He wrote, in quavering capitals, a demand for
MORE OPIUM.
I went and canvassed Dr. Linch, but the news I carried back to my friend’s bedside wasn’t good. “There’s very little opium left, Julian. The doctor is reserving it for the worst cases.”
MORE,
wrote Julian.
“There is no more—can’t you hear me?”
He was an awful sight, twig-thin, linen-white, his injuries brown with stale blood, blood congealed on his dusty yellow beard. His eyes rolled in their sockets.
I SHOULD HAVE DIED,
he wrote.
But after a while he slept.
The next day our surviving troops retreated to their final defensive position, in a close perimeter around the town. The noose had fully tightened on us, in other words. The word “surrender” was mooted about; but it had not yet come to that … not while there were still trail-crackers to eat … but those wouldn’t last long.
I softened hardtack in water until it was soggy and dropped small morsels of it into Julian’s mouth, which was the only way he could eat in his present condition. He took some nourishment that way, but refused it when the pain became intolerable.
I asked him whether he had any orders for the men.
NO ORDERS (he wrote)
NOTHING LEFT
WHY WOULD THEY WANT MY ORDERS?
“Because you’re their commander, Julian. Even if our attack didn’t succeed, the men recognize it as a noble attempt—better than they could have made without you.”
FAILURE
“The Dutch were reinforced. It’s no one’s fault we couldn’t overwhelm them. It was a glorious effort—it will be remembered as such.”
FOOLISH
NO ONE TO REMEMBER
WE WON’T LEAVE HERE ALIVE
“Don’t say so!” I pleaded with him. “We will go home—we must! Calyxa needs me—she’s having problems with the Dominion. Perhaps that Deacon from Colorado wants to torture her. Also, she’s—that is—I haven’t told anyone yet, Julian, but—she’s going to have a child!”
He stared at me. Then he took up the pencil and paper again.
YOUR CHILD?
“Of course my child!—what else would it be?”
He wrote, after another pause,
GOOD NEWS
CONGRATULATIONS
WOULD SMILE IF I COULD
OF COURSE YOU’LL GO HOME
“Thank you, Julian. You’ll come home with me, and we’ll see that baby born. You’ll be its uncle, in effect; and you can hold it on your knee and feed it mashy apples if you like.”
GODFATHER?
“Yes, if you’ll accept the nomination!”
CLOSE TO GOD AS I’LL GET,
he wrote, and then laid back against the wooden slats that served him as a bed. His eyes closed, and his wounds seeped pinkish fluids.
* Even one who owns a typewriter, for those machines are not convenient to carry in one’s pocket.
8
The next day looked to be our last, despite the optimism I had tried to impress upon Julian. The shelling of Striver intensified. The Dutch barrages reached every part of the town, and I was often bathed in plaster shaken from the ceiling while I tended to Julian’s needs.
His adjutants and junior colonels had stopped begging him for orders—he was too badly hurt to lead, and anyway there were no useful orders to give. The Army of the Laurentians, Northern Division, had become a sort of automaton, firing reflexively whenever a target presented itself. That couldn’t continue—our last supplies of ammunition had been tapped.
It was a cold day, clear and windless. Julian slept fitfully whenever the cannonade permitted; and I slept, often enough, on the chair beside him.
I was awake, however, and Julian was asleep, when a freshly-promoted Lieutenant rushed into the room. “General Comstock!” the man exclaimed.
“Quiet, Lieutenant—the General’s napping, and he needs his rest—what’s the matter?”
“Sorry, Colonel Hazzard, but I was sent to report—that is, we’ve seen—”
“What? Some new Dutch outrage? If our defenses have collapsed there’s no need to trouble Julian Comstock about it. He’s in no position to help, though he would, if he could.”
“It’s not that, sir. Sails!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Sails, sir! We’ve sighted sails, coming down Lake Melville from the east!”
“Dutch sails?”
“Sir, it’s hard to be sure, but the lookouts think not—in fact it looks like Admiral Fairfield’s fleet! The Navy has come for us at last, sir!”
I found I couldn’t speak. There is a species of release from fear that in its effect is as unmanning as fear itself. I covered my face with my hands to conceal my emotion.
“Sir?” the Lieutenant said. “Aren’t you going to tell the General?”
“As soon as it’s confirmed,” I managed to say. “I wouldn’t like to disappoint him.”
But I couldn’t wait for an adjutant’s word. I left Julian sleeping and climbed up to the top of the hospital.
The hospital, in better days, had been a Dutch shop, with apartments overhead, located at the shoreward end of Portage Street. It had lost its roof in the battle, and the second story had become an open platform, exposed to the elements. It afforded a good view of the harbor. I stood in the empty casing of a shattered window, gazing off across the lake.
The sails hove into view soon enough. Without a spyglass I couldn’t discern the colors they were flying, and I feared some new Mitteleuropan attack despite the Lieutenant’s encouraging words. Then the outline of the nearest vessel began to seem familiar to me, and my heart fluttered a little.
She was the Basilisk—the beloved Basilisk—Admiral Fairfield’s flagship.
I was grateful, and I addressed my prayerful thanks to the slate-gray sky and the surging clouds, or whatever lay beyond them.
Lake Melville was too salt to freeze entirely, but fringes of ice had formed at the edges of it, and the Navy couldn’t anchor as close to shore as they might have liked; but there were gaps of open water where her boats could freely move. An advance party quickly gauged the extremity of our situation, and communicated details to the Basilisk by signal-flags; and before long that ship, along with the others of the fleet, began to fire shells which flew above Striver and dropped into the Dutch lines with telling accuracy. The bombardment was continuous; it drove the Mitteleuropans back a mile or more from their forward entrenchments; and the sound of it was what finally woke Julian from his profound sleep.
He was afraid we were about to be assaulted by the enemy, and I soothed him by giving him the good news.
He was less cheered by it than I expected. He took up pencil and paper and wrote:
ARE WE SAVED?
“Yes, Julian, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you! The men are coming into the streets, cheering!”
USELESS THEN I MEAN OUR ATTEMPT TO BREAK THROUGH
“Well, but how could we have known—?”
HOW MANY DEAD FOR NO PURPOSE
HUNDREDS THOUSANDS
STILL ALIVE IF ONLY I HAD WAITED
“That’s not the way to think of it, Julian!”
BLOOD ON MY HANDS
“No—you were magnificent!”
He refused to be convinced.
An adjutant arrived with word that the Admiral wanted to see Julian, in order to begin to plan the evacuation of our troops from Striver.
TELL HIM I’M NOT IN,
Julian wrote; but he didn’t mean it—it was only his injuries speaking.
The Admiral was promptly admitted.
It was so heartening to see the old naval officer again that I nearly wept. His uniform was so bright and bold, compared to our tattered rags, that he seemed to have descended from a distant Valhalla well-supplied with patriotic tailors. He looked at Julian with the knowledgeable sympathy of a man who had seen injured men, and worse, many times before
. “Don’t rise,” he said, as Julian struggled to sit straight up and essay a salute. “And don’t try to speak, if your wounds make it difficult.”
I CAN WRITE,
Julian hastily set down, and I read the message to Admiral Fairfield on his behalf.
“Well,” said Fairfield, “there is not much to say that can’t wait a short while. The important thing is that your men have been rescued—the siege is lifted.”
TOO LATE,
wrote Julian, but I couldn’t communicate anything so pessimistic to the Admiral. “Julian thanks you,” I said, ignoring the looks he shot in my direction. The expression was all in his eyes, since Julian’s jaw was too badly hurt to move—even a frown would have wounded him.
“No thanks are called for. In fact I apologize for delaying as long as we have.”
DEKLAN MEANT FOR ME TO DIE HERE
A WELL-LAID PLAN
WHAT CHANGED?
“Julian says he can hardly accept your apology. He does wonder what circumstances made this rescue possible.”
“Of course—I forget you’ve been cut off from all news,” the Admiral said. “The order that kept us out of Lake Melville was rescinded.”
DEKLAN MUST BE DEAD
“Julian asks about the health of his uncle.”
“That’s the key to it,” Admiral Fairfield said, nodding. “The plain fact is, Deklan Conqueror has been deposed. In part it was because of the reports of the Goose Bay campaign you sent out when the Basilisk last saw these shores, Colonel Hazzard. The Spark published them in the ignorant belief that Deklan Conqueror would want Julian’s heroism widely publicized. But it was obvious enough, reading between the lines, that Julian had been betrayed by the Executive Branch. The Army of the Laurentians was already profoundly unhappy about Deklan’s misrule and arrogance—the balance was finally tipped.”
DID THEY KILL HIM?
“Was Deklan Conqueror’s abdication wholly voluntary?” I asked.
“It wasn’t voluntary at all. A brigade came down from the Laurentians and marched on the Presidential Palace. The Republican Guard chose not to resist—their opinion of Deklan Comstock is no higher than anyone else’s.”
DOES THE MURDERER YET LIVE?
“Was Julian’s uncle injured in the process?”
“He’s a prisoner in the Palace for the time being.”
WHO TAKES COMMAND OF THE PRESIDENCY?
“Has a successor been named?”
Here Admiral Fairfield looked somewhat abashed. “I wish I had a more ceremonial way to convey the information,” he said, “and a venue for it grander than this ruined building, but—yes,” he said, looking Julian hard in the eye, “a successor has been named, pending my confirmation that he has survived. That successor is you, General Comstock. Or I should say President Comstock. Or Julian Conqueror, as the infantry like to style you.”
Julian sank back into his rude bed, his eyes clenched shut. All color fled from his face. I expect Admiral Fairfield took this as an expression of pain or shock due to his injury. There was an embarrassed silence. Then Julian gestured for the pad and pencil again.
THIS IS WORSE THAN DEATH (he wrote)
I WISH THE DUTCH HAD KILLED ME
OH GOD NO
TELL HIM GO TO HELL
ALL OF THEM GO TO HELL
I WILL NOT SERVE
“Julian is too feverish to express his astonishment,” I said. “He’s humbled by the honor so unexpectedly bestowed upon him, and hopes he’ll prove worthy of it. But he’s tired now, and needs to rest.”
“Thank you,” the Admiral said to me, and “Thank you, Mr. President,” to Julian.
ACT FIVE
JULIAN CONQUEROR,
including
“THE LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF THE GREAT NATURALIST CHARLES DARWIN”
CHRISTMAS, 2174–CHRISTMAS, 2175
Ever the Virtues blush to find The Vices wearing their badge behind, And Graces and Charities feel the fire Wherein the sins of the age expire.
—WHITTIER
1
It falls to me now to write the final chapter of my story, which is an account of the reign of Julian Conqueror, Commander in Chief of the Armed Forces and President of the United States, as I experienced it, with all its attendant tragedies and conciliatory joys.
Those events are still close to my heart, though considerable time has passed since their conclusion. My hand trembles at the task of describing them. But the reader and I have come this far, which is no small distance, and I mean to bring the project to completion, whatever the cost.
It occurs to me that one virtue of the Typewriter as a literary invention is that tears shed during the act of composition are less likely to fall upon the paper and blot the ink. A certain clarity is preserved, not otherwise obtainable.
2
Manhattan was all got up for the celebration of the Nativity when we arrived at the docks, and such a frenzy of decoration I had never seen, as if the city were a Christmas tree decked with candles and colored tinsel, with the Sacred Day less than forty-eight hours distant—but all of that meant little or nothing to me, for I was anxious to discover the fate of Calyxa.
Julian and I, along with the other survivors of the Goose Bay Campaign, had recuperated for three weeks at the American hospital in St. John’s. Fresh food, clean linen, and boiled water restored us to health as effectively as any medicine could; and Julian’s facial wound, though my stitching of it was inexpert, had nearly healed. Evidence of my inadequacy as a physician would persist in the form of a scar that curved between Julian’s jaw-hinge and his right nostril like a second mouth, primly and permanently shut. But that was little enough, as war wounds go, and Julian had never been vain about his appearance.
His mood had also improved, or at least he had wrestled down his pessimism. Whatever the reason, he had given up his initial resistance and submitted to all the plans the Army of the Laurentians had laid for him. He was willing, he had told me, to assume the Office of the Presidency, at least for a time, if only to undo a fraction of the wickedness his uncle had committed.
The appointment to the Executive was none of his doing, of course. It had come about in his absence, and his name had been put up as a compromise. My early dispatches to the Spark, carried out of Striver on board the Basilisk after the Battle of Goose Bay, may have played a role in these developments. No doubt Deklan Comstock would have preferred to have the news of Julian’s survival suppressed; but the editors of the Spark didn’t know that, and assumed they were doing the President a favor by publicizing his nephew’s heroism and hard times.
Those news items were widely reprinted. The American public, at least in the eastern half of the country, had become enamored of Julian Comstock as a youthful National Hero; and his reputation was equally golden among the forces of the Army of the Laurentians. Meanwhile, in the higher echelons of the military, resentment of Deklan’s war policies had heated up to the boiling point. Deklan had mismanaged so many audacious but ill-designed Campaigns, and jailed so many loyal and spotless Generals, that the Army had resolved to unseat him and replace him with someone more sympathetic to their goals. The publication of my reports helped stoke that smoldering fire to a white-hot intensity.*
All that stood in the way of a military overthrow of Julian’s uncle was the choice of a plausible successor, always a ticklish business. An acceptable candidate can be difficult to procure. A tyrant’s overthrow by military action doesn’t admit of any formal democratic choice, and important contesting interests—the Eupatridians, the Senate, the Dominion of Jesus Christ on Earth, even in some sense the general public—have to be addressed and mollified.
The Army of the Laurentians could not meet all these conditions, nor could it readily obtain the consent of its distant partner, the Army of the Californias, which was much more a creature of the Dominion than the Eastern army. But the necessity of replacing Deklan Conqueror was admitted by all. The solution eventually reached was a temporary one. Succession by
dynastic inheritance was allowed under the 52nd Amendment to the Constitution;† and since Deklan was childless, that mantle could be construed as falling to his heroic nephew Julian—who at the time was caught up in the Siege of Striver, and wouldn’t complicate matters either by accepting or by declining. Thus Julian had become a figurehead, almost an abstraction, and acceptable in that form, until the tyrant was hauled out of his throne room by soldiers and clapped into a basement prison.
Now that Julian had survived the siege, however, and since he had been rescued by the single-minded efforts of Admiral Fairfield, the abstract threatened to become uncomfortably real. Had Julian been killed, some other arrangement would have been made, perhaps to everyone’s greater satisfaction. But Julian Conqueror lived—and the public sentiment on his behalf had grown so clamorous that it would have been impossible not to install him in the Presidency, for fear of triggering riots.
For that reason he had been surrounded, both during his recovery and on the voyage back to New York City, by a phalanx of military advisors, civilian consultants, clerical toadies, and a thousand other brands of manipulators and office-seekers. My opportunities to speak to him privately had been few, and when we arrived in Manhattan he was quickly enclosed in a mob of Senators and beribboned soldiers, and borne away toward the Presidential Palace; and I could not even say goodbye, or arrange a time to meet once more.
But that wasn’t a pressing problem—it was Calyxa who was foremost on my mind. I had written her several letters from the hospital in St. John’s, and even telegraphed her once, but she hadn’t responded, and I feared the worst.
I made my way from the docks to the luxurious brown-stone house of Emily Baines Comstock, where I had left Calyxa in the care of Julian’s mother. It was heartening to see that familiar building, apparently unchanged, bathed in the glow of a Manhattan dusk, as sturdy a habitation as it had ever been, with lantern light glinting sweetly at the curtained windows.
Julian Comstock: A Story of 22nd-Century America Page 41
