Clockwork Chaos

by C. J. Henderson

  With every step of descent into the basement, the humidity became more cloying. He felt as if he navigated through heavy wool. His breath stuck in his throat as if someone had stuffed a rag in his mouth.

  “You’ve done a marvelous job,” Cecilia said as she pressed the foot pedal for more steam. The pipes clanged and sweated as if under great stress, but held as they performed the task previously only handled by brawny men. Nathaniel shook his head. Perhaps he had made a mistake when he adapted the Koenig printing press to the effort-saving methods of steam. Even though steam-driven rotary presses had been used in the industrialized factories since 1814, few small clamshell presses, like the one hidden beneath The Equinox Bookshop, were powered by steam.

  “Before now, no woman has had the strength to leverage this foot treadle,” Cecilia said, pumping the mechanism for emphasis, “or even turn the wheel, but with the help of your steam propulsion, I can manage quite well. Look!”

  The platens of the press separated, revealing a sheet of paper. Sable-colored ink smeared on her cheek and nose made Cecila even more irresistible. He would have laughed if the situation had not been so serious. She gingerly removed the printed broadside with her fingertips, and held the paper flat on her palms as she slid it next to others on a long drying table. “There. That’s sheet ninety-seven, only one hundred and thirteen more to go.”

  “My stars, you’ve already printed almost as many as Cracky did in such a short time. He was the best apprentice this side of London.” Nathaniel resisted the temptation to pull the copper tubing and stop this entire operation. It was just too dangerous. And it was his fault. While Nathaniel had been vulnerable to her charms and whims for years, he never imagined what would happen once he invited her to his mechanics workshop. There in the midst of inventions springing to noisy, sweaty life, she stood hypnotized by the power and potential. In her usual impulsive way, she begged him to build her a specific contraption—for a more specific reason—to stir up trouble.

  “Thank you, Nathaniel. Ye of such little faith,” she said, gloating as she checked to see which sheets had dried. “You have to admit, I am my father’s daughter. Do me a favor, will you? Will you please shovel on another load of coal.” She pointed in the direction of the steam engine he’d built at the back of the room where he’d erected a dividing wall from leftover bricks, The wall protected the papers and press from the damp and as much as from discovery. The contraption which could lead to the destruction of the whole enterprise. Copper tubing extended upward to near ceiling height, crested the wall, and then stretched just above the ceiling both ways. One part dipped back down again to the junction at the press, while the other exited the building at ground level to relieve the build-up of excess steam.

  “It seems warm enough in here to me,” Nathaniel said, removing his waistcoat and hanging it on a hook.

  “I just need enough to finish the last batch. But yes, it is abysmally warm and humid,” she agreed. “I must remove my jacket before I faint.”

  “You, madam? Struck by the vapors? I hardly think so. Remember how revolted you were when Margot, that silly neighbor of yours pretended to swoon at the opera? You would never stoop to such coy playacting,” he joked. “But I shall look away if you like.”

  “Silly, Nathaniel. It’s only my jacket. I am wearing four layers.” She rinsed her hands in a small basin and after a cursory swipe of the hand towel, untied the ties on her jacket. The light from the candles bounced off the sheen of the russet silk, emphasizing her choice of bold colors, which set off her dark heavy hair. Fabrics dyed with madder were for the daring these days. Greys and blacks were considered more appropriate for young women. But Cecilia had never done what was appropriate. When he built the steam engine for her, hauling the pieces down the stairs bit by bit in heavy crates, he never imagined one of the benefits would be the opportunity to watch her disrobe. He was generously rewarded now. Without a hint of embarrassment or decorum, she removed the copper-colored jacket revealing a green- and white-striped corset. Her blouse was of material so sheer it exposed the embroidered linen petticoat beneath its gauze.

  Cecilia reached into the maw of the machinery as if such an act was an everyday occurrence, especially in a secret room without a chaperone. She inked the roller as agile as any back street boy. She was a slim woman and the arch of her back beneath the striped satin was a sight he memorized without guilt.

  Nathaniel stepped behind the brick wall and shoveled coal as she worked. The pumping clangs, hisses, and bangs of the machinery beat out a rhythmic music all their own, one of industry and efficiency, energy and intricacy. The sounds ran through him as if he were on the receiving end of the powers only steam created. It escalated his heartbeat, swelled his heart with passion for his mechanical work and renewed gratitude for this amazing age. Despite all the stresses of the current state of Britain, once the Science for the Advancement of the Individual Society was reinstated, he envisioned a future bright with commerce and production, where man could use his brain, not break his back to accomplish marvelous unimagined things.

  Cecilia stopped working before he did. He stopped as well. The steam would build all night if he shoveled more coal. He walked around the edge of the brick wall, unbuttoning his shirt from the heat of his efforts.

  “I’m having trouble keeping the paper from curling. Can you hand me a few blank sheets?” she asked without looking up. “I’ve had to keep them as far away from the steam engine as possible. They’re in that metal drawer under the paperweights.”

  As he assisted her once more, he realized he was an accomplice. “You’re intent on publishing these broadsides?”

  “Yes, of course. You know as well as I do, we’ve been driven to such recourse. You were there at the planning stages, even when Father was still alive.” She inserted the paper he handed her and then summoned the steam to operate the great wheel to close the press.

  Nathaniel respected her as a sharp book dealer, as well as her ability to haggle to acquire rare volumes at the best prices, but in dealing with the real world, he didn’t trust her judgment. She was too independent, too driven on impulse. And unfortunately, she had a way of driving the rest of them into dangerous ventures without resorting to pouting or guilt. She simply took the first step. And for some uncanny reason—they followed.

  “The authorities will trace them here,” he said, finally accepting the idea of a confrontation. “There is gossip they consulted a Chromotographer to analyze the ink in the diaries they think belong to Jack the Ripper. You shall be found out,” Nathaniel stepped into the light thrown by the candles.

  “Nathaniel, you know I am not a stupid woman. I stole the ink from Ratcliff’s. His shop has been confiscated. Didn’t you notice the crane positioned outside his building ready to lift it onto the wheel bed? Fustin warned me. Do you recall that sly, but charming street urchin who comes by here all the time? He’s as good as any other leader of the revolt, heading up that raggle-taggle band of boys.”

  Nathaniel nodded his head, but looked unsure. She ignored the look. “Fustin told me how his brothers were sent up Ratcliff’s chimney to crack the mortar. Afterward they were put to work at gunpoint, some sort of highly engineered gun the boy said, the stuff of nightmares, he said. They worked all last night extending the rail line beneath Ratcliff’s. By the time anyone thinks to trace the ink there, the building and its contents will be scattered in pieces across the scrap heap. Fustin also heard street gossip that Ratcliff buggered off just in time with that French woman. Luckily, he’s drinking absinthe in a Parisian café by now. Besides, Jack the Ripper and I can hardly be compared.”

  Nathaniel looked at her in shock. “Murder is murder, my dear. Things are getting out of hand. This has gone too far.” He stepped forward and put one hand on her forearm. He could feel her muscles tense just below where she’d rolled up her sleeve. She stopped working, her hand stilled between the two platens of the printing press, the lace-edge against her sweat-gleamed skin accenting her fe
minine nature. But the hand holding the ink-roller, now stilled, was once again covered in ink like a workman’s hand.

  “And you don’t think they’ve gone too far?” she asked.

  “That demented Industry for the Consumers Council! Imagine banning newspapers? Mark my words, books will be next. This is our last chance,” she said in a tone which terrified him, slightly demented in its own right.

  “Things have escalated on both sides so quickly,” his voice trailed off. He didn’t know the words to convince her.

  “That is why we must make our move, is it not? It’s all the more imperative now that Cracky, Morris, and Archibald have been arrested. I’m not going to throw away six months of planning.” She pulled free of his grasp and held up the roller. “Besides this is the most common of all inks. Any Industry Council investigators will be led on a merry chase.”

  “And the poison, you don’t think anyone will trace the poison?”

  “I know my experiments with, let us say, the more deadly plants disturb you, but I’ve even consulted the alchemist. John Henry Bolton, whose father studied under William Withering, the first physician to realize the medicinal properties as well as the potency of the foxglove. And yes, the steroid glycoside: or digitoxin when taken from the more potent leaves and upper stem of what fanatics call Dead Men’s Bells and Witch’s Gloves can cause death, but it all depends on amounts.” She held up her fist and opened and closed it as a heart might look when beating.

  Nathaniel winced. “But it can stop the heart.”

  “It’s true, digitoxin pumps more than the usual sodium and potassium ions which impacts the heart rate. But, I’ve only extracted small amounts from the foxgloves in my garden. It may make the council men faint, suffer vomiting and dysentery, or even experience hallucinations and delirium...” She flicked away a lock of hair which had escaped from her chignon. He would have reached forward and assisted her, but he was stunned to the point of inaction.

  “And granted it can go either way,” she continued, “with bradycardia or tachycardia if one has issues of the heart, but men with health problems should be at home with their families not out late at night stirring up trouble on the council. It’s not as if many will die. Most will just fall ill.” She spoke with calm detachment as if they stood in the drawing room, discussing a recipe for rose potpourri or boysenberry tarts. She put her clean hand on her hip as she tilted her head and grinned at him with a wicked wry smile on her face.

  “I hope they fall ill,” she said half under her breath with more vengeance than Nathaniel expected. “Every last one embroiled in the sinister mockery of a civil governing body. At least long enough to put off the vote until our men return home. You know the commission the councilmen from our district, two men on the side of the common man, on that wild-goose chase just to get them out of town. The Industry Council has resorted to subterfuge and trickery. You must believe, as I do, why Cracky and my cousins were arrested. It was right after Cracky told us he’d overheard the plot to eliminate all printing. So, as far as I’m concerned, these unethical dignitaries can stew in their own juices, at least long enough for Jonathan Tilby and Raymond Longton to have time to make the meeting, convince those of the Industry Council who survive to change their minds—and to interrogate any sickly survivors. By that point, they should be willing to reveal where their headquarters is located and who is behind this internal invasion.”

  Her eyes lit up as if flared by a candle, but the light was from within, Nathaniel realized. A fervor, a dedication just like her father’s and one he had admired in both of them. When she was younger, the spoiled only daughter of one of the most respected book dealers this side of the channel, he thought her shallow and conceited, the way she talked about fashion and pranced about town. Complimentary colors, he could hear the way she said the words in his mind, as if they held a mystical secret. But now, he knew it was all a distraction.

  In the marketplace she turned the heads of men and inspired gossip among women as she taunted everyone with her flamboyant, Bohemian style. But, once in the underbelly of The Equinox, she was all business, as dedicated as any other revolutionary. She strategized against the Industry Council and their reprehensible methods of churning innocent women and children into fodder for the textile mills and work houses.

  “Yes, I do agree, something must be done.” He realized it was going to be a long evening. “But can’t we go speak to a higher authority?”

  “Who? The Commissioner? He’s as crooked as the Industry Council, and is probably even more entangled with the Progressive Movement for Utilitarian Mechanization. You must realize they all stand on the side of greed, money lust, and power. They will stoop to nothing to persuade the entire country to their Industrial Conglomerate plan. It’s all based on coercion and the eradication of the individual. First the newspapers and then all other means of communication. Infiltrate, Isolate, Interrogate, Indoctrinate, and Incorporate. That’s what my father found out when he stumbled on their publications. That’s why they killed him. Yet, they claim simple book and newspaper publishers are propagandists. They don’t care if children sicken or die from overwork laying the rails. They don’t care if a woman can barely stand at the end of a twelve-hour shift.” He could see hints of the malachite hue of her eyes, that fervent gleam which meant she could not be swayed from her purpose. The color was brought out by the striped corset. If she knew how to create poisons as well as she knew how to make a dramatic statement, her enemies were in dire trouble indeed.

  “I brewed a tea of the blossoms,” she whispered as if to herself, as if reading his mind, her voice distant, her eyes looking into the shadowed hollows of the press as if it held answers. Ink dripped from the roller onto the floor and spread in odd, brown patterns.

  “Digitalis purpurea more commonly called foxglove is not as fragrant as their noble, upright blossoms would lead you to think.” She still spoke in a vague tone, the anger devolved into a slow simmer, a determined simmer to last longer than a quick boil, a simmer of seductive sultriness, like the day she’d taken him by train along the Thames to the botanical display at Kew Gardens. It was beneath the stunning glass dome of the horticulturalist house where she’d shown him the foxglove—and also the first time, drunk on the heat and aromas of lilac and lavender, freesia and roses, he became entranced: both by the power of steam and the allure of Cecilia. He’d attempted to kiss her, but they were interrupted by a haughty matron with her brood. He reluctantly acted the gallant and backed away right into dionaea muscipulaa, an oversized, violently green Venus Flytrap.

  “And the resultant boiling liquid,” she continued, “it has no special color, only a limp yellow. But the poison is there all the same.” She turned to look at him to make sure he was paying attention. Then she looked at the roller in her hand as if she had forgotten it was there. “And now it’s in the ink. Your injection idea worked.”

  She handed him a broadside along with her father’s brass-handled magnifying glass. The optical aid was a piece he’d often enjoyed using when examining technical texts. It was devised with a blend of three separate lenses fused together. One magnified by simply making things bigger, but the second tinted the light in a red tone, while the third tinted the light in a blue tone. These variables, had Cecilia explained, were warm and cold tones, to amplify different aspects of an image. While the tints didn’t affect text to a large degree, they did make a difference in seeing various details when examining the art of drawings, such as Audobahn’s drawings.

  When Nathaniel read the broadside, he saw how, in a perverse sense of paradox, Cecilia had chosen to use the broadside to advertise the opening of the Tropical Exhibit at Kew Gardens. “You see how there is a shade of lighter brown at the edges of the ink on these sheets? That’s where the foxglove has escaped the turpentine and watered down the soot and walnut oil... just as it slightly oxygenates the blood and races the heart. Whoever touches these broadsides and eats with the same hand will be stricken. They may not all die, b
ut they’ll certainly suffer alarming reactions.”

  Nathaniel couldn’t take his eyes off the roller as ink ran in dark trails down the pale skin or her arm. As the candlelight flickered, it reminded him of dried blood, of the way her father’s face looked shortly after they had found him behind the shop at first light. The poor man had obviously been bludgeoned following one of the clandestine meetings of the local merchants turned reactionaries. Nathaniel stepped back, his mind racing.

  “But without all of us, without some keeping watch, we cannot make sure the broadsides don’t fall into the wrong hands. We must avoid hurting innocent people,” Nathaniel tried to convince her, the words tumbling out in a breathless rush.

  “Balderdash. I have it all arranged. I have hired Fustin and his boys to be distributors. He already agreed to sell from the pouch with the—let us call them—tainted inks. He’ll make sure they’re only sold on the steps of the meeting house to council members. The younger boys will sell the safe sheets on street corners, at the guild halls, and outside the Blue Anchor Pub. Maybe if I can hire them on for a spell, I can keep the younger ones out of the chimneys and off the rail line and steer Fustin away from his penchant for thievery. I shall save myself a few coppers, just in the number of books he steals for their fire. Now, make yourself useful.” Cecilia pointed to a stack of broadsides on the table. “See that batch over there? They should be dry by now. Don’t worry, you can touch them. Those are the safe batches. Please put them in the weight press so they lie flat. Maybe twenty or twenty-five at a time.”

  Nathaniel did as he was told. There was no stopping her at this point. Perhaps he could stop the boys once they hit the streets. Besides, he liked working with the machinery. He was good at it, although, his family would cringe to see him working in a print shop.

  Before he took the stack of papers, he went to the nipping press. He leaned over and turned the great, spoked iron wheel until the top platen rose to a height of a foot. After he inserted a stack between the two cushioned platens, he turned the wheel counterclockwise to close the press. This one was not a steam-operated machine. Even though it was heavy at 90 lbs for a parlour-sized press, Cecilia could still turn the wheel which moved the platens up and down. But since it was about her weight, she couldn’t move the piece. Sometimes he wondered if that was the only reason she tolerated him. Before the Betterment Through Industry Council attacked the printers’ guild, he had considered asking Cecilia if he could serve as her partner in the bookshop and printing business. After her father died, he saw how hard she worked to manage it by herself. He now relished the smell of ink, as much as of books. Books had been his constant friends growing up. He felt proud when he helped print and bind one and the ink smell seemed permanent somehow. At least until in recent months, when the rail lines changed everything.