The Battle of Harmingsdown: Chapter 14

The loss of Pinsnip was of significant concern to Edmund, but not as immediate. The far more timely issue was stopping the Wickes from implementing their Tactical Gasses.

There were multiple ways Edmund could have done this, but his brush with the assassin had unnerved him. He needed to rebalance his humors, if not resettle his stomach, and so he opted for taking a personal hand in the sabotage.

The barn in which the Wickes Laboratory was situated was old, but sturdily built. Archaeological studies performed after the war’s end — when the importance of Harmingsdown’s role in its ending was established — place the building of the farmhouse and barn sometime after the Roman invasion of Britannia. The wooden walls were weather-hardened to the point that they were as hard as iron. The winds had blasted the walls as smooth as glass, ensuring a very difficult time for any spies who thought the front door would be too conspicuous an entry point.

Edmund was not one of these spies; he found doors the ideal method of entry to any location; especially places he was not expected to be.

It was nighttime, well past the last posting, when the night patrols and snipers kept watch while both sides of the trenches rested in rotting beds, still fully dressed to keep out the cold dusting of snow.

The chill had hit Edmund in his bones as he sat out through the trenches, periodically peeking at the barn through a telescope. His muscles ached, the sore throbbing reminding him of the time he had hidden in the Grimm’s ice-house to catch the shadowy raven that was stalking the Mothburn Graveyard.

Edmund risked a deep breath, white mist drifting from his mouth and in front of his glass. He had sworn off stalking through the darkness. Ever since that night after Schtillhart had returned with a sample of Chrome, and he tried to extract it from the warehouse so he could study it. He had known then he was too old for this, and the shadows were best left to those like Pinsnip.

But Pinsnip was gone. He had no choice.

He waited for hours before the barn door finally opened. Following the dark shapes through his telescope, Edmund watched the Wickes as they walked from the barn to the tiny nearby farm house, where they had taken up residence.

There, they must have been done for the night. He would have to move quickly.

Pulling himself out of his cramped hiding place in the trenches, Edmund kept as low as he could and ran towards the barn, ducking and weaving between the shadows and ignoring every protest his muscles gave.

When he reached the barn door, he found it shut fast with a thick lock of surprising lightness and quality. After inspecting the lock, Edmund found himself doubting his evening’s plans. He didn’t doubt he could open the lock, but doing so before the morning…well, he had to try. Pulling his bent-key from his hidden pocket, Edmund worked carefully, listening to the tiny clicks and taps as he moved his key back and forth through the mechanism.

Three-lever pull-back springs, two pressure levers with Sicarian catches, a re-setting lever, a twist activated catch-full piston…Sounds like copper, so the piston is probably a Hughman Lockmaster. That means I can push the third catch without separating the safety release…

It had to have been an hour at least before the lock finally gave a loud click and opened. Pocketing his tools, Edmund slid open the door and slipped inside before closing the door quietly behind him.

The moonlight shut out once more, the barn was plunged into darkness. Fumbling only briefly, Edmund pulled a match from his pocket and struck it on a rough patch of his boot. The light was small, but blossomed quickly to a serviceable flame once he found a small candle nearby. Holding it high, Edmund took in his first sights of the Wickes Laboratory.

Half mechanic’s workshop and half scientist’s laboratory, Edmund was astounded by the mess. Tools, glass beakers, and papers were everywhere; covering the floor, tables, and benches. At first, Edmund thought the Wickes had already been ransacked, but a second glance confirmed that the bottles on the floor were neatly placed, and the papers were stacked, if not carefully, then at least purposefully. Tools had been dropped, not thrown, and even the most casually discarded diagram was positioned with the picture easily visible to a casual glance.

In the middle of the room, squatting on its side like a tiny mountain, was the bent and crumpled Spanish trench-crawler, the Rojoja, the original that had burned its occupants and inspired the Wickes to create their own.

Next to the crawler was the damaged T-1 Chesterton. It had been so sorely damaged that the Wickes had not allowed it to be fielded again, and in desperation the Colonel had ordered ten from the Wickes Manufactory in Brackenburg, lest the Rojoja return and roll across the trenches unimpeded.

Both machines were covered in chalk where Wickes had diagrammed adjustments on fuel-line placement, weak-points in the armor, mechanical tolerances, and similar improvements.

Gripping the side of the first Spanish crawler, Edmund pulled himself up and inside the large metal beast.

It is here that the more mechanically minded reader would delight in a full and detailed description of the machines innards, but Edmund was not concerned with extraneous details. Indeed, he was concerned with only one simple thing; the steam engine.

Carefully, as though striking a glass vase, Edmund tapped the engine, listening to the metallic ring. He had first thought, like everyone else, that the steam engine had been poorly designed. Steam engines were notoriously poorly suited to turning over. He had thought the soldiers had been burned because the engine had exploded or been damaged during the fight.

Now, looking at the machine, he reassessed his assumption. The engine hadn’t broken, it had done precisely what it had been designed to do.

It was the Chrome all over again. The steam engine had been constructed in such a way that the release vents for the steam had no valves, safety latches, or protection doors. It wouldn’t have even taken a full turn of the engine; a steep slope would have caused the boiling water and scalding steam to pour out over the occupants. The machine was safe enough on a completely flat expanse, but as soon as it tipped or jostled, the soldiers inside would be burned terribly.

Were the Spanish trying to kill their own soldiers?

While Edmund was curious to examine the two machines in closer detail, that wasn’t what he had come here for. Slipping back out of the Rojoja and tiptoeing his way through the detritus covered floor, Edmund searched the paper-strewn workbenches for formulae or diagrams of the Wickes’ inventions.

It is not known where Edmund found the diagrams — many historians believe a hidden compartment was involved — but find them he did, after an exhaustive search. Holding the candle closer, Edmund leaned over the documents and began to read.

Edmund had found some flaw in every invention the Wickes had made, either in design or in execution. The mines were indiscriminate, planes crashing did as much damage to allies as enemies, even the armored crawlers caused ricochets and were a miserable experience for everyone involved.

These weren’t weapons of war, they were weapons of pain. Suffering. Hate.

Where once they only saw fellow soldiers, the British now hated the Spanish. After all, officers always made mistakes and demanded perfection, but now their tools were turning on them. War was a horrifying slog through mud and trenches, every moment its own special agony. Every weapon had been carefully crafted to make both friend and foe miserable.

“And then…” Mrs. Wickes voice floated through Edmund’s memory.

And then the Wickes will bring out their final gas. A combination of vitaes, elixers, and concoctions all boiled together. I wonder how they managed to make it a gas. Mine was an injection. A powerful injection. An injection capable of curing anything. Or rather, one specific thing of which the world had been so certain there was no cure. An injection to return life to the dead.

In gas form, blanketing the battlefield…Would it even work? Such an indiscriminate application of a delicate and specilized chemical…

Nowadays, the selecting of a dead body for post-encardiocephelographic revivification is a well studied and debated topic, resulting in two major points of view. The first is that only fresh and strong bodies must be used, as once the Vitaes and ichours of the body have stagnated or evaporated, the body itself begins to grow stale and brittle to the point where a once sturdy and functional body becomes like to a folded paper toy, easily breakable and useless for serious scientific work.

The other view is that post-encardiocephelographic revivification is an abomination, such that any and all who practice it must be cleansed in purifying flame. This is predominantly the view of the landed gentry, as finally acquiring your ancestral lands and titles can be embarrassing, to say the least, if your ancestors are simply going to knock on your door the next day and demand a do-over.

At the time, Edmund subscribed to the latter view, though for very different reasons.

Then there was the fact it was a gas instead of an injection. You couldn’t measure a dose of gas as reliably as a liquid. If it didn’t work properly, the bodies perhaps not reciving the right amount of chemical, through the skin instead of in the blood…bringing the dead back to life as…as what?

As beings who had seen what awaits after death claims us. Perhaps mortals, perhaps monsters. Not humans; humans have never seen what lays beyond that black curtain. “Waiting and yearning, yearning and waiting / I sit waiting alone by the sea, / to see the ships passing, sailing and passing, / Not one returning your body to me…”

The sound of clattering metal tore Edmund from his thoughts. Quickly blowing out his candle, Edmund threw himself into the hatch of the Rojoja and pressed himself against the inner walls of the trench-crawler as he was enveloped by darkness.

The sound of the door opening and closing echoed through the repurposed barn. “You forgot to lock the door,” Mrs. Wickes’s sharp voice snapped.

---

“I never forget,” Mr. Wickes’s thick drawl rejoined. “It must have been you who forgot. Where is the candle?”

“You forgot where you put it,” Edmund could hear Mrs. Wickes sneer in her voice. “I’ll light the lamp.” Her voice moved across the room, punctuated by the clatter of metal keys on a workbench.

“You are being quite insufferable, my dear,” Mr. Wickes heaved a heavy sigh. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were being quite petulant.”

“You dare say that to me?” Mrs. Wickes continued over the sound of burners lighting and machines turning on. “You said you could control the fool.”

“Mmm…yes, I admit I was surprised by that sudden display of bravado…but no matter. All it will take is a little…adjustment in our framing of the situation. After all, the Major wants victory, and that is something we can easily provide.”

“A waste of time, when there are far more expedient methods.”

There was a pause as the room filled with tension. Then: “My dear, you haven’t done anything rash, have you?”

“I solved a problem.”

“My dear, that was quite foolish of you. The Major was not going to stand in our way, far from it. All the Major needed was an excuse. Some palatable explanation for the darkest hours of the night, when uncertainty rears its head. The Major couldn’t not give us the go-ahead. Ha! Could you imagine if dear Schtillhart rejected our offer? The scandal of an Acting Colonel who stopped two inventors from providing weapons that could win the war? A Major who didn’t want to win?”

“You are a self-involved buffoon.” Mrs. Wickes voice was a lethal dagger. “I’m not talking about our plans. I did not waste my time playing politic, all to crawl out of that fetid borough and stand proudly next to the peers of the realm, just so someone could speak like that to me again!”

Another pause released the gathered pressure in the room, punctuated by a sigh from Mr. Wickes. “Well, what’s done is done. Whom did you send?”

“Ralphaldo.”

“Ah.” Mr. Wickes’ cane tapped the ground. “Well, I’d say that gives the Major a fighting chance, then. Either way, when news spreads that a Spaniard killed a British officer, the practice will spread and officers will become acceptable targets. Another civility casualty of war.”

“I will have recompense.” Her voice was lethal as a dagger.

“We both will, my dear,” If Mrs. Wickes voice was a dagger, Mr. Wickes voice was a steel pipe in a dark alley. “I promise you, that rotten little abomination will get what’s coming before the war is over. We’ll never be disrespected again.”

Another pause, then Mr. Wickes continued: “Well, then, that’s that, I suppose. Have you happened to receive any news from Forthmore?”

“He’s ready. I will send him the instructions in two days.”

“Why wait?” Mr. Wickes snapped with a metallic bang echoing through the barn. “You’ve seen the simplicity with which I can bend their ears; They’ll believe anything I tell them! Why, I could paint such a glorious picture of victory…why not start tomorrow?”

“Patience,” Mrs. Wickes answered in the tone of a doctor staring at an empty syringe. “Anger is a subtle poison. We must brew it carefully.”

“Careful is one thing, laziness is another. You worry too much, my dear. By the time a new Colonel or Brigadier arrives, things will have gone too far for anyone to stop it.”

“Don’t use that tone with me, you squelching bag of kidneys. I’m not one of those easily led sheep out there. This takes…finesse.”

“Are you suggesting finesse is something I lack?” Mr. Wickes tone dropped dangerously.

For a moment there was silence. Then Mrs. Wickes spoke again, her voice gentle:

“Give it time. The chrome will keep breaking, the scrapnel keep cutting, the crawlers and planes will make them miserable. Blood and dirt will scar their wounds. They will choke on diesel fumes, smell the burning flesh, and feel the caustic sting of war…and once resentment is strong enough…once the soldiers on both sides are hungry for revenge…”

“You’re drooling again, my dear.”

“If we want this war to last forever, we must move slowly. Simmer the hate for months, or years, and you can boil it into the bones. Into their blood. They’ll never end the war because if it ends while a single soldier of their enemies remains alive, they will have lost.”

“I do wish you would keep control of yourself, my dear. I hope you’re not letting your natural proclivities overtake your rationality? If we start killing everyone, then–”

“Oh, they’ll be alive,” Mrs. Wickes cackled in horrific satisfaction. “Every cry of suffering will temper their fellows hate. Before the end of the year they will start demanding weapons that cause pain instead of death. They’ll want the war to last forever themselves!”

“And we’ll be there, my dear, to provide the service they want, for as long as they want it. My dear…we have done it! The Holy Grail of mercantilists and capitalists for centuries, we finally have…a Military Industrial Complex!”

“Glorious,” Mrs. Wickes sighed in the closest sound to happiness Edmund had ever heard from her.

Then: “When are you going to dismantle that trench-crawler?”

“My dear, I have been incredibly busy with arranging the Colonel’s fake promotion. And there is still a large amount of maths to do regarding the gasses dispersion rate in high wind —”

“It’s been there for weeks.”

A beleagered sigh, almost a groan filed the barn. “You are a stubborn mule, my dear. Oh very well. Where is the Disassembly Hammer?”

Edmund closed his eyes and hoped Mrs. Wickes had gestured to the newer T-1 Chesterton, instead of —

Like the tolling of a mortuary bell, a ringing blow filled the trench-crawler, bouncing back and forth between the metal walls. Edmund clapped his hand over his ears, against the reverberating air.

It was surprise more than anything that had shaken Edmund. He had lived in Moulde Hall, whose bell shook the entire house like a stormy sea shook a ship. Before the third blow from Mr. Wickes, Edmund had found his legs again, and was casting his eyes around the innards of the Crawler for a way out. The door in the ceiling was no good; he would be immediately spotted. The other door was pressed against the floor; no way out there.

A creak echoed through the room as a single plate was pulled off the outside. A slim shaft of dim light from the Wickes’s lamp broke into the machine, giving Edmund a bit more visibility. In his minds eye, he saw the other metal plates stripped away, revealing the cruel sneering faces of the Wickes. Their hands grabbed at him…

As quiet as he could, Edmund moved to the other side of the machine, hiding from the sudden window. There. That gave him a bit more time before he was seen.

Another bang. Then another. Edmund listened carefully.

Let X equal the time between strikes; 3.5 seconds, plus/minus 0.3. Average five blows per plate, and each removed plate increases the visible interior by 2.3%…

A third metal plate clattered to the workshop floor.

Given rate and direction of removal, this will be the spot with the longest period of un-observable time. Given the interlocking nature of the armored plating…

A fifth plate screamed as it scraped free from the trench-crawler’s metal frame.

From the inside, at an angle of 42 degrees…striking with 200 psi at leverage point 3 cm inward…

Edmund slipped to the other side of the machine and lifted his foot. The clang of his boot against the inside of the machine was dwarfed by the sound of Mr. Wickes striking the outside with his hammer. Timing the next blow, Edmund kicked again. And again.

Seven more plates had been removed by the time Edmund was satisfied with the bend in the crawler’s armor opposite Mr. Wickes disassembly. Shifting to the side, he wedged his back into the bend.

…At this angle and pressure, requiring support with knees at a 30 degree bend, leverage multiplier of 3…

Another plate was removed. Then another.

Edmund squared his back against the armor, set his feet, and waited for Mr. Wickes.

With the screech of another removing plate, Edmund threw his entire weight into the plate. With a groan, a snap, and a popping sound, the metal plate dropped free from the machine, clattering to the floor along with Mr. Wickes'.

Edmund fell with it, rolling to the side as he struck the barn floor. He froze, just as Mrs. Wickes voice broke through the clatter.

“Did you hear that?”

“I’m busy dismantling our trench-crawler, so no, I heard nothing.”

Edmund pressed his body next to the machine. He scarcely dared to breathe, his ears straining to catch every intonation and all subtext from the Wickes.

“That last plate you pulled off…it didn’t sound right.”

“Ah.”

Edmund was no fool, and a quick assessment of the situation provided him with only one avenue of escape; avoid all detection. It is perhaps fortunate that the sound of Mr. Wickes’s cane, a tool that struck fear into countless orphans and not a few police officers, also provided a clear indication of where Mr. Wickes actually was.

Calling to mind every piece of stealth and secrecy he had ever learned, Edmund darted behind the Rojoja and into the warehouse, hiding between crates and bags and barrels, always one step ahead of the Wickes and their searching gaze.

“They roll and rumble and thunder and bumble, / child-eating Ogres of Harmingsdown Town. / Their claws are a reaching and throats are a screeching, / foul smelling Ogres of Harmingsdown Town…”

Finally, he found himself between the Wickes and the barn door. Glancing back, he watched as the Wickes slowly crossed the Barn again.

“With one mighty dash, he escaped from the lash / that was swung by the Ogres of Harmingsdown Town. / They look for him still, so pray that you will / not be spied by the Ogres of Harmingsdown Town.”

Mrs. Wickes sniffed the air like a hound, and slowly began to turn.

“My dear…did you hit any of these metal plates from inside the crawler?”

At the sound her partner’s voice, Mrs. Wickes turned away. His chance clear, Edmund leapt for the door. Sliding it open as quickly and quielty as he could, he dove through and rolled to the side, out of the line of sight. Picking himself up, he twisted around the corner of the barn and huddled down to wait, straining to hear the sounds of pursuit.

There was only silence.

After a moment, he heard the barn door slowly close and lock.

After five more minutes passed, the Wickes had still not left the barn. Another five, and the repeated sound of hammer on metal echoed from inside. Edmund began to breathe again.

There was no avoiding it, they had to have known a spy was in their barn. Did they see him? Even now were they planning retribution for his espionage? Or had he managed to escape without their noticing who it was? Or perhaps worse, did they simply not care? From their proclamations of victory, it sounded like it was too late for anyone to stop them.

Edmund’s jaw set firm. It wasn’t too late for him. He knew how to stop them. It was the same problem as getting out of the trench-crawler. Find the right spot and apply the right amount of force.

Edmund was very good at that.

---

Much as oil and water, subtlety and speed are incompatible qualities. As such, Edmund didn’t even consider darting from shadow to shadow as he ran back through the trenches to his tiny bed.

Throwing himself down on the threadbare cot, he pulled out his notebook and began to write.

He had to stop the gas!

The obvious solution was also the most elegant. Acting Colonel Schtillhart would likely take some time to implement a strategy regarding the gasses. Edmund had as long as that took to find antidotes and send them to the Spanish —

No, that wouldn’t work. Even if he managed to convince the Spanish that Forthmore was a double agent, they would hardly trust the purported good will of an enemy Lieutenant. Not anymore. No, he needed to counter the gasses himself.

Obviously, the counter to deadly air was to clean it again. How to do that?

Edmund turned to a fresh page in his notebook and began to sketch his diagram.

A factory of some kind would be simplest. Factories took material, processed them, and then ejected a finished product. Why couldn’t this material be the air itself?¹ An Air-Factory would take the air, clean it of poison, and then release it again.

Edmund tore the page out of his notebook. Too inefficient. Grenades could be thrown anywhere on the battlefield. A factory that could clean the air like that would have to be gigantic. What he needed was smaller. Compact. Personal…

Edmund began again. The Wickes were using Krockfeld’s Elektrified Boron to keep the chemicals in a heavy gaseous form, and that particular solution had a very specific reaction to properly treated cloth. He could modify a simple dust-filter…like on a Rachenbarge Diesel engine… But once the air was clean, how to keep it from being contaminated again before–

Leeta pulled her plague-mask down over her face before beginning to dig in the grave-dirt.

Edmund turned the page. Masks. Make a seal and funnel the air from the filter directly into a leather or rubber mask. The clean air is breathed…and then exhaled…into a Pittman valve, which releases the carbon dioxide! It could work! He scribbled away until every detail was accounted for. Goggles to protect the eyes, flaps to cover the ears, every sensitive membrane protected from stinging and dangerous gasses.

“Sir?”

Edmund looked up at the lumbering shape of Ung. In an instant, Edmund remembered. “Ung, there is a corpse on the floor of the Colonel’s Office.”

“I have anticipated sir’s needs and taken care of it already.”

Edmund nodded. He shouldn’t have expected any less. “Your efficiency is appreciated.”

“Will sir be wanting anything further this evening?”

“No,” Edmund turned back to his design. “Good night, Ung.”

“Good night, sir.”

In his seminal work on the subject, Edmund described Inspiration as; “the moment when — after all other possibilities have been examined, analyzed, and discarded — a singular madness creeps into the mind, causing one to notice the unnoticeable, think the unthinkable, and behave in a manner totally inappropriate to the situation.”

He then clarifies: “The difference between Inspiration and Insanity is thus: Inspiration proves beneficial to ones goals and standing in society. Insanity brings only suspicion and fear. It is clear, then, being a genius or being insane is dependent entirely on the opinions of ones peers.”

Inspiration struck Edmund just as Ung reached the door. “Ung, may I ask you a question?”

“…Sir may ask any question sir likes.” The brief pause in Ung’s voice was the only clue that Edmund had confused Ung terribly. Lieutenants never needed to request permission to ask questions of their aides, and Masters never asked permission of their servants for anything.

“What side were you on in the last war?”

For a moment, Ung didn’t move, his stoic stone-like form standing perfectly still in the dim room. “I would prefer not to —”

“I know you wouldn’t,” Edmund interrupted. “But I’m afraid I must insist.”²

Edmund had never insisted to Ung in his life. He had never insisted to anyone. He never had to. But now, he had the sneaking suspicion that Ung had an answer to a problem that was causing Edmund incredible distress.

Finally, with the smooth grace of a glacier melting, Ung sat himself down in the only other chair in the room. It creaked once, and then settled as the giant rested his hands on his knees.

“I was enlisted as an infantryman in his Majesty’s army, third regiment of foot.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.” It was easy to tell how Ung had managed to survive as the butler to the Moulde Family for so long; he had perfected the servant’s art of responding to questions simply, clearly, and truthfully…but not with an answer.

Ung closed his eyes, and opened them again. “I was on the wrong side.”

You didn’t think so at the time. You don’t even think so now, I can see it in your eyes. “The side that lost?”

“We lost every day, but we fought on.”

“Against the Germans, or the British?”

“I obeyed orders. I did what I was told. I killed both Germans and British. Some with musket-ball and bayonet.”

What did you kill the others with, I wonder? “Who did you fight for?”

“I fought for King and Country.”

“With the Schwarzen Hunde? That’s a German name. Were you a spy for the enemy?”

With the sound of an ancient bellows, Ung took a deep breath. “We were spies for every enemy,” Ung’s eyes glowed with the distant flame of burning coal. As hot as anything, but stable and still. “The English enemies, the German enemies, enemies of the state, the crown, the parliament, the Bundestag…we fought them all.”

“How?”

“With my own two hands, and my own two eyes. I read reports, remembered glimpses of maps, snatches of overheard conversation. I told everyone I could. We stopped ambushes, halted assaults, saved shipments of supplies…we stood between the officers and the solders. We saved lives. We protected everyone. Die Schwarzen Hunde didn’t fight in the war, we fought against the war.

Ung paused, one of the longest monologues of his life half finished. Edmund waited patiently for his servant to build the courage, or perhaps impropriety, to speak again.

Finally, he spoke again. “Many in the Founding Families believe this was…scandalous.”

“Why?” Edmund asked, only to clarify when he saw Ung’s blank look; “I know why they would think so, what they would tell me if I asked them…why do you think they found your behavior inappropriate?”

“It is not my place, sir, to say.”

“Tell me. That is an order from your Lieutenant and your Heir.”

It was a cruel command, Edmund could tell from Ung’s tightening of his jaw and the flexing of his fingers against his knees. He was struggling against the years of propriety that had been his only survival strategy among the Founding Families. Finally, his head sagged, and he spoke.

“Soldiers do not command, they serve. Those who live in a society take responsibility for its survival. This is how the country survives.”

A machine. Everyone doing their allotted job. Everyone filling their designated place. Everyone living how their position dictates. And if the machine is designed well, society will thrive for centuries. A cold society. A society of brass and steam, of cogs and gears…and all will be well.

He thought of Leeta. Until a single cog falls out of place…

“Thank you, Ung,” Edmund nodded. “I believe you are right. That is how they think.” He had thought that way once, too, when he was eight and knew everything. He may even have been right. Now, in his old age, he had learned enough to be wrong. “Good night.”

“Good night, sir.”

When Ung had left, Edmund set aside his mask-diagram and he picked up the letter he had written to the Spanish Coronel.

He could see the future quite clearly. The letter would reach Capitán Compasantos hands, and he would pass it on to the Coronel. Mr. Forthmore would be, if not arrested, at least watched very closely, his purported inventions scrutinized for flaws and improvements.

By the time the Wickes’ gas was used, Edmund would have distributed gas-masks to both sides. He would send improvements via telegraph to Brackenburg, and force the Wickes’ Manufactory to provide reliable weapons. He would contact family members, mayors, Dukes and Earls.

Edmund tore up the letter. Watching the pieces fall to the ground, he picked up his notebook and wrote home to Matron.

He had written home only twice before. The first when he had arrived in Harmingsdown. The second letter he wrote after the Battle of the Ironclads. He had never sent her that letter; it was only to be sent to her on the occasion of his death.^{3, 4}

He had a lot to catch her up on. He wrote about Kolb, the Wickes, and the trench-crawlers. He mentioned several possible opportunities he had discovered, and commented on Ung’s usefulness. He told her everything he needed to, and a few things he wanted to, just to be safe.

When he finished her letter, he moved on to Junapa. He had not yet written to her since the start of the war, for any number of reasons. He spoke of the weather, bread prices, and the next move in their game of Fox and Geese.

His pen scratched away in the dim candle-light.

On impulse, after Junapa’s letter, he wrote one to Leeta. He had no idea where to send it, but writing it made him feel better all the same. He could hire someone to find her, or purchase a newspaper from the northern towns of England. He’d find some clue that would lead him to her.

Letters.

Letters to friends, allies, enemies, and strangers. How well did King Willhelm and the Gilded Queen know each other? They likely talked, shared meals, held court…they were two monarchs of a kind. What did they have in common with Old Tom?

When he was finally finished, he pulled out his ever-wound watch and stared at its slowly moving hands. It was quite early in the morning.

He couldn’t solve the war. The Monarchs of the world had started the war, but it needed to end in the same place all wars ended.

In the trenches.