They traveled to the America aboard a medium clipper. They departed from Normandy, made berth in New York, and the thirty-some-odd days in between were filled with salty winds and the vast, endless expanse of the sea. The Mercury was said to be the fastest ship in the Havre Second Line (whatever that meant), but there was still an ocean to be crossed. It took time.
They lived in a tiny, cramped cabin, same as any of the other passengers on board. Most of the passengers contented themselves with wandering the lower decks or remained cooped up inside their living quarters for the majority of the journey, avoiding the crew and each other. Rainier, for one, passed most of the days reading literature, writing notes, drinking wine, and then regurgitating whatever was on his mind when he was given half a chance. Neither of them interacted much with anyone else, which was probably the sole reason they actually made it to New York without being thrown overboard.
The name stamped on his (fake) passport read ‘Joseph Kerre’; it was a welcome change from ‘Rook’, if only because he’d come to associate that moniker with his reluctant partnership with the King. The photograph pinned to his passport was of a young, smiling man with medium-length hair and light eyes, dressed in tailored clothes that made him look every bit the footman the piece of paper stated he was.
Rainier, now apparently a well-to-do landowner with streaks of lighter grey in his short, neatly-trimmed hair and beard and eyes that seemed far more friendly in his photograph (in Joseph’s humble opinion) than in real life, had found Joseph living on the streets as a pickpocket, had taken him in, and had given him a better life. Or so the story went. The two of them were venturing to an America on the brink of civil war for...well, for reasons, he supposed. He didn’t really know. He hadn’t been listening when Rainier had given some bullshit explanation in order to secure their tickets, and he didn’t care enough to ask his companion for the real reason now.
He’d no-doubt find out when they got there.
The cramped rooms and narrow corridors made ‘Joseph’ claustrophobic every time he ventured below-deck, and returning to his shared cabin was an invitation for Rainier to accost, assault, or otherwise antagonize him as soon as he’d set foot over the threshold.
So, more often than not, Joseph found himself out on the ship’s upper deck, letting the wind whip at his clothes and hair, feeling the dip and sway of wooden planks beneath his feet, and watching the ship’s white masts billow. The Mercury’s crew tolerated his presence on most days. On the days they didn’t, he’d shed a few layers of expensive cloth, roll up the sleeves on whatever layers were left, and work alongside them until they did (even if a few of them did call him ‘cabin boy’, which was annoying simply because of how close to the truth it was).
It wasn’t peaceful, not really (nothing was ever peaceful for him – manic thoughts and dark, vicious abstracts blackened his mind even on the best of days), but it wasn’t bad. The work was laborious but simple enough, and after a while the crew stopped objecting to his help...either because they appreciated it or because they realized he wasn’t listening to them. His hands refused to idle, and there was always work to be done about a ship. Something to scrub, something to mend, something to knot, something to un-knot. By then he was probably a better sailor than most of the men on-board – he’d had plenty of time to practice.
Besides, once he was on good enough terms with the crew, he’d been able to weasel his way into the crow’s nest without risk of being locked up. The wind shear made his skin burn and his eyes water, but ‘Joseph’ (maybe it was just Joseph, now; it never took him long to settle into a new name) liked the height. From up there, every little movement, every dip and sway of the ship, was amplified. It was a nauseating sensation, but he found it cathartic. It numbed his thoughts, if only a little.
If only for a time.
And as they made anchor at the port in New York, as the masses clamored to debark and make their way into the new world, Joseph stood on the main deck, leaning over his crossed arms and the Mercury’s railing both, and stared into the calm deep of the ocean.
It wouldn’t be a bad way to go, he thought.
“Except you’d come back,” Rainier said, at his side without ever having been given permission to be there. “Over and over again. Eventually you’d get sick of it, I assure you. Now, come along, Kerre. We have things to do.”
In the history books, it would be written that the American Civil War began on the twelfth of April, 1861, with the bombardment of Fort Sumter by Confederate soldiers.
To Joseph Kerre, the Civil War started on a cool Friday in the middle of spring. It was slightly overcast, the ocean was a pleasant shade of blue, and he was so bored he could cry. Rainier was sitting back on the mainland somewhere, no-doubt smirking into a cup of coffee and reading The Scarlet Letter or Moby Dick or Les Fleurs du Mal like the intellectual he thought himself.
Joseph was stationed inside the fort, dressed in full officer regalia (it itched at the back of his neck and reminded him of his last military stint – the one that had ended with all of his comrades dead or captured, himself forgotten underground for thirty years, and his sanity left in useless tatters). He had been given one task. He had one job to do, and, as always, the reward for doing it right would be an answer.
A single shell, aimed high; a signal. The Confederates had more than forty guns and mortars stationed at various strategic points, and they were all about to start firing. Fort Sumter had sixty, but even if they were in positions that allowed them to safely return fire (they weren’t), there was nowhere near enough manpower to utilize them.
One task.
They don’t need me, Joseph thought. They need a miracle.
--
“You’re kidding. ...Aah, no, of course you’re not. None? Zero? There’s no way, Rainy – aren’t you ex-military? Current military? Some sort of military? I remember you wearing a uniform, anyway, so you should know better. That fort’s outmanned, outgunned, out-positioned–”
“It’s entirely possible, especially for a man such as you. Now, you may have to work for it...but it’s not impossible. I wouldn’t ask it of you if it were.”
“Yes you would, you liar. ‘Work for it’ my butt. You’re asking me to be in several places at once ...which...hey, might happen, actually, if one of those mortar shells hits me while I’m trying to save one of your John Does.”
“I’d suggest you keep all of the John Does away from the mortar shells altogether, instead of focusing on one at a time.”
“...Oh well of course! Silly me! I’ll just keep all of the men stationed there from following orders. What could go wrong? I’ll sit them all down with some cocoa and biscuits and then we can -- are you listening to this craziness?”
“More than you are, probably. Don’t worry; I have faith in you – your tenacity if not your tactical expertise. Although the latter would certainly be of more use, here, let’s be honest.”
“So I’m to infiltrate Fort Sumter, pose as a soldier, wait for the inevitable bombardment that should be happening any day now, and make sure that no one dies during the attack? No one at all?”
“Almost. After all, I never said you weren’t allowed to die, Joseph. That should make things easier. ...Hm. Which reminds me: don’t forget to keep a low profile. You know by now what happens when people catch wind of your immortality.”
--
In the history books, it would be written that the bombardment of Fort Sumter began at approximately 4:30 A.M. on April 12. It would be written that at 1:00 P.M. on April 13th, the fort’s flagpole was knocked to the ground, encouraging a former senator to commandeer a boat and negotiate the fort’s surrender.
To Joseph, the bombardment began with a deafening explosion at approximately way-too-early in the morning (not that he minded; he didn’t care much for sleeping these days, but it was the principle of the matter). The boom of gun- and mortar-fire and the roar of projectiles impacting against the fort walls continued throughout the day. Thanks to a few whispered words to some in-charge type named Andy (Andrews? Anderson? Something like that) about avoiding unnecessary bloodshed, about preserving human life, the guns situated in the most dangerous positions in the fort went unused (making his job that much easier)...but Joseph still spent the majority of his day sprinting around the perimeter of the fort walls, throwing himself between stray shots and idiot soldiers, dragging others out of harm’s way, relaying information to people in positions to utilize it, and, fighting the fires caused by hot shot rounds.
The last was particularly unpleasant; it took weeks for the smell of burning flesh (his own) to go away afterward, and at the time, the searing pain brought back more than one forgotten memory that he would’ve preferred stay forgotten. Memories of fireplaces, stakes, ash. Memories of more thorough burnings, some inflicted by the man for whom he was currently burning. Irony.
The gunfire stopped at the same time as the fires, both events synonymous with the arrival of a rain shower a few hours past dusk (7:00 P.M., the history books would declare). Joseph spent the rest of the night searching Fort Sumter for corpses, for a sign of his failure, while the other soldiers worried amongst themselves. There was talk of an infantry assault, but Joseph doubted that would happen. This was a war in its infancy, after all. (No infantry in infancy, he thought, and ignored the looks his giggle provoked.) A few times each hour, a mortar shell would break the silence – more of a reminder than anything else.
The real bombardment resumed with the first of the morning light, and so did the fires.
This is what happens when you build things out of wood, Joseph thought as the fort’s main gate caught fire, watching blackness engulf the burned remains of his hand.
And when, around midday, the ever-spreading fire began to approach the fort’s main ammunition warehouse (of course it did), Joseph nearly gave up. Around three hundred (three hundred) barrels of gunpowder were stored there.
Butter-rum-biscuits, he thought with all the vehemence of a curse. There’s no way.
He joined the rest of the (idiot) soldiers in relocating the barrels anyway, wiping sweat from his forehead and coughing smoke from his lungs with the best of them. They had moved maybe a hundred of the kegs when the order came to close the magazine doors and clear out, and Joseph clapped the shoulder of the nearest soldier (and earned another bewildered look) in relief.
“Nothing, nothing,” he said, grinning widely. “I’m just fond of not being blown up, is all.”
As if to spite him, more and more of the cannonballs aimed at the fort were furnace-heated; Joseph’s smile didn’t fade, despite his charred, ruined uniform; in spite of the blood and ash smeared across his skin; although the number of times he had to pull soldiers to safety was probably approaching triple digits; even as the world around him snarled, crackled, and caved in.
When Fort Sumter’s flagpole collapsed beneath the weight of the battle, Joseph started counting down. And as he and the other men of the fort scurried around, dousing fires as fast as they could, the bombardment stopped. A truce was made, however temporary. The fort was surrendered the next day, sometime in the early afternoon. The exact term used was ‘evacuate’, but that it was surrender was undeniable, and Joseph wasn’t sure whether to be awed or just amused.
No deaths. Zero casualties. Just as Rainier had demanded.
--
“Not quite.”
“...What?”
“There were almost no casualties.”
“No, no, there weren’t any. I made sure that–”
“A boy died during the gun-salute to the United States flag – Anderson’s condition for surrender. Didn’t you hear?”
“...I...I...”
“A Private, I believe. And a couple of others have been sent to a hospital in Charleston. I hear that at least one of them isn’t likely to survive. That’s at least two casualties, Joseph.”
“...”
“I’m kidding. Oh, if only you could see your mind the way I do, you’d understand why I do these things to you. Please, feel free to ask your question. Or should I just tell ou the answer?”
Ghosts and monsters roam the world, one and the same; the only thing that separates the former from the latter is time.
The smell of gunpowder and blood was thick in the air, familiar as an old friend. The grass was rife with the dying and the dead. There were more corpses here than he’d ever seen...and he’d seen plenty. Boys and men piled upon each other, enemies bathed in each other’s blood, their differences wiped away by death. Later, this place would be full of spirits, those who had died too suddenly, too violently, too early to realize they were dead. Thankfully, he would be long-gone by then.
Joseph looked down at the aftermath of the Battle of Antietam and thought of Fort Sumter – the first battle. The one without casualties.
This, he thought, is more fitting for a war. Mindless violence under the guise of something more; something better. Something that meant something. Bloodied mud and the dull, lifeless stares of those who died too fast to even close their eyes against their fate (he found it hard to believe anyone would willingly die with their eyes open; faced with their own end, everyone flinched).
This was what humanity boiled down to. A field full of death, and more still to come.
Soon, if he had any say in the matter.
Joseph lay atop a grassy knoll, reasonably removed from the battlefield. For whatever reason (he’d long since given up caring about Rainier’s motivations), he hadn’t participated directly in today’s battle; that hadn’t been his task. Today’s task had been to watch from afar and, when the situation permitted, act as a sharpshooter (which was, if he were honest, every minute or so).
Wind speed, air pressure, the weight of the bullet. The accuracy of his rifle. Cold metal on his cheek. Crosshairs lined up before his eyes. The sun burning overhead. The heavy smell of dirt, stained with blood from the far-off battlefield. Sweat on his upper lip. The press of the trigger against his pointer. Insects skittering by in the grass, an inch from his face. A dozen calculations, recalculations, pinned at the edge of his thoughts. His breaths were slow, steady. In. Out. Repeat.
If he’d counted right (he had), this would be his last one. The man he had his eye on was in the regalia of a brigadier general, in the middle of a discussion with several officers of equal rank. His hair was dark, receding; his beard was a ridiculous thing that followed his jaw and covered his face from the bottom-lip down.
In. Out. Repeat.
He lined up his shot. Adjusted several times to compensate for the (ridiculous) number of things that would alter the bullet’s trajectory. The officer nodded his head in agreement with something the man to his left had said.
In. Out.
In.
Out.
He fired on the exhale, and the bullet cut straight through the man’s right cheek; it exited somewhere near his left ear, leaving a spray of blood in its wake. The man collapsed into the arms of one of his fellows.
Joseph moved, leaving his rifle behind.
In a way, he thought as he made his way back to Rainier’s waiting arms, sharpshooting was no different from driving a knife between someone’s ribs. He didn’t feel warm blood on his hand, didn’t hear the man’s last, shuddering breaths, but...
The end result was certainly the same.
The black-clothed gods of death may be from another plane of existence – the afterlife, even – but they are just as human as the people they claim to protect. They laugh, they cry. They bleed.
“Come now. You don’t complain when I tell you to go shoot young mens’ heads off, but I ask you to read a simple book on philosophical and ethical theory and--”
“Yes! Please, ask me to shoot someone. Anyone. Confederate, Union, man, woman, President. That, I can do. But...this...I’m not sure I believe the last part of your sentence was even made up of real words, Rainy. You can’t expect me to--”
“Will you stop it with that nickname? Honestly, Joseph, the answers to everything you could ever want to know might be hidden in one of these books. At the very least you’ll get some insight into some of the philosophy that drives mankind; the way the mind determines what is good and what is evil; the morals of society versus--”
“Listen to yourself! Listen to how boring you sound when you talk like that. I accepted it when you said we'd be sitting the rest of the war out, I let everyone think I'm your servant when we're in public. I even read Charles Dickens for you, but--”
“You liked Dickens and we both know it. You don't like war half as much as you pretend, and 'servant' sounds more esteemed than 'hobby'.You're just being childish now. You all but embody nihilism, you should at least know what it--”
“Nihi-what?”
“Nihilism. It’s a philosophical doctrine; a way of thinking. A particularly negative way of thinking, to be precise. Jacobi wrote on the subject, and I believe--”
“'A philosophical doctrine’. See, Rainy, this is why...You know what, nevermind. I don’t care. I really don’t care. I went along with your Dickens. I went along with your science, your chemistry. I went along with your algebra and geometry and physics. I even went along with the Latin and Greek, because Russian, German, Italian, French, Spanish, Arabic, and English just weren’t enough. Now it’s philosophy and ethics. When am I ever going to need to know any of--”
“I taught you Latin and Greek specifically so that you could understand some of the philosophers whose work I want you to read. Plato. Socrates. Aristotle. Epi--”
“Именно поэтому я ненавижу свою жизнь... Of course you did. Fine. Fine! Fine! If it makes you stop talking, I’ll read this...this...boring philosophy book of yours.”
“And the one on ethical theory. To begin with.”
“...To begin with? ...In that case I expect to get questions out of this, Rainy.”
“Oh? I thought it was answers you wanted. There’s no point in asking questions when I already have all of the answers right in front of me.”
“Of course you do. That’s why you abandoned that wife-lady of yours to bother me, instead. Whatever happened to her and your kids, Rainy? Do you know?”
“Who? Oh, them. No, I don’t, and I don’t particularly care. They, unlike you, weren’t worth my time or effort. And, unlike them, you continue to keep me entertained. But, of course, if that ever ceases to be the case, I'll be sure to leave you just as quickly.”
“I can only hope. Now shoo -- can’t you see I’m reading?”
There's a connection. The greater a human's ability to sense the supernatural, the greater the likelihood that the supernatural will sense them, too...and the greater the chance that they will, in turn, become something supernatural themselves.
