Posts Tagged With: Amish

Log #58: Horror, Fool, and the Cliff

Log

September 19

Arrrr, blast me brain and sink me to the depths, ye scurvy scalawags.

I do not know why I wrote that. I have not the will nor the strength to blot it nor tear it from the page. My reserves are not merely depleted, but entirely exhausted: there is nothing left. All I can do is follow the road, this black, unyielding, iron-shot, soul-searing – this never-ending infernal road! All of my might is focused merely on continuing to breathe this foul air, with its smokes and its stinks. I am grateful that Brother Bob has accompanied us, and what’s more, that he has not only ceased to speak of our sins in taking this wagon and team (By the gods, I do not care to imagine what we would be if but our feet carried us thus far and forward from here: skeletons atop bloody stumps with madness in our eyes, methinks), but he has also most generously volunteered to purchase provisions for the four of us, and thus have we been fed on this journey; I assume he knows that my men would be taking food as we took the wagon, at the end of the pistola, and thus to avoid, he opens his purse-strings for us. ‘Tis well: I do not wish to have la policia know of us this far north; if they should commune with their brethren to the south, they would soon find our names black-marked in Charleston. Best we avoid notice. Aye, aye, the wagon, but – ’twas necessary. And has not yet brought misfortune to us, so we will keep hope, and carry on. On this thrice-damned Hell-burned road.

I find my pen is run dry: not of ink, but of words. I have this day seen yet another – monstrosity – of this age. I know not how to describe it for these pages. How many of these horrors can I find, and then enscribe herein, before they all blur into a single grotesque of metal and smoke and unnatural foulness?

What is this age? Who are these men? How can they live thus?

They cannot even claim to lack examples of a more proper life, for even if they forget their history, the time when I was born and where I should be, they have these Amish men to show them a better way – and yet they eschew the green fields, the woods, the open land; they build cities, and ride in the bellies of beast-wagons and dragon-trains and air-planes. And, now that we have crossed the bounds of this state Brother Bob names New Jersey, we find that they poison the very earth beneath their feet, the very air they breathe.

It began with a stench, a stench I cannot describe – smoke and death, like a midden heap outside a slaughterhouse, doused with tar and set afire and then heaped with damp and rotten straw to increase the smoke. Aye, well, I can describe it, true enough. Fah – ’tis a great frustration to me, to find myself so bone-wearied by my journey and by my fears for my ship and my men and our future path even after we reunite, and then atop that to see terrible, soul-darkening sights, day after day after day. I cannot tell (Aye, again, perhaps I can, but I know not where I find the strength to draw the words, what well sinks deep enough within to fill my pen with a stream of language that may be pure. But I must wonder: do I drink of that purity and goodness within, and am I thus renewed? Or do I draw out and spill forth on these pages, with these words, my last remaining goodness, my last featherweight of beauty? Be there more within, or now less and now less and now less? Aye, and here is another fear to weigh upon me, and perhaps to taint but more of that goodness within.), I cannot say how truly I long for the ocean, and no sight but wind and waves to all horizons.

After the stink, there was the sight: here I know not what to say, truly. It was a construct, a mass of metal and stone rising from the ground, as large as any other I have seen, fortress nor palace nor cathedral. Tall chimneys rose up like towers above a keep, but rather than flying pennons in the air, they flew flags of black smoke, rising for miles into the sky, darkening the blue of heaven with their foulness – and spreading the stench we had been breathing all that morning.

I asked aloud what it was, and Brother Bob – who had paid it no mind, a fact I find as chilling as the fact of this thing’s very existence, for it means that such corruption is common in his life, in this world – said it was an oil refinery. I did shake my head. “There is nothing fine, nor refined, about yon Hell,” I told him. He but shrugged his shoulders. Brother Bob finds us poor company, now. Though why he sees our small crime as a worse offense to the eyes of the gods, or of his One God, than that refinery, I know not.

“That’s industry,” he said. “That’s jobs. If it’s a choice between the environment suffering a little smoke, a little spilled oil, or men starving without work, watching their families go hungry, then it’s no choice at all.”

Aye, I grasp that. Tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands, of my countrymen starved after Devil Cromwell conquered us, and his Puritan men prevented the Irish from growing food for themselves, slaughtering our livestock and burning our fields. But I do not see men hard at work in this age. I have seen no man tilling a field, not in the hundreds of miles we have traveled: I have seen more metal engines, which Bob named combines and tractors and threshers. I have seen no man bringing his goods from one place to another on these roads: I have seen beast-wagons. I have seen no men at work manufacturing products for market: I have seen this oil refinery, and many another place Bob has called “industry.” But how can a man be industrious when his own hands are idle, when his own feet move not nor bear his weight, when he but rides in a machine and commands other machines to do the work?

I think the devil has found here a whole nation of men ready to listen to his whispers, and their hands are thus made idle. Aye, and their souls, too, and their minds, and their hearts, as well.

I must go home.

September 20

Tomorrow I think we will arrive. Bob says we are close. I endeavored to find a telephone that could reach out to my friend Vaughn, but we passed none. No matter: tomorrow I will speak to him with my own mouth, to his own ears. Tomorrow, I will stand aboard my ship. Tomorrow.

Today, we met a fool. Two, in truth.

We made for the ocean, this morning, to let its salty winds blow from our noses the stench of this age’s industry, to let the sight of those mighty waves ease the turmoil in our hearts. The road offered us a choice, and when Bob told us where those ways led, we made our choice with no thought and no hesitation: to the Jersey Shore, we said, and thus went we.

Many and many a man had made the same choice, it seems; alas, but they have built too many houses, too many shops, too many piers: they block the ocean’s beauty. Aye, this is not new to this age; every coastal city I have seen, and many a small village, too, builds as near to atop the waves as they can. Merely evidence that men know their need for the sea, and wish to be within it, held in the bosom of the water, like the embrace of Gaia herself – or of Danu, to hear my mother tell it in the language of the Druids.

Two of these men saw us, and pointed and laughed, long and loud. MacManus and Lynch were atop the wagon’s bench at the time, with Lynch at the reins; as the day was sunny and warm, they wore the wide-brimmed black hats we had found tucked beneath the bench when first we took this wagon – hats that belonged to the Amish boys who had ridden here before. They had left other baggage, which included well-made shirts of white cloth, soft as fine wool, and short coats of black cloth; as our own clothing had grown ragged, we had made use of this wardrobe thus offered (all of us but Bob, of course, who would touch nothing that he deemed “stolen”). Thus we three ancient Irishmen were dressed to resemble Amish men. This, in combination with our mode of transport – so rare that we have seen not one other such in all our days on this road – seemed to be the source of their hilarity. I could not but assume they had never seen a mirror, nor their reflection in a pond of still water: for they had dyed their skin, it seemed, as our Celtic ancestors once did with woad before they marched to war, but these men had chosen – dirt. Reddish brown, or orange, dirt; Spanish clay has a similar hue, I think. They wore loose pantaloons and tight tunics, and hats that did not fit, but merely rested atop their heads, with strange abbreviated brims that they wore away from their faces, and so clearly served no purpose in keeping the sun from one’s eyes; too they had these tinted eye-pieces we have seen on so many Americalish, but again, these fools did not wear them before their eyes: they wore them at their necks, where they served no clear purpose whatsoever. They shielded their eyes from the burning sun with their hands. I cannot understand why a man would do this.

Like their dress and actions, their speech was too hard for me to understand, at first; but their laughter needed no translation. We were at a stop, at Brother Bob’s request; he required a place of relief, and had stepped into an inn by the road to answer nature’s call. Many people had seen us and pointed and whispered, but in the main, they waved and greeted us in amicable fashion, greetings we gladly returned. Until these two, with their loud laughter and wild gesticulations, slapping each other on the back and holding their hands before their mouths as though they would sneeze or cough, but naught emerged but howls of mirth.

They approached us close. Lynch paid mind to the horses, clucking at them to keep calm despite the mass of people crowding close around them; MacManus was seated closest, and he held his gaze on them: for Shane is no fool, and he knew that such men often try to play up strangers for amusement – to the strangers’ sorrow. And just so, with these two.

As they approached closer, they nonetheless spoke loudly, as though we were too far to hear, or as though they played to an audience, though none stopped to watch their antics. This made it simpler to understand their speech, though I can but render some of their words as I heard them, knowing not the meaning. “Nah, bro, Amish don’t fight back! For real, check me out, bro!” The nearer fool stepped up to MacManus and fondled himself obscenely. “Suck this, bro!” he shouted, and the two fell over laughing. MacManus looked back at me and raised one brow. I shrugged. “We do not want a brouhaha,” I said. “But I’ll not tell ye to surrender honor.” He nodded understanding, and turned back to face the two.

“Nice swag, bro – where’d you get that shit, like the dark ages?” This was their next sally, which brought forth more peals of laughter, and still naught but indifference from MacManus. I did see his hand tighten into a fist, though, as the gesticulations of the two seemed to be disturbing our horses, still calmed by Lynch’s soothing, but nonetheless growing more nervous the louder and more rambunctious grew our pair of jesters.

It was their third act that brought a response from MacManus: one of them held a cup of some frothy white drink, and he threw this at Shane, soaking the leg of his breeches. What was more, the horse attempted to rear, feeling the liquid splash against its flank, and only a quick leap to its side by Lynch, who held his hands over the beast’s eyes and whispered softly into its ears to soothe it once more, prevented serious trouble.

MacManus stepped down from the bench and stood before the two. Their laughter but grew the louder. One said, “Come at me, bro!” which brought shouts of delight. The other then reached out and pushed at Shane’s shoulder; the first leaned forward and knocked Shane’s wide black hat from his head, and then drew back his fist as if to throw a blow, the two of them laughing all the while.

So Shane shot him.

It was but a glancing shot, as Shane intended; fools should be thrust away when they grow bothersome, but it is never their fault if the gods made their brains as thin as gruel, and as incapable of sense. A crease in the lower leg, drawing blood but doing no permanent harm – though Shane did raise the pistola and place his aim on their foolish faces, faces no longer amused but rather dumb with shock; for the time had come and passed for these two to abandon their game and depart. Shane said nothing, merely raised one eyebrow, his weapon more eloquent than any words. The two fell over each other running away, the one with the scratched leg screaming and crying, “He shot me, bro! He shot me!”

Now, that was an amusing sight.

The crowd had gone entirely silent as the scene unfolded; after the two ran away, MacManus tucked his pistola back into his sash and climbed into the wagon seat once more, as did Lynch, the horse now calmed and still. Brother Bob returned at that moment, and perceiving naught amiss, climbed in back and said, “Let’s go.” Thus we went.

And for our final farewell to the Jersey Shore, we heard a voice from behind us speak softly into the silence these words: “Those are the baddest mother-fucking Amish I ever heard of.”

September 21

We have reached New York. Taller than mountains, is this place: the sun does not fall to the street, blocked by the buildings of men. We have crossed bridges that would dwarf the mighty span of London, seen more beast-wagons than a man could count.

And every step, every passing moment, my heart has grown colder and darker in my chest. somewhat is wrong, I know it.

We have found a guide, however, and I am most gladdened that someone in this stone Hell has a warm and welcoming heart. He is of the City Watch – aye, of la policia, of the New York house by his badges, worn proudly over his heart and on his brow – but he is mounted properly atop a steed, a living, breathing horse, and he approached us as a friend, greeting our horses with a smile, and saluting us kindly and with deep respect. Though he, as did the fools of Jersey, thinks us Amish; perhaps his friendship would be colder if he knew us for what we are. But perhaps not, for there is a warm heart, indeed, beneath that silver badge. He is guiding us through the streets to the proper place, once we had named the harbor where our ship is located; he said he couldn’t just leave a fellow horseman to wander the stone streets of this city. A good man: a welcome treasure, no matter where ’tis found.

We will be there soon, he says. Ah! My eyes strain to see her, my heart races to be near my Grace.

Yet I am afraid. I know not why. I wish I had spoken to Vaughn.

Bah! We will be there soon. And all will be well. Aye, all will be well. It must be.

***

We have found the place, we are sure: this is, our mounted policia guide tells us, Pier Eighty-Three in Brooklyn. We have spoken to a lad, from a craft named The Emperor Grable, who knows my ship, and his father knows Vaughn, and O’Gallows. This is the proper place, our destination on this endless, evil journey, where we would find our friends, and our way home.

But the Grace of Ireland is gone. My ship, and my friends, are gone. My home, my way, is gone.

All is lost.

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Log #57: On the Wagon

Log

September the 18th, in the year 2011

Oh, what a glory it is to ride! What a wonder is a wheel, and a wagon upon it. What a relief to recline upon a bench, and watch the world unfurl before you, the tapestry of time embroidered with the lives of men, in colors dyed and thread spun by the gods – or perhaps by the men themselves, who can say? As this lovely day’s travel has come to pass thanks to our chosen acts, I believe I will believe that men are the masters of their fates, and the weavers of the web of the world.

‘Tis remarkable, how the words flow, how the thoughts rise up in the mind, when one is not stumbling to sleep, footsore and exhausted. How easy it is to think and write when one has ridden all day, rather than marched mile after mile. My favorite object in this world is still my Grace – but methinks this wagon comes just behind her. I wonder if I should keep it, lash it to a line and float it behind; ’tis wooden, and ‘twould wade over waves. Though that does leave me caring for horses aboard, or else forcing my men to pull the wagon when ashore. Perhaps the latter, if I can find more crew. Ah! I recall now a conversation I had with Brother Bob, in the midst of one of our long slogs afoot, one which I had not the wherewithal to record at the end of that day, and do so now.

We were discussing my ship, and my need for crew. I had told him – and Lynch and MacManus, as well – of my intention to gain the Grace and make straight for Ireland, and home, regardless of the risk; at mention of this risk, the which I would not detail for him, not wishing to seem a madman with tales of ancient enemies and witchcraft and ships that sail somehow through Time itself, he inquired as to the opportunities presented by such a lovely craft as my Grace, for I have told him everything about her, in the hours we have spent staring at the road ahead and feeling every foot of the road behind. I told him that before I could pursue any alternate course, I would need more men; I can only pray that Vaughn and O’Gallows have not lost any more, for if so, we will hardly be able to steer her homeward, even without the threat of the Devil’s Lash and his dark shadow. But in these times, I do not know where to find the men; I do not think, first, that anyone knows the style of ship I sail, the tasks that keep and steer her, nor the commands that drive the crew as a single body, as these Americalish keep only boats that move as the Coast Guard’s iron ships, without sail, or at most a single-masted pinnace, barely more than a ship’s boat; in all our time on these shores, we have seen nothing else, nothing like my Grace. However, that is not so much of a much, as I would trust my ship and my crew to teach a good man the ins and outs of sailing after our manner: the question is, where to find good men, in this age, in this land? There’s the rub.

But it was to this point that Brother Bob had somewhat of a suggestion. He told me that there were many men – thousands of men – who had served their country in the Americalish armies, fighting abroad or guarding the borders of the nation against incursion. And though these thousands of men, these veterans, were purportedly venerated as their bravery and their honor deserved, still many and many a man found little chance of prosperity after turning his sword to a plowshare.

I understand this. There are thousands such in Ireland, as well, and more than a few in my own crew: men who served in the wars against the English, men who took up arms to guard their homes, only to see their homes burned, when all their efforts could not stop Devil Cromwell. And when the conquest of our home was completed, and there were no more left to fight, what could these men do? They had sought honor in battle, and had found only defeat; many of them felt there was no other chance to win honor anew, to wipe away the stains of past failure. Too, there were those who had won victories, here, there, even if only from a small skirmish – still, in Irish eyes, a victory in a skirmish, if it be a victory over the English, is an honor unmatched – and once their days of fighting for their homeland were ended, by injury of by the infirmity of age, what then could they do to recapture that glory? Aye, ’tis Achilles’s curse, living on through every fighting man, even to the world we find ourselves in this day. A man who seeks honor and glory in battle must choose: a short life and a proud one, or many years of humility. Such is the soldier’s way. Aye, and the pirate’s too, no doubt.

So I told Brother Bob, and commiserated with him over these poor lost souls, the which, I expect, count myself and my crew among their number – for a pirate knows his life will end atop the gallows or beneath the waves, and in short order, most like – and we understood one another. But Bob had a different thrust to his conversation: I could hire these men, he said, these veterans of foreign wars. Many of them retired from the fray in their youth, between 25 and 30 years of age – in truth, a good age for a sailor, especially if a man has grown accustomed to following orders and maintaining discipline. He told me there were places where such men gathered, sometimes informally, sometimes with a purpose, and that many of them were seeking employment they could not find, for the Americalish nation is beset by hard times, it seems. He avoided that subject, though; Brother Bob has opined several times over these last days that men should not talk of religion, nor of politics, if they seek to remain friends. I think back to Ireland, and the discussions in the taverns of just those two issues, and I think of the brawls and brouhaha that inevitably followed; I think perhaps Brother Bob is correct.

Should I, therefore, find myself aboard my ship and in need of men, I will seek out these veteran soldiers, and offer them employment as pirates. Though perhaps not in those words. But then, Squire McNally did say that pirates be somewhat beloved of the people, these days. Perhaps I will simply stride into a gathering place of soldier-men, in all my finery with my sword drawn, and ask them who wishes to join me pirate crew. I wonder: would there be any who would stand and say Aye?

Yes, Brother Bob has accompanied us well, these past days; offering pleasing conversations and excellent guidance, and unflagging cheer to help pass the miles on our poor benighted feet. That is, until this day. This day, he has not been a cheerful nor a pleasant companion. This day, he has been a shrew, and a bother.

It started simply enough: he asked me if I was a Christian. I commented that he was opening a discussion I thought he would rather avoid, and he replied – quite coldly – that such a rule only applied when one sought to remain friendly. At the which I could only laugh, and respond that I did not consider myself a Christian. He professed surprise at this, considering my race; it seems my people have won a reputation for devotion to the Church, over the years. I told him that I had been baptized, of course, and had taken the catechism, but that my knowledge of pure Christian men was too deep, too complete, for me to wish to count myself among their number. This silenced him for a time.

Then he took up his true thread, the which he had hoped to tease out using God as his needle: theft.

“All right, you aren’t a Christian, but do you believe in right and wrong? Do you know right from wrong, when you see it?”

“Of course I do,” I replied. We were lounging in the rear of the wagon while MacManus drove with Lynch beside; the countryside was beauteous, though we were fast approaching Philadelphia and so seeing the beginnings of the city’s stone, spread across the earth like the welts and sores of the plague or the pox. Well, and I was lounging; Brother Bob sat upright and rigid, as he has remained since we acquired the wagon. This, I assumed, was the center of his thought, and I was right.

“Then don’t you know that stealing this wagon was wrong? You stole it from Amish men, too – the most harmless people in the world, sworn not to commit any violent act, even in defense of themselves!”

At this intelligence, I exchanged a glance with MacManus; we would remember this in future: the Amish are easy prey, though likely not rich prizes, for the very same reason. “Well, Brother,” I began, as my comfortable feet made me wish to wax rhetorical, “I do see that, and then again, I do not. On the one hand, the men we left afoot, who had been riding previous to meeting us, they are now likely unhappy. Causing misery is indeed wrong, and I do regret that. But then again, if they are so miserable, there are a thousand means whereby they can find joy anew, and if they fail to see even one such way back to pleasure, then I can hardly consider myself responsible for their blindness. I did cause some misery, but not so very much, and the wrong, methinks, is commensurate with the misery – not so very much.

“And then there is the other hand: by that very same act, I made myself, and at least two of my companions, most assuredly happy. Our feet are singing my praises, at this very moment.” Lynch and MacManus laughed with me, at this, though I spoke naught but the truth. “This, then, by the same logic, would be a righteous act – and is not the key to a good life, Brother, simply maintaining the balance, creating good to set against ills?”

“But you stole! It doesn’t matter if it makes you happy, you had no right to this wagon and those horses! You took them by force!”

“I did no such thing. I offered the men aboard this wagon a choice, and they chose. Not one drop of blood was spilled in the taking of this wagon.”

“You pointed a gun at them, or he did, at your order,” Brother Bob said, indicating MacManus, who touched his brow in salute, to acknowledge his part in the acquisition of the wagon (the which he knew earned him only honor from his shipmates, for whom the argument largely stopped where I had placed it, on the line of ‘This act made me and my brethren happy, and therefore is it good.’ A simple life, is the life of a pirate. Alas for Brother Bob.) “You threatened them with violence, and used that threat to take their lawful property. How can that be anything but wrong?”

“Look, Brother: do you believe those two boys –” for the men aboard this wagon when we waylaid it were but youths, no more than a few years above Lynch, and far wetter behind their ears than my man – “those boys were the true owners of this wagon and team? Of course not. It belongs to their father. He gave them permission to use it, and the horses, as well. So those two boys did not shape the wagon, nor raise the team that drew it; they did not earn the wealth to buy it. Their ownership of it came only of possession, and as the result of a choice, a free choice made by a free man, weighing in either hand the benefits and the costs of his choice. Their father knew that giving his boys the wagon would lose him its use for a time, and too, it might – depending on how worthy those boys are – present some risk; perhaps they would drive too fast, and lame the horses, or lose the road and break a wheel, as boys are wont to do. Perhaps they would forget their given task, if the wagon were put into their hands to do a piece of work for the father, which I think likely, and they would wander the roads, costing the father hours or days of lost work, both from his wagon and from his sons. But despite those risks, that father chose to lend his wagon. By so doing, he gave up possession, and thus ownership of it, into the hands of his sons – though of course, he could expect to receive his wagon back from them, assuming they did not ruin it in the meantime through ill use.

“All I did, Brother, was offer those two boys – now the owners of that wagon – another choice. They weighed the costs and the profits of that choice, and they chose. They gave us their wagon, the which we now own, and gratefully so. That was the more profitable course for them, and they knew it, and chose it wisely – which would, one hopes, ameliorate their misery resulting from the loss of ownership of this fine wagon, and the resultant footaches, and the possible heartaches that may come from telling their father of what happened. But then, again, I would expect their father would be happiest that his sons were not harmed, nor yet the horses, if he is a man who cares for his beasts as a farmer should. Thus the misery is again alleviated.

“So I ask you, Brother,” I drew to a close, waving my arms grandly, “where is the wrong in this? I am joyed by the new ownership of this fine wagon and team, and the former owners are joyed by their continued good health. All is well.”

This argument did not appease Brother Bob. Though again, as yesterday, he did not leave our company, and he did not alert la policia to our presence. I think he does not want to see us hang as thieves, and he takes me at my word that he will be allowed to take the wagon and team back to these peace-loving Dutchmen (So unlike the Dutchmen of my own time) when we have reached the Grace. And my sophistry, as well as my desire to keep and float this fine conveyance, put aside, he is right to believe this, for it is only the truth. Brother Bob will not join my crew, and allowing him to right the wrong he believes we have committed, and offering those Amish boys their property back again, will but spread more joy in this world of sorrow and darkness. Therefore it is good, says I.

So say we all.

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Log #56: Poe and Pennsylvania Dutch

Log

10 September 2011

We have hiked many miles today, perhaps ten or twelve as the crow flies and half again as many around curves and over hills, before MacManus’s leg gave out. Brave man, to make that distance without complaint. The roads are as magnificent as all Americalish roads I have seen, which serves to make the miles slip by with greater ease than would the same distance on what passes for Irish roads, all mud and sharp stones.

Brother Bob was of the belief that we should not be on foot at all this day; we followed a wide black-stoned road, the which he said was an inter-state highway, and for much of it, Bob walked with his hand outthrust, with fist clenched and thumb prominently upraised. He called this “hitching a ride,” and claimed that beast-wagons would stop for us to embark and travel in speed and comfort within their steel bellies.

But the miles and the sun crossing the sky proved him wrong. Thousands of beast-wagons – perhaps ten thousands – passed us by, and nary a one slowed. My mates and I were unsurprised, as we do not share Brother Bob’s unflagging faith in the goodness of life, and of our fellow men

Ah, well. Tomorrow is another day. Who can say what Providence has in store? Perhaps we will hitch a ride. And if not – another fifteen miles toward our goal.

 

11 September 2011

This day was, it seems, a sad day for America; ’twas the tenth year passed since a terrible attack slaughtered thousands in a single day. Hearing of this put me in mind of Drogheda, and my mother and her kin who suffered so at the hands of Devil Cromwell and his Puritan savages – savages like my father. Brother Bob was most solemn this day. We had made camp on a soft green sward some few hundred paces away from the highway, beyond a hedgerow; when we woke with the dawn, we found that we lay within sight of a graveyard, which had been impossible to discern in the dim light of the night before. We Irish were confused that no church nor kirk stood guard over the graves, but we did not pose our curiosity to Bob: he had already bowed his head and was praying, facing a tall pole that bore the flag of this nation – a field of white and crimson stripes with a starred blue field atop it, in colors derived from the British flag, it seems. When Bob finished his prayer, he told us that the day was one of mourning for his nation, and as we broke our fast and began our journey once more, he told us of the attack: it seems the enemy stole air-planes, the same sort that Meredith Vance pilots, and drove them into buildings filled with people. There were great explosions – I must assume the air-planes were armed, and the collision struck off the powder rooms – and the buildings collapsed, like Jericho’s walls at Joshua’s trump, thus ending thousands of lives. These air-planes are a terrible weapon, it would seem. Now I imagine them as ships-of-the-line, but borne on the wind, rather than on the waves. It shudders me to imagine one such stooping down on my Grace from above, a falcon o’er a mere mouse, talons stretched and reaching, and a death-cry tearing from its throat. Terrible.

Though a sad day for this nation, it was a happier day for us: a man stopped and hitched us a ride. We made as many miles today in the back of his beast-wagon (And this one was properly wagon-shaped, with a covered bench in front and a high-sided bed behind for carrying goods) as we did all of yesterday, and he carried us for but half an hour or so. A kind man, he sat on the covered bench with Brother Bob while we three scalawags rode behind, the wind of our passing forcing us to silence, which merely allowed us to appreciate the sights of the countryside. It is a lovely land, here, green and verdant as home. I find the roads to be somewhat of an imposition on the greenery, though perhaps that is simply that I am unused to seeing their broad black expanse, far more apparent to the eyes than a dirt track would be. The driver, Bob told us later, was a veteran of an Americalish war, as Brother Bob himself was; that was the reason for the man’s stopping to retrieve us on this day, a day when, Bob said, people of America come together to help and succour one another. A happy outcome of an old tragedy. Would that the Irish had the same spirit, but our divisions go back through far too many centuries for the suffering caused by Cromwell to heal it. I find myself admiring these Americalish their patriot’s hearts.

Our kind Americalish patriot took us into the city of Baltimore, another of the great cities of this nation. I would write of its wonders, but what can I say that I have not said of Washington? Baltimore is large. It has too many buildings, and too many people. There are not enough trees. All the land, all the life, is crushed under stone and metal and glass and the feet of men. The ocean is near enough to smell on the air, but the smell is blocked by the stink of the city’s beast-wagons. Though I will freely admit that the scent of these Americalish cities is far kinder to the nose than London-town, which smells of nothing but sewage and rotting waste, for many and many a mile. The beast-wagons, as bad as their effluvia is, are better than that.

We have found lodging as we found it the night before we left Washington: in a hostel, what would be called a hospital, a place for sheltering the indigent and desperate, supervised by a religious order. We have offered our labor, and were rewarded with a meal and a place to sleep, the which we now mean to enjoy.

 

12th September

We have walked out of Baltimore and back into the countryside today, and I am happy to say it. I do not like these cities. So many people should not exist in one place. I felt the same of London, when I visited – I could not depart fast enough. Even the fields and forests and mountains of this land feel the footsteps of more people than I would wish, but then they are not my fields, nor my people. I do wish them joy of their land and their prodigious legions of fellows. I only want to return to my ship.

Brother Bob made me a present this day. During our passage through Baltimore, we saw many and many a sign or a graven image, a statue or a shop, which made reference to someone named Poe; when I inquired of Bob as to this Poe and his great fame in the city of Baltimore, Bob was shocked to hear that I had no knowledge of him. He bought me a book, filled with poems by Edgar Allan Poe. I mean to read myself to sleep this night, and I am pleased by it.

 

Later

I understand now why this Poe is so revered in the city of his birth. What brilliance! I have not known the like, not since the great poems of old, the ones my mother told me, and my uncles sang to me at night, under Irish stars. But this – here, I will copy it here.

 

From childhood’s hour I have not been

As others were; I have not seen

As others saw; I could not bring

My passions from a common spring.

From the same source I have not taken

My sorrow; I could not awaken

My heart to joy at the same tone;

And all I loved, I loved alone.

Then- in my childhood, in the dawn

Of a most stormy life- was drawn

From every depth of good and ill

The mystery which binds me still:

From the torrent, or the fountain,

From the red cliff of the mountain,

From the sun that round me rolled

In its autumn tint of gold,

From the lightning in the sky

As it passed me flying by,

From the thunder and the storm,

And the cloud that took the form

(When the rest of Heaven was blue)

Of a demon in my view.

 

This man has known what I see when I look out on this land. Indeed, when I think on it, I may very well have felt this for the whole of my life. Gods. And it is titled “Alone.” Aye. Aye, ’tis the gods’ own truth, it is.

I wonder if this Poe was a man out of his own time, as am I. Perhaps if not one in fact, he was such in spirit. I would pity him, if he were not already in the peace of the grave, and myself still alive to suffer here.

I must read more.

 

13th September

I slept but little, this past night, and we walked many miles today – still no rides hitched to us. I must sleep.

 

14th September

No rides. More miles. Nothing to report. I am weary.

 

15th September

We have reached the outskirts of yet another city – Wilmington, this one is called, in the land of Delaware. Sweet mother of Christ, how bloody many of these Americalish are there? Where do they get the food to sustain these people? We have passed through farmland, for most of the miles that have not been drowned in buildings and cities and people – but surely they could not grow sufficient wheat for this many. Millions. Brother Bob said there are millions along this coast, what he calls the East Coast – which only tells me this land has a West Coast, perhaps with millions more. Damn me, there are not enough fish in the sea to feed this many. This is the entire world, in but one land!

I found myself growing desperate for something that is familiar, something from home. I would speak to my traveling companions, but I fear we have spent too long in each others’ pockets, and too many miles have rubbed us raw against one another. Our tempers are short, and the very sound of our voices sure to set them aflame, regardless of what is said. So I could not ask them to ease my home-sickness, nor keep fond company with me – and Brother Bob, of course, though his cheer is unfailing (and all the more irritating for that, as our spirits have descended), does not make me feel of home. So as the sun touched the horizon and we called a stop to this day’s slog, I used a telephone Lynch spotted for me to call the number that connects me to the Grace. It took several attempts, spread over the next hour or two, while we earned our night’s lodging in yet another shelter (I am correct: there are simply too many people here. The land cannot sustain them all, and some must rely on the charity of others to survive. Why have they not realized this? The answer, after all, is simple: they must leave. Take up sail, take up service in the army of one nation or another – go out and seek fortune in this wide world. Find a place where there are fewer people, who thus have more to eat. It is foolish to stay somewhere you must live like these people live. But then, I have ever thought the same when I do see beggars on the streets of cities who are neither halt nor lame nor plagued. I simply extend this query to people who must live in this place, with so many, many neighbors.), but at last, a voice answered, and when I requested Llewellyn Vaughn, soon brought that fine man to speak with me.

My heart was eased almost at once, though Vaughn’s tidings soon brought some worry back to my poor belabored mind. At the first, I confided in my friend that the miles and miles of people and people were wearing on me heavily; he quickly confirmed that the same darkness was gathering about the hearts of the men on board; New York, he told me, was larger and more populous than any place he would dare to imagine – it sounds of Washington, again. How can this be? How can there be two such cities in one land, a mere few hundreds of miles separated one from the other? With Baltimore, and Wilmington, in between, and who knows how many more?

We then moved on to happier tidings: the ship has been repaired, as the men found a source of wealth which bought them materials and men to apply them. They stand ready to sail, the very minute that we three do arrive. Ah! I am ready to be there now. My feet ache to stand on her boards, my eyes ache to see her lines. My heart aches for my Grace.

At the end, Vaughn did tell me that he was beginning to grow uneasy: the money they had was largely spent on the repairs and on reprovisioning for the voyage; their daily upkeep, though it was largely defrayed by the kindness shown them by their piermates – it seems my men have done some good turns for the ships docked alongside the Grace, and have received friendship and assistance in return – it will begin to grow too dear. I was right: there are not enough fish in the ocean for all of these people, and my men cannot draw any food from the waves, not without going for a cruise – and our experiences at sea have shown that this is no small matter. Vaughn and Ian do not want to weigh anchor without my presence; and so they wait; but Vaughn urged me to all haste in our trek.

We must move faster. For my men, and for our own sanity. MacManus and Lynch have just nearly come to blows over which should have the bunk closest to the door – Lynch claiming he was the more alert, with better hearing and faster reflexes, and MacManus opining that Lynch could do naught but awaken a better man to defend us, should any hazard approach; ’twas then that I set down my pen and separated the two, pointing out that there was potential danger all around, and we would all have to be alert and ready to defend, and then forcing a concession from Shane as to Lynch’s value in a fight, the which he grudgingly gave with a sigh and a curse. My ship needs me, and we all need her.

We must move faster.

 

17th September

Ha! Now we will move faster.

We left Wilmington and soon crossed into the land of Pennsylvania. Lovely countryside, it was thereabouts; farmland and field, woods and rivers – beautiful and green and alive. Most refreshing to be away from so much city – though Brother Bob tells us we will soon reach yet another great city, of a size proportionate to Washington and New York, called Philadelphia; my men and I can only shake our heads and wonder. City of Brotherly Love, is the meaning of that name in the Latin; methinks there is too much brotherly love in this land, and too many brothers.

But before we reached that place of stone and metal and men, we passed by some farms that sent our hearts winging back to our home: for we saw men swinging scythes, and women in bonnets, and horses drawing plows, and not a beast-wagon anywhere about. We expressed wonder to Brother Bob, who told us that we were then passing through Amish country: the Pennsylvania Dutch, he called them, though apparently there are several different such groups hereabouts, and he was not sure which these were. Still: these are people who have kept to the old ways, and done themselves and their land honor thereby.

More importantly, for our needs, these people use a conveyance with which my men and I are very familiar. They drive wagons – wooden wagons, drawn by actual horses. And when stopped on the road by a kindly hail, and then threatened with pistolas drawn, they do not fight back. Hah! ‘Twas the simplest highwayman’s work imaginable – the two young men, little more than Lynch’s age, slowed as they came near, and stopped when we hailed them; I saw our chance, and so I stepped up, took hold of the reins of their team, and shouted out to my men, who were quick to draw their weapons – and that was that. No resistance at all, simply a bit of Christian disapproval of our actions, a sentiment heartily and repeatedly echoed by Brother Bob, who, I fear, did not realize he was in the company of pirates. But his scruples bother me not at all: I am a pirate. I did need a means of travel faster and easier than my own feet, which have worn through the shoes I purchased in Charleston. They had such means; I took it. I have told Brother Bob that he may leave us at any time, or he may accompany us to the end of our road, at which point he may take this wagon and team back to their owners, if such is his will; I will have no more need of them, once we reach my ship. He has begrudgingly accepted this plan. I have given MacManus orders to keep an eye on him, between now and then. If he causes trouble, he will find himself afoot, and lucky if he is not stripped and bound first. I do not wish for that; I am fond of Brother Bob, who is a fine and kind man and a good road companion. But nothing will keep me from my ship.

Now, thanks to the Amish, we have a wagon, and a fine matched team to draw them. Now we will see how quickly we can reach New York.

I only hope there will not be too many cities between here and there.

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