July 3rd, in the year of our Empire, 1012
Today was momentous. We managed to push back enemy forces despite heavy resistance, and we did so without exceeding our projected casualties. The only difficulty now will be taking the wall.
Personally, however, I am beginning to disagree with this campaign. The causes become less and less clear, and the men are getting more and more unruly. Something about this war is changing them. And I have to agree that, to some degree, it has been changing me. Today, a refugee camp not too far from the wall was ambushed by our men against our orders. They had escaped Khooma, fleeing further south. However, I was unable to stay my men as they tore through the encampment. Man, woman and child was slaughtered before I had time to pull back the attack, and when I did, there was something savage in the eyes of the soldiers. Admiral Clarke had warned me of this. Before... well.
On the other hand, the southern folk have not stopped their assault. Day and night, scouts are ambushed and camps are attacked, but all it has been doing for them is buying them time. And they know it is useless. They have no surprises, and all their tricks have been spent - our spies assured us of that before this campaign even began. All we have to do is push through, and the south will be the Empire's again.
The heat has been an issue as well, unbearable as it is. The sands already provide an exceeding amount of discomfort, and navigating under the scorching sun was almost as difficult as that thick jungle that lined the shores. Yet movement has been much faster and, as much as I hate to say it, progress is increasing as more soldiers fall. Our numbers, and more importantly, our weaponry still overpower them, but if we do not take all the necessary precautions, we may end up at the other end of one of their spears, or with an arrow through our heads.
I have ordered the immediate preparation of the cannons and have tasked the chemist with concocting a flammable lining for the cannonballs. One precisely timed strike in the early morning should surprise them enough for a successful siege.
But for now, all that should be on our minds is rest. The last few days have taught us that much. I am taking the first and third shift of watch with two others, while the other soldiers are catching up on lost hours. The sun has begun to fall as I have been writing, and around me, flintlocks are being cleaned and swords sharpened.
Today was momentous, yet with each passing day, I realize that tomorrow is what matters most.
July 5th, in the year of our Empire, 1012
The cannons did their work. The wall to Khooma has been breached, and by the guidance and blessing of the first rays of the sun, three of our camps advanced into enemy territory. The city's defenses fell effortlessly.
There is not much to report on our end. News from the shore says that all remaining minor encampments have been razed, and lesser portion of the fleet is sending the remaining prisoners off to the mining colonies. A new shipment of supplies and materials is headed our way by the end of the month, at which point colonizing efforts are to begin. Afterwards, we are to expect three supervising members of the Imperial Guard.
The campaign is, for all its intentions and its purposes, over. The men are mourning the losses and celebrating the victories, drinking to their fallen comrades and to the Empire's glory. Yet I cannot help but hesitate in doing either. The Admiral's death still weighs heavy on my shoulders. I curse myself for inaction, and my inability to describe nor admit to it in words leaves me feeling...
Empty.
In my mind, the image of his fall haunts me day and night.
July 12th, in the year of our Empire, 1012
I awoke to the image of a bloodied sun. The smell of smoke is still prevalent in the air, despite the many days since Khooma's burning. Perhaps the stench of ash simply ingrained itself in my mind.
I am haunted now by dreams, after years of never noticing their absence. At first, it was a pleasant surprise, yet now, I wish to be rid of the sensation. I wish to be rid of the responsibility. Of the blame. Of the guilt.
Yet I cannot. I twist and turn in my sleep, as I never have done, and as I woke to the red morning sky, I felt a disturbing serenity in its hue.
The men have begun praying to the sun, defiantly begging against the thoughts that plague them. The sun reminds them - perhaps too much, of their actions. I caught some of them mumbling to themselves - others are simply beginning to lose focus, often staring off into space. In truth, I fear for them. I fear a curse, befallen in the sake of blood. Blood, burned and fresh, embedded in the earth, turning the sand and soil beneath our very feet as red as the morning sky.
A rational man would tell me that sun is red at the fault of celestial science. A rational man would speak of numbers and star patterns. A rational man would speak of mental trauma. Yet these are not rational men. They are men of superstition, men of war. Men of luck and hardship. Young men, thrown into a fray of blood.
I am among these men. I am these men. And I fear them as I fear for me.
July 21st, in the year of our Empire, 1012
The first shipment arrived. Half of it came in the early hours of the morning, by way of caravan. Alongside the couriers was a man. I handed him my final report on the campaign personally, and informed him of the Admiral's demise. I watched carefully as the words passed over his mind, yet his eyes were cold and his look unwavering. I shuddered to think how long this man had heard such words, and once again felt sorrow.
As for the withdrawal of our forces, he nonchalantly stated that the first half of our encampment would be moved by the end of the week, once the coastal forces packed up and left.
Apparently, there had been much progress over the past few days, with two of the planned fifteen forts already in construction. I told him of the worsening mental state in the men, and that their inexperience has left them in shock. He waived my concerns and insisted that such things were to be expected, and that there would be compensation and treatment.
The last word was spoken hesitantly, as if the man considered its true definition.
Later in the day, I was approached by two soldiers. They spoke, hesitantly so, of nightmares and 'wicked thoughts'. They were not the first. Much of the encampment fell silent within two weeks after the fall of Khooma. I understand their fears. Despite rational thought, and despite this not being my first campaign, the nightmares are worse than they have ever been.
I could not - nor did I wish to imagine what the soldiers envisioned in their slumber.
July 30th, in the year of our Empire, 1012
No news from home. The first group should have been picked up by yesterday eve at the latest, yet I have yet to hear from the shoreline.
The men have begun complaining. Keeping them under control is difficult, but insofar still manageable. Some in the group, like Derek, have begun rowdy behaviour - two days ago, he begun a brawl at noon time. Breaking the fight up was easy enough, yet what I found difficult to manage was his look - he looked thirsty. Enraged.
I can still manage the men. But Derek began something that I wish not to witness. I simply hope that the fleet's tardiness will not develop to the point where this encampment loses its grip on humanity. The isolation, the memories, its breaking the soldiers. Its breaking me.
Each day, I awake in a gasp of air - air that is thick with the unbearable tension that lies over all our heads.
And this heat is not helping.
August 4th, in the year of our Empire, 1012
I... am unsure. Unsure of how I should put this to words. Unsure of how this will end.
Derek is dead. And with him rests one of the younger soldiers - among the first to ask for help. I cannot recall what truly happened. All I remember was being woken to screams of pain, and when I entered the barracks, it was too late. Those that woke quickly enough to hold him back were either groaning in pain, or keeping him restrained, yet they had not managed to do it early enough. Bleeding before him was the younger soldier. Derek's hands were covered in blood, his fingers curled into claws, a murderous stare in his eyes. For a moment, we looked at each other. Then he tore himself free.
I reacted. I pulled my gun, yet he knocked it away. Had I not hesitated, it would have ended there. But it did not. He took something blunt - I am not sure what - and knocked me over. I was dazed, yet faintly heard yelp after yelp, until all that echoed in my head was the decreasingly loud sound of Derek beating the... child, over the head. I am not even sure as to what his name was. The sound slowed in frequency, and as I struggled to pull myself up, I heard his yells of anger, twisting and mangling from hatred to fear.
I reached for my pistol, yet the others had reacted first. I watched as they beat on him; some were knocked away before they got a good swing in, but eventually, he was overwhelmed as the rest of the barracks woke.
I ordered, bellowing, and then yelling. Yet it all went over their head. I remember stumbling backwards onto the floor, seeing in my hazy vision a group of men, hunched over an unseen figure, arms rising and falling, each time more bent and each time more bloody.
I remember waking, apparently not too long later, approached by five of six of my men - I could not do a proper count. I felt a shiver in my back as they coldly reported the casualties of this morning. Although I felt myself struggling to think, and nearly failing to maintain composure, I ordered a full report by tomorrow, and - doubting my decision, but having no other choice - appointed one of the men to watch duty, to ensure no further incident.
As I write this, I tremble. I have failed, succumbing to weakness in the one moment they needed me the most. I lost control, and in doing so, lost two men.
I cannot let it come to this. I have to overcome the doubt. I have to overcome Clarke. The lives of these soldiers has fallen unto me, and I have failed them more than I could afford to.
Now, I owe them.
August 5th, in the year of our Empire, 1012
No further incident. Somehow, something changed in the men yesterday. I looked in their eyes as I addressed the company this morning, and I saw not regret nor sorrow, but shame. Shame for what had happened. Shame for what they had done. Some stared down at their hands, shaking them nervously, probably envisioning the blood.
No leader should have to deal with this. No leader should have to hold a report on the murder of two of his men, in within his own company of soldiers. But there is no room for complaints. Nor is there any tolerance for murder. I ordered the men who killed Derek to come forward, and to my surprise, a number of men stood up and stepped forward. I looked into their eyes. They were empty. There was no fire, no life.
I ordered separation from the rest of the company, as well as a cut from rations. Then I ordered them discharged.
It was all I could do. I expected retaliation, I expected anger, yet what I received was much worse.
I received nothing. Nothing but a cold, hard stare, and rigid nod. Among the crowd in the back, some soldiers looked at their feet. Others looked into space, blankly staring. Three or four were nervously shaking in their respective spots. Yet not a single soldier reacted to the judgment.
As I write this, I do not know if I will survive the night. I have ordered all weapons confiscated and locked in my personal tent, yet I know that if they truly wanted me dead, they would not need any weapons.
On the other hand, fear is replaced by guilt - and indecisiveness. Clarke, and now the young man. Both dead by my inaction. Yet, had I stopped it, what would have been then? What would the men think when they woke to the sound of gunfire, and the image of me standing over Derek?
Not to mention what I would feel.
As I write this, I feel numb. Numb in knowing that, one way or another, my men might continue to slaughter each other. Numb knowing that I may not wake. And I grow even more devoid and depraved at the realization that I may have to, when the time comes, kill my own men to save them.
I can only hope that the boats arrive.
August 6th, in the year of our Empire, 1012
Today was the best in a week. The first set of boats arrived, and by noon, half of the men were packed. I had spent the entire morning preparing the formal letters of discharge, and gave them each to the men. Somehow, despite by best intuitions, I felt that something had snapped within them, something that changed them. Somehow, I almost felt like they needed the discharge. Now, I feel that they felt neither anger, nor shock, but relief. Relief, that they had woken from a nightmare they felt would last forever.
Nobody questioned the Empire's tardiness, myself included. No one spoke their mind on the issue, whether they believed the cause to be bad weather, bureaucracy, or some other kind of hindrance - we were simply glad that they had come at all. I will not lie, however - I am curious.
Currently, the company stands at eleven. Twelve left with the carriages just hours before the sun set, and the remainder spent the day saying farewell. Well, some of them did.
With the carriages came half a dozen men, with an order and a document stating that they were the first to begin constructing on the ruins of Khooma. Our encampment is not far from the city, so they decided to take up the empty beds in the barracks.
There was nothing unusual to this. We came in to take Khooma, and now that the locals were either slaughtered or sent to work in the mines, the men from construction have arrived to clean up and rebuild in the fashion of the Empire. Then come the settlers, and the landowners, and the businessmen. From then on, it would be a game of numbers, with lines made across maps, and Imperial currency exchanged between pockets.
The influx of resources and the amount of new ground would open up more possibilities, increasing the size and productivity of the market, and the overall economy of the Empire itself. Access to further trade routes would renew and reinforce the Empire's already iron grip on most of the known world's economy as well.
This was the reward in war. This was what we fought for. For the glory of the Empire, and the honor to be in its service.
I ordered the remainder of the company to begin slowly packing, to keep them focused on leaving, and ensure that their mind does not trail off to other things. Things that may be less pleasant than leaving this damned part of the world for the cooler, more familiar winds of the Isle of Man.
Today, I shall dream again. But, in light of this much needed turn, they shall be pleasant dreams of cold drinks, sea breezes and the sight of the industrial fisheries of Cronwell.
August 16th, in the year of our Empire, 1012
Headed home at last. I would write of the cool wind, or of the sight of the seas, or of the familiar feeling of sea sickness, but there is more pressing news. The Imperial Guard has summoned me.
Last night, as the carriages arrived for us, I received a formal letter, requesting my attendance on the 20th of next month at the formal ceremonial awards in Cronwell. Yet it is more than an invitation. It is a letter of approval - a notice that I have been chosen as a candidate for service in the highest political council of the Empire.
I should be ecstatic. Thrilled. I was, yet I am not anymore. I woke feeling cautious, anxious, almost as if the letter in mind hand was a warning rather than a reward. Despite my report on Clarke's death, and despite the incident at camp, I was being nominated for a position in the Imperial Guard.
I shall wait and see. Perhaps there is something to this I have yet to uncover.
October 1st, in the year of our Empire, 1012
It has been a while since I have written.
Yesterday, I attended the formal ceremonies in the city's judicial hall. Commendations were handed around, condolences were exchanged, the dead were mourned, and the victory was declared a momentous and historical one.
Among the declarations were, as I had thought, my status as admiral. Publicly promoted war hero, Admiral Edward Charleston. Despite the circumstances of the war and its consequences, I felt proud of myself. Somehow, I felt that I had deserved it.
Not I am unsure. It is suggested that I am perhaps the youngest to be promoted to such a level of military prestige, and in the Empire, with such prestige comes political power.
Which brings me to the Imperial Guard. Despite the letter and the way it was worded, I was not made part of the council. It appears to me as though whoever was pulling the strings on this managed to get away with half of his plan, but failed in getting me into the council.
Who was doing this? And what did they want?
As for the adjustment in the city, I feel less at home than I had imagined. Yet I know that that has little to do with the city.
The void within me remains. I feel it hungering, swallowing, taking pleasure from everything I do, leaving me with only a fraction of emotion. I feel like it should anger me, yet even part of that is taken away.
I have also, to my great displeasure, taken too fondly to drinking. Somehow it numbs my thoughts, yet fills the void, and I can feel more than I could when clear headed. In contrast, however, I hate the lack of clarity. Especially with the increasing amount of odd things happening in the city. Yet aside from that, things remain to be, politically speaking, as they always have been. Talks of raging gang wars in the more filthy parts of Cronwell, and corruption deep within the higher circles of Imperial government.
I was also reminded of my men today, as I received reports on their locations and current statuses after having asked for these about a week ago.
I wished I could have rescinded that order, erasing it from my memory. Suicides, arrests, molestation and counts of public drunkenness and violence. One even committed murder.
I could not bring myself to read the details. Each line simply cut deeper, reminding me of my failure, and with each reminder, I was more and more confused. Why the promotion to admiral? And why so hastily?
With the campaign officially over, however, and my military and political rank reinstated, there are things to be done. As an admiral, I now serve the internal security, specifically that of Cronwell City's coasts, and the more heinous crimes in the aptly dubbed 'underworld' that is the old town's abandoned sewer systems.
I do not look forward to endless hours of bureaucracy, and the prospect of being faced with daily reminders of what happened at Khooma is not pleasant. I wonder how I shall sleep tonight.