She was the Basilisk —the beloved Basilisk —Admiral Fairfield’s flagship.
I was grateful, and I addressed my prayerful thanks to the slate-gray sky and the surging clouds, or whatever lay beyond them.
* * *
Lake Melville was too salt to freeze entirely, but fringes of ice had formed at the edges of it, and the Navy couldn’t anchor as close to shore as they might have liked; but there were gaps of open water where her boats could freely move. An advance party quickly gauged the extremity of our situation, and communicated details to the Basilisk by signal-flags; and before long that ship, along with the others of the fleet, began to fire shells which flew above Striver and dropped into the Dutch lines with telling accuracy. The bombardment was continuous; it drove the Mitteleuropans back a mile or more from their forward entrenchments; and the sound of it was what finally woke Julian from his profound sleep.
He was afraid we were about to be assaulted by the enemy, and I soothed him by giving him the good news.
He was less cheered by it than I expected. He took up pencil and paper and wrote: ARE WE SAVED?
“Yes, Julian, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you! The men are coming into the streets, cheering!”
USELESS THEN I MEAN OUR ATTEMPT TO BREAK THROUGH
“Well, but how could we have known—?”
HOW MANY DEAD FOR NO PURPOSE HUNDREDS THOUSANDS STILL ALIVE IF ONLY I HAD WAITED
“That’s not the way to think of it, Julian!”
BLOOD ON MY HANDS
“No—you were magnificent!”
He refused to be convinced.
* * *
An adjutant arrived with word that the Admiral wanted to see Julian, in order to begin to plan the evacuation of our troops from Striver.
TELL HIM I’M NOT IN, Julian wrote; but he didn’t mean it—it was only his injuries speaking.
The Admiral was promptly admitted.
It was so heartening to see the old naval officer again that I nearly wept. His uniform was so bright and bold, compared to our tattered rags, that he seemed to have descended from a distant Valhalla well-supplied with patriotic tailors. He looked at Julian with the knowledgeable sympathy of a man who had seen injured men, and worse, many times before. “Don’t rise,” he said, as Julian struggled to sit straight up and essay a salute. “And don’t try to speak, if your wounds make it difficult.”
I CAN WRITE, Julian hastily set down, and I read the message to Admiral Fairfield on his behalf.
“Well,” said Fairfield , “there is not much to say that can’t wait a short while. The important thing is that your men have been rescued—the siege is lifted.”
TOO LATE, wrote Julian, but I couldn’t communicate anything so pessimistic to the Admiral. “Julian thanks you,” I said, ignoring the looks he shot in my direction. The expression was all in his eyes, since Julian’s jaw was too badly hurt to move—even a frown would have wounded him.
“No thanks are called for. In fact I apologize for delaying as long as we have.”
DEKLAN MEANT FOR ME TO DIE HEREA WELL-LAID PLANWHAT CHANGED?
“Julian says he can hardly accept your apology. He does wonder what circumstances made this rescue possible.”
“Of course—I forget you’ve been cut off from all news,” the Admiral said. “The order that kept us out of Lake Melville was rescinded.”
DEKLAN MUST BE DEAD “Julian asks about the health of his uncle.”
“That’s the key to it,” Admiral Fairfield said, nodding. “The plain fact is, Deklan Conqueror has been deposed. In part it was because of the reports of the Goose Bay campaign you sent out when the Basilisk last saw these shores, Colonel Hazzard. The Spark published them in the ignorant belief that Deklan Conqueror would want Julian’s heroism widely publicized. But it was obvious enough, reading between the lines, that Julian had been betrayed by the Executive Branch. The Army of the Laurentians was already profoundly unhappy about Deklan’s misrule and arrogance—the balance was finally tipped.”
DID THEY KILL HIM?
“Was Deklan Conqueror’s abdication wholly voluntary?” I asked.
“It wasn’t voluntary at all. A brigade came down from the Laurentians and marched on the Presidential Palace. The Republican Guard chose not to resist—their opinion of Deklan Comstock is no higher than anyone else’s.”
DOES THE MURDERER YET LIVE?
“Was Julian’s uncle injured in the process?”
“He’s a prisoner in the Palace for the time being.”
WHO TAKES COMMAND OF THE PRESIDENCY?
“Has a successor been named?”
Here Admiral Fairfield looked somewhat abashed. “I wish I had a more ceremonial way to convey the information,” he said, “and a venue for it grander than this ruined building, but—yes,” he said, looking Julian hard in the eye, “a successor has been named, pending my confirmation that he has survived. That successor is you , General Comstock. Or I should say President Comstock. Or Julian Conqueror, as the infantry like to style you.”
Julian sank back into his rude bed, his eyes clenched shut. All color fled from his face. I expect Admiral Fairfield took this as an expression of pain or shock due to his injury. There was an embarrassed silence. Then Julian gestured for the pad and pencil again.
THIS IS WORSE THAN DEATH (he wrote) I WISH THE DUTCH HAD KILLED ME OH GOD NO TELL HIM GO TO HELL ALL OF THEM GO TO HELLI WILL NOT SERVE
“Julian is too feverish to express his astonishment,” I said. “He’s humbled by the honor so unexpectedly bestowed upon him, and hopes he’ll prove worthy of it. But he’s tired now, and needs to rest.”
“Thank you,” the Admiral said to me, and “Thank you, Mr. President,” to Julian.
ACT FIVE
JULIAN CONQUEROR
including “THE LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF THE GREAT NATURALIST CHARLES DARWIN”
CHRISTMAS, 2174-CHRISTMAS, 2175
Ever the Virtues blush to find The Vices wearing their badge behind, And Graces and Charities feel the fire Wherein the sins of the age expire.
—WHITTIER
1
It falls to me now to write the final chapter of my story, which is an account of the reign of Julian Conqueror, Commander in Chief of the Armed Forces and President of the United States , as I experienced it, with all its attendant tragedies and conciliatory joys.
Those events are still close to my heart, though considerable time has passed since their conclusion. My hand trembles at the task of describing them. But the reader and I have come this far, which is no small distance, and I mean to bring the project to completion, whatever the cost.
It occurs to me that one virtue of the Typewriter as a literary invention is that tears shed during the act of composition are less likely to fall upon the paper and blot the ink. A certain clarity is preserved, not otherwise obtainable.
2
Manhattan was all got up for the celebration of the Nativity when we arrived at the docks, and such a frenzy of decoration I had never seen, as if the city were a Christmas tree decked with candles and colored tinsel, with the Sacred Day less than forty-eight hours distant—but all of that meant little or nothing to me, for I was anxious to discover the fate of Calyxa.