The Battle of Harmingsdown: Chapter 12

The Battle of the Ironclads is one of the most famous events in the entirety of the Great War, second only to the Harmingsdown Truce, which came months afterwards. Indeed, even students of no fixed subject are aware of the Ironclads, the T-1 “Chesteron” on the British side, and the M-S5 “Rojoja” on the Spanish.

A reconstruction of the T-1 is currently on display at the Ninnenburg Museum of Natural Warfare, differing from the original only in the type of rubber on the pedirail feet and in the length of its cannon; a full three inches shorter. The M-S5 became the foundation for later models, such as the M-S6 and the M-S8.¹ While no official reconstruction exists, copies of the original blueprints are readily available for perusal at almost any Spanish engineering school.

To see the reconstructions or view the blueprints is incomparable, however, to what was experienced on that early November day when the Chesterton roared to life and trundled across the British trenches towards the Spanish army. Rousing cheers and loud jeering followed close behind, as the massive metal beast clattered along its inevitable path, a juggernaut of destruction. The Colonel even left his room to observe along with his cadre of officers.

“Colonel,” Mrs. Wickes gestured with her sharp fan. “Perhaps we should watch from over here.”

Positioning themselves at observation posts along the trenches, Colonel Muggeridge, the Wickes, Major Schtillhart, and Edmund watched as the massive machine roared its way to victory.

But as with all celebrations, their cheers fell silent too soon, for from the other end of the battlefield came another roar as the M-S5 “Rojoja” squealed its way towards the Chesterton, rifle-ports bristling with soldier’s guns.

The Spanish Inventor improved their Crawler too, Edmund noted. The machine was more stable now, he could tell, with firm treads and thick armor plating. While the Chesterton was sleeker, almost trapezoidal in shape, with pedirails that were as tall as its body; the Rojoja was a large metal box, with long treads that hugged the ground, giving it a lower center of gravity and more space for rifle ports. On the front, bristling in threatening glory, a cylinder of thick tubes promised a rotating Gatling gun, ready to cut down anything in its path

The two monsters roared towards each other, metal grinding as they drew closer. Edmund watched as long as he could, but the dust of Harmingsdown was tossed into the air by the machines’ tracks, clouding the field from view.

Finally, the roaring subsided and the squealing stopped. When the dust settled, the armies of both sides saw the showdown. Both Crawlers, the Chesterton and the Rojoja, stood facing each other only meters apart.

There was a pause, a silence, as if each monster were waiting for the other to make the first move. They sized each other up as Edmund was doing, deciding which of them would survive the climactic conflict that was to come.

Who would strike first?

Then, with a resounding crash of thunder, the Rojoja opened fire. A massive cloud of gun-smoke poured across the battlefield from the discharge of ten or twenty rifles, followed by the rapid cracking patter of the Gatling-gun spitting high-caliber bullets at the Chesterton.

The sound continued for a full minute, as the rifles were reloaded and the chain-gun continued to fire. Then, as suddenly as it had started, the noise stopped.

The sudden silence was terrifying. Smoke covered the battlefield, and Edmund couldn’t see either the Chesterton or the Rojoja.

Then, with the penchant for drama traditional of the changing seasons, the last cool breeze of autumn began to blow, gently pushing the smoke clear.

A resounding cheer erupted from the British army. The Chesterton was still there, seemingly unharmed! The bullets from the Rojoja had either bounced off or lodged themselves in the Chesterton’s thick metal hide. Edmund could feel Major Schtillhart sag with relief as the sturdy crawler faded back into view.

“Now,” Mrs. Wickes’ teeth glinted white, “it is the Chesterton’s turn.”

Louder than the loudest lightning bolt, the cannon of the Chesterton spat fire directly at the Rojoja’s front. Once more, smoke covered the battlefield, but the wind had not yet died down, and so it was mere moments before they could see once more.

This time, the Spanish army burst into celebration. The Rojoja stood tall, barely scratched by the cannon’s mighty assault. Edmund stared as the now winter wind swept the last vestiges of smoke away, revealing the shattered remains of the cannon shell sprinkled around the Rojoja’s armor.

After a moment’s pause, the Rojoja began to fire again, covering the Chesterton in smoke. From the depths of the cloud, the roar of the Chesterton’s cannon fired again, this time not waiting for the Rojoja to finish before launching its own attack.

Edmund stared as the two crawlers pounded on each other for fifteen full minutes. The Wickes’ inventions had always been flawed, had some mistake or oversight that caused trouble for the army, but as hard as he looked and as carefully as he analyzed, he couldn’t see a single flaw in the Chesterton’s design.

The cascade of gun- and cannon-fire continued. The soldiers must be miserable inside. Smoke, diesel, oil, heat, and foul smells while loud gunfire echoes around you…

“Colonel Wickes!”

Edmund turned to see Colonel Muggeridge standing tall and furious, staring hot knives at the Wickes. The two inventors glanced at each other, bemused, before stepping over to the angry Colonel’s side."

“Yes, Colonel?” Mrs. Wickes’ icy voice slid through the air.

“Do you have an explanation for this?”

The two looked at each other again. “For what?”

“This!” The Colonel pointed. “The Chesterton was supposed to bring us victory!”

“You mistook,” Mrs. Wickes snapped her fan open, fanning gun-smoke away from her face. “Our next invention is what will bring victory.”

“Quite,” the Colonel stumbled over Mrs. Wickes’ interjection. “Nevertheless, the supposed unstoppable machine, unless my eyes deceive me, appears to have stopped! This crawler you invented, the Chesterton, is useless!”

“My dear Colonel,” Mr. Wickes said, casually spinning his massive cane in a circle and forcing the Colonel to take a step back, “I disagree. Without the Charleston, that monstrosity there might be rolling along your trenches right now, killing soldiers left and right! Why there is no telling how many lives have been saved by the Chesterton’s timely intervention.”

“Yes, well…” the Colonel’s fury dimmed to simple ire. “It most certainly is not what I expected.”

The collected officers turned to stare at the battlefield. The shooting had paused again, giving the two crawlers time to reload, and perhaps reconsider if standing and pounding on each other was really the wisest course of action.

“No, of course not,” Mr. Wickes soothed in the comparative silence, broken only by the jeers and shouts from the opposing armies. “We certainly understand, and — I must admit — we too had concerns this might happen.”

“You did?” Muggeridge bristled again. “And you said nothing?”

They’re sending you up and down like a yo-yo, Edmund noticed. Angry then confused then angry again…

“We didn’t want to alarm you unduly,” Mr. Wickes held up his hands.

“Besides,” Mrs. Wickes sneered, “we have a plan.”

Colonel Muggeridge opened his mouth, most likely to demand to know what this mysterious plan was, when a buzzing sound broke the silence.

“Ah,” Mr. Wickes lifted his massive cane, and pointed into the sky. “Here they come now.”

Edmund stared as five airplanes² in perfect formation spun past the battlefield, flying low over the smoky earth.

“By Jove!” The Colonal laughed. “They really do fly, don’t they! I’ll be blown for an old war-horse, your flying machines really fly!”

Edmund watched as the majestic machines carved through the air, banking like graceful geese as they flew overhead. He had known they would fly, but he had never thought they would look so beautiful.

“I say,” Colonel Muggeridge’s voice was now tinted with confusion. “Those are for observation, aren’t they? It’s a bit late for a reccy, what?”

“Ah, that was only a sighting run,” Mr. Wickes’ cane thudded into the earth. “You see, Colonel, our air-machines can be used for much more than just spying on the enemy. They can also be…ah, you’ll soon see.”

The planes had circled back and were now flying towards the two crawlers, dipping low as their propellers hummed in the wintry air. Edmund squinted as the planes flew past and bobbed upward as each one dropped something small and thick, tumbling towards the —

The ground shook as five explosions erupted from the ground where the objects landed.

“Bombs!” The Colonel shouted, quite unnecessarily.

“Our own design,” Mrs. Wickes shouted over the building chaos of the trenches. “The tapas-eaters likely didn’t armor the top as strong as the sides, you see.”

Edmund wasn’t so sure. Even if they hadn’t, of the five bombs, only one had hit anywhere close to its target. The other four had missed, hitting unsympathetic dirt instead of the Spanish trench-crawler.

“Bad luck this time,” Mr. Wickes shrugged. “Ah well, see? They’re already coming about for another pass. That Spanish beast will be scrap metal in no time at all.”

The second pass fared little better than the first, in Edmund’s opinion. Two bombs struck close to the crawlers, but the self-evident problem reared its head: the crawlers were very close together, now. A bomb hitting one would likely hit the other as well.

The third pass proved Edmund’s worst fears. He watched as one bomb hurtled towards the crawlers and struck the Rojoja squarely on the top only to bounce off. Flipping through the cold air, it exploded closer to the British trenches, forcing the collected officers to shield their eyes from the blast.

“Give it time,” Mr. Wickes shouted over the din. “Just a few more passes.”

“We may not have time!” Major Schtillhart shouted. “Look!”

Edmund uncovered his eyes just in time to see what the Major had seen. At first, he had thought it was the planes coming back for another bombing run, but then he realized there were only four planes. As they flew closer, he realized these were not the same planes that the Wickes had designed.

These planes had three wings.

Edmund looked around to see that, yes, the four tri-planes were heading straight for the British bi-planes, on a course that Edmund could only think was suicidal before the planes started to spit fire. The Spanish had mounted guns on their planes! Edmund watched as the tri-planes broke formation and began to spin about in the sky like birds, ducking and weaving around the British planes as they tore at their foes with bullets.

“Get down!” Schtillhart grabbed Edmund and hit the dust as bullets whizzed by overhead. “Those bullets are flying everywhere!”

The air was knocked from Edmund as he struck the ground.

Bullets, bombs, and scrapnel flew overhead like hornets. Edmund crawled through the trenches towards shelter, glancing up to see the British planes throwing tools and even their bombs at the other planes, trying to tear their fabric wings.

Where was Ung? He would be safe with his butler. He needed to find Ung.

Dirt and dust filled Edmund’s nostrils, choking him with their foul smell. Mud caked his uniform as he crawled forward. Shouts and screams from the distance echoed through the trenches as metal bullets bounced off the two trench-crawlers, striking friend and foe alike. Unconcerned with their inadvertent casualties, the crawlers continued to fire while the planes tore each other apart.

Where was the Colonel? Was Schtillhart still near?

Edmund needed to get to safety. He could fix everything later, when he was not in immediate danger. Images flew through his mind as he moved through the utter chaos.

“Look out!”

That was Major Schitllhart, standing next to him. Had he been there the whole time? Edmund looked up to see one of the British planes snap in half with a grinding crunch and tumble down from the sky. Hurtling like a meteor, the broken shape crashed into the trenches.

As misfortune would have it, the plane struck not ten meters away from where Edmund and Schtillhart were standing.

As misfortune would also have it, the plane had not divested itself of all of its bombs.

And, as physics would have it, the impact of the plane striking the ground caused the remaining bombs to explode.

---

Edmund knew many things about explosives. He had studied the many different exothermic reactions that different chemicals could cause and their unique properties. He knew how some explosions burned hotter than others, while some reached further. He knew some kept burning after the explosion had stopped, and others popped louder or shone brighter.

Edmund knew many things about pain. He had studied both on himself and on others. Mostly on himself, so he really knew how each sharp stab of pain felt, depending on what caused it. He knew how a burn felt different than a cut, and how abrasion hurt differently than contusion. He knew how large a bruise might be, or how deep a cut, depending on whether the pain was sharp and stabbing or dull and burning. What some doctors took minutes to diagnose, Edmund could know in seconds, simply by feeling the pain.

Edmund blinked.

Edmund was also a poet, and he knew poetry was the pinnacle of all art. It was pure in its simplicity, in its scientific nature. Combine two words in a specific order with a specific meter, and you craft a specific feeling. It was chemistry of language. Communication in its purest form.

Edmund raised a hand to his head.

War provided its own poetry, it’s own chemistry…now he knew what pain was caused by an explosion. Not as much as he had expected, he admitted. Mostly he felt a pressure on top of him, making it hard to breathe. Aches and pains consistent with a single crushing blow along…well, on most of his body, really. A singular heat on his exposed skin gave him the rest of the picture before he even opened his eyes.

The pressure, he realized, was Schtillhart’s body lying on top of him. Edmund gently pushed the Major off, rolling him onto his back while reaching for his wrist. A moment was all it took for Edmund to confirm Schtillhart was still alive, breathing shallow, and barely conscious.

A dim voice in Edmund’s head reminded him that there was a war going on, and bullets and bombs were threatening both of them, but that somehow didn’t seem quite as important as he thought it would. He couldn’t hear them, for one thing. All he could hear was a loud ringing noise.

Pulling his aching body out from under Schtillhart, he ran his hands up and down the Major’s body, checking for obvious and serious wounds. There were several. The Wickes had designed their bombs well, and Major Schtillhart had taken the blast all along his right side. His sleeve was in tatters, while his arm leaked dark blood. Scrapnel had sprayed over the right side of the Major’s rear torso, and several burned patches covered his arms and legs.

Edmund looked around. Was there a hospital nearby? A doctor, perhaps? Someone who could turn off that ringing sound?

Edmund looked back at the Major. No, there was only Edmund. He forced open the Major’s eyes, easily resisting the man’s feeble attempts to turn away.

“…no…” his mouth framed the words, but with his thick tongue and a mouth caked with mud, Edmund couldn’t hear his voice very well. “…’m fine…get to shelter…”

Perhaps a better soldier would have followed the order. Perhaps even Edmund would have, if the explosion had not damaged his hearing. In later years, Edmund liked to think that he would have been every inch a soldier as Schtillhart was, and disobeyed a direct order from his superior officer to save Schtillhart’s life…but he didn’t know for sure.

Instead, Edmund summoned the map of the Harmingsdown Trenches in his head. Sorting through his options, Edmund grabbed the sputtering Major and dragged him as quickly and carefully as he could towards safety.

“Stop,” the Major’s head lulled as he winced with every step. “No…no medic…” The ringing in Edmund’s head was starting to subside, but he was certain he still was not hearing properly. Why would Major Schtillhart not want to go to a medic station?

It was a moot point, because they weren’t headed there. The closest field hospital in the trenches was at least five minutes away, if Edmund had to drag Schtillhart the whole distance. Much closer was a small storage unit, not five meters away, and — if Edmund’s storage reports had been correct — half full of medical supplies.

No doctors, true, but Edmund could easily handle that job.

Space was the problem, Edmund realized as he pushed open the storage room door. There was barely enough room for one person to stand, let alone minister to another’s medical needs.

What other option was there? Edmund knew he could think of one eventually, but he also knew that time was of the essence. Another minute spent deciding was another minute of Schtillhart bleeding to death. He needed to remove Schtillhart’s uniform to pull out the scrapnel, and then clean, stitch, and dress the wounds.

As best he could, Edmund pulled Schtillhart from the ground and lay him on the two large boxes closest to the door. Squeezing through the room, Edmund tore open a small medical supply box. Forceps, scalpel, bandages…good. That’s the minimum. Alcohol, excellent. Cotton, Ikeman probe, Kingsly sutcher thread…not the best quality, but reliable…Ah! A full set of Yangly’s Quality Assortment clamps! Perfect!…

“I…refuse…” Major Schtillhart’s protests continued as Edmund arranged his tools on the box next to him, and then looked once more at the Major’s wounds. They were bad. Quite bad, in fact. If the Major lost much more blood, Edmund wouldn’t be able to save him. What he needed was…

Edmund stared again. The Major’s sleeve had been torn to shreds and was soaked with blood from his torn arm. The Major’s coatee, however, while as muddy as the sleeve, was nowhere near as wet. His torso, as torn apart as his sleeve, had barely any blood at all. Calculations about the capillary action of fabric and viscosity of blood flew through Edmund’s head in an instant. Something was wrong. He felt the shirt’s fabric under his fingers. Why so little blood? He knew what wounds the Major must have suffered, and how much blood should be pouring into his shirt. Was the Major anemic?

“…stop…” was Schtillhart’s final plea before losing consciousness completely. Edmund was grateful, as it would mean he wouldn’t need to waste any alcohol on getting Schtillhart numb. Instead, Edmund pulled out a Carmichle Scalpel no. 3, and began to cut open the Major’s shirt. When he had finished cutting, he tore away the Major’s shirt and stared.

The Major had already been wounded.

There was no other explanation. The blood from his torso wound was soaking into thick bandages that had already been wrapped around the Major’s waist and upper torso. Tightly-wrapped, too; he could see the skin bunching under the fabric. Edmund tried to remember; had the Major been wounded recently? He certainly hadn’t behaved as if he had been wounded. He hadn’t favored one side over the other, or suppressed any winces of pain…

In the end, of course, Edmund knew it didn’t matter. The fact that he had already been bandaged might have saved his life.

With the surgical care he had learned studying cadavers at Grimm’s, Edmund turned the Major on his unwounded side and began to work. As he carefully probed each wound, digging deep and pulling out piece after piece of bent scrapnel, he pondered the Major’s reluctance to receive medical care. Why had he been so resistant to Edmund discovering his previous wounds? Why hide it at all? Was he so concerned with appearing invulnerable that he had hid his wounds from the entire army?

Edmund continued to work, carefully poking and prodding each wound until he found the scrapnel and pulled it out.

There was value in the image of the insurmountable officer who stands tall and proud amidst the chaos of war, unbattered and unbroken. The loyalty he had managed to gain from his soldiers was proof of its efficacy. Edmund remembered the look on Old Tom’s face as Schtillhart had shared space with the wounded.

He was seeing something, he realized, that the Major had never wanted to show anyone. The man lay there, bare-chested, vulnerable to Edmund’s ministrations, his bandaged breast plain to see. Only Edmund knew this secret, and Schtillhart likely would not have told him if he had been given the choice.

Maybe someday, Edmund hoped, Schtillhart would have told him. He would have taken Edmund aside and looked into his eyes, heartfelt and sincere, and told Edmund that he had been wounded during their time at Harmingsdown. That he had, in his effort to be a true soldier, hidden away his vulnerabilities like officers were supposed to do — but he trusted Edmund. Implicitly. He wanted Edmund to know.

Edmund’s tools slowly traced Schtillhart’s side. Up and down his fingers brushed against each wound, each hidden secret.

Edmund had never felt closer to anyone. It was like he held Schtillhart in his hands, a tiny broken bird quivering in the chill wind. He had to protect him, even if he was stronger than Edmund and almost a head taller.

“Now you know.”

Edmund looked up to see Schtillhart’s eyes had opened. His voice was thick with pain, but his eyes were more clear than they had been.

“Yes,” Edmund said as he reached for a small bottle of numbing fluid. “Stay still.” He continued to stitch after applying the tincture, avoiding Schtillhart’s accusatory gaze. He hadn’t wanted to learn Schtillhart’s secret before he had been ready to tell him. But what other choice had there been? Only to let Schtillhart die, and that was an unacceptable option.

“You can ask.”

Edmund had no idea what Schtillhart thought he wanted to ask. Everything seemed very clear-cut to him. Instead he continued his work in silence, marked only by the hisses of breath when Edmund pulled a suture tight.

“Go ahead,” Schtillhart spat through gritted teeth. “Say it. I’ve heard people tell me I am an abomination unto the natural order of things, that god or nature will strike me down.”

“I’ve never been told God would strike me,” Edmund admitted as he handed Schtillhart her torn shirt. “I’m still not convinced God is too concerned with me.” It was comforting, in a way; if there was a God, they clearly thought Edmund was capable enough of handling everything on his own.

“Will you tell anyone?”

There was beauty in it, this sharing of secrets. Horror too, as Schtillhart had not chosen to reveal his secret to Edmund. Was there anything worse than a secret forced to the light?

Edmund was a Moulde, so he knew the answer was a clear and simple no. And that meant Edmund had to keep the secret as dear to himself as Schtillhart did.

Besides, what did it matter? Edmund didn’t believe Major Schtillhart any less of a soldier because he had seen him vulnerable. Maybe the society outside the storage-room door felt differently, but they weren’t outside right now, and Edmund had been quickly coming around to the idea that the society outside wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be.

“Major Schtillhart,” Edmund took a deep breath, “I know, perhaps better than anyone, that you are a man. What I’ve seen doesn’t change that.”

The rest of Edmund’s work was done without conversation, a single shuddering sob from Schtillhart the only break in the silence.

When he had bound the last wound in cotton bandage, Edmund helped Schtillhart to sit up. “If you’d like,” Edmund said, “I can have my Aide-de-camp clean your coatee for you. He’s quite adept at removing blood.”³

“Yes,” Schtillhart nodded, “thank you. I’ll…I’ll bring it by your office tomorrow.” He winced as he took his first steps, breathing heavily. “Now hurry up, Lieutenant! I think there is still a war going on out there, and I need…We need to save our men, understood?”

“Yes sir,” Edmund said, opening the door for the Major.

He had not expected to change his view of Schtillhart so quickly. It was amazing how Leeta-like Schtillhart was; clear-eyed, driven to succeed in spite of the obstacles of others, and every bit as focused as the young resurrectionist who was now plying her trade across the country.

What surprised him more was a simple realization: he had never thought he could be so attracted to another man.

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As it turned out, the combat was finished by the time Edmund and Schtillhart stepped out into the open air. The Chesterton had run out of ammunition and hobbled back to the Wickes’ Laboratory, while the Rojoja had run out of fuel half-way back to their side and sat like a squat gargoyle in the mud in front of the Spanish trenches.

Four of the five British bi-planes had been shot down, while two of the Spanish tri-planes met similar ends; one downed when its machine gun hit and destroyed its own propeller, the other having crash landed atop a distant tree after a lucky bullet had struck its fuel tank and drained its contents.

Casualties were high, injuries were even higher.

Edmund worked as best he could to help organize the chaos, but there was little he could do. The hospitals were full, the soldiers were cleaning up the wreckage, and all around him the grumbling and muttering of irate soldiers filtered through his ears.

So much had changed in five months.

On the first day he arrived in Harmingsdown, Edmund had learned one of the most important rules of being a soldier; put on a show for the officers. Now, the soldiers didn’t seem to be bothering; or if they were, their performance was remarkably substandard.

The calm before the storm is an established poetic device that requires little to no explanation. Less is written about the calm after a storm, but — as proven by Professor P. M. Longfoot in her remarkable performance during the final day of the Second Great Exhibition — it does exist. It is a moment where all living creatures collect and prepare themselves to witness what had occurred; to perceive the new world with fresh eyes and clear understanding of how the storm has changed everything.

It was a silence of mourning and regret. The usual life in the soldiers’ step had bled away into the mud and the dust of the Harmingsdown Trenches. Heads were bowed, hands were clasped, even those who had escaped physical injury were wounded. Shoulders sagged while moans and shouts became bitter. the looks in the soldier’s eyes were filled with pain, anger, and fear. Cards and drink, which had been partaken with a sense of gusto before, were now seized with the fevered grip of sailors clinging to a life-raft. Even when Edmund divested himself of his officer’s sash, there was little discernable difference. The British soldiers and officers finally saw each other as on the same side.

Five months was all it had taken.

Averting his gaze from the worst of the horrors, Edmund sought out his primary contact in the trenches, Old Tom.

He found him in a small shelter off the main trench. He sat with a small circle of men around a makeshift campfire, warming their cramped muscles with cups of what smelled like gin mixed with coffee and dust. Edmund accepted a cup and sat down next to them.

For a moment, no one spoke. They simply stared into the fire, sipping at their horrid concoction.

Finally, Old Tom broke the silence. “Damn tapas-eaters,” he muttered into his cup.

Edmund turned the phrase over and over in his mind until he was sure he understood it from every angle. He was surprised all the same, as he couldn’t remember Old Tom ever expressing anything like the amount of hate he had put in those three words.

“They’re just like us,” Edmund recited from memory. It had been the second lesson Old Tom had taught him.

“They’re nothing like us,” one of the other soldiers snapped.

“I thought they weren’t our real enemy,” Edmund prompted. “Wasn’t it the…the officers who —”

A nearby Corporal snorted. “Yeah? You tell that to Hudge. Or Spicky. Or Wallace. Or…any of them.”

Edmund brought his own cup to his lips. “Wallace is still alive.”

“So’s Hudge,” a nearby private nodded. “I saw him just —”

“They’re all alive!” the Corporal sitting across from Old Tom spat. “They’re all living. Used to be a Spaniard would kill you because they were ordered to…but now…we’re all living. Death is one thing, boyo’s, but surviving…” he paused to stare daggers into his cup. “Living with a pain in your arm that never goes away, being sent home without a leg or an arm…Going over the top used to be a bit of exercise, yeah? Little bit of a show you put on for the officers, and maybe get a little bullet hole in your arm to show your grandkids. If you were unlucky, you’d buy the farm, only that didn’t happen much…”

His voice lowered and took on a distant quality, like he was reading out of a book without realizing it. “Now, you go over the top knowing you won’t be coming back the same. It’ll always take something from you. A friend, a body part, a…a piece of yourself…It breaks you worse than I’ve ever seen men be broken before.”

He looked up, eyes wide and staring. “This isn’t war. Not anymore. This is vengeance.”

Old Tom sighed, nudging Edmund with his arm in a rueful display of world-weary experience. “Like I said, it didn’t used to be this way.”

Edmund stared back at the flame.

“Oh!” Old Tom nudged Edmund again. “Almost forgot. I wanted to throw this in the flames, you know, but I didn’t.”

Edmund looked down a the yellow envelope in Old Tom’s fingers. It took a moment for Edmund to realize what it was, and another moment for him to remember why Old Tom was giving it to him. When he remembered his letter to the Spaniards, Edmund reached out and grabbed the letter, popping it open to read.

Dear Lieutenant E. Mauve
I was delighted at the good fortune that I should be at hand when Coronel Nicolo de Torrent⁴ demanded someone fluent in English to translate your letter to him. Had I not been, I might not have noted the casual eloquence and steady forthrightness that surely is the mark of a fellow Grimm’s man.
I wish that more gentlemen of our caliber were present in the war, such that a great deal of suffering might be avoided. Alas, the callous masses cry for blood, and we, as civil servants, must answer their call, no matter how ill-advised it may be.
As this great war began so quickly after graduation, I fear it may be uncouth to request to know how you have fared since Grimm’s. It is good to know that war has not claimed us all, as it has claimed so many young men and women on both sides.
As to the purpose of this letter; Our Coronel wishes to convey his deepest thanks for your explanation of the events surrounding the six obviously tortured soldiers that were returned to us. By the time you read this, we will have no doubt retaliated in kind, but I wish for you to know that I, at least, bear you no ill will.
I hope you continue to be well, and if you have heard news from any other graduates of Grimm’s, I would be delighted to hear of them as well.
Sincerely, Capitán Eduardo Compasantos

“Your Lieutenant okay with you reading that?” Old Tom asked.

Edmund folded the letter and stared into the fire. One of the Spanish Captains went to Grimm’s!

It was a common saying, even at the time, that “it’s a small world.” This is wrong; the world is, in fact, incredibly large. The more accurate if much less common saying is; “people are small.” So small, that there is only so much world that can fit in each one. No matter their age, education, wealth, or status, you will never find a person who does not close themselves off to a majority of the world in favor of the familiar.

This means that any man, woman, or child you care to name will most likely never leave the neighborhood they grew up in, living and dying around the same familiar faces in the same familiar buildings. The neighborhoods of the rich and powerful may be spread out across different continents and in different countries, but the principle is the same. A seamstress might hop over to the shops for a head of cabbage only to cross paths with the local gossip; while a Duchess might hop over to Paris for a croquette and inadvertently run into the most well informed Marchioness in France.

Neither the Duchess nor the seamstress would ever dream of conversing, even if they lived next door to each other.

All of this is to say that if it seems serendipitous that the Spanish Capitán was a graduate of Grimm’s, it is important to recognize that — given the social structures of the world then, as now — it would have been nearly impossible for Edmund to not have some social connection to the enemy ranking officers. The social ties of rank and station were far stronger than the weak and meaningless boundaries of nationality.

Perhaps it would have been even more impossible for Edmund to not see how useful an asset this was. He was ashamed at not considering the likelihood, but now that it was clearly true, the possibilities became endless. If the Capitán and he joined forces, manipulated their superior officers at the same time, with a mind towards…

Towards what?

“Hey?” Old Tom nudged Edmund free from his thoughts.

Swallowing the last of the last of his drink (and immediately regretting it), Edmund handed the cup to a nearby private. He needed to think. There was still so much he didn’t know.

Where was Pinsnip? It had been weeks since he had sent Pinsnip across enemy lines to learn everything he could about this Spanish Inventor. Had he been captured? Wounded in the Battle of the Ironclads? Had he decided the war was a fool’s game and simply left for parts unknown?

He wouldn’t have put it past him. Pinsnip’s selfish nature was no secret. If he had decided he was better off on his own, hiding from the military, jumping from town to town and surviving on scraps…

In spite of everything, Edmund worried about Pinsnip, and that was an unsettling realization. Concern for another, especially another Moulde, was not something that was a historically Moulde trait. In fact, one less Moulde would make things that much better for everyone, once it became time to divvy up any financial estate. As far as Edmund was concerned, one less Pinsnip meant one less threat to Edmund’s plans.

But Edmund wasn’t just a Moulde, he was also Lieutenant. Pinsnip was his Corporal, and Edmund was responsible for him. And to be fair, Pinsnip was a member of the Black Cat Confederacy. Edmund needed him.

The family, the army, his own needs and fears…how many masters could Edmund serve?