Fantasy Some Folks

[Elephantom]

Florida
1891​

He looked back at the shrinking silhouette of the steamboat as it drove into the maw of the horizon, the black drop stark against the orange of the sun, fading slowly into the far between, and towards distant lands. His homeland was far away, he realized, more than he'd thought it would be. He wondered what his sister, the only living family he knew and regarded, was thinking. Was it disappointment, that he'd left her for some bizarre treasure? Sadness? Definitely not sadness. They liked each other, but not that much. Besides, she had the means to live by herself.

Why did he abandon her, dear sister, on those accounts? For dreams, pride, greed? Some of them, surely. It was made all the more painful because he was aware of it. He knew his vices, understood them better than anyone, and still he indulged freely. Why? A man has to have some drive in this world, he told himself, and the pursuit of sin and worldly interests was his. This air of tragedy, poorly received and disdained, was thick in the air; he knew it, thus he revered it.

Li Han was an arrogant fool, with his self-satisfying stubbornness, since birth; whatever he wanted, he got, and whatever he didn't, though which he found rare or valuable, he got. The merchant found pleasure in distinguishing between turgid desire and trophy hunting. His designations to both, however, were of a similar vein— achieve, revel, abandon. It was a measure of his being, his stature, and a way of confirming his place in the world. He always knew he was destined for greatness, more so than common, ignorant men, but he was a cynic too. Not a cynic by circumstance, though his life was hard, but a cynic by revolt. Indeed, greatness was an entitlement, but it still required elbow grease to bring into fruition.

Li Han shrugged. Those were distant thoughts, he supposed, and save for his present situation, he had no need for other worries.

It was 1891, a time of industrial progression in the United States of America, a time for modern thinkers and their lot. The season of summer was hitting hard, no respite, a dormant volcano sparked after a poor spring season and a bleak winter. No rest for the people, certainly, but they were not fazed. Life went on, at least, and poor people had a good enough philosophy for it: one's got dig through a few shite-addled mud before getting the gold. The port city, Riverside, where he had landed, was in its busier days. He watched as the bustling city broke into life, the busy ambiance tangling itself with the murmuring citizens. The ship-men, who'd just settled down for a moment or two's worth of rest, were racing to and fro the wharf, moonlighting at the docks to earn an extra silver dollar or two. Or, they were wriggling their way into the shady parts of the city. Gods know why, but I can wager a finger they're checking out the whore-houses.

Though ignorant, of cultures and innate class, those sailors came packed with knowledge of recent happenings. During his stay in the ship, he had caught on to news of this part of the world from tid-bits of their conversations. The economy, they said, was drowning in the blood of the Confederacy's pet war, just a few decades ago, the KKK, and the bloody fools down the African colonies. A bitter war for gold, all Phyrric, all Sisyphean. The people— humble men concerned with their daily cup of coffee— were dimly interested. Some were negligent, some just took the troubles of the tides of insurgency and treason travelling overneath. The founding fathers principles were adopted, their speaking of freedom but doing completely little else.

The banner of the insurgency, they said, was up in the air. Their leader was called Flying Sword.

It was close to dusk, but it wasn't yet dark— the sun was, after all, just beginning to set. The peddlers hadn't ceased doing what they excelled at, peddling goods and shouting themselves hoarse, alongside the fish-mongers and beachside carpenters who were sawing fish offal and wood, respectively. The rumbling strides of the men seemed as if they would, like a chorus amplified with dozens' worth of dozens of men more, diminish even the cyclopean foundation of the city. Those crowds were mostly native to the place, swarthy skin and short height, or Caucasian, though he recognized a few foreigners like him.

A tap on his shoulder broke him out of his daze. “This the first time you're looking at a city, merchant?”

Li Han turned and faced the speaker, frowning at the disturbance. It was November Callahan, acquaintance, accompaniment by coincidence and circumstance. He was a tall guy, all American blood, and rugged in appearance. Other than those, and his face-value vitality, there was nothing much else to him.

“The disharmony is certainly distracting,” Li Han said.

“There's not much authority around here, I'll say that. The government's getting their backs broken by bigger problems.”

Li Han shot a quick glance at him. “I thought the trouble was around the West?”

“Happy Hartigan was elected governor last year of the state. He's the kind of guy you'd supposed was a muppet, only been tupping around under his father's name. Harry, his pop, was a good man, so I heard, and even worked under Fremont back during his Pathfinding days. Fought in the American-Mexican war. Shame that his kid wasn't the same. Happy's a pushover. I reckon he's been supplying the arms to the Western effort all by himself, buying and shite. Double that with poor administration, and you've got yourselves a bundle of financial stress. Nobody likes financial stress, and crooks have been sprouting up and down 'round the state. The police are too busy taking bribes and all, no manhandling delinquents on their part. And, ah, well . . .” He gestured at the view of the city, shrugging his shoulders.

“I wouldn't have guessed that.”

“Everything's neater from afar.”

“So it is. Terrible.”

“Can't disagree. It's a fact,” November said.

Li Han had met the man, a cartographer and a former military engineer, on the Willow Switch, a cargo ship going through the Cape route. He had just finished working for some officers down the lower undergarments of America, and was looking to get back home early, having been discharged early. By coincidence, Li Han was in the ship he had taken. The journey had them sharing a bunk-bed, due to an excess of population, and there began their friendship, though camaraderie was distant and detached. November had perceived an age difference immediately upon seeing the merchant. Truth be told, Li Han did look old, with poor skin and a bald spot, the remaining hair spattered with shots of early grey. He was a short man, with golden skin, a thin but long moustache, short nose, and eyebrows with a slight drooping quality which robbed him of an otherwise harsh, austere look. His jaw was squarish, and so was his face, touched with early wrinkles and a rough texture.

They were more like acquaintances than anything.

“Now, I suppose it wasn't only awe you were staring at the city with. Anything else bugging you?”

“Home,” Li Han said, sighing.

“I can't say I sympathize with you. The last I had a family, they'd always been close to me. It's an agony, I can imagine, as much as I can guess.”

“And you're true on that account, mister Callahan,” he muttered. He gripped his cane tighter, moving his gaze from the city to the man. “Are there any postal offices in this city?”

“I guess so,” he said. “There should be one. Why?”

Li Han frowned, more in indecision than anger. “I intend to send a letter to someone.”

“To whom?”

Li Han found no reason in lying. “To a man,” he said, with a noncommittal grunt.

Cape Town
1890​

Dearest sister, my journey has been delayed greatly and I write this with haste to let you know that I am perfectly well and fine. The two others have been taken by the sea— it's safe to assume a miracle is upon me, as I still walk, unscathed. Again, sister, forgive my sudden departure from this country. I intended to go to the U.S, told you, and so I did. I hope you can bring yourself to pardon me if my act caused you anger, distress, or any ill emotion. It was not my intention to trouble you. Perhaps, I will discover what grandfather meant for us, for me, to discover. Nevertheless, I shall be back soon, likely in half a year, I assure you.

Yours sincerely,
Li Han

Kentucky
1892​

It was Monday. The dirt was the colour of rusted iron under the swollen sun. The far away fields and green hills were visible in the distance. Everything reeked of undue cheer, boredom, and excitement. There was no lack of human emotions: the train station beside the town was flooded with swarms of men everyday, some there for business, some for the city. Pansville was one of the more popular cities in the region.

A year had passed since the declaration of war by Flying Sword, so dubbed the Second Civil War— a good share of the western states, the wild ones just recently tugged in by the government's closure of the exploration rush, folded to the rebel banner. Sometime within the previous year, a few of the Southern states, like Arkansas and Tennessee, furtively switched sides and became Reb strongholds. The engagement near Fort Brennings, around Louisiana, St. Lou., being an evidence of their activity. It was a victory for the Gov troopers, though astoundingly phyrric. Yet, in spite of the tensions all around, one could've supposed the war wasn't even coming— the belles were still sipping their tea, the pasty-faced mechanics still went about, and the faux hunters in fur hats, old leather jackets and rugged denim still kept their guns at their homes. Everything was slow, everything was steady. Just as it should be.

Li Han squinted as he attempted to peek outside the windows. The weather was tranquil, the winds gentle but hot. When he was a kid, early in his life, his father had always preached large about the country to him. He'd always seen the country as something exotic, full of adventure and trials, and the magnificent thing that was supposed to be industry. But now that he was here, he saw nothing exceptional. A few pigs rolling about, and hell.

He relaxed back on the chair and watched the trail of steam rising from the cup of his coffee, streaming out the window beside him. He took a sip. The taste was rather fine, not the cheap acidic taste that tends to dominate most american-bred coffee, but earthy and smooth. Some of that surprise must've shown on his face, because the mayor— or was it governor?— smiled.

“Straight from San Francisco. They grow some real decent coffee there,” the governor said.

Li Han gave him a noncommittal nod. “Perhaps,” he said.

Eyes busy scanning over a document, the old man said, “So, Li Han, you say? From the east? Merchant?”

“Quite right,” Li Han replied.

He looked up from his paper. “Then, welcome to Pansville, fella. If you want, I'll have someone show you 'round town.”

Han let out a polite laugh. “No need, no need at all. Pray tell if you require anything else from me, mayor.”

“Nothing much. I like to keep an account of the people coming and going up here, of curious folks, you see,” he said. “Say, where you headed?”

Li Han scrutinized the mayor. Barnaby Macon was a short, fat, with pale skin, a well-groomed moustache, and thick eyebrows. His left hand's knuckles were tapping the desktop, due to habit, and his right was holding the opening of his coat religiously. A statesman's habit, though it was not the only thing that caught the merchant's eye. A coat in the middle of summer? Ridiculous!

“Cairo,” the merchant said. “I intend to go to Cairo.” That was the truth of it, not a lie.

The governor nodded. “Cairo's close by. Around Illinois. Though if I were you, I'd be just keep my arse away from those rebel hotspots. Go north. It's safer.”

“I can't.”

“Well, then, I can't hope to do much to convince you.”

“That's alright.”

“Game, game.” The mayor nodded. “Why don't you set up store around here for the time? Could just wait till winter passes over. It's approaching quick, y'know, and travelling on snow's a shite task.”

Li Han cocked an eyebrow.

Macon leaned against his chair, left hand withdrawing. “This is a free country. I don't have any right to forbid from doing as you please.”

“A free country,” the merchant repeated after him. “A square deal, a square enough deal.” He had learned a bit of America jargon in the one year he'd spent roaming about.

“Ned's saloon has got some vacant rooms if you're looking for a place to stay in, that is if you can ignore the foul denizens. Just look for the building with a big sign on the front. The Winded Man. Easy to spot, right in the middle”

Li Han got up and bowed. A courteous gesture. “Then I'll take my leave now, governor.”

Kentucky
1892​

Li Han was still in Pansville, excepting a few summary trips to the neighbouring cities of Bardstown and Campett. It was a gloomy month. The traffic was beginning to thin, and the people were deciding to hole up in their respective homes and farmsteads, getting busy sorting their food stores; the train station had gone quiet with the lack of travellers. For Li Han, the last few months had been torturous in its tedium, with just enough sales to make a pitiful living. While his presence was welcomed by the populace of the town, and the towns in the vicinity, nobody bought any of his goods. They were conventional and concrete in their worship of western medicine.

“Well, I'm not here to make money,” Li Han told himself. He was a better scholar than a merchant. It was a pitiful reassurance, and he knew it.

But at the end, the low end, money was what ran the streets and the people. He was no hermit, no mendicant of the dirt. He resolved to depart and go to Lebanon, with whatever goods and monies he had, before snow started falling. He had no wish to make his own living a burden— truth was, in Pansville, he had neither standing nor any stable income. He plotted a way to Hopkinsville, the river, and then to Paducah, from where he could go to Cairo. He could've taken the train, as it was still there, but it did not lead to Lebanon. It stood just off-kilter, connected to Nashville and Louisville, north and south respectively.

A few days later, a notice caught Li Han's eyes as he strolled by the city's advertisement board with his packed wagon. The leader, organizer, was looking for men to get up a caravan trip to Lebanon— safety in numbers, it said. Now, the county was all explored and relatively safe, at least when compared to the far west counties, but there was still the problem of rebs; a few outlaws were loose and running, what with the recent chaos in the area, and there was this notorious Mormon mob roaming about Tennessee.

Li Han didn't care much about all those other things. He was in a hurry. The sooner he got to Cairo, the better.

A day after he had signed on with the caravan, a lackey of the mayor approached him as he lounged in the saloon's bar. The Winded Man was a grungy old building that stood opposite the town's bank, near the train station, and indeed sported its name in bold lettering above the entrance. The place was wide, with two storeys, tall just like most houses in the town. Being the popular saloon in the town, though the quality was questionable, the saloon was crowded all the time. Especially on Mondays.

The pianist was rolling a honky-tonk in the corner. The tables were topped to the brim with the regulars and workers from the region who were drinking off their anxiety and fatigue. Ichabod Davis, the lackey, used to be a captain in the state army before he was kicked out due to his alcoholic streak. He now mostly did volunteer work for the town whenever he wasn't out hunting animals and working with the deputies. He was a gangly man, a bit too tall, and wore a pair of bifocals to correct his vision. He had long hair, bound into a ponytail and with a hat covering a thinning top. An overgrown beard hung over his shirt, messy and prickly.

Davis shuffled into seat beside him, settling his arms on the counter. “I'm looking for the merchant, the Chinese man. You heard of anybody with that name?” he said.

“I'm Li Han,” said the merchant. “What do you want, stranger?”

“I wouldn't have pegged you for him, but here you are,” he said, dryly. “Name's Ichabod Davis, mister. The mayor wanted to convey something, and I'm doing the conveying.”

Han shifted his gaze toward Davis. “And what is that something?” he said.

Davis cleared his throat. “Well, he thinks it best to warn you about the trip you're thinking about. He's got the best in mind for everybody, you see. The foreigners around are being put to the mud by some of Flying Sword's folks out looking for foreign blood. Tennessee and Arkansas wasn't enough for them, you see, and you probably heard what happened to Fort Brennings. He thinks Missouri ain't the best place for a foreigner like you to be in. Those rebs, they don't care if you're Indian or Asian or Government men, they'll string you up the same. Hell, at this point, I suppose they're looking for a poster enemy.” He corrected his bifocals, pushing them up against the top of his nose, and gave Han a steady pair of eyes. “That enemy could be you, friend.”

“They ain't gaining much fiddling with poor old me, mister Davis. I appreciate your concern, the mayor's concern, but my decision's my decision. If you know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean, boy, I know it.” He stood up and struck his hand out. “Just doing my job warning you, as the mayor thinks I ought to do.”

Li Han shook hands with him, albeit reluctantly.

Missouri
1891​

The early morn threatened to drop into a silence seldom seen in summer, though at the brink of the season's end, with the monsoons visible down the road, it was perhaps inevitable. The soldiers marched through the muddy roads, all ragged and beaten bloody. They'd gotten the look ducks had when hunters nicked their feathers or picked a duckling or two off from the herd. Murphy had a better metaphor: he said they were like a couple of men stinking themselves a storm in the jungle. To be fair, it was real close to the truth.

For all's it was worth, they had ammo plenty, if not food or basic shite.

“War is a darn strange thing,” Private Finnegan ‘Wakey’ Wakestone wrote in his diary first thing in the morning, as he looked on from the observatory post at Fort Brennings, peeking through his brass monocular. He carried that little, dented telescope everywhere— he was the very portrait of a minstrel man, stretched over the stone balconies, trying to get a glimpse of the hills and the folks beyond. The monocular was a memoir that reminded him of old pop. They never stood out for each other, fought more than a son and father ought to, but they still had a blood bond. You never fuck up a blood relationship, as they say, 'cause it's darn special.

Wakey was a thin man, lean like a tree during winter, and mighty long too. His gaunt face, combined with a naturally receding hairline and disheveled hair, made him seen older than his actual age. Though, he had a nice enough smile— Murphy told him it was a ‘winning’ smile. It earned him a few notches in his bed post every now and then.

“Life's fair enough. No worries, no nothing. The troopers are nearby, down from the river, to here, St. Lou., so the sergeant says. They've been hit bad, I'll tell you that, the dirt ain't agreeing with them. Memphis! The rebs are in Tennessee, Arkansas, Poplar Bluff. Shite,” Wakey later wrote in his diary. Or war journal, as he preferred to call it. “Meanwhile, it's boredom that's killing us fort men. Last I heard, Murphy was getting more girls than me. Then farmer's girls. Handsome bastard.”

The fortress was secured by a moat. It used to be a dirt rampart, but was filled in by the rains, creating a water ditch. Useful for keeping out awful crooks, but not much else in it. When men had to get out, they walked over this long plank. When they had to get in, they shouted and hoped the people inside the walls was keeping their ears open. A column of makeshift fences ran in front of the semi-circular moat, reinforced by another column of spikes and other infantry deterrent. Murphy told the captain it'd be a resourceful thing to do— the one thing they had in plenty was logs and logs of fucking wood— and it'd slice up a few charges nice-like. The captain was a yes-man sorta guy, and so, he agreed to everything. The last captain died after he was trying to take a piss off the walls and dunked his arse into the moat. He tried to get back in, but like Wakey predicted, nobody was awake. Heck, even the sentries were dozing off. He was the first man in the garrison who died from pneumonia.

The fort was all stone and heavy rocks decked upon one another and fixed up with wood. The turrets were linked together by bridges that served as a sort of auxiliary wall. Bullets couldn't get in, but they could get out. The primary walls, holding the gates, had holes in them a couple of sixteen-pounders could squeeze their neck through. Murphy said that the space was ‘too stiff to allow proper-like gunfire’. For once, the captain wasn't daft enough to follow his rings, although it could've been that the general was laying it harsh on him for taking one too many initiatives. The least Wakey knew, it could've been anything.

There was half a dozen of heavy rainmakers beside the river, thirty-pounder mortars, alongside some five to ten light artillery placed at the river battery. The rainmakers were too heavy to pull through the mud, and were ditched. The light battery, neglected for a year, was something Brigadier General Parson reckoned the soldiers would need, and had them towed inside the fort. On the turrets, Parson had the grunts install a couple of swivel machine guns. A new fancy toe gun, and some fancy revolving cannons. He had a shipment of lever rifles and pistols shipped in which he distributed among the grunts.

“Ain't the time for muskets,” the General said, adding that it'd give them an advantage over the enemy. Those rebs'd never have their hands on good guns, he told them.

Who's the enemy? That's what the cadets often said. Those rebs, who else? That's what Wakey told each round of them conscripts and fool volunteers. Most of those greens never even seen one Flying Sword's jacknives. Wakey's mates had— a dozen or so engagements near Knoxville and the Appalachian mountains— but it was a shame nobody could've had shared their luxury. The general said it was a ‘waiting man's game’. Wakey was inclined to believe him, but then again, he was a grunt, and top priorities— following orders and keeping himself alive— were a chore enough without all that pondering.

“It's dark, eh?” Corporal Johnston, Perry Johnston, muttered. He was a rugged man, skin pink as corned beef, roughly chopped hair showing from underneath a too-large helmet. “Plenty o' dark.”

Wakey scratched his ears. “I reckon so,” the private said. “Those soldiers must be having a shite time dealing with the mud.”

“Soldiers?” Johnston snickered. “They're more like a rabble militia!”

Wakey chuckled. “That's the truth, I s'pose.”

Perry gritted his teeth, grimacing. “Worries are, those rebs have gotten everything better than us blessed soldiers of the county. You heard of Flying Knife—”

“Flying Sword, you mean.”

Perry glared at him. “This Flying Sword's a sharp-mind, got an eye for fighting, and used to serve with the Europeans during their wars with the muslims, africans and snow-eaters, so they say.” He shook his head. “This is the first line. They could be coming here, could be. Don't know what's what these days, but all's we gotta understand is that we can't retreat no more. Those fools downstairs? They was the skirmishers. Look at 'em. All bloody and banged up.”

Wakey turned his gaze at the men just a hundred or so paces away from the fort, draped in blue rags and munitions aplenty. “Can't retreat no more,” Wakey repeated after him. It left a bitter taste in the mouth. “Well, a man's gotta do what he's gotta do, my father used to say.”

“Shite,” Perry muttered. “Let me tell you, this is bigger than what the general's making it out to be, that Parson fella. You seen 'em rebs, handled bayonets with their arses. We was trounced!”

Wakey grimaced. “And I agree with you. All hell's 'bout to break loose, and seven hells if I be standing here for country. They'll have us strung up or shot if we try to fall back, and that's coming from a veritable mine of information. You remember Nim?”

“The officer shot him on the back after he tried t' desert.”

“Bayonets on both sides,” he made a poking motion with his hands, mimicking a rifle, “stab, stab, all eager to draw blood, if you understand me.”

“But you gotta agree it's a good incentive for us cowards,” he said, splitting a damn bitter grin.

Wakey returned his smile. “Shucks, it's the only incentive. Us green men ain't so green anymore as to be fooled by talks of glories and such-like shite.”

Perry's grin faded. “A sour truth for us sour folks.”

Missouri
1892​

“Chinese Gordon?”

He nodded. “Chinese Gordon.”

Tecumsah frowned. “Odd name, no?”

“A nickname. The natives gave it to me.”

“Oh. You served at China?”

“I did.”

“On behalf of the crown?”

“Crown and country.”

“You're here, in America, on the crown's orders?”

“Indeed.”

“Well, I can't do much about that, I suppose. Mind you, though, man, it's dangerous business here.”

Gordon's eyes narrowed. “I held off the siege of Khartoum for three days. Without reinforcements. Do I look like a dead man?”

“Oh, certainly, sir, you can handle yourself,” Tecumsah stammered.

Gordon grinned. “Of course I can.”

One of the soldiers approached the two officers. “Sir,” he said, standing by. Normally, the grunts hardly ever disturbed the officers, but by the look of his face, it was urgent.

Tecumsah stood up. His eyes hovered on the man's badge— he was a private, it seemed— for a while. “What, private?” he said.

“Parson is looking for you,” he said. Almost as an afterthought, he added, “It's an emergency.”

Major General Tecumsah was sent here after the Tennessee rebels almost brought the fort and St. Lou. down to its knees. He had spent six months on the trail of the rebels roaming about the county, driving them out. He looked at the man, squinted. He remembered the Private's name. “Wakestone, is it?” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell Parson I'm coming.”

Private Wakestone hurried off as Tecumsah watched. The general looked back at his guest. Chinese Gordon was sipping his tea, eyes innocently averted.

“Pardon, mister Gordon, but I must attend to some urgent business.”

Gordon smiled. “I understand, General.”

Tecumsah went to Parson's office. It was a short walk, just nearby. He saw Wakestone lying about near the door, leaning against the wall, talking with a few other soldiers. He ignored them, and, opening the doors, briskly entered the room. Parson was at his desk, holding a pair of bifocals over his eyes. He was reading a document.

Tecumsah cleared his throat. “What's the emergency, Parson?”

Parson looked up from his papers, slowly, and then addressed him, “I have received intelligence that rebel forces are coming.”

He almost gaped. He fumbled for an appropriate reply, then settled on a simple, “How?”

“They're tenacious men, those from the Arkansas county, and besides, we trounced only a fraction of their lot.”

“Well, then, we must prepare a response immediately.”

“That is, indeed, why I called you, since you have most of the authority.”

Tecumsah thought he detected a hint of bitterness in the former commanding officer's voice. “Never mind, Parson, I'll go immediately.”

Historical Storyteller