by Arthur Slade
A bell on the ship began ringing. Time to board. As they climbed the gangplank to the first-class cabins, Modo studied the ship. It was fully four hundred feet long, with four masts and two smoke funnels. A grand enough beast, Modo thought, but he remembered the monstrosity that was the Wyvern. That Clockwork Guild battleship would have dwarfed this royal steamer. But it would be a fine ride all the same! The idea that this new, modern ship would take them all the way from London to Sydney in less than two months was astonishing. Going first class was the icing on the cake.
A porter led them to their cabins. Modo would be sharing one with Tharpa, next door to Mr. Socrates. Octavia and Mrs. Finchley’s cabin was on the other side.
Modo was impressed by the size of the cabin, the rich red carpets and curtains, and the view the porthole allowed, looking out over the docks and other steamships waiting in their berths. Below the porthole was a teak table with a chess set, the pawns and knights and such already in place.
Modo picked up the king. “I shall defeat thee mightily,” he said, and Tharpa laughed.
Both beds were luxurious.
“There will be just enough room to spar,” Tharpa said. “We shall do so every morning.”
“I look forward to it,” Modo said jovially.
They sat and waited for their luggage, but Modo quickly grew bored. “I’m going to scout out the ship,” he said.
“Yes, go, young sahib. Scout to the contentment of your heart.”
Modo strode along the top deck, passing a good number of lifeboats, which made him feel secure. He crossed under the bridge and spotted the captain, a white-bearded man watching a seaman unfurl the Union Jack from the crow’s nest. The captain looked as though he’d been at sea for the last hundred years, and that was fine with Modo.
He made his way among the passengers, avoiding the bustles of the ladies and sidestepping gentlemen with walking sticks. He reached the forecastle of the ship as the horn sounded and the RMS Rome began to move out of the docks, pulled by a smaller steam-powered tugboat, through the locks to the Thames.
“Are you feeling seasick, cousin?”
Modo turned as Octavia gave him a wink.
“No,” Modo answered, pleased that she might have been looking for him. “I seem to have conquered my seasickness.”
“Funny, when we were married you were a husband with a rather delicate constitution.”
Modo often relived that trip! On their last assignment, he and Octavia had crossed the Atlantic to New York City. He’d had to pretend to be her husband—chastely so. He’d spent most of his time behind a privacy screen in the cabin feeling nauseated. Octavia slept on the couch. Since that mission he’d sometimes found himself wishing Mr. Socrates would arrange for them to be married again. “Perhaps it was married life that made me ill,” he said, smiling his cheekiest smile.
“And maybe your French mistress cured it.” Octavia seemed to have lost her lightheartedness.
“What do you mean by that?” he asked, though he knew full well.
“Oh, nothing,” she said. “I’m only blowing hot air. I’m feeling a little flushed—I shall return to my cabin, cousin.”
Modo watched her sashay away until he could no longer pick her out in the crowd of passengers on the deck. French mistress my eye, he thought. In the days after he had fought alongside Colette Brunet, a French agent, Octavia had often given him the cold shoulder. Perhaps that was why she had chosen not to see him over these past few months.
Modo would never understand Octavia. One moment they were best of friends, the next she was angry at him for some perceived slight. And yet, when they were apart, he couldn’t stop thinking about her.
Given how things between them had started off, it was going to be a very long trip.
One Last Passenger
Visser followed his targets up the gangplank of the RMS Rome, carrying his portmanteaus in either hand. He’d dyed his blond hair black and dressed himself in a derby hat and jacket, adding gold-rimmed glasses to give himself a bookish, artistic appearance. All this was to prevent the young female agent from recognizing him as being from Westminster Abbey. In his pocket were papers that said he was Albert Carpenter, an American citizen. He always enjoyed mimicking an American accent.
It had been a simple enough task to hire several urchins to watch the house of his enemy and, once alerted, he followed the targets to the port and purchased tickets to Sydney, Australia. He’d even had time to send a telegram to his masters providing details regarding the group. He was the last to board the ship.
He recognized Mr. Socrates from sketches in the Guild files. He was a brilliant and accomplished enemy. His Indian servant, Tharpa, was the deadlier of the two. Best to kill him from a distance. Perhaps, to be safe, to deal with both from a distance.
Not that he’d been instructed to kill them. Visser’s orders were to follow Mr. Socrates and report on his progress. He didn’t know the names or backgrounds of the other three people with Mr. Socrates, but he would uncover their secrets soon enough. He’d already seen what the young woman was capable of with his clockwork falcons. He’d also be wary of the other two, who were most likely agents. The older woman might have a trick or two up her sleeve.
As he walked across the deck he heard the occasional click from within the portmanteau. Had he wound down the falcons properly? Though he’d had several lessons about their intricate levers and gears, there were still a few things about the birds that perplexed him. They were more than just machines, that much he knew.
He noted the cabins of his targets, then followed the steward to his own.
A Game of Cricket
Because Modo couldn’t maintain his appearance for longer than five hours, he was forced to spend much of his time in his cabin. Each morning, after a breakfast of rolls and eggs in the dining room, he would return to his room and let his Doctor face slide into his real one. Then he’d spar with Tharpa, earning new bruises every day.
In the afternoons Mrs. Finchley would arrive for his acting lessons. Modo was reminded of his days in Ravenscroft, and his heart ached for that simpler time when it was just him, Mrs. Finchley, Tharpa, and occasionally Mr. Socrates.
“ ‘Is this a dagger which I see before me, the handle toward my hand?’ ” Modo recited. “ ‘Come, let me clutch thee!’ ”
Mrs. Finchley clapped her hands. “You have outgrown me!”
Modo enjoyed the part of Macbeth, one of his favorite characters. “But I haven’t outgrown you!” he answered.
She patted his shoulder. “I mean in your talent. I hope you never outgrow spending time with me. I’m so proud. There are times when you are completely involved, when you become the character you are playing. That’s at the heart of great acting. You have tremendous ability for someone so young—but you need to forget something.”
“Forget what?”
“Yourself! The best actors must believe in their hearts that they are who they pretend to be.”
There must be something to that, Modo decided. But he never felt as though he could forget who he was, so he could never completely throw himself into a part. How could he forget his life, his face?
He set down the imaginary dagger.
“How is Octavia progressing in her studies?” he asked. He hadn’t had more than a few private conversations with her since they’d boarded the ship. She joined them for meals but was busy with her own training.
“She’s progressing nicely. A smart, raw talent, that one,” Mrs. Finchley said.
“As talented as moi?” He feigned lightheartedness. Mrs. Finchley had sounded so proud of her, and his fists had involuntarily tightened.
“Ah, each of you has your own unique talents. Now, let’s work on your accent and bearing.”
After the fourth straight day of his physical training, he knocked Tharpa onto his back twice. Each time, Tharpa stood, brushed himself off, and gave Modo a grin. “Good! Good!”
When Modo wasn’t training, he wandered the Rome, loo
king out at the Atlantic, stopping at the saloon for lemonade or lime juice. He was relieved that the steamship hugged the European coast. He shivered when he imagined falling into that water again, as he had only a few short months ago. He’d come so close to freezing to death; his body remembered it well. And every time he looked down into the deeps he thought of Captain Monturiol and Cerdà and swallowed a lump of sadness. The Atlantic was their grave, a sunken submarine ship their coffin.
He distracted himself from his memories by following one of Mr. Socrates’ orders: to learn as much about the other passengers as possible. There were 125 saloon passengers in all. It had been a simple matter of asking for a tour of the clerk’s office, then sneaking a look at the list while the clerk was called out to answer some question about pay stubs. The names were common enough: Mr. and Mrs. Henderson. Mr. and Mrs. Hare. Messrs. M. Collier and C. P. Davis. Mr. Carpenter. Miss Hoddle and Miss Fulton. Mr. and Mrs. O. Sheppard and two children. Mr. R. Reid and son, A. Reid, and servant. C. Chandra and Mrs. Finchley.
Modo read the last few lines again. There it was in writing. Anyone who read it would believe he was Mr. Socrates’ son. He assumed that Mrs. Finchley hadn’t had to change her name because she wasn’t an agent. And it was curious that Tharpa wasn’t listed by name as a passenger. If the ship went down and all souls were lost, would he even be counted?
Modo memorized the list. He would make it a game to put a name to each of the faces. He would do the same with all of the ship’s cabin boys, stewards, seamen, and officers. Mr. Socrates didn’t expect any sort of trouble on the ship, but it was wise to know with whom they were spending so much time.
There were other distractions, of course. He tried to learn as much as possible about Australia by listening to the accents of the colonial passengers and quizzing any with whom he chatted. Being in first class also meant painting lessons (which he skipped), card games, sing-alongs, croquet on the deck, and even cricket in one of the open holds. Modo had never played cricket, but he’d read the rule book over a year ago. A passing knowledge of the game would be important to survival in the British Empire, he’d decided.
He’d expected to be spending more time with Mr. Socrates, but his “father” was either in his cabin doing research or with the officers of the ship. Mr. Socrates did dine with Modo and Tharpa at breakfast, but the discussion was mostly about the weather.
“Will we be playing any cricket, Father?” Modo asked on the sixth morning of their voyage. He enjoyed calling his master Father. Mrs. Finchley had said he should throw himself into his part and so he would!
Mr. Socrates laughed. “My cricket days are done.”
“Would you play, Tharpa?” Modo asked.
“The rules of propriety don’t allow me to play,” Tharpa said.
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t be softheaded, son,” Mr. Socrates said. “Tharpa is a servant. He cannot play cricket with the first-class passengers. Besides which, his place is at my side.”
“I bet you could knock the ball right across the Atlantic,” Modo said. “You’d hit it so hard their first-class lily-white pants would fall right off.”
Tharpa laughed. “You are kind, though incorrect. It is their socks I would knock off.”
Modo signed up for the next game that afternoon and spent a few hours in the open hold playing against a collection of officers, doctors, a hotel owner, an engineer, and even a priest, memorizing their names as he did so. It was a sunny day, and down in the hold he began to sweat.
When it was his turn at bat, Modo stood behind his wooden wicket and stared at the bowler, Mr. Haroldson, a clerk from London. Modo knew the point of the game was to prevent the ball from striking his wicket and to hit it far enough to give him time to change places with the second batter, fifteen feet away. He glanced at the upper deck and was surprised see Mr. Socrates looking down at him. Alongside him were Captain Adamson and a few other elderly gentlemen.
Modo gripped the white willow cricket bat too tightly and his first swings were utter misses, allowing the ball to strike his wicket and knock down two of its “stumps.” He was already nearly out and he hadn’t even hit the ball! He released his breath and relaxed his shoulders, just as Tharpa had told him to do a thousand times. With his next swing he struck the ball hard, ringing it off the metal wall and hitting Lieutenant Sanders in the stomach, knocking him to the ground.
“My son doesn’t know his own strength,” he heard Mr. Socrates say.
Modo rushed over and apologized to the lieutenant, but even as he did so he couldn’t help feeling a little pride. He could play cricket! He was just like a regular Englishman after all. Who needed a fancy education at Oxford? Ravenscroft had been good enough.
The lieutenant waved him away. “It’s a minor injury, take your place.”
As Modo walked to his wicket he glanced back up at the spectators. Mr. Socrates had turned his back and was discussing something with the captain. Wasn’t he going to watch the rest of the game? There were only five other spectators. Modo was pleased that he could immediately recall the names and occupations of four of them. The fifth was a dark-haired man with glasses who seemed to be traveling alone. Modo had yet to match a name with his face. However, as he picked up the cricket bat it came to him with a laugh. The only name he hadn’t matched was Mr. Carpenter. Now that he knew the man’s name, he’d have to discover his occupation.
Modo was delighted. A run scored in cricket, and now he had matched every passenger’s name to a face. He glanced back at Mr. Carpenter, who was still watching him. Modo nodded at him and prepared to swing, whispering at the bowler, “You can’t have my wicket!”
Stop. Expendable. Stop.
When the Rome resupplied at Gibraltar, passengers were given a few hours to visit the shops. Visser took a cab from the docks and down the central streets. His cabbie, like most other residents of the port city, had a British accent; essentially this little jut of rock in the Mediterranean at the bottom of Spain was British soil. It irked him to know that they had already left their footprints on so many parts of the world. Their incursions and domination of the Boers in South Africa was particularly galling. His people. He’d learned to hate the English at the foot of his father, a Dutch farmer, who eked out his living in the Orange Free State.
He stopped at the Piazza, stepped out onto the paved square, and went into the Club House Hotel, a three-story building. After waiting in line at the desk, he asked for any messages being held for Mr. Charles Godwin, one of his several identities. The clerk handed him a telegram and Visser read it immediately, deciphering the Guild code without need for pen or pencil:
NAME OF YOUNG FEMALE AGENT OCTAVIA. STOP.
EXPENDABLE. STOP. NO RECORDS FOR MRS. FINCHLEY.
STOP. EXPENDABLE. STOP. NAME OF YOUNG MALE
AGENT NOT KNOWN. STOP. POSSIBLY MODO. STOP.
CAPTURE PREFERRED. STOP. BRING BODY SAMPLE IF
KILLED. STOP. MAIN MISSION IS TO OBSERVE AND
REPORT. STOP. FURTHER ORDERS IN MALTA. STOP.
Agent Modo! Visser had read the young man’s file several times. He was described as being extremely strong and with the uncanny ability to physically change his appearance. Visser would have thought it a wild exaggeration if the information hadn’t come directly from Miss Hakkandottir herself. Why did they prefer him captured, or a body sample obtained? Was Visser to dismember him? How much of his body was required? Visser would need clarification. He shrugged; orders were orders. He wouldn’t have to kill any of them immediately, which was disappointing. It would be a relatively easy task to stalk them; after all, they wouldn’t be leaving the ship until they arrived at Sydney.
He sent the Guild a message: Orders received. When he turned around, he found himself face to face with Mr. Socrates.
The old man nodded and said, “I recognize you from the ship. I hope your voyage has been proceeding well.”
“Yes, yes, it has, sir, thank you,” Visser mumbled, then quickly stepped arou
nd him.
Was it just coincidence that he was here at the hotel? After all, it was one of the few telegraphs available to the public. Visser stood at the door long enough to observe that Mr. Socrates was receiving messages of his own.
Then he noticed Tharpa waiting outside the hotel—but the servant didn’t seem to take any notice of him, so Visser hailed a cab and ordered the driver to take him directly back to the ship. On the way he mulled over his meeting with Socrates, but in the end was satisfied that it had indeed been nothing but coincidence.
An Important Meeting
“Off with your head!” Mrs. Finchley rose from her seat at the table in their cabin and stood before Octavia, hands on her hips. “That’s the proper pronunciation! Not ‘off wit’ yer ‘ead.’ An ‘h’ should never, ever be dropped!”
“ ’Od rot it!” Octavia exclaimed, exasperated after three straight hours of practicing her accent. She’d much rather be training with Tharpa. At least his kicks to the ribs kept her awake.
“Don’t use any oaths in my presence, young lady!”
Octavia bit back another curse. Mrs. Finchley, normally quite calm, seemed to be in an extremely perturbed state. Angry, even.
Mrs. Finchley took her hands from her hips and burst out laughing.
“My dear Octavia, I’m reminded of my own youth when I was a budding actress. I was always saying ‘werry’ instead of ‘very.’ ‘I grow weary of your werrys, you wicked witch,’ my old acting master would shout at me.” She put one hand on Octavia’s shoulder, and with her other, adjusted a lock of her hair. “You are doing exceptionally well.”
“Thank you,” Octavia said, then added, “Off with my head! Off with my head!”
“Perfect! Perfect!”
As the weeks aboard the Rome had passed, Octavia had found that she was actually enjoying Mrs. Finchley’s company. She had never known a motherly type, only the headmistress at the orphanage, who believed that the best lessons were taught one smack of the rod at a time. Mrs. Finchley even surprised Octavia with gifts! When the Rome had stopped at the island of Malta, Mrs. Finchley had dragged her off the ship in search of lace and material to make more clothes for her. “A beautiful young woman like you needs a different dress every day,” she had explained.
