A Matter of Temperance (The Adventures of Ichabod Temperance Book 1)

by Ichabod Temperance

  Mr. Johnson’s face shows scorn at first, but then irresistibly reveals an ounce of curiosity. This helplessly slides into full attention which inevitably leads to his mouth falling open, thus allowing a lit cigar to fall to the floor.

  To my own chagrin I have to admit that it is Mr. Temperance’s own inventions that win our entrance to the stingy store owner’s sanctum sanctorum. I am not surprised, for nothing fascinates a comet prodigy so much as the brilliant invention of another.

  Mr. Johnson beams at the little Alabamian, “I didn’t catch your name, friend.“

  - - -

  The recovered ecto-plasm from the hotel’s lobby lizards gives us material to work with.

  Mr. Temperance’s treasured Colt .45 cannot be salvaged. A new weapon must be procured.

  Mr. Johnson’s store provides a wide variety of weaponry from which to choose our devices’ platforms. Mr. Temperance had thought his Colt could handle the tremendous force of the Ecto-Plasmic retort, but he had miscalculated.

  The California constables quickly make their choices. This I think is not a difficult choice for the lawmen. A very popular rifle’s name bursts from the happy shoppers’ lips: the ’Winchester’ rifle is what these fellows desire. They feature a high capacity of ammunition, a fast rate of fire, and a proven, deadly accuracy. However, Mr. Temperance suggests that they opt for the substantially overbuilt ‘Henry’ rifle instead.

  It takes a longer interval of time for my young friend to make his decision. The assiduous shopper pores over Mr. Johnson’s vast arsenals. There are so many weapons to select among! Hundreds, if not thousands of every sort of pistol, rifle and shaughtte-gun are on display.

  Many are antiques, such as a pair of ancient Dutch blunderbusse. Flintlocked, cap and ball firearms of every description fill many long gun cases. These compete for his attention with breech loading rifles from the recent past. Muzzle loading muskets and Kentucky long rifles dating back to this country’s founding make this emporium a veritable private museum.

  Many new and modern weapons with unique features and incredible qualities are on display.

  “Do these Henry rifles not appeal to you, Mr. Temperance?” I ask. Certainly, the constables made their decisions very quickly.

  “Perhaps you would be happier with these fantastic modern designs?”

  “I need to be far-sighted, Ma’am,” is the patient and courteous reply. “We still gotta long way to go on our journey to distant Tibet. I need to be able to keep my weapon on my person at all times. As much as I am tempted to kit out a Henry for myself, I think it prudent to fashion a pistol, instead.”

  “I defer to your better judgment in these matters, sir.”

  “Thank you, Ma’am.”

  Most of this fine store’s pistols are of the American six-shooter style that is so famously in vogue at this time here in the North American Western territories. There are double and single action pistols. That is, as the shooter squeezes the trigger, the cylinder containing the ammunition is mechanically rotated, placing the cartridge to be fired into position. Simultaneously, this action cocks the hammer, positioning the firing pin above the freshly placed new munition. Or, he or she may cock the weapon manually with his or her thumb, for an easier trigger pull. These “Six-Shooters” usually come in thirty-two, thirty-eight, forty, and forty-five caliber chamberings. These weapons are fast and reliable. Mr. Temperance obviously mourns the loss of his prized ‘Colt’ revolver.

  There are some unusual fellows among the newly-developed weaponry. Does the blast of the round power a series of mechanical events, which in turn, loads another round into the breach to be fired? What an amazing process this initiates as the blast of the munition is harnessed for the automatic chambering of a fresh cartridge. I suppose that this would facilitate a very rapid rate of fire. Perhaps it would fire as quickly as the user is able to pull the trigger!

  In this display case, our obstreperous host has his collection of pistols from this country’s tragic ‘War Between The States.’ Many are revolvers of large, elegant design. These deadly works of art were highly prized in their time, but sadly, they are obsolete in this day and age. The single action style, where the user is required to cock the hammer manually, is a thing of the quaint past. The firing cap, powder, and ball, are all loaded separately, instead of together, as a single cartridge. Yet still, I can see that Mr. Temperance looks upon them as remarkable creations. I wonder what is his fascination with these older model firearms?

  “A marvelous collection of antiques, Mr. Temperance. These large pistols are truly elegant, even lovely, in their way. It is unfortunate that they do not accept standard cartridges as is so required in the modern firearm of our day.”

  “Yes, Ma’am, but of course, I am not firing standard cartridges, either. In fact, what I have in mind will actually work better as a front of the cylinder loaded semi-cartridge.”

  I watch the fellow continue his close inspection. It is as if I can see into the back of his head, and watch the machinations of his active design process.

  His face, posture and gestures indicate that he has made an exciting discovery.

  “Miss Plumtartt! A La Mat!”

  “Is that a good thing, Mr. Temperance?”

  “Yes, Ma’am, this here’s a Confederate legend. The ‘La Mat' is a cavalry soldier’s weapon. This is a very interesting pistol of French manufacture with some peculiar characteristics.”

  Mr. Temperance explains the history, and design features of the revolver; and I can see the first 'tingly sensations’ of a plan start to form in his mind.

  “Nine long, forty-two caliber rounds rotate within their own cylinder, around a stationary middle tube. This center passage contains a sixteen gauge shaughtte-gun charge. This small shaughtte-gun barrel is perfectly adapted to accept the ectoplasmic charging chamber for the device in mind.”

  This large, heavy revolver of unusual antiquity will be the platform of his new weapon.

  Mr. Johnson disengages the many locks of a heavy iron-bound door and leads our ensemble to the inner sanctuaries of his esoteric digs.

  This workshop has furnaces, presses, and dies. Every sort of scientific pursuit is represented including a chemyst’s laboratory, complete with bubbling retorts and burning burners.

  Unusual electrical apparatuses’ sparks give evidence of the dangerous goings on within mysterious cabinetry. Sputtering electrical components attempt to bite the unwary. Arcs of wandering electricity keep one grounded in caution. From my father’s laboratories at Plumtartt Manor, to the universities of Graz, I have spent a considerable amount of time in various laboratories. This is an impressive and noteworthy workshop.

  Workbenches are strewn with the detritus of a thousand projects.

  Uncountable firearms lie scattered in varied states of completion and construction. Most are practically unfathomable in their potential use.

  A drafting table dominates the center of the room.

  This is the nexus of firearm creation.

  Mr. Temperance explains the construction of his ‘Green Beauties’, P.E.R.K., and P.G.D.D. to Mr. Johnson.

  He then explains the devices we intend to create.

  “I might just have to build one of these babies for myself,” exclaims the excited armament engineer.

  - - -

  Firearms of unheard of ferocity are now in our possession.

  Three more sets of ‘Green Beauties’ have been built.

  “Edged weapons are frowned upon in the police force.” This from Officer O'Hagan. “How about an alternative?”

  “I might have something, officer.”

  Borrowing a couple of tools from the two men, he uses the proffered items to quickly form two casting molds. Mr. Temperance returns to them their old toys, and the delighted constables’ new toys are soon at hand.

  For Constable Keefer Smith, it’s an emerald truncheon.

  “I call it a “BillyPUNC,” says Mr. Temperance.

  Petrified

 
; Ubiquitous

  Necrotized

  Cudgel

  “Thank you, citizen Ichabod!”

  “And for Mr. O'Hagan, his PUNKdusters.” says Mr. Temperance with a smile.

  Petrified

  Unified

  Necrotized

  Knuckles

  “Oh, thank you kindly, little Icky!”

  Everyone is shopping and getting new things but me! I rap my parasol pointedly on the floor. “Mr. Temperance, might I have some means of defense, as well?”

  “I hate the idea of putting you in a position such that armed combat would be necessary, Miss Plumtartt.”

  “Well it seems, sir, that I am finding myself in these circumstances whether you and I wish it or not. I am afraid there is no other choice. I insist.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “Go ahead and build a weapon for ye’re bonnie lass, Icksy, the lass has a lot of pluck.”

  Mr. Temperance’s eyebrows pull together in a knot of concentration, and then they open back into a happy state of relaxed inspiration. With a snap of his fingers and a carbide flash of ingenious light in his eyes, he ideates a personalized weapon especially for me.

  When he shortly thereafter presents it to me, I start to protest, but quickly relent.

  “I would prefer something more substantial, Mr. Temperance, but I must say, this is rather darling!”

  Chapter 37 - Departure.

  Ichabod.

  “Bring on your old, scary monsters, we’re loaded for bear!”

  “Yessir, Mr. Johnson, sir, this here is a sure ‘nough heavy duty arsenal all right, but don’t let your guard down. We might run into some ecto-grizzly bears.”

  “Oh, dear, I had hoped that we would already be put to sea at sunset, but the ominous dusk catches us in her darkening embrace. We now enter the operational realm of our enemies.”

  “Citizen driver, hurry this carriage to the docks, we have a ship to catch.”

  “Sorry, Constable Smith. The docks are only a few blocks ahead, but traffic is not moving. There appears to be a disturbance up there. All traffic is turning back in this direction. All the horses are stampeding!”

  “Saints and sinners, so is our horse wishing to flee. We’ve tarried too long! Everyone out of the carriage!”

  “Yessir, Constable O’Hagan. Let me assist you, Miss Plumtartt.”

  “Get us out of this street, Mr. Temperance, we shall be run under hoof!”

  “We’ll squeeze in behind this porch post as the sidewalk is flooded with traffic as well.”

  “I think that’s it, Ma’am. You can hear horses’ hooves throughout the city making their exodus.”

  “Not only equine, but the human population is just behind.”

  “Oooh, I think I’m gonna be sick.”

  “Rather, I too suffer from nausea.”

  “I think the sick feeling is coming from the dock area, Miss Plumtartt.”

  “Indeed, for just as every other living creature senses in their most primal core, a repulsion to of that unto which we go. Come, Mr. Temperance, we must defeat this evil and make our way across the Pacific Ocean. We have been tasked.”

  “Yes, Ma’am, Miss Plumtartt, Ma’am.”

  “Somehow, I feel safer walking down the center of the street.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “Citizens Temperance and Plumtartt!”

  “I am not, I am afraid, one of your country’s citizens, Constable Smith.”

  “Oh, right, nevertheless, British citizen, I am relieved to see that you are uninjured.”

  “Thank you, Constable, and now that our party is made whole again, I suggest we continue our trek down Desolation Boulevard.”

  “I thinks it’s time we adorned our ‘Green Beauties’, lads.”

  “Great day in the morning, I can see in the dark!”

  “Aye, Mr. Johnson, my goggles are functioning as well. How about you, Keefer?”

  “Roger-dodger.”

  “Gee, it sure is lonely around here, ain’t it, Miss Plumtart?”

  “Keep marching, Mr. Temperance.”

  “Look at that tumbleweed bush getting blown along in a path perpendicular to us. In a peculiar way, somehow it fills my heart with a nameless sense of dread.”

  “You and me both, Icky, lad.”

  “Keep your head on a carousel and your eyes open for danger, citizens.”

  “It’s less than two blocks to the wharf that has your launch, kiddies. We shall see you there.”

  “Miss Plumtartt! Are you all right? Don’t falter now!”

  “He is here, Mr. Temperance!”

  “Shh, listen, y’all. In the uncanny silence that has gripped this town, you can hear the slow, measured, echoing steps of a man’s footfalls.”

  A thin figure walks out into the empty street, strategically placing himself directly between us and our aquatic conveyances. This gentleman is as skinny as a rail and dressed in high fashion. A long thin mustache inhabits his upper lip.

  “Mr. Temperance, that is Jean-Jacques Bhauh Buuhm, the horrid fellow from the hotel of whom I told you!”

  “Persephone Plumtartt, you stubborn aristobrat. You selfishly put innocents in harm’s way. Had you co-operated with my European Counter-part, Herr Doktor Himmel, you might have spared many people much anguish and heartache. My mission is now to be completed. You are to be extinguished.”

  “Don’t you talk to Miss Plumtartt like that, skinny britches! She has more aristocracy in the end of her little finger than you could carry heaped up in that big ol’ top hat of yours!”

  “The intrepid Mr. Temperance,” sneers this oily poof. “If you could only get beyond your out-dated sense of chivalry, none of these exercises would have been necessary.”

  I do not care for his implication.

  “Wake up, man. This is 1875! You cling to the moral convictions and integrities of another age. Chivalry died many years ago.”

  “Chivalry lives in all times, mister.”

  “Move it, Slim. We have the means to advance our position.”

  “Ah, yes, Johnson, the Negro gunsmith. We are familiar with your advancements in weaponry.”

  “French citizen, you have the right to remain silent. I wish you would.”

  “Constable Keefer Smith, you may be big, but you are no match for me.”

  “Ho, ho, Keefer will have to settle for the scraps I leave him.”

  “O’Hagan, ever the promiscuous and combative copper. I think you will agree, you still lack the capacity to stop the forces I have at hand.”

  A green light begins to glow behind the sinister skeleton.

  It comes from the ocean, behind the malevolent man.

  The water has a sick and ghastly luminescence.

  “A snake just slithered over the seawall, y’all. No, it’s not a snake but a tentacle. There’s another tentacle. Oh my goodness, a big monster octopus is climbing out of the sea!”

  “Is that a phalanx of spears that rises from the water? Oh no, I see, they are the legs of an enormous, ocean-bottom scuttlebug, eh hem?”

  Things crawl up over the pier’s railings, horrible creatures that should not be.

  In a few short moments, the sea walls overflow with aberrant bottom feeders.

  Nightmarish visions more horrible than an opiate addict could concoct in his drug addled dreams crest the wharf.

  A torrential tide of terror washing a wave of water based wastes in an inbound undertow of unclean unsavoriness assaults our shores.

  Swarms of swollen, slavering shrimps, grotesque galloping grubworms, and prehistoric prawns approach.

  We open fire.

  BUH-WHOOMP. {The two stages of charging.}

  POW! {The plasmo-gasmic discharge.}

  BOOM!!! {Exploding monster.}

  There is a phosphorescent maelstrom.

  BUH-WHOOMP. POW! BOOM!!!

  BUH-WHOOMP. POW! BOOM!!!

  BUH-WHOOMP. POW! BOOM!!!

  The discharges are almost as dangerous
as the frightful combustion of the abominations we shoot.

  BUH-WHOOMP. POW! BOOM!!!

  BUH-WHOOMP. POW! BOOM!!!

  BUH-WHOOMP. POW! BOOM!!!

  etcetera...

  Big Keef and the lethal Leprechaun show great alacrity in combat.

  Mr. Johnson’s choice of weapon design has proven providential. Just like I thought back at the Pistol Parlour, I do believe this gentleman has been influenced by the Comet’s passing, for his device is quite ingenious. Much like the Henry, or, Winchester, lever-action, repeating rifles we are familiar with, Mr. Johnson has a similarly designed shaughtte gun. However, it operates by means of a sliding mechanism, instead of a lever, under its twin, opposite side ejecting barrels. Two large canisters of ammunition replace the under barrel tube to supply higher multitudes of destructive reserves. A pistol’s grip adds speed and leverage. Plasmogasm enhances the deadly device’s destructive powers exponentially.

  My La Mat is shocking in its devastation.

  Miss Plumtartt’s accessory is proving quite effective! She wields it with precision and murderous intent.

  The abominations dart about with deadly purpose, their locomotion alone creating a clickety-clackety cacophony, not to mention their shrill analogue to language. The other indefinable aural phenomena they emit are anathema to my senses, a saturation of maddening sounds that were never meant to be heard in our universe.

  A steady rain of plasmogasmic fire creates a green storm of deafening blasts. These are followed in quick response with the huge explosion of each creature.

  How long does it go on? The barrage is horrific. The carnage is unimaginable. The hordes of our attackers are relentless. No matter how many monsters are destroyed, a continual wave of foul creatures follow the departed.

  BUH-WHOOMP. POW! BOOM!!!

  BUH-WHOOMP. POW! BOOM!!!

  BUH-WHOOMP. POW! BOOM!!!

  …

  BUH-WHOOMP. POW! BOOM!!!

  …

  BUH-WHOOMP. POW! BOOM!!!

  …

  …

  BUH-WHOOMP. POW! BOOM!!!

  …

  …Our fire begins to wither. …

  BUH-WHOOMP. POW! BOOM!!!

  Dang, our firepower seems to be waning as we use up our ammunitions.