Although the preponderance of the butchery is occurring thousands of miles to the northeast, the British and Germans have succeeded in creating a nautical war zone here in the tropics. Mr Phillips has inferred that a swift and deadly armoured fleet, under the command of Admiral Craddock aboard HMS Good Hope, has been prowling these waters looking for two German cruisers, the Dresden, last seen off the Brazilian state of Pernambuco, and the Karlsruhe, recently spotted near Curasao, one of the Lesser Antilles. If he can’t catch either of these big fish, Craddock will settle for one of the Q ships - merchant vessels retrofitted with cannons and pom-poms - that the Germans have deployed in their efforts to destroy British commercial shipping around Cape Horn. In particular Craddock hopes to sink the Cap Trafalgar, code name Hilfskreuzer B, and the Kronprinz Wilhelm, named for the Kaiser himself.
We are monitoring the Marconi traffic around the clock, eavesdropping on Craddock’s relentless patriotism. Two hours ago Mr Bride brought me a report indicating that the Kronprinz Wilhelm is being pursued by HMS Carmania, one of the British Q ships that recently joined Craddock’s cruiser squadron. Bride warns me that the coming fight could occur near our present location, about two hundred miles south of the Brazilian island of Trindade (not to be confused with the West Indies island of Trinidad). We would be well advised to sail far away from here, though in which direction God only knows.
* * * *
14 September 1914
Lat. 22°15’ S, Long. 29°52’ W
A dizzyingly eventful day. Approaching Trindade, we were abruptly caught up in the Great War, bystanders to a furious engagement between the Carmania and the Kronprinz Wilhelm. There is blood on our decks tonight. Bullets and shells have shredded our sails. From our infirmary rise the moans and gasps of a hundred wounded German and British evacuees.
I had never witnessed a battle before, and neither had any other Adaland citizens except Major Butt and Colonel Weir, who’d seen action in the Philippines during the Spanish-American War. “Dover Beach” came instantly to mind. The darkling plain, the confused alarms, the ignorant armies clashing by night, or, in this case, at noon.
For two full hours the armed freighters pounded each other with their 4.1-inch guns, whilst their respective supply vessels - each combatant boasted a retinue of three colliers - maintained a wary distance, waiting to fish the dead and wounded from the sea. On board the Ada, the children cried in terror, the adults bemoaned the folly of it all, and the dogs ran in mad circles trying to escape the terrible noise. With each passing minute the gap separating the Carmania and the Kronprinz Wilhelm narrowed, until the two freighters were only yards apart, their sailors lining the rails and exchanging rifle shots, a tactic curiously reminiscent of Napoleonic-era fighting, quite unlike the massed machine-gun fire now fashionable on the Western Front.
At first I thought the Carmania had got the worst of it. Fires raged along her decks, her bridge lay flattened by artillery shells, her engines had ceased to function, and she’d started to lower away. But then I realized the Wilhelm was fatally injured, her hull listing severely, her crew launching life-boats, her colliers drawing nearer the fray, looking for survivors. Evidently some shells had hit the Wilhelm below her waterline, rupturing several compartments. A North Atlantic iceberg could not have sealed her doom more emphatically.
Owing to the relentless explosions, the proliferating fires, the rain of bullets, and the general chaos, nearly three hundred sailors - perhaps three dozen from the Carmania, the rest from the Wilhelm - were now in the water, some dead, some wounded, most merely dazed. Fully half the castaways swam for the colliers and lifeboats of their respective nationalities, but the others took a profound and understandable interest in the Ada. And so it happened that our little republic suddenly found itself in need of an immigration policy.
Unlike the Titanic, the Wilhelm did not break in two. She simply lurched crazily to port, then slowly but inexorably disappeared. Throughout the sinking I consulted with the leaders of Parliament, and we soon reached a decision that, ten hours later, I am still willing to call enlightened. We would rescue anyone, British or German, who could climb aboard on his own hook, provided he agreed to renounce his nationality, embrace the founding documents of Adaland, and forswear any notion of bringing the Great War to our waterborne, sovereign, neutral country. As it happened, every sailor to whom we proposed these terms gave his immediate assent, though doubtless many prospective citizens were simply telling us what they knew we wanted to hear.
Being ill-equipped to deal with the severely maimed, we had to leave them to the colliers, even those unfortunates who desperately wanted to join us. I shall not soon forget the bobbing casualties of the Battle of Trindade. Even Major Butt and Colonel Weir had never seen such carnage. A boy - and they were all boys - with his lower jaw blasted away. Another boy with both hands burned off. An English lad whose severed legs floated alongside him like jettisoned oars. A German sailor whose sprung intestines encircled his midriff like some grisly life-preserver. The pen trembles in my hand. I can write no more.
* * * *
29 October 1914
Lat. 10°35 ‘S, Long. 38° 11’ W
Every day, fair or foul, the Great War chews up and spits out another ten thousand mothers’ sons, sometimes many more. Were the Ada’s scores of able-bodied Englishmen, Irishmen, Welshmen and Scotsmen to sail home now and repatriate themselves, the majority would probably wind up in the trenches. The beast needs feeding. As for those hundreds of young men who boarded the Titanic intending to settle in New York or Boston or perhaps even the Great Plains, they too are vulnerable, since it’s doubtless only a matter of months before President Wilson consigns several million Yanks to the Western Front.
And so it happens that a consensus concerning the present cataclysm has emerged amongst our population. I suspect we would have come to this view even without our experience of naval warfare. In any event, the Great War is not for us. We sincerely hope that the participating nations extract from the slaughter whatever their hearts desire: honour, glory, adventure, relief from ennui. But I think we’ll sit this one out.
Yesterday I held an emergency meeting with my capable Deputy Prime Minister, Mr Futrelle, my level-headed Minister of State, Mr Andrews, and my astute Minister of War, Major Butt. After deciding that the South Atlantic is entirely the wrong place for us to be, we set a north-westerly course, destination Central America. I can’t imagine how we’re going to get through the canal. Mrs Wilde assures me we’ll think of something. Lord, how I adore my wife. In January we’re expecting our first child. This happy phenomenon, I must confess, caught us completely by surprise, as Mrs Wilde is forty-six years old. Evidently our baby was meant to be.
* * * *
15 November 1914
Lat. 7°10’N, Long. 79°15’W
Mirabile dictu - we’ve done it! Thanks to Mrs Astor’s diamond tiara, Mrs Guggenheim’s ruby necklace, and a dozen other such gewgaws, we managed to bribe, barter and wheedle our way from one side of the Isthmus of Panama to the other. Being a mere 110 feet side to side, the lock chambers barely accommodated our machine, but we nevertheless squeaked through.
The Ada is heading south-southwest, bound for the Galapagos Islands and the rolling blue sea beyond. I haven’t the remotest notion where we might end up, luscious Tahiti perhaps, or historic Pitcairn Island, or Pago Pago, or Samoa, and right now I don’t particularly care. What matters is that we are rid of both the Belle Époque and the darkling plain. Bring on the South Pacific, typhoons and all.
Night falls over the Gulf of Panama. By the gleam of my electric torch I am reading the Oxford Book of English Verse. Three stanzas by George Peele seem relevant to our situation. In the presence of Queen Elizabeth, an ancient warrior doffs his helmet, which “now shall make a hive for bees”. No longer able to fight, he proposes to serve Her Majesty in a different way. “Goddess, allow this aged man his right to be your beadsman now, that was your knight.” The poem is called “Farewell to Arms
”, a sentiment to which we Battle of Trindade veterans respond with enthusiastic sympathy, though not for any reasons Mr Peele would recognize. Farewell, ignorant armies. Auf Wiedersehen, dreadful Kronprinz Wilhelm. Adieu, fatuous Good Hope. Hail and farewell.
I am master of a wondrous raft, and soon I shall be a father as well. Over two thousand pilgrims are in my keeping, and at present every soul is safe. Strange stars glitter in a stranger sky. Colonel Astor’s Airedale and Mr Harper’s Pekingese howl at the bright gibbous moon. The sea is calm tonight, and I am a very lucky man.
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* * * *
Sidewinders
Ken MacLeod
1. The Trafalgar Gate
I bought a kilo of oranges in Soho - Covent Garden would have none at this time of year - and walked down Whitcomb Street and around the corner on Pall Mall to the Square. The Gate faced me, a concrete henge straddling the entrance to Duncannon Street. There wasn’t much of a queue, just a line four abreast filling the pavement along the front of the National Gallery and St Martin’s in the Fields. I passed the two hours it took me to get to the front reading the latest Amis fils in paperback. I turned the last page and chucked the Penguin to a hurrying, threadbare art student seconds before I’d have had to relinquish the book to the security bin.
“Papers, please.”
I resisted the temptation to monkey the guard’s cockney. String bag slung on the thumb, rope of my duffel bag clutched in the fingers of one hand, I passed the documents over with the other, for a frowning moment of scrutiny. Then the guard waved me on to the Customs table. Wanded, searched, duffel bag contents spread out and thrust back in any old how. Passport scanned and stamped. One orange taken “for random inspection”. I’ve paid worse tolls. As long as the stack of Marie Therese thalers and the small change in my boot-heels made it through, I was good to go anywhere.
I walked under the arch and into Scotland.
* * * *
They don’t like you to call it Scotland, of course. Officially, East London is the capital of the GBR (which - the tired joke notwithstanding - doesn’t actually stand for “Gordon Brown’s Republic” but is the full name of the state, derived from the standard ISO abbreviation for “Great Britain” and accepted as its legal designation at the exhausted end of the 1978 UN Security Council session that imposed the settlement, ending the bloody civil war that followed the Colonels’ Coup of ‘73). But it’s mostly Scottish accents you hear on the streets, along with Asian and African and Islingtonian - the few thousand white working-class Londoners who stayed in the East are in high demand as faces and voices for the regime: actors, diplomats, border guards. North Britain (another name they don’t like) speaks to the world in a cockney accent.
I walked up Duncannon Street, avoiding eye contact with anyone in a plastic fake-leather jacket. The bank is still called the Royal Bank and the currency is still called the pound. Come to think of it, the Party is still called Labour. Zigzagging the Strand and Kingsway, I was 100 metres from Holborn when I noticed I was being followed. Usual stuff - corner of the eye, shop-window reflection, tail still there after I’d dashed across the four lanes (GBR traffic’s mercifully two-stroke, and sparse) and walked on. Worse, when I checked again in a parked wing-mirror the guy vanished in plain sight. (In my plain sight, that is. No one else noticed.)
Another sidewinder, then. One who knew I was on to him. Shit. Jack Straw’s boys (and girls) I could dodge with my eyes shut. This was different.
There’s a procedure for everything. For this situation, SOP is to take a long step sideways - chances are, the sidewinder who’s spotted you spotting him has just hopped into an adjacent probability (like, one where you took a different route) and is sprinting ahead to hop back further up the road (following his SOP, natch). But he’d know that, so if he knew I was a sidewinder... but I had no evidence of that, yet. Either way, the trick was to take a bigger or a smaller jump than he’d expect, but one that would still keep me on track to catch an Edinburgh train at King’s Cross.
I turned sharp left onto High Holborn and walked briskly towards the border. Long before I’d reached Princes Circus, I was the only person on the street. There isn’t a wall between East and West London - they’ve learned that much - but planning blight, student hostels and regular patrols fill the function almost as well. From a sidewinder’s angle, though, the good thing about the band of run-down property east of Charing Cross Road is that it’s a debatable land, a place where the probabilities are manifold, and therefore a prime locale for long sideways steps.
I clambered over concrete rubble, waded through fireweed, crunched broken panes, and stood still and did that thing in my head.
* * * *
2. That thing in my head
You do it too.
Those times when you know you left the front-door keys on the kitchen table, not beside the phone, and there’s no one else around who could have moved them? Big secret: it wasn’t the little people messing with your head. That street entrance or shop front you’ve never noticed before, though you must have driven past it a hundred times? Shock revelation: you’re not living The Truman Show, and nobody’s shifting the scenery.
You’re, shifting, in the scenery: sideslipping between entire universes whose only difference may be where you left the keys last night, or how a town plan turned out thirty years ago, or a planning permission last month, or . . .
You’re doing it all the time, unconsciously. Sidewinders do it consciously. Don’t ask me how, or how many of us there are. You don’t want to know. Most of us, by a sort of natural selection, end up in the probability where they’re happy, or at least content. A small minority are intrinsically malcontent, or seduced by the possibilities, or both.
Some of that minority get recruited. You don’t want to know about that, either. Let’s just say there are two sides. Well, there are an infinity of sides, but they collapse, on inspection, to two: the Improvers, and the Conservers.
The Improvers want to put “wrong” histories “back on track”; the Conservers want all possible histories to unfold unhindered. This conflict has, I’m told, been going on for some time. I suspect it’s waged from great shining bastions of widely separated probability where civilization is vastly more advanced than it is anywhere we can reach, each of them perhaps far outside the human branch of history altogether. The best-laid plans of Miocene men, or of the wily descendants of dinosaurs on an Earth the asteroid missed . . .
That’s the sort of question we sidewinders argue amongst ourselves. For you, for now - all you need to know is, I’m an Improver.
And right now I was on the run from a Conserver.
* * * *
3. Tairlidhe is my darlin’, the young chevalier
I stepped out of the bank doorway I found myself in, nodded to the footman, and caught a tram. Tall buildings, fat with sandstone and gross with gilt, filled the view from the top-deck window. The streets buzzed with electric velocipedes and reeked with ethanol-fuelled cars. The pavements were more crowded than those of the world I’d come from, and the crowds whiter. Here and there a Mahometan, a Hindoo or a Jew walked, distinct in their costume and dignity. Blacks and Chinese were more common and less noticeable, porters and street-merchants for the most part. Slavery was abolished in 1836, after the Virginia Insurrection made it too expensive; the Opium Wars were never fought.
Discreetly, I unscrewed a boot-heel and thumb-nailed out a 1997 shilling with the head of Charles X. The conductor grumbled, but gave me a fistful of nickel in change that weighed down my jacket pocket as I jumped off. King’s Cross is in the same place, with the same name - it’s one of those sites that’s a converse to the debatable lands: a place implacable, straddling probabilities like railway lines. The statue in the front is of Luipoldt II.
I plunged to the ticket office through the foetid cloud of pomade and pipe-smoke and bought a single to Edinburgh. Display-boards clattered with flip-plates of digits and destinations. An express at twelve o
f the clock, platform three. I bought a newspaper and a packed lunch, and took my seat. The train - French-fangled, electric - glided out as all the church-bells of London pealed noon, flashed through the villages north of London - Camden, Islington, Newington - at an accelerating clip that reached 150 miles an hour as we passed Barnet. Too fast to read the sign, but I knew the town. There’s always, for me, a frisson at Barnet - it’s where the last battle of the Second Restoration was fought, when the Bonny Prince and his men routed the Hornsey militia and found London defenceless before them.
The endless fields of England rolled by, the spring ploughing well under way, sometimes with one man behind a horse, sometimes with a great modern contraption from the Massey manufactories, drawn by a phalanx of Clydesdales. I leaned on the table, munched bread and cheese and sipped stout, and worried idly about my soft spot for this probability. How does one weigh the absence of total war and totalitarian revolution, against the continuance of Caliph and Romanoff and Manchu, and Voltaire at Ferney broken on the wheel?
* * * *
I was in the non-smoking carriage, with the ladies, which didn’t bother me at all. My clothes, while unfashionable, raised no more than a momentary eyebrow. A bum-freezer here is a pea-jacket there, and Levi makes denim jeans across a surprising range of probabilities.
The Mammoth Book of Alternate Histories [Anthology] Page 4
