“Where are we?” Billings asked, patting himself down for his misplaced pocket watch.
“San Francisco, sir. Cap’n says we’ll be landing shortly.”
“Thank you, Mister…I’m sorry, but if I had your name I misplaced it somewhere.”
“Kenton, sir. And pleased to meet you, Mr. Billings.”
Billings rose and shook the man’s hand and nodded. The humanity of putting a name to a face abated momentarily the impression that all aboard the airship were cogs in the machinery.
Billings had not met, or at least been introduced to, a Captain of the Celerity, but on reflection he thought there must be one. If he were to write something, a quick interview might be helpful. That would have to come after, though, as the number of men Billings needed to speak with would occupy his time as secretary rather completely.
They hit the ground running. The landing was soft and effortless, with a thousand waterfront working-men eager to take a rope and get a closer look at this aerial marvel. Her iron under-carriage, her broad wooden beams with brass curlicues like a storybook pirate ship, and her name, Celerity, in the most elegant and commanding hand. Billings saw the ship’s magnificence reflected in the adoration of the crowd. But they disembarked and scrambled on rough plank walkways, through the stench of fish and men and horse dung and dust. Through spilling whiskey from sidewalk drunks and the rows of gold panners too long without a woman or a bath. Billings was grateful not only for the weighty sidearm lashed to his thigh, but for the steam engine that was Colt who cut through each crowd with insatiable purpose. Billings had been mistaken in assuming the list of men would take hours. Instead, as in Syracuse, a brief throng of black-suited and bowlered men appeared, were barked at, and dispensed with. Billings attempted to keep track of names, but found it impossible.
The hilly terrain made San Francisco feel, for the trotting secretary, as large as New York. Everywhere new industry, new mercantile, sprouted forth, with larger stone buildings replacing wooden structures or their charred remains as Billings mounted each fresh hill. He gathered that the city had burned some half-dozen times in the last five years, each fire costing hundreds of thousands of dollars but paying for newer, cleaner infrastructure. San Francisco was immolating itself into the future.
Eventually, racing to keep pace with Colt, they approached a very fine hotel, new, clean, and opulent. As they approached the broad white and cast-open doors, Billings took in marble, cut glass and crystal, brass gleaming from every lit chandelier, even though it was still daylight. But Colt strode right past the door, taking a sharp left down the alley behind.
The alley was tight, and Billings was careful not to scuff his shoulders on the new, sandy brick on both sides. He asked no question of Colt, but nervously kept a hand flirting with the butt of his revolver.
The sun didn’t reach here, and it was cool even that, although new, the alley was tinged with moss and some growing mould around the mortar. It was used as a urinal for the men departing from the hotel’s no-doubt-elegant salon, so the stench was as unpleasant as it was familiar. And there on the piss-soaked cobbles, his back to the alley and his face to the wall, lay the object of their diplomatic mission: A sleeping drunk. Colt lay out his hand in a flourish.
“Mr. Billings, may I introduce to you His Imperial Majesty Joshua Norton the First, Emperor of the United States of America and Protector of Mexico.”
FOURTEEN
Avery had made something of a study of sleep, having identified no less than fourteen varieties in his own experience. His current state gave him awareness of the street below; night traffic of horses and carousers, of discrete errands and stray dogs. Even so, he could feel completely refreshed after only a few hours of such remote observation. So it was nothing for him to become completely awake at the sound of steps beyond the door, and a hand on the doorknob in its effort to turn silently.
Avery sat up in bed, and considered lighting a lamp, but Eleanor’s flickering candle served sufficient in the small pension room. There was something out of the ordinary about her; the way she moved, the way she held herself. Her white shift was undone at the neck, revealing a slender throat, collarbone, and curve of a bare shoulder.
“Miss Eleanor?” He inquired. “Are you entirely all right?”
“You know,” she replied, a languor in her voice, “that I don’t even know your Christian name. Isn’t that odd? That we should live like this in each other’s pockets, and I don’t even know your name?”
“St. John,” Avery responded. “Sinjin.”
“Sinjin.” Eleanor repeated the name slowly, tasting it. “And do you know what else, Sinjin? I’ve been...thinking.
“I daresay, Miss Eleanor, you’re not entirely yourself at present.”
“Oh, but that’s just it. I don’t want to be.”
“Whyever not?”
“Well,” she approached the bed with an insidious smile, “I suppose I haven’t wanted to be for some time. Being a girl. Buying gloves. Waiting for the butcher’s boy to kiss me. Since before you found me I’ve not wanted that. I suspect you knew that.”
“I did.”
“I suspect you know. All. Sorts. Of things.” She sat on the bed, leaning towards him, her skin glowing in the candlelight.
“My dear girl, now please do listen carefully,” Avery ventured. “Your exposure this afternoon to the phenomenon of Madame Rossignol has excited your magnetism. This is predictable, and I daresay, common. You must resist it.”
“And you? Are you... resisting?”
“Of course, my child.”
“I am no child.”
Avery looked at nubile young woman on his bed, her hair down around her exposed shoulder.
“No. No, I see you are not. So I’ll not treat you like one.” With that, he reached forward between her breasts and snapped his fingers, pulling back sharply like tugging an invisible thread. The spell broken, Eleanor gasped and bolted upright, pulling her nightgown tight to her throat.
“There,” he continued. “Simple magnetism. You’ll find yourself again, I suspect.”
“I’m...indeed. I’m so terribly sorry.” She looked mortified.
“Don’t be. There’s nothing to be ashamed of, it’s entirely common to react to...” and with that, she leaned forward and kissed his mouth. He returned the kiss warmly.
“As I was saying,” he continued, as if nothing had occurred, “it is entirely normal for one to experience arousal in the period following proximity to certain magnetic events, such as mediumship.”
“Oh, honestly,” Eleanor sighed, exasperated, “I just kissed you!”
“So you did. But this is not how it is to be between us.”
She looked down, with the first stirrings of shame returning.
“Do you not find me attractive?”
“On the contrary. I would not have ventured to recruit you had I not found you so. I confess I find you exceedingly beautiful. In fact I should be inclined to marry you.”
“Sinjin!”
“Well, you are of an age, you are quite lovely, you have a quick wit and sharp mind, some talent, a temperament suitable to my own. In fact I could quite love you. You’d make me a perfect wife, if the truth be told. But we shall not marry.”
She thought about this for a moment and was pleasantly surprised that it did not upset her overly, although she still felt entitled to umbrage.
“And supposing I’d have you, why wouldn’t you marry me. Do you not care for women? Are you, what do they say, Uranian?”
“Gracious, no. You shall no doubt learn in time that my carnality is quite voracious but altogether conventionally inclined, and what they say about vicars and actresses is nothing if not understated. We’re a randy lot, if I may be so vulgar.”
“So what’s wrong with me, then?”
“Nothing. Altogether nothing wrong with you in the slightest. Should our compass be a degree to the left or right of our destination I would take you and now, and convention be damned.�
�
“But?”
“But I would do you no injustice. For I do find myself fond of you, and for all of my unorthodoxy, I am still your guardian, and determined to see you established.”
Eleanor stood.
“Very well then. I thank you for your forthrightness. There is another in your affections, and I shall not pursue the matter. But as hasty as you may find this, I have come to certain conclusions.” Where she had expected a waver in her own voice, there was none.
“Please, do share.”
“We are traveling incognito. And I do not wish to pretend to be your niece any longer. I shall be your wife, and Mrs. Avery to all who ask.”
“I see.”
“Further, we are to share a bed. This is France, and you must be the only priest in the country not to have a doxy or a housemaid hear him snoring.”
“I beg your pardon. I do not snore.”
“I slept with my sisters my whole life. Never had a bed to myself ‘til the day I met you, and I confess I find it both cold and lonely. And if our situation is to be, as you say, unorthodox, then I shall be as all here suspect me, in bed with you with my feet warm.”
Avery observed her in silence. He admired her strength and her dispense with convention. He conceded.
“As you wish.”
She gave a quick flash of a smile and blew out the candle, hopping into bed with a girlish jump. “Although,” he continued in the darkness, “while we are in France and while I comport myself as a Roman, you cannot travel as my wife. However,” as she inhaled to object, “when we are in territory amenable to married clergy, you shall be as you say Mrs. Whomever I happen to be at the time.” She seemed appeased.
“But this is on the condition that in certain circumstances it is favorable for our undertakings that you appear to be socially available. That means all manner of deception and intrigue, and I have no doubt that you are up to same. I trust that is satisfactory.”
“Yes, darling husband,” as she put her head on his chest. “Most satisfactory.”
He could not deny that the familiar sensation and scent of a woman in his bed bore with it a certain calm. It would be altogether too easy for him to allow himself sexual feelings towards the girl, but he banished the complicating thought from his mind, and he began to return to sleep.
After a moment, Eleanor spoke. “Sinjin?”
“Mmm?”
“Why me?”
“Mmm.”
“I mean, of all the girls in London, why did you pluck me from my life and drop me into this one?”
“Book.” He wasn’t going to wake up all the way for this.
“What book?”
“I saw you reading. At the booksellers. You didn’t just read it. I observed the way you fell into the book. Speaks of intelligence and imagination.”
“Anything else?” There was a pause, and she thought he’d fallen back asleep finally.
“Greek.”
“Oh, you like the Greek girls.”
“You can read and write Greek. Much of my work involves knowledge of Greek. Old manuscripts. And the Cyrillic alphabet will expedite your learning Russian.”
“I am to learn Russian, then?”
“Da.”
She felt the warmth of his body, and pressed her cold feet against his calves. He did not flinch.
“Good night, Sinjin.”
Avery was already more deeply asleep than he had intended.
FIFTEEN
Straw bales shattered into dust at the pummeling of Blake’s guns. Taking the course at a trot, he had learned to pivot the upper body of the mechanical so as to proceed forward while dispensing with targets left and right. Price kept the steam and the ammunition flowing, anticipating the exhaustion of the spinning barrel-guns and Blake’s need for throttle.
There was nothing to be done for the heat of the boilers, and a clandestine agreement had been reached between captain and sergeant that upon securing the lower hatch, both would disrobe to undershirts. Price had stowed two wooden hangers in the metal cabin, and the mechanicals swaying stride caused the jackets to dance about like puppets. Both knew it was a serious breach to be out of uniform, but decided that desperate measures were called for – several of the lieutenants had fainted from heat exhaustion in the first weeks of exercise, leaving their iron giants to wander somnambulant yet determined into the hills and barrows of the grounds. The men had joked they looked more like prize fighters than the cream of British soldiery.
Price increased the throttle. Blake was getting a good stride in now, just before the point at which the mechanical would begin to hop, when both its feet would be off the ground. This made a hellacious racket, and generally made the thing much harder to steer, let alone aim. But at this pace, Blake could keep on eye on the gravel track and another on the upcoming targets, splashed with red or blue paint depending on the hits required. Blake loosed another volley, and the bale disintegrated under the onslaught of lead and power.
“Throttle down!” yelled Blake, for above the track’s rise he saw a glint of iron, then another, and another behind. A marching rank of mechanicals, these shorter than his Hussar, yet with longer, squatting iron legs. As Blake brought his machine to a saunter, he could discern these others had tails, of a sort, like a kangaroo. Upon closer inspection these were not tails but trailing brackets, hauling enormously long wheeled cannon.
“Dragoons!” shouted Price. “The Brigade assembled at last. We’ll be shipping out soon, I suspect, Captain.”
Blake took his hands meditatively off the controls for a heartbeat. He often did this to ensure that the gyre was properly aligned, and had begun to think of it as a metaphor for his own orientation and stability.
“Best get our kit back on, Sergeant. I expect there’s news back at barracks.”
“Right you are then, sir.”
Blake reversed their course through the scattered debris of the targets, seeing deep, scorched wounds in the earth behind the shambles of straw. It could no longer be determined if they had originally been marked with red paint, or blue – just a golden haze over a hundred little graves of shot, buried deep in the soil.
---
The had recomposed themselves before descending the stammering ladder, which alway felt cheap and flimsy to Blake in contrast with solidity of his mount. Motionless, venting the last of its steam, it seemed utterly incapable of movement, with merely a great cracking and pinging of cooling metal to belie its status as anything other than grotesque sculpture, or perhaps some unlivable architecture.
Landau was at the ready, with silver tray and pitcher of water. This time to he carried a packet of letters – mostly telegraph flimsies – and an unpressed copy of the Times.
“Sir.” He nodded curtly in lieu of salute, given his burdens.
“Landau.”
“There is news, sir. From...well, from everywhere, sir.” The corporal was agitated.
“It’s not news if it’s expected, my good man. So, it’s war, is it?”
“So I understand, sir. The Frenchies too, just this morning.”
Blake paused. “That can hardly be in the Times, Corporal.”
“No sir. At least I don’t think so, sir. Rumours abound, and all the batsmen with flimsies, sir...”
“Are you telling me, Corporal, that the men have been reading the telegrams?”
“Well, no, sir. ‘Cept those that have to. For taking them down, if you see, sir.”
“I’ll not have it, Landau. Don’t let me catch you contemplating such a thing. It’s not good for morale to have the men know what’s going on before their commanding officers can explain it to them,” he chastised.
“Never, sir.”
“Good man. Price!” Blake was trying to master his haste by finishing his water before attending to the business of the letters and, of course, the paper. Price extracted himself from a small gang of zouaves to which he’d been giving orders, and jogged towards his Captain. He gave rigid attention and an equal
ly stern salute.
“Sir!”
“See to it that the mechanical is properly watered and stoked. Don’t let them touch the gyre, she’s in good form today.”
“Very good, sir. Will that be all?”
“I may require an additional hand with my dispatches, given the volume and circumstances,” he told Price. “Meet me in my quarters after you’ve dispensed with the French.”
“Sir?” suggested Landau. “I can help you with that. The dispatches, I mean. Sergeant Price will have his hands full seeing to the men, I suspect.”
Blake raised an eyebrow at this breach.
“Are you well-lettered, Corporal?”
“Aye, sir. Oxford. Three years.”
“How extraordinary!” Blake was impressed.
“Sir,” interjected Price, “Corporal Landau is right, sir. The men will be cluckin’ like a henhouse with gossip and nonsense. They’ll need a good going over.”
“Quite right, Sergeant, quite right. Well then, Landau, you’re quite the mystery! Oxford! You’ll have to tell me all about it once we’re clear of our missives. Right, off you go.”
Price and Landau answered in unison. “Certainly, sir.” Price shot Landau a furrowed brow, and Landau tried not to let escape a hint of grin.
An hour later in Blake’s quarters, Landau proved a most capable secretary, not just taking dictation at a rapid pace but also suggesting more diplomatic terms. It was indeed war. Cardigan was to be given the entire Light Brigade–Highlanders, rifles, Hussars and all–under the general command of Lord Raglan.
War meant allowances to be made for some of the men, accommodations for some (but not all) of the wives, based on reputation and Landau’s invaluable insights. There was the matter too of Blake’s own affairs. He had had his interests and documents moved to his club in London, a member there being a most capable solicitor, and settled any issues of estate. But there was all rather a great deal of seeing-to, and Blake was grateful for the young corporal’s tireless efforts. Despite these, fatigue was setting in.
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