The Devil's Workshop

by Donnally Miller

  This was horrifying news. General Hobsbawm felt as if the fist of God had hammered him in the chest. He ordered the troops under his command to turn around at once and retrace their steps. After a great deal of struggle, late in the afternoon they found themselves back at the fork where they had split up in the morning. A few small detachments, all that was left of the Eighteenth Regiment, were trickling back from the ambush bearing tales of what was coming to be seen as an absolute massacre. With a large portion of the regiment trapped at the foot of the bluffs, the rest of the column had still been marching steadily along, unaware of the trap they were marching into, pressing their comrades further into the fray. Dunder had been in the vanguard and was among the first attacked but he’d been unable to send back word of the Indians’ onslaught quickly. He relied on a horseman to deliver the word, but this was all but impossible given the narrowness of the path and the muddy condition of its shoulders, which caused the horse constantly to slip off the side of the road. There was nowhere for a horse to be ridden and the only roadway was clogged with the dead and the dying, so the horseman was unable to make any headway, and it wasn’t till the disaster was already well in progress before the cavalry officer who apprised Hobsbawm of the attack was able to get away. At any rate, by the time Dunder realized the extent of the ambush, it was far too late for him to do anything about it. Everywhere he looked he saw more Indians coming from the depths of the Forest. The Indians that had been placed behind the first row of archers came flooding onto the road, smashing whatever resistance remained among the troops.

  As the Indians swept ruthlessly into the column, Dunder was desperately attempting to form some sort of defense. But it seemed pointless, as all around he saw the friends and comrades he’d passed most of his life with being killed. Shortly after the start of the ambush he already understood he’d lost, but there was no place to run. With this in mind, and having heard blood-curdling stories of how the Indians tortured their captives, he decided to commit suicide. As the Indians pressed ever closer to the center of his column, he squinted at the summer sun, lingering in its lazy traversal of the afternoon sky, grasped his pistol in his hand, held it to his head and shot himself.

  After Dunder was dead several of his men attempted to hide the body to keep it out of the hands of the Indians, but this proved useless. His body was eventually discovered and Half Moon, with a martial salute to his totem the great bear, took his scalp so he could send it round to the other Indian chiefs.

  As word of Dunder’s suicide was passed to the remaining soldiers, it destroyed the last shreds of their will to resist. Discipline broke completely, and the survivors of the column tried to fight their way out or flee from their attackers. In just about an hour’s time the Indians slaughtered a regiment of five thousand soldiers, including those who were mortally wounded and left to die on the road, while suffering only minor casualties themselves.

  When Hobsbawm was apprised of the extent of the catastrophe, he ordered the regiments under his command to camp where they were, at the spot where the road forked. Camp fires were started, and a hospital tent was erected to care for the wounded. Hobsbawm sat in his tent in a mood of absolute despair. The adjutant who’d attended him in the morning was nowhere to be found, so he’d enlisted an orderly to take his place, a tall thin clean-shaven man whose regimental tags he couldn’t quite place. The General was poring over the map of the Forest he’d been examining in the morning when Lieutenant Lovejoy opened the flap of the tent.

  “Stuart?” said the General.

  “I heard about Dunder. I’m awfully sorry . . . ”

  “Dunder?! This whole mess is Dunder’s fault! I’ll not waste any pity on Dunder and all those other deserters and cowards. Come sit beside me . . . This whole campaign’s been a fiasco, but that’s going to change.” He indicated a point on the map slightly east of their current position. “Do you see this trail?”

  “Yes. We crossed that one yesterday.”

  “Yesterday we didn’t take that trail because we wanted to get to the Indians, who were on the west side of Windswept Hill. But now they’re here, on the north side. Where do they go from here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Of course not. It was a rhetorical question . . . Maybe they’ll attack us, but a head-on attack they’d lose . . .” He turned to the orderly. “Do you suppose there is anything in the way of a cigar in this tent?” Turning his attention back to the map he went on, “Now what if we were to go back to this trail, the one we crossed yesterday, but this time we take it heading north. You see, it curves round, and there we are, see? North of the Bog and behind the Indian camp.”

  “I see.”

  “There was – I think – a box that fell behind a table over here,” said the orderly.

  “An interesting idea, no? Then what could happen?” asked Hobsbawm.

  “Look, one unsmoked cigar.”

  “Thank God. The battle’s been lost, but at least a man can enjoy a cigar.”

  “It hasn’t been lost. This is just the first day of fighting. We have two regiments still at full strength, not to mention Colonel Milquetoast’s force.” Lovejoy was determined not to give way to defeat.

  “We could just fall on them,” said Hobsbawm.

  “You mean once we’re behind their camp.”

  “Yes.”

  “But the Bog’s in the way.”

  “Depends on exactly where they are. I imagine they’d be dispersed around the Bog. I suppose . . . ” he drifted off uncertainly.

  “Will there be anything else?” asked the orderly. “Do you want something to drink?”

  “Just – I can’t seem to get a spark.” The General was having difficulty lighting his cigar.

  “Allow me.”

  “Thanks . . . It’s looking like it’s all coming down to Milquetoast. We can attack but it’ll be a head-on attack. The best case then is we beat them and penetrate their lines and the victory is ours. If Milquetoast can get to them in time he could attack from the rear and then I’m sure we’d have them. But what if we don’t win, and Milquetoast doesn’t arrive in time. What then?”

  “Then every man will do his duty. We fight bravely or we die,” said Lovejoy.

  “No, that’s stupid. What we’d do is we’d retreat. And when we do that, these Indians aren’t trained troops, they’ll follow us. I’m sure they will. They have no discipline. And then look at this. See where they’d be? Right in the sights of the Hercules cannons.”

  “Yes. I see.”

  “Yes. You bloody well can see. This is the maneuver. They’ll be so confident after today, we’ll pull Half Moon out of his shell . . .” He looked at the orderly. “Were you getting me something to drink?”

  “There’s only this bucket of water.”

  “Water will do.”

  The orderly brought the bucket and set it down next to Hobsbawm.

  “I can’t drink out of a bucket. Get a goblet or something. But even if we pulled that off, once the guns started firing they’d just go back into the Forest. Damn it, we need Milquetoast again. If he were behind them they’d be trapped on the shore. The guns would just annihilate them.”

  “So now you’re willing to share the credit with Milquetoast?”

  “I know, it’s disappointing. But it’d be a damn sight more disappointing to take the blame for getting beat by the Indians.”

  “Well he was convoyed across the Sound last night. He’s had a day to get ready. In all likelihood tomorrow is the day he’ll attack.”

  “In all likelihood isn’t good enough. Not by a long shot. He must attack tomorrow.” He turned to Lovejoy. “Here’s what I need you to do. Take this trail till it curves around, then cut through the Forest here to San Dorio on the Coast Road. Once you’re on the Road head west. You’re bound to encounter Milquetoast’s men at some point. When you get to Milquetoast give him my orders. Here, I’ll write them for you.” Hobsbawm took pen and ink and drafted the order to attack. “You must do th
is tonight.”

  “Go back till I find this trail. Take it north. Then, when the trail curves –“

  “I can’t find a goblet anywhere,” said the orderly.

  “Go off the trail and into the woods? I’m not sure about that.”

  “It’s the only way.” Hobsbawm waved his cigar in Lovejoy’s face.

  “Riding through the woods alone at night; I don’t like it. There’s Indians everywhere.”

  “Then take someone with you. Oh Christ.” The cigar slipped out of his hand and trying to catch it he knocked it into the bucket of water. “Who put this confounded bucket here?” He turned back to Lovejoy. “And don’t delay! You have to get there before dawn.”

  “But if I –“

  The orderly was looking through a cabinet, tossing various unwanted utensils out of his way. “I’m sorry, I’m looking for a goblet.”

  “What do you want a damned goblet for?” shouted Hobsbawm in a rage. He felt like the whole world was uniting to frustrate him. “Get me another cigar!”

  “There are no more cigars.”

  “There have got to be more. I brought two full boxes.”

  “Well I can’t find them.”

  Hobsbawm turned and saw Lovejoy. “Are you still here? Go! Go!”

  “I’m on my way.” Lovejoy snapped off a salute and departed. He strutted angrily in the direction of his horse, muttering to himself. Of all the idiotic notions, sending me riding through the Forest in the middle of the night. Why didn’t he think of this yesterday? And who will my companion be? Having reached his mount he looked around and realized he might be able to find another rider, but where was he to find another horse? There were none in this part of the camp. The cavalry were bivouacked on the other side of the little ridge they’d camped on. It would take a while to get there and there was no one there he could command anyway being only a lieutenant. He started back towards Hobsbawm’s tent, to get the General to write out an authorization, but he wasn’t looking forward to confronting him in his enraged state and having to explain the delay.

  Meanwhile, in the tent the orderly was still looking through the cabinet he’d opened. “Please stop that racket. You’re rattling my nerves,” said Hobsbawm.

  The orderly stopped what he was doing and looking around saw that Lovejoy had left. “Are you going to be holding any more interviews tonight?”

  “No. Actually I have no idea . . . They gave us a good bashing today, but tomorrow it’s our turn.” He sat and caught his breath. “If there are no more cigars, can I ask you to ramble over to the canteen and get me some dinner?”

  “Dining alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t think you’ll have any need for dinner.”

  “What cheek –“ Hobsbawm broke off, seeing that the orderly had removed his hat and was holding a pistol pointed in his direction. “What do you think you’re doing? Put down that pistol. You’re liable to hurt someone.”

  “You’re the one that’s liable to get hurt, General Hobsbawm. Do you know who I am?”

  “Of course not. And why would I care?”

  “Look.”

  It took a moment. “Eliot. You’ve shaved.”

  “Yes.”

  “I must say you look a damn sight better without the mustache.”

  “Thank you – I mean, so what. I only grew the mustache for Stephanie. And she’s dead.”

  “You have my condolences.”

  “You killed her.”

  “I certainly did not.”

  “Here’s her picture. And my son, Danny.”

  “I see. A nice looking family.”

  “You killed him too.”

  “Will you please get that out of your head.”

  “No. Don’t come any closer. Step back. Look at these pictures.”

  “Well then I’ll have to get closer.”

  “Stand there. Here, I’ll put them on the table. Now go and look at them.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake . . . If you want to be excused the court martial for desertion, I’ll do that for you. But I’ll be no use to you dead.”

  “You think I’m worried about a court martial? You think that would matter to me at all? I’m going to murder you – no, I’m going to execute you – and then as many other officers as I can. And I’m saving the last bullet for myself.”

  “Sounds a bit dodgy. If you take my advice you’ll shoot yourself first. That’s the most important bit. Get that done and then you can take care of the others.”

  “You think this is a big joke, don’t you?”

  “No I don’t. I understand your sense of despair. But I was not responsible for the deaths of your wife and son.”

  “Yes you were.”

  “Blame the arsonists, if you want to blame someone. But from the moment you put on the uniform you pledged yourself to a duty greater than the defense of your family. You pledged yourself to be the King’s man and to put his orders first, before everything else. You’re a soldier. Or at least you used to be. Killing me will accomplish nothing. Killing yourself will accomplish even less. If you want to do something with your life I can help you. Otherwise shoot yourself and stop interfering with people who have something to do.”

  “I have something to do.”

  “Then do it instead of just talking about it . . . Here, give me that pistol.”

  “No.”

  “Give it to me so I can shoot you in the head. You can perish the same miserable way my good friend Colonel Dunder did.”

  “Do you honestly expect me to feel sorry for you?”

  “Sorry for me? Why would you feel sorry for me? Feel sorry for Dunder, don’t feel sorry for me.”

  “I’m sorry. There’s no point talking about it. I have to do this.” Eliot fired the pistol, but his hand was shaking, so the bullet shattered Hobsbawm’s knee cap. “Oh Christ, I’m not even a good shot.”

  Hobsbawm was on the ground writhing in fury and agonizing pain as Lovejoy reentered the tent. His first thought, seeing Hobsbawm at the adjutant’s feet, was that they were playing some addle-pated game. Then he looked more closely and saw, “Eliot, is that you? First a deserter, now a murderer?”

  “Damn it, Lovejoy, he has to be killed.” He shot at Hobsbawm again, this time hitting him in the shoulder.

  Lovejoy loaded and fired. There then followed a savage dance as Lovejoy chased Eliot around the tent, both of them dodging the other’s bullets.

  “The General’s gone mad!” shouted Eliot.

  “I’m not mad!” shouted Hobsbawm.

  “You’re the one who’s mad,” said Lovejoy.

  Moving backwards, Eliot stumbled over the bucket of water and fell defenseless to the ground, allowing Lovejoy to shoot him in the chest. He shouted, “The madness has to be st –“ before Lovejoy succeeded in killing him with a bullet through the eye.

  Hobsbawm was lying on the ground in a puddle of his blood. “Stuart, I’m done for.”

  “Not yet you aren’t.” He raised the General‘s head and found a pillow to rest it on. “I’ll get the doctor. Don’t go anywhere.” Lovejoy rose and left the tent.

  “Is that your idea of a joke?” the General shouted after him, but he didn’t shout it very loud.

  Lovejoy returned almost immediately with some men and a stretcher. Hobsbawm was laid on the stretcher, given a quart of whisky and taken to the hospital tent. He called to Lovejoy to remember his orders as he was borne away. Eliot’s body was dragged to a pit which had been dug nearby for a mass grave, and the pictures of Stephanie and Danny were trampled in the muddy grass.

  Early next morning, long before the break of day, the Seventeenth and Nineteenth Regiments executed the maneuver General Hobsbawm had ordered and fell on the Indians from the north. The Indians, however, hadn’t squandered the opportunity they’d been given yesterday to seize as many rifles and cannons as they could from their defeated adversary. So the colonial army was confronted with a well-armed contingent of braves who returned their fire
with redoubled force and succeeded in pushing them back. There were over ten thousand soldiers in the two regiments and approximately the same number of Indians. It was vicious and sanguinary combat. The total number of casualties easily exceeded that of the previous day. As the fighting wore on the advantage turned slowly in the Indians’ favor. Hobsbawm himself conducted the army’s operations from a jury-rigged hospital bed behind the lines, where he was ensconced with an abundance of pillows and salves and numerous bottles of gin and whiskey to keep down the pain. He was totally drunk by the time late in the day when the Indians finally penetrated the army’s lines and the army fell back, the Indians pursuing towards the shore where at last they were in position to be shelled by the guns of Lost Bastard Island. But the guns were silent. Hobsbawm was perplexed by the absence of the artillery on which he had placed so much reliance. This was the whole reason the war was being fought, so the guns could prove their worth. He could not understand why they didn’t fire. Whatever the cause he decided it was not his fault. He was drunk and confused and in pain and he just wanted to go to sleep. It was his fervent prayer that when he woke up the problem would be solved.

  Late in the afternoon the rout was on. The soldiers were running away. They were being pursued by the Indians north, towards the shore. They burst from the overhanging boughs of the Forgotten Forest onto the marshy plain that separated the Forest from the Coast Road, and when they got to the Road many ran back to Port Jay, but some stumbled onto the beach on the other side of the Road and attempted a defense.