Mechanicals

by Jordan Stratford

  “Yes sir, local farm girls, the looks of ‘em.”

  “Chase them off. Standing order, no locals to be had in camp, or it’s a week’s packet and the lash. That’s the last thing we need.”

  “Sir?”

  “Oh, you know how it goes. Bored farm girl, dashing young soldier. A fortnight later she’s in a womanly way, angry father farmer demanding his due, fisticuffs against a man trained for killing, and before you know it all the farmers will be in an uproar and refusing to supply the quartermaster. No, take my word for it, if we let them in we’ll all bloody starve to death.”

  “Very good, sir. And the third thing?” asked Landau, handing Blake a drink.

  “Good man. Do have a seat.” Landau perched himself upon the tall chair by the writing desk. “You,” Blake continued. “Any plans for after the war?”

  “Thought I might stay in Army, sir. Always another war, I imagine.”

  “Honestly? Seems a rum business, all this, what with your education. There’s also I suspect the consideration of your vocation.”

  “There is that, to be honest, sir. But my patronage...”

  “Yes, yes. You told me. But surely there’s another Catholic parish in England that would pay for your...”

  “Formation, sir.”

  “Formation. That’s it. Anyway, presumably there is some mobility in these matters.”

  “Theoretically, sir, but...”

  “And of course there’s the Church of England. I’m on astonishingly good terms with the vicar at home, I’m sure he could put in a word.”

  “Sir, it’s not often one has a choice between the collar, and the army. It’s all a bit dizzying. But the Church of England would drive my parents to an early grave, sir.”

  “Quite right, never been particularly on top of this sort of thing, and one does forget how deeply such roots tend to grow. How do you feel about service?”

  “Sir?”

  “After this. We go home, you have some time with your family, but you stay on in my personal employ as my secretary.”

  “That’s very kind of you, sir. I’ve not been expecting this. I’ll have to give it some consideration, if you please, sir.”

  “I think you’re wasted in the ranks, to be honest, and barring a commission, Landau, I do think you’d be better off in business with me.”

  “May I enquire as to the nature of this business, sir?”

  “Haven’t the foggiest. I’m to inherit a house, at some point, so I imagine that will need some seeing to. Regardless, one must do something to banish idleness. And I do hope you’ll consider staying on. With me. Not the army.”

  “As I said, sir...”

  “Yes, yes. Due and careful consideration. Prudence in all things, quite right.” Blake realized he’d been babbling. Fatigue, heat, and the sudden privacy to speak one’s mind had quite overtaken him. “I do apologize if I’ve intruded, Landau. Always believed a man’s conscience is his own, and I don’t mean to pry. Here I’ve been running on like those geriatric Afghans, all former glory. Off with you, then, and we’ll speak later.”

  “Very good, sir.” Landau departed.

  The gin was tart on Blake’s lips, and he closed his eyes for a moment. While there was the sound of camp life–orders barked and pegs hammered, wood chopped and carts rolling–it was mercifully free of the rattle of trains. He turned his attention to the neat stack of letters on the table.

  His solicitor with effectively nothing to report. Some chatter from the club. A letter from his mother: her widowed half-sister had again remarried in the endless exchange of title for capital. Some army paperwork; transfers and leaves and the like best left to Kendrick or Price, someone who could keep the names of the men straight.

  He closed his eyes and rubbed his head. Varna. How long here before they strike camp, march back to the port, and sail for Sebastopol? Or will they be called to relieve the siege at Silistra, just ninety miles up the road? The French were encamped thirty miles closer if needed, and at any rate the Turks seemed to be taking little casualties while costing the Russians dearly. No, Crimea was far more likely.

  Here for weeks anyway, he imagined. Weeks of returning to Cardigan’s mess table and the risk of incurring his fickle wrath with each lifting of the fork. Perhaps the Russians will take the initiative, attack the camp, and he could be shot before supper?

  He could only hope.

  THIRTY THREE

  Billings had been, he had to admit, sulking in his stateroom. He was in no mood to receive the knock upon the door, knowing it was Colt attempting to lighten his spirits.

  Colt entered. “They fired upon us. You saw it.”

  “They did, Mr. Colt.”

  “We simply returned fire.”

  “Didn’t seem altogether simple, Mr. Colt.”

  “Dammit, man, what would you have me do, lean over the side with a musket?”

  “Would have seemed more sporting.”

  “I’m not in the business of sport, son. I’m in the business of war. Now, I’ll sleep tonight, knowing that someone wished me and my crew and my airship harm, and those that did so are now dead. A man’s no less dead with a ball in his skull than he is blown to hell with his barn blazing.”

  “It’s the barn that has me troubled, sir.”

  “Well, unburden yourself from your troubles, Mr. Billings. War has casualties. If your idiot brother picks a bar fight, you pick up a stool. People get dragged into things all the time and that’s just the way of war. What happened down there? That was Gaul rising up against the Roman Empire and getting slapped down. That was Mexico too big for its britches and ceding territory to superior numbers. War’s as human as art, human as anything, Billings–and my conscience is pristine. I didn’t want that damn chain to jam, and by God I’ll see to it that it won’t again. But I didn’t invent war and won’t wet the damn bed just because I happen to be better warrior.”

  None of this moved Billings’ mood an iota.

  “Anyway, I want to show you something on the bridge.”

  “I’d like to decline, Mr. Colt.”

  “I don’t give a hatful o’ horseshit for your declination. On the bridge.” He turned, and there was no question Billings would follow.

  A minute later, as he entered the bridge, he was amazed by a glow which illuminated every surface. The purple shimmered, and turned to amber, then seemed to stretch into a fleeting green. Out the starboard bank of windows the sky danced in a display of colour in a band along the horizon, with a deep indigo canopy peppered with eerily bright white stars. From their vantage point some two thousand feet above ground, the apparition straddled the curve of the earth, dozens of miles across. Billings found himself dumbstruck; it was too beautiful to be real.

  “The Aurora Borealis, the northern lights,” said Colt.

  Billings gripped the brass rail beneath the windows.

  “Son,” said Colt, placing a hand on Billings’ shoulder, “it’s bigger than us. All of it.”

  Billings stared in awe at the lights for a long moment. He felt, in part, redeemed by the beauty, let it wash over him, and realized he’d been holding his breath, letting it out with a prolonged sigh. He tensed his bottom lip, and nodded soberly.

  Colt took in the majesty of the spectacle. “St. Petersburgh tomorrow night, at this rate. And then the Tsar.”

  “And then the Tsar. What if he doesn’t want to do business, Mr. Colt?”

  “Then he’s an ass. I’ve got near five thousand rifles on board, and enough ammunition to facilitate the removal of some half million souls from God’s green earth. In the middle of a war, that makes me a very popular man. Plus,” he paused with a grin, “from up here we can blow the city to hell and declare the cook to be Tsar if I so choose.”

  “That sounds like work, Mr. Colt.”

  “Too much for my liking. Anyway, it’ll be enough to secure a contract or two.” He paused and added, “It’s just the way the game is played, son.”

  THIRTY FOUR
>
  Nearly a week had passed, and they had not yet made Jerusalem. Farouq had neglected to mention–and Eleanor had not had time to notice–that the Durrah had no engines, but sails, with gas-bags to keep the vessel aloft. Still, she was considered to be faster than travel by sea, if only by a day or so.

  Eleanor realized that she had missed the company of women, and those aboard the craft were educated (mostly in Europe), intelligent, and kind. She had quite shed any sense of English embarrassment at any stage of undress, as the women bathed together frequently and groomed one another’s hair. There were no servants per se, save for meals; the women tending to each other generously and out of genuine affection. Every surface from pillow to drawer-pull was smooth, soft, elegant. Eleanor had never been so physically relaxed or luxurious in her life, though her first thought upon waking was of Sinjin, and anxiety for his welfare.

  Still, she reminded himself, that he was quite likely the most capable man alive, and closer to immortality than any man had a right to be. Obviously he had credited her with some resourcefulness, or he would not have abandoned her so. Therefore she must do him the courtesy of making the best of her circumstance, and had asked Amsaa to teach her some Arabic.

  The written word still seemed impassable, but it had been only a week. The spoken language however she found enchanting, musical, with enough analogues to Greek that she could at least name the common things around her, ask simple questions, and extend some basic courtesies. The others of course wished to practice their English and French, and easy laughter would ensue when a word from one language would stray into the sentence of another.

  So her days were spent merely visiting, grooming, dining, reading, and conversing. It seemed the duty of each harem-girl to make themselves as refined and improved as possible, and every opportunity was afforded them. Eleanor had packed away her Paris suit in exchange for striped ballooning trousers, gathered at the ankle and slit along the sides, broached every eight inches or so. She wore a white chemise in silk, which left her shoulders bare, and girded by an underbust corset. While textures and fabrics and colours varied among the costumes of the harem, the silhouette seemed firmly established.

  Of the Wali, the Sultan’s governor in Egypt, she saw nothing. She heard of course that he was kind and curious, and where she had first imagined a rake and hedonist, she was informed that he rarely took a woman to his bed, but much preferred to discuss modern innovations such as the railway (which he was building) and the telegraph. His vision was the transformation of the Egyptian cities into rivals of the great European capitals, and therefore preferred to converse in Italian, or French, or English. Where she had initially feared that she would be thrown to the man that he might have his way with her, she now felt oddly slighted that he had expressed no interest up to this point in meeting her.

  When her summons arrived, the original dread returned.

  She was unprepared. She felt plain, dull, uninteresting. Had she been commanded to the presence of the Queen, she would have felt herself more suited.

  Amsaa reassured her, and escorted her to the broad parlour at the stern of the Venetian deck. She perched upon the settee nervously.

  When the Wali arrived, she liked him at once. He was no imposing Grand Man, but rather he reminded her of the portly little brother of one her friends. He wore a dark, immaculate suit around his rotund frame, and a long tasseled fez upon a smallish head. He smiled warmly as she stood and bowed, continuing to look at her feet as she had been advised. He lifted her chin with a soft hand, and then presented an upright palm to her. She smiled in return, and offered her hand, where he took it gently and kissed it like a gentleman.

  “Salaam aleikum,” she said, proud of her delivery.

  “Aleikum as salaam,” he replied with a curt bow. Then he kissed quickly her cheek, then the other, and again the first. “You managed that admirably. Please, do sit down.” She complied.

  “Now,” he continued, “allow me to apologize for not having the pleasure of your company sooner. I have been much pre-occupied with business matters.”

  “Your railroad?”

  “Yes! That, and other similar enterprises. Tell me, do you enjoy rail travel? I think it’s marvelous.”

  “Honestly, sir, while I imagine it could be quite luxurious, my experience has been more modest.”

  “Please, do go on,” he insisted. He wanted to know about reliability of schedules, the width and headroom and seating arrangements of each car, of the coupling mechanism employed, and a multitude of similar details which were beyond her to provide. It seemed unfathomable to him that a train could be in any way boring, as her experience had been. The speed! The efficiency! He waxed poetic on these subjects, and she was so taken with his delight that she fortunately failed to lapse into the tedium usually evoked by the whole affair.

  Eventually he just ran out of steam on the matter, and a shadow fell across his face. His distraction now exhausted, his mind seem to return to whatever had kept him at his desk this past week.

  “Are you all right?” she inquired.

  “Yes, quite all right, thank you. It’s just that with all the romanticism of such things comes too a significant amount of details, land to be negotiated, suppliers to be bargained with.” He paused awkwardly.

  Eleanor remembered, or perhaps better realized, that she was, at this moment, a harem girl. She decided on a path of boldness that seemed fitting.

  “Surely, such things can be set aside for a moment. Such respite must be quite rare in your world.”

  “Indeed. It is almost criminal to be surrounded by such beauty, only to crane my neck by lamplight over maps and schedules. But where are my manners! What of you? I understand you are en route to Constantinople.”

  “I’ve,” she struggled for the words, “become separated from my...companion. In Alexandria. I’m his ward, technically. He’s a clergyman. I received a message that he was in Constantinople, and I hope that he is waiting for me there.”

  “This troubles you, I can see.”

  “I’m sorry to burden you with my cares, you’ve been so hospitable.”

  He reached out and took her hand, fraternally and with sincerity.

  “We are still a week’s sail to Constantinople, but England is a valuable ally of the Sultan. I’m sure an English clergyman would be most excellently accommodated, and perfectly safe. Is he en route to the war?”

  “I understand that we are both to be.”

  “It does seem that the front is no place for a woman,” he added, “but the French navy bombards Sebastopol at present, and I am certain that with their surrender, the Tsar will withdraw. As well, the Russians besiege Silistra at no profit. It should all be over before you arrive. But tell me, what brings you there? Are you a nurse, by training?”

  “No, sir. I think I’m actually meant to be a spy.” Having said this aloud, Eleanor almost laughed at herself.

  “Are you really? How extraordinary.”

  “I thought so at first, but I suspect now that everyone I meet is a spy,” she said, thinking of Farouq. “It seems common as a grocer.”

  “I must visit England, where the common grocers are spies.” They both laughed at this. “You are delightfully amusing, Miss Eleanor. Do you enjoy games? Chess?”

  She allowed a wicked grin to cross her face.

  “Do you have any cards?”

  THIRTY FIVE

  Along the wind of the thawing Moika River, the vast citrine palace stood as home to the Yusupov family, the wealthiest and most influential clan in St. Petersburg. It was there Celeste had planned her encounter with Menshikov. It was nothing to be admitted by the staff; Celeste was indeed familiar to one of the family’s many daughters, and feigning an invitation, slipped from one of the lower parlours to the second floor’s commanding white staircase. There were soldiers, of course, as Tsar Nicolas I, King of Poland and Grand Duke of Finland was present, but they let her pass either unnoticed, or with an appreciative eye, depending on Celeste’s cho
osing.

  The number of guards increased as she ascended the staircase; her quarry must lay ahead, as she suspected.

  There. He was almost seventy, with a shock-white moustache and overgrown eyebrows. He was in rapt attention of a tall, disheveled figure who had his back to her. He wore the black cassock of a monk, and at this sight Celeste’s heart stopped. Sensing her approach, the monk turned to her, and gave her a slow, malevolent smirk before slinking off down the corridor.

  Grigori.

  Menshikov remained staring off in the space formerly occupied. None of his retinue seemed to have noticed the comings and goings of the unkempt stranger. It was apparent to Celeste that the Admiral had been mesmerized, and expertly. She rushed to him, despite his guards, and tapped him firmly on the breast. He blinked rapidly, and focused on the disarmingly beautiful woman in front of him.

  “Are you all right, Your Highness?”

  “I beg your pardon, Madame. I...” he searched his memory, “I’m not quite myself.”

  “I’m sure it’s just stuffy in here,” Celeste replied, although given the vastness of indoor space, the soaring, ornately plastered ceiling, and the cavernous staircase, stuffiness would have been impossible unless the palace were on fire.

  “Quite right,” answered Menshikov. “Have we been introduced?”

  “We have, Admiral,” she lied. “You know my husband, Nikifor Vassilievitch Blavatsky.”

  “I’m not entirely...”

  “You do know him. You remember now,” she pressed.

  “I do remember now,” he repeated, still in a fog.

  “Yes, I was hoping I could speak to you concerning him. I’ve remained behind to manage his affairs, and he is in Sebastopol...”

  “Sebastopol.”

  “That’s right, and I was rather hoping to return there with you when your business here with the Tsar was completed.”

  “But I’m not going to...”