The vestry was in fact a kind of tiny parsonage. There was a small window, a cot, chair and table with basin, although the room had been obviously vacant for some time. A small chest of drawers held, to her amazement, clean clothes and clerical vestments. Another door led to a balcony overlooking the alley behind. Hanging from the awning was a brass bell, like that of a ship. Eleanor took a guess, and gave the bell a sharp ring.
When nothing happened after a full minute, she tried again. This time, a stout woman shrouded in layers of robes and scarves came out of an adjacent building at a decent trot. She gave Eleanor a half-bow, half-curtsy, hand to breast, and rattled off something she presumed to be Turkish. Eleanor bade her good morning in English, and asked for water, soap, breakfast, tea, and whatever else the woman might think they would need. The woman may have understood all or none of Eleanor’s request, but toothlessly uttered some more Turkish, bowed again, and ran off.
Avery was on the cot, fast asleep. She took off his shoes, and set about exploring. In a storeroom she found bathtub and chamberpot, various implements relating to the church, and a wooden box containing several coins she could not identify. One however was quite large, the size of a penny, and silver. This she pocketed. If she was robbing from the church, she was doing so in order to care for a clergyman, and this seemed fair to her or at least a reasonable argument.
The elderly Turkish woman had reappeared with a tray, and a young boy carrying a basket. Obviously some arrangement had been made between the chapel and this household as to provision. Eleanor offered the silver to the woman, who accepted it without sign as to its adequacy or generosity.
She roused Avery, who washed, ate, bathed as best he could, shaved, and then went back to bed. She lay beside him on the narrow cot, tucking her knees into the back of his, and smelling the soap on his skin. Mostly asleep, he took her hand in his and placed it across his chest, where it remained through the day and that night until the next dawn.
THIRTY NINE
The day was glorious, and there was no denying it. Blake looked out at the forest of masts, the French and British fleets queueing up to land on the broad beach and the verdant plain behind. He was deeply impressed at the efficiency and professionalism of the French, who seemed to have rehearsed the whole thing, establishing protocols for infantry, scouts, then horses, then men by regiment; each meticulously timed wave accompanied by well-prepared carts of logistical considerations appropriate to its specific undertaking.
The English, in contrast, seemed stymied by a kind of bizarre gentleman’s game, where the ship attached to one officer would disgorge some part of its contents, only to have it withdraw as a superior officer or baronet or some such would take umbrage and insist that his ship be unloaded first. The French had already made a neat camp of things while the English loaded carts on the beach, the men hip deep in water, with goods getting truly soaked in the process. Further, there seemed to be great dissension among the engineers as to how best to crane the mechanicals ashore. That there would be no dock crane at the point of their disembarking seemed not to have occurred to them.
A fiasco unveiled itself as one of Scarlett’s mechanical Dragoons was craned to a makeshift platform set between two carts, which splintered under the weight sending the oilcloth-shrouded iron into the silt of the bay. That this expensive catastrophe was met with hilarity and catcalls from the fusiliers ashore did nothing to lighten the mood, and French engineers, assisted by the ever-adaptive zouaves, were brought in to facilitate the transfer of the mechanicals to the beach.
Blake knew better than to interfere in an exchange between Nolan and Lord Cardigan.
“The French are making us look like buffoons! Had we no plan, no preparation? They seem to take the matter far more seriously.”
“Seriously?” Cardigan growled. “There is nothing more serious than war, Captain. I find the French manner unseemly, as though they look forward to the whole affair. Smacks of murderous intent. It is un-Christian.”
Blake withdrew. This was an ongoing conflict between Nolan and some of the others, particularly outside the Hussars. His vision was a standing, professional army in the French style, with scientific management. This attitude was dismissed as pedestrian by the Lords of the Army, who felt it rather lacking in the spirit of adventure and faith in God. Still, it was refreshing to see Cardigan in a mood other than pointlessly enraged.
Fortunately the weather stayed with them, and after several hours and much posturing on the part of the peerage, they had marshaled some sixty thousand men ashore, with the Dragoon mechanicals hauling up cannon to gun emplacements above the camp.
The Scottish doctor whom Blake had met at the infirmary tent in Varna approached him. The man was seething.
“What the hell have you done here?” the doctor demanded.
“Please, doctor, whatever do you mean?” Blake responded calmly.
“We still have a fifth of these men with cholera, and that again with diarrhea and fever. And not so much as a single cart or detail to get them back to the beach. With no infirmary in Varna. We’ll have to get the sick back to Constantinople.”
“I’m sure arrangements...”
“To hell with your surety! Arrangements have not been made. These men will infect the others, and half of them will die here on this beach within the week.”
“Steady on, doctor. What would you have me do?”
“Commandeer the carts from the kitchen. Live men can carry their own food and are motivated to do so. And I need a detail to begin digging graves, here, at once.”
“I’ll see what I can do about the carts, but I have no men for grave-digging. My men are the Eleventh Hussars. Have the rifles do it.”
The doctor dismissed Blake with a sneer, but surely, thought Blake, the man could hardly expect Prince Albert’s Own to begin their first actual day of campaigning by digging graves.
Such things were for infantry.
FORTY
Colt had been true to his word. The Celerity appeared to devour the ground beneath it in her race southward to the front, treetops ablur.
Her biggest challenge seemed to be avoiding Menshikov, whose interest she had first assumed to be avuncular, yet proved itself to be more amorous in intent. She had made a series of polite excuses, though she had not altogether rejected his advances–she may yet have to play that card.
She had dined the previous evening at the captain’s table, with Colt and Billings, the American reporter. Menshikov’s English was serviceable, but he repeatedly used Celeste’s translation as an excuse to address her directly. Apparently, whatever business had brought the Americans to St. Petersburg had been concluded very much to their satisfaction, and Colt was in a particularly jovial mood. Celeste had been assigned a modest yet perfectly suitable stateroom, and made her apologies early, the excitement of air travel overcoming her disposition–an excuse accepted by the men without hesitation. When the knock came later that evening, Celeste had pretended not to hear it, and hoped that was the end of it.
It was before breakfast on the second day, a mere twenty-four hours since departure, that the difficulties began. She found it challenging to get a direct answer from the crew as to the nature of the problem; none seemed willing to explain the technicalities to a woman, but it seemed that the large electric coil in the centre of the three balloons was not conducting appropriately, and that while they would remain aloft by the aid of the two outer gas-bags, they could not control their altitude. While their pace was unabated, they were a mere two hundred feet from the ground.
She had asked to go outside, and, with the assistance by the porter Kenton, was outfitted with greatcoat, goggles, harness and lifeline, accompanying Billings to the chill of the outer observation deck. They had crossed the narrow land-bridge at Armiansk in the night, and approaching from the east, could see a port city on the Black Sea ahead of them.
“Is that Sebastopol?” she shouted over the wind.
“Eupatoria,” replied Billings. �
��Sebastopol is some seventy miles south, along the coast. We’ll be there in about an hour, ma’am.”
Suddenly the airship bucked as though kicked by some aerial giant. Billings reached to secure Celeste, but she maintained her balance with only one hand to the rail.
“It’s that coil. Keeps cutting in and out again. Warms up the air and exhausts itself,” explained Billings.
“I didn’t think that could happen quite so suddenly.”
“Me either, evidence to the contrary though.”
Celeste was going to add something, but thought better of it at Billings’ expression and gaze behind her. She turned and squinted off to the distance. She made out flashes of white against the sea, and even from this reduced height, smoke and tents and the unmistakeable movements of military life.
“Are those Russians? Turks?”
“Can’t say, ma’am, and we’re a half hour from knowing, but we’d best get inside.”
“Wise counsel, Mr. Billings. And I’d like to take a look at that coil.”
“Not sure that’s safe, ma’am,” said Billings, holding the hatch open for her.
“I’m not sure any of us are on speaking terms with safety at present.”
It only took a few moments to shed themselves of their exterior gear and locate a crewman to accompany them to the cavern of the central envelope. Billings noticed the dramatic difference between his previous visit and the present circumstance; it was no longer too hot to breathe.
Celeste exhibited no reluctance in entering the balloon, navigating the catwalk’s grille and climbing the ladder to the coil’s bank of electrical batteries. The coil itself was a vast rod, looped back on itself with a curious curlicue before embedding once more in the batteries’ housing. The whole thing was some four yards long, and the three crewmen assigned to it wore thick leather aprons, gloves, and hoods like executioners, capped by the same brass goggles with which she had been outfitted on the exterior deck. She noticed that some of the batteries’ casings were cracked and charred, presumably from the lightning strike she had heard recounted over dinner.
Without warning, the apparatus cracked and sparked, flaring orange, and the airship was buffeted by its own sudden ascent. The heat was instantly unbearable, and one of the leather-armoured crew placed himself between her and the coil. She turned to Billings to see he was shouting at some unseen person below the hatch. He looked up to her.
“We’re taking fire!”
So, that hadn’t been the Russian army ahead of them. Beneath them now, she supposed. The coil winked out suddenly, and the ship pitched slowly forward with a leviathan ease, like a whale diving. Billings scrambled to the catwalk on all fours as the coil reignited and sent the ship again rearing against the sky. Despite the whine of the coil’s massive dynamo, a tinny sound could be made out emanating from the speaking tubes. It was blazing hot, and Celeste struggled to stay in the shadow of the leather-clad crewman. Billings raced to the tube, placing his ear up against it. Swearing, he pulled himself away. The brass trumpet had heated with the rest of the interior surfaces, and he had scalded the side of his head and cheek. With a mixture of trepidation and urgency, he gingerly replaced his ear to the tube.
“The starboard gas-bag is on fire! They’re going to jettison it! Hold on!”
But it was too late. A series of cracks like shotgun shells and a deafening roar filled the space and the ship rolled madly starboard, the port gas-bag seeking to overturn the ship. The crewman closest the coil was launched into the searing metal with a scream, the stench of cooked leather and searing flesh tearing at their nostrils. Both Celeste and Billings threw themselves towards the man, and Billings lost his footing, headlong towards the same fate. Celeste had fallen on her rump, but had the presence of mind to grab the waistband of Billings trousers with one hand and the catwalk rail with the other. The heat was unimaginable, but it allowed the Celerity to right herself and effect an evacuation of the center balloon.
Winded, Billings had to practically force Celeste down the hatch ladder first, the two surviving crewmen close behind. Away from the dynamo, they could hear the distinct sound of cannon shot.
“What the hell happened?” asked Billings, his face still burning.
A crewman raced passed on his way belowdecks. “The French! They fired on us and ignited one of the gas balloons. We ejected it before the whole damn ship went up, and we’re going to crash!
“Where?”
“He’s aiming for the harbour! Get below decks and get ready to swim for it!”
Ah, thought Celeste calmly. Sebastopol.
FORTY ONE
The steamboat from Constantinople to the camp at Kalamata Bay was loaded with blankets, medical supplies, munitions, and of course those discharged from the filthy Scutari barracks. If the men had survived the cholera, dysentery, or whatever hell the shores of the Black Sea had thrown at them, they were to report again to their units, now hurriedly decamping for the march southward.
Avery and Eleanor had hardly spoken since their reunion, except for one attempt at an explanation by the clergyman.
“I was plucked out of space and time, and brought to your doorstep as promised. This is of course impossible, for your very real observation of both showed time passing, and space traversed. For me, however, it was all a kind of superimposition. History being knitted hastily atop the present.”
“I cannot pretend to understand it, but that does sound disorienting,” Eleanor admitted.
“Indeed. While I’ve certainly seen both to be more elastic than usually assumed, it strikes me as most discomfiting how easily dismissed such conventions can be. It’s all rather fascinating, but I’ll not have time to ponder the matter further for the foreseeable future.”
“I knew I’d find you,” she said, smiling.
“I knew that too. Problem with demons, really, the extent to which they keep their promises.”
They left it at that.
It was a simple enough affair for the Reverend Avery to attach himself as chaplain to the Army at Constantinople, and after being informed that only six in a hundred wives could be advanced to the front, he merely informed the warrant officer in charge that Eleanor was among the six. When the man objected, he suddenly found a pen on his desk endlessly fascinating, and, rousing himself, realized that he’d signed the necessary documents. That seemed to settle it.
Their belongings had been forwarded from Jerusalem, and it was merely a matter of waiting for appropriate passage. Avery had no contact with Hugo or any other member of the Order, but knew whatever Grigori had discovered would wind its way to the front, where it should be foiled if possible and observed if not.
“Are you suggesting the possibility of failure?” Eleanor asked.
“That depends entirely on one’s definition of failure. If our mission were to prevent Grigori from employing whatever formula he extracted from the incunable, then yes, there’s a likelihood of failure. I have little idea of what he’s up to and no direct way of stopping him. However, if our mission is as it has ever been; when certain things are brought to light, return them to the shadows, then, yes, I’m optimistic about our success. Long term, of course.”
“Long term.”
“Well, arguably longer than this war. You dared hardly think we were to retire at the end of this conflict, did you, my dear?”
“I hadn’t given it much thought. I’d merely hoped to remain with you.” There was a note of sadness in her voice. Avery smiled comfortingly.
“I should like nothing more, but I cannot promise it. What I can assure you is that our story is not over, that I mean to fulfill my obligation to you and complete your education while furthering your prospects. But as you’ve no doubt gleaned by now, things with me are rarely straight-forward.”
“I’d drop dead on the spot if I ever found them to be so.”
“There you are, my sweet Eleanor. There you are.”
Some hours later they were ashore with the rapidly dismantling camp.
Eleanor took in the sight of the towering mechanicals with gasps and much straining of the neck. They were at once monstrous and marvelous, speaking to her of the future in iron voices. What could such things build, as the railway had built? What could be defended, that might otherwise fall?
Avery had seen to the sick and dying– there were no wounded, save for the odd camp accident. Prayers were said, with many notes taken to family for final arrangements. Eleanor saw too the need for those who could comfort, read and write a note of farewell or condolences. She had taken so well to the task that a hand on her shoulder alerted her to the fact that it was now dark.
“Mrs. Avery?” a woman said. She was pale and wore a fresh pinafore. Eleanor would not have described her as pretty, with her mannish brows and bump on the end of her nose. “You should eat something.”
“Yes, thank you, nurse...”
“Florence. Please, we can make do. Pace yourself, there’ll be plenty to do in the morning.” While soft, her voice bore the tone of accustomed command. Eleanor assented.
They dined with the officers and wives, those not yet departed on the southward march. Most of the Heavy Brigade had left that day under the command of General Scarlett, while the Light Brigade and apparently a regiment of French zouaves were to depart mid-morning. Eleanor was seated opposite a young officer, a Captain Blake, and thought him kind. All seemed of good cheer, men and women equally. They seemed under the impression that it was inaction that had allowed disease to run through the army. A march would invigorate them and distance them from past unpleasantness. Eleanor wished to remind them that the unpleasantness was in no way past, and in fact merely a few dozen yards from their tent, but felt it was not her place to do so.
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