Nell Gwynne's On Land and At Sea

by Kage Baker

  Warm bubbles were streaming out of it into the cold water all around her, which almost startled her off, but she had considerable practice in getting ropes around bulky moving objects. Mrs. Otley, close behind her, was equally as expert in quick knots. Between the two of them they had secured a tow line within seconds of meeting the hidden prey. All six of the Ladies seized the trailing rope, and found themselves being borne along on the surface of the sea like so many beads on a string.

  There was a dreadful long moment when they were being towed along at considerable risk of being dragged underwater. It felt as though they had harnessed a kelpie and were about to be summarily drowned for their troubles. Almost at once, however, the slack on their rope increased and the gun platform rose under them. Miss Rendlesham and Mrs. Otley, being closest to the base of the rope, were actually carried into the air to lie sprawled on the hull of the thing.

  Its surface was covered in canvas, wrapped all about with netting—no more than ten feet across and curving down at each side, but now that it was raised up, the top surface was much easier to cling to. The other Ladies were still trailing off beside it. They began at once to pull themselves along the tow rope, and to scrabble for the netted sides.

  Just as the first of them—Dora, it was—secured a grip on the nets, though, a man’s head rose from an opening hatch in front of the mast.

  On the deck of the Sceptre, things had calmed. Several of the crew were quite out of action, but the others were shakily attending to the sails; only the forward gun was manned, however. Mr. Pickett assured Lady Beatrice—who had joined him at the tiller—that this would be more than adequate, as they were only the backup armaments; Mrs. Corvey, of course, was not so informed, as she had disappeared from the companionway once more. Lady Beatrice assured Mr. Pickett she had returned to the quiet of the cabin.

  She had not, but was instead standing near the bow, out of Mr. Pickett’s line of sight and further hidden by her black gown. The crew running about the deck knew she was there, but had neither time nor orders to inform their master of the whereabouts of his putative mother-in-law; she therefore enjoyed a sort of cloak of invisibility and was able to observe the approaching action at her ease.

  She was also thus the first to hear the susurration of the surf on the cliffs of Daddyhole, though she had been watching the breaking waves for some little time via her infrared lenses. She had discerned both the tiny fire on the beach and the lit cave entrance; as well as the telltale brightening of the water in the cove when the steam-powered gun platform had exited its lair.

  She did not think they were especially close to shore, but she could tell they were steering for land, not open sea. She knew also that the possibility of running aground would be a powerful distraction. Accordingly, she caught at a passing deckhand’s sleeve and said, “Excuse me, my lad. A blind old lady like me has very good ears, you know; are we not terribly close to the shore?”

  The man stared at her—then stepped away and listened, head cocked to the side. He stared at the light in the distance. A look of horror came over his face, and he ran at once for the stern, bellowing “Cap’n! Cap’n! Lee shore, lee shore, bear away, sir! Bear away to starboard!”

  Back on the gun platform…all the Ladies froze in place. For Herbertina, Jane and Maude, it meant grappling to the tow rope and keeping their heads up; Dora went as still as a newborn dragonfly clinging to a reed with wings still too wet to fly. Miss Rendlesham and Mrs. Otley pressed themselves flat and prayed the man had no reason to look behind him. Mrs. Rendlesham got a grip on her pack by its straps, though, just in case she had to clout the fellow with it.

  However, his attention was focused out to sea, where the running lights of what had to be the Sceptre were showing startlingly close. He gave a shout of alarm and dropped straight out of sight, slamming the hatch closed behind him.

  Cries were sounding from the ship across the black water.

  The mast belched out a cloud of steam, and the gun platform quivered to a halt. With no more forward momentum it wallowed in the swell, alternately assisting and impeding Dora and the others from reaching the arched top. But reach it they did, and at once stripped off and dumped out their packs. At that moment, however, the humped upper surface suddenly began to vibrate, and what was now revealed as the long barrel of a cannon started to rise up under them.

  Maude was straddling it and was pushed off. She gave a cry of dismay as her chisel immediately slid off and vanished in the sea.

  “Never mind!” said Herbertina sharply. “I still have mine! Get the clicker out and send to Mrs. Corvey that we have begun!”

  The deck hand ran bawling across the deck. Mr. Pickett, being a more sensible seaman than he was a politician, did not stop to question the alarm, but threw all his weight on the tiller and hauled it toward the stern. The Sceptre began to heel to starboard.

  Lady Beatrice was thrown to port as well by this maneuver, and rolled until she fetched up against another sailor. The man went sprawling but he did stop her progress; she scrambled to her feet just in time to see him slide over the side and into the sea. This lessening the opposition by one, she did not stop to regret him but at once careened back to Mr. Pickett’s side—prepared to hamper or help him as Fate dictated in completing their mission or surviving it. She therefore seized the tiller as well and pulled with all her supple strength beside him.

  Mrs. Corvey did not topple, though she found herself reeling across to the rail, to which she clung desperately. As she stood there, skirts whipping round her legs, she felt and heard the clicker in her bodice chirping. There was no way to spare a hand to check it, even had she not been in full view; but as it was pressed against her collarbone, she could feel the pattern of its vibration. That coded rhythm told her that the scuttling of the gun platform was underway. Since she could also see the submarine rolling about in a cloud of warm steam only a few hundred feet away, she assumed that Maude was also aware of where she was, and would not require an immediate reply.

  Maude was not sparing any thought to Mrs. Corvey just then, being engaged in first crawling out of the way of the rising cannon and then frantically pushing the buttons on her clicker. Having sent her message, she had grabbed up the mallet she still had, just as the hatch was once more flung open. A man stuck his head out—Maude hit him as hard as she could with the mallet—he fell down inside the submarine to a chorus of shouts from below. Maude slammed the hatch shut again, and sat on it.

  The other Ladies, meanwhile, were committing various violent assaults on the submarine. At the waterline, Jane and Herbertina were chiseling a long rent in its flank; as it rolled to and fro, the gaping slit was first exposed and then submerged. Bubbles were beginning to trickle out at one end of their handiwork. Dora, Miss Rendlesham and Mrs. Otley were employing awls and drills somewhat further up the sides, but the movement of the vessel was regularly ducking these holes as well below the water.

  More yells came from below, and then suddenly there was the sound of a gunshot. A foot of decking between Dora and Mrs. Otley exploded outward, weakened at the holes they had drilled, and a gout of steam and bubbles gushed forth.

  As one, the Ladies dropped their tools in the sea and dove in after them. As more gunshots and shouts sounded behind them, they struck out for the Sceptre.

  The Sceptre had spilled her sails when Mr. Pickett steered so precipitously to starboard; now she rolled back and forth, bereft of headway. There were only three crewmen still visible and functioning—they were scrambling aloft to the rescue of the sails. Mr. Pickett was howling orders from the stern and trying to lash the tiller down—in this he was impeded by Lady Beatrice, who chose that moment to initiate a faint across the tiller. Mr. Pickett grabbed at both, missed both, and was felled to the deck as the laden tiller swung back and struck him.

  The Sceptre was still closer to the gun platform now. Mr. Pickett pulled himself to his feet by the rail, where he hung with the breath knocked out of him, staring dumfounded out at the wall
owing wreck of his creation. Steam was belching out her side, catching faint illumination from the Sceptre’s lights; her stern was beginning to slip visibly below the water.

  The hatch before the mast suddenly burst into the air, as by a great blow; more steam poured out. Following it were half a dozen shadowy men, who went sliding promptly off the slanting deck into the sea. Light from within the submarine shone upward, revealing the cannon proudly—and futilely—jutting erect from the deck.

  Lady Beatrice rose from where she had lain gracefully below the tiller and came up beside Mr. Pickett at the rail. She placed a hand consolingly on his shoulder, just as a feeble last plume of steam escaped from the cannon to dissipate harmlessly on the night air.

  The gunboat made a rude burping sound and sank by the stern under the waves.

  “Oh, dear,” said Lady Beatrice into the profound silence that ensued. “I am so very sorry. But do not grieve, dear Mr. Pickett—it happens to every man sooner or later.”

  Mr. Pickett turned a stricken face to her. She was debating whether or not to offer him an embrace (and Mrs. Corvey, watching closely, had her hand on the derringer in her reticule in case he should suddenly run mad) when various halloos and cries for help sounded beside the Sceptre.

  There was no one immediately on deck to offer assistance to anyone, but the three men in the rigging came sliding down at once. Rushing to the starboard stern, they began to haul up several battered and exhausted men, all of them cursing and calling for Mr. Pickett. The last one pulled over the side was none other than Felan, still roaring imprecations even as he was dumped on the deck.

  Mr. Pickett stared at them all, speechless.

  “It exploded! The damned thing exploded!” howled Felan, fixing Mr. Pickett with a murderous glare.

  “Exploded, my arse!” yelled one of the others. He turned to Mr. Pickett and thrust out an accusing hand at Felan. “That bugger went mad and attacked us! Stove in Bailey’s skull! And then he shot a hole in the side of the boat and scuttled us!”

  “I’ll scuttle you—” snarled Felan. He yanked a pistol from his belt and shot the other man.

  At least, he pulled the trigger. After its immersion in the sea, all the gun yielded was a sad little click. There was a second of stunned silence all around—then Mr. Pickett and Felan ran toward one another with mutual bellows of rage.

  However, the port side stern was suddenly alive with movement as an assortment of nymphs came clambering over the railing: lithe pale figures in corsets, hair streaming over their shoulders, limbs gleaming like pearl by lamplight.

  “Good evening!” said Dora, smiling round.

  All the men on deck stopped dead, gaping at the apparition—except for Felan. He swerved and dove back over the rail, striking out at once with a strong pull for shore.

  Everyone left on deck stood and stared at one another.

  “Aftermaths are so depressing. Even when one wins,” Jane commented a short while later. She was as dry and clean as she was likely to get for a while, wrapped in a blanket and seated in the Sceptre’s main cabin as they put about to limp back to shore.

  The wool wax had proven difficult to remove, and their wrinkled clothes had perforce been donned over its pungent remains. No one was especially happy about it, but the decanters of wine and sherry in the cabin were proving helpful restoratives.

  “We’ll enjoy our victory more when we are dry and warm and indoors,” Maude assured her.

  “And scrubbed clean of sheep grease,” said Dora. “It worked well in the water, but one does not get used to the smell!”

  Mrs. Corvey had had a genteel hysterical fit to get them all off deck as quickly as possible, and no great spate of questions had been forthcoming so far. Mr. Pickett was so stricken by the sudden ruin of all his plans that he had barely questioned the appearance of Lady Beatrice’s “sisters,” half naked and dripping wet, on his deck.

  By the expedient of everyone offering explanations at once, the Ladies had for the moment vaguely convinced him that the vile Felan had kidnapped Dora for unspeakable purposes; that stalwart Herbert had trailed the villain to his sea-cave lair; from whence the others had joined forces in an effort to rescue her in a luckily stumbled-upon rowboat, which had been blown out of the water when the strange submersible craft inexplicably exploded…

  The explanation made no particular sense, but Mr. Pickett did not appear to care. Mr. Pickett also did not appear willing to discuss the submarine, and in fact actually disavowed all knowledge of it when Dora prattled on with questions as to its nature. What its erstwhile crewmen thought was not known, as they had all been hustled below decks just as quickly as the Ladies had been hurried into the main cabin.

  At the moment, Mr. Pickett was on deck, doing nothing. He was standing by the rail with an air of noble tragedy, staring out to sea while Lady Beatrice stood beside him. Occasionally, they spoke softly and sadly.

  This intelligence was supplied by Mrs. Drumm, who alone could move un-noted between the galley, the cabin and the crew quarters. She reported that the general belief among the crew was that Felan had, indeed, somehow scuttled the submersible—evidently no ill was too great to attribute to Felan, who had been universally loathed. No one seemed to suspect the Ladies had been the attackers; or at least, no one was willing to admit it. The intention of all concerned was to say nothing to anyone and pretend nothing had ever happened…

  “Mayhap he’s growing some sense,” she opined of Pickett.

  This struck Mrs. Corvey as an excellent outcome, and she hoped the epidemic of ignorance could be encouraged to spread. She and her Ladies still had a week or so to stay in Torquay, and would very likely return again. She would not like to lose their comfortable anonymity here.

  However, she was not sanguine about Mr. Pickett’s ability to keep his mouth shut, nor his ambition restrained. She had also been apprised (via clicker) of a certain slightly worrying fact: the Gentlemen were waiting on shore for Treadway Pickett. They had not arrived in time to provide any help for her girls, but they were here now. She hoped it would not take too much insistence to keep the Ladies out of the remainder of this affair, which should never have become their problem in the first place…

  At length, but not too long, the Sceptre was being warped into her private pier. Mrs. Corvey went up on deck in the cluster of the Ladies, all weary and unusually silent. They stood waiting patiently as Lady Beatrice took her leave from Mr. Pickett; they saw her put something from her hand into his. He looked then like a man who has taken a bad blow. Walking very slowly, he followed them down the pier.

  The standing lamps were still burning, and the whole little mooring place was brightly lit. Mr. Pickett’s fine coach was still waiting for them, its horses head-heavy in the traces; it would carry them home. But there was also a larger, darker coach standing by. There were two gentlemen waiting beside the larger coach, waiting for Mr. Pickett with an anticipatory air.

  As Mrs. Corvey and the Ladies passed the gentlemen, one of them nodded politely to her; she nodded back. Mr. Pickett was coming up behind them, and she heard them stop him, courteously enough, as he made to pass them.

  “Who are you?” she heard Pickett demand. “Where are you from?

  “We are everywhere,” said one of the Gentlemen. “We dispel illusion. May we speak to you, sir? We shall endeavor to dispel some of yours.”

  Then Mrs. Corvey was both out of earshot and in the lee of the coach waiting for her and hers. It fit all of them cozily—none of the Ladies minded squeezing together a bit, most of them still being chilled to the bone—and they were on point of squashing all of them into it when suddenly Lady Beatrice put a finger to her lips.

  Silently, she pointed to the legs of the man on the driver’s seat of their coach. His boots were wet and sandy; indeed, his breeches and coat were still dripping sea water. She looked at Mrs. Corvey, still standing outside—then she stretched up to the musket mounted on the wall of the coach, and without a sound handed it down to Mrs. Co
rvey.

  Mrs. Corvey took off her smoked glasses; her lenses whirred, bringing her night vision into focus. She lifted the musket and took aim.

  “Mr. Felan?” she called softly, in a reproachful tone. “You should not be here.”

  Felan turned in a flash, a horse pistol in his hand: a dry one this time, presumably. And Mrs. Corvey shot him just above his right eye. The shot carried him off the far side of the driver’s seat, and he was dead when he hit the ground.

  Herbertina drove them all home.

  Next morning dawned late for the Ladies; it dawned about lunchtime, as a matter of fact, and no one was in any hurry to take up any activity that day. They were all so determined to have baths as long and hot as possible that they made up a party to Mr. William Pollard’s establishment on the Quay, where one could not only hire a hot bath but a shower bath as well—and there was nothing better for getting salt out of one’s hair than a shower bath. They came home pink and contented and dozed the rest of the day away.

  Life returned to normal for a holiday by the sea.

  Once, though, a messenger came with a letter for Lady Beatrice. It was from Mr. Pickett, of course, and in it he professed an undying devotion to her and to her family. He expressed his profound regrets that she did not feel she could accept his proposal of marriage, but was sure that she would someday find a gentleman noble enough to care for her as she deserved. For himself, Mr. Pickett had had a profound moment of self-realization—he was a scion of England, it was true, but he was also a son of a wild, untamed country and no fit mate for a lady like Beatrice. He was therefore removing to the new country of Australia, which was still wild, but more British than American. And if she ever heard of him again, he hoped she would think well of him.