wrist.
No sooner had the echo of the terrible sound begun to fade than a brilliant blue light blinded him. As he tried to hide his face and eyes, an incredible wave of heat like the blast from an open oven hit him.
Through the soot, mud, and blood on his face, the whites of a smile shined through. Despite his ravaged and broken body, despite the blood, the dirt, the exhaustion and pain he’d already begun to feel, things were looking up. The explosion was a sign. His plan, at least a part of it, had worked.
More of the aether explosions followed in quick succession. After learning from the initial detonation, Montclair now knew when to cover his ears and eyes. He was surprised at how quickly he grew accustomed to the blasts. The screaming was a different story. Montclair had never imagined a man’s voice could create such a wretched sound. He imagined he’d be hearing it in his nightmares for many years to come.
Montclair scolded himself for his weakness. The men dying in that conflagration were the invading enemy. There might be time for mercy and regret later, but this was not it.
Montclair’s men had done their part in carrying out the plan. Now it was his turn.
The thick, pitch-covered cord he’d sacrificed so much to reach lay only a few feet ahead. Montclair took another deep breath and made the sign of the cross. The last of his adrenaline gone, the pain of his wounds came roaring on. He screamed as he dragged himself the final distance.
Montclair pulled a piece of flint from a torn pocket of his uniform jacket. He bit down, holding the flint between his teeth. Mustering what little strength he had left, he took a small piece of steel from his kit and inched his face toward the ground where the fuse lay. Montclair closed his eyes. Praying, he struck metal against flint.
A tiny orange spark, smaller than a firefly, sailed through empty space. The bright little light kissed the pitch covering the fuse and burst into flame.
Montclair rolled onto his back, a ragged sigh escaping his lips. Somewhere, another cache of aether exploded, the sound worse than the angriest thunderclap. The azure-blue fire from the detonation turned night to day, and burning Confederate soldiers screamed in agony.
Montclair’s eyelids grew heavy again. This time, he lacked the will to fight. As the fuse he’d lit burned toward the approaching army, he surrendered and let the darkness take him. He welcomed death if his dying meant Union victory.
2 Skies above the Atlantic, Near the Coast of New Jersey, April, 1864
The light of the early morning sun glinted off the blade. Montclair wasn’t yet accustomed to the strange curved edge of the katana. He’d trained with it for eight months, but truly mastering the weapon could take years. Convincing his commanders to relax regulations and allow it as part of his official kit could take even longer. Years of constant practice with the cavalry saber had burned themselves into his muscles. Those hard-earned lessons were difficult to erase.
“You must empty yourself like cup,” Ueda-san said. “Only then can you fill with knowledge.”
“A task easier said than done,” Montclair replied.
Getting up had been harder than usual this morning. Their mission to purchase new aether-infused artillery rounds had gone smoothly, but Montclair still hadn’t recovered from the unlimited brothel access and barrels of rum the French arms dealers had plied them with, several barrels of which they’d brought along for the return journey. Today, he’d woken at sunrise, pleased that the throbbing pain in his head had finally begun to subside. He had splashed ice-cold water on his face, threw on his uniform jacket, and made straight for Vindication’s forward deck. As usual, Ueda was already there.
Each day, Montclair found him the same way, meditating in the early morning quiet and waiting for the arrival of his student. It took quite a bit of doing to beat Montclair at anything; he wondered if maybe the samurai didn’t sleep there at night just so he could arrive first.
“Less talk. More training,” Kenshin Ueda said, bringing Montclair back to the present.
Each morning, Montclair stripped to the waist and performed one thousand cuts with the Nipponese blade. He understood that only through repetition could his body learn the motions to the degree that thought was no longer needed.
While thought required only a fraction of a second, in the midst of battle, it could spell the difference between life and death.
The soldier in Montclair loved the ritualized discipline of the new skills he was learning. Under Ueda’s watchful eye, Montclair performed the ritual chiburi motion—the flinging of blood from the blade—then returned the sword to his hip with smooth, practiced motions. As he sheathed the blade, Montclair’s dark eyes remained fixed as if locked upon an invisible enemy.
The eastern sword was an amazing weapon. Montclair was no stranger to fine blades, but the katana were in a category all to themselves. Each was a deadly work of art. Their elegance, simplicity, strength, and razor-sharpness were all qualities Montclair recognized within himself. It made sense that Ueda-san referred to the blades as “the soul of the samurai.”
As he focused on his technique, Montclair opened and closed his mechanical left hand.
“Why do you do that, Julius-san?” Ueda asked. The sight of Montclair’s clockwerk appendage didn’t make the samurai uncomfortable as it did some people.
“Do what?” Montclair asked.
“Why do you move your hand as you do? This is a wasted motion,” Ueda said, mimicking the movement with his own hand.
“I have no idea, Ueda-san,” Montclair replied.
Since the loss of his hand, the unconscious gesture had become something of a bad habit. Julius chastised himself for the lack of discipline. Discipline was the hallmark of a good soldier, and it began with control over one’s own mind and body.
“I’ll try not to do it anymore,” Montclair said, more to himself than anyone else.
He forced the clockwerk hand to relax. He didn’t know if he would ever get used to the appendage. He remembered his surprise when he had awakened in the hospital tent with a cleanly bandaged stump where he was certain his left hand should have been.
Thanks to Montclair’s plan, they’d brought the Confederate army’s advance on the National Mall to a grinding halt. Under cover of darkness, the Union army buried every ounce of aether it could find under a veneer-thin layer of soil. Both sides used aether munitions during the war, but prior to the battle of the Potomac, no one had detonated such a vast amount of the raw element all at once. The resulting explosions rocked the ground with a force so violent it shattered glass for a two-mile radius. Reports of the ghostly blue glow of the flames had come from as far out as Chantilly.
Minutes after Montclair had detonated the last of the aether, several men had rushed out and dragged his unconscious body back to the Union trenches. After the flames died, they had carried him behind the front lines to a hastily constructed hospital tent. Hard to believe it had only been a year.
“Please continue your training, Julius-san,” Ueda said.
Montclair shook his head as if he could shake away the memories. He set his rear foot firmly, drew his blade, and raised the sword’s curved edge above his head.
“Again, Julius-san,” Ueda said in heavily accented English.
As Montclair completed his final practice cut, he sensed someone behind him.
“Morning, Jasper,” Montclair said as he sheathed the blade, his back still turned.
“Good morning, sir. How did you know it was me?”
“You’re the only member of my crew brave enough to disturb me,” Montclair said with a shrug.
He turned to see Major Jasper Vincent, Vindication’s first officer. The major stood patiently, chest out, back straight, his Union-blue uniform immaculate, waiting for Montclair to finish his daily exercises.
“Looks like we’re done for the morning, Ueda-san,” Montclair said.
Montclair bowed to the master samurai. Ueda returned the bow and left without a word. Tendrils of steam rose from Montclair’s skin, only to dissipate in the crisp morning air. He wiped the sweat away with an old rag and took a long drink from his canteen.
“So, Jasper, no qualms about interrupting your commanding officer during the one time of day you were expressly told not to?” Montclair asked.
“No, sir. Not if it’s warranted,” Major Vincent said, grinning. His perfect white teeth contrasted sharply with his smooth, dark brown skin. “I’ve served under you long enough now to know when it is.” The major was half a head shorter than Montclair and had to look up when he spoke to him. “Walk with me, sir?” the major said, holding out his hand to indicate which way they would go.
“Very well,” Montclair said, dressing himself in uniform shirt and coat as they went. “Where are we headed, major?”
“There was a vessel spotted off the port bow, sir, less than ten minutes ago but closing in fast. Markings identify her as the Gryphon.”
“The Gryphon? Must be damned important if they’re sending the second most powerful airship in the fleet just for us, no? Has the sergeant major been notified?”
“Meeting us there, sir.”
Montclair and his first officer arrived at the foredeck, where they were greeted by Arliss French, the airship’s sergeant major. The sergeant major had taken the liberty of putting together a small honor guard to receive the Gryphon’s crew. The honor guard made for an impressive picture as they stood at rest, the airship’s bridge rising above them, the U.S. flag flying high in the wind behind them. As the Gryphon floated up alongside the main deck, the captain of the honor guard ordered her troops into position.
The U.S.S Gryphon was a Union Army airship of war. Like the Vindication, the Gryphon measured eight hundred-eighty-seven feet from stem to stern and one hundred-eight feet across her beam. Her armament consisted of six Gatling guns, four thirty-two-pound long cannon, two sixty-eight-pound long cannon, and six shell guns on both her port and starboard sides.
Montclair’s chest swelled with pride when he thought of how his own airship was just as magnificent. He stood waiting with both hands clasped behind his back as the Gryphon’s crew disembarked. His clockwerk hand, now covered in its customary black leather glove, opened and closed as if it had a mind of its own.
“Any idea why the Gryphon is here, sergeant major?” Montclair asked.
“No, sir,” the grizzled old sergeant major replied. “Do you know anything of the colonel who commands her?”
“Colonel Levington, you mean? Not really. Although I did once ask a man who’d served under him how Levington came to be called ‘the Inquisitor.’ I never got a straight answer.”
“I know why,” the sergeant major said, the gaze of his lone remaining blue eye focused on the Gryphon. “Had I known they were coming I’d have briefed you on it. It’s not a pleasant story.”
A contingent of soldiers dressed in Union blue hopped down onto Vindication’s deck. The medals on their chests shone bright in the early morning sun as they strode across the walkway. Montclair tasted the salt air from the sea below them and felt the thrum of Vindication’s engines as they held her in place.
“Honor guard!” the guard captain shouted. “A ten-hut!”
Montclair, his first officer, the sergeant major, and the honor guard all snapped to attention.
“Colonel Montclair?” the lead officer of the Gryphon’s contingent said.
“Colonel Levington,” Montclair said, extending his hand. “Welcome aboard, sir.”
Levington’s grip was firm, his hand dry and cool. His eyes, a lifeless blue, were rheumy and bloodshot.
“An honor to meet the hero of the Potomac,” Levington said.
Montclair grimaced. “Thank you, colonel, but I’m no hero.”
“A point I’m not inclined to argue, Montclair,” Levington said.
“Really?” Montclair said, the remark so disrespectful he actually laughed.
Levington stood tall enough that he and Montclair were eye to eye. His gaunt face, sagging jowls, and thin frame reminded Montclair of an undertaker he’d known back in New Orleans.
“A damn fine ship, Montclair,” Levington said, admiring the Vindication. “She lives up to everything I’ve heard about her and then some.” Levington looked
Vindication over one last time before turning his attention to the sergeant major. “Have we had the pleasure of serving together?” he asked. “Your face strikes me as familiar, and I rarely forget a face.”
“Mazatlán,” the sergeant major growled. “During the war with the Mexican empire. Same place I lost this.” The sergeant major flipped up his eye patch to reveal a brown, dried-out socket where his left eye once was. “Same place you earned that nickname of yours.”
Levington laughed, a dry chuckling sound without any mirth. “I’ve always worn that name as a badge of honor. I’d wager many American lives were saved using the information we extracted.”
“To what do we owe the honor of your visit this morning, colonel?” Montclair asked, changing the subject and potentially saving his sergeant major from a court-martial.
“Yes. Of course,” Levington said. “We were flying patrol routes along the British-Canadian border yesterday when we received word that Jefferson Davis, the rebel president, was assassinated.”
Montclair swore in French. “Does this mean that the stalemate is broken? Have you come to call us back to war?”
“No,” Levington replied. “Not yet at least. As soldiers, we welcome war should it come to it, but I haven’t been ordered here to retrieve you.”
“Do they know who killed Davis, sir?” Major Vincent asked. “Was it our doing? How are the Southerners reacting to the news?”
“I can only tell you what I know, major,” Levington said. “Which isn’t much, I’m afraid. The Confederate peacekeeping forces have restored order after some initial disturbances. Our air and naval blockades remain in effect, but all Union forces have been placed on highest alert, just as an added precaution.”
“And our troops along the southern border?” the sergeant major asked.
“All clockwerk divisions near the demilitarized zone have been activated. They’re ready to march at a telegraph’s notice. And the 20th Pennsylvania Infantry is in position and ready to back them if needed.” Levington snapped his fingers, and an officer from the Gryphon sprang to his side. “Coordinate with Colonel Montclair and begin offloading that cargo Vindication picked up in Barbados,” Levington ordered. “I want us bound for Watervliet, New York within the hour.”