Mechanicals

by Jordan Stratford

  “Fetch us a private, will you?” asked Blake, picking up a crystal glass from the sideboard.

  “Sir? May I ask as to what purpose, sir?”

  “I want to speak with you, and I think we should get the good scotch for that.”

  “I’ll fetch it m’self then, sir. Don’t want the privates knowing where I hide the good stuff, if it’s all the same. Won’t be a minute, sir.”

  “Good lad,” and he gestured to the door with an empty glass.

  Landau was back in a moment with a dark, heavy bottle.

  “Sir,” he said on entry, out of habit.

  “Find yourself a glass, Landau, I’ll not need a fresh one. But I’m damnably curious, war and all, about this story of yours. Oxford, you say?”

  “Yes, sir. Theology, sir. I was going to be clergy, sir.”

  “Third son?” Blake asked?

  “I’m sorry, sir?”

  “How it goes, does it not? First to the land, second to law or medicine, third to the cloth, or the army.”

  “Nothing like that, sir. Always had the calling, sir.”

  “Good heavens. And whatever happened?”

  “My parish, sir. I’m Catholic, y’see. I don’t come from much. The parish was footing the bill for my time at studies. We’re a small church. Yorkshire. But our main benefactor, a widower, he remarried. A Protestant, sir, and she put an end to it. So I enlisted, sir.”

  “I’m astonished, man, that there are no provisions for this sort of thing. One imagines the papacy as overflowing with gold for just such a contingency.”

  “That doesn’t appear to be the case, sir. So as you can see, I signed up as a private soldier, and made corporal in my time, with no complaint, sir.”

  “Extraordinary! Landau, I knew I was lucky to have you. And an educated man, with no airs about him–I’ll not hold it against you that you’re a papist, I’ll not stand for such meanness–you’re a treasure, and I value your service.” At this he raised his glass.

  Landau was at a loss, so he raised his glass and drank. It was sweet, with notes of crushed apple and spice, but no peat or smoke to it. More like perfume than the dark, rich whiskeys he’d known. He didn’t know why, but that thought stuck with him.

  “Anyway,” Blake carried on, “war means change, and change means opportunity. I’d not be surprised to see a sergeant’s chevrons on your sleeve when we’ve given the Russians what-for.”

  “Thank you, sir. Good of you to say.”

  “Nonsense. Well, we’d best be make ourselves presentable, I’m going to break the news to the men. Officially, I mean.”

  “Very good, sir.” Landau helped Blake with his jacket, “Oh, and I’ve taken the liberty of ordering you more undershirts, sir.” Blake was momentarily puzzled. “Oh, just, the engine grease, sir. Just thought I’d see to it, sir.”

  “Ah,” Blake offered. “You’ll deal with this discretely, I presume?”

  “Not my place to do otherwise, sir. Must be damnably hot in there.”

  “We’ll speak no more of this, Landau. But your discretion and attention are much appreciated, as usual.”

  “Sir.”

  “Right, well then. We’d best see to the men.”

  Twenty minutes later, Price had Blake’s men assembled. Price wailed for their attention, and Blake was, not for the first time, proud of them. Not a foot-dragger amongst them.

  “Hussars!” Blake began. “As you are no doubt aware, war is upon us. France is with us. It is in the interest of England and Her Majesty that Turkey not fall to Russia. We ride a great distance of some near two thousand miles, and we aim to tame the bear and make her dance in the circus!”

  At this the men laughed freely. Blake was pleased he was reaching them, and raised a hand for silence.

  “Our mission is not without peril, and some of our comrades here assembled shall not return. Provisions will be made for your wives or mothers. No matter the individual outcome, we shall prevail, and our courage shall never fail us.

  “We do not as yet have orders to set sail, so we shall take what time we have to double the drills with the horses. Alongside the mechanicals.”

  Each man froze, reluctant to blink or swallow, lest it betray their obvious feelings on the matter.

  “The army,” Blake continued, “is scientifically convinced that the combination of cavalry and mechanicals can break any line the Tsar can form up against us. I personally take this as a certainty. This means our training must remain impeccable and our will steadfast. A challenge for any horseman, yes. But I remind you that you are not any horsemen, you are Hussars. Of the Eleventh!”

  The men cheered. His part was done, and Price ordered the salute, which was flawless to a man. He new that his sergeant would attend to the myriad details, complaints, insufficiencies, and mercifully shield him from same. His burden was to bear the inevitable return of Cardigan to camp, and suffer whatever irrational tantrum the man no doubt had in store for his officers. With unhappy thought in mind, he returned to his quarters.

  SIXTEEN

  Billings sat on the creaking cot while the horrid splash of Norton’s vomit slopped on the floorboards. He had offered assistance, but Colt had intervened–somehow Billing’s shoes were unworthy of spatter from the former stomach contents of the Emperor of America. There was a knock on the narrow door, and as Colt had his hands busy holding Norton’s hat, Billings answered. He was met by a stout aproned woman with a breakfast tray.

  “His Majesty’s breakfast. And you can tell him if he thinks I’ll be mopping up his puke again he’s got another think coming.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. And, uh, I’m certain that if there are any additional expenses incurred, Mr. Colt will be glad to cover them.”

  “See that he does. He might want to catch up on three weeks rent, while he’s at it, or it’s out the back door again for the Emperor.”

  “Consider it done, I’m sure” Billings said, taking the tray.

  “I’ll consider it done when it’s done. And if you want my advice, you won’t loan that sot the nickel you’ll never see again.”

  “Thank you, again,” replied Billings, closing the door with his foot and setting the tray on the bed.

  Billings had spent the night back in his cabin on the Celerity, putting the finishing touches on his story. God knows where Colt slept, as it wasn’t on board and it couldn’t have been in this shabby rooming house. It was small, cramped, fog-damp and stained. The bed-frame was rusted out, the floorboards bare and seemed to have been repurposed from a previous structure.

  Colt attended to Norton with basin and washcloth, and Norton seemed grateful for coffee, although he was not quite ready to face the prospect of egg and beans.

  Norton went through the first cup, shakily poured himself another, and threw it back. Then he rubbed his face for what must have been a full minute, finally turning to Billings.

  “Who’re you?”

  Colt interjected. “This is my man, Billings. He’s here to take your dispatches.”

  “And may I inquire as to whom I will be dispatching?”

  “The Tsar of Russia, Your Majesty.”

  “The Tsar, eh? Good friend of mine. I’ve got a letter from him aroun’ here, somewhere.” He waved aimlessly at the near-empty room. “Practically cousins.” With that, he belched foully, and reached for more coffee.

  “‘Course,” he continued, “I have a household to maintain. Overhead. You’re a man of business, Mister... uh...”

  “Colt, sir. Samuel Colt. We met last evening.”

  “So we did. All this comin’ and goin’ gets a man befuddled. I’m in high demand around here. Anyway, ‘course you are. A man of business.”

  “I’ve seen to your accounts here, Emperor Norton,” Colt added. “As a courtesy.”

  “That’s mighty accommodating of you, Colt. I’m much obliged. Allow me to repay you in scrip.”

  “Oh that won’t be necessary...”

  “The Emperor of the United States s
ettles his accounts,” Norton insisted. “And I won’t let it be said otherwise. Let me just find a pen and paper an’ I’ll write you up some money. Good in any watering hole in the city, you’ll see, good as silver.”

  “Perhaps after we’ve concluded our business...” tried Colt.

  “And what business might that be, Mr. Colt?” Norton was lost.

  “A dispatch. To the Tsar of Russia.”

  “You have it exactly, sir. Tsar of Russia. Looks forward to hearing from me, or so he says and says often. What exactly will we be dispatchin’ to the Tsar?”

  “Oh, I thought, something along the lines of, and Mr. Billings if you’ll take this down; ‘From His Imperial Majesty Joshua Norton I, Emperor of the United States of America and Protector of Mexico; to our cousin Nicholas I the Tsar of Russia; greetings.

  ‘May I present to you Mr. Samuel Colt &co., my envoy and agent in these dealings, concerning the supply of arms of the highest quality. Mr. Colt has in his possession some five thousand repeating rifles...”

  Norton whistled at this number.

  “...to be offered at an initial rate of only $20 per each, for a total of $100,000 payable upon delivery and in gold...”

  Norton coughed dramatically.

  “‘...the discount being a courtesy offered in the nature of our fraternal affection. May God bless you and keep you, etc.’ You have that, Billings?”

  Billings, still writing furiously, replied “I have, sir. Shall I read it back?”

  “No no, I’m sure that’s the gist of it. Now will you sign it, Norton?”

  The Emperor had turned to his breakfast, now cold, and evidenced this by sporting a portion of beans in his moustache.

  “Signing?”

  “For God’s sake, man, sign the damn paper. I have ten dollars, and your room’s paid up to the end of the week. Sign.”

  Cowed, Norton took the pen from Billings and left a remarkably elegant signature, with flourish. Billings surmised that it was by this random talent alone the man wasn’t dead and bootless in a gutter somewhere.

  Colt took the letter and inspected it. He didn’t look up, but tossed the silver dollars on the bed. “We’re off.” And he took to the doorway in two long steps, with Billings close behind.

  “Mr. Colt?” Billings asked.

  “Are you about to ask me who the hell that was?” They took the narrow stairs with some speed.

  “In some combination of those exact same words, yes.”

  “That,” said Billings, as they crossed the lobby and entered the grey California drizzle, “was some random drunk in a flophouse. Thing is, this random drunk decided to proclaim himself the Emperor. A few of the local establishments took him on as a kind of mascot, or some foolishness. He’s writing his own money and they’re taking it as local colour. Before you know it he’s writing to the Queen of England–and she’s writing him back. So he sends his letters, and the Queen’s letters, to the President and the Emperor of France and God knows who else, all who add to the bullshit pile out of fear that something happened they don’t know about. So here he is. And here we are, bowing and scraping while he pukes on our shoes, just so we can get safe conduct to Russian America.”

  They walked in silence a few steps, Colt clearly fuming.

  “Damn fine signature, though, Mr. Colt.”

  Colt said nothing, pounding the silvering boards of San Francisco with his boot-heels.

  SEVENTEEN

  Spring had declined St. Petersburg’s invitation to arrive early, so the city squatted under a blanket of bitter snow and sparkling hoarfrost. The sun, barely discernible behind a cloak of sooty clouds, deigned to venture an inch from the horizon for a few hours before seeming to give up on the effort of day entirely and going back to bed.

  Still, as Celeste stood on the ornate balcony overlooking the bridge, she could appreciate the beauty of the place. Broad bridges over the frozen river, classical architecture and gilded domes, and pedestrians as stylishly attired as those in any capital of Europe. The Russian people were simply not going to allow the crushing climate to quell their ambition or their desire for progress.

  The rail lines, with accompanying telegraph poles and wires, were kept clear of the snow by an unceasing army of men in black fur hats and grey, woolen coats. The age of steam and commerce could not simply be frozen over.

  A clock in a distant tower chimed. She had some hours to prepare before the others arrived, and with luck Helena at the advance of the column. There was work to be done. She turned and opened the double doors to the balcony, the weighted red velvet curtains refusing to yield to the wind.

  Entering the perfectly square, white marbled room, she let the warmth of the brazier thaw her hands and cheeks before removing the furred cloak. The chamber’s paneled walls and high ceiling had been painted white, and the whole had formed a perfect cube. Remarkably, the sconces and medieval braziers managed to warm the air, while steam pipes beneath the marble floor drove away any chill. While sparse, it was a place of rare comfort. Celeste’s boots clicked against the tile as she stepped towards her trunk against the wall opposite. Upright, it swung open like a closet, and she removed her heavy cloak.

  Her woolen greatcoat was chestnut, and to a military cut, double breasted with brass buttons, bound with a broad belt of chocolate leather. These she removed and hung on one side of her trunk, and began unbuttoning her blouse. Thence to her skirts, loosening corset stays, so that in short order she stood completely naked, her feet warming themselves on the heated floor.

  From the trunk’s chest of drawers she extracted a small vial of oil, and with it she anointed herself before slipping on a white linen robe with generous sleeves. This she belted with a simple cord, and around her shoulders she placed a roquelaure, a short cloak of fine red wool. Lastly, she donned a black leather mask – symbolic rather than functional, as all in attendance would know her identity; at least the one she had provided to St. Petersburg.

  Setting her hanging clothes aside, she reached along the inner seam of the trunk’s lining. Finding the hidden spring by touch, she pressed it firmly and was rewarded with a reassuring click. The hinged panel swung towards her, revealing the treasure: a sword in a brown leather scabbard. The sword’s pommel was a disc, bearing the image of two mounted knights on a single horse. Though ancient, the sword was sharp, oiled, and still deadly in Celeste’s capable hands. She girded herself with the sword’s belt, feeling its comforting weight against her hip, savoring the creak of leather in the empty room.

  She tidied the trunk’s contents, closed and clasped it, and pulled the bell rope at the door. She withdrew to the double doors opposite and their heavy crimson curtains.

  Moments later, the door opened, and a masked man dressed identically to her in white and red bowed smartly and removed the trunk with some effort. He closed the door behind him, leaving her to prepare the room.

  Standing in the center of the chamber, she drew a forefinger to her lips in an antique gesture, and inscribed geometries in the air. The movement and extension was a dance to her, stretching muscles that had tensed against the cold, reminding her body of its suppleness, occupying the space with perfectly executed patterns which shone in her mind’s eye.

  There was a knock at the door; a specific and familiar rhythm. Calmly, she drew her sword, rapped upon the white door with the pommel, and stood back. After a moment, the door opened, and another identically robed figure entered. Upon recognition, Celeste expertly sheathed her blade and rushed to embrace her companion.

  “Helena!” Celeste cried, kissing the young woman upon both cheeks. Her embrace was returned.

  Helena’s eyes shone behind her black leather mask. The woman held each other’s hands.

  “It is most lovely to see you, my dear, dear Celeste. And you honour us here in our humble Temple.”

  “Enough of that. I do so wish that may spend time together now that you are finally here. In fact I do insist on it, not as your superior, but as your friend.”


  “Of course, sweet Celeste! I have only just arrived, and have many things to attend to before I return. But I shall make time, for we have much to discuss.”

  “Return? Where on earth are you off to?” Celeste inquired.

  “India, although the Teacher has asked me to return first to London. My work is there for the foreseeable future. In fact I hope to well clear of St. Petersburg before my husband’s family realizes I am here.”

  Celeste’s eyes widened. “Surely you’re not in any danger!”

  “Only of boredom. My marriage was one of sheer practicality. It gave me a title and a modest income, but I see no reason to supply such loathsome people with an heir.”

  “You spoke of the Teacher.”

  “Yes, of course, I have something for you.” And with that Helena withdrew an envelope from her pocket and gave it to Celeste.

  “Thank you, dear sister. It warms my heart greatly to hear from him.”

  “He tells me you are constantly in his thoughts and his heart. He is the very soul of love to speak of you so.”

  “Sister, we have little time. Did you manage to persuade the Prince Admiral to attend?”

  “Regrettably, sister, he is not yet in St. Petersburg. He remains in Sebastopol for the time being.”

  Celeste bridled her disappointment.

  “It is imperative we engage him in some way. I thought he might have interest in our work here, and hoped to appeal.”

  “By reputation, the Prince is not particularly quick-witted. His rank was awarded as a way to appease the Finns, so far as that goes. I have yet to meet the man, and cannot therefore give you a reading. But as the war proceeds, surely he cannot remain so far from the capital.”