Mechanicals

by Jordan Stratford

“You can remember all fifty-two cards, right now, if I asked you to name them all. Ace of clubs, two of clubs, three of clubs and so forth.”

  “Yes, well that’s different, obviously...”

  “No, I think you’ll find you’re quite mistaken. They are not different. Please listen. You can list every card in that deck simply because you have a system of organizing them. You can count to ten, and have done so likely before you could read. Four suits, in two colours. Jacks, Queen, King, we have these in our daily vocabulary.”

  “Still,” Eleanor interjected, “that’s hardly...”

  “I have merely,” he continued undaunted, “substituted one order for another, one of my own invention. When we sat down, I went through the deck, twice, authoring a whimsical, yet memorable, narrative of each card as though they were characters in a book. The eight resembles a fat man, and the eight of clubs is a fat man waving a fan. He follows the Queen of hearts, as men are want to do, so she calls him a knave, or jack, and says all the diamonds in the world cannot sway her. It’s rather silly, but as you can see, terribly effective.”

  She eyed him suspiciously, leaning away slightly.

  “And you must learn to do it,” he concluded.

  She let out a sigh of frustration. “And, why?”

  “Because,” he countered pointedly, “At any moment I can take you over my knee and give you a sound thrashing.”

  “I beg your pardon! I’ll have you do no such thing.”

  “You are quite right to be offended at the thought. However,” he drove the point home, “should I wish it, and wish to do so here, publicly, there is nothing you could do to prevent me.”

  “I could scream,” she replied.

  “True, but I could overpower you. I am larger than you, stronger than you. Further, I am a man, you a woman. Further still I am a clergyman, and you are the daughter of a merchant. Few would question my actions, whereas yours are suspect. My French is quite serviceable, whereas you can barely communicate your distress. There is nothing you have that I cannot take from you; no humiliation or injury I cannot visit upon you. I have merely to wish it so.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You are cruel, sir.”

  “I have merely stated the obvious, child. But there is a remedy. You are not entirely unarmed.” The priest leaned forward with an inscrutable smile, like a magician before the grand reveal.

  “You have wit, and some beauty. These are valuable weapons, and can be very keen. And I can teach you French, so that with some imagination a story could be fabricated to facilitate your rescue from my imposition. And I can teach you to immobilize an opponent, as I demonstrated yesterday. I can, in short, teach you to prevent me from doing anything you do not wish me to do.”

  Eleanor had shaken off her boredom, and groped towards attentiveness.

  “My dear, dear Eleanor,” Avery persevered, “I would not have invested such time and resources in you to date had I not every confidence in your ability to learn these things. There is no need for you to be... powerless.” He let the word sink in. “It is a question of choice. Choice, and education. To that end I shall educate you. But to what avail, if you cannot remember anything I teach you? So, first we shall work on your memory. I promise you, before we reach Paris this afternoon you will be able to recite the order of this entire pack quite effortlessly.”

  Her face was still. She turned to watch the French countryside roll by in the morning fog, noticing momentarily how indistinguishable a French railway carriage was from and English one. She shook off the distraction, her regard returning to the clergyman seated opposite, deck in hand. She wavered a moment, a heartbeat, between two worlds: one of her birth, and one perhaps of her choosing.

  Her countenance was fixed, determined. “Four of clubs,” she said.

  EIGHT

  Between the maddening heat, his sweat-drenched wool jacket chafing his throat and wrists, and the infernal clanging of the engine, Blake was certain he would be in Bedlam within the hour.

  He had no idea how Sgt. Price, seated up and behind him almost piggy-back, could stand it, being right up against the firewall and thus closer to the inferno and clamour. Blake’s elbows kept banging into Price’s knees as the captain lurched the knobs forward and back along the sloping gravel path. What Price was doing back there Blake could not imagine, other than sweating profusely and damning every engineer in history to blazes, as he certainly must be.

  The mechanical was chained to a crane, and the crane along a rail, the tracks parallel to the the dusty grey trench dug by the iron footsteps of the giant. It reminded Blake of exercising ponies on a rein; how as a child he’d delight, whip in one hand and lead in the other, as his beloved Scavenger would swing ‘round and ‘round with the boy at the center, as though Blake himself were the sun and the larger animal the earth and all Creation. Except of course that now he was the pony, the rein an iron chain a dozen yards long, and the center a pair of zouaves, whom Blake had decided to dislike on principle, operating the handcar which squealed its crane alongside the trudging mechanical.

  Ahead, through the iron man’s bolted slit, Blake could see the rear of the mechanical in line afore, veering gradually to the right. The other machine’s chain tether lost slack, and pulling the monster’s headless torso increasingly left. A few steps further, and the bloody thing would tip over, and if Blake was not careful, he’d trip over the wreck of it like a drunk at the threshold.

  Blake’s grip was white, and he realized he wasn’t breathing. He made up for it by swearing.

  “God’s wounds, Dunn! Right yourself!” Not that the lieutenant could possibly hear, over Blake’s engine or his own. Blake grabbed the clutch, ready to uncouple the engine from the drive, his free hand unsure whether to tilt left or right, depending on terrain or timing. His heart was a landslide in his chest, until Dunn wheeled awkwardly left, back towards the track, and resumed the clockwork march along and along the quarry’s dusty course. Blake had aged a year in the span of seconds.

  “Well done, if I may say so, sir!” bellowed Price behind him.

  “Ever had one of these topple, Sergeant?” Blake wanted to turn his head, but found his neck had seized from tension, and he dare not divert his eyes from the progress ahead.

  “All the time, sir. It’s a rum business, this training, sir.” Price seemed to have mastered the art of shouting in the cockpit’s confined space without roaring himself hoarse, as Blake was already feeling.

  “And what of the men?” he inquired.

  “Dead, sir. Ghastly business. Smashed to jelly, and a hell of a job cleaning out, sir.”

  “I’ll endeavor to not kill us today, Sergeant.”

  “Much appreciated, sir.”

  The rail-track turned out to be a loop, so that when the regiment returned to the main yard, the mechanicals precariously lurched to a halt. When the ground hatch opened, Blake expected a rush of cool air, only to receive a blast of heat and the stench of burning oil from the overworked gimbal. Without a word to Price, he kicked at the metal ladder which stuttered to the ground, and, his muscles wires of protest, climbed shakily down and away from the monster.

  Landau was there with linens and a bottle of ice cold water. Blake could have embraced the man.

  “Warm in there, sir?”

  “The hottest places in hell are reserved for those who hate God, Corporal Landau. I think Dante meant them to drive these things.” Blake downed the bottle like a taverner, wiping the sweat from his face and neck with the linen. It came away bright blue. Blake was shocked.

  “It’s the dye, sir,” Landau offered. “From your jacket. I’ll have it seen to, sir.”

  Blake laughed. He wondered what his must have looked like to Price, sweaty and terrified and painted blue. When Blake, still shaking from adrenaline, turned to find the man, he discovered the sergeant quite composed, glass of water in hand and chatting to the other firemen. He even seemed to have combed his hair.

  The zouaves had climbed each mechanical and det
ached the iron tether chaining them to the cranes. Pulleys ratcheted huge iron blocks to the bolt-mounts of the giants’ shoulders. Kendrick was seen marching from engine to engine, barking orders and pointing.

  “Sergeant Price?” Blake called. Price handed his glass to a fellow enlisted man and trotted over.

  “Captain Blake, sir?”

  “What are those men doing? To the mechanicals.”

  “Oh, the blocks, sir? They’re for ballast, y’see. Weigh the same as guns. Get you a feel for it, sir.”

  “Ah, very good, Sergeant. And when do we go back in?”

  “That’s at your discretion, Captain.”

  “At the present moment, I should think. I’ll have better luck at finding my feet if I’m not chained up like a drayhorse. Let’s give her her head, shall we?”

  “As you say, sir.” With that, Price nodded, took a step back, saluted sharply, and strode towards the mechanicals, shouting orders at the French.

  “I must say,” offered Blake to Landau, “the business with all these Frenchmen seems terribly disconcerting.”

  “The zouaves, sir? Yes, sir, I imagine so, sir, to see Frenchmen in the British Army. But they’re fierce infantry, sir, once they’re off the leash, so to speak. Legendary, sir.”

  “But what on earth are they doing here, swinging like monkeys, lollygagging and smoking?”

  “They were sort of a gift, sir. For Lord Cardigan, y’see, sir. Nothing for them to do here, sir, as infantry, except drill, and they seem to do enough of that. So the Colonel has them at the coals, stoking and rigging. Truth be told, Captain, the Colonel can’t stand the sight of them, so they stay in the yard.”

  “But they’re dressed as Turks, Corporal.”

  “Aye, sir. And we’re dressed as Hungarians, sir.”

  Blake was nonplussed. “I say, that was rather cheeky of you, Landau.”

  “Sir. Apologies, sir, if I spoke out of turn.” He was at stiff attention, despite the tray bearing a spare linen and the water glass.

  “Still, you make your point.” Blake paused. “Off with you, I’m going back in that confounded device until I can do more than stagger like a drunkard.”

  “Best of luck to you, sir. I’ll have more water upon your return.”

  Blake nodded, and walked back to the ladder dangling from the machine’s bowels.

  Price was already seated, strapping himself into a leather harness. Blake noticed several handles, controls suspended in swings, and myriad gauges around the fireman’s seat. It occurred to him that the sergeant’s job was more technical, in moderating engine temperature, throttle, and accurately accounting for ammunition, than the pilot’s task of pointing the iron golem in its automatic and ceaseless plod.

  The brief respite had cooled the cockpit somewhat, to the point where it was merely uncomfortably sweltering. For a moment, as Blake positioned himself in the leather seat, he had a flash of unease, knowing that the machine was untethered, and nothing keeping it upright once moving other than sheer moment, and the buzzing ring of steel below the deck under his feet.

  “Engine, Sergeant!” Blake ordered.

  “Engine, sir!” came the reply.

  Blake unlocked the clutch, and the gears slammed and stuttered into the drive. The mechanical started off with its left foot, which sort of slid forward, taking root in the crushed stone of the quarry before the right left the ground. He kept the gimbals steady, marching, mercifully, in the direction in which he’d left the thing. But he hadn’t anticipated his speed, and was coming up on a parked crane, uncomfortably fast.

  Pressure forward on the right control elongated the step of the left foot, and tilted the gyre to compensate. The mechanical wheeled slightly and easily starboard, handily clearing the obstacle. Blake had to hop a little in his seat to look at the ground before him, giving the control another nudge to orient the machine to align with what seemed like a fairly unoccupied plain. Easing back, he dared take his hands off the controls, just for a second. The giant strode forward, unperturbed by Blake’s momentary disengagement. It was obvious from this that the massive clockwork would persevere, unthinkingly forward, so long as there was coal in the furnace and water in the boiler. With that, he breathed a little easier.

  He leaned on the left control, slightly, then more, as the grey ridge of the quarry whirled past his visor. The heat was mounting now, but Blake was unfazed, almost ready to allow himself enjoyment of this monstrous toy. As he continued his widdershins reel, he discovered that he was followed by three other mechanicals, who had decided that he was mother-duck. In one motion, he pulled back on the left while shifting right, completing a kind of S before colliding with the men in tow. The pit’s borders softened here, with a green sward appearing at the top of a sloping ridge. This, he thought, is more of a challenge.

  “Throttle, Sergeant.”

  “Throttle, sir.” And at that, the clanging changed tone to something more guttural, more like a ship’s engine, something Blake could feel in his bones and not just in his head. The mechanical picked up steam, momentum giving a slight jog, a heartbeat, in which both its massive iron feet were off the ground. He had her at a trot, and kept both hands on the controls, adjust ever so slightly with each step to stay on course.

  A shadow stole sunlight from the cockpit. On Blake’s right, a mechanical alongside was taking the slope at greater speed.

  “Who in blazes is that?” Blake shouted, mostly to himself.

  “Reynolds, sir.” replied Price.

  “Damnable man! We’ll have throttle, Sergeant, and devil take the hindmost!”

  “Very good sir. You have throttle.”

  The controls began to shudder, and Blake’s shoulders were a knot of meat, his fists gripping the black knobs the size of snooker balls. His hands sweating and white with tension, he made minuscule adjustments with each gate and thud of impact, trying to keep the precious gimbals balanced less they be hurtled to the unforgiving granite. But he was beginning to pull away from Reynolds’ narrow lead, the crest of the slope before him.

  Suddenly, Reynolds’ mechanical veered sharply left, cutting off Blake, who, panicking, reached for the clutch. The machine rocked as if pounded by the hammer of the gods before he re-engaged the drive, but could tell as the horizon fell from view that his loss of moment was toppling the giant backwards. Still at full throttle, he slammed both port and starboard controls into the bulkhead, launching the massive iron frame forwards up the hill, its feet sending rooster tails of debris aft as Blake recovered his balance and trailed Reynolds to the soft summit. Price eased the throttle to a steady pace.

  Blake checked to see if he’d voided himself. He had not. Without intending to, he let out an uproarious laugh.

  “Well played!” he shouted, although Price could not determine whether this praise was directed at him, Reynolds, or Blake himself. “Well played indeed!”

  NINE

  Eleanor was intoxicated by Paris. Where London was grey, dire, and close, Paris was white and gold, enchanted and vast. The streets and fashion had a timelessness to them; current, yet with silhouettes more from the previous century. Even the grey-green of the Seine, with its parade of adorned bridges, seemed more alert and alive than the Thames. And when Avery had taken her to appointments at fine dress shops, it was a fantasy of lavender gloves and corsets and fascinators, shows and fabric and buttons. The sheer pleasure of it was enough to overcome her requests for extravagant gowns in ivory and pastels, in favour of Avery’s selection of sombre, disciplined skirts and jackets in muted tones.

  Still, upon her return for the final fitting a few days later, she was impressed at her own transformation. Her London clothes telegraphed the life she knew; a merchant’s daughter from a poor neighbourhood of indiscrete boarders and brawling tenants, of wailing babes and shrieking wives. All these she left behind for the hammering and sawing and gilding of Paris-in-the-making; the city too undergoing a transformation, although one begun a generation before, its completion nowhere in si
ght. On every street, painters and plasters, carpenters and foremen busied themselves in the reshaping of the city along classical lines in its boast as the capital of Europe.

  It took her most of the first morning to realize Avery’s change of appearance; Roman Catholic notched collars for Anglican clericals. She was scandalized.

  “You’re a papist!” she cried.

  Avery quieted her. “My dear girl,” he explained, “it’s not as simple as all that–or perhaps it is simpler! I am a man of the cloth and a servant of God. Here, in Paris, this is how one such as I comports oneself.

  “There are, as you may have guessed, certain advantages to clergy. I can be as prominent or unnoticed as it suits me, and in my business here, it suits me to draw less attention with a notched collar than a banded one. In this matter I urge you to think pragmatically, not theologically.”

  “Are you even a real vicar?” she asked.

  “Definitions, Eleanor, definitions! There was oil on my palms in crosses, placed there by a good man. Behind him in history is a parliament of good men, of foolish men, of cruel and avaricious men, of men who stumbled into the Church before stumbling into the grave. Further back than that I cannot say. But I know what my vows were, and to whom. None of that matters, now. Here, you’ll discover, a priest is a kind of furniture.”

  And true, in all their dealings, Avery was met with a momentary deference, a hat-tip, or nod and forced smile, and then dismissed as though he were yet another marble column in a city that was becoming a forest of these. Visible and invisible, in turn. None barred their passage, or questioned their business, regardless of their destination. And it did seem to her that Avery was required to meet briefly with a great number of type of persons, at the back doors of theatres or the gates of cemeteries, government offices and what seemed to her to be common bawdy houses.

  They went everywhere on foot, never entering a carriage, and yet Eleanor never tired or complained despite the novelty of her shoes. When Avery was set to meet someone, or exchange the barrage of envelopes that seemed to change hands with every encounter, she was silent, and often absented herself with a book. But at all other times she peppered the priest with questions, with notes of history, with puzzles of language. He never seemed to tire of her inquiries, patiently correcting her fledgling French, appearing to savor her curiosity.