Corsets & Clockwork

by Trish Telep

  I cut my hair.

  My sewing kit had never had such use. That much was clear from my poor stitchwork on the hems of Rafe's trousers and shirt sleeves. Now I used the scissors, little ones meant to cut thread, to cut the long locks that hung down my back. One by one they fell to the floor, a pile of gold collecting at my feet. I kept my attention on the mirror before me, trying to remind myself that it would all grow back in time.

  It was little comfort.

  When it was done, I stared at the image before me. Concern for my lost locks was replaced by a deep fear that I, in no way, not even with the boyish haircut I had surprisingly managed, looked like a man. Nor even a lad.

  I had an idea.

  Quietly, though I supposed it wasn't really necessary as he wasn't home, I sneaked into Father's room and rummaged about through his toiletries. I removed the tin of pomade that he used to slick his hair and opened it. I applied it to my own hair, pushing the fringe back off my forehead. Without the hair to frame my eyes, my rather high forehead managed to make my features slightly more masculine. I turned to the side to examine my profile. I'd inherited my father's nose, strong and straight, not dainty and button-like like my mother's. The nose would help. Oh, most helpful nose.

  I took the tin with me and added it to my sack of supplies. Though I'd packed food for a few days, a stop at an inn would be necessary. I had money enough for transportation and accommodation, though I didn't want to take too much along for the journey. Rafe's altered clothing fit me quite nicely. It was fortunate he was so slight that it was only the length of the garments that needed alteration. And since my figure barely filled out a corset (hateful thing) and was subject to derision by those same girls who mocked my voice, the lack of shape meant I needed only wrap a bandage a few times around my chest to remove any indication I wasn't what I pretended to be. With the cap on my head, I concluded I passed for a boy. But no more. There was no mistaking me for a man.

  I left home just shortly after one in the morning. The thought that this might possibly be the last time I'd see my home hadn't even occurred to me until I was walking through the small hamlet that bordered our property on the east end. In all my concern over how I was going to manage my disguise, the thought that I was heading to a place where men die every day had quite escaped my thoughts. Strange, really, as my primary motivation had been to protect Rafe from just such a fate.

  I wished in that moment that I'd said something more fitting in the short note I'd left Father. More than just a brief explanation and apology. I should have said something about how despite his constant concern over his part in my upbringing, I had always loved him for it. That he needn't have worried so much. That I'd lived a most lovely life. I knew he cared for me, and I needed little more than that. I might have written something about a job well done.

  But I hadn't written any of that, and so I determined that I simply wouldn't die. It would save a lot of fuss and bother, and I didn't think Father could handle it. He'd blame himself, and the guilt that he already felt about my mother's death would be doubled. No, really, the only possible outcome was to survive.

  I walked all night and took a brief nap beneath an old oak as the sun rose. Then I continued, eating my breakfast as I walked, until I arrived where the stagecoach picked up travelers in the larger town of Pontyville. I waited with an older couple for half an hour before the carriage arrived. The journey with them to Tuttman-on-the-Green was the first real test of my alter ego.

  "I'm Nancy Smythe and this is my husband, George."

  "Ian Wells," I said taking her hand and shaking it in a manly fashion. At least, in what I hoped was a manly fashion. The decision to take on Rafe's surname had been one of necessity. After all, I possessed his summons, which conveniently didn't mention his first name. But there was something rather nice about being a Wells, so I didn't mind pretending to be his relation. "Imogen Wells," I thought to myself. Then I inwardly rolled my eyes. Just like those girls who'd play pretend they were married to some bloke or other. Stop it, Imogen, you're going to war, not walking down the aisle.

  "Where you off to then, lad?" asked Mr. Smythe.

  On hearing his accent, I realized just how posh my own was. I endeavored to common it up a bit. "To the front, sir. Been called to duty."

  Mrs. Smythe gasped, and her husband nodded sagely. "Bad business, war," he said, "but it makes a man outta ya."

  "So I've been told, sir."

  Mr. Smythe grinned then. "And you could use some manning up now, couldn't you, lad?"

  I hoped that his joke at my expense had been made because of my youthful appearance, and not because he saw through the disguise.

  "Yes, sir," I replied.

  But if Mr. Smythe suspected anything, he made no mention of it. Instead, he happily regaled his wife and me with war stories of his own. I had to admit to myself there was a thrilling quality to them, though I wasn't sure if it was innate to the tales themselves or courtesy of the man telling them. A fine storyteller was Mr. Smythe, and I was wholly glad to have had the chance to share this long journey with him.

  We made it to Tuttman-on-the-Green by ten that evening. The Smythes were picked up in a small carriage by their son-in-law, and I, after exchanging a few parting words, made my way to the local inn. My second test, I told myself. Let us see how this goes.

  All was loud and cheerful and inn-like on the inside. The large room was filled mostly with men whom by this hour were well toasted.

  I approached the inn keeper at the front desk and made my presence known.

  "Well, hello there, young master!" he said in as cheerful a manner as any I'd encountered. A man truly pleased with his lot in life, and I envied him it for a moment.

  "Hello, sir," I said. "I'm looking for a room for the night."

  "Ah," he replied and examined me closely. "And where be you headin'?"

  I wasn't sure it was his place to ask such a thing. But there was no harm in the answer. "Dover," I replied shoving my hands into my pockets so hard that, had my trousers not been held up by braces, I probably would have pulled them right off.

  "Ah, a new recruit. They gets younger every year."

  I nodded. And more feminine too.

  "Well, I'm right full up, but there's some others of you staying out in the barn, if that'll do?"

  "Others like me?"

  "Headin' out to Dover like you. Quite a few pass through these doors see."

  I nodded.

  "Barn do?" he asked again.

  "Yes, thank you. What do I owe you?" I asked reaching into my bag.

  The innkeeper held up his hand. "Ain't nothin' for the new recruits. 'Specially stayin' out in the barn."

  "Thank you," I said.

  He showed me out back and introduced me to the three other fellows staying there. Two were brothers, the third their cousin. All had the last name Baker. Tim, Thomas, and Aeschylus.

  "Did you say 'Aeschylus'?" I asked dropping my bag down on the straw mat the innkeeper had proudly pronounced mine before leaving us to our own devices.

  Thomas laughed loudly and Tim snorted.

  "Aeschylus. After the playwright," said the cousin with a sigh.

  "The ancient Greek one?" I asked sitting down.

  Aeschylus looked at me in shock, as did his cousins. I realized that probably they didn't tend to run into people quite so well educated as myself. There was so much more to this disguise business than just pretending to be a boy.

  "Yeah, that's right. No one ever knows that," he said coming over and looming above me, leaning his forearm against a low hanging beam.

  "Well, I do. And your parents did too."

  "They did." There was a deep resentment in his voice then. "Call me Baker, though."

  "Baker it is."

  I didn't like the scrutinizing gaze and so stood up though he still towered over me. "I need ... to relieve myself."

  "You mean take a piss?"

  I nodded.

  "We've been going around back."
/>
  It was probably one of the most uncomfortable conversations I'd ever had, but it got me back outside and alone with my thoughts. There were so many things I hadn't taken into consideration. Namely sharing quarters with men. I'd never shared my room at all, let alone with anyone of the opposite sex. And there was the small matter of my bandaged chest. There was nothing else to do but sleep in my clothes. Pretend to some kind of silly modesty that would no doubt result in teasing, but it was better than revealing the truth.

  I decided I might as well do what I had said I was going to--it was the first time, I must admit, I'd ever done so in such close proximity to men. Then I returned to the barn where the Bakers were all sitting around happily in their skivvies. I willed my face not to turn red and made my way to my mat, lay down, and drew my coat over my body.

  They said nothing, thinking me odd in general, no doubt.

  Sleep came. How, I had no idea, but in no time I was woken up by Tim with a shake. "Time to head out."

  I looked at him for a moment, unsure of his meaning.

  "You getting up or not? We gotta start walkin' if we're gonna catch the wagon."

  "Uh ... wagon?"

  "There's a wagon picks recruits up from Boggington. Takes us straight on to Dover. Three days' journey. Thought that's where you were headed."

  This was most fortuitous. "Oh, yes, that wagon. Sorry. Still asleep I guess."

  "Well, come on."

  I imagine they'd discussed me while I slept, came to some sort of conclusion to allow my company. It was good fortune, whatever it was, even though it made my life far more complicated, having to pretend to be Ian constantly. But this was what I'd signed up for. To be a man in the company of many men, in a war zone no less. It had to be what it was.

  I was grateful to the Bakers for taking me under their wing, whatever the reason. They were fine company as we traveled the countryside. I talked little, trying to create a reputation of a quiet, shy fellow. They talked plenty, though. About growing up on the farm, about girls. They really did talk about girls a lot. It was quite obvious they knew little of our hearts. Then again how could I expect them to understand that by which I myself was confused?

  It took a day extra to get to Dover. The weather on the second day was so foul we'd holed up in a small inn on the side of the road. There was just enough room for the lot of us. We'd made new acquaintances in the wagon, a dozen other lads, all young and rough around the edges. And the driver himself, old and world weary. Or, at least, weary of the likes of us.

  That day we played cards and drank. Rather they taught me cards and I kept to my cider. I wasn't quite ready for a pint, though I was tempted. In all, it was rather pleasant. And my reputation as the quiet one served me well.

  The day's delay was of little concern, however, as we still arrived a day before departure. Enough time to check in, I suppose, and get our uniforms. Possibly some basic lessons in weapons. I thought it astonishing we'd be sent to the front without a more thorough training, but Thomas explained that that would happen over in Europe. It seemed that men of our rank were not expected to train much. We would be taught how to take order and how to hold our weapons. Other than that, evidently, there wasn't much more to it.

  I found that hard to believe. After all, we were fighting for Queen and country. Oughtn't there be more to it than just, "Have at it lads!"?

  I was about to bravely make that point when Baker said, "Now if that ain't something."

  I'd been rear facing on the journey, so I turned my body round to see what he was looking at. It was something indeed.

  The cliffs rose up before us, white walls sheer to the Channel. White-capped waves crashed on the beach far below. And the green countryside through which we now traveled seemed even brighter for the contrast. At the point where the cliffs retreated out of sight was the most magnificent architectural structure I'd ever seen. Built up to the top from three quarters of the way down the white wall was a platform, reminiscent of the pier in Brighton. It jutted out into the sky, seeming impervious to gravity. As the intricate system of wrought-iron supports came into more distinct focus as we approached, I began to understand the science behind it. That was the fantastic thing about iron. It could be crafted to look as delicate as a willow branch but still have all the strength of an oak. In this instance, the platform's supports had been wrought to appear as twisting vines. The natural and the man-made creating a new kind of beauty.

  Of course, I realized that most of the men in the wagon weren't looking down at the supports of the platform but admiring the dirigible moored at the far end. It made sense. The airship could safely be estimated to be around three hundred feet long, and its body was painted the colors of the Union Jack. Truly quite hard to miss really. But I was a spoiled rich girl. I'd seen dirigibles before. I'd even flown in one to Paris for my thirteenth birthday. Clearly, I was the only one of my current company who had.

  "Blimey, now that ain't natural," said Tim, taking off his cap and running his fingers through his hair. His brother agreed with a loud exhalation of air, and I felt it was my turn to express my awe.

  "Impressive," I said because it was.

  There was a general murmur of assent at that remark, and for the rest of the journey we were silent. Whether through fear or awe, I didn't know. I imagined probably a little bit of both.

  The wagon eventually pulled up to the camp on the cliffs by the sky port. It consisted of several long single-story buildings around a large open square. There were men everywhere, some running drills and being yelled at by very scary looking men, others looking frantic for reasons of which I hoped to remain ignorant.

  One by one, we clambered out of the wagon and stood awkwardly waiting for something, unsure of what that something was.

  In the end, it turned out to be a short squat man with a magnificent handlebar mustache.

  "Excellent! New recruits! Brilliant. Welcome, men." He did seem truly thrilled that we had arrived. "Get in a queue. First lesson, standing at attention." He showed us, and we emulated the stance. So far, so good. "Excellent. Now take your things. You lot are in barracks number three. Place your belongings in the cubby provided, then return with your summons and we'll get you outfitted. After that, some drills and basic weapons instruction. And then first thing tomorrow, we're off!" He said it all with great excitement, but the thought terrified me. I knew we'd be heading out soon. Still, the idea of war and actually facing it were two very different things.

  But we obeyed our commander. We had no choice. I did all he asked, even though I rather fancied not. But I couldn't afford to stand out in the crowd. Not when I was so close to finding Rafe.

  One by one, we handed our summons to our superior, got our uniforms, changed, though fortunately no one noticed I kept my shirt on. Then we ran drills. We were given a pistol and knife each, and taught how to use some of the more technologically advanced shotguns. Such as the one that could shoot off several rounds at once by holding down the trigger. That gun particularly terrified me. I hoped it wasn't one of Rafe's inventions. I was praised for my aim, which I knew was rather good after so many years of quail hunting. We were told the importance of keeping formation at all times. And then we were given half an hour for dinner and another hour before lights out.

  It was a whirlwind experience, and I hardly felt ready to fight. At the same time, I felt as though I'd learned far more than I'd ever expected to. How was it possible that I felt like a solider when I'd been one for less than twelve hours?

  I sat on my cot in shock.

  "Ian Wells?"

  At first the name didn't register.

  "Ian Wells?"

  Oh, right, that's me.

  "Here, sir!" I turned and stood at attention as I'd been shown. My commanding officer approached.

  "Come with me."

  "Yes, sir."

  I followed him out of the makeshift barracks into the early evening air. It was crisp and cool, eminently breathable. We walked south past all the building
s until we reached the pier of the sky port, and then we continued onto the platform itself. It was as sturdy as the ground, but it still felt odd knowing that we were walking hundreds of feet above solid earth. It was a wide pier that housed several buildings, with the large glowing shape of the dirigible looming at the far end. I longed to go to the edge, to look right down. But the way the air whipped around my head, I worried that I might be blown clear off the platform.

  We reached the building nearest the dirigible, the entrance guarded by two officers who let us pass inside without question.

  It took a moment for me to register where I was. The building consisted of one large room with maps strewn about a large table in the middle. Sitting around the table were several men. They all looked large and intimidating.

  Except for one.

  "Ian!" said Rafe, standing up quickly at the far end.

  "Rafe." My heart was beating fast. What the devil was going on? How had he known my new name? I thought back to the moment that I passed off the summons to my commander, sharing with him my Christian name. Obviously news had traveled.

  "Brother," said Rafe enunciating the word with extra emphasis. He walked around the table and extended his hand. "Good to see you."

  I nodded and took his hand, unable to speak.

  "I'm glad you got the message, glad you could join me. This is Colonel Fitzhenry." He gestured to the ginger man sitting at the head of the table. "Captains Carter and Dixon. And Lieutenant Williamson. Gentlemen, this is my brother, Ian. He is my assistant."

  "Never said a word about this before, Wells," said Captain Carter, furrowing his thick eyebrows. Or rather, eyebrow, as it was difficult to distinguish two.

  "I assumed you were all aware I ..." Rafe stopped talking. He sighed. "I'm sorry. It's a surprise, I realize."

  "It is. Pity you couldn't have brought him with you to London," said Captain Dixon.

  "I couldn't get away until later this week," I said quickly, my voice shaking. "I'm glad I made it on time before lift-off."