The Guild Chronicles Books 1-3

by J M Bannon

  Cawley ushered Moss towards the machine where a ladder had been placed for him to ascend. Again Cawley whispered to Moss, “I promise you Sir, that you will be safe and sound in the machine. We have staged this test dozens of time.”

  Moss climbed up the ladder and stood on the deck of the fortress. He ran his hand along the gun. It looked to be a three inch bore. Just being able to move an artillery portion quickly and without horses would be advantageous.

  “I am Percival Reynolds, mechanist and the captain of this vessel. Please enter through the hatch and take up the steam gunner’s position,” directed the gentleman who helped Nathan Lee Moss up the ladder.

  Nathan looked over his shoulder after dropping through the hatch into the seat to see the boiler man stoke the furnace with another scoop of coal. The cramped confines of the machine were complex. Where there wasn’t machinery there was just enough room for a human.

  “Watch your head,” said Reynolds as he shut the hatch. Reynolds appeared inside after entering from a hatch atop the turret.

  Reynolds yelled down from his perch, “There will be live fire, but we will be quite safe with the plate armor of my fortress.” He followed the comment with the rap of his gloved knuckles against the iron turret wall.

  Nathan peered out the view slit to see the Mr. Cawley speaking, although he could not make out his words above the noise of the machine.

  The driver to his right tapped his arm, “You may want to plug your ears and turn away.”

  Nathan saw two men approach the front of the Fortress. One carried a large grenade the other a gunner’s match. He realized they planned to prove the durability of the vehicle’s armor by detonating a bomb against it. He followed the driver’s direction and covered his ears.

  Time seamed to slow as he waited for the explosion. With his hands over his ears he could hear the blood pulsing in his head. Then it hit. It was more than a sound it was a feeling, a shock that rattled through the hull and his every fiber. He looked about and inside everything was intact.

  Then the machine began to move. Immediately after the bomb blast the crew began putting the vehicle through its paces, demonstrating the maneuverability. They moved away from the grandstands out into a field filled with obstacles and trenches.

  As the fortress crawled across the field the interior temperatures increased. Nathan was sure it was hotter than any day he could remember growing up in Georgia. This heat would be a problem in the summer, union guns may not kill his confederates, but the internal temps of this beast coupled with the noon sun in August may well cook the crew alive.

  The driver squinted his eyes as he guided the contraption through the obstacles designed to mimic the battlefield. He craned his head to peer through the slit to see the rest of his delegation sitting in the stands with the Mechanists watching the performance. He thought it would be exciting to get a first -hand account of the operation of the Manchester Mechanists Mobilized Field Fortress. The ride in the steam gunners roost was exciting but now he felt as if he drew the short straw, sweating through his white summer suit.

  “We will shoot the cannon now,” yelled Reynolds. He could barely hear him. The Commander and a gunner were scrunched up in the upper turret. The noise of the boiler and the power transmission gears made his commands almost imperceptible.

  The gunner loaded the breach of the gun. The driver to his right repeated the comment, “We will shoot the cannon. Look out at the wagon!” He peered through the slot about five hundred yards away were several wagons filled with crates and hay bales. The gun fired, delivering a direct hit to the wagon blasting to pieces. “Impressive.” He yelled. Not that it was a large gun, but the ability to maneuver a field piece on the battle field would unsettle the opposing force. He already thought using grape shot would be a better choice to disrupt enemy field positions and charges, dealing damage equally to man and animal.

  The driver tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention from watching the destruction.

  “He says you can test the steam gun,” said the driver. Moss looked out of the slit to see a pen with three hogs. Good sized and alive. He swung the barrel towards the pen lining up the iron post at its tip with the closest pig.

  “To fire step on the floor pedal. That will release a blast of steam at two hundred and seventy degrees, and a pressure of thirty pounds,” directed the driver as he worked the steering levers.

  He slowly pressed his foot on the petal. The click of the actuation was followed by the lurch of the gun as steam passed through flexible hose under the gun and out the barrel. The animals tried to escape the blast, but the pen contained, then they quickly succumbed to the scalding blast writhing and blistering as the southerner passed the wave of steam over the pen. The use of the hogs made their point to him, this was a terrifying weapon to meet on the battlefield. Any troops courageous enough to charge the mobile fortress would meet a death that would break the morale of any compatriots watching. He turned to the driver, who gave him a smile of satisfaction.

  The Mechanist’s Mobil Fortress now turned on its axis. The articulated legs were quite agile given the size of the vehicle. The Mechanist engineers surpassed anything the Yankee tinkerers could muster. His musing was disrupted by the distinct sound of a bullet hitting the armor. He looked out the view slot; thirty yards away a firing line of men with various arms were shooting at the vehicle.

  The lead slugs pelted the front of the behemoth. It was hard to hear the shots of the rifles from outside of the machine as its internal workings droned just behind him, but he could hear the thwaps of the slugs on the armor. Then came the familiar whir of a bullet passing by his head followed by the twang of a ricochet off the metal interior. Before he could react, he saw the odd jerk of the driver’s head, he felt the spatter of the man’s blood on his face. He looked at himself to see his white linen suit splattered with the driver’s blood. The driver lurched forward and fell on the controls causing the machine to begin moving forward and listing left. He feared looking out the viewport as it was through that open slot where the bullet just entered. Glancing he saw the troops that were firing at the vehicle begin to scatter as they feared being trampled by the machines errant path. Behind them rose the grand stand filled with Mechanist savants and the other southern gentleman that made up the Confederate commission. The metal monster would trample the stands if the machine wasn’t stopped.

  Moss grabbed the shoulder of the driver and pulled him back. Holding the corpse back with one hand he reached the control levers to action them. He struggled to maneuver the levers in the cramped space while holding the body. His instinct was to pull both levers back. As he did the machine hissed and lurched now moving backwards.

  Before he could think of what to do next he saw the boiler man working controls frantically. The gearing seized, and the noise of the engine stopped. Sliding back to his seat, he lifted the hatch above his head to exit. Outside he realized just how unsuitable the heat was inside that metal box. Behind him steam vented to relieve the pressure on the drive pistons. He threw his legs out of the hatch and slid down the hull of the contraption falling when he hit the ground. He had no interest to stay inside of that thing any longer to wait for them to bring a ladder.

  “Mr. Moss are you alright?” asked one of the British Mechanists.

  “Far better than your driver, Sir. I suggest not killing the crew when trying to sell potential users on the merits of its protection,”

  “Nathan are you wounded?” asked Ambrose Bacon.

  “No but this suit is ruined, Ambrose,”

  “Oh my, that was quite a shock Nathan. I thought that iron monster was coming straight for us in the grandstands. What a setback to the cause that would have been,” Nathan stared at Ambrose Bacon, one of the wealthiest plantation owners in the confederacy with strong ties to London. All he could think about is the number of young men that would be trampled under machines like this one to keep men like Bacon and their fortunes out of harm’s way.

 
* * *

  9:00 AM, 217 King’s Road, Belgravia

  “It is good to see you Alistair,” said Sir Lester coming into the parlor. Sir Lester’s guests were arriving. Sir Alistair Hilton, the Chairman of Her Majesty’s Celestial Order of the Mechanical Sciences was the first to arrive. A servant brought the two men drinks, Sir Lester’s usual and Sir Alistair’s requested beverage.

  “And it’s good to be seen Sir Lester. So, who will be joining us tonight?” asked Sir Alistair.

  “I have invited The Countess Corsini, a potential client of my partner and a savant of some sort who she patronizes. They wish to meet with Mr. Henry Bessemer and the Chairman of the Sheffield Chapter of the Guild…” Sir Lester stopped when he saw the sour look on Hilton’s face “is there an issue with the guest list?”

  “I’ve been challenged lately with the management of the local chapter houses. Frankly, Welton is one of the most troublesome, I just wish I had been forewarned,” said Sir Alistair.

  Chilton knew the rivalries within the Mechanist Guild. Sir Alistair was trying to solidify and centralize London’s influence over the loosely affiliated chapters. As Birmingham, Manchester and Sheffield produced new inventions the power and wealth of the local chapters grew and left the London office with less influence. Even in London there was a schism between Hilton’s bureaucrats and those in the City’s chapter who were actual tinkerers, “That is why I asked you here, so you can see what is being discussed. I have never met this contingent of Italians. They made a request of Mr. Strathmore to have me introduce them to Bessemer and discuss some novel process. My interests lie with supporting my partner, and his interests are, that by way of this introduction we have an opportunity to build a relationship with a family of means,” said Sir Lester.

  “I see. So, there is money behind these Italians?”

  “The Countess made the request of Strathmore. Strathmore is looking to manage the family accounts.” said Sir Lester, he could offer no more about potential client to the Mechanist as Sir Lester had little more to offer.

  “I thought Strathmore was American? What is he doing chasing money on the Continent?”

  “He knows no bounds. I’ve never seen anyone so brash and aggressive in his business, yet at the same time so stayed in demeanor. I am happy he is my partner rather than my competitor…” Sir Lester was interrupted as the butler entered and introduced the next guests, “The Countess Corsini and Mr. Luca Giuliani.”

  The woman was stunning, but clearly not Italian. Chilton tried to place the features, Middle Eastern or Asian. She wore a dress that revealed her shoulders and was tight to her hips. Now he was beginning to understand what Strathmore meant when he said she was unconventional. With modernity modesty was the baby going out the window with the bathwater. The man that accompanied the sultry woman was a short, slight Italian. He was in a dinner jacket, but his hair style left Chilton thinking the man was likely some type of dandy.

  “Countess, welcome, let me introduce you to The Chairman of Her Majesty’s Celestial Order of the Mechanical Sciences, Sir Alistair Hilton,” greeted Sir Lester.

  “Charmed to meet you Countess,” said Hilton.

  “Welcome to my home Mr. Giuliani, Lester Chilton,” said Sir Lester as he greeted the young Italian with a firm shake of the hand. He was impressed that the slight man returned a solid handshake. A good sign.

  “Grazie, it is an honor to be in such company,” replied Luca.

  “Sir Lester tells me we are here to speak about your inventions Mr. Giuliani?” proposed Hilton.

  “Is, yes my English is not so good. I apprenticed with the physicist Luigi Valentino Brugnatelli and worked with Volta after studying across Europe,” said Luca.

  “Mechanist Bradford Welton and Mechanist Henry Bessemer,” announced the butler as the two men, both in their forties, entered the room in dinner suits.

  “Ironmaster Bessemer,” corrected the man with the wooly sideburns and balding head. He had the notion that combing his hair forward over his balding pate brought the illusion of a hairline that didn’t start behind his ears, “I prefer Ironmaster if you choose to announce a title.”

  “Ironmaster Bessemer good to see you. You know Chairman Hilton and let me introduce you to the Countess Corsini and Mr. Luca Giuliani” interjected Sir Lester.

  “And same to you Sir Lester, Lady, Sir,” offered Bessemer as he pushed the servant aside to get to the drink cart, “Let me say sir, thank you for your sponsorship at White’s,” finished Bessemer while pouring his own drink.

  “We are always looking for good stock and I wanted to get you on the roles before your knighthood,” said Sir Lester.

  “You’re a Member at White’s now? Congratulations,” complimented Hilton.

  “Damn right I am, you would have thought a fellow Mechanist would have sponsored me rather than a banker,” grumbled Bessemer.

  Chilton chuckled to himself. He knew that position was important to Hilton. Seeing Bessemer recognized by the Society along with already amassing wealth irked the Chairman. He didn’t want the pecking order upset in the clubs of London and certainly not in his chapter halls.

  “Can I fix you a drink, Countess?” asked Bessemer.

  “Yes, A Whisky please,”

  “You have an interest in the mechanical sciences?” asked Mechanist Walton of the Countess.

  “I have an interest in seeing Senior Giuliani’s methods applied to a grand scale,” she answered.

  “And what are these, Sir?” asked Walton as he turned to Giuliani.

  “I am an electro-metallurgist. I use the properties of electrical energy to bind, blend and purify alchemical substances, specifically metals,” answered Luca.

  “So, you’ve come to learn the secrets of steel?” challenged Bessemer making his way to the Countess handing her the drink he made.

  Chilton was interested to see how the Italian dealt with Bessemer’s famous bluster.

  “The Vikings would smelt iron with the bones of ancestors or animals with the belief that it imbued the prowess of the beast or kin. The Indians guarded the recipe for Wootz steel for centuries as the blades forged from those ingots seemed to never lose their bite or become brittle in battle. You know as well as I that they had just stumbled upon the recipe for a carbon iron alloy, steel. Before them, before antiquity, man found the rocks that fell from the heavens and were sure the special properties were magic. The man who created an axe head from this meteoric iron could cut wood longer without needing to hone an edge than the man with an iron axe. I studied these ancient ores and they are not magical, but hybrids of nickel and iron forged in the heat of a meteor plummeting to earth…”

  “I wish we were having this conversation at my foundry so that the sound of my furnace would remind you the tonnage of your magic metal I can produce,” interrupted Bessemer.

  “You are the master of that process, I do not dispute what the master knows, but to remain the master you must be prepared to learn what you don’t know.”

  The Italian reached into his jacket and pulled out a slender metal bar and went to hand it to Bessemer, but he had turned away to look at a painting. “What if rather than carbon you infused the iron with an eldritch element?” said Luca as he handed the bar to Walton.

  “What is this?” asked Walton as he inspected the metal, testing its weight in his hand with a strange smile on his face.

  “It is an amalgam of metals rather than just smelted iron and carbon I have introduced nickel and Phlotegious Calex,” said the Italian.

  “It’s so light” commented Walton.

  As strong as steel, but lighter.

  “And this, the coating?” asked Walton.

  “Electro-enameling, all my work uses alchemical baths and the introduction of electrical current to adjust the properties of the metals. As I said before the ability to bind, blend and purify. The coating, although it looks like gold is another amalgam of silver and zinc that I have adhered to the surface of the steel alloy to provide a prote
ctive and decorative film.” The Italian beamed.

  Chilton watched Bessemer the whole time as he turned to listen. Bessemer had made a fortune, first in mechanically manufacturing brass powder then methods for industrial manufacture of glass. Now the steel process he had patented was changing the world. Bessemer steel would be the skeleton the age of modernity would be hung upon. Chilton knew it and so did Bessemer, hence his arrogance. Bessemer set his drink on a side table and grabbed the ingot from Walton. Bessemer could not keep the surprise off his face when he took the metal in his hand, “This is iron?”

  “The exact recipe is proprietary sir, but I assure you that ninety-one percent of the elements in that ingot are iron.”

  The Countess moved over to Chilton and spoke to him in a quite tone, “Mr. Giuliani appears to have put a shock into Mr. Bessemer, just as he does with his metal bar.”

  “Mr. Giuliani, may I ask why you have brought this to us?” asked Mechanist Walton.

  “With the Italian states annexed to the French Empire, I first looked to the Academy of Science in France for support. They took no interest in an Italian project. While I studied at Humboldt, I was not accepted into the Alchemist Guild. Again, seen as an outsider. I just seek to bring the ideas to reality, lighter stronger metals for airships, and cables that conduct wire-types faster…”

  “Mr. Bessemer, I am the one who wanted to meet with you to discuss a venture,” said the Countess.

  “You need backing. You wish to license these innovations,” Bessemer responded.

  “No, Sir. Sir Lester’s partner will vouch for my fortune. I don’t need any money, nor do I need your steel making process. Mr. Giuliani is the only metallurgist in this room whom I trust. Why I sought the introduction was an interest in an operation the size of your Sheffield works. One that could produce a great number of parts fashioned from Mr. Giuliani’s meteoric steel. The parts require precise casting and your foundry is the logical choice. You will profit from this venture through what I pay you and by Mr. Giuliani granting you the license to the process.