Tales of the Parodyverse

Colonel Blanchford Bertram & The Dark City - Part One.


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ManMan
Fri Jun 20, 2003 at 01:38:32 pm EDT
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I'd just like to point out that the other parts won't be delivered that regularly, but I'll get the second one out soon, I promise : )



The year was 1866 and the medals on my uniform still sparkled with a terrible lustre; the League had not convened since the war began and though the Confederacy had fell some months ago, I had had no contact with any of my former friends.
All the above reasons impressed upon me the urgency to leave the country and somehow, in the eyes of my colleagues, redeem myself.
I journeyed south with only my horse and rifle for company, I looked for any lost cause to champion, any fight not worth fighting, but to no degree of satisfaction did I find myself atoned.
My wanderings eventually took me into Mexico, but still further south I rode, past the thundering Basaseachi Falls, past the boomtown silver-mines of Alamos and Real De Catorce and eventually, westward to a sleepy harbour called Puerto Vallarta.
Upon my arrival in the town, I eagerly sought places that someone like myself could cause the most trouble. I found a small inn called the El Refugio del perdido - Haven of the Lost - I laughed at it's name and thought that maybe God had a sense of humour after all.
Entering, I was greeted by the natives with such potent wave of hostility that it instinctively made me leave, retrieve my Henry rifle and re-enter, hands grasped around the barrel and it's trigger; the natives gave me a second glance and went quickly back to their drinking.
I approached the bar and ordered a whisky from a girl so young she used both hands to pour with, I accepted the glass and told her to leave the bottle, I gave her a dollar and she left to serve others.
I was halfway into the bottle - and halfway into a stupor - that I almost didn't recognise the language being spoken by a group sitting at a table next to me. It was English; an elderly gentleman was explaining to a young woman about delays in travelling. Being of an inquisitive mind, I politely inquired as the nature of their trouble.
The gentleman was relieved to hear an American voice and quickly recounted his experiences of the past few days. The man's name was Lord Arthur Huntingdon-Pepper and he and his daughter - Olivia, a singular woman of dignity and grace - had travelled from San Francisco on their way to meet with an archaeological team bound for Arequipa in southern Peru. The boat they had chartered had been damaged in a squall and had stopped in Puerto Vallarta for repairs, though delays had meant an uncomfortable few days in the town; the natives had been eyeing both the money Lord Huntingdon-Pepper had and the daughter that accompanied him. They had been further troubled by the information that repairs on their boat - the Compass Rose - would take another 3 days.
As a southern gentlemen - we used to be known for our hospitality - I could not stand by and watch Lord Huntingdon-Pepper and his lovely daughter be taken advantage of. I politely excused myself from their company, promising to return shortly and left the bar for the harbour.
The Compass Rose was raft with walls; its condition led me to believe that the boat had sailed on the desperate wishes of it’s passengers rather than any skill employed by it’s crew. The repairmen were nowhere to be seen on deck or below, though it seemed - even with my limited nautical ability - that the boat had been repaired to the best of their ability. I went back to the inn to report my findings.
I entered and found a scene most disagreeable; natives had surrounded Lord Huntingdon-Pepper and his daughter, the eyes of some told me all I needed to know about their motives. Raising my Henry rifle to my shoulder, I intended a warning shot to anyone intending harm, but, having half a bottle of whisky in one’s body affects one’s judgement and I missed the air hitting a native, causing him to spin like a carousel clutching at what once was his ear. I took a .44 cartridge from my vest and reloaded. I told Lord Huntingdon-Pepper to follow me to the boat and to pick up his crew on the way. The Lord told me that the native clutching his ear was the first-mate. I conceded that maybe we would have to find a new crew but first we must leave Puerto Vallarta, Lord Huntingdon-Pepper agreed and in the company of his daughter made his way to the harbour, I followed, my eyes and my rifle on any native that showed any intent.
We boarded the Compass Rose and set about quickly rendering her fit to sail. As I was untying her from the dock, I heard a gun report behind me; evidently, the natives had found the lone gun in town and set about finishing us with it. I called to Olivia to throw me my rifle, which I had stowed on deck, her admirable form quickly responded and I set about finishing the native threat once and for all. I steadied myself against a tree, held my breath, pulled the trigger and blew the revolver from the native’s hand, rendering the gun inoperable. The native advance quickly stopped; even more quickly, they retreated. Lord Huntingdon-Pepper - who over the coming days, I discovered had served with the Royal Navy - ordered me aboard and the three of us set sail for Peru.


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