Mechanicals

by Jordan Stratford

  Accommodations were found easily enough, with more tents left than men to strike them, and in the morning Eleanor was making her way back to the infirmary to be of whatever service she could. It was then that she heard the first cracks of gunfire. Shielding her eyes from the eastern sun, she could make out the white glint of an enormous airship following the coast at what seemed to her a precariously low altitude. When the firing began, her heart leaped in her throat in fear that it was the Durrah being fired upon, but she quickly realized that this was much broader, and longer, and faster than the flying harem. This was no pleasure craft, but an airship built for conquest.

  And it was on fire. It seemed to tug at the air like a horse chomping at the bit, bucking and rearing, and finally one of its three balloons erupted in flame. Seconds later, the ship rolled maniacally in the sky as the flaming envelope was ejected from the craft to be utterly consumed, abandoned, and flaming material fell earthward leaving trails of oily smoke.

  The ship was clearly closing in on the ground, but made no signs to slow itself. It seemed to her like a hawk diving for prey, and that prey was over and past the English line, headed for safety of Sebastopol to the south.

  God help them, she thought.

  FORTY TWO

  The Celerity’s crew were crammed into the undercarriage, the wide metal doors pried lose and left to gravity. The captain remained on the bridge, steering the canted airship as straight as he could to the harbour. He dared not cut the engines and leave them short; crashing into the hills above the river, or the walls of the city itself.

  Billings’ eyes widened as looked at the tangled harbour ahead. Dozens of warships keeled over in the surf, masts at every odd angle, a giant’s box of spilled matchsticks. Colt yelled over the wind.

  “The Russians have scuttled the Black Sea fleet to block the harbour! We’re going to land in that!”

  So. The Russians had done what the British had come to do. And it was going to make a mess of their already dangerous appointment with the sea.

  The ground tore by; tall grasses, then city walls, streets and rooftops missed by mere yards; then markets, docks, and fishing boats. At thirty feet the crew and the first of Menshikov’s twenty guards began to hurl themselves at the harbour. At ten, some dragged the horses to their last chance, and the horses took it. Ten seconds later, they’d cleared the churning water of the hooves, and the last of the crew along with Menshikov, Celeste, Colt and Billings, leapt if not to safety, to whatever could pass as safety by comparison.

  The shock of dark water surrounded Celeste. Always a strong swimmer, she kicked free her shoes, kept her wits about her, and ascended to the surface. Her clothes, however, were likely to kill her. Her corset restricted her breathing, and her dress was a constant pull to her death. It was every effort to kick clear of the space she’d just inhabited, to scan for debris, anything. She’d look for the others once she’d caught her breath.

  It was too much work. She had to rest, calm herself, even if that meant sinking for a moment. She knew there was no chance of freeing herself from her clothes, but she was just expending pointless energy thrashing about. She took a deep breath, and let herself slip beneath the waves.

  At least her arms and legs were no longer burning, and there was some air beneath her skirts, slowing her descent if only marginally. She looked up at the web of sunlight playing on the surface, and any hint of alternative to drowning.

  There. An oar. Another.

  Using all her remaining strength, she kicked again to the surface. A hand was offered, and she took it, up and over the gunwales of a longboat. Colt and Prince Menshikov were already aboard. She scanned the harbour for Billings, and saw that he and several crewmen were aboard an identical craft, now rowing back to the docks. The horses were already ashore and being tended to. She probably should have ridden one out the door, she thought. She’d heard of it done in circuses. Odd, she thought, the things one thinks of in retrospect.

  After assurances that she was all right, voiced in English and Russian, she looked up at the young Russian Army officer who had hauled her out of the Black Sea. He was clearly handsome, with dark brows, high cheekbones and a full lower lip, the top lip obscured by a well-groomed moustache.

  “I am in your debt, Captain,” she said.

  “I am honoured to have you aboard, Madame,” replied her saviour. “I am Captain Tolstoy of the artillery here, and very pleased to make your acquaintance, although I wish it were under better circumstances.” He pointed his chin at the Celerity.

  Miraculously, she had not hit the water. She had entangled herself in the thicket of masts of the scuttled ships, and hung, partly deflated, from interlaced rigging. Sailors were securing lines to the broken airship in an effort to relieve the Captain, who seemed unhurt.

  “Salvageable, and no hands lost,” offered Colt. “That’s a landing I can live with.”

  “I’m grateful for ‘through’, Mr. Colt,” said Celeste. “Are we safe for now?”

  “Perfectly, my dear,” interjected Menshikov. “They cannot assail the harbour, as you can see. The cannot attack from the north, as they must cross the river and scale the cliffs where our cannons do not even need to fire, merely roll cannon balls down the hill!” He laughed at his own joke. “Perhaps once we have composed ourselves, we should picnic above the cliffs and watch the advance? The enemy will be quite stymied, I assure you. It should be a most arousing sight.”

  It was at the conclusion of that statement that Celeste knew in her gut that Avery was with the English army, on the bottom of that cliff, and the other side of those guns. She wished he knew what he was getting into.

  “And the southwest shore, Admiral?” Colt inquired. “What do you have in store for such an eventuality.”

  Prince Admiral Alexander Sergeyevitch Menshikov laughed a second time.

  “That,” he gestured. Celeste and Colt were struck by the long glint of brass hidden in the tangle of the wrecks. Even for Colt, a man of industry and invention, it was something to behold.

  “That.”

  FORTY THREE

  The grass was sloppy with blood.

  Blake’s mechanical stood on the plain atop the cliffs overlooking the Alma; everywhere was upturned cannon and stacks of corpses, English, French, Turkish, Russian. A few green-jacketed riflemen picked along the fallen, looking for signs of life, relieving or removing in turn. Through the smoke and moans and Blake’s own hammering exhaustion, it was difficult to accept it as a kind of victory.

  The day had gone wrong from the start. The English and French were well positioned, and could hear the jeers of the Russian artillery atop the hill. With subterfuge, the zouaves had been sent around the coast, to scale the cliffs and come up behind and beside the Russian position, with the call to attack at dawn. As it stood, the zouaves were in place before the English were out of bed. A great deal of time was wasted on determination of the order of battle, and which noble’s pet forces would be the first to advance on this or that set of Crimean guns. It was near noon by the time the forces were organized in polite, tidy rows for the Russians to shoot at.

  It was a massacre. Russian cannon rained hell and death upon the invading forces. The men were ordered up, up the slick cliffs with bayonets fixed against thirty-eight-pounders and exploding earth. Fusiliers and Highlanders, the green-jacketed Ninety Five all rose and fell, using the dead for purchase or cover only to advance, advance.

  It was immediately obvious as to the futility of the mechanicals. The dragoons ensconced themselves at the river’s edge, dropped their cannon, and withdrew while their crews attempted to plot a curtain of covering fire. But the Hussars could not cross the river, and they could not take the heights. Even the horses were useless. Blake attempted to lay down some fire, but could not elevate the barrel guns, and only served to loosen the earth in advance of the infantry. Taking the odd shot or splinter shell, the phalanx of mechanical men stood impotent in the face of slaughter.

  Eventually they w
ere given the order to advance left, and follow the French, under command of de Saint Arnaud, the long way around. This had taken most of the day, by the end of which the zouaves had overrun the Russian emplacements, and the English had taken the hills.

  From his vantage point, Blake could see to his right some ten thousand uncommitted troops, fresh and eager for battle. Behind him lay the entirety of the French forces and dozens of fully armed and armoured mechanicals. Before him, past the massive human cost of death, English boys turned inside out by shell and ball and bayonet, stood the city of Sebastopol. Undefended, its gates open. He waited for the call to advance. The heat from the boilers blistered the air about him, and still he waited. He exhausted his canteen, and he waited.

  He ordered Price to send up a message flag. These popped up on the shoulders of the giant like epaulets. A horse was immediately dispatched, and Blake dropped the ladder.

  “Find out why we’re bloody standing here!” barked Blake down the hole.

  The private saluted and galloped off to the command tent recently erected at the far end of the hill. Without much delay, the rider returned with written orders, and Blake took the opportunity to descend the ladder a few rungs. The stench of blood and sulfur was a small price to pay for the coolness of the air, however hellish.

  “Captain Blake, sir?” asked Price on his return.

  Blake didn’t answer at first. He read the orders thrice before handing the paper with disgust to his fireman.

  “We’re not to take the city. The French won’t commit after the march, and Raglan won’t go in without the French.”

  “God’s wounds!”

  “I know, Sergeant. Looks like we could take the bloody place ourselves, the two of us. Look at them.”

  The streets were close enough they could make out flurries of civilians, mostly women, running baskets hither and yon. Makeshift stretchers and travois dragged the wounded from the field. The wall’s ramparts were abandoned altogether. The Eleventh could ride in, raise the flag, and the whole city would sing ‘Rule, Brittania’ by sunset, or burn.

  But Raglan would not move. They were to proceed a dozen miles to the south, to the bay at Balaclava, and establish camp.

  And wait.

  ---

  Celeste had stayed with a greatly humbled Menshikov, and he had found her lodgings in the city. She was largely left to her own devices, and declined his offer of picnic to see the battle. At the turn of things it became obvious, for there was much shrieking as the ladies of the city and their escorts, either assigned to the Sebastopol’s defense or too infirm to be of any use, came scurrying back to the confines of the now-defenseless port. Merchants were hiding money under floorboards, while fishmongers and butchers armed themselves against the undeniably immanent advance of English and French and Turkish troops, drunk on blood and craving retribution for fallen comrades.

  Yet sunset came, and the enemy did not. The constabulary had the presence of mind to close the gates, although after enough of the artillery had withdrawn into the city to give the order. If they were given hours to prepare for siege as best they were able, then by God they’d take them.

  Celeste debated slipping out of the city under cover of darkness. What could she do, here? The affair was at its end-game, and hers was the business of setting things in motion, not seeing them to their resolution. Her network was in place, she was sure of it. There was little of immediate value to her work outside of Constantinople, although there were secrets, she knew, farther north in the Ukraine, for which the world at large was still greatly unprepared.

  All she cared about now was scarcely a mile north of the wall against which she rested her forehead.

  “I’m here,” she whispered. She knew he could hear her.

  FORTY FOUR

  The Hussars were camped well north of the bay. From Raglan’s position on the hill to the west, they were easily identified by Cardigan’s garish nutcracker.

  Price had assembled the men for inspection, and Blake was relieved to find so many of them alive. Nolan’s and Dunn’s numbers were not so fortunate, but Blake’s thoughts were with his own cherry-bums. These were good lads all, and not at all resentful of having missed out on Silistra and Alma. The French were preparing for an old-fashioned siege, and that was going to require cavalry. They knew they would have their day.

  Price generally saw to inspection, but Blake had thought to keep their spirits up. Supplies were thin, although there was food enough for the time being, but the porter had run out. Blake considered it a difficult business keeping a man in fighting shape if he’s entirely sober. Regardless, they looked fit enough, and eager.

  Blake was being driven to madness by Raglan’s impotence. The Dragoons had set up an advance cannon position just north of them, leaving a half dozen guns and a single mechanical, fortified with sand-bags. There was a rotating crew, and their shifts were the only movement whatsoever on the plain.

  The position was on a hill, the right side of a three sided box; the other two sides occupied by the Russians. The long end, that directly opposite the marshaled Hussars, sloped downward and terminated in a colonnade of Russian artillery, effectively daring the English to make a straight run for Sebastopol. The French northwest at Kameish were having no easier time of it, digging trenches for a long siege which had yet to be set in motion, officially in any case.

  After the inspection, Blake broke his fast at the door of his open tent, looking north at the Dragoon position. A flash caught his eye. Then another. The mechanical was being stoked and fired, and puffs of rifle shot emerged both behind and from within the barricade.

  “Price!” called Blake. “Price!”

  “I’ll fetch him for you, sir,” said a young private, hurrying by.

  “See that you do. Tell him the guns are under attack!”

  Momentarily, Price arrived with Nolan in tow. Blake had fetched a spyglass, and could see a skirmish was underway. A modest contingent of Russian infantry had sought to overrun the gun crew. Nolan took the glass, and concurred.

  “I’ll find the Colonel at once,” declared Nolan.

  “He’s with Lord Raglan, Captain,” said Price.

  “Very good, I’ll report back as soon as I can. We cannot let the Russians take English guns.”

  “Godspeed, Nolan,” offered Blake, looking through the returned glass.

  The gun crew were beginning to retreat. The Russians were over the wall, and hauling long ropes behind them. Rifles took up positions on the south wall of the emplacement, and began shooting at the retreating English.

  “Are we to relieve them, sir?” asked Price.

  “I should certainly think so. We could ride out there and be off with them, before they can turn those guns around!”

  But Nolan’s return was not immediate. Instead, Price and Blake watched helplessly as the Russians dismantled the north wall, and brought in horses with which to cart away the guns. Infantry scrambled up the still chuffing Dragoon mechanical, securing ropes around its gun-blocks and joints. With a heave and a team of horses, the Dragoon was dragged groaning to the ground. A cheer went up among the Russian ranks, which resounded in the hills.

  “This will not stand! Where the hell is Nolan?” Blake thundered.

  Instead of Nolan, it was Cardigan who returned to camp, and with little haste. Blake watched him dismount and enter his tent, his aides de camp following in sycophantic procession.

  “Shall I inquire as to orders, Captain?” Price was aware that the mere sight of his Captains could set off the Colonel’s temper, and they were wanting information, not argument.

  “Good thinking, Price. Off you go, and be quick about it.”

  “Sir.” Price began marching to Cardigan’s tent, but gave in to a jog. Not a minute had passed until Price returned.

  “Well?” asked Blake. “What the hell are we doing?”

  “He says, same as him, sir. Awaiting orders.”

  “Awaiting orders? The Russians are carrying off our guns!
They’ve taken the right flank with barely a shot! What variation of order could there possibly be?” Blake was outraged. Price remained silent. “I apologize, Price, you’ve no business on the receiving end of my temper, having just suffered Cardigan’s.”

  “My feeling’s same as yours, sir. It’s not right.”

  “It damnably well isn’t.”

  They watched as the guns lurched away due to ropes and horses, and the Russians seem to have little interest in holding the emplacement. They didn’t even march away so much as wander.

  To the great relief of Blake and Price, they saw Nolan’s horse return from Raglan’s position. He dismounted in front of the Colonel’s tent, and saluted. Papers were exchanged. Nolan was clearly agitated, and remounted. As he rode by, he shot Blake a look of pained frustration, and galloped back up the hill.

  Blake turned to his fireman. “Have the men ready, and prepare the mechanical.”

  “Men have been ready since this started, sir. In saddle and riled up.”

  “And the mechanical?”

  “Stoked, fired, and set to boil, sir.”

  “Excellent. We’ll retake the flank and overrun those guns before they can be fully withdrawn from the field.”

  “We’d best get the order presently, Captain, or those guns will be in St. Petersburg soon enough.”

  “Cardigan and Raglan, blast them! I’d clap their noddies together!”

  “I didn’t hear a word o’ that, Captain, but if I had, I’d’ve agree with the sentiment. Privately, o’course.”

  “Prudent, Sergeant.”

  Again, Nolan came galloping down the hill directly to Cardigan’s tent. He was in there for a good half-hour. Blake thought he would go mad with waiting. A familiar sound spurred him into action: both Dunn and Reynolds, at least, had taken to their mechanicals and advanced to the edge of the camp, behind Cardigan’s cartoonish fellow. That was enough for Blake.