by Glenn Cooper
“Stay, stay,” Mario said. “I get Re Giuseppe.”
The Italian line stretched down the road and it took quite a while for Garibaldi to appear on horseback, flanked by Caravaggio and Simon Wright and accompanied by a protective guard of his most loyal soldiers.
John and the others got out of the cars, the French soldiers electing to stretch on the grassy verge.
Garibaldi dismounted dressed in the same soldier’s uniform and red shirt John had last seen him wearing. No finery, no royal regalia, just a tired old soldier with a heavily lined face and a neat white beard. He approached them limping noticeably.
“John and Emily,” Garibaldi said, seizing John’s shoulders with his arthritic hands and smiling warmly at Emily. “My emotions are mixed. It is wonderful to see friends again, especially friends to whom we owe so much. Yet, I am heartsick that you have failed to return to your homes.”
“We didn’t fail,” John said. “We came back.”
“But why?”
“To bring these people back,” John said, gesturing at the other Earthers. “And to find others.”
“My sister,” Emily said. “And her children got caught up in this mess. We’re looking for them.”
Garibaldi shook his head and was about to say more when Caravaggio came forward, giving Emily his full attention.
“Once more I am able to gaze upon this face,” he said. “May I kiss it?”
“You may,” she said, laughing.
“John, you will not shoot me?” Caravaggio said.
“One kiss, you’re fine, two, you’re in trouble,” John said.
Simon shook John’s hand hard. “Good to see you, my friend. How’s this French bucket of rust holding up?”
“It’s running a little rough. Maybe you can take a look at it.”
“My pleasure.” Simon’s eye turned to Alice. “Don’t be a rude bugger. Introduce your friends, then.”
John motioned Charlie and Martin over and each one said a hello when John called their names.
“Everyone,” John said. “This is Giuseppe Garibaldi, king of Italia and now king of Francia too. He’s a great man and I’m proud to call him a friend. And these gentlemen are also great men. This is Simon Wright, soldier, patriot, and master boilermaker, and this is Michelangelo Caravaggio, one of the greatest painters of all time.”
John had told Martin and Tony about possibly meeting Caravaggio but the art lovers were star struck and stammering in his presence, which pleased the artist but also was embarrassing as they fawned more over him than the king.
Simon wandered over to Charlie, Tracy, and Alice and began chatting with them, asking where they were from and how they managed to get into this pickle barrel.
“I don’t understand it,” Alice said. “You’ll have to ask Emily about that.”
“A boilermaker, are you?” Charlie said. “I’m a builder myself. Alice is an electrician, a good one.”
“Are you now?” Simon said, nodding and smiling. “A lady who knows electrics. Here’s Emily, a scientist and here’s you, an electrician. The ladies in your time are doing the work of men. And you, my dear?”
Tracy lifted her head. “Me? I’m just a mother.”
“No small job, that!” Simon said cheerfully. “May I inquire after your children?”
“They’re with their father, I hope. They were at school when …” With that, she began to cry and Alice rubbed her back in a motherly way.
“There, there,” Simon said. “Mr. John Camp will get you back to them, I’m quite sure. He’s a good man to have by your side.”
There was much to discuss but Garibaldi was anxious that they not lose a day’s march. After dismissing the French soldiers to return to Paris with fresh horses, they headed west toward the coast, John driving one car and Simon volunteering to drive the other. Charlie was relegated to the back seat with Tracy. Alice, at Simon’s insistence rode up front.
That night Garibaldi ordered his cooks to prepare a feast of celebration which proved to be a feast in name only since provisions were tight. They ate the same hard bread, dry meat, and vegetable stew the rest of the army ate but Caravaggio assured one and all that at least the wine, with barrels liberated from Robespierre’s cellars, was special.
Garibaldi sat on a bench between John and Emily and listened as they told him about their encounter with King Henry, their journey to Paris, and their impressions of a post-Robespierre Francia.
“You’ve done well to add France to your kingdom,” John said.
Garibaldi responded with a thin smile. “As a soldier you know that taking territory is one thing, holding it is something very different, and sometimes more difficult.”
“Forneau’s a good man to mind the store,” John said and Emily agreed.
“He is,” Garibaldi said, “but there are ambitious French nobles in the wings and the possibility of a German and Russian counterattack is very real. Moreover, there are problems back home with reports of an invasion force from Macedonia. Antonio has taken a thousand men back to Italia to deal with the threat. It was not an ideal time to leave Paris. The new order I seek must take its strength from the support of the common man, exploiting any morsels of good that remain in their souls. I haven’t had any time to let the people know my goals. Not the Italians, not the French. For those that even know they have a new king, they do not know that I see a new way for us to live in Hell. They do not know that I seek a better path, where every man and woman in this sorry place might rise up from despair and hopelessness. I would have liked to travel my new kingdom and lift up the spirits of my subjects but I could not do so. First I have to strengthen our hand with an Iberian alliance and that is why we go to Burgos, to seek an audience with King Pedro.”
“What do you think he’ll say?” John asked.
“I really don’t know which is why it was necessary to bring a sizable force, in case he would prefer to fight. He is known for his arrogance and intransigence. But, my friends, these are my problems. Now tell me yours,” he said, patting Emily’s hand.
“My sister and her children, a boy and a girl were waiting at my laboratory for my return. When John and I came back, they were transported here along with another woman.”
“Here? You mean children have come to this place?” Garibaldi said in distress. “How awful. How cruel. Where are they now?”
“Guy told us they’re in Marksburg,” John said.
“Barbarossa has them?” Garibaldi asked.
“You haven’t heard?” John said.
“Heard what?”
“Stalin put him down and put himself in charge.”
Garibaldi’s head drooped. “A combined Germania and Russia. This quest for a new order has become even more difficult.”
“We didn’t dare ride into Marksburg and demand that Stalin just hand them over,” Emily said. “We needed your help.”
Garibaldi nodded. “And help you I shall, which is why an alliance with the Iberians is a matter of even greater urgency. I am sure you would prefer if we immediately turned north toward Germania but we are so close to Burgos.”
John and Emily exchanged a glance. They both began to speak but John deferred to her.
“I think what both of us are going to say,” she said, “is that since we’re close we should go to Burgos first. My sister was split up from the children. They’re with a living woman named Delia. Arabel was sold to Pedro.”
John added, “We have two friends who came over with us who were trying to get to Burgos to rescue her. So here’s our plan: let’s try to find all three of them, travel together to Marksburg then return as one group to England.”
“We’re up against the clock again, I’m afraid,” Emily said. “We only have twenty days to get everyone back to England to catch our ride home.”
Garibaldi said, “Then we shall break camp at first light and proceed to Burgos with all haste.”
Garibaldi started to stand but winced and clutched his thigh.
�
�How’s that wound doing, Giuseppe?” John asked.
“It was fine, but now the reddening and the aching have returned.”
That man over there, Martin, is a doctor. King Henry had an infection. He made some medicine that helped him. Can I have him take a look at you?”
“Send him to my tent,” Garibaldi said. “An old man looks forward to his bed the way a young man looks forward to a woman.”
The campfire flared and sputtered when Simon tossed more dried wood upon it. Caravaggio had made it his personal mission to try to cheer up Tracy, declaring that nothing in Hell was worse than seeing a woman weep.
Earlier Tracy had insisted she didn’t have a clue who Caravaggio was. “I didn’t take art in school,” she had said.
“All right,” Tony had said, rolling his eyes, “but we’re talking about Caravaggio, for Christ’s sake!”
“Leave her alone,” Martin had scolded. “You’re such a snob. Not everyone knows who he is.”
“Well I’ve never met someone who doesn’t know him and adore him. This has made the whole Hell thing so much more tolerable. Can you imagine the bragging we’ll be able to do when we get back?”
“If we get back,” Martin had whispered directly into his ear.
“Tell me about these children of yours,” Caravaggio said to Tracy, pulling his trusty sketchpad from his shoulder bag.
“Well, Louis is such a smart little boy. He can …”
“No, not what they do, how they look. Give me every small detail and I will draw them for you so you can look upon their faces.”
“You can do that?” she asked, brightening.
“I can do.”
She described the two children in every detail. The shape of their faces, their noses, lips and cheeks, their eyes, ears and hair. Illuminated by the campfire, Caravaggio sketched a facial feature on a sheet of paper in charcoal, and when she approved, he reproduced it on a master sheet. Slowly but surely, the faces of her two children emerged, a boy and a girl nearly cheek-to-cheek. The whole time, Tony stood over his shoulder and watched the master at work. The architect had his arms tightly wrapped around his chest as if trying to prevent it from heaving. When Caravaggio was done he presented the sheet to Tracy who responded with tears of sorrow and joy. Her release of emotions was contagious and Tony joined in.
“It’s amazing,” Tony said.
“You like?” the artist asked.
“I can’t believe I’ve been able to watch Caravaggio, sorry, you, drawing. I feel like I’ve died and …”
“Sorry,” Caravaggio said. “Not heaven.”
Tony smiled. “Yeah, still. I do some sketching myself.”
“You are artist?”
“Not really. I’m an architect.”
“You make buildings.”
“Yes.”
Caravaggio passed him his pad and a piece of sharpened charcoal. “Show me a building you made.”
Tony blushed and took the materials. He sat on the ground with his back to the fire and began sketching one of the London skyscrapers he’d designed. It was a soaring tower with a bold curving façade and when he showed it to the great artist he praised it to the sky.
“Can I hug you?” Tony asked.
“Hug? You mean with arms?” Caravaggio said. “Yes.”
Martin emerged from Garibaldi’s tent just in time to see the men embracing.
“Excuse me?” Martin said.
Tony looked sheepish and released his hold. Martin beckoned Tony with a finger.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“He liked my sketch,” Tony said.
“Did you happen to notice that he’s seriously good-looking?” Martin said.
Tony feigned an expression of surprise. “Is he?” That defused Martin’s anger and Tony finished with, “Anyway, you smell better than him. How’s your patient?”
“He’s got a wound infection. We’ll make another batch of penicillin tea. I’m going to leave bread out to start it molding. What’s with them?” He pointed at Alice and Simon who were sitting close to one another by the fire.
“Romance is in the air,” Tony said.
Simon tossed another handful of dry wood into the fire and said, “So you’ve got a trade, then.”
Alice nodded. “As I said, I’m a qualified electrician.”
“Many women in your guild?”
“No, not too many. I wasn’t going to let that get in my way, was I? Much use for boilermakers here?”
“Not much. Only boilers I’ve seen are these small ones for the cars and I doubt there’s more than twenty of them in all of Europa.”
“Any need for electricians?” she asked.
“Well, not really. I mean we’ve got crude batteries for powering the telegraph but nothing else that I know of. I wish we had electric lights. It does get powerful dark in the night.” He paused for a while before saying, “Can I ask you something, Alice?”
“Go on then.”
“Back home, do you have, well, a man in your life? A husband? A gentleman friend?”
She shook her head. “I had a husband but divorced him, what, ten years back when I was thirty. I never remarried and I’ve been single ever since.”
“No gentlemen?”
She laughed. “No. The reason I’m laughing is some of my girlfriends were recently trying to get me to do something called Internet dating.”
Simon repeated the words as if they were from a foreign language.
“Don’t ask me to explain,” she said. “But it’s a way people get together nowadays.”
“Did you do this—what was it—infernal dating?”
“I did not. What do I need a man for anyway?”
“We’ve got some uses, I reckon.”
“A few, maybe. Do you like cats?”
“Like them well enough. Only the rich have them for mousing and ratting. Regular folks eat them.”
“Heavens! If I saw anyone trying to kill a cat I’d thump them good,” she said.
“You don’t see them about much but if I spot someone trying to do one harm I’ll join you in the enterprise.”
“Were you married?” she asked.
“I was not. I had a mind to at one point in my life but it never happened. Maybe if I hadn’t done what I did.”
“What did you do?”
“I’ll tell you, Alice, though I’m not proud of it. It was in 1901. I was thirty-six and full of piss and vinegar. When I drank I got boisterous as do many a man. I was in a tavern and another fellow, a man with whom I had some acquaintance, well, we got into it and one thing led to another. Fists were flying, then chairs, and I beaned him good with one that was unusually sturdy as chairs go and it did him in. I was arrested, tried, convicted, and the crown duly carried out the sentence. Death by hanging. And here am I, poor Simon Wright, boiler maker and Heller.”
“I never pictured Hell would have nice men like you,” she said.
He beamed. “You think I’m nice?”
“Yes. Yes I do.”
“And I don’t smell too bad. I’m told our lot has a peculiar odor. I did scrub myself the best I could before coming out to sit beside you and rubbed some wildflowers from the meadow over my person.”
She smiled back. “You know, I hardly notice it.”
Garibaldi limped out of the tent and found John and Emily sitting on a log by the fire.
“Your physician tells me my situation is not grave. He intends to brew me some medicinal tea. Thank you for making him available.”
“I’m glad it’s not serious,” John said. “Have a seat.”
Garibaldi lowered himself to the log.
John got his pack and told him they had something to give him.
“Do you?” the old man asked, intrigued.
“We figured out a way to bring you some useful items from the Earth.”
“You're going to like them,” Emily said.
“I can scarcely contain myself,” Garibaldi said.
John p
ulled them all out and said, “Books, Giuseppe. We brought you books.”
Garibaldi gasped and eagerly held out his arms to take the heavy stack to his chest where he held them like a baby.
“I have a very small library in Rome,” he said. “Each book is a treasure, written by hand from someone’s imperfect memory of a work known to them during life. I can scarcely believe I am about to see real books. Which ones did you choose, I wonder?”
“Have a look,” John said.
He carefully put the six books down on the dry ground and began examining them one by one.
He began with Steam Boilers, Engines and Turbines, moved to Blast Furnace Construction in America, Bessemer Steel, Ores and Methods then the one book which King Henry had not received, The Chemistry of Powder and Explosives by Tenney L. Davis.
Garibaldi looked up and said, “Do you have any idea how these books, when placed into the right hands, can change the face of our world? Change it for good. Or evil?”
“I think we do,” John said. “I need to tell you that we had to use five of them to get King Henry to free us and to give us a ship to get here.”
“Which one did he not receive?”
“The book on explosives.”
“Ah, good,” the old man said. “This one can do immediate harm in the wrong hands.”
Emily interjected, “But we gave the second copy to our friends to use for barter in Spain.”
“That is worrisome,” Garibaldi said. “Let us hope for the best. Let me look at the rest.”
He looked up from the copy of the Bible and gave them a wink. “You know, I was not a religious man but most men here are, or at least were so. It will have an intoxicating effect that I will be pleased to exploit to our greater purpose. And last?”
“The best for last,” John said.
Garibaldi’s eyes moistened when he saw The Complete Works of William Shakespeare in his hands. “Now you have truly made an old man happy. Come here, both of you, so that I may plant a kiss on your cheeks. I will retire to my tent but I will not sleep. I will be spending the night caressing this blessed book with my eyes.”
On the outskirts of Bilbao Prince Diego de Anera pointed out Queen Mécia’s palace in the center of the city, a yellow stone fortress with impressive fortifications. The queen, he explained, would be interested in their book and would pay handsomely to have an advantage over her husband, King Pedro.
