Sketches, Scribbles, Dashes

Aside from Dash & Daring related posts and the odd sketch or ten, I'm doing my posting on Tumblr these days. You can find me there at the following...

http://dash-and-daring.tumblr.com/

http://vincentnappisketchblog.tumblr.com/

http://neukunstgruppe.tumblr.com/

With that said, here are a selection of recent drawings, oh Great Followers...

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Captain Mayweather & Lieutenant Fitzroy, c.1887

Captain Mayweather & Lt. Fitzroy, c. 1887

This fragment of a regimental photo of the 3rd Sikhs of the Punjab Frontier Force was recovered from remaining files of Captain Braxton Fitzroy, stored in the Political and Secret Archives of the India Office Library. In it we see Captain Mayweather, Fitzroy’s superior during the opening months of the 2nd Afghan War (standing) as well as the (then) Lieutenant Braxton Fitzroy. One of the regimental dogs, (according to research, called Old Gregg), has his head on Braxton’s knee. 

Captain Braxton Fitzroy (1861-1897?)

Addendum to Conclusion

Recently discovered memoranda attached to the files found on Captain Braxton Fitzroy shed a strange new light on the matter of his disappearance. This author is forced to wonder exactly what happened in Samarkand to shake such an officer’s faith so profoundly, and what would cause Lord Elgin to so brusquely dismiss a man who had lived his life in service to Queen and Country.

*~*~*

CLASSIFIED

TOP SECRET

From: The Office of Colonel Durand, Indian Intelligence HQ, Simla

To: Lord Elgin, The Office of the Viceroy

Subject: Death/Disappearance of Captain Braxton A. Fitzroy 

It is regrettable to lose such a decorated and useful officer of the Empire in such an inglorious way, but the accounts of the survivors of the Daedalus Expedition whom could be reached (Pundit Chandra Singh formerly of Punjab Frontier Force, Havildar Agansing Rai/5^th Gurkha Reg., Lt. Byron Baker has disappeared, cause/destination unknown) show that as usual, Fitzroy showed only the highest caliber of bravery and initiative in his work in the Himalayas.  

We fear the Russian involvement may have been minimal, contrary to prior reports. Suggest that this information be disregarded and that operations along the border continue as usual to deter further encroachments. 

Survivors report strange usage of some sort of mystical (Indian Intelligence of course disregards mysticism, but prior service records of those reporting and the exact nature of Fitzroy’s demise compel one to give such claims more credit than one would otherwise) powers by the Lama of this unnamed monastery. We suggest the reports be passed to our experts in London (i.e. the LoEG, the gentlemen in Cardiff or Messr. Dr.? At the Viceroy’s discretion of course.)

It is known to Indian Intelligence that Captain Fitzroy had shown a disconcerting tendency lately to question orders and the morality of his work since certain events in Samarkand, however, past work has made him invaluable to this office and the Empire at large, and he has a record of over a decade’s worth of exemplary service to his credit. Colonel Durand and Major Gibbons both recommend he be posthumously commended. 

Signed,

Lt. Markham Lloyd

Secretary to Colonel Durand

*~*~*

From: Lord Elgin, The Office of the Viceroy

To: The Office of Colonel Durand, Indian Intelligence HQ, Simla

Fitzroy’s filed are to be sealed and sent to India Office, London. 

An officer who has lost his faith in the Empire is no longer of service to the Empire.

Commendation denied. 

Claims of mysticism in the Himalayas are nearly constant and nearly constantly false. 

-Elgin

The Daedalus Expedition - The Conclusion

Baker gave the pile old flesh and robes a kick.

“Impossible…”

Fitzroy put a hand on his friend’s shoulder, jostling him from his thoughts. They both looked down at the faded and tattered pile of red and black cashmere that had not ten minutes before clothed a living Lama. The body there now seemed a strangely shrunken thing. Where before there had been menace, mystery, murder, there was now only the banality of a corpse.  

“It doesn’t make any sense…”

“We haven’t the luxury of time, Lieutenant. We can’t afford to think now. Just act. We have a long walk ahead of us.”

“…How are you going to tell the boys at Simla all this, old boy?”

“I’ll tell them the truth. I’ll tell them that we fulfilled our mandate, that we were ambushed, captured, tortured, and escaped execution, and that a violent, rogue sect of Buddhists were behind it all.”

“But...this just doesn’t happen, Braxton. This is something out of Kipling. Out of a novel. But we saw it. Damn it all, this was a sodding fool’s errand. And we were the fools…”

“Later, Byron. Later.”

            Fitzroy turned away from his friend to look at those who remained.

 Singh pulled at his beard, lost in thought and Benny Fish sat, staring off into the mountains. Kulbir Thapa’s body lay at his feet. Zukharov caught his eye once, defiantly, and then looked away.

None of them were in the best of condition to conduct a descent from a gentle hill, let alone a mountain, but there was only one way out, and they had no alternatives. The shattered remnants of the monastery still clung to the jag of stone above them, cloaked in a fast fading dread beneath the new snow. Fitzroy wished to be done with this place. The bridge yet waited to be crossed.

“Right, all of you up now. Just a short walk until we reach the village, and then…then we can go home.”

Fitzroy’s voice betrayed the dangerous weariness that had begun to settle over each of them, but he belted up his coat, straightened his helmet and stood tall. They could not stop now. They had to reach that village before night fell. They would not survive in this place with no fire to warm them or supplies to keep them; no one needed to say it.

They began to leave, each passing beneath the low arch of stone that lead through the great broken peak to the bridge and freedom beyond. Their feet shuffled in the snow as they held close empty weapons and bruised limbs.

It was dark and eerily quiet in the brief passage to the bridge. A lone torch flickered within, throwing gaunt shadows onto their faces. The wind blew hard beyond, whistling through the supports of the covered wooden bridge there.

It was a frail thing, made of wood dragged up from lower climates to stretch and grasp at these glacier left stones. The beams creaked with a sound that did little to inspire confidence in it’s integrity. Benny Fish moved ahead of the others, pushing against the floorboards with one booted foot. He was not reassured.

“I do not trust this wood, Sahib. The air is too dry for it. It shrinks from the walls.”

“We must cross.”

“Then I will go first, Sahib.”

The Gurkha Havildar, last of his men, put one foot in front of the other, and step by slow step, crossed the bridge.

His hands grasped the splintered wooden railing on either side of him and the Himalayan wind buffeted him through the gaps, strong enough to make him stagger and bend himself against it, head down towards the other side.

The whistling sound was piercing between the two halves of the enormous stone as the air rushed through a too constrained space. At times it sounded nearly as if curious words were being pushed through that frigid air, borne too swiftly by to be heard properly.

Lieutenant Baker wondered how anyone could have managed to span such a gap in such conditions, but that was just one more question he thought he would have to leave unanswered in these mountains.

Benny Fish inched his way across, the steps painfully slow to those watching, as they wished and hoped and willed him along, praying silently that the bridge would hold long enough to let them all pass safely.

It took the Gurkha a full five minutes to cross. They couldn’t see his face across the gap, but he waved them on and Braxton decided who would go next.

“Singh, we’ll need your special talents as a pundit once we’re across here. You next.”

            The Sikh cartographer stepped onto the bridge boldly, moving more quickly than Benny Fish now that they knew the floor wasn’t going to give way the moment he walked it. He reached nearly halfway across when the wind blew through the stone cleft with a force that knocked him sideways against the rails. They gave alarmingly. Singh snatched at the beams that stretched from roof to floor, holding on until the blast subsided. He then picked his way on further, more quickly now, before another gust could do greater harm.

            He too reached the opposite side.

            “Lieutenant, go on.”

            And so Lieutenant Byron Baker of the Guides Infantry sheathed his sword, adjusted his tunic, secured his jacket, smoothed his hair, and with great effort, put on that devil-may-care smile that had brought so much unwanted attention from the over-protective relations of certain women in Simla, and began to cross.

If even after all this, he thought he was going to do it as befit an officer of the Empire, straight backed and chin held high, he was soon disabused of the notion by the implacable will of nature that buffeted him. He stumbled for a handhold, and after a near too confident start, finished by slow and steady forward movement.

He shouted back over the abyss to Byron and Zukharov.

“That bridge is not cricket, old man! Best be careful!”

Zukharov rolled his eyes. His response of course was low enough to be snatched by the wind before it reached the other side.

“Well of course we’ll have to be careful. Such good advice, he gives, this Lieutenant Baker. It’s a wonder he has made it so far in your military.”

“In case you haven’t noticed by now Zukharov, militaries don’t tend to value intelligence.”

“Is this a confession, Braxton?”

“Let’s move, Zukharov.”

“Should we not be going one at a time? Surely I should be testing this bridge for you, oh great Captain Fitzroy.”

Zukharov’s lips twisted into a sneer as he gave Braxton his new title.

“I wonder if your sense of humor will sustain you when you rot in a Bengali jail.”

“If I should only be so fortunate as to achieve such luxurious accommodations.”

“Shut up and come on.”

The wind tore at them with a banshee’s shriek as they stepped onto the bridge. Braxton had Zukharov’s arm in a vice grip with one gloved hand, and walked the Russian in front of him as they stepped onto the eerily creaking wood.

“Again, are you sure it so wise to go at the same time?”

“I told you that you would see the inside of an Indian jail.”

“And now you intend to make good on this. Like you’ve made good on your threats to kill me. Like you made good on your promises to your Gurkhas.”

Braxton bristled at the goad. He remembered all too well how Zukharov had managed to crack his cool back in his cell. Exhaustion prevented a repeat of the incident.

“That won’t work again.”

“I didn’t expect it to.”

They made little steps, holding to the handrails of shriveled timber. The boards beneath their feet shook in the Himalayan air. Across the other end of the chasm, Baker, Benny Fish and Singh looked on with open anxiety.

*~*~*

“They are mad to cross at once. The timber will not hold,” Singh said to no one in particular.

“They will make it. He will make it, Singh. The burra Captain Braxton Fitzroy always does,” said Benny Fish.

“You damn well better be right,” said Byron. His thoughts echoed his words.

‘God help us, you had better be right.’

 *~*~*

They were nearly to the halfway point now, sliding along slowly and methodically as they could, moving so slowly that they could scarcely be said to be moving at all. Even the Russian arms dealer was silent as they picked their way across the bare structure.

Something strange reached their ears then, between the gusts of wind.

“Storm crow…”

A word seemed to weave it’s way through the wind, a whisper, something familiar…

“Storm crow…”

Zukharov peered over his shoulder with a worried look at Braxton. Fitzroy nudged him forward.

“STORM CROW…”

Something shifted wrongly beneath Braxton’s boot. The wind picked up once again, and both he and Zukharov clutched at the rails.

It picked up even further.

“STORM CROW!”

“Impossible!” cried Zukharov.

The bridge itself shifted.

“Not good, Fitzroy!”

“STORM CROW!”

The bridge shifted again, and both knew that something terrible was about to occur, and even as this realization dawned, time seemed to slow.

Braxton felt the wind pull at him, he heard it whistle through his ears, but all he saw was how the far exit suddenly seemed a poor fit for the size of the covered bridge. How curious, that stone should move like that, that it should shift off to one side or another. How curious that the bridge seemed to be sliding. How curious there should even be such a bridge in these mountains. How curious that all of this should be happening at all.

He saw Baker scream something, the words pulled from his lips by a wind that could not possibly be so strong. He saw Benny Fish and Chandra Singh make useless gestures and form useless words. He saw Zukharov’s monocle fly from his face as up became down and down became up and they tumbled within the covered bridge over and over and over down, down, down the side of a mountain that had no end.

He thought of the Countess in her room in Istanbul, the dead Princess on the Steppes, the dancer he had known in Cairo, he thought of them all. He thought of his father and he thought of their vagabond lives in service of Queen and Country. He thought of the 2^nd Afghan War, of Baker and every comrade alive and dead. He thought of every secret he had kept, every lie he had upheld, and every man he had killed. He wondered if it had all meant anything after all.

Just then an old scrap of schoolroom doggerel came to mind, the same one that he had been hearing in his thoughts since this entire affair had begun.

            ‘E is for Empire, for which we would die.’    

            *~*~*

March 30^th, 1897

Somewhere north of Sikkim, in the Himalayas

            One Sikh pundit, one Gurkha havildar and one English lieutenant stumbled through the snow and the whipping wind down precipitous peaks and neglected switchback trails, down, down, down the mountains they had climbed up what seemed like ages ago.

            They were bitter cold, wet, wounded, and silent.

            The air numbed their bodies, but it could not numb their thoughts. It could not erase the faces of the men whom they had left behind. It could not erase what they had just seen.

            As they had moved down the mountains towards the distant village, their words had been angry, desperate. Braxton knew the bridge was unsafe, why cross it two at a time? Why? What had they all heard before the bridge and their comrades tumbled down into the abyss? Hadn’t they heard it before? No, surely, that could never be. Such things did not happen. It was impossible, no it was not impossible, and surely they could not discount anything after all they had seen. He had been dead. They had seen his corpse. How could he pronounce doom from beyond the grave? Stories from high places, stories of old magic, stories of fakirs from the plains, stories full of impossibilities, and this was simply one more. But this one was different. This one involved them.

            After a time their talk had ceased. The cold had taken it from them. They didn’t move as men anymore. They had become pure animal will. They moved because to stop was to die, and they had seen too much death.

            In the distance, the rude dwellings of the poor wretches who called these mountains their home beckoned with pinpricks of firelight. Their thin trails of smoke disappeared into the rapidly changing sky.

            The last members of the Daedalus Expedition moved towards the little village, feeling very small as they walked upon the roof of the world.

*~*~*

                                                                        FIN ?

Interlude for Self-Portrait Prolificacy

I've been neglecting Blogger.

The bulk of my posting has been going on over at the three different Tumblr blogs I contribute to, one of which is devoted to Dash & Daring, another to Etudes & Ephemera, the third is a collaborative inspiration blog called the Neukunstgruppe, which I help keep packed with infusions of inspiration along with some good friends with great taste.

http://dash-and-daring.tumblr.com/

http://vincentnappisketchblog.tumblr.com/

http://neukunstgruppe.tumblr.com/

Check them out and follow all three!

Meanwhile, to appease the capricious internet grey eminence of Big Brother Google, here are six shots of my mug.

The Daedalus Expedition - Old Friends

“Sahib! Down!” Braxton flung himself into the snow as Benny Fish cocked his rifle and began to fire at the red and black robed man that stood unmoving at the entrance to the bridge. His hands moved automatically, firing and reloading more swiftly that the eye could follow. But each shot went strange, twisting impossibly or stopping short.

Lieutenant Baker ran to Fitzroy watching dumbstruck at what could not be.

 “Faith. Faith is more powerful than any bullet, English.”

The Lama moved forward, but his feet did not touch the earth. His robes fluttered in a wind that did not reach the others.

Chandra Singh moved after Baker, he kept his rifle trained on the Lama, whose movements blasphemed against natural laws.

Zukharov adjusted his monocle, blinking hugely. The air seemed very thin to him suddenly, and he groped in his coat for something he had kept unused through all the fighting. His insurance.

Baker rushed to the Lama, swinging his sword with a savagery that would have cut any other man clean in two. He was carelessly tossed aside with a wave of the Lama’s hand, landing feet away in the snow.

Singh began to fire now, moving closer and closer to the floating Lama, his mouth set in a hard scowl as the crack of gunfire died too quickly in the silence that enveloped them. The bullets all went wide. Benny Fish joined in the fusillade with his own dwindling ammunition. The Lama’s face twisted in a grimace. It was clear that whatever puissance he had called to his aid was not easy to maintain. He was exerting himself.

Baker picked himself up again, rushing to the Lama with a defiant cry. He was swatted away again, less far this time. The mad monk buckled slowly, sinking closer to the ground. He spoke, nearly pleading, and a twisted beneficence passed over his face.

“Can you not see that I only wish to save this world? Can you not see that I am salvation? I am here to break the endless cycle of violence. I am here as peace. I am here as love. Death brings new life, and I will bring death in order to bring life. To love all so deeply and not act, that is the crime!”

His words went without understanding to the ears of all save Zukharov, Fitzroy and Singh, and none of them were ready to accept such things.

Singh kept firing and reloading, and not a shot touched the man. This could not be.

Baker shook his head as blood trickled from his nose, and he rose unsteadily once more to his feet. He staggered to the Lama and swung again as Singh fired ineffectively. The Lama barked words that twisted and snaked through the air, flinging the pundit backwards against an exposed gnarl of stone, and as he did so, he stretched out a hand, catching Baker’s sword mid-swing and wrenched it from his grasp. With a yell, a blast of impossible air knocked the Lieutenant backwards, flat on his back.

            Benny Fish fired one last shot before he tossed the spent rifle to the ground, drew his kukri and rushed this man who had killed his men, who had denied them a warrior’s death. He did not get far before he joined Chandra Singh, knocked out cold by the stone he had landed against. The world went dark for the Havildar.

            Braxton Fitzroy stood cold in the silence that followed. Not a shot sounded, not a blade cut true, and the wind even had ceased to blow. He looked about. Baker lay collapsed in the snow, and Benny Fish and Chandra Singh had been knocked unconscious. It would be up to him. There was no fear in his mind. Only a rage moved through him as the Lama’s robes touched the snow. The monk spat blood. His magic had taken a toll. His small eyes caught Fitzroy’s own, and now the Englishman could see the weird glow that smoldered deep within them. He said something, a whisper. Fitzroy didn’t care. He was going to kill the man with his bare hands.

            He took only a few steps when he realized that his feet would move no more. His boots had been stuck fast, ice clutched at him, rooting him to the mountain.

            The Lama labored for breath.

            “Your time will come, English. But first…first…I must deal with those who would betray me…”

            Zukharov had stayed at the rear of the fray throughout, his hand in his coat. He began to step backwards as the Lama moved to him, closing the distance with a shuffle that could not have carried him as quickly or as far as it did. He snatched the Russian’s collar, breathing heavily, his words slow with pain.

            “I saved you, cur, and you have the…audacity…to dishonor me so… When I found you in Cairo you were a shell of a man… You were nothing… Riddled with vermin…wounded…impure with whore-gotten diseases…hiding with rats infested houses to avoid the men who wanted you dead… I bought your freedom. I had seen you in my visions, traitor… I knew you would be the one to bring guns to my monks, but I had not foreseen this…and for this, you will die.”

            Zukharov twisted his hand inside his coat, and a shot rent the air.

            The Lama looked incredulously downwards to the hole in the Russian’s jacket, and the hole in his own robes.

            “Insurance,” said Zukharov with a smirk, pulling out the smoking Mauser he had kept hidden there.

            “Folly,” smiled the Lama.

            Zukharov’s face fell. The Lama delivered a backhanded slap that send the arms dealer reeling, as he pulled from within his robes a dagger, and advanced with murderous intent. The Russian’s monocle popped from his eye as he tripped backwards into the snow, a desperate panic seizing him. His eyes flickered to all those who might have intervened. Only one still stood, pulling impotently at legs that would not move. Zukharov did not think about what he did next. Instinct guided him. The arms dealer gripped the Mauser by it’s searing barrel and threw it with all the strength and accuracy he could muster.

            “FITZROY!”

            The gun arced in near slow motion through the air, spinning in lazy circles as Braxton and the Lama both looked up. The Englishman over extended himself as he reached out his hand, his momentum causing him to fall forward and crack the ice that held him fast. He landed face first on the stones and snow. The Lama looked behind him with a snarl and turned once again to advance on the prone and helpless Zukharov.

            “Your aim is as poor as your judgment, cur.”

            Zukharov swallowed. Perhaps that had been a poor idea after all.

            Down the way, Braxton smiled.

He had caught his gun during the fall. The ice around his legs had snapped. He could move once again.

            The Lama knelt on his betrayer’s chest, his old knees jutting hard from his robes, pushing the breath from the Russian’s lungs. Zukharov’s insurance had obviously had an effect though. The Lama’s movements and words were thick with fatigue and blood flecked his mouth.

            “You destroyed my house… You betrayed my monks… You have thrown away salvation to lie with dogs… Perhaps I was the fool to think you could have been saved in the first place. But now it matters not. Goodbye, cur.” He raised his dagger for a killing stroke, when an unexpected crack rang out.

The Lama arched his back in pain, his free hand flying to the new wound. He forgot his pain, rising from the Russian’s chest and began to move through the snow to his attacker.

            Captain Braxton Fitzroy walked slowly towards him as he kept firing, his arm held straight, his aim true.

            Step, step

            Fire

            Step, step

            Fire

            Step, step

            Fire

            Step, step

            Fire

            Step, step

            Fire

            Step, step

            Fire

            The Lama staggered after each shot, but still he moved, still he advanced, and his eyes still burned with an unnatural light. Braxton did not stop. The two closed to yards, then feet, closer and closer and closer until only a few steps separated them.  

            Step

            Fitzroy aimed at the Lama’s heart.

            Step

            The Lama faltered, but kept moving.

            Step

            Fitzroy sighted down the barrel of his gun.

            Step

            The Lama drew back his dagger to end this.

            Fire.

The Lama looked curiously at Braxton. The Captain looked back. He had made himself a stone once more. The monk staggered, he moved his mouth to speak, but only managed two words.

“…Storm…crow…”

The monk collapsed forward against Braxton’s boots, slumping into the snow.

The wind began to blow again.

Fitzroy looked down at the dead mess of robes and wrinkled skin and fading sigils that lay pooled at his feet, stepped over them, and walked to Zukharov, who had begun to stand.

“I knew you would get him, ol-…”

Braxton kicked Zukharov square in the gut, grabbed a handful of his coat as he doubled over, and brought the butt of his Mauser down onto the back of his head. The Russian curled up in the snow, coughing and sucking in air. He looked pleadingly at Fitzroy.

“Old friend…”

Fitzroy knelt and grabbed a fistful of his hair.

“Old friend…”

He placed the barrel of the Mauser to Zukharov’s head.

“Braxton, please old friend, please…”

Zukharov smiled with a sickening desperation. All Fitzroy could see were his dead Gurkhas. The stone in his chest hardened.

He pulled the trigger.

…Nothing happened.

The Mauser was empty.

            “I am not your friend.”

            Fitzroy let go of the arms dealer’s hair, and stood.

*~*~*