THE DOOMSMAN (17)
By:
July 9, 2024
Set ninety years after the cataclysmic pandemic of 1925, Van Tassel Sutphen’s The Doomsman imagines a Kamandi-like future in which medievalized American tribes struggle with the marauding Doomsmen for control of the ruins of New York City… where a mad priest worships a powerful technology. HiLoBooks is pleased to serialize this 1905–1906 proto-sf novel for HILOBROW’s readers.
ALL INSTALLMENTS: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30.
THE AWAKENING
Constans climbed to his observatory on the roof of the “Flat-iron” as usual that next morning. It was a fine, bright day and so clear that he could see for miles without the use of his glass. And there was something to see — far away to the north he discovered a thin thread of smoke that must mark the spot of a newly extinguished camp-fire. At last the raiders were back from the Southland; they would be within the city boundaries by this time and should arrive at the Citadel Square by noon at the latest.
Glancing down into the fortress he saw that already tidings of the return must have been received. Torch signals had probably been sent during the night from the High Bridge announcing the fact of the arrival, and now all was bustle and excitement.
It was a colorful and inspiriting scene — soldiers engaged in polishing their accoutrements or clouting up hitherto neglected rents in cloak or tunic; musicians tuning their simple instruments; negro slaves grooming horses; women busy over saucepans that bubbled upon extemporized furnaces of piled-up bricks; children and dogs on all sides, chattering, squealing, under everybody’s feet, alternately and impartially cuffed and caressed. An air of joyous expectancy lightened every face, for now the long months of waiting and of anxiety were past; the outriders of Doom had returned from the Southland with goodly store of corn and wine and of fat beeves for future feasting. It was, indeed, chilled and aged blood that did not run the faster on this day of days.
Outside of the White Tower stood a groom, holding the bridle of a horse whose housings were of the most gorgeous description, a blaze of crimson cloth and gold thread. The owner’s spear, with its pennon of embroidered silk, stood close at hand, its iron-shod shaft wedged tightly into a convenient crack in the pavement. Upon the banneret, Constans, with his glass, made out the symbol used by Quinton Edge, a raven in mid-air bearing a skull in his beak. Evidently he was to command the guard of honor who would escort the returned warriors down the Palace Road, and the hour must be close at hand. A few moments later and Quinton Edge himself appeared, issuing forth from the White Tower. A splendidly gorgeous figure he presented, for over his close-fitting suit of claret cloth he wore a surcoat of white velvet ornamented with gold lace and buttons of amethyst. His hat of soft felt was decorated with a white ostrich-plume, exquisitely curled and secured by a jewelled clasp, and in his left hand he carried an ivory truncheon tipped with gold, the emblem, doubtless, of his high position in the councils of the Doomsmen. Apparently he was in good-humor this morning; he chatted animatedly with those nearest to him, and once or twice he even laughed aloud.
A trumpet sounded, and, without much pretence at military smartness, the escorting party scrambled into their saddles and the cavalcade moved forward through the north gate and up the Palace Road. By noon at the latest they should return, and preparations immediately began for the feast that was to be given in honor of the long-absent warriors now happily restored to the society of their families and friends. A score or more of wine-casks were rolled out from the public stores and made ready for broaching. In the centre of the square the board flooring had been removed from a huge circular pit that measured twenty feet across by six or eight in depth; it was lined and bottomed with flat paving-stones. A fire of hard-wood had been burning in it for hours, the preliminary to a gigantic barbecue of fat oxen. Upon the open space in front of the guard-huts, slaves were erecting long trestle-tables to serve as the banqueting-board. The day had turned so warm that there would be no discomfort in dining out-of-doors, for all that the date was March 22d and the last snow-fall still lay a foot or more in depth in the side streets. The square itself had been thoroughly cleaned, or it would have been a veritable sea of slush. Astonishing! but as the sun’s rays became more and more inclined to the vertical, it became apparent that the day would not only be warm but actually hot.
Constans had grown tired of making his observations at long range; he resolved to descend and mingle boldly with the people in the square. He had only Quinton Edge to fear, and it should be easy to keep out of his way. Moreover, this was a golden chance for him to pick up some intimate information about the defences of the Citadel Square.
Carefully adjusting the details of his ecclesiastical costume, Constans prepared to descend. His last act was to cast a perfunctory glance in the direction of Arcadia House, and it seemed that his eye caught the flutter of something white. He raised the binoculars — it was true, the signal was there, a handkerchief tied to the lattice-blind of the cupola window.
Constans frowned and reflected. It was only last night that the girl had asserted her entire ability to look after herself — it was like a woman to be so soon of another mind. And there was Ulick — Ulick who would have shed the last drop in his veins to serve her. Yet she would have none of him, and she had deliberately tied Constans’s hands in exacting the promise that he should not reveal her whereabouts to the man who of all things desired to serve her. There could be no reasoning with this wilful young person; she would have her way in spite of all the masculine logic in the world, and he realized the fact with a growing resentment.
Yet there was his promise and it must be kept. He would go again to Arcadia House sometime during the afternoon or evening, for the matter was not one of absolute urgency. In the latter case two signals would have been displayed, and there was but the one. So, dismissing the matter from mind for the present, he made his way to the street and joined with the crowd that was continually passing in and out of the north gate.
With an air of easy unconcern, he directed his steps towards the entrance. A harsh croak greeted him, and he recognized the crippled sailor who called himself Kurt the Knacker. He glanced up to see that worthy ensconced in a snug corner of the gateway and surrounded by his accustomed cronies the warders on duty. Plainly, there had been more than one replenishing of the black-jack that stood on the settle beside him, for his face was flushed and the purple veins in his high, bald forehead presented an inordinately swollen appearance.
“Hola! shipmet,” said the Knacker, in a tone that was doubtless intended to be affable. “It is to be a brave show to-day and you are come in good time to see it. Seven thunders! but one always sees the black-jackets flocking thick as flies in a pudding when the smell of the saucepan is in the air. Your master yonder was of too proud a stomach to clink can with us, but you will be more amiable. There’s a fresh cask on the trestles and not a token to pay.”
Constans, following the direction in which a stubby forefinger pointed, caught sight of the tall form of Prosper, the priest. He was moving slowly along in the press and only a few yards away. Now Constans had no desire for a meeting with his ecclesiastical superior; so, without troubling himself to reply to the Knacker’s hospitable invitation, he tried to edge forward and again seek concealment in the crowd. But Kurt reached out and caught his sleeve. “No skulking, reverend sir,” he said, maliciously. “Which shall it be, a swig from my black-jack or a full toss of the horn? For drink you must, if you would enter here.”
One of the guardsmen held out a full ox-horn of wine, and the Knacker seized it and forced it into Constans’s hand.
“After all, the good malt is for stronger stomachs; wine is the tipple for women, boys, and priests. Down with it right cheerfully or take a sousing in the butt itself — to drown there or drink it dry.”
It was not a prudent thing to do, but Constans was angry. Seizing the ox-horn, he dashed its contents full in his tormentor’s face, and Kurt, the Knacker, half strangled, fell back coughing and breathing stertorously. It was a critical moment, but luckily the temper of the by-standers was in mood to be amused. A great roar of laughter went up, and under cover of it Constans managed to push his way on through the crowd and so reach the open square. Stepping into one of the empty guard-huts he quickly divested himself of cowl and cassock, and rolling them up into a bundle he tossed them into a dark corner. His under suit was made of the ordinary gray frieze worn generally among the Doomsmen, and now neither Prosper nor the witnesses of the fracas at the gate would be likely to identify him.
Constans gazed about him with lively interest. Yet so accurate had been his previous bird’s-eye observations that he found but little to add to them. He noticed, however, that a banquette of earth, rammed hard, ran around the inside periphery of the walls, affording vantage for the defenders to discharge their arrows and other missiles over the parapet. But, as Constans quickly saw, this same terrace would give useful foothold to the besiegers should once the top of the wall be gained. Instead of being obliged to draw up their scaling-ladders, or risk the sixteen-foot drop to the hard surface of the enclosure, they had only to jump onto the banquette and from thence to the ground. He would have liked to investigate what engines of defence could be brought into service by the garrison, but there was nothing to be seen beyond two machines, sadly out of repair, which were intended for the casting of heavy stones through the force of twisted ropes. So Constans turned his attention again to the scene before him.
A gang of carpenters were putting the finishing-touches to an elevated platform which stood near the entrance to the White Tower. A crimson canopy warded off the sun’s rays, and the structure was probably intended for the accommodation of the more distinguished guests. A large chair stood in the centre of the dais, and over it a gray wolf-skin had been draped; certainly this must be the official seat of Dom Gillian himself. But as yet it stood empty.
How hot the sun was! And yet this was only the day of the vernal equinox; it was most extraordinary. Everywhere the gutters ran streaming with water, the snow melting under the unexampled heat of the solar rays like wax in a candle flame. The trees growing in the square were leafless, and the tropic sun’s rays blazed mercilessly through their naked branches. Constans found himself panting for breath.
As the hours dragged on Constans felt a vague uneasiness pressing down upon him, and he could see that the people also were growing restless under the unaccountable delay. The laughter and talk little by little died away; men stood in silent groups staring through the open gate, up the long avenue of the Palace Road, shading their bent brows under their hollowed hands. Would they never come!
With noon a small diversion offered. Four negro slaves carrying a litter issued from the door of the White Tower. There was no mistaking that great head with its mane of coarse, white hair — the old Dom Gillian. With infinite difficulty the attendants succeeded in hoisting the unwieldy bulk upon the platform, and so into the great chair. The people looked on in silence; not a murmur of applause greeted the appearance of their lord. And with equal indifference did Dom Gillian regard his people; plainly he was wearied, for his hands rested heavily upon the arms of his chair, and he neither spoke nor moved. A slave stood on either hand wielding a fan; presently the gaunt figure seemed to collapse into a heap, the eyes closed, and Dom Gillian slept.
Again the slow hours dragged along. The sun had already passed the zenith, the barbecue-fires were dying out, on the western sky-line rested a cloud in bigness like to a man’s hand and of the blackness of night itself. Would they never come!
Far down the vista of the Palace Road a black dot stood out against the snowy background. A moment later it had resolved itself into the figure of a horse and his rider. The man was riding fast, heedless of the slippery, dangerous footing; now he was at the gate and the crowd pressed back to give him room. On and on, with the red drops falling from his spurs, until he drew rein at the very steps of the platform. And no man durst speak or move as Quinton Edge flung himself from the saddle and ascended to where the Lord Keeper of Doom still slept placidly in his great chair with the wolf-skin upon his knees.
RADIUM AGE PROTO-SF: “Radium Age” is Josh Glenn’s name for the nascent sf genre’s c. 1900–1935 era, a period which saw the discovery of radioactivity, i.e., the revelation that matter itself is constantly in movement — a fitting metaphor for the first decades of the 20th century, during which old scientific, religious, political, and social certainties were shattered. More info here.
SERIALIZED BY HILOBOOKS: James Parker’s Cocky the Fox | Annalee Newitz’s “The Great Oxygen Race” | Matthew Battles’s “Imago” | & many more original and reissued novels and stories.