Mechanicals

by Jordan Stratford

Billings looked away from the departure activity and returned to the desert. The woman was gone. For whatever reason, this left him with a subtle yet intractable sadness.

  ELEVEN

  Avery’s heels clicked alongside his walking stick on the marble floor of the sanctuary where Eleanor sat alone. A chair, she thought. How odd to be sitting in a chair, in church. Her own Greek Orthodox church in London had black wooden pews, and where she had seen weddings of friends or the sisters of friends in Anglican churches¸ these too had pews, with red velvet kneelers, or stout oak benches–but never chairs. Avery sat beside her in respectful silence.

  “I’m so embarrassed,” whispered Eleanor.

  “Don’t be, child. Many people, when they encounter...phenomena, for the first time...”

  “Oh, not that. Not the her-turning-into-him bit, that’s fine.”

  Avery was startled. “It’s fine?”

  “Yes, actually, makes perfect sense, really. What’s a person but a bunch of things? Ideas and gestures and the like? It just follows that somebody would be able to sort out putting those bits from one person to another, eventually.”

  “That’s...” Avery was completely taken aback. “Astute.” He composed himself. “So what is it that troubles you?”

  “The war. Well, not that there is one, which I’m sure must be terrible. But it’s just that, y’see, I don’t know anything about it. And somehow I feel expected to do something. About it.”

  “That, sweet Eleanor, is a simple thing enough for fixing. Never apologize for not knowing. Only regret not wishing to know.”

  “You are kind, sir. Reverend. Uncle. I’m never sure what to call you.”

  “The war,” Avery began, “is between Russia and Turkey.”

  “So we’re off to fight Turks, then, like in the Crusades?”“No, no,” he replied. “Britain is on the threshold of war with Russia, to aid the Turks.”

  She was astonished. “But Russia is a Christian nation!”

  “Yes, and one on the doorstep of Afghanistan, and India.”

  “But, surely, Turkey...”

  “Turkey has served as a check to Russian power. And if our access to materials in India is threatened, so too is British Industry. That of course, is the actual reason. But there is a more easily tangible reason, that of the Holy Places.”

  “Holy Places in Turkey,” Eleanor ventured.

  “No, no. In the Holy Land. Jerusalem.” He changed tack. “There are in this story a Tsar, a Sultan, and an Emperor. The Sultan has possession of the properties most sacred to Christian tradition. By right, it is the Catholics–represented by the Emperor–to care for them. In reality, it is the Orthodox–represented by the Tsar–who do so. The Tsar presses the Sultan for their care in name as well as in deed, and this offends the Emperor on principle.”

  “Gracious,” contributed Eleanor, unsure of what else to say.

  “Indeed. So the Sultan sought to appease the Emperor by sending France a key the Church of the Nativity.”

  “So that’s that, then?”

  “Not quite. To appease Russia, the Sultan informed the Tsar that the key did not fit the lock.”

  “The cheek!” Eleanor cried.

  Hushing her, Avery continued. “The Russians then demanded concessions of the Sultan, which rather got his ginger up. This bolstered the French, and in retaliation Russia invaded the Ottoman Empire.”

  “And hence, war between France and Russia, I understand. But why England?”

  “Because France has no hope of containing Russia on its own. Because Waterloo was forty years ago and that’s a long time for the Lords of the Army to dine on a story. Because the French have no ambitions in India.”

  “Do the Russians?”

  “I have no idea. But the die is cast, and we are with the French for the protection of the Ottoman Empire; for England and St. George.”

  Eleanor looked down at the cool, grey floor, suddenly aware of how their voices carried. Quietly, she said, “It all seems rather silly, honestly.”

  “Silly?” Avery responded. “It’s far worse than silly. Good men will be torn limb from limb, and not just with sabres and horses. Scattershot. Guns on chains and in barrels that can slaughter a regiment in seconds. Clanking mechanicals that will turn green hills into charnel houses. It is not silly. It is horror.”

  Her gaze was unmoved from the floor. “And are we meant to stop it?”

  “There is no stopping it, and it is not our mission to fight it. Our task is to ameliorate it, or to see what opportunistic forces arise to exploit it, and to stop them.”

  She met his face. “What forces?”

  Avery sighed. “There are crueler and more cunning things in the world than armies and mechanical men. Things of dark places, and darker intent. It is for this battle that you have been recruited.”

  “And your Russian friend? That Mr. Hugo mentioned?”

  “Ah,” paused Avery. “His is an unusual case. While technically a member of our Order, he has exhibited, shall we say, independent priorities. Much is unearthed at turbulent times such as these, and his inclination is to profit from them personally, despite whatever complications may arise from doing so. I should say no more, save that these are evil days for good men, and good days for evil men.”

  They sat in silence together, the simple truth hanging about them in the cool air of St. Sulspice.

  “Do you know what this is?” He pointed to the brass track inset into the floor Eleanor had noticed earlier. She shook her head.

  “It’s a clock, of sorts. On the shortest day of the year, just before Christmas, the sun rises through that small window,” he twisted around, “there, and runs along this line on that white column, the obelisk. At noon on the equinoxes, spring and autumn, it lights up a plate by the altar. The whole thing is called a gnomon, from whence we get the word knowing.”

  “Seems like Druids,” Eleanor said.

  “Druids!” Avery laughed. “Indeed. Indeed. But after the spring equinox, we look to the moon, and its fullness heralds Easter. When you asked me before, if I were a real vicar...I am a priest of this. You have heard that God created the world and set it in motion, but I tell you that God is the very act of creation, and motion itself. This,” indicating the church, the gnomon, the air between them, “is what I am destined to serve. And you too, if I’m not mistaken, although that is for you alone to determine. But this war, and the one after it, will end as all such wars do. My task is to keep the lanterns intact, that the may be relit in time, and to keep darkness to the shadows. In this act you may find your own calling.”

  She glanced at him and looked away, uncertain.

  TWELVE

  Spring took hold in England, a welcome green in the wake of shorter-than-expected grey. Blake settled into the peculiarities of regimental life. He had refrained from inspecting the men under his command until he had felt some mastery over the mechanical. He was confident that Landau would communicate his reputation to the men, under the charge of Sergeants Kendrick and Price.

  Blake’s inspection was without incident, and wondered if would have been more prudent to find something to complain about. But each uniform was spotless, the drills performed in no way on which he could improve, the horses groomed. Whatever they had been months or years before, drawn from the alehouses and markets and orphanages of the realm, they were now Englishmen, soldiers all, fed by the Queen’s purse, and grateful.

  He admired them in their obvious capacity to adapt. As a gentleman, he had experienced no opportunity to abandon what he was, or anyone’s expectations, and transform into something altogether different. He had earned his station bloody and bawling between his mother’s legs, and earned his commission by the (timely) death of an unmet man temporarily wedded to her half-sister. His life was a train, laid out on a track, his only control a throttle; whereas the men were true horsemen, with all the horizon theirs.

  Or had been, he supposed. Now as men of the Eleventh, they were as affixed to their course a
s was he. But still. They were granted a choice to make, whereas his choice was made by an accident of birth.

  He had little contact with the men, despite not having a lieutenant. When Price was not behind Blake in the mechanical, he was with the day-to-day issues of leave, procurement, discipline, quarters. Blake’s only contribution was met with initial disaster; this was his insistence that the men drill the horses alongside the mechanicals.

  His orders were to have the men at parade, controlling their animals, and merely introduce a single mechanical into the grounds from the yard. Regrettably, as soon as Blake’s clanking iron giant loomed into view, one less experienced rider let his mount rear, tossing the man off the saddle and dashing his head on a rock. At this the other horses, along with their riders, panicked, and another rider was thrown, although this time with no worse fate than a broke shoulder. Regardless, Blake had bloodied himself in battle, even though it was thousands of miles from the enemy. This weighed on him heavily, and he became reclusive, withdrawing himself from evening mess and eating in his room.

  Mess was the only activity undertaken by the officers with any vitality. They seemed content, throughout the day, to prattle on about nothing, or possibly read the paper. Most napped or smoked. It was an utterly lethargic existence aside from nightly entertainment at Lord Cardigan’s table. There the young gallants generally drank themselves sick and told the bawdiest of jokes, or repeating the opinions of Cardigan with a sycophantic vapidity. Blake was grateful to give the entire affair a berth, if only for a few days, as his opinion of the Colonel had not improved. Cardigan had done nothing wrong, said nothing of consequence either way, yet Blake still felt spiritually repelled by the man.

  The officer’s lounge was located opposite the marshaling square, and came out to a veranda on the other side. In a rattan chair beneath the afternoon sun, Blake retreated to the pages of a book of verse:

  Fortune! take back these cultured lands,

  Take back this name of splendid sound!

  I hate the touch of servile hands,

  I hate the slaves that cringe around.

  Place me among the rocks I love,

  Which sound to Ocean's wildest roar;

  All went sailing as the toe of a black boot sent the volume into the air. Blake nearly cocked a fist at the rudeness of such an insult, but stood to meet the ginger coils of Cardigan’s moustache twitching angrily.

  “What will you do, sir, that you insult me so?” roared Cardigan. “You would bring such ninny-headed miasm into my very house? My very regiment?” Cardigan was beside himself with rage.

  Blake stood, his heart racing, offended and confused.

  “With apologies, Colonel. But I am at a loss as to in what way I could possibly have offended...”

  “In what way? In what way? Blazes, you addle-pated bum-bugger! You read the filth of that miscreant, in my house?”

  This was still making no sense whatsoever to Blake. He spied the book on the tiled floor of the veranda.

  “Byron, sir?”

  “I’ll give not a flatch for it. And no gentleman would bring it into my house!” Cardigan was livid.

  “Surely, Colonel, you can’t possibly...”

  “I can and I do, and I do as I will! And I’ll have no more of your blue-bellied pederasty while you’re an officer or an Englishman. Burn that book!”

  “I say...”

  “You say nothing! Nothing at all, sir! Burn that book, or you’ll stand with Reynolds under arrest!”

  Lieutenant Dunn had popped his head around to see what the commotion was about, but retreated at Cardigan’s tirade.

  “Arrest? May I ask, Colonel,” tried Blake calmly, “why Captain Reynolds is under arrest?”

  “You may not. Now you’ll do as I bloody say, Captain, or I’ll have you for insubordination!”

  Blake saluted. “I’ll see to it at once, Colonel.”

  “Lord Cardigan, Captain. I am your Lord!”

  “Yes, Lord Cardigan. I’ll see to the book, m’lord.”

  Cardigan was vaguely appeased. “You see that you do.” And with a hmmph! he bolted off to his quarters.

  Trying to control his temper, and vibrating from adrenaline, Blake looked to see Landau appear smartly before him.

  “Shall I see to the book then, sir?” Landau offered.

  “Yes. I suppose so. Thank you, that’s a good man.” After Landau stooped to retrieve the volume, Blake added, “Do you know why Captain Reynolds is under arrest?”

  Landau was hesitant. “The men, sir. We’re not to speak of it. Best be asking one of the officers. I’m sorry, sir.”

  “No no, quite right. You...you see to that, I expect the Colonel will be following up on that particular...request.”

  “Very good, sir.” And Landau was off. Leaving Dunn, skulking around the corner with a sympathetic expression.

  “All right, Captain?”

  Dunn was barely more than a boy, and spoke with an accent Blake couldn’t identify. But in this he was a comrade, and so Blake inquired.

  “Lieutenant! Why in blazes is Reynolds under arrest? What’s he done wrong?”

  “Mess. Last night. The Colonel ordered champagne only to be served.”

  “All right.” Blake was still at sea.

  “Captain Reynolds got his man to bring him a bottle of Moselle. Left it on the table, you see.”

  “But Moselle is champagne, I can’t see...”

  “The Colonel insisted that it was porter, black bottle and all, and that Reynolds was disobeying orders deliberately as an act of insubordination.”

  “Good heavens.”

  “Reynolds rebutted that he was not drinking porter, but champagne, as the Colonel had requested. Showed him the ruddy stuff in the glass. The Colonel would have none of it, called him a liar. So he placed Reynolds under arrest.”

  “What madness! You can’t arrest a man for that! And a gentleman! An officer!”

  “Our Lord Cardigan can and generally does as he pleases, convention and station be damned. He’s taken up half the officer’s wives, just to break them in, he says.”

  “Lieutenant!” Blake was scandalized. “I’ll not have such talk. He is still your–our–commanding officer.”

  Dunn stiffened. “Quite right, Captain. Apologies, sir.”

  “All right, all right.” Blake softened. “We’re all a bit rattled by this kerfuffle. Still, one could venture that the Colonel has a mercurial temperament.”

  “Mercurial, irascible.” Offered Dunn. “Tempestuous? Volatile?”

  Dunn’s humour was precisely what Blake needed, and he exhaled deeply.

  “Good God, man. I do find myself at wit’s end. Reynolds need anything?”

  “He’s arrested from duty, but he has the run of the place. You could find him easily enough and ask him. Good of you to ask, though, Captain.”

  “I say, Lieutenant, where the devil are you from? I cannot for the life of me place that accent of yours.”

  “Mine, sir? I thought you were the one with the accent. As for me, I’m from Toronto, sir.”

  “Canada! You’re a damnably long way from home, I say!”

  “So shall we all, soon enough. Have you seen the Times? Fleet’s already in the Bosphorus, and Parliament’s a week from war. I daresay it’ll give the Colonel something else to think about other than poets and black bottles!”

  THIRTEEN

  The Rockies had slowed the Celerity somewhat, but failed to overthrow the breakneck gains from Syracuse to Nebraska. Even at a reduced forty knots, they had made some eight hundred miles by breakfast, and the wind was again cooperating. They were Mercury himself on a mission of the gods, and the Pacific seemed to pull the airship to the coast like a desperate lover.

  Billings had spent much of the night awake, transcribing notes, making observations about the ship, and asking obscure bits of information from the reluctant and always hurried crew. He tried to romanticize the journey, but honestly felt above every threat, every obstacle.
No tempest descended, no indigenous horde fired arrows into the sky, no mountains of gold glimmered beneath them.

  Gold. That would make the story. San Francisco was gold-mad, and since joining the Union after the brief Mexican war, the population had ballooned from an outpost of scarcely a thousand to a busy port to rival the great towns of New York, except Albany and his beloved City itself. How distant he found himself from his departure from his home of half a million people, and a world in which it took a day and then some to travel to Rochester. Within a week he discovered he inhabited a different age, one in which the Atlantic and Pacific were the underside of three days from one another. And nowhere to land on the other side of that journey but San Francisco, where the populace was about to inherit the benefit of Colt’s bounty.

  Frontiers need goods, and guns, and workers. Colt was able to create a torrent of these in ways the railroads had yet to begun to try. And all that gold, scratched from the dry hills, needed markets. Having seen the vast cargo bay, greater than any train station or dockside warehouse Billings had ever laid eyes on, he imagined it overrun with gold. Gold for more airships, more guns, more settlers, and ultimately, more gold. In Billings’ imagination, the enterprise turned into a serpent consuming its own tail, and was momentarily repulsed by it.

  He slept briefly, and dreamt of a woman with golden skin and warm brown eyes, her half-smile and welcoming silence the voice of the desert itself.

  He was awakened to coffee and summons by Colt, who rattled off notes and names and memoranda while expecting Billings to not only keep pace but have some semblance of clue as to what he was talking about.

  "Gardenias, Mr. Colt." Billings offered.

  “What’s that?”

  “The other day, in the train from Rochester. You asked me to remind you of gardenias. So I’m reminding you.”

  “Well, not now, son, what the hell has that got to do with anything?”

  Billings let it go. “Wouldn’t pretend to know, sir.”

  He spent the rest of the morning trying to extract some kind of calendar for Colt, out of the mentions from his meeting. His cabin was a disaster of notepaper, sketches, maps he’d commandeered from the library, and guesses (with constant correction from the crew) as to where he’d been and when. As he felt he was untangling the knot of it, there was a rap on the door; the Negro porter with a stack of telegrams that Colt had neglected to forward until now, which set Billings’ entire system in disarray.