The Rail Pirates_A Steampunk Novella Series

by Ed Zenith

  “Y-you’re Iron Acton?”

  The carriage seemed to get suddenly a few degrees colder. The smile on the old man’s face dropped. Acton stopped chewing.

  “Don’t like that name boy,” growled Acton. Ash would have to steer his way out of this one.

  “Beg pardon mister, that is, master, um, Sir. Just that’s the name of a hero of ours, I mean, mine-”

  “Quiet!” barked Acton, making everyone, including Studley, jump. “Don’t want to hear it again. What’re you doing way out here?”

  It was clear that although not the burly ogre Ash had first supposed him to be, Acton was able to command a fair amount of respect and fear.

  “I-I was running across the Downs Sir. I tripped and banged me head. Sorry to inconvenience you.” Ash garbled.

  “Shh, shh,” the old man tried to calm Ash. “We’s miles from anywhere lad. Where’s you going to?”

  Ash caught his breath. Dare he tell them that he was a fugitive? Might they turn him in? He reasoned that Acton was at least on the same side of the law as him and probably would not welcome the attention from the authorities.

  “Not to Sir. Running away. From the Home.”

  Acton looked up then and stared at Ash like he was a ghost; or rather, that the simple word ‘Home’ had conjured up a legion of ghosts that had long lain dormant in his memory. The old man’s gaze flicked towards Acton, aware of the tension in him. After a few long moments, Acton spoke softly, all the while maintaining eye contact with Ash.

  “Frampton, ready the engine. Don’t want to waste any more time.”

  The old man nodded and hastily made his exit. The dog stayed exactly where he was, enjoying the show.

  “And you. Out.”

  Studley reluctantly followed the old man out. Ash was now alone with the man he had come to revere as a cut-throat and hero, but couldn’t muster any excitement. Acton was clearly anxious and was mulling over what to do with him.

  “Home?”

  “The Home, Sir, yes. The Great Western Home for the-”

  “Yeah, I know it,” Acton chewed the inside of his cheek as he processed this information. He was unreadable, like stone.

  “Cannings still Governor?” he barked. Ash nodded. “And you escaped? He won’t like that.” He turned away, hiding a grin. When he turned back, his face was stone again. He bit into his sandwich, which oozed down his chin and Ash realised that he had not eaten since his stolen biscuits in the Home. His tummy gurgled.

  “Here’s what we’ll do. Mr Cotterell and I are headed for Swindon, to drop off some freight. You’ve taken boarding here without pay, which means you’ve stolen from me. But I’m a fair man. You can work off your debt by helping Mr Cotterell in the engine until we reach Swindon. After that, I don’t want to see you again.”

  “Yes Sir. Thank you. That’s very kind.”

  “And never use that name again. It’s Master Acton, Mr Turville, or Sir. Now get out.”

  Ash took his chance to escape. He turned to leave but was stopped by a hand on his shoulder. Acton looked him up and down.

  “On my train,” he said, “No uniforms.”

  Acton placed his hand on the front pouch of Ash’s dungarees and quickly tore off the inmate number that he had worn since birth. Ash was shocked, but smiled and enthusiastically dashed out of the carriage.

  Ash landed on the ballast outside the carriage and took a moment to appreciate his position. He had escaped, fled and met the infamous (if highly exaggerated) Iron Acton, or Master Acton, as he must call him now. He also had safe passage to Swindon, England’s newly appointed capital. There, he could begin to live some sort of life. He had somehow managed to fall on his feet and not freeze or starve to death on the Downs. He took another moment to examine the train in the morning light. The carriage he had departed had indeed once been grand and was hitched behind the fuel cart and the engine, which Ash now saw for the first time. He saw a rather small, squat structure, painted sloppily in matt black and rusting in places. The engine wasn’t very old, but had certainly seen better days and had been repaired, strengthened, adapted, modified and welded more times than was probably healthy over the years, as if the original design was just a blank canvas and an engineer had chosen to express themselves onto it. Ash had learned to hate steam power, his only experience being the Providence Engine, but he had to admit that his engine had character.

  Far behind the carriage stretched eight or so freight trailers, carrying tons of white rock. The side of the engine carried a nameplate, a curved piece of metal, with the name ‘HORTON’ in large letters. Beside it, a smaller, neat plaque gave the technical specifications:

  0-6-0TA1X CLASS: ‘TERRIER’ENGLAND 1872

  LONDON, BRIGHTON AND SOUTH COAST RAILWAY

  DES: MR W. STOUDLEY8 TONS MAX.

  “Wha’s the verdict then lad?”

  Ash looked up to see Frampton Cotterell looking at him and wiping his blackened hands on an old cloth. He was leaning out of the cab of the engine with Studley at his feet.

  “I’m to help you until we reach Swindon, Master Acton said. As payment for his hospitality.”

  This caused the man’s face to stretch into a wide, friendly, toothless grin and he reached down to offer his hand.

  “Proper job!” he laughed. “You’d better get up here and get shovelling then, hmm?”

  Ash took the offered hand and found himself lifted quite easily off the ground and into the cab. Despite his age, old Frampton was as strong as an ox.

  In the cab, Ash saw more knobs, levers, dials and gizmos than he had ever seen before. Below these was a hole in which a small fire was blazing and behind him lay the coal store. Studley trotted though Ash’s legs, settled himself out of the way in a corner of the cab and promptly went to sleep. The old man continued to potter about, tapping dials, wiping his hands and face, seemingly ignorant of the fact that Ash was there.

  “Ah, Mr Cotterell?”

  He turned abruptly at the mention of his name and grinned.

  “Have I been a bad lad then? I only ever gets called ‘mister’ in court! Frampton’s the name, lad. And yourself?”

  “Ashton Keynes. Ash,” he smiled and they shook hands like gentlemen. They laughed at the absurdity of it. “What should I do?”

  “Hmm, now then,” muttered Frampton. “You ever work a Terrier before?”

  “No Sir. I mean, Frampton. Never even seen one.”

  “No matter. Much the same as any other engine.”

  “I mean, I’ve never seen a train before. Except in a picture once.”

  Frampton didn’t seem to understand this statement, so he nodded, frowned, nodded again and ended up sticking a shovel in Ash’s hands.

  “You look like a strong lad. Shift that there into that there,” he said, referring to the coal and the firebox respectively.

  When the fire was blazing hard, Frampton performed a complicated system of movements with various levers and the train started moving. Ash kept the fire going and did exactly what Frampton told him to. For Ash, who had spent his entire life dreaming of escape and freedom, the ride was amazing. The Horton, for all its ugliness and rough edges, moved smoothly through the air, like a swan on a still lake. The countryside glided past them as they followed the track north and Ash fell in love with the speed, ease and beauty of rail travel. The engine in front of them was pure power hauling the carriages behind. Ash instantly felt at ease and the Horton made him feel like nothing he had ever felt before: at home. Maybe I could learn to love steam after all, he thought.

  The friendliness of the driver was another thing to be thankful for. As soon as the train was on its way, Frampton burst into conversation. He spoke with an unusually loud voice, which was audible over the roar of the engine.

  At the grand age of eighty-two, Frampton had been on trains all his life, which was why he couldn’t grasp the concept of never having seen one before. Starting work at the age of thirteen, he worked his way up to footplateman and also picked up some
engineering knowledge along the way. When he came to work on the Horton, he added the modifications that made it possible to get it running again.

  “She’s only little, see? Never meant to haul freight, but I strengthened her up. Good as gold now.”

  The Horton was Frampton’s pride and joy and Ash could see why; for something so small, she gave an astonishing performance.

  It took until noon to reach Swindon and as the train slowly moved into the city, Ash remembered that he must soon disembark. At this he felt sad, which confused him. He had lived in the Home his whole life and yet after just one day aboard the Horton, he felt as though this was his true home.

  “Frampton, could I stay on board? I could help out, like I have today.”

  Frampton removed his cloth cap to scratch and shake his head vigorously. “Not my decision lad. Master Acton’s boss round here. His train; his rules.”

  Ash thought this over. “Do you think there’s a way he’d let me stay on?”

  Again, Frampton shook his head so hard that his ears flapped.

  “Master Acton, God bless him for his kindness to me, but be he only cares about one thing: Freight.”

  “Freight?”

  “You got it lad. How do you think we makes a living? Someone wants something taking somewhere and we take it. Freight means work. Work means pay. Pay makes Master Acton happy. He’s a simple soul really; quiet, but looks after those that do right by him.”

  Ash saw the station come into view. “So if I get him some freight to pull, he might let me back on board?”

  “Could do. No guarantees mind. Our Master Acton can be awful prickly sometimes.”

  But Ash could now see a course of action. As the train pulled up to the station, he jumped to the platform and waved at Frampton.

  “I’ll be back soon with a job for you!” he grinned. Frampton waved to Ash, who practically skipped down the station and into the strange city.

  4.

  The Strait of Gibraltar, Mediterranean Sea, 1838.

  “Land ahoy Captain!”

  Captain Drake of the merchant ship SS Roundway had never been so pleased to see the cliffs of Spain. The job, when he had accepted it, seemed easy. All he had to do was transport two men and their cargo – a small wooden box – from North Africa to Spain, but the journey had soon run into complications.

  His crew, like typical sailors, were deeply superstitious and their suspicions had been raised early on about the nature of the men’s wooden box. One deckhand said it emanated evil, that death and destruction followed it wherever it went. Another said it could only contain the heart of a saint, such was its power. One said that the two men were none other than emissaries of the devil, transporting a soul to the afterlife.

  Captain Drake reminded them that it was none of their business. The men were paying customers and they paid for their privacy. Secretly, he would be glad to see the back of them. He was as superstitious as his crew and he couldn’t help but feel uneasy about his passengers. Ever since they had stepped aboard, the ship had taken a dislike to them. The deck creaked, the sails flapped in the wind like a dying gull and the hull rocked to and fro, even on calm waters. A good captain knew when to listen to his ship and Drake knew that the Roundway was issuing a warning: Danger Aboard.

  He stepped across the deck, a black sky bubbling overhead and up to the door of his passengers’ cabin. He gave a short knock and entered.

  The two men sat on armchairs, seemingly staring into space. As Drake entered, he saw they were actually staring at their box, which sat on a small table, an equal distance between them. Drake coughed politely until they seemed to notice him. Still they did not take their eyes off the box. He knew them only as they knew each other; by codenames, such was the secrecy of their mission.

  “Mr Clench, Mr Rudge. We should dock in twenty minutes.”

  “Thank you Captain,” said Rudge. He was the heavier-set of the two. They looked as though they might have been made in the same factory; each wore a long leather coat and military boots over a crisp white shirt.

  “Has your journey been pleasurable?”

  “Quite,” said Clench.

  Drake nodded and turned to leave. After an awkward pause, he turned back.

  “I don’t suppose…” he started.

  “Yes Captain?” Clench sighed.

  The Captain blushed, suddenly flustered.

  “The crew and I – that is, we were… curious as to what it was you were transporting.”

  Rudge smiled. “You don‘t need to know.”

  That was what he had said at the start of the trip. Drake turned to go again, but turned back, indignant.

  “I’m afraid I will need to know. Curiosity aside, customs laws are very strict in Spain and if I’m seen to be supporting smuggling, it’ll spell my end.”

  Rudge looked to Clench, who shrugged.

  “You really want to know?”

  “I’m afraid I must insist.”

  The two guards paused and nodded.

  Drake stepped up to the small table and casually flipped the lid of the box open.

  His face froze in an expression of wonder.

  The crimson blade shimmered at him, the belt coiled around it.

  “It’s…beautiful,” he whispered.

  He continued to stare, a red reflection of the box’s contents gleaming in his eyes. Rudge and Clench stood.

  “One of a kind.”

  “Y-your mission?” stammered Drake.

  “Our orders were quite clear,” said Rudge.

  “To transport the package from Marrakech to England, directly into the hands of Her Majesty the Queen Herself.” said Clench. The three stared at the box in hushed reverence.

  “We also swore to protect the package,” said Rudge. “And to kill any man who sets eyes on it.”

  Drake looked to his passengers to see if he had heard correctly. He sank to his knees as Clench drew a cold steel blade across his throat.

  The SS Roundway was boarded by Spanish customs hours later, after they noticed it had been anchored off-shore for some time. Each crew member lay in a pile of their own blood. The passengers and their package were nowhere to be found.

  5.

  Swindon had the air of a great modern city, full of bustling boulevards, gigantic marketplaces and towering buildings, all in no particular order. It felt as though someone had told the planners that these were the characteristics they wanted for the city and could they have it built by the end of the month? Which, more or less, was how it had happened.

  When the great engineer Brunel was made Prime Minister, he set about relocating the nation’s key institutions: the Bank of England, Parliament and the Civil Service amongst others, to Swindon, a small market town in Wiltshire. Swindon’s economy multiplied, as did its population and buildings were thrown up in no time at all. Chimney stacks and skyscrapers littered the horizon, each with a steam-powered zeppelin hanging off the side. Lighter-than-air travel had become the fashionable trend amongst the upper classes and every business worth its salt had its own airship, not to mention the public and charter services that transported people across the empire. The Brunel towel lay at the heart of the city, a dozen airships attached to its fuelling stanchions at any one time. Rail was still the best way to haul goods and freight of course and was the main reason for the re-location of the capital. The reason for this was that Brunel wanted England to be at the forefront of engineering design and Swindon lay at the heart of the rail industry, which under the guidance of Brunel himself, became one of the most respected and forward-thinking in the world. Tracks and stations sprang up across the country and trains replaced horse and cart as the dominant form of travel. Soon, England was a world leader due to its embracing of the industrial revolution and Swindon was the envy of the modern world.

  As the years wore on, increased misuse of the railway network by smugglers and railway pirates forced many of the lines in the south to be closed or redirected to pass through HM Customs in Wr
oughton, so the Government could search and tax the goods on the trains.

  The infamous Acton Turville cared not a jot about the Government rules and had found a way of avoiding these unnecessary payments by utilising a short cut over the Marlborough Downs, on abandoned track which lead him right into the centre of Swindon.

  Which is where Ash found himself. The station doors opened out onto a large concourse where taxi drivers and vendors descended on the exiting commuters offering their services and goods. Many of the well-heeled travellers took on the services of the steamcabs, hastily-adapted Hansom cabs where the horse had been made redundant and replaced with a small steam engine. The cabbie looked bizarre, thought Ash. The driver still took his place at the top of the cab, but the reigns they shook now connected to machinery, not an animal. He absently wondered where had all the horses gone when steam took over.

  To Ash, the bustle and noise of the city was truly astounding. He had thought that meal time in the Home’s canteen was busy, but it was nothing compared to this. The concourse led down onto a wide boulevard, with businesses each side competing for attention by means of large signs or displays:

  Old Sodbury’s Haberdashers: Magnificent Materials for the Modern Gent.

  Carlingcott’s Antiques: Purveyors of Historical Artefacts since 1627 - Now Part of History Itself!

  Mildenhall’s: Glue Manufacturers to Her Majesty the Queen.

  It was the middle of the day and despite having the impetus and enthusiasm of finding freight for the Horton, Ash realised that his life of incarceration had not been a great preparation for the world of industry; he hadn’t the first clue how to find the job he needed. His spirits were low and he ambled along the street, being thrown to and fro by the crowds. His spirits dipped even further when he remembered Frampton mentioning that they would be in Swindon for only one night and moving on the next day if no work came their way.

  One day to find freight. Impossible. Ash wandered around Swindon’s impressive streets for a few hours, attempting to learn the geography of the haphazard city, wondering who to ask about a job, not having the nerve to approach anyone. He was, after all, an escaped convict and needed to lie low, but his heart was torn when he thought of the Horton and that peculiar sense of belonging he felt. He thought fondly of Frampton’s incessant friendly chatter, even Acton’s taciturn grumpy generosity. Another sense grew in him too; that of hunger. As soon as he acknowledged it was there, he could think of nothing else and it played on his mind constantly. He wandered into Swindon’s giant marketplace, a square where stall holders yelled and bartered, peddling all types of goods and services. One man seemed to be selling all types of components and steam apparatus, while another sold Romany trinkets and told fortunes. A whole stall was devoted to selling penny dreadfuls and another sold only musical instruments; ukuleles, hurdy-gurdys, kazoos and harpsichords. The volume of the vendors’ cries was dizzying.