The Devil's Workshop

by Donnally Miller

  She woke up and Tavish was shaking her. The sun was just peeping over the horizon. The air was filled with the gladsome sound of birdsong. A new day was just beginning.

  “Katie, oh thank God I found you.” He put his arm around her. “Why did you wander away? It was on account of me, I’m guessing.”

  “No, Tavish . . .”

  “I fear it was.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. All night I’ve been cursing myself for an idiot. I wouldn’t be the cause of any hurt coming to you. I’m the greatest idiot God ever made. You know you’re safe with me.”

  “I’m sorry, Tavish. I forgot.”

  “Or was there someplace you wanted to go?”

  “I don’t know . . . I thought there was a place I had to get to. When I got there there was nothing for me after all . . .” Truly she was bewildered.

  They broke their fast, then bundled up their few belongings and tied them to Neddy’s back. That was when they discovered Tommy Dog was gone. In the night he’d followed Katie out of the camp, but where he’d wandered off to later they had no way of telling. After much calling for him and much time spent looking, eventually they set off, hoping he would find his way to them, and proceeded in the direction of Kashahar.

  Chapter Nineteen

  LOST BASTARD ISLAND

  It had originally been built as a jail, and somewhere deep in its interior there were still a few dank, musty cells, long disused. It was said that on nights when the wind was high, rattling the battlements and howling round the turrets, you could still hear the screams of the inmates, the original lost bastards who had bequeathed the island its name. When the need arose for a munitions depot the spot had been deemed favorable for a number of reasons. Its position on an island made it easily defensible. It would not be subject to attacks from the Indians, since they did not inhabit the isle. The bed of granite that formed the island, and that lay just beneath the windswept grass, occasionally visible in rocky outcrops of moss-covered gray, was ideal for the depot’s walls. And finally it was far enough from any human habitation that in case of the ordnance being accidentally ignited the resulting death toll could be tolerated.

  The munitions depot had been constructed in two distinct stages. The first stage, shortly after the army was stationed in Port Jay, was the erection of a stronghold to house the arsenal, at least that portion of it the army did not immediately require. The depot was a short distance from the shores of Lost Bastard Sound, where there were boats that could quickly distribute the munitions to any spot along the coast. In addition, a gunnery was built housing artillery which could be used to protect the merchant crafts in the Sound, and to keep the pirates and privateers at a safe distance. Things stood this way for many years.

  When General Hobsbawm took command he looked at what had been done and wondered why the army had chosen to place most of its artillery on an uninhabited island far from any sites of strategic significance, where the guns were aimed at open water. Surveying the landscape round Port Jay his eye fell on Windswept Hill, a high elevation in the midst of the Forgotten Forest, a perfect spot if one wanted to keep an eye on the Indians. So his first order of business upon taking up his command had been to order a road constructed from Port Jay to Windswept Hill and a battery built atop said hill. As his scouts and engineers were taking steps to carry out these orders a letter arrived from the King. The King did not have much reputation as a correspondent, so those instructions he did communicate were felt to be of very high importance indeed. The letter, after much highly polished and unavoidable rodomontade touching on the King’s exemplary benevolence and his humble servant Hobsbawm’s diligent attention to duty, informed Hobsbawm of a purported breakthrough in the science of ballistics. The engineers in the royal gun works had assured him they were now able to build cannons that could fire shells containing inflammable substances and hit targets more than a mile distant. More than a mile! A few tests had been undertaken in isolated spots so as not to alert the spies that infested the military, and the tests had confirmed what the engineers were saying. It brought back memories of the King’s youth when he had fired broadsides from the toy cannon in the Hawksbill Tower clear over the royal bridle trail onto his sister Amberwax’s daffodil plot, wreaking untold damage on the unfortunate daffodils. These guns, the King went on to say, would overthrow the existing balance of power in the old country, and he was looking forward to the opportunity to train them on his enemies, the nations that heretofore had held him in check. However, before upending the delicate balance of power that currently held sway, and initiating a war certain to result in millions of fatalities and the complete revision of the borders that had existed for the past few hundred years, he wanted a test of what these guns could accomplish in actual warfare. What he had in mind was a war that could be waged as a trial of the guns’ power. So he had searched the globe, scrutinizing all his colonial holdings, in search of the ideal spot for such a war, and at last had found on Lost Bastard Island a gunnery and a munitions depot suitable for his purpose. Indeed, it was as if the site had been prepared with amazing foresight. The Indians were on the mainland, separated from the guns by only a mile of water. It would be possible to lob shells clear across the Sound to where the Indians were known to live. They could be bombarded pitilessly, rather like Amberwax’s daffodils. He thought this would serve as an excellent demonstration of the fate that awaited any enemies so benighted as to offer resistance.

  So the gunnery on Windswept Hill never got built, and instead the arsenal on Lost Bastard Island ended up being rebuilt much stronger than before in order to house the powerful new cannons that were brought from the old country. They were made of triple-refined steel, with muzzles that could be raised or lowered, depending on the target. They were so massive, they couldn’t be deployed with the army like ordinary artillery. They were put in one place, and there they’d stay. These new guns were given the name ‘Hercules cannons’ out of respect for their range and power. The munitions depot was built up into a sturdy bastion, surrounded by a series of bunkers and entrenchments. A palisade was erected, and within it was the gunnery.

  Recently, a large armed force had been raised and was stationed in barracks built at the depot, under the command of Colonel Milquetoast, a renowned veteran of many colonial campaigns. General Hobsbawm had placed this force here in anticipation of the war he planned to conduct against the Indians. When all was ready this force was to be convoyed across the Sound and unleashed against the natives. Pending the arrival of that day the depot was a busy place where the shouted commands of drill sergeants, the staccato crack of rifle fire and the rhythmic stamping of marching feet were heard from first light till long after the fall of darkness.

  A few weeks’ prior to the date of the anticipated convoy a short man with a broad-brimmed hat had spent some time on Lost Bastard Island. He had befriended a young guard at the postern gate who had a fondness for rum and strong opium. The guard had been unaware of these proclivities prior to the traveling man’s arrival but had now acquired a heightened appreciation for the true nature of temptation, and was excited by the role it was to play in his career. It was now understood that the gate would be left unlocked for some hours on a certain morning. The guard swore with great solemnity that this was to be the case and the traveling man, although initially distrustful – after all, how much reliance could be placed on the word of a man who consumed such tremendous quantities of opium — had decided in this case to hope for the best. The young guard had not had the heart to inform him that the key to the gate had found employment as a cheese knife and been irretrievably lost several years earlier, and so, to prevent the gate’s accidentally becoming locked it was at all times kept ajar by an empty canister used as a door stop.

  So, on the evening prior to the date of the convoy Fergus found himself seated on the back of the black stallion, trotting behind the stranger as he approached Storm Panther’s hogan. All the way from Kashahar, Fergus had be
en thinking over the events he’d been involved in since becoming the stranger’s companion. He was fitting it together with what he’d been shown the night of the full moon in that strange house where they’d stayed. It occurred to him that perhaps every man, though he might think himself free, only served for the cruel sport of dark powers, and was unknowingly trapped in a labyrinth of evil intent. But then he decided that had to be the nuttiest idea he’d ever had, so he forgot all about it.

  As they drew close they saw a brave standing outside the hogan. The stranger dismounted and spoke with him, then called Fergus to his side. “Storm Panther is within,” he said. “He’s been smoking the holy mushroom and seeking guidance from his dreams. We come now to a tipping point. I don’t know how long I’ll be with him, but you stay here. Look after the horses, and no matter what happens, don’t go anywhere.” Then he went inside.

  Fergus sat and looked at the brave who stood outside the hogan’s door. The brave stared unwaveringly straight ahead. The silence of the evening and the brave’s air of watchful intensity gave Fergus a distinct chill all down his spine. He tried one thing or another to relieve his fretful sense of anxiety, drawing patterns in the dirt with his heels, or gnawing on the end of a stick. Once or twice he thought to start up a conversation, but couldn’t think of anything to say. Eventually he asked, “You mind if I sing a little?” The brave didn’t move a muscle. So Fergus took out his banjo and resumed where he’d left off on the ballad he was composing. By now it was well over three thousand verses. He’d forgotten what it had been about to start with. This was what he sang:

  He was strolling down the street

  When a splendid angel he chanced to meet

  Who told him that was where he’d stay

  For seven years and a single day.

  “Oh, angel, did you really plan

  To halt the travels of this man?

  For if –“

  At this point the brave, without speaking a word, walked over to Fergus and took the banjo out of his hands. He broke the neck into three pieces. He tore the strings with his teeth. He took the body of the banjo and broke it once, twice over his knee and then threw the discarded fragments onto the ground.

  “Not much of a music lover, huh?”

  The brave pissed on the broken fragments of the banjo.

  “Nope, didn’t think so.”

  Inside the hogan the traveling man was conferring with Storm Panther. He was talking about the guns of Lost Bastard Island and the soldiers lodged there. Storm Panther had only recently acquired twenty rifles, which he had distributed among his warriors. He had thought this made a great addition to the might of Half Moon’s forces, but he realized now he had been deluded and that his twenty rifles were as useless as twenty blades of grass against the power General Hobsbawm could muster. He cursed the great delay that had come to the Indians’ attack, the paralysis that had overtaken Half Moon, the stupor in which they had sat for so many days, allowing the army to recruit more men and grow ever stronger. He saw that the Indians were fated to die in great numbers, and that the battle they were planning would lead inevitably to their undoing.

  Yet the stranger held out hope. It was a crazy plan, but the plans that were not crazy were certain to fail. The stranger laid out his idea, striding about the hogan, his arms windmilling as he made his points. Storm Panther remained seated, his arms clasped on his chest before him, a rock in the stranger’s rushing stream.

  “It must be this instant,” said the stranger, “while the soldiers are still there. The blast will destroy the guns, but just as important it will turn near a half of Hobsbawm’s troops into dust and flinders.”

  “Any who go will not be coming back,” said Storm Panther. This was the crux. They looked at one another. There was a long silence.

  “It must be a stout lad that goes. Whom would you send?”

  “You think I am so poor-spirited I would send another to do what I must do? I will go myself.”

  “It is for you to say.”

  “Truly it is not. It has been said already by the force that shapes our fates. I cannot say to another, you must die in my place. That would not be me speaking.”

  “It’s a thing leaders often say. They are needed to lead; they must stay alive. Who will look after the tribe if you go?”

  “I have brought up Dark Owl ever since he was born to be prepared for that task.”

  “But even so you’re the man that does it, I do not think you can do this alone. Perhaps you should take one or two to accompany you. It would be a great misfortune if the quest failed for lack of a second rifle, and I am sure there are those who would go.”

  “Fleet Cougar would go, but I will not ask this of him. He has still a squaw and a young pup. My only companion will be solitude.”

  “Truly you know best.” The stranger stood very still. An awareness hung in the air. Storm Panther came to the realization that he was going to go to Lost Bastard Island and ignite the ammunition that was stored there. There was no other way to save the Indians. Once he had made this decision he was – he had almost said at peace, but it was not peace. Peace would come after. What he felt was a great intensity, a hunger. He knew he was going to die. He had always known this in an abstract way, but now he foresaw exactly how and when it was to occur, and that it was to be the result of what was done by his hand. He knew he had made a decision, that his life would be used for a purpose. His life was a tool he was putting to use to accomplish something great and of an importance far beyond his individual survival. It was not something he was throwing away, like a worn-out plaything. His death was not a nihilistic rejection of life resulting from a personal anomie. This was a necessary step which would allow him to triumph over an enemy he detested. At the same time he felt like a climber on a steep ascent, up the wall of a cliff, or on a tall tree, who pauses and makes the mistake of looking down. He saw that all his life he had taken care to look only straight ahead. But now he had looked down, and he was falling under the enchantment of the swooning temptation that was his death. The distance between his lofty perch and the hard, unyielding ground called to him. He pictured himself letting go and surrendering to the irresistible pull of gravity. Now that he had looked down he was set apart from other men who still lived in the world of looking straight ahead, the very world he was dying to protect. And he realized that this world was a fragile artifact and that the comfortable mask of reason it wore was only visible if one kept one’s gaze fixed straight ahead, and that the inhabitants of this world were like men on a high wire flung across a chasmous abyss, sleep walking as they put one foot in front of another, where one wrong glance could lead to madness, derangement and lunacy.

  These thoughts led him to consider his son. His last wish, before he destroyed himself, was to set his relationship with his son to rights. “I will say farewell to my son, and then I will go with you.” He took a spear decked with feathers that stood nearby and stamped it on the ground. The brave entered from outside, gave a short bow to the traveling man and then kneeled before Storm Panther. “Bring my son Dark Owl. Tell him I would speak with him.” The brave departed.

  When he returned he brought with him a young man. Dark Owl stood apart, his face dour and brooding. He had been in the act of wooing the maiden Distant Star, but his wooing was not going well. Always he found her flighty and unreasonable, and the more she acted so the greater was his desire. At this moment he was impatient to return to her, since he had little interest in what his father had to say. Of late he had noted a growing feebleness in his father, a decline in both his wits and his strength. He had considered not coming in answer to his call, to make it clear the leash his father held was no longer tied to his collar, but he thought the outward show of deference should be retained at least for the moment.

  “My son,” said Storm Panther, “the time has come when I must leave you. Always when I brought you up I have prepared you for this moment. I am placing the welfare of the tribe in your hands. This is a sign
al and a solemn responsibility, but you are equal to the task.”

  “Wait – you’re leaving?”

  “Yes. I am going to rejoin the Great Spirit, where I will look down on all that is done from a place beyond space and time.”

  “Father, I am sure you will be with us for many more years.”

  “No. Tomorrow you will see a great blow struck against our enemies. That will be the sign I am no longer with you. I am departing from this camp tonight; that is why it is important that we speak . . . I hope you have found me to be a good father. It has been my task to discipline you. I have not always been able to be kind when I would wish to be so. It was needful to make you strong, so that you could follow me and fulfill the duty to which you were born. I believe you understand this.”

  “Father, since this is the last time we will be speaking, I will not hide from you the truth. I was brought up to be dishonest in your presence, since your self-esteem was a feeble reed that required constant care and was nurtured by my subservience; but the truth is I have always found you to be stubborn, irascible and stupid. The first lesson I learned at your knee was how to find pleasure in my own way and hide it from your view. But now I can tell you bluntly: you are not the man you think you are.”