“I would posit that the only purpose of a work of art,” the General continued, speaking to the room, “as opposed to something actually useful, is to be just what it is. So on the one hand we have utility, and on the other we have . . . well, what have we?”
“Beg pardon?” said Eliot, believing a question had been addressed to him.
“Oh.” The General focused on Eliot. “I was saying what is the purpose of a work of art? As opposed to something useful, such as this gun.” He placed his revolver on the table. Eliot eyed it warily. “On the one hand we have utility, and on the other hand we have . . . Hmm . . .?”
“I don’t know . . . .Truth . . . Beauty . . . ? Neurosis . . .?”
“I think necessity.”
“Necessity?” said Lovejoy. “I don’t see that.”
“A gun is useful, but art is necessary. Why does a man exist? I know, to get a woman into bed.” Here Eliot and Dunder both cast quick glances at Lovejoy. “But apart from that? He exists to create art. He exists to create something that has no other purpose than to be what it is. And I think, when we judge a work of art, we judge it on that basis. If we detect in its making anything other than a striving to make it be what it is, we feel it is a failed effort. If we suspect the artist of distorting the truth he sees because he wants to please us, we are displeased. He must make it be what it is and if he tries for anything else he is not an artist. And all this going on about the impression it makes on us and the artist’s technical skill and so forth is entirely beside the point. Don’t you agree?”
Dunder applauded. “You make a very good point and a very striking one too! I’ve always thought, ever since I was a boy you know, but I never said anything, but I’ve always thought it, that it must bother every artist, after he’s painted his masterpiece, that he has to put that one disfiguring thumbprint on it somewhere in the corner, his signature. It’s the one part of the artwork that’s not part of the picture. But it’s exactly that little smudge that the connoisseurs scrutinize. Otherwise they wouldn’t know good art from bad.”
“I’m not sure that is the point I’m making and you’ve detoured into the business of art, which is something else altogether.”
“In any case, I don’t agree with anything you’ve said,” said Lovejoy.
“We judge the artist by his intention.”
“A seven year old may have a laudable intention, but he has no skill. We judge the artist by his skill.”
“The skill he needs,” the General replied, “is the skill to make his intention known. And the intentions of seven year olds are never laudable.” Dunder suppressed a chuckle. Eliot grimaced.
“So he does need skill.”
“Of course. But it is folly – no – it is obscene to judge an artist successful because of his technique when he is dishonest about his intentions, which is why most art is crap. Would you rather watch someone crawl, or would you rather watch someone run, even though the runner is more likely to stumble?”
At this Dunder broke in. “Yes again I see what you’re saying. Why do people watch tight rope walkers? To see if they’ll fall.”
“And why would someone set a fire? To see if he can burn the whole city down. Which brings us back to this splendid fire we’ve had which was set, according to Lieutenant Lovejoy, by people whose intentions were just to see things burn. So from the artist’s point of view, the fire was a brilliant success.”
There followed another pause.
“Frankly,” said Lieutenant Eliot, “I think it’s high time we stopped all this foolish chatter. There are people suffering.”
“Always there are people suffering. I think all this brings up my plans for the army. But before we discuss that I’d just like to say that I don’t think it was deliberate. It was an accident, a very sorry, very disastrous accident. I choose not to believe there could actually be an individual so fiendish that he would deliberately set off such a conflagration. I refuse to believe in the existence of such a person . . . Now,” and he turned back to the table, where he recommenced moving the bits of wood about, “Snivel’s force was dispatched two days since to deal with the escaped slaves. I have no intention of calling him back.”
“That reminds me,” Said Dunder to Eliot, “I wanted to ask you about the Nemesis. I know she’s out of dry dock. When did she leave port?”
“Two days ago,” Eliot answered. “To convoy the troops on Lost Bastard Island.”
“That’s what these other red blocks are for. They’re the other arm of our pincer.”
“Yes,” said Hobsbawm, “as you know it had been my plan to set out today with the main body of the army,” here he put his hand on a large pile of red wooden blocks, “to crush these Indians.” He pointed with his cigar at an impressive pile of green blocks. “Obviously last night’s events have put that plan on hold. The question before us is: have the circumstances changed to such a degree that that expedition should not be simply delayed, but should be abandoned altogether, and instead should we remain here and deal with matters closer to hand, to wit, identifying and capturing the arsonists responsible for this fire?”
“But there were no arsonists. You just said so,” objected Dunder.
“Why does it matter how the fire was set?” said Eliot. “We have to stay here. You can’t be thinking of moving out to attack the Indians. That would be senseless. The people will come to us for help. Thousands have fled, and now they have nowhere to live. They’re probably this minute wandering in the Forest, waiting for things to cool down so they can return.”
“I’d rather not –“ said the General.
Eliot cut him off. “They’ll need food, shelter, medicine and I’m sure many other things. Our force is relatively intact, our supplies are whole. Who will these refugees turn to for assistance but to us? And here we are to help them!” He put his foot down with an audible stamp.
“I’d rather not get bogged down doing the work of an humanitarian,” said the General. “Besides, we need the supplies ourselves.” He stood and strode to a window overlooking the Forest rather than the city. It was starting to rain. “Rain. See that? That’s what they need to quench the fires.”
The room was silent as the General looked out on the trees. All day the sun had been hidden behind a thick, smoky haze. There was just one tiny patch of blue far off to the south.
Finally Eliot said, “The army is something that was made to be useful. It was not made with no purpose other than to be what it is.”
“Don’t get cute with me,” said the General.
“It was made to protect the people of this city and this colony. I may be taking some liberties here –“
The General turned and regarded the three others in the room. “Please, speak freely. We are not on the battlefield.”
“I was saying that the people of this city and this colony created this army for their protection. But last night when you ordered us to close the gates, and again this morning, I feel as if I am being told we will not protect them.”
“Protect them from what? From the fire? No, I don’t think that’s what the army’s for. We protect them from their enemies. Would we protect them from a hurricane? Of course not. From a volcano? How are those any different?”
“We have food and medical supplies. We have places where people could find shelter –“
“And I don’t think the people created this army. Where are you getting your democratical ideas? The King created this army. He created it to protect his people from their enemies. The supplies we have are a necessary part of the army he created. Without those supplies we couldn’t do what we must do. I’m sure the people you talk about are all very grateful that now, when they are most vulnerable, they are protected from the onslaught of the wild Indians. And that’s whom we will attack. I want some men to go out from the fort, find the refugees and the survivors, wherever they’re encamped, and tell them that this fire was the work of their long-time bitter enemies, the Indians. Indians set the fire.” He looked at
the three others. “I know at this point you’re probably hitting your foreheads in consternation and saying, ‘Of course. It had to be the Indians.’”
Dunder laughed. Eliot looked at the General with something like disbelief.
“Can you say otherwise? For all we know they might have done it. Polluted heathens.”
“And what good will this do?” asked Eliot.
“Good? I don’t know if it will do any good, but it will have an effect. More recruits. They have nothing else now anyway. Let’s get every able-bodied man and sign him up and give him a gun. I know we’re going to run out of uniforms, but that’s alright. We have plenty of rifles. Get them recruited, get them trained, get them drilled, and then let’s go kill those Indians. A week — no, not even that – four days. I can turn a man into a soldier in four days.” Here he turned back to the large map and pushed some red blocks into position. “And by that time the Nemesis will have convoyed the force on Lost Bastard Island to the Coast. I’m looking forward to a grand campaign. Why have we not been able to whip these Indians in the past? Why? Because when we attacked, they scattered. As soon as you’d look for them they were no longer there. But now they’re preparing for the sort of battle we know how to win. They’re massing, and we’ll be closing in on them from both sides, through the Forest and from the sea. We’ll shatter them. We’ll positively demolish them. We’ll chase them all the way to the shore. And then, when their backs are to the water’s edge, we’ll blast them with the guns of Lost Bastard Island.” He paused, and took a moment to imagine the sight. “This will be a feather in all our caps.” He pushed the red blocks he’d placed earlier, sliding them across the table towards a pile of green blocks, but his aim missed and the blocks went off the table edge, hitting the far wall and falling to the floor with a clatter.
Eliot and Lovejoy looked at him in dismay. Dunder chuckled.
Five days actually is what it took. Five days of drills and exercises. Five days of constant rain. The recruiters who’d been sent amongst the bedraggled survivors of the fire had painted the soldier’s life in the glowing lights of a perpetual holiday, and as Hobsbawm had foreseen, many young men flocked to their banners. Of the remainder, some left, taking the road to Indradoon, and a few set out on the road to Kashahar, though army intelligence told of a large massing of Indians in the Forest near that road. The River of Tears ran past the ramshackle encampment of those that remained, and it was used for both washing and drinking water. There were a few cases of cholera, but the settlers were a sturdy lot, and a barter economy came into being with the farmers who lived along the riverside.
Also some returned to the burnt-out shell of the city. There they set about scavenging for what remained, living wherever a few walls, a chimney or a roof still stood to provide something in the way of shelter. Gangs of looters roamed the abandoned streets, terrorizing the few shopkeepers or merchants who’d gone back to salvage what they could. There were outbreaks of fighting when some rich trove or other was uncovered amidst the ash and other debris.
Lieutenant Eliot spent much of those five days wandering through the tents and campfires looking for word of his wife and son, but found none. On the fourth day there was a desultory mutiny, many of the soldiers who’d lost family in the fire rising against General Hobsbawm, but this was put down, the leading mutineers were hung, and their places were taken by fresh recruits. Lieutenant Eliot deserted and fled into the woods. Those who pursued him quickly lost his trail.
Meanwhile, the new recruits were drilled, marched up and down and pronounced soldiers. There were no uniforms, it was the raggedest army ever seen, but six days after the fire that burnt Port Jay to the ground it marched out of what was left of the city, and into the Forest.
The sisters, mothers, wives and daughters they were leaving behind stood and watched them go. There were no flags waved or cheers shouted. It was an altogether dismal occasion, made even more so when the rain turned to hail shortly after the last of the infantry had marched away.
Chapter Seventeen
COLDBLOOD FARM
Josh studied the farmhouse from where he stood on the side of the road. His Mom was still indoors. This was her day for laundry and she usually took her time about it. It looked as though he’d have the morning to himself so he went out on the sand to where the wind was blowing in his face and the waves pounded the shore. The beach was empty. A lone gull watched him with baleful yellow eyes. He waved to scare it, but it just stuck its head up and gave a haughty stare. He spread his arms and ran, lunging at it. As it took to the air it cast its cawing curse down on his head. He gave back a right salute, and in a flash he was the captain of a naval frigate bound for points west. The waters here were treacherous. Monsters prowled the shore. He directed the first mate to go in close and get a good look. Sails were struck; the canvas on the foremast was lowered. They were cruising at a slow pace past the strand. They saw the large, hairy brutes beating their chests and roaring their fury. Some had the bodies of men and the heads and horns of cattle. Others sat in the trees like birds, with the faces of hideous, howling women.
“Cannons out!” He gave the order.
There was an explosion and a cloud of gunpowder in the air. He looked over his shoulder and saw King Neptune walking down the road. He was covered with sand and he had no shoes or pants. He had a ragged beard full of seaweed and what looked like one or two dead mollusks. Josh went closer and saw he was wearing a wet raggedy shirt and was walking pretty fast. What really struck him though when he got close was the smell. He smelled like a two day old fish, and there was a powerful briny stench all over him. When he saw Josh he waved to him and asked him if he knew who lived in the house.
“Yes I do know,” said Josh.
“And who is it, my good man, if I may make so bold?”
“Me and my mother. This is our house.”
“Your house?”
“Yes.”
“Well you’ve got a fine house. Do you think it might be possible I could impose on your hospitality? I’m that tired and worn to flinders I think I could just about kill someone to get a bath, and there’s no telling how many I would massacre to get a bed to sleep in. I haven’t any money, but I’d be happy to make myself useful any way I could.”
“Where’d you come from?”
“From the ocean.”
Josh thought that one over. “I didn’t see any ships come in.”
“Didn’t come on a ship. What land is this?”
“How’d you come then?”
“In a fish. You didn’t answer my question.”
“No. You didn’t come in a fish.”
“You’re right. I dropped out of the sky. I ask you again, what land is this?”
“This is the Coast, and this here road is the road into Kashahar.”
“Kashahar . . . ? And which way’s Kashahar?” Josh pointed, and the man looked up towards the sun and said, “So if Kashahar’s in the west, Port Jay must be that way,” pointing back the way he’d come.
“Yeah, but it’s pretty far. And why won’t you tell me how you got here?”
“You think it would be alright if I talked to your mother?”
“You wouldn’t want to talk to my mother.”
“And why wouldn’t I?”
“She’s a fierce woman and when she meets a man she doesn’t like she turns him into a pig.”
“You’re thinking I’m one she wouldn’t like?”
“She wouldn’t like you a bit.”
“Why would that be? A tall good looking lad the likes of me.”
“Because you smell like a fish.”
“There’s worse things to smell than a fish. Is she in the house?”
“I expect, but she’s doing laundry.”
“I think I’ll have a word with her. My name’s Tom by the way.”
“Oh. I’m Josh.”
“Pleased to meet you, Josh. What’s your mother’s name?”
“Her name’s Agata. Come on, I’ll in
troduce you.”
“Ach, you smell like a fish,” said Agata, wiping suds out of her eyes when Josh confronted her with the tall strange-looking man he’d met on the road.
“That would not be surprising, seeing as I’ve spent some time in the belly of the leviathan,” said Tom. “If anyone ever tells you the stories about that beast aren’t true, they’re a liar. It’s the greatest fish in the world, and it swallowed me and I lived in its stomach till it disgorged me not far offshore. I swam to the beach and laid there overnight. When the day came I got up and found this road. I walked along it till I came to the first house, and it was yours.”
“You know that’s actually not the craziest story I’ve ever been told, but it’s close.”
“It’s not much I’d ask of you. Just to take a bath and give me a bed for the night. Or if a bed’s too much I can curl up in a corner in the hay. I’ve no money but I’d be happy to make myself useful anyway I could so as to repay you. I’ll leave tomorrow. I promise.”
She gave him an appraising look. She’d been startled when Josh first brought him in. She’d taught him not to mess with the drifters on the road, too often they were just looking for a handout or something to steal, but this one was by a long sight stranger than most. Anyway, she made up her mind.
“Josh, show him the tub outside and get some water from the well. This man needs a bath.”
“Thanks so much, ma’am. You don’t know what this means to me.”
Tom cleaned himself up, but he didn’t know what to do for clothes. Agata said she’d wash his shirt, and Tom of course had no choice but to let her. However, he possessed neither pants nor shoes. Josh offered him some of his old clothes but they were a good deal too small. Tom said he would be happy to work on the farm for a bit so he could get some money, and then he figured he could get in touch with a tailor or someone in town and get something to wear, but his immediate necessity was for a pair of pants, so Agata had no choice but to give Josh some change and send him in to town to get something Tom could wear.
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