“It was, sir. That’s why it was a lash for ‘im, and not prison,” said Price, in an attempt to bracket the circumstance.
“So you presumed to carry out private punishment to save the regiment from embarrassment.”
“You have the measure of it, Captain.”
“Damn good of you to keep your head. I daresay I would have been too gobsmacked to do anything. I trust he’s learned his lesson? We’ve rather a long way to go and we simply can’t have such eccentricities.”
“Youthful indiscretion, sir, I’m sure of it. And he’ll wear that stripe ‘til we get to Turkey, I reckon.”
“Right you are. Just keep him out of my sight, will you? I don’t like to think of it, and I should hate to struggle to contain my laughter like a schoolboy.”
“Aye, Captain. Had a good laugh at it m’self, sir.”
“Let’s go in, shall we? It’s getting damnably loud out here, and the wind might decide to leave us behind!”
“Sir,” said Price, opening the door for his captain.
TWENTY
Even aboard the Celerity, the trek to the Russian American capital on Berenof would take longer than the voyage from New York to California. Not only was it a greater distance, but the airship was to be buffetted by Northern Pacific winds slamming into the volcanic Cascade mountains practically the whole route. The ship’s engines droned against the incessant bombardment.
Feeling more confident, and more at home on board, Billings dared venture to the bridge, fore and above the library to which he’d largely contained his explorations. The deck seemed palatial, a panorama of canted windows mullioned in brass. There was great oak wheel like that of a sailing vessel, and the nautical theme extended to other details. A great map table stood behind the wheel, and above it like a bizarre candelabra was suspended a system of brass trumpets, speaking tubes to different parts of the ship. Billings was given freedom of the bridge, and spent most of his time looking at the impressive collection of charts. They were prepared, cartographically at least, to embark on any course in the world, as far as he could tell.
He gathered that they were making, at best, fifty knots, less than a mile a minute. While this would have seemed to him a dizzying velocity a week ago, it now seemed labored by comparison to their westward trip, and he began to realize how impossibly fortunate they had been with their time.
The weather had, once leaving the grey of San Francisco, cooperated so far as sunshine was concerned all the way to the California border. Once reaching Oregon country, though, dark clouds menaced constantly to port. Not clouds, technically, but one leaden sheet that squatted above the coast and seemed determined not to budge. It only deepened in its conviction the farther north they flew.
It had taken a full day to reach the Willamette River, where they touched down for the boiler’s water. This showed to Billings a weakness in the whole affair of air travel–fresh water was required, and the more the wind was against them, the harder the engines worked and the thirstier they became. Crossing the ocean was instantly problematic, as descending for water would be perilous, besides which, salt water would corrupt the boilers as quickly as any acid, leaving them without propulsion and at the mercy of any tempest.
But here, at least, over Oregon, fresh water was abundant, as evidenced by the lushness of evergreens and the surge of the river fed by melting snow. Her tanks full, the Celerity rose again to compete with the steady eastward belligerence of the atmosphere. They saw no sign of anyone–trader or native settlement–the land seeming abandoned to giant conifers and rocky crag.
Another full day had passed, with no change to the landscape or weather save for a kind of disintegration of the coastline as it yielded to the growing number of broken islands. Rather than maintain their bearing of true north, they veered with the splintering coast northeast, at times over open ocean, and being well-punished for it.
Colt was on the bridge with Billings during a particular turbulent patch, the grey-green sea below. There was an island, or peninsula ahead of them, with the discernible geometries of roads and farms.
“What’s that?” asked Billings, trying to get his bearings and heading to the map table.
“Fort Victoria, sir,” offered a crewman.
“Fort? They have guns?” Billings inquired.
“Sizable English guns, yessir. But they’re pointing out, not up, if you take my meaning. And no cause to fire on us anyway, that I can think of.” A second crewman offered the first a folded slip of paper, and the first touched his cap to Billings and wandered off.
Billings was uncertain if this was part of the mission. “What are we doing here, Mr. Colt?”
“Oh, just putting on a show I expect, son. Down there’s the only place you can buy a drink, a hat and a whore within five hundred miles. Thought we’d give ‘em something to look at. They won’t know what we’re doin’, but they’ll be mighty impressed by it.”
And that was all that happened. Their altitude was such that Billings couldn’t tell if there were any upturned faces, but he could make out the walls of the fort, the road running straight through it to gates at either end, and a bastion to the busy harbour. There were outbuildings, stone quarries, and a pile of rubble that seemed to be assembling itself into a seawall, and vast flotillas of timber, roped or chained together, bobbing in the tide. The airship drifted east, picking up speed with the wind, and was quickly over an archipelago of interlocking islands, a mud-brown estuary, and then the mainland itself; green trees, rocky cliffs, bright blue streams and grey skies as far as the eye could see. There were days of this ahead as they struggled to keep the bow northward against the wind.
Billings read, and slept, and read. Colt seemed to have no use for him at this juncture, and he was glad of the library. In San Francisco he had wired the story of the Celerity’s continental crossing, and wondered if that would be making papers by now. Boston and New York, Connecticut and Philadelphia. The accomplishment and Colt’s money ensured that it was the story of his career, but his celebration was a lonely one in the tedium of the airship. He was unaccustomed to leisure, and not at all sure as to what to do with it.
He did manage to learn something more about the function of the ship. It was, as he had first learned, three balloons lashed together in parallel. The two outer shells contained gas, but the third was filled with hot air, warmed by both the steam engine’s exhaust and a large electric filament, attached to a rank of batteries. These were charged by a dynamo attached to the propeller’s drive shaft. Through a vent in the roof, the volume of warm air could be controlled, ascending or descending as needs be. He’d even poked his head in the central balloon, and marveled at the batteries in their housing, gauges hard over, the filament glowing an unnatural orange Billings couldn’t describe. It was, as to be expected, unbearably hot, and his examination was brief.
Nearly a week after departing from San Francisco, they caught a glimpse of white buildings, a tidy harbour, and the corpse of a whale; men stripping its flesh with long-bladed shovels. And all beneath an unrelenting sheet of rain.
“New Archangel, capital of Russian America,” said Colt. “Here’s where we find out how much ten dollars of drunken signature is actually worth. Stay armed, stay careful. They’re not expecting us, I don’t know these people and I don’t know which way they’re likely to jump.”
“I’ll keep my wits about me, Mr. Colt,” assured Billings.
“See to it you do, son.”
---
The ground-hook snagged on a vast cedar about a mile away from the settlement, and the engines drew the ground ever closer. The metal ramp once again deployed, they debarked by horse-cart in hopes of provisions. Two outriders armed with Colt’s repeating rifles sped off towards the town, Billings presumed to situate themselves discretely should the need for intervention arise.
Colt posted another two armed men at the base of the ramp, and called to the Captain.
“I’ll send word back to the ship before sundown
. If you don’t hear from me, I want you to take to the air and unleash hell.”
“Understood, Mr. Colt. Do mind yourself, now,” the Captain replied.
Colt responded with a harrumph, and the cart began its sortie. At least the rain had stopped for the time being.
New Archangel itself was kept neat, the boardwalks full of busy Lapplanders and Aleuts, Swedes and Tlingit traders. The air was remarkably fresh, hinted with pine and cedar, and only occasionally would the stench of fish or whale meat waft towards the crewmen.
It was a simple enough matter to to find the station agent, an unassuming yet hard man with little English and a full beard. The Governor, it seemed, was not in the capital, and the agent asked if Colt wanted to see the Bishop, who generally stood in for such things. With enough translators to fill in the gaps, for better or worse, it was decided that the agent himself would deal with matter at hand.
Colt liked the look of the man. Broad, with skin worn by work and weather, his blue eyes bore an intensity that Colt recognized from the faces of others who inhabited frontiers, whether American or Mexican or Seminole. The man took Norton’s letter, and was frank in his struggle with it. Eventually he locked eyes with Colt.
“You have five thousand guns? In ship?” He pointed at the ceiling.
“I do, sir,” replied Colt. “Bound for the Tsar and the defense of your homeland.”
The agent was unmoved at this context. “You want coal. Oil. Fish.”
“We’re looking to provision, yes. We can buy what we need. This conversation, is merely a formality. Out of respect.”
The large Russian returned to the paper in his hand.
“Two thousand,” he said.
Billings raised an eyebrow as Colt replied. “Two thousand what?”
“Guns,” said the agent, still not looking up from the paper. “Two thousand guns.”
Colt’s demeanor became like steel. “I do not intend to give you two thousand guns for a few cartloads of coal and a dozen hundredweight of whale oil.” His voice began to betray his frustration. “Those guns are for the Tsar. Of Russia. They are not mine to give away.”
“They for Tsar. They are Russian guns.” Finally the station agent looked up, matching Colt’s certainty. “This is Russia.”
“For now,” said Colt, calmly.
In the door of the station office silently appeared a young Tlingit man. He looked at the Russian, shook his head, and vanished.
“My English,” stated the Russian, having now reconsidered his position. “Not good. I mean say one. One thousand guns.”
“Do you have a thousand men, sir? And what would you have me tell the Tsar when a full twenty percent of his shipment is missing, while his country is at war?” Colt knew he was gaining ground.
“Do you think the Tsar know what many crates one thousand guns look like?” asked the Russian, slowly.
“Do you, sir?”
“Mr. Colt.” The station agent opened his arms. “I count crate every day here. Barrel. Timber foot. Yes, I count thousand. Very much.”
“Well then you should have no trouble counting to five hundred, sir,” Colt countered.
The Russian held out his hand and smiled ever so slightly. “No trouble. I count five hundred very good.”
Colt didn’t take the man’s hand, but he did tip his hat, and turn to leave. Billings had his heart in his throat all the way back to the Celerity, where the crew was already managing to store the provisions which came in a steady stream from the town.
On board, Colt found his chair and cigar in the library while Billings poured them both a whiskey. As Billings turned to offer the glass, Colt suddenly howled with laughter. Billings looked at his suit to see if he’d wet himself.
“I’ll be god damned!” Colt laughed. “That is how it is done, Billings. That is how it is done.”
“You do seem to thrive on it, sir.”
“‘Course I do, son. Keeps the tools sharp. He’s a businessman, as fine a negotiator as any Boston-suited banker, and no running off to powder his nose.”
“But Mr. Colt,” Billing asked. “Your point stands. What’s the Tsar going to do when he finds his purchase to be ten percent light?”
Colt roared again with mirth. “Billings, you think the Tsar knows what five thousand guns looks like?”
TWENTY ONE
The warm, scented breeze from the south swept away the weariness of Eleanor’s previous week. From Toulouse they had taken an uncomfortable carriage southeast into the mountains, staying at a drafty pension while Avery spent days poking about in local caves. Armed with a hastily sketched copy of a painting, he was looking for a particular profile of a particular mountain, and just when he thought he had the background correctly aligned, the foreground proved to be all wrong. After two days, he relented, fruitless, and they returned to the railhead.
On the journey they passed the time with more memory-games, at which Eleanor was delighted to find herself excelling. She could now memorize the sequence of three decks of cards without error, even when shuffled together or switched mid-way through. Avery taught her chess, and at this she had more aptitude than interest. She even managed to beat him, twice, and yet to this she attributed beginner’s luck.
They also played a game which was more to her fancy; something which she first confused with a girl’s clapping game. She placed each wrist outside Avery’s own, and by dipping her fingers towards his inner arm and maintaining contact, she could manoeuvre her hands to be between his. All the while, of course, his hands were likewise rolling, clockwise or counter-clockwise, so she became aware of direction, and timing, and pressure. When he had his hands between hers, he gave her a playful pat on the cheek, as though to slap. When she had accomplished the same in reverse, she slapped him harder than intended, and they both laughed at this.
This game of “sticky-hands” could accommodate as much force or tempo as she was willing to give it, and once, when Avery had the upper hand and went in for a strike, she grabbed his wrist with her opposite hand, immobilizing him. For this she was rewarded with a deep smile and a glint of pride in his eyes, which was to her the greatest treasure.
Girona was at once more social and more comfortable than the hills around Carcassonne. Their accommodations, if not luxurious, were charming, and she found the Catalan people attractive and vivacious. Everywhere was sun and music, demonstrative couples and bright-faced children. The leering of the men she found uneasy; while she was accustomed to this from the merchant and working classes around which she’d grown up, she was unaccustomed to seeing the same expressions on the faces of gentlemen. Still, while Avery dragged her from pillar to post in search of old churches or crumbling courtyards, she found herself falling in love with the ancient city. While she in no way considered herself yet well-traveled, she could easily imagine her life here. Paris enchanted her, but her seduction was already at the hands of Girona.
Regardless, Avery was becoming increasingly agitated. Whether his quarry was long-gone, or yet to arrive, he was unable to determine, and this left him with no small degree of frustration. He was not so uncommunicative as he was pre-occupied, and Eleanor left his temperament to its own devices. She was reluctant to leave, though she hoped the journey to Barcelona would improve his mood, and it did somewhat. The priest was grateful to have a more concrete task than searching for someone he expected was not to be found.
From Barcelona they boarded a steamship to Naples. Before boarding Avery had resumed his English clericals, so they were able to travel as husband and wife; this gave her great pleasure, and more comfort, as they were able to share a cabin. Eleanor found she preferred sea to rail. There was more room to stretch one’s legs, and the environs seemed more real when you were out in them, and not merely painted on glass. And it was here at sea that the wind was so intoxicating, and took with it the weariness of her travels.
At night, in bed in the ship’s cabin, she was awoken by a familiar clicking sound; Avery at the brass knob of his
cane, by candlelight.
“Sinjin,” Eleanor said sleepily, “what is it that you are continually doing with your cane, other than driving me to distraction.”
“Oh, I am so terribly sorry to have awakened you, my dear. It’s merely the weather.”
“The weather? On your cane-knob?”
“Oh yes. You see, inside its mechanism is a spool of paper tape, and the clock in the center advances it by a measure. With these outer rings I can record both the temperature registered here, and the barometric pressure indicated here, and these are inscribed upon the tape. As for the rest I include my personal weather, so to speak. My mental acuity, physical vigor and so on.”
“But what on earth is it for?”
“It serves as a journal, of sorts. At the conclusion of my journey I am able to decode and transcribe the measurements here taken, and so correlate the states of my being with the state of my environs. It’s quite scientific, actually.”
“Does it not strike you as compulsive?” she offered. “Not to be critical, but it does seem rather eccentric.”
“The unexamined life, my dear! Socrates. Now do go to sleep, and again, I am terribly sorry to have been a disturbance.” And with that he extinguished the candle.
Avery had no business in Naples, capital of the Kingdom of Two Sicilies. It was merely a stopover en route to Alexandria. As they ship provisioned itself, they were at leisure for an afternoon to stroll arm-in-arm along the docks and up the long slopes of the hill, through poor neighbourhoods punctuated by splendid villas behind iron gates. She found the language confusing, as she had only just a smattering of French and Spanish, and began to confuse words and phrases overheard in snippets. She was pleased to hear a couple’s argument, in Greek, rise above the walls that defined the narrow streets.
Even here, so far from the front, there was the bustle of war. There were hundreds of French soldiers in port, with quartermasters haggling for fish and eggs, rope and chandlery. Avery let slip the hint of concern that their transport was to be commandeered, but fortunately this was not to be the case. She felt a modicum of relief as her boots struck the gangplank amidst whistles and the clanging of bells. As they set out again to sea, Eleanor let the scent of the warm Mediterranean wash over her. To her it whispered of dunes and deserts, spices and adventure. She hugged Avery’s arm close to her breast, and kissed him upon the cheek. He returned her affection with a peck on the top of her head.
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