The Providence Engine: A Steampunk Novella Series: Episode 1 (The Crimson Blade)

by Ed Zenith

  “What’s we got ‘ere then?” boomed the guard. The dog, at a single tug of the lead, began to snarl and drool. Ash could do nothing but stare at the beast in front of him. “Looks like the runt’s brought us some food Ratford. You hungry?”

  The dog answered with a loud bark that made Ash jump. The guard grinned menacingly.

  “You want the mash? Or the boy?”

  Ratford snarled once more, his growl getting louder. Ash could see the lead getting tighter. The hound was straining at the lead, he thought, ready to pounce at him and tear the skin from his bones. Saliva dripped from its rust-stained teeth, steam rising from the two exhaust pipes mounted either side of its shoulder blades.

  The dog dropped to the floor and started to lick the mash from the bowl. The guard let out a great laugh that echoed around the corridors.

  “You’s a lucky runt. He ain’t that hungry today.”

  He pulled at the lead and the dog rose from the bowl, pausing only to pee on Ash’s leg. Ash let himself breathe again, as the steamhound and his guard walked away in a cloud of smoke and vapour, its metal legs clanking noisily.

  *****

  Ash eventually reached the dormitory, where Drew lay in one of the bunks, quiet and weak. He was as thin as a skeleton. Ash approached slowly, fearful that the disease may have finally taken him. Thankfully, Drew stirred and turned to see Ash. They both smiled.

  “What took you so long?” he joked, his Wiltshire drawl sounding hoarse and tired. “Gis that ‘ere, m’starvin’.”

  Ash handed over the bowl that the guard-dog hadn’t eaten from. Drew didn’t even wait for the spoon before he started to shovel the mash down his throat.

  “Your appetite’s back then?” said Ash.

  “Comes and goes,” said Drew through a mouthful. “Here, what’s that on your face?”

  A red mark was still glowing on Ash’s cheek from Cannings’s earlier blow.

  “Oh, that. Cannings is back.”

  “That pile of lard? Where’d he go anyhow?”

  “Dunno. Been gone for ages though. ”

  “Let’s hope he stays away next time,” said Drew, sticking another handful of mash into his mouth.

  “Take it easy Drew, you’ll be-”

  Ash’s prediction came true, all over the floor. Drew lay on his front, vomiting loudly. Ash managed to catch most of it in a chamber pot. After his body had purged the food from his system, Drew carried on coughing into the pot. When Ash finally took it away, he saw blood on his friend’s lips and tears in his eyes.

  “S’gettin’ worse innit?” whispered Drew. Ash shook his head fervently.

  “No! You’ve an appetite, that’s something.”

  “No. S’gettin’ worse. I can feel it. Can’t breathe sometimes and I panic. But I’m ready now. If it wants to finish me, I’m ready.”

  Tears began to well up in Ash’s eyes now, but he blinked them back, a gesture of strength for his friend. With a massive effort, he swallowed the lump in his throat.

  “Here, I know you’s going to say I’m being stupid, but I’m going to go soon and I wanted you to have summat.”

  Ash laughed. All any worker in the Home had was the clothes on his back and even they officially belonged to Bishop Cannings.

  “You ain’t got nothing to give, you idiot.”

  “Maybe not a keepsake or nothing, but this,” he tapped his temple. “I can give you this.”

  Ash sat on the bed and stared at his friend. Once he had been so strong, so brave. They used to joke that they were brothers. Now, his big brother was more like a baby, needing attention and care, whereas the old Drew would have refused through pride. Drew sat up a little.

  “When I’m gone, you’re going to escape.”

  Ash tried to protest, but Drew stopped him with a glance.

  “I worked it all out. What’s the one way out of this place?”

  “In a coffin?”

  Drew threw a light kick at his friend. It hurt Drew more than it hurt Ash.

  “Come on, think!”

  “There ain’t one!” said Ash in despair.

  “Exactly!” said Drew. He smiled knowingly. The daft bugger’s finally lost it, thought Ash. “There ain’t no way out. The doors are guarded, the windows barred. Even if you made it out of the building, there’s still the perimeter fence to climb. The rubbish is checked before it leaves, the ground’s so hard you couldn’t tunnel two feet, never mind two hundred yards. So what’s left?”

  Ash shrugged. Drew smiled and reached up. He casually tapped the pipes which ran down a beam by his bed.

  “Pipes? You want to crawl through some inch-wide pipe to get out of here?”

  “Not these pipes, you great donk!”

  Ash shook his head and the idea Drew had been so insistent on putting into his mind appeared.

  “The Providence Engine. The waste pipes are huge. I could slip down one into the river. But I’d never get in one in the first place…”

  “Yes, you can. Don’t give up so easily. There’s a switch to stop the waste water going down the pipe. They only use it when they’re cleaning the pipes. You’d need to switch that first before trying to get in. So what do you think? It’s a plan innit?”

  “It’s half a plan.”

  Drew sighed, his enthusiasm waning. He knew Ash was right.

  “It might not work, but it’s worth dreaming isn’t it? You’ve got to try, Ash. You don’t want to live and die in this scragheap. Trust me.”

  Ash could barely meet Drew’s eyes. Ash pictured the scene in his mind. He knew the Home intimately and the pipes of which Drew spoke were easily reachable from the forge where he worked. All he would have to do was create a distraction and slip into the pipe.

  “I’d never make it with my health, but you Ash, you’d make it.”

  “Shut up.”

  “S’true! You’re the slyest, quickest, canniest little thief in this place. Taught you myself didn’t I? Remember that time you nicked Mr Chapmanslade’s wig from his quarters?”

  “Yeah. It was on his head at the time,” Ash laughed. Drew joined in, but it quickly descended into a fit of coughs.

  “See? You’d make it. Course, you’d have to start from the match factory or the laundry and you’d have to distract the guards…”

  While Drew ran through the plan, Ash daydreamed about what would happen if he made it. It was risky and both he and Drew knew that only one person in the history of the Home had ever escaped. He was called Iron Acton and had become something of a mythical hero among the permanent inmates of the Home. He had defied the Governor, fooled the guards and been out of the Home long before anyone had realised he was gone. Legend had it that he was a strong as a steam engine, with fiery red hair and had scars running down the length of his forearms from battles and fights. He could often be found robbing noblemen, drinking his own weight in ale and wooing the ladies of the West with his charm and cheek. He had a fleet of locomotives and used them to steal goods and transport contraband. Drew and Ash both loved to hear stories about the infamous Iron Acton and in their younger years would act out games where he would buck the system and upset the authorities.

  Drew saw the glazed look in Ash’s eyes and knew what he was thinking.

  “You could be like him Ash. He made it.” Drew smiled and chanted the folk song they had both learned as nippers. Ash couldn't stop himself from joining in.

  “Hero of the workhouse,

  Strong as an ox!

  Evil as the Devil,

  Cunning as a fox!

  He fled from the Bishop,

  To Swindon he ran!

  Pirate of the Railway,

  Acton is our man!”

  They both laughed and Drew soon collapsed into a coughing fit again. He still smiled though, as though the pain was entirely worth it. Ash snapped back into reality and shook his head.

  “S’impossible. No one gets away from this place. No one.”

  “Iron Acton did!” protested Drew.


  “It's a myth, Drew. Nothing more.”

  He stared up at the huge pipes that criss-crossed the ceiling above him and followed their path to the centre of the Home, the shadow of the Providence Engine. He stared at it now as it hissed and shook. It was like a living creature, a queen bee at the centre of her hive. Casting its power over the Home like a God controlling its kingdom. Ash hated it. He felt his blood boiling as he stared at it with bitter resentment and forced himself to look away.

  “It’s a great dream Drew, but that’s all it is. A dream.”

  Disappointed, the boys lapsed into silence. Drew lay back on his bed.

  “I just thought you could try,” he sighed. “I’m so tired.”

  Even over the course of their conversation, Drew had grown paler and weaker. “Do you want anything? More food, some water?”

  Drew stared at the ceiling, his eyes glazed, his voice dreamy.

  “D’you remember them oatcakes we used to have?”

  “Cannings had, you mean. We used to nick them from his office. Nearly got a beating for it a few times, if I remember right.”

  “They were nice though,” smiled Drew. Ash realised what he meant.

  “I can’t go nicking them now, can I? I’m twice the size I was when we last broke into his place. I’d get caught this time and hanged, for sure.”

  “You’ve never been caught in your life,” murmured Drew, now driting off into slumber. “Them was nice, them oatcakes…”

  Drew slept and Ash tucked him in. He saw finally that his friend really didn’t have long left. He stood and decided that Cannings wouldn’t miss a few oatcakes after all. He cast a last glance at the peaceful Drew and walked off in the direction of the Bishop’s quarters and some life changing revelations.

  -3-

  The Home was now in darkness and the inmates in their beds, the only light coming from the small gas lanterns that glowed dimly on the walls. Ash had removed his tattered socks and walked briskly but silently along a corridor. It led him to Bishop Cannings’s private quarters, where Ash had been many times before. Most of those times, he and Drew had been receiving a beating for a crime they had jointly committed and on the other occasions, Ash was uninvited, sneaking around in the middle of the night, helping himself to the Bishop’s personal stock of confectionery. Those times were long ago however, when Ash was much smaller and was able to fit through one of the small windows in Cannings’s study. Since then he had grown a great deal and tonight he would need to enter through the front door.

  Although bigger, Ash was still as sneaky and silent as ever and he seemed to glide down the corridor, his eyes darting this way and that, searching for a sign of danger. He stopped just around the corner from the door and flattened himself against the hard cold wall. Stretching his neck, he could see a guard seated outside the door. He was young and dressed in the usual dull green suit that all the guards wore in the home, protected only by the pneumatic extendable truncheons that served as their weapon. Ash dared to peer around further and smiled when he saw that the guard had chosen this moment to fall asleep. Wasting no time, Ash silently darted to the door, slowly turned the handle and entered the Bishop’s lair.

  *****

  Cannings’s office was a treasure trove of opulent living and it seemed odd to Ash that it had been placed in the Home, which to his mind was the most putrid place in England. As he gently closed the door, he breathed out and took in some of the pleasures that the Bishop enjoyed: A giant mahogany desk topped in green leather; a globe of the world, presented to him by the Queen herself; a drinks cabinet stocked to the gills with every conceivable spirit known to the civilised world; and Ash’s favourite piece, a simple cupboard filled with biscuits, cakes and confectionary. Ash decided that he must be quick and that the days of sneaking through the Bishop’s desk drawers and pinching one of his foot-long cigars from Columbia were long gone. He moved briskly to the cupboard, but saw something that caught his eye. On the wall above the cupboard was a small display cabinet, built from mahogany, lined with red velvet, standing completely empty. It was around four feet in length, two feet high and the fact that it was bare was really its only intriguing feature. Cannings was proud of his luxuries, always eager to show them off and to have a display for nothing at all seemed out of character. On closer inspection, Ash saw that there were pins inserted in the velvet, so that something could be held in it. He wrenched his eyes from the wall and told himself that he wasn’t there just to nose about. He opened the confectionery cupboard, pulled out the oatcakes and stuffed a few in his pocket, keeping one out for his trip back. Before he turned to leave, he looked back at the display case and bit into the oatcake. He stared at the suspiciously empty case and wondered about its future contents. Why would the Bishop have this on his wall? He decided he really didn’t care and turned to the door, just as he heard a noise from outside.

  “GET UP MAN!”

  It was Cannings, who had obviously discovered the sleeping guard and was punishing him severely for his laziness.

  Ash had to hide. His gaze darted around and landed on the cupboard from which he had just stolen the cakes. He flung the doors open and saw the space inside; perhaps a year or so earlier he may have fitted, but now it would take a miracle for him to squeeze his growing limbs inside. Ash heard the Bishop outside kicking the guard in the stomach and realised that a miracle in his life was long overdue. He would have to make himself fit.

  *****

  Bishop Cannings flung open the door to his study and marched inside, nursing his bleeding knuckles on a monographed handkerchief. Behind him his right-hand man, Dilton Marsh, stepped over the prostrate, bleeding guard and entered, closing the door behind him.

  “Can’t get the bloody staff,” muttered Cannings, wheezing slightly.

  “Quite, my Lord,” sniffed Marsh. He was a tall, thin man, with a pinched expression that made him look as though he had just discovered something quite disgusting lurking on the sole of his shoe. His voice was as clipped, characterless and callous as the man himself and he was obviously much more intelligent than the Bishop. Many wondered why he had devoted his life to the servitude of a thug, but in truth, he was paid well and secretly idolised the Bishop and the power that he exerted over the Home. He wore a flawless black suit and carried a briefcase, bound with a padlock, which he placed carefully on the Bishop’s desk.

  “Careful with that!” snapped Cannings, even though Marsh was being deliberately slow and gentle.

  “Yes, my Lord,” breathed Marsh. “I take it by your anxiety that your trip was successful?”

  Cannings couldn’t resist a smirk. He did this so infrequently however that it looked peculiar on his red, pock-marked face, rather like a baby breaking wind. He moved over to the desk, fished out some keys from his pocket and snapped open the padlock. The smirk was turning rapidly into a veritable smile as he lifted something from the case. It was wrapped in rags and Cannings brushed some papers from the desk in order to place it down. Marsh was silent, his eyes glued to the rags. Cannings glanced up at Marsh for effect and carefully teased the rags apart, revealing the bounty inside.

  From his hiding place in the biscuit cupboard, Ash had just enough room to see out of the crack in the doors, but could not arch his body to make out the contents of the package. All he could see was a faint red glow emanating from the desk, reflected in the whites of the men’s eyes.

  “My word,” whispered Marsh. “The rumours were true!”

  “I should think so too!” laughed Cannings, breaking the hushed air of reverence that had descended on the room. “I’ve been through hell to get that beauty. And when I say hell, I mean France.”

  “It’s beautiful…” said Marsh, still entranced by the item on the desk. He pulled his gaze away from the desk and fixed them on his beloved Bishop. “But what am I thinking? You must be tired after your journey. Sit, my Lord. May I get you anything? Some tea perhaps, or a biscuit?”

  No! thought Ash. Anything but a biscuit!

/>   “I think you know what I need, Dilton,” the Bishop groaned as he eased himself into a leather chair near the fire. Marsh looked at the Bishop for the first time with what looked suspiciously like disappointment, but it quickly turned back to unreserved love.

  “Well, you have been through a lot. Just this once, but I should warn you, I was reading in the Lancet that laudanum can be addictive-”

  “Hogwash!” barked the Bishop. “The Lancet is written by worrisome, overpaid butchers with too much time to spend on ruining people’s enjoyment of life!”

  “Laudanum it is then,” Marsh moved to the drinks cabinet and pulled down a bottle of the finest malt whiskey in the collection. Ash breathed a sigh of relief. “I must say my lord, how did you do it? Men have searched for sixty years.”

  “A tip off. Just one sighting meant that I could track it down and recover it for its rightful owner,” Cannings slouched back in his chair and his eyes glazed over as he recounted his tale. He had taken a private ship to France, where, posing as a member of the Celtic clergy, he was taken to the town of Caen and introduced to the Bishop there. The Bishop was welcoming and Cannings had to be polite and civilised to his host, but at night, he would sneak out of the Cathedral grounds and over to the local hostelries. He drank, smoked and talked with the natives in his fluent French and it was not hard, once he was amongst the right kind of people, to locate the local criminals. Cannings was not a subtle man and would stop at nothing to get what he wanted.

  “I killed five men that day…” said Cannings under his breath. Marsh shook his head slowly, as if to mourn the passing of the five strangers, but he soon started to nod, as if to say that his master had done the right thing.

  As Cannings relayed the rest of his story, Marsh set about brewing up the laudanum, a drug that Cannings insisted eased his back pain. He had been taking it for years, even though the original back pain had passed long ago. Marsh took from inside the drinks cabinet a glass, a small glazed crock and a decorative tin. From the tin he picked out a few withered poppies and set them down on the top of the cabinet. Picking off the poppy heads, he then pierced them with a pin and put them in the crock. He placed the crock by the fire. Opium sweated out of the poppy heads and Marsh decanted this into a tumbler, adding the fine malt whiskey to the glass. As he presented it to Cannings, the Bishop smiled as if it were his mother’s own milk.