THE DOOMSMAN (23)
By:
August 7, 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 RED LIGHT IN THE NORTH
It had been Constans’s original plan to cross the river some miles above Croye, and so avoid attracting the attention of the Doomsmen should any of their parties be afield. The expedition would then move cautiously down the east bank in the hope of surprising the guard at the High Bridge, and so gain entrance to the city. But Piers Major, at the council of war that first evening, brought about a reconsideration.
“Against the citadel,” he said, shrewdly, “we should rather choose to direct an unexpected blow. The bridge may be carried by a rush, but not so the stone walls that guard the heart of Doom. In that assault a man’s life must be paid for each rung gained on the scaling-ladders. We have no batteries with which to hammer at the gate-hinges, and as for a siege — well, it is weary work starving out rats whose fortress is a granary in itself. Let us move, indeed, but cautiously, prudently.
“Splendor of God!” shouted Red Oxenford, and he sprang to his feet. A man of full habit and ruddy face he had been in his day, but since the death of the young Alexa he seemed to have aged and whitened visibly. His eyes were bright, as though with fever, and he went on with growing vehemence:
“Are we, then, chapmen of Croye, calling to collect an overdue account — prepared to sit down in humble expectancy at Dom Gillian’s door until it may pleasure him to open it? Caution, expediency! he is no friend to Oxenford who would utter such words as these.”
But Piers Major was not to be daunted. He put his hands on the shoulders of the angry man and forced him backward into his seat.
“Nay, but you have not heard me out,” continued Piers Major. “It is a debt, indeed, for which we are pressing payment — only one of blood rather than of gold. All the more reason, then, that the settlement should be in full and the cost of collection kept small. Now, Dom Gillian has shut his door in our faces, and it is a strong one. If we so elect we may butt out our brains against it, and be none the better off.
“A fortress and a woman, there is always more than one way in which they may be taken. Let us find that back door, and some of us may quietly enter there while the others are parleying at the front. Once within the walls, the fire-sticks should quickly clear the house for us.”
“Ay, man,” broke in Oxenford, impatiently, “but all this is words, not deeds. What can we do so that Dom Gillian hangs from his own door-post before a second rising of the sun?”
“I propose, then,” answered Piers Major, “that the score of men who are armed with the new weapons shall take boat down the river and make a landing to the south of the Citadel Square, remaining in hiding until the rising of the moon to-morrow night. The main body will force the High Bridge at the coming dawn, and should be able to drive the Doomsmen to cover within the next twelve hours. Then the frontal attack in force and the gun-fire from behind. If they follow each other at the proper interval, our victory is assured.”
“It is your idea that I should go with the flanking-party?” asked Constans.
“Naturally, since you alone know the city. We can reach the Citadel Square from our side without difficulty, for it is a simple matter of hewing our way thither. But with your party it must be the progress of the snake through the grass.”
Without further parley the plan proposed was adopted. Piers Major would command the main body in person — about one hundred and fifty men in all. Constans selected Piers Minor, son of Piers Major, as his lieutenant, and, somewhat to his surprise, Oxenford elected to join the smaller command. “It is the better chance,” he explained, grimly, “for my getting a face-to-face look at the old, gray wolf.”
Fortunately, the question of transportation for the river party was quickly settled. One of Messer Hugolin’s flat-boats, coming down from the upper river with a cargo of hides, had anchored for the night a half-mile up-stream; it was an easy matter to impress crew and vessel into service. The hides were tossed ashore, and by midnight the expedition was ready to start. The scow was fitted with two masts, carrying square sails, and, as the wind was directly astern and blowing strongly, the clumsy craft swept away from her moorings with imposing animation, leaving a full half-acre of bubbles to mark her wake.
“For the third time,” said Constans to himself as he sat in the bow with his back to the squat foremast and watched the river flowing darkly by. Twice now had he measured strength with Doom the Forbidden, and twice had the battle been drawn, the issue left undecided. This time one or the other must fall.
The long night wore away, and presently the sky was streaked with the pink and saffron of the coming dawn. A landing was made without difficulty, and Constans was soon leading his little band through the rubbish-encumbered thoroughfares to the appointed station. The men marched along in sulky silence, for their night’s rest on the open boat-deck had been an uncomfortable one, and they wanted their breakfast.
Constans had determined to make use of his old quarters in the “Flat-iron” building, on the south side of the Citadel Square, and his relief was great when the last man passed within the shelter of its walls. Once mustered in one of the large rooms on the fourth floor, the haversacks and canteens were quickly requisitioned, and the men feasted gloriously upon oat-cake and cold coffee, brewed from parched grain, with a pipe for dessert. After this agreeable interlude, there was nothing to do but to wait, and the majority curled themselves up in some convenient corner and resumed their interrupted slumbers. Constans posted himself at a window overlooking the square, with the intention of keeping close watch on all that passed below. But, in spite of all his efforts, Nature insisted upon her rights, and he, too, slept.
Over at Arcadia House, Nanna, being wakeful with the torture of an aching tooth, happened to glance through the north windows of the room occupied by the sisters and saw a dull-red glow on the horizon — a conflagration. She aroused Esmay, and the two girls watched it, wondering.
“It is in the direction of the High Bridge,” said Esmay, and Nanna nodded acquiescence. “And it is the morning of the third day,” continued Esmay, and Nanna nodded again.
The fire was a long way off, low down on the northern sky-line. But every now and then a crimson streamer would leap upward almost to the zenith, showing how great and vehement the conflagration must be. As the two girls stood watching it, they heard a window flung up sharply, and Quinton Edge’s voice calling to Old Kurt and bidding him saddle a horse with all speed.
Nanna’s eyes glowed. “It is something big,” she said, excitedly, and began scrambling into her masculine attire. “Something that is worth our while to know all about,” she continued.
“But, Nanna——” began Esmay, doubtfully.
“Do you suppose that our master is going out to pick flowers? Help me with this buckle, little sister, and talk not so foolishly.”
And forthwith Esmay submitted to this new Nanna in doublet and small-clothes, who spoke with authority and took such tremendously long strides. If great events were really at hand, it were well to be forewarned, and Nanna, thanks to the dash of wild-folk blood in her veins, would be both hawk and hound upon such a trail. So Esmay contented herself with an admonition to caution, and helped the impatient one to depart, stealing down with her into the great hall, in order to rebolt the outer door. She feared lest she might meet Quinton Edge as she remounted the stairs and flew along the corridor to her room, but she regained its shelter undisturbed. It had been many weeks now since the master had returned, but Esmay had only seen him at a distance, walking for hours at a time in the garden. Strange, that seemingly he should have forgotten her very existence, but neither sign nor message had come to her. Even his larger plans had apparently been laid aside; not once had he left the boundaries of Arcadia House, except for the weekly council meeting at the Citadel Square. But perhaps, again, this was the crisis for which he had been waiting; even as she meditated she heard his step in the hallway and his knock at her door; then it opened, and Quinton Edge stood before her.
He did not appear to notice Nanna’s absence, but crossed over to the window where Esmay stood. “Come,” he said, and Esmay obeyed, being yet faint with terror lest his hands should touch her. And this he must have guessed, for he drew aside and passed out first, motioning her to follow. The door leading to his apartments stood open. Esmay hesitated.
“Yes,” said Quinton Edge, and the girl turned and searched his face. She did not understand what she saw there, yet it contented her, and she crossed the threshold. Quinton Edge followed, reappearing almost immediately and carefully locking the door behind him. He descended the stairs and passed out to the eastern portico, where his horse should have been in waiting. It was not there, and Quinton Edge grew angry. “Kurt!” he called, once and twice and thrice. Then at last the delinquent appeared. The sullenness of sleep was still upon him, and when his master would have reproved him for his tardiness he answered back insolently.
“Enough!” said Quinton Edge, and struck him across the mouth with his riding-whip. Then vaulting into the saddle, he spurred through the gateway, riding hard for the northwest.
Old Kurt gazed after his master. “Thirty lashes at Middenmass,” he muttered, “and now this — this——”
Three hours later a boyish figure scaled the wall and dropped into the sunken way. Fangs, who was sunning herself on the terrace, looked up with white teeth bared, then rose, wagging her tail in friendly greeting. But Nanna, with a hasty word to the dog, entered the house and ran up to Esmay’s room. Great news indeed! But where was the child? Nanna stood stock-still, gazing stupidly around the empty room. “Esmay,” she murmured, in a half-whisper, and passed out into the corridor. She went straight to the door leading to Quinton Edge’s apartments. A tiny hair-pin of tortoise-shell lay on the floor. Nanna picked it up with a sob and regarded it fixedly. She knocked twice upon the door, but there was no response. She tried her strength against it, and shook her head. Nothing could be done here. She went down-stairs, and looked to see if the key of the wicket gate was hanging in its accustomed place behind the master’s leather chair. It was there; she took it and let herself into the street. There was only Fangs, the great, black bitch, to watch her go, the dog whining and leaping upon the wicket gate as it swung back into place.
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.