Fair Winds

The Captain stood in the bridge house, staring out over the decks of his ship. He watched as the men under his command stowed gear, secured the cannons and deck guns, and the hundred other sundry tasks that keep a vessel like this operational and battle worthy. The slow, inexorable ‘tick-tock’ sound of gears whirred softly in the background, accompanied by the soft sigh of an occasional release of steam; both sounds that went unnoticed anymore. It was only a few short years prior that he had been master of a proud frigate, one of the fastest on the seas and the pride of Her Majesty’s fleet. Now he commanded a powerful new "Dreadnought" class airship. This vessel made his former command appear as so much a child’s toy. And he was taking this new cruiser into battle tomorrow. A slow grin spread across his face as he thought of what was to come; how the opposing forces would view this new vessel he commanded and how they would view him as well. What a difference only ten years can make. . . .

The effort by the Empire to free the stranglehold that the Rogue High Command held on the shipping routes was long, bloody and damned expensive -- both in monetary costs and in human life. Captain Ainsworth’s frigate was one of a fleet of 150 engaged in this particular battle. 150 of Her Majesty’s finest vessels sent against 42 of the most rag-tag, motley collection of ships he had ever seen. Capt. Ainsworth and the rest had sailed in with such arrogance. They were all so sure that this would be a short engagement, so confident were they all in their superior skills and equipment. They could not have been proven more wrong.

As any wild animal will do when cornered, the RHC fought with a devilish determination. From the first volley of cannon-fire, Ainsworth could tell this would not be over as quickly as the Royal Navy Commanders had expected. The gunners stationed on those ships were uncannily accurate. Despite their unseemly appearance, the ships of the RHC were quick and resilient. Ainsworth’s own ship had already sustained several strikes from grape-shot and some of his deck crew were rapidly stiffening against the rails; mute testimony to the accuracy of the snipers aboard the opposing fleet. For three weeks this contest went on, with neither side giving any quarter, nor asking any in return. The final push was one of desperation. A last ditch effort to break through and come out victorious. It failed miserably.

Capt. Ainsworth’s ship had taken a beating, to be true, but had given as good a trouncing as she had received. Even so, she was a shadow of her former self as she was steered into this final engagement. Cannon balls whistled as they flew into rigging or pounded into the hull and decks. Blades gave off a dulcet silver ring as they came together in their deadly dance. Men were yelling out orders or screaming out curses as they received mortal wounds. Capt. Ainsworth himself never heard the sound of the cannon that fired its load of grape-shot; never saw the plume of smoke from the barrel. All he knew was that someone or something had hit him hard on his right side, hard enough to slam him into the mainmast and face first onto the pitching deck, the salt water splashing in cool waves over him. He never knew, as his eyes closed, that this battle was over and his life was now changed . . . forever.

John Ainsworth came awake briefly, knowing instinctively that something was wrong; terribly wrong. He could feel nothing on his right side and he was completely immobilized. Through his drug-induced stupor he could see people moving about but, try as he might, he could get no words to issue forth from his throat. He could not raise his head to get a better vantage on what was transpiring around him.

He could remember the sounds of battle, but this . . . this was different. Everyone was busy as bees in a hive, but it didn’t sound like conflict. That was all that registered before exhaustion and the drugs pulled him back into the waiting arms of Morpheus. Even then the battle continued to play itself out in his drug-induced coma. He could see his men being cut down, could hear the screams of the dying, but no sound escaped his lips. Orders framed at the edge of consciousness faded away to nothing as he watched, helplessly, his ship and his command be decimated.

Daylight. No . . . not daylight, but bright lights filled Ainsworth’s eyes. He blinked rapidly, his eyes watering uncontrollably as they were assaulted by the brightness stabbing into his eyes. “Good afternoon, Captain.”

Slowly turning his head, John Ainsworth located the source of the greeting. “No, no, Captain. Don’t try to rise. You have sustained considerable injury and are restrained for now while the wounds heal.”

Ainsworth realized then he had tried to rise but could not make headway against the leather straps across his chest. “Where am I?” he gasped out in a voice crackling with disuse. “What happened?”

“You are in a hospital, good sir. You took a grievous injury to your right side. It will be some time before you are allowed up, I’m afraid.”

The memory of the impact he took flooded back to him. He turned his head and surveyed what he could of the damage. Some burns were visible, but the majority of his right side was swathed in linen bandages -- bandages that even now were showing hints of blood seeping through. Fear knotted his gut as the implications set in. “Doctor”, he said quietly. “How … how bad is it? How gravely wounded am I?”

“I am not a physician, Captain, merely an orderly here to check on your welfare. But I won’t bandy words with you. It isn’t good. I’ll fetch the Doctor and he can speak with you in greater length.” So saying, the orderly slipped out of the room.

When he returned with the doctor, Ainsworth had already succumbed again to the drugs in his system and was fast asleep. “What do you think Doctor? Can he be saved?”

The doctor checked the bandages then filled a syringe from a nearby table. Sliding the needle into Ainsworth’s left arm, he pushed the contents into a vein and laid the syringe aside. “I don’t know. He will live, yes. But with him missing his right arm -- torn from its roots by that shot -- will he consider himself 'saved?' That is a question only HE can answer.”

The orderly’s head nodded in understanding. He had already seen many men either waste away or take their own lives after realizing they were no longer whole. What would this young Captain do, he wondered. At that moment, the hospital administrator walked in, accompanied by a rather austere looking gentleman. “Doctor Branscome, allow me to introduce Brigadier Wescott. He is here to interview your patient.”

Dr. Branscome turned and shook hands with Wescott. “Good day, sir. I’m sorry, but you’re not quite what I would have expected of a military man.”

Smiling, Wescott replied, “No, I suppose not. But then I am not all about the braids, medals, pomp and circumstance that all the others go for. I like to keep a more quiet profile, if you will.”

“I’m glad.” Dr. Branscome said. “That keeps the patients here a bit more settled. A uniform tends to disquiet them, and sedatives are in short supply at the moment.”

Nodding in understanding, Brigadier Wescott walked around the bed in which Capt. Ainsworth lay. “I had hoped to speak with him. How long will he be unconscious?”

“Right now, I’m keeping him in a medical coma. It’s the best way to allow him to heal. He won’t be speaking with anyone for some time, I’m afraid.”

Wescott stood looking at the young Captain for some moments before releasing a deep sigh, as if he had reached some personal decision. Wescott turned to the infirmary administrator. “Sir, you are privy to our plans. I believe the time is right and we have our candidate. See to the Captain’s transfer and have preparations made immediately.”

Turning, Wescott looked at Dr. Branscome. “Thank you for all you have done to this point, sir, but we’ll be taking the good Captain off your hands now. Good day, sir.” Turning on his heel, Brigadier Wescott rapidly left the room, his impetus propelling him through the door.

Branscome looked to his administrator. “Sir? I’m afraid I don’t understand. What is happening?”

Looking up from writing on the chart, the administrator said “You heard the Brigadier. The Captain is being transferred. More, I cannot say.”

Taking the chart with him, he left room. A detail of four orderlies soon entered the room and moved Captain Ainsworth to a gurney and wheeled him out. Dr. Branscome and his orderly were left standing with jaws slack and agape in an empty room, trying to make sense of what had just transpired.

One cannot imagine a more complicated or bizarre surgical procedure. The patient was on a table under extremely bright lights. Physicians and nurses clustered close by with the tools of their trade. But also standing at their side was what appeared to be a group of industrial workmen. The tables they had rolled in with them contained gears, springs, all sorts of metal rods, as well as sheets of brass, burnished copper tubing and rubber hoses.

For hours they worked in tandem with the doctors. Bits of bloody cloth were discarded on the operating room floor alongside shards of metal or the odd gear that clanged down. Brigadier Wescott, from his vantage point in the observation tier, could hear the Team’s voices as they worked; “Clamp that vein down. I don’t need it bleeding all over the place until we get it cauterized.” “No, no, NO! Not the main torsion spring, you addle-pated buffoon! I want the pulley spring with the three quarter cam. That has to attach to the supraspinatus tendon just so.” “Where is the bloody plumber? He was due here an hour ago. I can’t connect this assembly until he solders these connections.” After 18 grueling hours this exhausted, hodge-podge team left the room as orderlies wheeled the patient away, the floor now littered with bits of cloth and metal, blood, oil, and water.

Capt. Ainsworth sat in a chair in his room, facing out of the window. His right side was swathed in bandages as it had been for several months. Winter’s chill was slowly giving way to the warmth of spring, and the first green buds could be seen on the hedgerow below. Ainsworth never turned as the door to his room opened. Brigadier Wescott entered and placed a chair beside Ainsworth’s. “So, my fellow. How are you this morning?”

John turned his head to face him. “Do you not know the meaning of knocking, Brigadier? Or do you always burst unannounced into a room?”

“Now, now, lad. Let’s not get our ire up. That is one of the perks of being a Brigadier, you know. I’m fairly well able to come and go as I please. Right now, I please to speak with you about your recovery, so I repeat my previous inquiry. How are you Captain?”

“I’m alive” was the rather morose reply.

“Come now, Captain. I don’t expect you to be dancing a jig, but maybe a bit more gratitude might be in order. I saved your life, lad. Is that not something to be glad about?”

“Glad? GLAD??” John’s voice began to rise as his emotions began taking hold. “I am 25 years old. I HAD a promising future in the Royal Navy. Now I’m . . . well . . . a damned cripple is what I am! One arm is gone. How the deuce am I to command a ship for Her Majesty now?!? What will people think when they see me walking the streets now? What rumours will they whisper behind my back about 'The Freak?' How am I to earn a living now?!?!” The unexpected tirade over, John turned back to the window, all of his energy spent.

Brigadier Wescott sat quietly for some time. “I cannot say that I understand what you are going through, lad. I don’t. I have been wounded in battle myself, but not to your extreme. I healed, just as you are healing. But each man must come to terms with what he feels life has in store for him. You can spend the remainder of your days viewing yourself as a cripple or freak. If you do, that is all that you will ever be. I, however, see more than that. I see a man that has been given a second chance. Why do you think, out of all the others grievously wounded that day, you were chosen to survive? Because your record speaks for itself. You have a fire, a passion for life. You don’t cater to the whims of folly or chance. You have always made your own destiny.”

John turned away from the window to look at the Brigadier. “Yes, Captain. I may command a navy of men, but I am fully aware of some individuals, and your career is well known to me. I had never expected to meet you under these circumstances, but I thank Providence that it did happen. I had the power to help you and, in so doing, held out the hope that you would help me in return.”

“So now it comes to it. I have been saved so that I may do YOU a favour. No thank you, Brigadier. The war is over for me. Let me go home.”

“Would that I could, Captain, would that I could. I was telling you the truth. I wanted to see you live. But I must insist that you heed me now. You see, I have plans for you; things I would like you to see for yourself and a task to fulfill. Once that is done, you are free to do as you choose.”

John hung his head for a moment then looked the Brigadier in the eye. “No man willingly walks into Death’s hands, lest it be to save his family or a comrade. I live, and for that I guess I have you to thank. I cannot abide being in servitude to another so, yes, Brigadier, I am yours to command.”

“Well said, Captain, well said indeed. But I give you this to consider: any man in service to the Crown is, in a manner, in servitude to the whims of the Queen or Parliament, is he not? As a Captain in the Royal Navy, you signed into that servitude willingly. I simply ask that you give me the same consideration here.”

Capt. Ainsworth nodded his agreement. “As you say, sir.”

“Indeed lad, indeed. I could ask no more of any man. Rest up, Captain. We shall talk again soon.” John turned to resume his ruminations on his fate. At the door, Brigadier Wescott, turnied to look at the young man staring out the window and muttered under his breath, “May you see the light, lad, and come to accept what has been done for you.”

He waited for only a heartbeat more, before proceeding out the door to meetings which would further the plans set forth two years prior.

It had been two months since John had his meeting with Brigadier Wescott. Try as he might to engage his physician or any of the orderlies, he could obtain no information about what was slated for his future. The orderlies shrugged off his questions. The doctors were either inquisitive about his injuries or stoically quiet when he pelted them with queries; shrugging off his questions as one would an annoying gnat. His days were spent walking the halls of the hospital or lying in bed to be examined.

His side continued to feel oddly heavy and cumbersome. He had developed a morbid fascination of what his ruined side looked like. His dreams were, at times, filled with locomotive steam trains and a clockmaker that he knew in his youth. As a matter of fact, he had dreamed that same dream just the night prior. He was pondering its implications anew as he drifted into slumber this night.

John awoke the following morning and was at breakfast when he was approached by his doctor and Brigadier Wescott. “Good morrow, gentlemen” he said while standing to greet the two.

“Good morrow, Captain. Please, sit and finish your meal.” the Brigadier answered.

Sitting, John began picking at his eggs again when the doctor spoke up. “John, I’ve some good news. We’re to take the bandages off this morning and see how well your healing has progressed.”

John looked up. “Good news for whom, doctor? Whether the bandages remain or come free, I still have no arm wherewith to function. I am eager to see what I am left with, but trepidation fills my mind at what I will see. Which brings your proposal to mind, Brigadier. I’m indebted to you, to be certain, but I fail to see how I can be of any use to you- or anyone else -- with only one arm.”

Brigadier Wescott and the doctor looked at each other and smiled. John could not help but note the unspoken communication that passed between them. “If you are done breaking your fast, Captain, please come with us and all will be . . . revealed.”

John finished his tea and rose. “Lead on Brigadier."

Walking down the hall from the cafeteria, they rounded a corner and entered an examination room. The doctor indicated a small table. “Please have a seat.”

John seated himself on the table while the Brigadier waited in the corner of the room. The doctor began cutting away the bandages that bound John’s right side and chest. John’s breathing became heavier as he anticipated the worst; an arm that would be only a stump of flesh and bone surrounded by scarred tissue. He had yet to see the damage wrought to his body. Each time he was brought in to have the dressing changed or an exam done on the surgery site he was rendered insensible. He awoke each time to new bandages and still no clear knowledge of how badly he had been wounded. The doctor stepped back and the Brigadier whistled lowly. “Take a look John. Behold the work that was done.”

Steeling himself, John looked over at his right side. He saw what was expected – burns and heavy scarring along his ribs and shoulder -- but that is not what held his gaze. What enthralled him was his . . . his . . . ARM! Well, an arm in the sense of that was its overall appearance, but it was not flesh and bone. This new construct, craftily grafted into what remained of his bicep and shoulder, was pure mechanics. Built from steel, copper, and bronze, it was a master-work of technology. Gears, cables, pulleys and steam pipes made him whole.

“Isn’t it a wonder, Captain?” John looked up at Wescott, who was beaming as if seeing his firstborn.

“What have you done to me?” John asked, his voice quiet and almost tremulous.

“We’ve made you whole again, John. Nay, better than whole.”

“To what end, Brigadier? If I had it in my mind before that people would view me as a freak with just one arm, how much more so now with this?” It wasn’t a conscious thought to raise his arm in a gesture of futility, it was a matter of habit; especially having HAD an arm under involuntary control for 25 years. But this new construct moved. It MOVED! Just as his arm would have, though a tad more jerkily. With that involuntary movement, John’s train of thought vanished and he began surveying his new limb in earnest. He could hear the clock-work mechanisms as the springs, gears, and coils imitated tendon and muscle. He could hear an occasional soft hiss of steam as the overage of the arm’s power was released. He moved it then; flexing the fingers, turning the wrist, stretching it out full length. “How, Brigadier? I feel nothing beyond my shoulder, yet this machine responds as if it were a part of me all my life.”

Dr. Bennington stepped forward and took John’s “hand” in his. “I can answer that, lad, but not take all the credit. This 'arm' is grafted into your remaining muscles, nerves and tendons. The surgery to do so was revolutionary. We weren’t even sure it would work. As you think about moving your arm, grabbing a cup, or even wielding a weapon, you unconsciously move certain tendons and muscles. Thus your arm would move. By connecting your new arm to those same receptors, it receives those signals and movements and mimics what your natural movement would be. It’s a bit more complicated than that obviously but, in layman’s terms, there you have it.”

John tried to bring his “hand” close to his face to observe it more closely but, as if everything suddenly shut down, his “arm” stopped moving -- frozen in a half crook across his chest. Looking up, John found the doctor’s eyes. “Doctor?” he began, when suddenly the “arm” moved with an unpredictable speed, completing its new owner’s original motion and smacking him in the head -- rendering himself insensible.

“Doctor? What happened?” Brigadier Wescott asked as he rushed to Ainsworth’s side.

Looking up from his fallen patient, the doctor replied “He is fine, though he may have a concussion when he wakes. That was a devil of a blow he took.”

Standing up he called for two orderlies then sat back on the table that John Ainsworth had just been occupying. “As to what happened, well, I feel it’s a bit much as I explained to him. His clockwork arm is a machine. It has no feeling. It only works because HE has to make it work. There are certain muscles that needs be engaged by him to make it work properly. In time it will be second nature to him. Just now he was trying too hard. He WANTED it to move, but he wasn’t using the correct musculature so . . . the arm seized up. That is until he did not consciously think about it and involuntarily used the correct muscle group. Time, Brigadier; the young man needs time. He has suffered a traumatic injury and has undergone a never before tried surgery with months of recovery. Now he needs to recover again and re-learn everything he took for granted. I told you at the outset, Graham; this was not going to be a quick process.”

Brigadier Graham Wescott gathered his coat and walked to the door, staring down the hallway that the orderlies had taken John Ainsworth just moments before. He turned back to the doctor. “Time, doctor, is a luxury that we are in short supply of.”

John Ainsworth thought back often to that first eventful day. The doctor had been correct. It took time -- a long time -- to get acquainted with his prosthesis. John would go weeks without his arm being able to move. Then there were those days that it seemed to have a life of its own; grasping out at the air, raising up as if it belonged to a schoolboy with the answer to an instructor’s query, or just grabbing an object and not letting go. How many times had he walked the grounds of the hospital clutching a pen, cup or even sprig of hedgerow, for days on end?

During this period he was given daily updates as to the war and different battles that had been fought. Being outside the conflict now, he could see clearly the views of the opposing sides; the Empire against the Rogue High Command. He could see now, as though through a strong spyglass, how one fought against the tyranny of the other. He could see plainly how one side wished to control and dominate everything and everyone within its grasp; seizing lands and property in its quest to expand; while the other fought to stave off such radical behavior and fought for the freedom of its people. It had been 10 years since John Ainsworth had taken his injury. 10 long years of pain and recovery -- both of body and of mind. 10 years of discussions with Brigadier Graham Wescott and others about the conflict that still raged. 10 years to look at his choices in life and what brought him to that fateful day of his injury and, ultimately, his association with Brigadier Wescott.

As he stood now on the deck of his new ship, he smiled with satisfaction, knowing that his choices, both then and now, were correct. He was back in service at the helm of a new class of warship designed to end this war. He was about to take her into her maiden battle and he could not have been more proud. Looking to port, he spied Brigadier Wescott on the quay. He smiled and saluted, his clockwork arm moving flawlessly. Turning back, he looked above him at the huge gas sac that provided the lift for this vessel. This new Dreadnought class airship was the first of her line. Her builders had high hopes for her abilities. Capt. Ainsworth’s commanders likewise had high hopes for their new captain. “Mr. Wainwright” he yelled to his Lieutenant; “get the engines fired up. We should have a full head of steam by now. I want to be airborne and at rendezvous with the fleet in three hours!”

“Aye, sir,” came the curt reply and his men pushed on with their preparations with even more gusto.

The fire of their new captain was fueling them to even greater efforts. As the ship lifted from its moorings and began a graceful pirouette to the East, Captain John Ainsworth -- newly vetted commander of the Rogue High Command -- smiled. He brought his "arm" around and removed his cutlass from its sheath, taking a few practiced thrusts at an invisible opponent. Steam vented and the clockwork mechanisms performed flawlessly. Sheathing the cutlass, Ainsworth strode up to his Lieutenant, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Now, let’s take this fight to the Royal Navy and see if we can’t bring the Queen and her consort down a notch, shan’t we?”

THE END

Bio: Mr. Minton enjoys all things steampunk.

E-mail: T.D. Minton

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