Arabella and the Battle of Venus

by David D. Levine

  “Whose, d—n it, whose?” Fox shouted in frustration. Arabella, for her part, felt her already-parched tongue go even drier in her mouth. If this were a French fleet—perhaps returning from a successful conquest of Xanthus—they were surely doomed.

  It was Arabella’s old messmate Taylor who broke the spell. Peering forward through another gun-port, he suddenly whooped in glee and threw his hat upward, whence it bounced off the deck above and drifted gently down again. “Square formation!” he cried. “Lookee there! Square formation, by God!”

  Most of the other airmen, including Fox, immediately joined Taylor in joyful exclamations, while Arabella and several others seemed perplexed. “What does this mean?” she shouted to Fox above the tumult.

  “It can be none other than His Majesty’s Aerial Navy!” Fox shouted back. “The French employ a hexagonal formation.”

  Grinning, Arabella stuck her head out the gun-port. Through the clearing smoke could now plainly be seen an orderly array of white sails, laid out with mathematical rigor in a square grid.

  Never had she been so glad to see such a tidy sight.

  23

  COUNCIL OF WAR

  The great grid of the English fleet grew and grew until Diana lay embedded in it, mighty ships-of-the-line above, below, and to every side in pristine rank and file. The four pursuing Frenchmen, meanwhile, turned and ran as soon as they caught sight of the fleet, pedaling at top speed due west. The English did not pursue them; Captain Singh explained that the distances and currents were such that even a swift frigate could not intercept them before they reached the Nalbach Current, which would carry them rapidly back to Venus.

  No sooner did Fox cry “Back pulsers!”—bringing Diana to a tidy halt alongside the flagship in the very center of the formation—than an aerial cutter set off from the flagship toward them. This was a lightweight affair of bamboo and rattan, equipped with eight pedaling airmen, a four-sail pulser at the rear, and three small sails for direction.

  The cutter soon drew alongside and Watson hailed it: “Ahoy the boat!”

  “Aye aye!” the boat replied, meaning that an officer was aboard. “Permission to come aboard?”

  Permission was granted, most enthusiastically granted indeed, and the cutter’s captain kicked off from his boat, drifted down to Diana’s deck, and landed with a very neat touch of one toe. “First Lieutenant Thomas Townsend,” he introduced himself, “of the Royal Aerial Navy flagship Bucephalus.”

  “Captain Prakash Singh, of the Honorable Mars Company airship Diana.”

  “Very pleased to meet you, sir.”

  They shook hands, and Captain Singh proceeded to introduce Lieutenant Townsend to Fox, Stross, and the rest of his quarterdeck crew, not omitting Lady Corey and “my dear wife.”

  “Charmed,” Arabella said.

  Captain Singh quickly summarized Diana’s situation and recent history to Lieutenant Townsend, speaking loudly enough that the cutter’s crew could plainly hear him. Every member of Diana’s crew—longstanding Dianas, former Touchstones, and Venusians all mingled together—floated now in untidy lines across the deck, and though their clothing was shabby and their faces were haggard from exhaustion and thirst, their expressions were joyous, their chests puffed out with pride, and many an eye glistened with barely suppressed tears.

  “Well!” Lieutenant Townsend exclaimed. “You certainly have been through quite a bit!”

  “We have,” the captain acknowledged, “but our journey is not yet complete. We carry critical intelligence which must be reported to the highest levels of naval command at once.”

  “You are in luck, then, sir, for the admiral of our fleet is none other than Nelson himself!”

  “Nelson!” exclaimed Fox, and the name was echoed by many across the deck, an awed reiteration of “Nelson … Nelson … Nelson…” that raised the hairs on the back of Arabella’s neck.

  “Who is this Nelson?” Lady Corey asked Arabella.

  Arabella was astonished. Even she, who had paid as little attention as she could to the war before Napoleon’s escape from the Moon, knew of Nelson. “Have you not heard of Lord Nelson, the admiral who smashed Napoleon’s aerial fleet above Brussels in 1805? And the Battle of the Nile? Surely you have heard of that?”

  “Oh! Of course! We have a tea-pot in Egyptian style commemorating that victory.” She raised her eyebrows. “I thought I had heard that he died.”

  “Very nearly,” put in Fox, who had been listening. “He was shot at the Battle of Brussels and took nearly a year to recover. But he is a tough old bird; lost an eye, lost an arm, still going.” He rubbed at his own arm then; the bandage was stained with blood and less salubrious fluids. “I hope that I will not be required to emulate him in this.”

  Captain Singh cleared his throat pointedly, returning the attention of all three of them to himself. “The lieutenant has invited me to the flagship to present our intelligence on Victoire to the admiral,” he said. “Mr. Fox, you will remain in command here.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Lady Corey,” the captain continued, “will you join me? I would like you to personally report the information you have prised from Fulton.”

  “I would be honored.”

  “Thank you. Mr. Fox, pass the word for Ulungugga. He worked on Victoire and may be able to answer questions as to her construction and capabilities.” He paused, considering, then turned to Arabella. “Mrs. Singh, will you accompany me to the flagship, to translate for Ulungugga? Mr. Mills is needed here, in case of action.”

  Arabella felt herself entirely inadequate to the task, but she could not disagree that if Diana should find herself in battle she would be better defended with Mills in charge of the Venusians at the main-top. “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Very well.” He nodded. “Mr. Fox, the ship is yours. Take good care of her.”

  “Absolutely, sir.” Then, as Captain Singh departed the quarterdeck with Townsend, Fox touched Arabella’s shoulder and smiled. “Give the admiral my very warmest regards.”

  At the touch a warm blush rose in Arabella’s cheeks, and she quickly turned away before she could be tempted to offer Fox any more encouragement.

  She owed her heart, her loyalty, her very life, to Captain Singh. Why did Fox, that vexatious man, hold so much attraction for her?

  * * *

  The cutter quickly carried them across the short distance to Bucephalus, the eight strapping Navy men pedaling in crisp unison to Townsend’s commands, and soon Arabella, Captain Singh, Lady Corey, and Ulungugga floated down to the flagship’s deck.

  Where Touchstone had seemed small and shabby by comparison with Diana, even before the latter’s recent refurbishment—a bantam rooster set against a sleek racing huresh—Bucephalus was more a proud and snorting bull. Though Diana was greater in length and breadth, Bucephalus had one more deck, sported twenty-one cannon and six masts, and was positively crowded with crew. So many men, indeed, were crammed aboard that there seemed scarcely space on the deck for the four Dianas to alight.

  Those numerous airmen were plainly kept very busy aboard. Every inch of the flagship’s khoresh-wood was scrupulously clean, gleaming nearly as bright as her shining brasswork. Every line was meticulously coiled, every bit of rigging spruce and clean and properly tarred.

  The moment Captain Singh’s foot touched the deck, a bosun’s pipe sounded and every airman present saluted in crisp unison.

  A group of men in very impressive Navy blue drifted up to them, halting all at the same time with an expert touch on the deck. The one with the most impressive epaulets—though his uniform was far inferior in quantity of gold braid to even a middling French officer—introduced himself: “Vice-Admiral Thomas Hardy, sir. Captain, HMAS Bucephalus.” Once the usual round of introductions and a brief summation of the situation had been dispensed with, they were immediately ushered into the great cabin to meet with the admiral.

  Bucephalus’s great cabin was very great indeed, the overhead being more than h
igh enough to stand erect, and exceptionally finely appointed. Brass and crystal lanterns illuminated a substantial collection of rolled charts and a varnished, gilded map-desk of fine Venusian blackwood.

  Floating behind that desk, peering very intently at a map of Venus, was a man whom Arabella immediately recognized from his portraits in all the gazettes: Admiral Lord Nelson.

  He was not a large man; in fact, he was slightly shorter than Napoleon. And, unlike Napoleon—who was stout, florid, ill-shaven, and full of energetic bluster—he was slightly built, stooped, and rather sunken of cheek, with unruly gray hair. His right coat-sleeve was empty and pinned up. But his eyes, when he looked up, glittered with a keen intelligence. One of them, she knew, was blind, but she could not tell which. “And who do we have here?” he said, the remark directed equally to Captain Singh, Lady Corey, Arabella, and Ulungugga. Arabella suspected that the four of them were probably the most unusual set of visitors the admiral of this well-ordered ship full of Royal Navy airmen had received in a long time.

  Captain Hardy introduced them. “Captain Singh says he carries vital intelligence.”

  “Indeed, sir,” Captain Singh said to Nelson. “I am a secret agent of His Majesty’s government, tasked to examine and report upon Napoleon’s activities on Venus.”

  Nelson straightened at that. “You have my full attention, sir.”

  “My people and I have just escaped from a prison-camp on the surface of the planet, where Napoleon is currently engaged in the construction of a fleet of armored airships. These ships are entirely clad with steel plate, and are very likely impregnable to ordinary cannon-fire. They are very heavily armed, having twenty-four ten-pound great guns and four six-pound swivel-guns. The first of these ships, called Victoire, is ready for launch, or nearly so. They must be disabled or destroyed before they launch, or Napoleon will be unstoppable.”

  When the situation was stated so concisely, even Arabella, to whom it was no surprise, found it exceptionally daunting. But Nelson did not hesitate one moment before asking, “What is your source for this intelligence?”

  “The ship is being built at a ship-yard adjacent to the prison-camp where my people were engaged in the mining and refinement of iron for her construction; we were in a position to learn important aspects of her design and operation during our confinement there. Lady Corey has been in close personal contact with the ship’s designer, an American by the name of Robert Fulton. Ulungugga was one of the Venusians tasked with building Victoire, and Mrs. Singh speaks his language. I myself have managed to discover a few details through patient investigation and questioning.”

  Nelson held up one finger to pause Captain Singh’s explanation. “A moment, sir.” He turned to Lieutenant Townsend—he, Captain Hardy, and two other lieutenants had been listening with wide-eyed astonishment—and said, “Pass the word for my secretary.” Townsend saluted and departed. “I apologize for the delay, sir,” Nelson said to Captain Singh, “but I am right-handed, and even after many years of practice with the left my handwriting is entirely inadequate.” To the other lieutenants he said, “I must ask you to leave us; this information must be held in the utmost secrecy. Tell no one what you have heard, and tell the Marine on duty to admit no one else to the cabin without my express permission.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” they replied in chorus, and departed.

  “Some tea, while we wait?” Nelson asked Captain Singh.

  “I should be honored to take tea with you, sir, but first I must ask that you send food and water, and a physician if you have one, to my ship. My people have been very badly used and they are in great need, and our surgeon did not manage to escape from Venus.”

  “We have no physician, but our young Dr. Barry is a very capable surgeon.” He nodded to Captain Hardy, who bowed in the air and ducked out the door.

  The secretary arrived a very short time later, and even as he was readying his note-book and pen Nelson looked at Captain Singh with serious intent and said, “Please begin at the beginning, sir.”

  * * *

  Hours passed. Tea was taken, and sandwiches as well, and Arabella’s throat grew raw from talking. In addition to translating for Ulungugga—he did more than half the work himself, but between the two of them they did manage to get his point across—she was able to contribute a few motes of understanding, from her own experience with Aadim, regarding the science and navigation of ships raised by hydrogen balloon.

  Nelson immediately comprehended the severity of the threat posed by Victoire and her armored sisters. “Our intent had been to engage Napoleon’s main fleet above Mumnugwa,” he said, pointing to a continent on the map of Venus spread out on the table, “but now it is clear that the capture or destruction of Victoire, preferably before she launches, must take precedence.” He laid one long, pale finger on the location of the ship-yard.

  “We lack the appropriate weaponry to destroy the ship-yard from the air,” Captain Hardy said. “Nor have we sufficient Marines to take and hold it by land.”

  Nelson snatched his hand up from the map into a tight fist. “Then we will entice Napoleon into the air, and beat him there!”

  “Indeed,” said Captain Singh. “But how?”

  The discussion now turned to Victoire’s specifics and capabilities. Lady Corey revealed that Fulton had bragged that the armored ship was equipped with a new type of propulsive sails which he had designed, intended to overcome her great weight. Captain Singh, surprised, noted that the refitted Diana had pulsers of an unusual design; these must also incorporate Fulton’s improvements. He certainly had noticed that they seemed to draw more smoothly and offer more speed for less effort.

  Fulton had also worried aloud in Lady Corey’s presence about the dual pulsers at Victoire’s stern. The space between them, due to the air-flow requirements, had a complex shape which was difficult to plate with iron, creating a weak point in the ship’s armor. Furthermore, Ulungugga knew that the ship’s main hydrogen reserve was held at the ship’s stern, very near the vulnerable point. “That, then, is where we must strike!” Captain Hardy declared.

  “Easier said than done,” said Nelson. “Her captain will surely be aware of this vulnerability and will take even more care than usual to protect his pulsers.”

  A knock at the door interrupted then, and a man Arabella had not seen before was admitted. “Our surgeon, Dr. Barry,” Nelson introduced him.

  Dr. Barry was a slim, soft-spoken young man of only about twenty, but he carried himself with assurance and navigated expertly in a state of free descent. His coat, Arabella noted, was flecked with blood. “Forgive the intrusion,” he said, “but I thought Captain Singh would desire my report immediately.”

  Captain Singh looked to Nelson, who nodded his assent. “I do indeed, sir.”

  “I have examined Diana’s wounded,” the surgeon said, “and treated those for whom treatment would be beneficial. Your chief mate Mr. Fox, I must say, has shown stoicism that would do credit to a Navy officer. The inner surface of the wound appeared sloughy, and the discharge was fetid and ichorous; the pain must be considerable. I have ordered the wound to be kept wet with the arsenical solution, followed by emollient poultices to promote the separation of the eschar. He should recover, but if he had gone even one day more without proper treatment he would certainly have lost the arm and most likely his life.”

  “I thank you greatly for your assistance,” Captain Singh said, bowing in the air.

  “As do I,” Arabella said, forcing the words past a sudden lump in her throat. The news had struck her most gravely, most gravely indeed, and she felt herself quite taken aback.

  The young surgeon replied with a modest nod. “Only doing my duty … ma’am. It is ma’am, is it not?” He gave her a small peculiar smile as he said this last, and suddenly she was reminded that she still wore her bloodstained “Cesario” breeches.

  “It is,” she replied with some embarrassment. “I gave up my dress for bandages.”

  Again that peculiar s
mile. “I imagine that female costume can be quite an impediment for certain activities.”

  Nelson interrupted then, saying, “I suggest that we adjourn for supper. You have given us much to think about, sir, and we thank you on behalf of the King for your efforts.” This last was directed to Captain Singh, who bowed in acknowledgement of the compliment.

  As the company gathered their things and prepared to depart the cabin, Ulungugga touched Arabella’s arm and asked whence they were bound. After she had answered that they were going to supper, he asked her if meat would be served—the question accompanied by a walking gesture of the fingers, clarifying that he meant “food that walks” as distinguished from the related word meaning “food that swims.”

  Arabella frowned at the question. Unlike the Gowanna, who gladly supped along with their English and French customers, the Wagala never ate meat—and avoiding meat at an English admiral’s table would surely be an impossibility. “I am afraid so,” she replied, as best she could manage in Wagala.

  Ulungugga’s throat-sac worked for a moment. Then he said that he was suddenly concerned as to the health and safety of his compatriots aboard Diana, and desired to return thence as soon as possible.

  “I shall request transportation for you,” she told him, relieved at his intelligence and concern for social niceties. He might resemble a frog, she reflected, but he was more polite than many a human man she had met.

  * * *

  Captain Singh and Lady Corey had already seated themselves at the admiral’s table when Arabella joined them. She had been delayed by the necessity of changing her clothing—to dine with Viscount and Baron Nelson of the Nile in ragged, bloodstained breeches would simply never do. Somehow, she knew not from where, a perfectly lovely dress of Venusian silk had been obtained for her and quickly altered to fit by Nelson’s steward, an aged and very proper man.

  A parade of midshipmen soon arrived, bearing laden platters, and despite the difficulties of cooking in a state of free descent it was the finest food she had eaten in many, many months. A spit-roasted whole kid goat, done to a turn, was accompanied by Yorkshire pudding, spotted dog, and dried peas beaten into a paste and flavored with turmeric, and that was just one course. Admiral Nelson himself carved and served the roast, and shortly Arabella was fed beyond satiation.