“And why is that, pray tell?” asked another man, whose one dark lens reflected the kerosene lamps on at the center of the table.
“Ah,” the captain said, wiping his face with his napkin. “Forgive me. I am honored to have nobility aboard. Baron DeLacy, isn’t it? William DeLacy?”
The Baron bowed his head slightly. “It is I who am honored to be aboard, Captain Whitmore, I assure you. Now about that delay?” The Baron’s one good eye remained fixed on the captain.
“Well, for starters, there is a storm brewing off our bow. That should sufficiently slow us down.”
“And how is it, sir, that sailors predict storms?” asked an Indian gentlemen with a dark imperial mustache and a gray three-piece business suit.
“A falling barometer and a sudden tailwind; but more than anything, it’s these old bones that feel it coming,” the captain replied.
“That’s all? A simple storm? Can we not outmaneuver it, or speed through it?” the obese lady asked. Her husband added, “Yes, captain, a simple storm.”
“Storms in the North Atlantic are anything but simple,” the captain replied.
“Come now, do tell us the real reason we are waylaid,” the Baron said.
The captain cleared his throat. “Yes. It seems there is another storm brewing, one that makes His Majesty and Parliament decidedly more apprehensive.”
“You talk of the war consuming Europe?” the Indian businessman asked.
“Yes, I do. British Expeditionary Forces have already landed in France. I am afraid all of Europe is expecting to be dragged into the fighting. As a result, the British government is stockpiling both coal and oil. With less fuel, we make do with slower speeds.”
“I don’t understand,” the obese lady yelled, as she forked a potato. “I thought these things run on steam! Steam!”
“Steam must be created with a heat source, madam,” Captain Whitmore said.
“Indeed,” said the Baron, who had not yet touched his food. “Imagine your body ran on steam, Mrs. Ganders. The oil Captain Whitmore is referring to would be likened to the food you are devouring now. Tell me, now . . . how well would you perform without food?”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” she replied. The Indian businessman chuckled into his napkin.
“Sir, your comments, although analogously true, are entirely hurtful,” her husband replied. It was not exactly known how the morose and gaunt Jay Ganders came into wealth, but the jokes in the smoking lounge revolved around how much money it must have taken to convince him to marry that rotund wife of his. “It was a whale of a dowry,” one man had commented.
The Baron glanced casually at Khalid Francois, who was seated next to him. “My apologies, Ganders—I was simply trying to illustrate a point.”
Gloria Ganders huffed. “Well, I’m surprised someone like you is so crass given your . . . your . . .”
“Ocular deficiency,” Jay Ganders finished, snickering.
“Touché,” the Baron said, resigned. “But let us get back to the topic at hand and ask our brave captain what he thinks of this developing war?”
“I think that all wars are better fought with the sweat of diplomats rather than the blood of soldiers, Baron. It should be avoided at all costs. Everyone knows the alliance system is nothing more than a fuse on a massive powder keg. It just remains to be seen how big the explosion will be. However, allow me to uplift our spirits with a toast.” Captain Whitmore lifted his half-full scotch. “To King and Country. May God and His Majesty look after us all.” After the toast, the captain finished his scotch. “Tell me, Benjamin, how is business?” he asked.
Benjamin Akbar Sengupta adjusted the lapels of his suit, “I am concerned. My family’s primary business is in European markets. Our main distribution center is just outside Paris, as a matter of fact. I think this war will be bad for business, which is why I am off to secure new markets in America. I believe, Captain, that wars should be fought with currency instead of bullets.” Benjamin sipped a cup of hot tea. “And how about you, Baron? How do you feel about it?”
The Baron threw a hand in the air, “I quite like the idea, actually.” Everyone at the table gasped, except the captain, who received another neat scotch from a servant. The Abernethys, a young married couple, sat to the Baron’s right. Hodges Abernathy’s eyes were ablaze, while Henrietta’s were fixed squarely on her plate.
“Your lordship, both my elder brothers are officers in the artillery. I am quite certain they would object to your remark. I, too, would hate to see either of my brothers put in harm’s way if England follows through with their defense of Belgium,” said Hodges, whose sideburns looked as sharp as a saber’s edge as they blended into a groomed mustache.
“On the contrary, young Mr. Abernathy, I am quite certain your brothers look forward to such an opportunity. What soldier wouldn’t? No one joins the service in hopes of seeing peace all their days. A carpenter does not submit himself to years of training and apprenticeship to never construct a single building, does he? Then why do you assume a soldier whose training solely revolves around the killing arts does not want to exercise his craft with impunity?”
“It is the preparation for war that brings peace. War should only be a last resort,” Hodges replied.
The Baron laughed. “This 50-year arms race between European nations is certainly preparation, I will give you that, boy, but make no mistake. It is not the preparation nor the threat of war that brings peace—it’s the crushing of your enemies. It is having them kneel before you in submission, knowing their will and spirit have been annihilated. Then, and only then, may you dictate peace.”
“Were you a soldier then, Baron?” Captain Whitmore asked.
The Baron adjusted his hands. “Isandlwana,” he replied. The captain choked on his scotch and Mr. Sengupta gasped.
“I’m sorry,” Hodges said. “So many men were lost.” Hodges and his wife weren’t even born at that time, but they were both educated enough to know the massacre of the 24th Regiment of Foot at the hands of Zulu savages.
“My associate, Khalid Francois Deschamps . . .” The Baron raised his hand and Khalid bowed his head slowly and smiled, his one gold tooth catching the light. “. . . he served in the French Foreign Legion during the Mandingo Wars. So we are both well-versed in the killing arts.”
“You really wish this war upon Europe, Baron?” Benjamin Sengupta asked.
“Are you familiar with Malthus’ work, Mr. Sengupta?” the Baron asked in reply.
“Please,” the Captain scoffed. “You cannot be a serious follower of such a lunatic.”
“Who is Malthus?” Gloria Ganders asked.
“Thomas Malthus is a man who claimed that when the population exceeds the food supply, war, famine, and plague are Mother Nature’s way of . . . restoring balance,” the Baron said.
“Accepting such a premise, Baron, is a primitive way of thinking, and wishing those things upon a society in unconscionable,” Mr. Sengupta announced. “I suppose you will cite the work of Darwin next?”
“No, adhering to an archaic caste system is unconscionable, Mr. Sengupta. I see this as a much more practical measure. It will effectively erase borders, bloated kings and bickering politicians, allowing for a new Europe, a new age to take place. We now have enlightened thinking paired with unthinkable machines, and yet we desire politicians and kings who still rule as if we are serfs pushing plows, as if we need small wind-driven ships to explore a flat earth.”
“Your new era will bring about the death of thousands, perhaps even millions; that is hardly an effective plan,” the Captain said, holding up his glass of scotch to signal for a another refill.
“The death of the very people who allowed such politicians and kings to operate? In the grand scheme, it is a small price to pay,” the Baron replied calmly.
“Is there anything you wouldn’t give up for your ‘new Europe?’” Hodges Abernathy interjected.
The Baron paused a moment, then smiled. “Allow me to tell you the story of how
I lost my eye.” He removed his glasses, allowing the dinner guests to see a red mass of smooth scar tissue where the eye should have been. Even with the one eye missing, the dinner guests felt two sinister eyes watching them, penetrating them. Mr. Ganders looked away. Mrs. Ganders regurgitated slightly into her napkin. Mr. Abernathy gripped the tablecloth in horror, while Mrs. Abernathy continued to gaze into her boiled beef like it were a crystal ball. Mr. Sengupta averted his eyes and wiped his brow with his napkin, and the Captain stared back with strangely inquisitive eyes. “We were cut off from the rest of our platoon by a suicidal charge of Zulu spearman,” the Baron continued. “It was only my battalion medic and I left. He was out of ammunition, and my rifle had malfunctioned. I tried to give him what was left of my own ammunition, but our rifles were constantly being used to counter Zulu spears. A few of the savages had muskets, of course, but they had terrible aim. They pushed us back into a small grove of acacia trees until they had us completely surrounded, nearly a mile from the fighting. We were exhausted. We both fell to our knees, and at the risk of sounding pedantic, my life flashed before my eyes. A lifetime of memories replayed in my mind in a matter of seconds. One of the savages was about to deal the killing blow to me,” the Baron said as he stabbed a piece of beef with his fork, “when my medic screamed a word, then unknown to me, in the Zulu language. The aggressor stopped in his tracks and called for another warrior. You may recall that Zulu custom is to allow no prisoners, so naturally, I was surprised. A very large and very scarred man, marked with the hides and feathers of a rising chieftain, approached us.”
The Baron left the fork sticking out of his beef and cleaned his one clear lens with his napkin. He finally returned them to his face to cover his deformity with the one blackened lens. “The chieftain spoke in broken English and asked me what I would give. I looked at my medic, who had a spear against his throat, before I turned back to the warrior and asked, ‘What would you have?’ The savage replied, ‘Wisdom.’”
“Wisdom?” Sengupta asked.
“Do you recall the story of Odin, Mr. Sengupta? King of the Norse pantheon?” the Baron asked. Mr. Sengupta shook his head. “In order to attain the highest wisdom, he gave up his own eye. Many cultures, like the Zulu, believe wisdom is found in the eyes.”
“Are you saying the Zulu chieftain took your eye?” Mr. Sengupta asked.
“On the contrary,” the Baron replied. “He did not take it from me—I gave it to him.”
Gloria Ganders spit out her food. In first-class embarrassment, she pushed away from the table and scurried out of the wardroom. Her husband followed. Mr. Sengupta, having heard enough, stood up also. “Good evening, everyone,” he said and promptly left. The Baron smirked.
“Go on, your lordship, finish your story,” Hodges Abernathy urged. His wife, Henrietta, finally lifted her eyes from her plate. She looked first at the Baron and then to Khalid, who winked at her.
“It’s simple, really,” the Baron continued. “The warrior desired the wisdom to rule all and to repel the British Army. Most primitive cultures believe wisdom comes from either the eyes or the heart. I decided I was quite lucky that I could give him the one I could still live without.”
“You cut out your own eye?” Hodges asked.
“With my field knife, yes, and gifted it to the would-be-chieftain.”
“It must have been excruciating!”
“Yes. Yes, it was.”
“Not many men survive that kind of an injury, much less have the gall to self-inflict it,” Captain Whitmore said.
The Baron ignored the remark. “In return, the warrior savages spared our execution, and luckily, my medic acted fast. With his issued tinderbox, he lit a small fire in the grass and heated up the barrel of his rifle, hot enough to cauterize my eye. And yes, it was excruciating. But you asked me if there was anything I wouldn’t give up for a new Europe. I trust you know my answer now.” The Baron lifted his fork and snatched a piece of boiled beef, chewing it nonchalantly.
The polite Hodges gingerly stood up from the table and helped his wife up as well. “Please excuse us, your lordship. I am afraid this evening has given me much to think about, and I wish to be alone with my thoughts.” The Abernathys left the wardroom in silence, leaving only the Baron, Khalid and the captain.
“I believe congratulations are in order, Baron,” the Captain said.
“And why is that?” the Baron replied.
“For successfully ruining this evening’s dinner.” The Captain signaled for a servant and informed him he would be taking his dessert on the bridge. Another servant brought his wheel cap. Before the captain left, he suddenly turned to the Baron. “Your medic. What word did he scream?”
The Baron did not look at the captain. “Anything.”
After the captain left the room, Khalid pulled out a pack of Parisian cigarettes. He lit one and offered the pack to the Baron. The Baron obliged and lit his own. The sweet smell of tobacco and cloves filled the air.
“The story about your eye; is it true?” Khalid asked.
The Baron inhaled deeply as servants began to clear the table. “No,” he replied. “I lost my eye when I was 13. I was already half blind when I joined the army.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, what really happened at Isandlwana?” Khalid asked.
“We were surrounded, the medic and me. Guthrie was his name. Before the Zulu dealt the final blow, it was I who spoke up and offered a sacrifice.
“A sacrifice?”
“For the tribe’s continued success in battle, yes. When the chieftain agreed, I took my field knife and plunged it into Guthrie’s chest. As it turns out, Zulu custom says wisdom comes only from the heart, not the eye. They watched in horror as I ripped into his chest cavity. The Zulu warrior accepted his heart as a sacrifice, and he and his men took turns consuming it. After that, the cannibals returned to the battle. They wanted nothing to do with me, thought I was some kind of demon. They spared my life, not wanting to upset any spiritual forces, I imagine.”
Khalid let out a low whistle.
“Tell me, what do you think about young Mr. Abernathy?” the Baron asked.
“I think he is . . .” Khalid searched for the English words, “passionate, idealistic, and incredibly naïve.”
“Perhaps we should consider him for our organization? Someone like him, if given the right motivation, would probably devote his life to the cause. He would most likely have something to prove, seeing as how his brothers are military men and he cannot be.”
“Why?” asked Khalid. “Is he too short?”
“Did you smell the chloroform balm?”
“No.”
“I did. It means he either has asthma or joint disease, and the military would not allow him in their ranks for either ailment. He has something to prove. Something to prove to his family, his brothers, to His Majesty’s Army, and to the world. Now, he just needs a reason to join our cause, and we will have a perfect martyr.”
“Martyr for what?”
“Does it matter?”
“I have just the thing,” Khalid said.
“What’s that?” the Baron asked.
“Mrs. Abernathy.”
“You, too, have great promise in our organization, Khalid,” the Baron replied. “Come! Let us see if Warwick has figured out that infernal device.”
The two made their way to the Baron’s stateroom. It was luxurious. The receiving room had a red velvet sofa and two chaise loungers, both accented with golden thread. Two ornately curved armoires matched the wood paneling, and jade green carpet led all the way to the back room, which was separated by a small curtain and contained a double bed and vanity. In the front room, Warwick sat hand-cranking a strange machine underneath the pearl-white recessed ceiling, which featured an image of Neptune commanding a legion of voluptuous mermaids.
Warwick’s machine was a compact wooden box about one cubic foot, with a metal crank on the side and three light bulbs on top, two of which were glowing bright. It
almost looked like a giant jack-in-the-box. A wire connected this box to another wooden box roughly the same size, except it had a covered viewer on top, a horned phonograph speaker on one side, and a hollow squawk box on the other side.
“Is it ready?” the Baron demanded.
“When all three light bulbs are glowing, the device will be ready, your lordship,” Warwick said in a high and panting voice. He had, no doubt, been cranking for a while. “After that, all you need is for that helmet to have an unobstructed path to the sky.” Warwick pointed to the copper helmet near one of the chaise loungers. Moments later, the third light bulb progressed from dim to blinding. “Quickly, put the helmet on!” Warwick yelled.
The Baron pointed to Khalid. With the slightest hesitation, Khalid donned the ridiculous helmet, shaped almost like a miniature Eiffel Tower, and walked toward the porthole in the sleeping quarters. Once in position, Khalid shouted. The Baron took off his glasses and knelt down to put his head in the viewer. Warwick shuffled toward the Baron’s viewing box and adjusted a metal bar that looked like it was fashioned from the same metal as Khalid’s helmet.
Warwick flipped a small switch. The viewing box began to rev up. The Baron could see the black and white picture of a man in a dark suit with an ivory pale face, a thick mustache, and jet-black hair perfectly and symmetrically parted down the middle. Even without his glasses, the Baron could tell it was Nikola. Sounds emanated from the horned speaker as the blurry man spoke in a crackly voice.
“Hello, Baron DeLacy. This is my prototype communication device. I call it the compact portable transglobal cosmo-reflecting audiovisual receiving device for pertinent and imperative correspondences. Once charged, it should function similar to one of our audio communication towers, but with an added visual canvas.” The man’s talking mouth and his voice were terribly out of sync. “For now, all transmissions from you will go through Wardenclyffe and then I will forward them immediately to The Council. I attached instructions on how to transmit a message. The Council eagerly awaits word of your progress. Nikola out.”
The transmission ended, and only one of the light bulbs on the wooden box remained lit. The Baron rose, putting his glasses back on. He blinked until his one eye could focus again. “It truly is a new era,” he said to himself.
Peacemakers (Peacemaker Origins Book 1) Page 16