Ghosts of Engines Past

by McMullen, Sean

  Because he had been so very secretive, nobody else had known what Walter had really been building. There was an investigation, but it concluded that an ordinary steam turbine was being tested at the time of the crash. All the evidence to the contrary had been burned or mangled, and nobody but me knew the truth.

  My old self ceased to exist, but perhaps the police are still chasing her. Using my new papers and identity I went to Cambridge, and gained a tutorial position. After that I worked my way up steadily, and eventually became a professor. I decoded German messages for our government during the Great War, then returned to Cambridge. Now it is 1943, we are again at war, and here I am in Bletchley Park, decoding German messages again.

  The colonel shook his head and picked up his photographs. He stared at the images for a time.

  “So rocket technology to match these images is definitely possible?” he asked, as if not sure that he had heard my strange story correctly.

  “Oh yes. These German things look to be slightly smaller than what Walter built, and are probably much lighter in construction. They can carry a lot of explosives, they will come down at supersonic speeds, and they will leave very large holes.”

  “Then there is absolutely no way of stopping them. We have enough trouble shooting down German bombers traveling at only two or three hundred miles per hour.”

  “Of course. All you can do is bomb the German factories to slow down production.”

  The colonel stood up to go, and we shook hands.

  “One last question?” he said before he opened the door.

  “Ask. We both work for the government.”

  “Why did you not tell this story earlier? I mean, the Hellfire would be a remarkable achievement even today, but in 1899 it was simply fantastic.”

  “To protect Tommy. Remember, his scrubber sweetheart was a great mathematician who spoke five languages and had a degree. Even if he forgave me for the deception, it would have broken his spirit and he would have felt a complete fool. Best to just break his heart, and have him think I was a petty thief who was unworthy of him.”

  “Yet now you tell me.”

  “I tell you because you seem like a nice man who would respect my wishes. Tommy is still alive. He eventually married a teacher in Leeds and became a foreman. One of his daughters even attended my mathematics classes in Cambridge. Now go. Speak to the War Cabinet, convince them to send every bomber in Britain across the North Sea to flatten Peenemunde.”

  “Someone is sure to ask which expert advised me.”

  “Then tell them that your expert is working at Bletchley Park. There will be no more questions after that.”

  I saw my visitor out of the hut and walked with him to the guard post where his car was waiting. Had I told my story in 1899, what might have been the fate of the world? Would the British Empire extend to the moon by now? Would we have bombarded German cities with our own rocket weapons during World War One?

  Lord Raslin and his son could both have lived happily. Instead they chose to grasp for what was not theirs to take. I could have grasped for a life with Tommy Parker, he might have even forgiven me for deceiving him, but then what? He would certainly never have fitted in at Cambridge. Instead he did indeed better himself and those dear to him, through hard work and study.

  Every day I tell myself that I made the right decision, and most of the time I believe it.

  11. ELECTRICA

  It is 1811, and passions are about to be inflamed. Again.

  As we saw in The Constant Past, there is more to the Regency period than Jane Austen, Beau Brummel, the Napoleonic Wars and Frankenstein. There was also dueling, infidelity, fashions based on the colours of the British flag, Gothic revival and patriotic cuisine. Not only were the dead being brought back to life in literature, in 1803 Professor Giovani Aldini conducted a real experiment in London using electrical stimulation to revive the body of a fresh corpse. The corpse did not revive, however, but it was a more scientific approach than the practice of blowing smoke into the bottoms of drowning victims in the hope of reviving them—which was apparently in vogue about them. So, there was fashion, romance and relatively advanced technology. The semaphore towers, Trevathik engines, Voltaic piles and Winter generators mentioned in the story all existed in 1811, as did Major George Scoville and Sir Arthur Wellesley. The spark gap radio was also within their grasp, but they did not reach out.

  ~~~

  Major George Scoville

  Dear George,

  I trust that this message finds you well, and that the fortunes of war continue to favour you. As you have doubtless heard, good fortune has certainly not been with me on my most recent mission.

  I am aware that a great many rumours now surround my name. Some damn me as a rake and a wastrel, others declare me to be a hero. Like yourself, I have done great damage to the armies of Napoleon in Portugal and Spain, yet I have never considered myself to be a hero. As for being a rake and a wastrel, does it matter how I have behaved as long as it was in the service of the crown?

  I know as well as yourself that one does not achieve glory by sitting at a desk and breaking enemy codes, but one does win wars. Glory does not interest me, so all I now ask is that I be allowed to return to your staff and resume my code breaking work against the French. In support of my request, I respectfully submit this account of my mission in England from June to August in this year, 1811. I am aware that it will not clear my name of scandal; my intention is only to show that I acted in the best interests of Britain at all times.

  I could easily read the messages being sent by the semaphore tower on Southsea Common as I approached Major Jodrel's offices in Portsmouth. The code was laughably simple, but the information was only about shipping movements in the harbour. I noted the name of the sloop Dauntless, which had just brought me from Lisbon.

  I had a book in my hand when I arrived at the offices, and was all ready to spend an hour or two waiting until I was sent for. Instead I was ushered straight in, for he had been waiting for me. This was a surprise. Majors never wait for second lieutenants unless they carry important dispatches, and I was carrying only a copy of The Vicar of Wakefield.

  “The major is not one for foppish talk, so don't bother with gossip or dropping names,” said his aide as we climbed the stairs.

  “Then we have that much in common,” I replied.

  “He also hates flattery, so let that be your last compliment. The major has a theory that polite chit-chat between officers is sapping the strength of the British Army. Let him do the talking, and answer his questions as briefly as possible.”

  I entered Jodrel's room and stood to attention. Without even greeting me he gestured through the window.

  “Look out there, Lieutenant Fletcher,” he said. “What do you see?”

  “It's a Murray semaphore tower, sir.”

  “Very good – oh and do stand easy. Yes, the signaling line runs from that tower out there to towers on Portsdown Hill, Beacon Hill, Blackdown, Hascombe, Netley Heath, Cabbage Hill, Putney Heath, Chelsea, and finally the Admiralty in London. If I send a message from here, it will reach London in nine minutes. Britain's been using the Murray shutter system for the past fourteen years. The French have a different signal tower system, but both have the same flaw. Can you tell me what it is?”

  “You can see them, sir. Anyone hiding nearby with a paper and pencil can see what's being transmitted and write it down. Even coded messages can be broken.”

  “You have it,” said Jodrel, slapping a fist into the palm of his hand. “The transmission of the message is swifter than horses, but it is exceedingly public. One might as well publish military secrets in a newspaper.”

  I nodded and gave a discrete smile. Second lieutenants who wanted to become first lieutenants were expected to smile when their betters made a joke.

  Major Jodrel continued. “Certain very clever people have had great success breaking the codes in captured French dispatches for General Wellesley in Spain, and there are pro
bably Frenchmen who can do as well with our codes. If we could send messages invisibly, however, spies would have nothing to watch and written dispatches would be a thing of the past. We would gain a huge advantage over the French.”

  “There are carrier pigeons, sir, the Indians use them.”

  “And there are marksmen with birdshot, the French will use them at the sight of our first carrier pigeon. No, lieutenant, we need a method of messaging that cannot be seen. Three years ago a man named Sir Charles Calder proposed a method of invisible messaging to me. Come along, I'll show you his device.”

  Sir Henry led me up more stairs and unlocked the door to a garret. Within this was a device that resembled nothing I had ever seen, and did not appear to have any function at all.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  “I see a Voltaic pile for providing electrical charge, and an electroscope for detecting the charge. There is also a concave metal mirror about a yard across, and what seems to be a lump of amber about as big as my fist. There are insects embedded in it: a fly, two spiders, and an ant.”

  “Never mind that, what of the apparatus?”

  “Little plates the size of farthings are arranged around the back of the amber. Amber has electrical properties, so I would say this also has something to do with the Voltaic pile and electroscope.”

  “Splendid, splendid, General Wellesley was wise to send you. This machine is what Sir Charles called an amberscope. It is meant to detect electrical influence from a piece of amber in Ballard House, near Wimbourne Minster. That's forty miles away. By changing the intensity of the electrical charge in the Wimbourne machine, Sir Charles hoped to send a message in dots and dashes that one could read by watching this electroscope.”

  I bent over and examined the device. A layer of dust had settled on it, and the Voltaic pile was severely corroded.

  “It has not been used for a long time,” I observed.

  “That's because it never worked. Sir Charles asked me to have a man activate and monitor the thing for a quarter hour every day, at noon. This was done for six days, but never once did the electroscope's plates even twitch. Sir Charles was bitterly disappointed, and told me to throw it in the harbor.”

  “But you saw its promise and kept it?”

  “There's a war on. I couldn't spare a man to cart it away.”

  “So, just a fine dream,” I said as I straightened.

  “That's what I thought until one morning last April. Sir Charles arrived in a carriage, asked me to write some secret words, seal them in an envelope, and have a dispatch rider take it to Ballard House. At six that evening he was to give it to an employee there. I wrote ONE ALOOF STAND SENTINEL and sent my rider on his way. Do you know the quote?”

  “The fairies say it in A Midsummer Night's Dream.”

  “Very good. Some must fight, and some must stand guard. Was that a fair test for the messaging device?”

  “I suppose so, sir.”

  “Sir Charles draped some wires from the balcony to his coach, and at precisely six in the evening he entered it and closed the door behind him. I heard a sound like some trapped insect buzzing in a bottle. This went on for a minute or so, then he stepped out and gave me this.”

  The major handed me a folded square of paper. I opened it. The words ONE ALOOF STAND SENTINEL were written in small, neat capitals. Below it were the date, time and location. I was astonished, but saw the military value at once.

  “Instantaneous and invisible messaging!” I exclaimed.

  “And without repeater towers,” said Jodrel. “Sir Charles has abandoned the amberscope idea and developed a spark semaphore with a range of eighty miles. He opened the box and explained the mechanism, but most of it was beyond me. It works on the principle of a lightning flash, that's all I understood.”

  “But lightning is highly visible.”

  “This was lightning made small, apparently. I swore Sir Charles to secrecy and sent him back to his estate, escorted by a young captain from my staff and fifty soldiers. They have been guarding Ballard House ever since. That very night I wrote a letter to General Wellesley and sent it on the very next supply ship to Lisbon. I wanted the device assessed by a man with a real understanding of battlefield messaging, not some coffee house fop from the Admiralty or Horse Guards. Wellesley sent you. Why?”

  “With all due respect, sir, I am under orders not to speak of that.”

  “So, you probably are one of Wellesley's secret code breakers. Perhaps you are even George Scoville himself, sent here under a false name. No matter, there is work to be done, and I must take you at face value. You are to go to Ballard House tomorrow, assess this spark semaphore, satisfy yourself that it is no trick, then advise me on how to build dozens more for use in the Spanish campaign. Remember, too, that the range is eighty miles. The distance from Wimbourne Minster to Cherbourg is less than eighty miles.”

  “So I am also to check the loyalty of all those in Ballard House?”

  “Indeed. Were the French to learn this secret we might as well hand the world to Napoleon on a silver platter. Sir Charles is a patriot, but is also heavily in debt. His father had a love of gambling, you see. During the Battle of Trafalgar a cannon ball cured him of the habit, and since then Sir Charles has tried to salvage the family fortunes by managing the estate prudently, marrying money and not playing cards. All that has not been enough, and he needs the financial largesse of the crown as much as the crown needs his spark semaphore. You may remind him of that, should he forget his manners.”

  “Thank you sir, I shall remember that.”

  “Oh, and be sure to heed some important advice when you get to Ballard House.”

  “Sir?”

  “Sir Charles is somewhat... intensely devoted to his work, while his wife, Lady Monica, is rather highly spirited.”

  “They do not get along?”

  “No. Try not to take sides.”

  It took me a day to ride from Portsmouth to Wimbourne Minster. The countryside was all lush farmland, and so peaceful that you would not think there was a war raging anywhere in all the world. The guards were encamped in a field beside the road near Ballard House. I was met by Captain Hartwell, who was a delicately handsome youth of perhaps seventeen, with rosy cheeks and curly blonde hair. His family had bought him a commission, but was not willing to let him risk his life in Spain.

  “Not the most exciting of posts, Lieutenant Fletcher,” he said as we walked on to the house.

  “I've had my fill of excitement for the three years past, sir.”

  “Oh surely not! What of war's glory, and the grand adventure of combat?”

  “For me the war has been mostly boredom, with moments of intense fright. The glory and adventure must have been happening to someone else.”

  “I would give anything to swap places with you.”

  “Sometimes wars are won by those who just stand sentinel, sir.”

  “If so, I'd rather be doing the fighting, while someone else wins the war.”

  Hartwell explained that he was not permitted within Ballard House due to some disagreement with Sir Charles, so he left me at the front door and led my horse on to the stables. Sir Charles was informed that I had arrived, and presently he came downstairs to the parlour. He had a rumpled, untidy look, was unshaven rather than bearded, and his hair was long and tousled. His expression was that of a man who had been interrupted while doing something important, and was feeling a bit cross about it. He had a magnifier lens in a frame strapped over one eye, and his hands were stained and scratched, like those of an artisan.

  “Papers?” he snapped, holding out a hand.

  I gave him my orders. He read the documents carefully, glancing up at me from time to time.

  “It says here that you are a second lieutenant,” he said, speaking so rapidly that I could barely follow him. “Field commission!”

  “Yes sir.”

  “For bravery?”

  “For intelligence work, sir.”

 
“Signaling?”

  “I have a strong background in signaling, sir.”

  This told him that I was an expert in an important field, yet his attitude did not soften.

  “So you have been sent to assess my work?” he asked.

  “Yes sir.”

  “Was not my demonstration to Major Jodrel convincing enough?”

  “It was very convincing, but Major Jodrel knows only signals, not electrical machines,” I replied. “I have some knowledge of both.”

  “I told him that I was willing to give my spark semaphore to the crown for the war effort.”

  “And the remission of certain debts,” I added.

  He glared at me, but did not dispute the point. Although he was lord of the estate, he now knew that my fingers were upon the strings of the purse.

  “What more does he want?”

  “He wants you to explain the device to me, Sir Charles. I can then arrange for many more to be built.”

  The rule in Ballard House was that downstairs belonged to Sir Charles's wife, while upstairs was the domain of Sir Charles. Lady Monica had a very good sense of style, so the furniture, paintings and rugs were both expensive and tasteful. Climbing the stairs took us into a realm of bare walls, exposed floorboards and rooms full of untidy, roughly wrought mechanisms on cluttered workbenches. It reminded me of a collection of watchmakers', carpenters' and gunsmiths' workshops, all jumbled together and presided over by a toymaker. Half a dozen men were working at various tasks ranging from glass blowing to coating harpsichord wires with wax.