Mechanicals

by Jordan Stratford

  Moments later, the two were in familiar quarters, crushing the Crimean plain underfoot in their steam-driven giant. Blake brought the machine in formation with the others, and they were heartened by the sight of the Colonel, his great moustache protruding under the top-down view of his ostrich-plumed hat, approaching his own now-steaming mechanical.

  The order had not been formally disseminated, but it did not seem to need to be. Cardigan marched, so they marched. Blake was exhilarated. After several strides, he craned his neck round to see the cavalry in his peripheral vision. There were some six hundred men, the Light Brigade, mounted on horse or mechanical man, and they were going to retake those guns. All delay and posturing were forgotten.

  But something was wrong. Cardigan continued northwest, not northeast towards the stolen guns. A shot ran out: An optimistic or premature Russian cannon. Then another. Looking past the dust, Blake could see that Cardigan was taking them into the long-end of the box. Past the lost gun emplacement, into the heart of the Russian artillery line.

  Nolan had it, too. Now the guns to their left had joined the chorus, and the balls were shredding earth closer to the advance line. Nolan’s mechanical picked up speed, overtaking the Colonel. His signal flags flashed WHEEL RIGHT, WHEEL RIGHT, but Cardigan merely continued his course, undaunted. They had now passed the former Dragoon emplacement on their right, ever closer to the Russian guns. Blake caught sight of a cannon-ball from the left whip past his visor-slot. Pinging could be heard as rifle shot echoed off the mechanical. Cardigan merely picked up speed.

  They were in it now. Nothing for it. They had to overtake the guns and the far end of the killing-box, or every man a-horse would be slaughtered. Through the thickening tufts of smoke, Blake could make out the black bores of iron guns all in a row ahead, spitting fire and lead and his men.

  A great tearing shriek accompanied a flash ahead. A splinter-shell had split the air ahead of the advancing Nolan, and his mechanical toppled over, thundering the earth more than the cannon-shot. Blake had to quickly pivot to port to avoid the wreck, already burning with spilled coal, venting soot and steam.

  Blake was being hammered with shot now. Every Russian musket was concentrating ball and powder on the mechanicals, knowing they could be downed, knowing they provided cover for the great cavalry behind them.

  “Now!” screamed Blake, and Price threw the guns over. Blake squeezed the trigger, and the machine vibrated in lethal ecstasy as slug after leaden slug fled towards the enemy, chewing up earth and gun-cart, flesh and uniform.

  They were at full run now, the ground slamming beneath them as each giant footstep found the ground in strides twice the length of a horse. Each machine was a locomotive, hurtling towards a destination as though on a track; that destination being shredded to devastation by an onslaught of barrel guns. Even through the roar and crack of cannon, the side-to-side slamming of the engine’s shuttle, and the clamour of his own guns, Blake could make out the sound of pipes. The Highlanders were taking the left flank, but would be cut to a man should those forward guns turn.

  The barrel-guns had carved a hole here and there along the Russian artillery line, and each hole was filled with smoke and fallen and retreating men. Blake used the slope of the earth to forge ahead even faster, heedless into the choking void. He felt rather than heard the crunch of men and horse and cart beneath his feet, his eyes stinging from smoke that filled the pilot-house. They were through the line.

  “Ease up!” called Price, hacking in the miasma behind him.

  It was not a call for comfort. The hill was ahead of them, too steep to climb to chase after retreating forces. Blake eased up the throttle and wheeled sharply, coming about in three strides. Dunn and Reynolds had managed to punch through in the same manner, and the three mechanicals stood abreast. Before them was the entire Russian line, with their backs to them, cannons fixed at the six hundred men and horses of the Light Brigade. His men. To their right, the Highlanders were taking heavy losses, drawing fire from the hilltop guns away from the cavalry.

  The mechanicals unleashed hell.

  ---

  “My God,” exclaimed Avery, spyglass in hand. “They’ve done it. They’ve completely overrun the Russians. It’s a rout.”

  Eleanor took the glass. All she could see was smoke and horror, falling bodies and dead horses. If it was a rout, it seemed like one for Death himself.

  “Look, there,” he indicated. “The Highlanders have taken the hill. The Russian guns have fallen. And those infernal machines, there, at the very end, are behind the artillery line. They’ve ceased fire, and the horse are among them.”

  Indeed, she could see the sabre-flash of cavalrymen finishing off the last of the Russian infantry. The horses, like the mechanicals which now stood as citadels over the conquered ground, had pushed through the line and wheeled to attack from the rear. The plain before Sebastopol was cleared of any opposition, and the city once more at the mercy of the English. Surely, this time, it must be over?

  “Isn’t that the butcher?” she asked, seeing a familiar rider, out of uniform

  “Evidently there were additional horses, what with the cholera. When the brigade began moving they were in for a penny, as it were. I imagine he’d be damned handy in the business of separating meat from joint.”

  She’d not wished to consider that too closely. “Now what?” asked Eleanor.

  “Now to the city, and to find Celeste.”

  Eleanor chose her words with precision, even though they broke her heart.

  “You are in love with her.”

  “Of course I am. But as I’m sure you’re aware, I also love you.”

  “Are you? Are you really? How can you give your heart to two women?”

  “I cannot. My heart is my own, and it loves whom it loves. Celeste and I have an enduring affinity, and our destinies are intertwined. As I suspect, my dearest Eleanor, are ours.”

  “This is,” she searched for the word, “unconventional.”

  “I think it is a convention of a different sort, at once far more commonplace and extraordinary than we give it credit for. Nonetheless, I do love her, and I intend to find her. And as you love me, you shall accompany me.”

  “You know it pains me greatly to do so.”

  “I do know.” He turned to her and held both her hands. “I do know, as it pains me to discomfit you so. But I must, and we must.”

  And with that, he kissed her.

  FORTY FIVE

  Victorious, the English and French forces had advanced to the southern end of Kazacha Bay, just east of the city, although at that point they were practically inside it. Some forty thousand men marshaled between Kazach and Kamyshova, and the English fleet could rally and supply unmolested. More than a dozen ships were already anchored in the bay, the early autumn sun painting white sails a warm bronze.

  Militarily the English were already in possession of Sebastopol, and it was merely a matter of protocol, surrender, and certain concessions made to Sultan, Queen, and Emperor. Quartermasters were already discussing the considerations of wintering in Constantinople, rather than in their new-fallen prize.

  Blake marched his machine right up the shore of the bay, the Black Sea glinting in the sun. As creeks ran to the ocean, fresh water was diverted to the boilers, the horses, and the camp rapidly taking shape. Carts had already arrived with the first load of wounded; the dead could wait.

  Men were singing as the tents went up. Even Cardigan, miraculously alive for all his foolhardiness, had his dandy up, clapping shoulders and kissing the wives with impunity. Had the band survived Varna, they would have been playing.

  The wind was against them, so the initial sounds escaped notice. The outermost mast went over quickly–unnaturally quickly–and due to a trick of the geography the sickening crunch of wood and the screams of men were delayed by an uncanny second. More crashing, and the second mast went down. Something had emerged from the Black Sea and was demolishing the fleet, a ship every ten seconds.


  “To the mechanicals!” Blake cried, and crew and firemen and officers scrambled to re-ignite the cooling giants. Horses panicked and bolted, and women screamed. Another ship went down, then another, this last not pitching over but comically seeming to sit itself straight upon the floor of the bay like an imposing aunt upon the settee.

  Blake had the higher vantage point from the pilot-house as the boilers got up to steam. It was a sea-monster.

  Glaucous and shimmering, with a golden spine like fish and great, round green eyes, it tore through the wooden hulls with a great groan.

  He corrected himself. The grey of its body was merely iron. Its spine brass, and barbed for the very purpose in which it was currently engaged; the rendering of ships. The eyes were portholes, the groaning the death-rattle of great oaken beams of the British Navy. It was a mechanical, over a hundred feet long. A mechanical like a monstrous fish. A mechanical that could swim.

  He was not prepared for the next oddity, which was not great but small. Which is to say, larger than a man, but a mechanical of some manner nonetheless. This one golden, with great metal feet, and a bulbous head, multi-faceted, like the eyes on an insect. The small mechanical walked upright out of the sea, towing a cable. Soon, the golden man was joined by others, and a moment later some two dozen were ashore, right at the feet of Blake’s Hussars.

  Each of them hauled on their cables, and vast hoses of gutta percha emerged from the water, capped with heavy brass nozzles. A crack rang out, and one of the golden men fell. Not mechanical, then. Men in suits of oiled canvas with brass boots and helmets; men capable of marching beneath the sea. More guns were discharged, and more of the sea-men fell, yet still more emerged to take their place, each dragging their clumsy hoses behind them. When the infantry finally rushed them, the real horror of the sea-creature’s minions was revealed. The hoses unleashed a torrent of green-yellow slime under tremendous pressure. The advancing men were first repelled by the shock, and then each soldier seemed to melt, screaming; skin falling away to muscle, muscle falling away to bone.

  The acidic streams were set upon men and horses, carts and cannon, great arches setting the tents to hissing, malodorous gel. Ammunition spent, Blake bashed the clutch with his fist and leaned the controls forward, marching into the water. He could not fire upon them, but he crush both men and hose underfoot, and he meant to.

  His advance was short lived. Converging streams of the vitriol intersected with his knee-joints, and then finally up the iron thighs to the whirring gyre itself. Parts flew from the mechanism like clockwork under a hammer, and the mechanical pitched forward into the churning bay, noxious with the chemical slime in the sea-foam.

  It was pitch black, and shock of the water filled the cabin. Blake unbuckled himself and turned to the water’s surface, to breathe and to grope for Price. His hands found the man’s face, motionless, the head sticky with blood. Blake scrambled to find the release to the straps affixing the fireman to the sling, but it was in vain. The entirety of the cabin was drowned, and Blake had no choice but to abandon his fallen comrade, and release the hatch by feel. He shot himself feet first out of the guts of the sunken machine, finding the silt the of the bay, and sprang himself to the surface of the water, just barely above his head. The sea burned his skin, and filled his mouth with acid. He found it impossible to breathe, flailing himself ashore.

  There was no one to offer assistance. Some forty diving-men stood their ground, hoses at the ready although not currently spraying, while the thousands lucky enough to be farther than a hundred yards from shore merely stood and stared in horror at the liquefying dead.

  Some twenty minutes later, Lord Raglan approached the shoreline under a flag of parlay, and a longboat was dispatched from the vessel. A steam engine chuffed at the stern, while at the bow an elderly yet stately gentleman, a Russian Admiral, stood and doffed his hat at the commander of the surrendering English forces.

  ---

  Blake awoke to find himself in the infirmary. While he was scalded over much of his skin, the damage was not life-threatening, and he would heal. His voice, however, was reduced to a rasp. The vicar’s wife from dinner before the march on the city, Mrs. Avery, looked over him, and had been washing his face with a flannel and basin. Seeing he was awake, she smiled sweetly, and called for Nurse Florence, who was clearly in charge. She looked him up and down and murmured something discretely to Mrs. Avery, who nodded and excused herself.

  Outside, Eleanor found Avery waiting for her.

  “What is it?” He didn’t answer, but kissed her cheek and took her arm.

  He led her to a small clutch of persons; a beautiful woman whom she identified at once, two Americans, one older than the other, and an elderly Russian officer; a general or some such by his appearance.

  “Sweet Eleanor,” Celeste glided forward to kiss her on both cheeks. “It is a delight and honour. I do feel that I know everything there is to know about you at once.”

  “Celeste,” said Eleanor. “I wish I could say the same, but you are so beautiful I cannot think of a single word.” The Americans seemed puzzled as to why this meeting was significant, but the Prince was happy to have more pretty young girls about, and Colt was determined to stay on his good side, given the circumstances.

  “I apologize, my dear, from taking you away from your work. But I felt that introductions were in order.” He introduced those assembled in turn. After pleasantries were exchanged, he offered Eleanor his arm, and they returned to the infirmary tent.

  Walking away, she heard Mr. Colt informing Mr. Billings they were returning to London with the army, something about Menshikov seeing to the recovery of their airship; and she overheard this curious exchange:

  “Gardenias, Mr. Colt.”

  “What’s that, son?”

  “Gardenias.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned. You’re right. I think you just about saved my hide, Mr. Billings.”

  “Happy to oblige, Mr. Colt.”

  Eleanor and Avery walked together as twilight faded to evening.

  “What is to become of the war?” she asked.

  “The English have no fleet that sails without the permission of the Prince Admiral’s contraption. So they have no choice but to return home on his terms. Still, the Russians cannot field an army against the mechanicals, so it’s a draw. All may return home, honour having been served.”

  “That’s what this is for? Honour?”

  “No. I do think war serves its own ends. It is an entity which seeks to preserve itself, and over the ages has become rather good at it.”

  “Like you,” she teased.

  “Like me,” he admitted sadly.

  “What of your Russian friend?”

  “Grigori? He’s made his mischief, and I’ve no doubt we’ve not heard the last of him. But he served his purpose.”

  “I thought his purpose was opposed to ours.”

  “Well, he discovered the formula for the vitriol, and shared it with his countrymen. That was unexpected. But this did result in a stalemate, ending the war rather suddenly. That has many practical benefits.”

  They walked in silence, at least between the two of them. Picks struck earth for fresh graves, as moans wafted from the infirmary tents.

  “What should you have me do?” she asked.

  “I have vowed to further your education, and I do it thusly: You are to report to Nurse Florence, and you shall return with her to the Scutari barracks in Constantinople.”

  “The Scutari? But that’s a nightmare!”

  “It will need some going over, yes, and I’m sure Nurse Florence is just the person for the job. You’ll learn a great deal under her tutelage.”

  “Will I see you again?”

  “Of course, my darling! I’ll not be gone overlong. I’ve been speaking with that Irishman, from the Times. Randal. Ralleigh. Something. Anyway it seems a Chinese Prince has converted to Christianity, yet one of his own interpretation, and declared himself the messiah. He’s erec
ted his own kingdom in defiance of the Emperor.”

  “That does sound up your street.”

  “There are some...delicacies to the situation outside my purview. Still, I shall endeavour to be of some service, however modest. Then there is the matter of America.”

  “America?”

  “Yes, there’s to be a war with England. Although not directly, of course, but it’s an English war, nonetheless. So I’ll need you for that.”

  “For the war. In America.”

  “Absolutely. Don’t worry, my darling girl, it shan’t wait long. These things never do.”

  “Is Celeste to accompany you to...”

  “Taipeng, yes. If only we can find a suitable means of passage. Everything I suspect will be returning west, whereas we are to proceed eastward if possible.”

  Eleanor looked up at the evening sky. A white shape from the south, like an elegant cloud, drifted silently out of the moonlight which glinted off white sails, purple glass windows and sinuous teak the colour of honey.

  “Dearest Sinjin,” Eleanor said, kissing his cheek, “I’ll have my friend drop you off.”

  THE END