Warr'd on by Cranes. . .
For mamcdowell. [Apologies, but this post exceeded the maximum comment size.]
I have seen the borderlands of Hell. God bless me, may I forget them! Wandering in the lands of Tartary, by the Caucasian Wall, I woke in the night and found that my guide had deserted me. That scoundrel Odmer-- gone in the night!
I'd woken in torment from a terrible tooth-ache that had plagued me for a week. Above my head, the stars burned blue. I struggled to tie down the flapping canvas flies of the tent, as a frozen whirlwind blew down out of the north. Then I sat by the ashes of the cooking fire, poking for embers, and I drank off a vial of tonic I had purchased from a Scythian merchant.
The tonic calmed my nerves, and soon I found myself struggling with dazed determination up the sharp stones of the incline against which we had made camp. Odmer, that ungrateful dog, had taken all three horses, and all our supplies, and I knew that I was bound to die before the sun had sunk again. But with my nerves dulled by the medicine, and its false warmth flushing through my body, I felt some of the indomitable spirit of our brave countrymen, whose voyages I had devoured on paper with such delight before setting out on my own. In a long and freezing hour I left the remains of our little camp, and mounted the crest of the hill, still deep in the shadows of night.
How can I forget what I have seen? I might pray for madness, if I did not know in the certainty of my terror that madness would only render my memories more real to me. From that rocky crest, I looked down into the first nightmare of all God-fearing men. I had stumbled across the parade ground of a fiendish army, an army whose nature I knew only too well. Even from such a great height as I surveyed the legion, spread before me on a blasted plain, I knew that I looked on a place where giants ruled, for even the demonic faces carved on the bosses of their shields shone clearly to my naked eyes. A field of warriors, whose commander I prayed I would not see! Phalanxes eight warriors to a side, countless phalanxes! Spears like the tallest pines, and shields like galleon sails!
How I tore my gaze from those drilling hordes, I do not know, but I raised my eyes and saw a distant city smouldering on the plain, divided by a broad river, and I saw the sky choked with the smoke of unceasing industry, and the green glitter of an unholy light. What vast, hidden metropolis was this, that bested my London in its size, and Babylon in its blackness? I knew-- in my heart, I knew.
And over the city, ushering to and fro, on silent wings, hurtled the sentries of that dark army. They flew in the wide loops that the serpent's body makes, and called in a salute of brass voices to the legion below. And those mighty warriors in array struck their tall lances against their shields, and thunder rolled up from the plain of Hell. The musicians of the giant band struck up a mournful tune, a tune of such softness and such misery, that blew to me on smoking winds. I thought my heart would break to hear it.
Did I imagine that I could see their faces? Like statuary: perfect golden masks of courage, and nobility, and pride? I could not tell where their armour ended and their flesh began, or whether they were crowned in hair, or fire, or whether their wings were soft as peacock plumes, or hard as iron blades.
We are as pygmies, warred on by cranes; we, the puny race of men! If I could see those warriors, what hope did I have that I could conceal myself from their whirling sentries? I turned and fled back to the cold camp, and salvaged what I could, and fled westward. The thunder rolled after me for days--or I thought it did-- and in the chatter of my freezing brain, I turned over and over again those schoolboy lines, stunned with their new immensity, and taunted by the burden of their truth:
All in a moment through the gloom were seen
Ten thousand Banners rise into the Air
With Orient Colours waving: with them rose
A Forrest huge of Spears: and thronging Helms
Appear'd, and serried Shields in thick array
Of depth immeasurable: Anon they move
In perfect Phalanx to the Dorian mood
Of Flutes and soft Recorders; such as rais'd
To hight of noblest temper Hero's old
Arming to Battel, and in stead of rage
Deliberate valour breath'd, firm and unmov'd
With dread of death to flight or foul retreat,
Nor wanting power to mitigate and swage
With solemn touches, troubl'd thoughts, and chase
Anguish and doubt and fear and sorrow and pain
From mortal or immortal minds. Thus they
Breathing united force with fixed thought
Mov'd on in silence to soft Pipes that charm'd
Thir painful steps o're the burnt soyle; and now
Advanc't in view, they stand, a horrid Front
Of dreadful length and dazling Arms, in guise
Of Warriers old with order'd Spear and Shield,
Awaiting what command thir mighty Chief
Had to impose: He through the armed Files
Darts his experienc't eye, and soon traverse
The whole Battalion views, thir order due,
Thir visages and stature as of Gods,
Thir number last he summs. And now his heart
Distends with pride, and hardning in his strength
Glories: For never since created man,
Met such imbodied force, as nam'd with these
Could merit more then that small infantry
Warr'd on by Cranes though all the Giant brood
Of Phlegra with th' Heroic Race were joyn'd
That fought at Theb's and Ilium...
But even as my heart quaked at that thunder, how I yearned to hear those martial pipes again! That sweet music of Hell, that set my blood on fire! O Pandemonium, you have stolen my heart with your song!
- from Travels in Arabia and the Caucasus by Geoffrey Wither, Esq. (London, 1810).