The Rail Pirates: A Steampunk Novella Series (The Crimson Blade Book 2)

by Ed Zenith

  One day to find freight. Impossible. Ash wandered around Swindon’s impressive streets for a few hours, attempting to learn the geography of the haphazard city, wondering who to ask about a job, not having the nerve to approach anyone. He was, after all, an escaped convict and needed to lie low, but his heart was torn when he thought of the Horton and that peculiar sense of belonging he felt. He thought fondly of Frampton’s incessant friendly chatter, even Acton’s taciturn grumpy generosity. Another sense grew in him too; that of hunger. As soon as he acknowledged it was there, he could think of nothing else and it played on his mind constantly. He wandered into Swindon’s giant marketplace, a square where stall holders yelled and bartered, peddling all types of goods and services. One man seemed to be selling all types of components and steam apparatus, while another sold Romany trinkets and told fortunes. A whole stall was devoted to selling penny dreadfuls and another sold only musical instruments; ukuleles, hurdy-gurdys, kazoos and harpsichords. The volume of the vendors’ cries was dizzying.

  “Gaskets! Get your gaskets!”

  “See the future in the palm of your hand. C’mon me luvlies!”

  “All your favourite stories, penny a throw.”

  “Ocarinas for a shilling! Amaze your friends!”

  It was the fresh food sellers that caught Ash’s attention. The sweet smell of hot chestnuts mingled with that of a baker’s bread; baked potatoes and mixed sweets competed for his interest. The Home’s kitchens had certainly never smelt as good.

  Ash stopped finally, tired of his roaming and settled in the shadows of a hatter’s stall. He had to concentrate and use his skills to solve his problems. He knew he was a good talker when the occasion arose and would be able to persuade a merchant to trust the Horton with his freight. The most immediate problem however was his hunger. He could feel himself getting weaker. This, combined with the confusion and shock of Swindon’s fast pace of life, his exhaustion and the oncoming cold of the evening, meant he needed food. Once again, Drew’s voice came back to him:

  “…You’re the slyest, canniest little thief in this place…”

  Just then he glanced towards the baker’s stall and strode towards it with purpose. When the baker was distracted by an old woman wanting soda bread, Ash slyly pocketed two small rolls and walked innocently off through the market.

  But his tiredness had made him careless, for while the baker’s attentions were elsewhere, several other vendors looked on. It was the market’s unwritten rule that the stallholders look out for one another and seconds after Ash departed, a cobbler looked over, saw the bulging pockets and yelled.

  Ash tried to look innocent and continue at a steady pace, but the market closed in on him. He heard a shrill sound and saw the cobbler with a police whistle in his mouth. Several other stall holders joined him and soon the whole market seemed to be buzzing with a deafening noise. Where there’s a police whistle, Ash reasoned, the police couldn’t be too far behind. He ran for it.

  Belting down an alley, he found the way blocked by an angry looking stall holder with a whistle in her mouth. Two tried to block his way, but he charged through, sending them scattering. He darted to and fro, trying to worm his way out of the vast market. He was like a rat in a maze, desperately searching for the exit. He turned down an alley and stopped dead.

  Two policemen stood at the end of the alley. Ash had never seen policemen before. He would have expected them to be rather like the guards at the Home, but while the guards were armed with pneumatic truncheons, the police of Swindon seemed to be equipped with the latest technology. They wore the same blue uniforms with tall helmets that one would recognise, but on their backs were metal packs which simmered and puffed white smoke. Flexible tubes ran from the packs to their forearms, where clamped to their wrists were a metal casing and a steel barrel. Ash had never seen a steam-gun before, but he didn’t need to be a genius to work out that he should start running again and sharpish. The policemen raised their arms to aim at Ash.

  “Stop or we open fire!”

  Ash knew that the sensible thing to do would be to do as they said, but a survival reflex urged him to run, so he did. Swindon’s finest were true to their word and as soon as Ash took flight they let loose the steam-guns. The pressure in their packs built up to fire a bullet the size of a plum out of their hand-cannons, which missed Ash entirely, but decimated a stall of fruit and vegetables nearby.

  Instinct and adrenalin made Ash run ever faster, but each way he turned a man appeared and he quickly darted the other way. He finally saw a path clear for his escape, but this was followed by a sharp pain to the back of his head and the world turned black. His legs gave way and as he fell onto the cobbles, an image formed in his mind of two pools of bright blue cool water and the sound of a woman’s scream.

  6.

  Ash awoke eventually with an almighty headache and knew immediately that something was wrong.

  The cold cobbles had turned, inexplicably, into a plush feather mattress and Swindon’s dark grey sky had changed into a clean white ceiling. He also appeared to be covered in clean white silk sheets and naked, save for a pair of rather tatty underpants.

  He raised his head from the soft pillow (how had that got there?), to view his surroundings. He was in a large apartment; clean, white, rich, but with very few furnishings and what seemed like hundreds of packing boxes, piled high up to the ceiling. There was a bed, a small case of clothes, a chair, a dressing screen and a large white door.

  Ash was torn; should he, as his instincts suggested, run for it? Or should he perhaps stay and bathe in the luxury of the apartment? He sensed that although he had not a clue where he was, he was not in danger. He had no knowledge of the outside world, but he could be almost certain that this was no jail house.

  The door opened and in swept a young woman carrying a pile of clothes and wearing nothing more than a silk robe and a towel wrapped around her head. Ash blushed immediately and drew the sheets up to his chin. The woman turned and cast her brilliant blue eyes on Ash.

  “Ah! You’re awake!” She smiled a perfect smile, full of warmth and charm. “I must say, you had us all worried. The doctor said you could be out for days.”

  She untied the towel from her head and let a cascade of dusky blonde hair fall down her back. She ran her fingers through it slightly to untangle some knots and smiled again at Ash.

  “I’m so sorry, I’ll be with you in a jiffy. As you can see, I decided to catch a bath before you came around, but lost all sense of time,” she said and ducked behind the dressing screen. Her head appeared moments later above it. She changed into her clothes, talking all the while, clearly unfazed by her state of undress in the presence of a stranger. She told Ash of how she saw the stallholder bludgeon him over the head and screamed. She had saved Ash, tearing a strip off the vendors for attacking a defenceless boy. She had dealt with the police too, threatening to report them for firing on an unarmed civilian. “I’m not saying that stealing was the right thing to do of course. Quite the opposite, but you must have been quite bad off to take those rolls in the first place. Quicker next time, eh?”

  Ash stayed silent with embarrassment while she changed, simply gazing at her. She was flawlessly beautiful, her skin white like porcelain and her pale blue eyes radiating warmth and friendship. Her golden hair tumbled and curled down her back like a waterfall. It was like nothing Ash had ever seen. Hair in the Home had been kept short to avoid lice.

  “…So I brought you back here. You’ve been out cold ever since,” she concluded. “I’m Sandy, by the way. Sandy Lane.”

  She stepped out from behind the screen and Ash found himself staring agog once more. She was dressed in a mish-mash arrangement of clothes that somehow suited her; a loose silk shirt, a pair of small trousers, leather boots and a large ornate gold belt. More bizarre than seeing trousers on a woman (unheard of in polite society), was the belt itself. It was a tarnished gold colour, with jewels up and down its length, glittering madly in the light. Sandy ca
ught him staring.

  “Oh this? Yes, it is rather decadent isn’t it? But I simply adore it. Daddy gave it to me. Now, let me take a look at that head.”

  She sat on the bed and took Ash’s head in her hands without warning. She was a strange character, thought Ash. Caring, yet she obviously didn’t suffer fools gladly. It hurt where she touched his head, but her touch was soft and caring.

  “It’s fine, but it is going to ache for a good couple of days. Now, let’s get you some food.” She rose again and pulled a neatly folded pile of clothes from behind the screen. “I had my woman run these through quickly. Hop into those if you’re up to it and I’ll prepare some soup.”

  She departed the room and Ash warily got out of bed and inspected the bundle. They were his clothes, although so clean that he could hardly recognise them. Thinking of the food waiting in the next room, he changed quickly and went through.

  *****

  It was Sandy’s turn to stare agog now, as she sat opposite Ash in the next room at a makeshift table made of packing boxes. They had no sooner sat down to eat than Ash had gulped down an entire bowl of hot soup and devoured half a loaf of bread. Sandy offered more and Ash ate this a little slower in order to taste the food. It was without a doubt the finest thing he had ever tasted, although as he had never eaten anything but the Home’s mash or gruel, this was no surprise. He swallowed his last spoonful.

  “Well,” said Sandy finally, still only on her third spoonful, “You were in a bad way.”

  Ash belched, blushed and finally found the courage to speak.

  “Beg your pardon Ma’am. It’s been a while since I tasted so good a dish as that.”

  “Oh, don’t apologise! And please, call me Sandy. Ma’am makes me feel distinctly ancient.”

  She cut some more bread and shared it between them. She ripped into her slice, eating between spoonfuls of soup, little and often.

  “Now, we must get you home. How may I contact your parents?”

  Ash shook his head and forced himself to swallow a hunk of bread that was far too big for his gullet.

  “No Miss. No parents.”

  “Oh. How sad. A guardian then?”

  Ash thought of Bishop Cannings and shook his head fervently.

  “No Miss.”

  “Oh. A name perhaps?”

  Ash smiled. “Ash.”

  She smiled back and Ash was left breathless by the way her face transformed and lit up. She reached across to shake his hand once more and he offered his own, soup-sodden mit.

  “Pleased to meet you Ash. I can’t simply turn you out in the streets now can I? Where would you go?”

  Ash remembered the Horton and his deadline and decided to make his exit as quickly and politely as possible. Sandy had been as kind as a saint and he couldn’t simply cut and run, but if she kept asking questions she might find out that he should be back at the Home.

  “Not your worry Miss. You’ve been more than generous. I should be thanking you and be on my way.”

  “Oh nonsense. I helped you because you needed help. No thanks are required. I do it all the time. These boxes, you see, are for boys just like you; parentless and in need of a little comfort,” she said and took a look around the room with an expression of pure hopelessness on her face. “Although goodness knows how I’m going to get these up to York in time.”

  Ash looked up from his bowl.

  “Beg pardon Miss?”

  And so Sandy explained her position while she nibbled at a crust of bread. Her father was a leading senior civil servant in Brunel’s Cabinet and while he longed for Sandy to settle down into a society marriage, he had long ago saw that she was not that way inclined. He found she had a strong will and a great sense of individualism, which is to say that she was stubborn and eccentric. The bachelors that her father had introduced her to had admired this trait, but concluded that their wife would had to be compliant and obedient (or as Sandy had put it, pretty and dim).

  So her father had bought her an apartment in the centre of Swindon and given her an allowance to do with as she wished. After a month of being bored by society dinners and dances, Sandy soon found that her only satisfaction came from helping others. She now sat on the boards of many charities and spent her entire time bullying and cajoling others into donating. She led a simple life now. Her apartment was sparse because she had donated most of her furniture. She loathed the fashion of the day and so sported her own bohemian attire, which was only accepted in the upper class circles because of her father’s status and her charitable efforts.

  Sandy spoke freely and easily and Ash could see that she really was a kind, innocent soul, although her strong will and direct manner lay close to the surface. She was passionate about the causes that she supported and he could see that if you got on the wrong side of her, she would put up a hell of a fight.

  She explained that the boxes that surrounded them were for the orphanages in the workhouses of Yorkshire.

  “Horrible places. Truly barbaric. Such terrible conditions they are made to work in, you have no idea.” She glanced to Ash who silently did his best to convey the message ‘Who, me? No, not a clue, never even heard of a workhouse.’

  “Anyway, I was sent a letter by a pair of businessmen who wanted me to buy and deliver supplies to York where they will distribute it to the poor souls. So there you are. I’ve amassed this freight but have no idea where to take it to get it hauled up North. I’ve donations to pay for it, but no reputable haulage companies have a window in their schedule. Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless”.

  Ash smiled.

  7.

  1838, Brittany, International Celtic Alliance.

  Rudge was on his knees again, staring at the package..

  All around them, snow lay thick like a nobleman’s bedding, but Rudge didn’t seem to care about the cold creeping up his legs. He did not care for much anymore. Just the package.

  “Oi! Ten minute break, I said. It’s been twenty already,” Clench shouted through the trees. Behind them, horses munched on frozen grass, eager to get going again, to gallop so they did not feel the cold. Clench was keen to move too. The trek through Spain and the Pyrenees had been hard and they were behind schedule even before setting foot in France. The gallop through French enemy territory had been risky but necessary. They had encountered their own obstacles there too, but nothing a little bloodshed wouldn’t fix.

  They finally reached Brittany, but Rudge insisted on breaking their journey in some woods.

  “Rudge!”

  Rudge turned finally, his eyes ablaze.

  “You ain’t my boss,” he growled.

  “No, but Her Majesty is. If we’re late for the coronation, the head equerry’ll have our guts, you see if he don’t.”

  Rudge turned back and gazed once more at the crimson blade, which lay in its box on the ground, the jewelled belt coiled around it. He stroked its hilt tenderly, closed the lid of the box and got to his feet.

  “What’s wrong with you anyway?” said Clench. They scrunched through the snow toward the horses.

  “Nuffink.”

  “I seen it too y’know. I know how it…how it takes over you. But it ain’t ours. We just got to get it to England. Get rid of it.”

  Rudge stopped.

  “Get rid of it?”

  “Well, yeah. Give it to the Queen, like we’re supposed to. What else are we going to do?”

  Rudge shrugged, then a thought came over him. He grinned madly.

  “We could keep it.”

  Clench’s face fell.

  “We could! We could disappear. Take the package and go.”

  Clench shook his head sadly.

  “Rudge, you’ve lost it mate.”

  Rudge pulled out a hunting knife from his coat.

  “Maybe I should just take the package on my own.”

  Clench began to smile, but the look on Rudge’s face told him that he was deadly serious.

  “Don’t do this. You don’t have to,” pleaded Clench,
backing away. His hand reached to his own concealed knife.

  “You don’t deserve the knife! You don’t love it like I do!”

  “Listen to yourself man!”

  “QUIET!”

  Clench saw an opportunity to attack and ran at Rudge. They collided and fought.

  The snow on the ground soaked up the blood around them and that night, a further snowstorm concealed their still bodies. The knife and the belt lay at their side. They would remain undiscovered for months, until an old woodsman came walking through the trees…

  8.

  Ash raced through the streets of Swindon towards the Grand Central Station and after a few enquiries, found that the Horton was still in sidings and that the owners could be found in the Ballast Inn, just a few hundred yards from the station.

  Ash burst into the pub, a dirty shack full of oil-stained engineers and smartly dressed engine owners. Each seemed to be a variation on Acton and Frampton so it took some time for him to find them, but find them he did, nestled into a corner booth, both staring morosely into a pint of Fugglestone Red. Studley sat at their heels, contentedly lapping up beer from a slop tray. Frampton looked up and grinned from ear to ear when he saw Ash.

  “Alright lad?” he boomed in his loud voice. “Thought we’d seen the last of you back there! Take a pew!”

  “Said I’d be back didn’t I?” Ash said, squeezing into the corner.

  “Ar, with some freight to pull at that. Told Master Acton here about it and he cracked up!”

  Ash looked to Acton, who presently looked as though he hadn’t so much as smiled in a month. Acton stared relentlessly into his pint, not even raising his head to greet him.

  “Few hours on an engine, he thinks he’s a master businessman,” Acton murmured.

  “Lucky you caught up with us lad. We’ve no luck down here, so we’re off in an hour or so.”

  Ash smiled and prepared his announcement.

  “I’ve got a job for you.”

  Acton looked up in disbelief. So did Frampton. So, for that matter, did Studley.