Location: The Mill -> Barn Loft (July 21st, 1861, near Manassas, Virginia) -> Ville au Camp
Skills: N/A
Skills: N/A
Skills: History
The scene at the Mill opened up not
in the Mill, but just outside with Gilbert setting up a worktable. Upon this table he placed a pot of coffee with just a wisp of steam still escaping from the spout and two white ceramic cups. Most viewing the table would not describe the lightly bitter brown-black beverage as the most interesting feature upon it. Dominating the space was an assortment of short blades and matching sheathes. Everything from Bowie knives to seax, trench knives, fixed buck knives, and various tactical and utility blades; clip point, drop point, broken back styles and with an assortment of handles. What all of them had in common was a single edge, decent point, and they were all of respectable length to large. With a small smile, Gilbert stood behind the table with his own cup, slowly sipping and sporting a light, devious smile as he waited on his Paradoxes to join him for their first day of training.
Faith awoke at the bell toll. She had gotten used to waking up early most days and she was sure there would not be sleeping in. She threw off the covers and noticed the note under her door. She remembered today would be the day they would start training and she was anxious to get started. She read it and her face fell. Truth be told, Gilbert was a likely choice, but she remembered her choosing Evelina. She huffed a bit, tossing the note over her shoulder. She wasn't sure what to expect from that man, but she may as well face the day. She got dressed and walked over to the mill.
Immediately upon noticing the display on the table, her mood brightened. It was weaponry and it was nice looking ones at that. So it seemed combat training was on the agenda.
"We doing combat training today? Gotta say, not what I expected but I am definitely not complaining. Don't suppose you got some coffee for me?" The tall Emendator fixed his eyes upon Faith and smiled. He motioned to the coffee and nodded but did not speak a word, instead pressing a finger to his lips to indicate silence. Taking a sip from his own cup, he looked in the direction of the Main House, patiently waiting.
Bartholomew rolled over as the bell tolled, awake at the sound. "
Evelina said today would be training right? Wonder what that entails." He thought to himself, and sat up, to see the note on the floor, he rose and picked it up, scanning it over. "
Guess I'm with Gill." He muttered, shrugging. The Emendator was nice enough, he figured. He got dressed with a bit of a hurry, the last thing he wanted was to be late for that man. He had read the Epic of Gilgamesh, and if he really was him, Bart would want to be on his best behavior for the man. He rubbed his eyes, still sleepy, but was quickly out the door, heading towards The Mill.
Soon, he'd made his way there, and saw he was to be joined by Faith. "
Morning Mister Hat." He said, as he approached the table adorned with more knives than he'd ever seen in his life. Quick on the uptake, he grimaced. Combat was not at all something he wanted to engage in. Standing a bit away from the knives, he uncomfortably looked between the table and The Hat. He walked over to Faith's side and stood next to her, giving her a slightly nervous wave. He didn't know her name, but he remembered her saying she was from the Undead timeline. "
I'm sorry, I don't think we've been introduced. I'm Bart." He said, clearing his throat, and taking a quick glance at her, but quickly resting his eyes back on the blades sitting on the table.
Gilbert took a large swallow from his cup and set it down. He gave quick scrutiny of the two new Paradoxes he had to work with that morning, then began with a scolding.
"Socialize another time." he said with dismissive, articulate syllables.
"You are here purely for the purpose of learning. No other." The laid-back, easygoing Emendator was replaced by a colder, more direct individual possessing a stare capable of boring through mahogany.
"The lessons I impart are the ones that keep you alive when things go wrong. And they will. When the lessons of the other Emendators are of no help, what you take away from me will determine the likelihood of your survival." He set his cup down and selected a chisel point asian-styled knife, turned it around carefully in the morning light, and set it back down.
"Now, select a blade from the table. Take some time, but not too much. Here begins lesson one." Faith shrugged, wondering why the talkative man the day (or rather, previous day) ago. He seemed different, but she saw weaponry and couldn't be upset. She was anxious to get started. Soon, someone else walked up. It was the vomit boy. She sighed. She would be paired up with him. He looked like he could barely look at a knife, let alone wield one. Which makes sense. He would need training especially or suffer the same fate as the other man. He introduced himself and Faith couldn't be bothered.
"Whatever." She rolled her eyes, waiting to get started.
And she was already pissed. Having been chastised for essentially doing nothing wrong, she glared at Bart before making her way over to the table to pick out her knife. She observed the blades on the table. They weren't long like swords, but she imagined that was the point. Start on the smaller side and work their way up. It was hard choosing. Faith tried to recollect if she knew anything about blades, but nothing came to mind. She was sure she used them in her life, but she was new here. So she decided to have fun with it and one dagger stood out. She picked up the
blade and moved it aroudn in her hand. She nodded,
"This'll do." "Seax. Norse." intoned Gilbert,
"An earlier but highly effective style of utility knife. Very nice. Bart, you are next." He motioned again to the table of sharp implements.
Bart flinched back at being rebuffed by Gilbert, and nodded. Faith seemed less then enthused with Bart to say the least, he took it she didn't quite like being chastised. He exhaled, his apprehension apparent. He figured he'd be selecting a knife at some point, but he thought The Hat might at least tell them a bit about each one. He was pretty much in the dark on these things. For a brief second, he thought The Hat might make the two of them fight, but that quickly disappeared, being certain that he wouldn't put them in danger like that. He'd probably just give them some training with whatever blade they picked. He figured the shorter the blade he could take, the better. Bart knew he wasn't very strong; he'd want something he could wield easily, without getting exhausted. He gingerly stepped over to the table, and made his
choice, picking it up and trying to figure out the right way to grip it, moving it between his hands. "
Guess I'll give this a shot..." He said, uncertainty ringing through his voice.
"Excellent." remarked Gilbert.
"Understand, we will not be killing each other today. Such practice will come, but right now those knives will indicate your level of commitment. You will keep them with you at all times. Use them for every task that you can. Hone. Polish. Tend to them. Even if you do not develop an affinity for short blades, you will take away the lesson of them: Take care of your tools and they will take care of you. Do not, and you will suffer for it." He eyed the two Paradoxes carefully, continuing,
"I will be inspecting them daily. Remember." He stepped up to the Mill doors and swung them open to reveal a field of faint shimmering. It spread across the archway as a spiderweb adorned with dew, catching the first light of dawn.
"Bartholomew, you will be familiar with this. Faith, not as much. It is a portal, similar to the one that brought you here. This particular one opens into a barn loft in an unoccupied homestead on July 21st, 1861, near Manassas, Virginia. It has an excellent view and was not touched whatsoever by events transpiring around it. Students of history might know the significance of this, but I assure you, seeing it firsthand is an eye opener. Especially if you have never seen war before today. After you." Faith was a bit upset she wouldn't be fighting immediately. She really want to hit something, but it would have to wait. Since she was expected to take care of her blade (and what a sweet blade it was), she didn't want to upset the first Emendator she trained under, she kept it close to her as Gil ushered them over to the Mill and opened the door. She peered inside, seeing the shimmer instantly. A portal brought them here? And why would Bart be familiar with it? Faith felt Gil's warnings were pretty insignificant. Even if she hadn't seen war, she was essentially in her own war against the undead. Battles daily were the norm. And given it was in the past, it couldn't be any more horrendous than what she dealt with. She paid Bart no mind as she entered the portal. Ladies first, after all.
Bart eyed the portal that was not at all unlike the one that'd brought him to Cairo. He placed his hands, and blade by extension, behind his back. He paused to think for a second, Summer of 1861... He knew the slaves were freed in 1863, and given The Hat's hint, it wasn't at all a stretch to guess that the inciting battle of the Civil War happened this day, but he had no idea
which battle that was. Normally, he might ask, but now was not the time. He followed after Faith quickly. He'd never seen war before, he'd grant Gil that, and if there was one to see, he supposed the bloodiest war in American History would be it. He'd count himself lucky that this would be removed from the violence, if The Hat was to be believed. One thing caught Bart's attention though, The Hat said he'd be checking their blades
daily? "
How long exactly will this training be going on then?" He asked.
The expression on Gilbert's face was one of incredulity mixed with mild humor. He began to address the question slowly at first, as if the words needed to be experienced one at a time.
"Becoming a warrior takes much more than a day. Several young men and women throughout history have been conscripted, given minimal training, and forced to fight a war they had no stake in - very few of those people became warriors in their own right." He leaned in closer to Bart, allowing his voice to fill with quiet intensity,
"Bartholomew, your training never ends." As Bart decided to hesitate, Gilbert took the opportunity to grab a bag from beside the door and step through the portal himself. Even though history dictated that the point of arrival was totally abandoned, he had no desire to leave Faith in 1861 all by herself.
As Faith materialized into the world of 1861, she found herself in a hayloft. There was hay. There was a lot of hay. Faith did not like hay. It got everywhere and was a pain and if there was hay there were smelly animals around who ate hay. Faith stepped forward and looked out the open window of the hayloft and saw what they were most likely intended to see. Faith was not a history buff by any stretch, but she was not a dummy. Given the time and what she saw on the field, she had to wager it was a war in America and if two sides were fighting, it was probably the Civil War. She saw dead littered on the ground and heard the screams of the dying. She clutched her blade, aware that it would be bringing a knife to a gunfight (even if it was older century guns). She waited for Gil and Bart to appear before she moved on. She didn't want to startle the soldiers.
Bart met Gill's eyes, and nodded. The Hat did have a fair point, Rome wasn't built in a day, and he wouldn't be either.He stepped through the portal after Gill, trying not to let his trepidation control him. He ended up a little behind Faith, seeing her staring out a window. He followed her gaze, and quickly averted it, not being able to stand the sight. He felt dizzy, and he could feel his stomach turn over in disgust. Throwing up wasn't something he wanted to do again, especially not now. He clenched his jaw shut, focusing on keeping himself under control. Needless to say, he was at a loss for words at the hellscape before him.
"This is why we are here." said Gilbert, looking to the dead and dying off in the distance.
"We are nearing the end of the first major land battle of the American Civil War. The pity was, it could have been the only major land battle of the American Civil War." He cleared his throat and pointed further into the distance, indicating the growing sounds of feet upon trampled earth, steel, horses, and flame being touched to black powder.
"Those would be General McDowell's men. Union Army. He doesn't know it yet, but the withdrawal he just sounded is going to become a full rout and cost him thousands of lives. Because he failed here, this war will continue to cost hundreds of thousands of lives. Would you like to know why?" The sounds of battle and death grew louder, as a multitude of young men in blue coats and caps scrambled over the bodies of their casualties laying in the field, occasionally getting mowed down by a volley of lead or grapeshot artillery from much further out.
"Don't worry. The war never touched this barn." Faith listened to the Hat's words as he spouted off the history lesson. She didn't know why she was standing here watching it. Was she supposed to feel sorry for them? Granted, she knew that plenty of soldiers lost their lives fighting this was, some of them conscripted into it and others fighting against their will, but that's what war was. It was ugly and pitiful. She heard the artillery fire, knowing instantly why the lives were lost.
"So are we here purely for a history lesson or what? I can't imagine us getting involved here. You guys may be able to pass, but there weren't many women dressed like me with a knife running around the battlefield." For just a moment, Gilbert looked like he might actually place his full, outstretched hand upon his face, partially out of embarrassment for someone else and yet partially in disbelief. He had seen others perform this action several times in addition to his own indulgence in the practice. Perhaps he should come up with a name for it, seed it into the timelines and step in every so often to make sure it flourished. Something involving the nouns "hand" and "head", possibly. Or forehead, maybe. Face? Yes! Facehanding! No... well, no matter. Gilbert would come up with something. He was good like that.
Bart closed his eyes as he listened to The Hat, the sound of artillery in the distance. He got where he was going with this, or at least, he thought he did. Countless soldiers died, years of war were fought, and millions of dollars were wasted all because General McDowell couldn't finish the job. He turned his gaze up to Gill, and asked, "
Because... he didn't do everything he could to win the battle?" He asked. That was his best guess. The North loses a battle, it inspires the Confederacy and makes them think the war is winnable, and leads to the ultimate continuation of the war.
The meeting of Gilbert's hand and his head paused as Bart spoke. Someone was listening. He could work with this. He pointed to the baby Paradox and spoke with professorial intent.
"Close. Too broad, though." The screams of the wounded and dying continued in the distance, bodies still breathing but unable to move, even from atop one another even as their life's blood painted the ground with pooled scarlet. Gil's voice shifted to the somewhat distant, even tinged with regret and irritation.
"Brigadier General Irvin McDowell led a superior number of completely untested soldiers against a dug-in force of motivated recruits that knew the terrain. He struck out of revenge for a very recent attack, motivated almost purely by emotion." He looked to Faith, drilling holes with his eyes,
"Pride brought him here. Pride killed all of these men. He refused to listen to his officers, certain that he knew better when he knew nothing." Again his words moved to encompass the both of his students,
"He didn't stop to gather intel, he didn't try to flank or maneuver. He didn't wait for the right moment. McDowell had to march his men one hundred and nine miles south and take Richmond. Instead of acting wisely, he framed a beautiful lie to his President about a guaranteed victory and told his men that the war would last ninety days." The Hat gestured out of the hayloft window to the botched retreat in progress,
"Those men died because McDowell attempted to live up to the grand opinion he had about himself." He looked to Bartholomew, stressing,
"McDowell thought he was special. And his men paid the price for his hubris. Over six hundred thousand of them, not including civilian casualties. Please summarize, both of you: What can we learn from this?" Faith listened to the words and felt the gaze when the Hat mentioned the foolish man's pride. Was that a hint directed at her? If one had the skills, why shouldn't one be proud? It wasn't like she was proclaiming to be the best fighter, the best shooter, the fastest, or the strongest. In this topsy-turvy world she now resided in, she didn't know what she was good at anymore. Perhaps that was the lesson here.
"Is the lesson that no matter how smart you think you are, how skilled you feel you are, or how prepared you think you are, fate can always come in and kick you in the balls?" Truly, Faith understood the reasoning behind the visit, but it seemed silly to watch men die here from someone's stupid decision.
Bart gave a slight laugh at Faith's interpretation, but nodded, "
If you go in thinking you're gonna win, you're not going to be prepared for when you start to lose." He said, continuing Faith's train of thought. It was a good point, and something worth considering. If you make a plan, and don't make contingencies, you're leaving a massive opening for yourself. He was certainly interested in this, getting a lesson in strategy from Gilgamesh himself. Even if he didn't want to fight, being prepared to do so was nevertheless a good idea. "
Is that about right?" He asked, a small smile on his face.
Gilbert shook his head. These were all good points, but somehow he thought that the effect was lost on them. Perhaps it was too much, too fast. Some people didn't learn to swim by getting tossed in the deep end.
"Those men out there - the ones who are dying by the hundreds and the six hundred thousand that die in the next four years - paid the price for their General's arrogance. Be it from a Commander, line soldier, or Army cook, people die because of it." "In your training, I will do my best to treat you fairly, but I must prepare you as best I can for what lay in front of us. They are things of nightmares, far worse than any battlefield I have ever entered. These lessons will not always be kind. Understand that my decisions will ultimately be made to preserve your lives. While you are training with me, keep the image of those men on that field in your mind. This is what we are trying to avoid. This is what I am here to teach." "Take to your lessons with humility. And make your decisions in the timelines with the same humility." He motioned to the still shimmering portal back to the Destrehan Plantation, October 31st, Louisiana, 1943.
"We're done for the day. At our next training session, I intend to expose you to a variety of different weapons and combat styles. Throw the pasta on the wall and see what sticks. For now, let's get back home." The Hat's hand still pointed toward toward the portal, but his eyes lingered on the scene of unnecessary death outside.
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