<<>>
I decided to await the sternwheeler at the base of the big falls in Oregon City. At The Clearing we would be the only newcomers, subject to scrutiny by many curious eyes. Here we were just two passengers among a dozen or so businessmen in a variety of formality in their grab.
“Pacing won’t make the boat come any faster, Captain,” Jimmy Seaforth said on a yawn, as he lounged upon a flattened boulder on the narrow beach beside the loading dock for the downriver sternwheeler. He looked almost respectable in his canvas trousers, calico shirt, waistcoat, and slouch hat.
I wanted his keen observation beside me on this mission. He might look half asleep but he saw everything. I preferred to bring him on a delicate mission rather than my first, Forbes, whose nervous need to prove himself often led to impetuous attack when I needed stealth and subtlety.
“Pacing keeps me from ripping off this damnable corset,” I snarled at him. I used my frilly parasol, loot from some former raid, as a walking stick, jabbing it into ragged tufts of grass. With my free hand, I tugged at the high neckline of my calico dress. My sister Elise would have turned up her nose at the plain frock. But she would approve of me finally shedding my masculine knee breeches and tall boots.
“The sun is a couple hours past noon. We can’t make the Fort until after sunset,” Jimmy observed. “The boat is late.”
“Long twilight in these latitudes. Calm river and waxing half-moon. An experienced captain won’t need to stop over at The Clearing for the night.”
We’d secured the White Swan on the plateau above the town and walked down. Marko could buy supplies and spare parts quite readily in town. I counted at least three steam plumes from mills on the first plateau. The ten mills at river level used clean water power.
A shout went up as the Matilda, a trim little sternwheeler, hove into view and aimed for the docks.
Jimmy and I walked up the gangplank onto the bow of the ship, flanked forward and back by businessmen. Within moments, the captain tugged on the steam whistle to signal departure. The huge paddle wheel engaged with a clank of gears and pushed a whoosh of water beneath the bow, allowing it to float free of the bank.
My restlessness kept me pacing around the deck. I moved from conversation to conversation, listening for anything that might give me clues about Sir George and the purpose of his trip to the Columbia Department.
“The Company has bought up all our wheat and commandeered every sea-going vessel as far south as Yerba Buena,” a short, lithe man complained. “He’s sending it all to Russia. Every last bushel. Didn’t give us as good a price as last year, either.”
“Have you tried to sell to the Chinese?” I asked. Not much of a clue to Sir George’s presence at the Fort, but it gave me an entry into their discussion.
The men stiffened their shoulders and tightened their string ties, all the while looking me up and down with questions, disdain, and insecurities. Apparently females of their acquaintance did not address males without a proper introduction. I stood my ground, leaving the question in the air.
Eventually the oldest of the men, with wings of white hair at his temples in sharp contrast to his dark auburn locks, tipped his tall beaver hat to me. His nicely-fitted black suit showed no signs of going green at elbow, collar, and knees. “Doctor Forbes Barclay.”
“Mrs. Gertrudé Seaforth, and my son James,” I replied without dipping a curtsey. “Widow,” I added. Not totally a lie. I had a husband once, and didn’t know where the bastard was or if he still lived. And didn’t care. He only married me to steal my ship!
“What are the Chinese offering for wheat this year? I’ll have a crop to sell, come August.” I let some impatience bleed through my tone. “I’ll need money soon. I have an appointment with Dr. John McLoughlin.”
“I am the chief medical officer now at Fort Vancouver,” Dr. Barclay said. “May I be of assistance?”
I looked him up and down, noting his relative youth compared to McLoughlin, and sniffed a bit in disapproval. “I doubt you can help me.” I twitched my head toward the other men, as if indicating my reluctance to discuss a delicate matter.
Doctor Barclay offered me his arm and tipped his hat with the other hand. “Perhaps we may pass the time with a promenade about the deck.”
I hesitated only a little before slipping my hand into the crook of his elbow. Jimmy unfolded himself to follow close at our heels as we strolled around the crowded deck.
“We have privacy now, Mrs. Seaforth.”
I looked pointedly toward Jimmy and the crowds of strangers. “Not as private as you might think.”
Dr. Barclay nodded. He continued our stroll anyway, chatting amiably about the abundant spring rain for the crops and an expected shipment from England of fine cloth and fashion sheets for Mme McLoughlin.
“I don’t have time to make fancy clothes. I have a farm to run and only my son to help,” I replied curtly.
I listened more acutely to the random conversation of the other Company men.
“You think this past winter was bad? Why, the blizzard of ’22 up along the Continental Divide trapped me in a snow cave for nigh on six weeks with nothing to eat but a couple of beaver tails . . . .”
“Them Modocs took our horses in trade for beaver pelts, then stole the whole boatload out from under us and sold them to the next brigade for more horses . . . .”
We passed Jimmy and he shrugged. This was our signal. It meant that he had heard nothing of local politics or policies either.
The sun set before the Willamette spilled into the mighty Columbia. There we met with a soaking drizzle. My parasol proved useless. Dr. Barclay lent me half of his stout black umbrella. Another hour passed before we made landing at Fort Vancouver. By this time my thin cotton gown clung to my skin, holding the cold dampness. My teeth chattered, very unladylike. I was chilled to the bone, wishing for my study leather coat instead of the inadequate shawl I’d brought.
Dr. Barclay shepherded me past the guards at the river gate of Fort Vancouver, and thence into the white house that dominated the enclosure of the HBC headquarters compound. A large house with more rooms given over to business than for family quarters. He sent Jimmy to bunk with male Company servants across the open compound from the house. Mme McLoughlin herself greeted me in the entryway. She wore black taffeta like any proper London matron, despite her copper colouring. She clucked in French over my sodden state, ushering me upstairs to the cramped living quarters. In the guest room—more like an alcove—she and her black-eyed teenage daughter, who was garbed in a fashionable pink gown with a full array of petticoats, undressed me, warmed me with a vigorous rub with rough towels, wrapped me in a Chinese silk robe, and put me to bed with a brick at my feet.
“I have business with the Doctor,” I informed Mme McLoughlin as she turned to leave me.
“Tomorrow,” she said firmly. Then she bustled her stout body out of the room, ushering her daughter before her.
The girl, Eloisa, held back. “Do you have news to share?” she asked boldly. “Have you seen the latest fashion magazines?”
“No. I live quietly with my son on the farm. The Methodists are our nearest neighbours and they have no need of fashion or gossip.”
“Oh.” She frowned and trudged out the door.
Her mother closed it firmly, granting me privacy.
For many glorious minutes I lay abed. The brick and soft sheets soothed my tired body and shivering limbs. I listened carefully as the house grew quiet. Soft voices murmured here and there. A servant trod the plank floors, extinguishing whale oil lamps inside. I followed his progress by the diminished light visible beneath the door of my tiny room. The light from torches at the guarded gates, fore and aft of the fort, slipped around the shutters.
And still I waited. In the coldest and darkest hours of the night, when all but a few guards slept, I heard the unmistakable sigh and hiss of a steam engine.
Doctor McLoughlin had forbidden steam at his fort, had forbidden steam anywhere in
the Columbia Department. Steam—or rather the coal that fuelled steam boilers—fouled the streams where beaver built their dams, beaver that bore the furs that enriched the Company, and, incidentally himself.
Who would dare violate this law? I knew of only one man who had the authority to countermand McLoughlin.
Thinking I might gather some blackmail-worthy intelligence, I wrapped a blanket around my silk robe and crept out of my room and down the stairs. Mindful of the creaky floorboards, I made my way silently to the central hall. The big brass lock on the front door was no match for my hairpin. The hinges, however, let out a screech worthy of an Irish banshee. I scrambled to make my exit and close the green painted door.
The icy drizzle drove straight for my bones, despite the thick woollen blanket.
I saw a flare of light and a gush of steam from behind the closed shutters of a workshop building tucked in the far corner beneath the guard tower. If I had not been awake and out of doors, I wouldn’t have heard it. Sir George must have found a new and better muffler for the engine.
I lusted after that muffler. To be able to creep up on my prey, to drop out of a concealing cloud without notice, would improve business mightily. My mouth watered and my belly clenched with greed.
I pressed myself close to the sides of the big house as I made my way toward the workshop. I circumnavigated the courtyard and pressed my ear against the workshop wall beside a shuttered window. The drizzle had ceased. A crescent moon peeked through the thinning clouds. Now I could see more, but so could the guards at the gates. I clung to the shadows beneath the overhanging roof.
Warmth crept through the plank walls from the fires and steam within. Dangerous. If the wood hadn’t been saturated by the spring rains, the fires within would have set them ablaze by now.
Below the hiss and moan of bellows and the clank of iron gears turning, I heard a faint murmur of voices.
I worked my fingers beneath the shutter and pried it open a crack. The sight of a half-dressed automaton, lying upon a worktable, with a familiar and expertly painted leather face brought a gasp of horror to my lips. The thing was incredibly life-like and a duplicate of Blind Red, so called John McLoughlin, Junior. If his chest hadn’t been opened to reveal a mass of gears, pumps, and wires, I wouldn’t have known him from a real person.
I turned away, pressing myself against the plank sides of the shed, trying to blend in with the shadows. After a few moments, I dared breathe. No one had heard me, or paid heed if they did. Even muffled, the steam engine within made more noise than I had.
I dared to peek again, preparing myself for the astonishing sight of a replica of a man who could not, should not be here. By all accounts, the good doctor’s son was a reckless young man who had been murdered by his own men while on brigade in the far north.
I’d heard that Dr. John and Marguerite never fully healed from the combination of grief, outrage, and humiliation.
Inside the workshop, Sir George himself, short and portly, dressed in the height of London fashion, bent over a workbench. All of his attention was riveted on an elaborate machine diagram and a pile of lacy, gold codex cards meant for the automaton. Three artisans, wearing the red bonnets of the HBC, laboured over connecting arms to another machine man. I watched them lace leather to metal, mesh gears, and leverage the metal skeleton into a soft body.
The half-finished metalman opened its glass eyes and looked directly into my own. Its mouth remained half-open. That part of the mechanism would need the properly coded gold card inserted into its body in order to speak, the last operation in its completion.
Six other nearly completed automata stood ranked against the far wall, all wearing almost familiar faces—like the painter tried to imitate the faces of the men of French Prairie with a single template.
What twisted game was Sir George Simpson playing?
There could be only one use for a almost familiar figures with familial resemblance: to infiltrate and influence any votes at the Wolf Meetings, led by a man disreputably dead. Who looked at faces in a large crowd in a smoky and dimly lit room? They’d count hands or listen for the louder voices only.
I guessed that Sir George must have brought the golden codex cards aboard the express dirigible. They must have been shipped directly from the Babbage and Lovelace factories. I hadn’t heard that anyone else had perfected the gold cards. Did that mean they were stolen from Babbage and Lovelace? Did Babbage and Lovelace know to what use their product was being put?
In the back, three identical red-haired Métis metalmen swivelled their heads as one, eyes open and unglazed by cataracts engaging mine. They looked very alive and aware, as an indefinable spark of intelligence glimmered within.
And yet they made no move to expose my eavesdropping. Sir George and his minions, intent upon their tasks, paid no heed to any of the metalmen. All three red-haired automata opened their mouths at the same time. They all made the same silent threat, mouthing the words: We will stop you.
I flung myself back against the planking, breathing hard. My heart pounded in my ears.
I’d heard rumours—mostly frightening tales told over a bottle of wine late in the fourth watch on a moonless night when darkness pressed against the envelope and the boilers hissed in patterns that mimicked breathing. Easy to imagine the machines had taken on lives of their own . . . .
I remembered my harrier dragon the last time I’d flown a scouting mission; how it bucked and fought my controls, needing to soar higher, faster, freer than I wanted it to. I remembered the quirky personalities of Mabel and Gertie, the boilers aboard the White Swan. And I remembered a missive from my sister, warning me of practitioners of dark magic stealing the souls of naïve girls to implant into steam engines.
Could the tales be more than late-night imaginings?
Had these machines found souls? And therefore intelligence independent of their codex?
I gulped back my questions and my fears. I needed information. I shifted my position, peering into the shadowed corners of the room. No sign of Dr. McLoughlin.
I could not imagine the compassionate and sensible Chief Factor would take a hand in a subversive plot like this. Or in the duplication of his son . . . unless he had been promised an immortal residence for the dead man’s soul.
A heavy hand dropped onto my shoulder.
I choked back a scream.
“Captain, you need to be away from here,” a woman with a lilting French accent whispered.
“Madame McLoughlin.”
“Oui.”
“How do you know . . . .”
“My Johnny and I have been expecting you to make yourself known to us for some time.”
“I have met your Johnny privately several times.”
She nodded. “We share many observations about those who wander the Columbia Department. Now, I think you know what you must do.” She beckoned me away from the shed to the deeper shadows near the quiet and deserted smithy.
“Your son . . . ?”
“Does not live. Those things may look like my lost boy, but they are not him.” She pursed her mouth and anger smouldered behind her dark eyes. “Sir George thinks to stay my Johnny’s hand in destroying the metalmen by making the leaders in the guise of our son.”
“Dr. John would never harm—or disable—his own son, even if it is only an automaton. He will not take action against Sir George’s plot.”
She nodded. I couldn’t tell in the darkness if she blinked back tears. I would.
“You do not approve of metalmen in any guise?” I asked when we were away from the centre of Sir George’s plot.
“Never. The metalmen are a menace to the freedom of ordinary people. Of my people. They benefit only the greedy. Sir George seeks to force my Johnny into inaction. Then only Sir George would rule here.” She spat into the ground.
“Sir George . . . I’ve heard rumours.”
“Yes. He wishes to become a king here, with only a nod to the Company as his overlords. He will deny the set
tlers their own government and then drive them and the natives both into starvation. Or to war. A war my Johnny would have to lead against him, for the insult to our son with those things.” Her hands worried the rich taffeta of her skirt. I heard it rustle in the quiet night, almost louder than the muffled engines across the compound.
“Your husband would leave the Company to fight Sir George?”
“He must, to retain his honour. But he does not see a way to stop Sir George other than betraying the Company and England.”
“I know a way to shift the balance.” I fingered the purple crystal on its leather thong.
“Bon. Fashions change. The beaver, he is no longer master of style. The Company must change direction or die. They plant wheat in French Prairie and ship it to Russia. Sir George, he wants more ships, more food for foreigners because they pay him in gold—him, not the company. Nothing pour les cultivateurs.” I knew she meant the voyageurs who had retired and become farmers.
“Yes,” I mused. A plan formed in my mind. “I’ll launder the robe and return it.”
“Keep it. C’est une situation donnant donnant.” A gift for a gift.
<<>>
Before dawn, Jimmy and I slipped past the guards and out of the fort through some loose and gaping upright logs behind the smithy. I’d donned my calico dress once more, but left off the damnable corset. I had no intention of being seen by anyone who would be shocked by my lack of restraint. I carried the maroon silk robe in a ditty bag.
Once free of the fort, we stole a canoe and paddled to the eastern tip of the big island where the Willamette drained into the Columbia.
We waited to light our own fire until smoke arose from the chimneys of settlers. We used rum, gun cotton, and wet wood to make the smoke from our fire rise in a wide column, flattening this way and that with the competing winds from ocean and gorge, cold river, and warming land.
If anyone noticed us, they’d dismiss us as local fishermen.
Steampunk Voyages Page 13
