A Grave Celebration

by Christine Trent

  The frenetic activity never stopped on a ship. Sweeping, swabbing, painting, cargo-securing, and rig-checking work seemed to have a constancy to it, as if the ship herself were the queen ant, to be served with reverent, self-sacrificing devotion by all of the other members of the colony. Sam eventually stopped to ask questions of a seaman tarring ropes. The sailor looked very much like one of the men who had been serving them at table just a short while ago, except now he wore the customary naval uniform of baggy blue trousers and shirt, that color cheap to produce since Britain’s acquisition of India gave it access to indigo plants.

  Violet continued her promenade with the ambassador, gazing out at the Egyptian landscape as they neared Ismailia. Despite the hum of naval activity, Violet began to relax—even becoming sleepy as the effect of the food and the sherry combined with the smooth movement of the ship and the unexpectedly balmy weather of Egypt to lull her into a nearly insensible state.

  Violet had anticipated the Egyptian climate would be brutally hot and oppressive. But in November, at least, it was quite pleasant. Beyond the edges of the canal was a mesmerizing landscape of sandy dunes, which were probably inhospitable and fit only for camels and scorpions, accented with a backdrop of lush green hills. Tall minarets were faintly visible in the distance, resembling lighthouses planted in the earth to beckon people to them.

  From her vantage point, caressed by luscious breezes, it all seemed romantic and exotic, and it was easy to push aside the horror from last night. She must have sighed aloud, for Elliot paused. “Is anything wrong, Mrs. Harper?”

  “What?” She shook her head to clear it. “No, no, I’m quite all right. Just enjoying . . . this.” She spread her free hand out, indicating the scenery.

  “Yes, this country has a way of slowly folding you into itself like quicksand, except you voluntarily step into it and allow it to cover you. What impresses me the most is the Egyptian sunset. You believe yourself to be transported back to a time of pyramids, mummies, and hieroglyphics. I have been in this region for two years, and it never ceases to take my breath.”

  The ambassador shook his head as if also coming out of reverie. He glanced behind them, causing Violet to do the same, and she saw that Sam was once again joining them. Elliot quickly bent his head and whispered to her in low tones, “Careful, Mrs. Harper, that you don’t permit Egypt to become your quicksand.”

  

  Karl Dorn grunted in pain as the rowboat was dropped the last few feet into the water. He clutched his side, pressing in against the pain that had been plaguing him for so long. It was remarkable how very concrete liquid became when hit directly. Water splashed onto the floor of the rowboat, soaking his polished boots. Emperor Franz-Josef would be furious if he noticed Dorn appearing anything but fastidious, but there was no help for it now.

  The boatman quietly dipped oars into the water to maneuver them away from Viribus Unitis and on to their destination. Fortunately, His Highness had yet to notice Dorn’s discomfort, which had been an ever-present enemy since the day he fought in the Battle of Königgrätz in the unfortunately but accurately named Seven Weeks’ War. Dorn had enthusiastically joined to fight on behalf of the emperor. There was such pride in it, to know that he was willing to lay down his life for the House of Habsburg, that glorious ruling house to whom all Austrians owed allegiance. So in June 1866, Dorn had kissed his mother and sister good-bye, bowed to his father and older brother, both of whom ran the family Apotheker shop. He was heading off, a young man of twenty-five, to do his duty with joy and resolve.

  He had been a handsome young man, with light hair, a closely cropped beard, and a smile that went straight to his eyes that he knew had a certain effect on young women his age. He planned to cause more of the Mädchen to swoon upon his return, with tales of remarkable bravery and valor.

  The only thing remarkable was how quickly he dropped weight from his tall, sturdy frame, and how he had found his first gray hair while shaving in the dim reflection of his metal dining plate. The first time a sniper shot at him, he realized that the leaner he was, the more quickly he could run, and gray hair was completely unnoticeable beneath mud and dust and blood, so Dorn welcomed his new lankiness and premature signs of aging.

  Within two weeks he was already battle-weary. The worst was yet to come when he was sent with his cohort to Bohemia, where General Moltke had rapidly mobilized the Prussian army, led by Wilhelm I, and the two sides met at Königgrätz in July. The Austrian officers had boasted to all of the troops about their numerical superiority, claiming with confidence that this would end the war and Prussia’s overreach.

  It was certainly the end, but for Austria. Dorn’s country—even with troops from all over the confederation, including the ferocious Saxons—was no match for Prussia, whose soldiers were equipped with Dreyse’s breech-loading needle guns. Austria’s muzzle-loaders couldn’t compete with them, and her battle deaths were seven times that of Prussia. It might have been even more deaths, but Dorn had been able to save a group of nearly a dozen injured men by fending off Prussian troops while der Sanitäter carried them off the battlefield.

  The flotilla ships, once in a single-file line, were now clustered together as they sought out docking berths. As he was rowed past the ship flying the British colors, he noticed a dark-haired woman on deck, her silhouette framed in lantern light as she gazed down at his tiny boat slicing through the water.

  As if embarrassed to be caught staring at him, the woman lifted her hand in greeting, and despite all of the formality drilled into him, he waved a hand in return, silently frowning at his own casual behavior. The emperor would not like to know that he was being familiar with foreigners, even if it was just a universal sign of salutation. He and the woman dropped their hands almost simultaneously as Dorn was rowed out of sight.

  “Almost there, Herr Dorn,” the boatman said as he lifted the oars out of the water to let the tiny craft slow on its own as they approached the larger ship. Dorn nodded at the man.

  He contemplated how easy it would be for the ship they were approaching to simply turn toward them and capsize them. Dorn didn’t swim, and he would surely drown. Of course, the Austrian army was enormous and should have also been able to overturn the Prussians, but nothing about the brief war had happened the way it should have. Including the aftermath of Königgrätz.

  He had been picked up by Prussian soldiers and taken to their officer, who became convinced that Dorn was a significant officer in the Austrian army disguising himself as a common foot soldier. Apparently Dorn resembled this unknown Oberstleutnant, and no amount of talking would convince the man that he was a mere junior Rekrut, and thus the officer decided to force battle-plan information from Dorn himself.

  While Austria was quickly capitulating after Königgrätz, Dorn was imprisoned in an underground cell, enduring merciless beatings day and night. He hadn’t even realized that Austria had already sued for peace terms and the Prussian was simply persisting in torturing him out of spite. Or perhaps vicious cruelty.

  With peace finally settled, the officer was forced to let Dorn go. He limped his way back to his family, malnutrition and a nearly full head of gray hair the least of his problems. His mother and sister could have filled the Bodensee with their tears at the sight of him, but his father and brother went to work straightaway to fix him. Dorn had supreme confidence that they could do so, but months later, he seemed to have made little progress, and mein Gott, how his side hurt. The pain frequently knifed through him as if he were being attacked by a saber over and over again.

  Eventually, his father had shaken his head over Dorn, claiming he could fathom no cure for whatever mysterious ailment or injury he had. Multiple doctors had looked at him, as well, and Dorn had become used to men peering over him with sympathetic looks and then huddling in the corner with his father to whisper condolences. None of the girls he had once flirted with came to visit him, and he had prepared himself for the wretched life of an invalid.

  Until the m
essenger from Hofburg Palace arrived.

  Just as quickly as his life had become one of misery, so did his fortune spin around on the head of a pin again. Suddenly with everything to live for, Dorn had dragged himself from his sickbed and taught himself to ignore pain, no matter how weak and exhausted it left him by the end of the day. He had gathered up every pill, root, powder, and draught that had been brought to his bedside and packed it in his luggage, for the emperor himself had invited Dorn to come to Hofburg Palace. He had been granted a minor court post as a reward for his bravery and endurance against the Prussians.

  Dorn had had no idea how word had traveled to the court about him, but he had known a divine event when it happened. That good fortune had spread over him like a cloak, for he had soon been elevated to chamberlain. He had been one of many in this position, whose role was to coordinate all of the court’s rituals, but he had served in it well. The rest of the court had despised Dorn as an upstart, and he had gained few friends there, but that was of little relevance to him. More important was the idea that as he had gathered stature. He would be able to secure a proper marriage with a woman who might not mind that he was wreckage, much like the flotsam he had watched float by helplessly during the trip along the Nile. This could only happen while Dorn continued to remain secure in His Highness’s esteem, and there was nothing Dorn would not do to maintain that regard, no matter the cost. No matter the sacrifice.

  When His Highness had declared his intentions to attend the Suez Canal opening ceremonies, Dorn had angled to be the chamberlain selected for the trip. He’d heard that Islamic doctors had special powers, and he was determined to visit one or more of them while in Egypt, in hopes that he could finally have his pain treated. Meanwhile, he was chewing and swallowing his way through any substance that promised relief.

  Dorn patted his chest once more, where the emperor’s sealed letter lay in a secret pocket sewn inside his jacket. Although this was simply a quick rowing across the port waters, he felt as if he were on a secret mission, a spy furtively carrying a coded message into the enemy camp. He knew what typically happened to spies, but this wasn’t really a time of war, was it?

  The rowboat bumped up against the larger ship, and Dorn unintentionally let out a muttered “Oof.” His insides were jumbled around by even the slightest impact or disturbance these days.

  “Apologies, Herr Dorn,” the boatman offered, touching the edge of his cap.

  Dorn nodded wordlessly at the man, his attention distracted by the commotion on the deck of the ship above them. Ropes with sharp metal hooks on the ends were lowered down to attach to rings along the edge of the rowboat. The boatman attached them all while Dorn sat motionless, a hand discreetly pressing against his right side.

  As the boat was reeled up, water sluicing off her sides and splashing back down into the canal, Dorn realized he was willingly entering a veritable lion’s den on his master’s behalf. He must conduct himself with decorum and bravery, just as if this ship were the fields of Königgrätz. Except that this might prove to be even more dangerous.

  Chapter 15

  Port Ismailia

  Once more, Violet and Sam disembarked Newport, this time to another glittering array of brightly colored tents and three enormous stages. These were surrounded by potted plants, trellises, and painted wood fencing, most likely to hide the mass of preparation materials behind them. Set back a small distance from this main activity area was a palace with its own lake that would rival any British ducal estate. Nearby was a sprawling villa of cream with a red-tiled roof and unusual red designs across the front of it. Other imposing buildings in the town suggested that Ismailia was less a port and more an official location for canal business. Every structure, though, appeared to be new, as if carefully constructed just for this very event.

  Also dotting the landscape were triumphal arches, statues, and other ceremonial creations echoing that of Napoléon’s Paris. Perhaps yet another nod to de Lesseps, or perhaps they were intended to associate the khedive with the great emperors of ancient Rome.

  A long, wide scarlet carpet made a trail from the disembarkation point to the three stages, and, as expected, Violet and Sam were not guided that way, but were encouraged to mingle with the other minor delegation members. Louise-Hélène was conspicuously absent from the French entourage. Also absent was de Lesseps’s bitterness about Newport’s duplicity, which Violet had no doubt still raged privately inside him.

  Also as expected, de Lesseps, Eugénie, Pasha, and the other heads of state clustered together to greet people. Admirers cheered them on and handed Eugénie white jasmine flowers, whose sweet fragrances permeated the air. The same flowers were woven into garlands adorning the stages, tents, and fencing, and were even festooning posts topped with various international flags.

  There were also smaller stages set up with entertainments. On one, men dressed all in white, with white undershirts, short jackets, and long, tulip-shaped skirts over white trousers, twirled across the stage in tempo to hypnotic music involving guitars, bells, and drums. Male singers in the background performed an eerie combination of wailing and chanting.

  The dancers looked like a sea of jasmine floating across the stage.

  On another stage were fire eaters. Violet held her breath as men in emerald green costumes lowered slim, flaming torches toward their mouths in unison, parting their lips and magically seeming to swallow the fire before pulling the extinguished sticks from their mouths.

  On yet another stage Sam’s Civil War mates were now preparing for a demonstration. Sam pulled Violet along to where they were standing at the base of the platform. Thaddeus Mott was instructing his uniformed comrades on drills with their gleaming steel sabers and their bayoneted rifles as examples of American military might and discipline.

  Sam’s longing to be onstage was palpable.

  The parade of dignitaries must have concluded, for Violet now saw the various sovereigns wandering about, nodding graciously at those who chattered pleasantries at them and clapping politely at entertainers who left stages, only to be replaced by even faster, louder, and more amazing spectacles.

  There were also servants rushing to and fro, not only attending to the royal guests but continuously engaged with the never-ending setup of the festivities, as well. Like busy ants they frenetically carried chairs, musical instruments, bolts of fabric, torchères, and stalks of greenery, dropping this item here, picking up that item over there. It seemed as though they would surely crash into one another, but Pasha’s workers were well disciplined.

  Even the khedive’s cultural attaché, Hassan, was involved, calling out instructions Violet couldn’t understand to the plethora of workers around him, even as he himself was moving what seemed to be a very heavy trunk with his brother, Rashad.

  Violet noticed Louise-Hélène standing nearby, plucking a delicacy off a silver salver being offered to her, then sharing it with her maid. De Lesseps’s fiancée appeared quite serene, considering the mood he himself must be in and the fact that she had been excluded from the earlier procession. She and Isabelle chatted and pointed at the soldiers’ activities onstage.

  Sam squeezed her shoulder absentmindedly when Violet told him that she intended to join the two women, so intent was he on the firing demonstration.

  “Bonjour, mademoiselle,” Violet greeted Louise-Hélène as the young Frenchwoman stood, hands outstretched, while Isabelle rebuttoned one of her mistress’s gloves. Although her gown today was much more fashionable, the poor girl would never be able to compete with Eugénie. “Are you enjoying the entertainments thus far?”

  Louise-Hélène visibly jumped, startled by Violet’s presence. “Oh, Madame Harper, I did not expect . . .you. My fiancé is most unhappy with you, you know. That trick with Newport was most unbecoming of a supposedly cultivé and dignified people.”

  “Surely he cannot believe that I personally had anything to do with that. I was as surprised by it as everyone else.”

  “Oui, I told him t
his, but he has no forgiveness in him right now. Assuredly, he will stay quite angry until he is convinced that his reputation has not been damaged.” Louise-Hélène clasped her gloved hands together now that Isabelle was finished with them. She gazed at Violet expectantly, while Isabelle studiously avoided them by moving closer to the stage, ostensibly for a closer vantage point.

  How had Violet managed to get herself into the position of diplomatic negotiations? The trouble with Newport was none of her affair. “I believe that Commander Nares will be officially reprimanded once we return to England, mademoiselle. It may be that the ship’s captain acted out of masculine competitiveness, and I do not think that a diplomatic incident was desired.” Perhaps that was true.

  Louise-Hélène nodded and dropped her guard. “I do so fear for de Lesseps’s good health. So much anxiety he has experienced. Every little thing that goes wrong with the ceremonies makes him so . . .so . . .dérangé. These festivities should please him, not send him to the asylum for lunatics. I am on my knees every morning, praying for him.”

  Violet was saved from further defense of British actions by Eugénie’s arrival in an all-cream ensemble that highlighted her dark hair to perfection. The empress was breathless. “I see you are enjoying the little American demonstration, mes chéries. It is all so . . . exhilarating . . . here, is it not?”

  “I suppose it must be true if you say it, Your Highness,” Louise-Hélène replied. Violet was shocked at her overtly snide tone, but Eugénie seemed to take no notice.

  “Monsignor Bauer will have a speaking role during the opening speeches. Wasn’t it thoughtful of de Lesseps to include my confessor? I sent a telegram to the emperor when we arrived in Port Said, telling him of the palace along the Nile that the khedive had built for me, the one with the replica of my private apartments in the Tuileries. Did you see it, ma louloute?”