Steampunk Voyages

by Irene Radford

  “Speed and intersect?” I asked as I dropped two magnifiers over my right goggle lens. The dark speck in the far distance jumped in size to a recognizable vessel. I added a third lens. The ship took on the sleek outline of an express: small, almost dainty, with more envelope than ship. The bold Hudson’s Bay Company logo shone clearly on the silver envelope. Who else could afford an express to the remote Columbia Department of North America?

  “She’s all boilers, water reservoir, and coal. No cargo bay,” Jimmy muttered. “Not worth our bother.”

  “Passengers and documents aboard an unscheduled flight could prove interesting and worthy of ransom,” Forbes commented. “If they strip the crew from nine to five, they’ve got room and weight allowance for a highly placed investor or Company officer.”

  “Approaching at . . . at . . . Ma’am, looks like they’re moving at twenty knots. Projecting intersect at Fort Vancouver aerofield,” Jimmy Seaforth announced. On a good day, with a full head of steam and a tail wind, the White Swan could hold eighteen knots for one thousand miles before we had to refuel. This wasn’t a good day. We limped along, barely holding twelve knots at two thousand feet.

  “There’s only one man in the entire Hudson’s Bay Company who could order an express to move at that speed this far from Montréal,” I mused aloud. “Looks like Sir George Simpson has something important to say to Dr. John McLoughlin. Something he can’t trust to a courier.”

  “Dr. John has been known to misplace or delay more than one courier until it’s too late to do anything about the message,” Jimmy muttered the thoughts in all our heads.

  “Order to loose the dragons, Ma’am?” Forbes asked. His feet twitched in his eagerness to fly. I knew the feeling.

  “Not yet.”

  He looked mightily disappointed and turned his bleak gaze toward me for an explanation.

  An explanation I could not and would not share with him. Yet.

  My sister Elise—known to polite society as Madame Magdala, seeress, employed by Lady Ada Lovelace, the inventor of automata, as the proprietor of the Book View Café in London—had sent me privileged information by telegraph to our home port of Honoruru in the Sandwich Islands. She’d written that Sir George was up to something. A coup d’état perhaps? Something that would wrest power over the Columbia Department from the London Board of Governors and place it firmly in his own hands.

  Her mission and my need for repairs coincided.

  I had raided richly laden cargos of beaver and otter pelts often enough to believe the rumours that Sir George planned to set up an independent fiefdom along the Columbia River, free from interference by both England and the United States.

  Sir George could very well manipulate himself into a kingship, using his remoteness from the authority of both the Governors and the crown to act as he pleased. Just as Dr. John McLoughlin had. But with fewer scruples or concern for the inhabitants along the Columbia River—most of whom came from the United States.

  “I want to talk to Dr. John at Fort Vancouver before we move against Sir George,” I mused aloud.

  “The White Headed Eagle ain’t gonna be too happy that his boss is descending upon him unannounced,” Forbes said. “I say we take out the express. We could add it to our fleet.”

  With himself as captain. I knew Forbes’ ambitions. Twenty years my junior, he had a lot to learn about alliances and trade, whom to trust, and whom to bribe. Pirating entailed a lot more than just fighting and looting.

  “Set course to land in French Prairie,” I ordered. “We’ll seek out rumours while we do repairs.”

  “That’s twenty miles up the Willamette River from the fort,” Forbes protested.

  “Exactly. Twenty miles away from igniting Sir George’s suspicions until we are up to full steam. We’ll spy out this caper from the ground.”

  <<>>

  Twenty men dressed in a mixture of calico and buckskin awaited us as our galleon settled on the vast meadow beside the Willamette River. Some bore the distinctive high cheekbones and copper skin of half-breed Indians. The rest looked as if their ancestors hailed from a dozen European countries.

  Their weapons varied as widely as their clothing and ancestry. I noted long-barrelled, large-bore hunting rifles and the lighter, more uniform weapons dispensed by the HBC. They all carried hunting knives that could skin and dress out prey with swift accuracy—or as easily slit a human throat.

  “Power down, but keep light ballast in the envelope,” I spoke quietly into the tube to my engine crew. “And get those repairs underway.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  “Forbes, with me. Gather ten marines. Side arms only, holstered. Seaforth, you have the helm. You might want to prime the cannons but keep the gun ports closed for now.” I checked my own weapons, blade and black powder. “And keep an eye on those repairs. No coddling the engineers if they complain.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  “And, ah, check The Gonne for any cracks in the steam hose.”

  “Captain?” Seaforth raised his eyebrows.

  “Never know when a Kinematric Galvatron will come in useful.” I dismissed his questions as I fingered the Yuenon crystal pendant on its leather thong around my neck. Its bright purple facets only hinted at the power it focused when placed within The Gonne’s mechanism. It was easily twice as deadly as the pulse cannons and their larger but inferior Kentite crystals.

  A dozen of my crew scurried down the gangplank ahead of me. Their bare feet made little noise as they lashed the lines lightly to pegs in the ground. I wanted to slip this temporary mooring quickly if I had to.

  I waited at the top of the metal ramp until they finished and their leader gave me a curt nod. The crew faded into an obscure port within the galleon hull.

  The locals held their ground, neither inviting us nor storming the ship.

  The hiss of steam engines powering down punctuated the long silence with thick coal smoke and water vapour that meandered toward the sky in the still spring air.

  My goggles dimmed the light too much, blurring details. I slipped them onto my brow, beneath my wide hat brim. The world jumped into brighter and cleaner lines.

  The sound of water wheels turning in rushing river current provided a muted background to the near silence of a wilderness community. Wild water provided decent and cheap power to mills. No need for steam to grind the grain and plane the lumber. No wonder the air was so clear and clean.

  Forbes grew impatient, shifting from foot to foot. His hand caressed the grip of his cutlass. He kept his goggles on.

  “This is getting us nowhere.” I sighed, gathering my courage. Then I took the first decisive step onto the plank. My high boots clanged against the metal plates, sending a resounding gong across the prairie like a church bell warning of invasion.

  I saw a Métis gentleman with bristly red hair that clashed with his old-tuppence-coloured skin. His eyes were the strangest part of him: blacker than the coal that fuelled my ship, but glazed with white cataracts.

  As I took another loud step downward, he clenched his left fist, while he shifted his long rifle. He held the grip against his hip, raising the muzzle from the ground to my chest.

  I had cannon with smaller bore than that buffalo gun.

  The fine hairs on my nape rose in atavistic dread. He frightened me. But I would not show it. I’d bullied Indian Maharajas and African cannibals with my self-confident arrogance, while my guts turned to slurry.

  One step after another I trod down the gangplank, hands held away from my weapons, breathing deeply each time my heels reverberated. Clang and clonk. My steps drowned out the natural sounds of birds singing, insects buzzing. The river rushed with as musical a tune as any sweetly-running engine.

  I expected a shot through my gut at each step.

  I’d made it this far, therefore I presumed I was safe. For a time. I allowed myself to drink in the fresh scent of newly turned soil from nearby fields, budding trees, and wild river churning northward; none
of it tainted by sulphurous coal fire that dominated so many of our ports of call.

  “What brings the likes of you to French Prairie?” asked a dark-haired man. He wore a cloth suit with a subdued calico shirt. He hadn’t added the nuisance of a collar. I couldn’t blame him, since I never bothered with the restriction of a corset or skirts. I let my sister obsess over fashion and lace.

  The half-blind, red-haired Métis drifted beyond my peripheral vision.

  “Captain Trudé Romanz of the White Swan,” I introduced myself. With a grand flourish I doffed my feathered, broad-brimmed hat and bowed deeply.

  “Robert Newell.” The settler’s spokesman bent awkwardly from the waist, as if caught off guard by my civility. I’d heard of him in my occasional dealings in this part of the world. Gossip and rumours painted him a thoughtful leader who commanded loyalty without resorting to violence.

  Courtesies done with, I closed the distance between us.

  “I seek to trade honourably and peaceably. I have a cargo bay full of metal nails and gears.”

  Newell’s eyes opened wide and his brows rose in question. “What can we trade you that the Hudson’s Bay men don’t already claim as their own?” Suppressed undertones in his voice told me he’d heard of me, too. There aren’t many pirate queens in this part of the world.

  I glanced around at the cows grazing in the enclosed grassland and the ploughed fields beyond. “My crew would relish hot victuals. And some information, for ten pounds of nails,” I replied quietly.

  “We know nothing Dr. John and his bosses don’t tell us.” Newell said loudly, looking around, letting his gaze rest a little longer on the red-haired, half-blind Métis. Then he continued his survey of the crowd.

  “I beg hospitality for my crew, Mr. Newell. Perhaps you and I can retire to your pub and talk over a cup of ale.” I gestured toward the cluster of buildings laid out in a geometrical grid. An efficient use of land, yet it grated against my sense of beauty, which demanded an organic outgrowth conforming to the contours of the land around a central edifice, like a church. Or a fortress. This little town was too new, planted all at once.

  I walked beside Newell, matching him stride for stride. We stood shoulder to shoulder in height. My men and his fell in behind us, separated by a distinct aisle the width of two horses. My spine itched as numerous sets of eyes followed my every move.

  “Fine weather today,” I remarked casually, keeping my hands well away from my weapons.

  “Aye. The fields are ploughed and sown. Most of our work now is weeding and keeping the wolves away from the lambs and calves. But they slink down out of the hills at night, looking for an easy meal.”

  I wondered if he meant the four-legged predators, or the agents of the HBC, or even the red-skinned natives. Though with the number of settlers of mixed races and nations guarding Newell’s back from my crew, I figured the local tribes had made peace with this town.

  “Do you post bounties on the wolves?” I asked.

  “Aye. We’ve been having meetings about that, couple times a month. Closest thing to a government the Company allows us.” He flicked his gaze back toward the red-haired man again. That bit of information was more for his ears than mine. Later, with a bit of privacy, I might hear what was really discussed at those meetings.

  “I’m surprised Sir George hasn’t sent you some automata to work the fields and stand guard at night. They don’t need sleep—just a little extra coal or firewood, and water to keep them running.”

  Newell stiffened as if affronted. “We don’t need automatic men. We settled here to get away from them. This is our land and we work it ourselves.”

  “A lot of you are retired from the HBC,” I said casually.

  “Hmf,” Newell snorted.

  I raised my left eyebrow in question. He gestured me into the cluster of buildings. Newell’s own storefront faced the town. Docks and warehouses lined the river with extensions over the water for easy loading and unloading. A sign over an interior doorway of the store announced “Saloon” in neatly painted letters.

  I ducked through the narrow, inconvenient portal to the dark room, illuminated only by a few whale-oil lamps on the crude plank bar and rickety tables. Upturned barrels sufficed for chairs. Sawdust on the plank floor absorbed the thunk of my boot heels. The place smelled of spilled beer, stale sweat, and baking bread. My stomach growled.

  “Why did you refer to your retirement from the HBC?” I asked as we straddled barrels on opposite sides of a square table in the middle of the small room.

  Newell scanned the room cautiously before resting his elbows on the table. “We’re alone, but not for long. Ask your questions quickly.”

  “Sir George lands an express-class dirigible at the Fort right about now. I need to know why he’s here.”

  The barkeep brought us each a frothing mug of beer. “Anything else I can get you, Doc?” he asked Newell.

  “I’d like some bread and meat. Something fresh from the garden as well. Same for my men,” I replied.

  He nodded. Then, at a gesture from Newell, he backed away rapidly.

  “Ask Sir George. He comes when he comes and leaves without notice,” Newell said without a trace of emotion on his weathered face.

  “I’ve heard rumours that he wants to be king of the Columbia Department. Separate from Montréal or London, or Washington D.C.” I threw out my sister’s phrases.

  Newell paused with his beer halfway to his mouth. His eyes shifted warily. “No wonder.”

  “No wonder what?”

  “You’re not one of us.” He stopped any further words with a long quaff of beer. A dozen men strode through the door. Moccasins and boots shuffled uneasily as each man surveyed the empty tables and benches.

  I waved my six men to sit beside the doorway, so that they could make an easy and unhindered escape. Newell’s men ambled toward the far wall, comfortable in their home territory, and not far from the double swinging doors that presumably led to warehouse and dock. All kept their hands near their ever-present weapons.

  The red-haired man was missing from the group. Unwelcome? Or standing guard outside?

  I dropped a small purse onto my table, allowing the coins within to clank noisily. “A round on me,” I announced loudly.

  The settlers crowded forward, queuing up along the two planks supported by two barrels that formed the bar. My men held back. We’d done this before: waiting to lull the enemy.

  “What if I want to settle here? Seems to me a growing community could make use of an independent shipper,” I suggested.

  “Sir George would order Dr. John to shoot you down the first time you underbid the Company.”

  “Neither the HBC nor the British government own this land. The entire Oregon Country is open to citizens of both England and America,” I said. “No military interference from either Government.”

  “Not according to Sir George. He funds and therefore rules the International Secure Shipping Lane Police. They answer only to him.”

  I quirked an eyebrow again. Newell frowned at his near-empty beer mug. I drank mine down to give him a few moments. A plate of fresh-baked bread slathered in butter, not drippings, and a heap of sliced beef appeared at my elbow. A bunch of fresh greens with bacon drippings filled a second plate.

  “I’ve fought long and hard to stay independent of both the HBC and Chinese pirate lords. I fly when I want, where I want,” I said after the first few bites. “I’m as interested as you in breaking Sir George’s hold on your settlement.”

  “That’s going to be difficult. You see, when a man wants to retire from the Company, he has to return to the city of his recruitment. That’s so no man is left stranded in the wilderness. A lot of Dr. John’s voyageurs married locals and wanted to stay here. He kept them on the books as millers, farmers, and timber men employed by his mill here. He gave them tools, seed, and livestock. We pay the White Headed Eagle back in produce. So technically the HBC owns over half the men in this town because Dr. McLough
lin gave them the chance to stay with their families. Of the others, me included, we owe Doctor John our lives for the supplies he gave us cheap when we lost everything on the journey here. More’n the missionaries up river offered. All they hand out is prayer.”

  A low whistle escaped through my teeth. “So even if you voted to separate from the Company, the Americans here won’t have enough voices to carry the day.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Some came here to escape government and taxes and rules. They won’t vote. Some want peace and order and the means to enforce it. The vote depends on a man’s hate for Sir George overcoming his love for Dr. McLoughlin.”

  I looked around at the restless men, wondering at their priorities. My guess was that everyone in the private saloon had come on Newell’s invitation and backed him.

  “Blind Red?” I asked under my breath.

  “Calls himself John McLoughlin, Junior.”

  “But Dr. John’s son died years ago!”

  “Who’s to say? No one here wants to open old grief in our friend. So no one asks.”

  “What’s the best way to get me into the Fort without drawing too much attention?” I asked.

  “Not in that ruddy big galleon,” Newell snorted. “You know The Clearing?” Newell asked.

  I nodded, recalling the spot on the Willamette River about ten miles below the falls, where river boats tied up for a rest on the journey north to Fort Vancouver. An enterprising farmer sold refreshment and sometimes rented rooms there to benighted travellers.

  “Wait there with one man at noon tomorrow. A sternwheeler will make a routine stop. You can buy passage to Fort Vancouver. Tell everyone you are part of the Methodist Mission. There’s too many of them for McLoughlin or Sir George to know them all. You can make up your own excuse to see the doctor.” Newell thumped his empty mug onto the table and swung away from the barrel. “If you’re asked, I have never met you and don’t know anything about you. Dress like a lady, not a bloody pirate.”