“Very well,” I said.
A short flight of stone steps led to a dark chamber smelling of damp and must. From a shelf, Dorian produced an oil lamp, which he lit, the bright flame illuminating the brick walls around us. On the far side of the chamber was a dark doorway about seven feet tall and three feet wide. Beyond was a tunnel, lined with brick and with an arched brick ceiling. The earthen floor was covered in dry wooden planks. “Smugglers,” I said. “This is the work of smugglers!”
Dorian glanced back at me.
“No, sir,” he said. “I believe it’s the work of the British Army.”
The tunnel terminated at a second passage that ran at right angles to the first. Dorian led the way to the left, and as we walked I noticed that every so often there was an alcove in the wall, or the gaping entrance to another tunnel, or a flight of steps leading down.
“These must go on for miles,” I said. “You say the army built them?”
“Perhaps, sir. At least they built some of them. There are tunnels running under the streets that lead down from the Citadel, and many branching tunnels. They come up in the cellars of houses throughout the town, sir.”
The Citadel was a massive stone fort built on top of Citadel Hill, the strategic high ground in Halifax. Its purpose was to defend the Royal Navy station, so I supposed these tunnels were some adjunct to the many fortifications surrounding the harbour, perhaps to move troops and material from fort to fort under cover, or to spring up in the enemy’s rear were the town to be overrun.
Whatever their purpose, the tunnels were extensive, and we seemed to walk for over half an hour before we came to another doorway of sorts, this one perfectly circular and made of steel. It appeared to be the beginning of a massive steel pipe.
“We’re going in there?” I said, for the first time feeling a little oppressed by my close surroundings.
“Yes, sir. Watch your step, sir.”
Dorian entered the pipe, and I had no choice but to go after him. I could not see very far ahead in the lantern light, but the passage seemed perfectly straight, and after only a few minutes, we came to another pipe, this one vertical and housing a steel ladder. Dorian began to climb. Gripping my stick in my left hand, I followed, going slowly, rung after rung, gazing upward at the bobbing light of my companion’s lantern.
The ladder ended at a very tiny chamber lined with red brick. In one wall was an ordinary wooden door.
Dorian rapped on the door three times with his knuckles.
The door creaked open on damp hinges, and light spilled out. I followed Dorian into a large circular room with mortared stone walls. In the centre of the room was a spiral staircase made of wrought iron, and all around this central feature were work benches covered in glass beakers, burners, rubber tubes, what looked like jewellers’ tools, and tools of a more mundane sort, the sort found in carpentry or machine shops. In essence, it looked exactly like the sort of laboratory or workshop where I would expect to find Edward Blackburn, for he had built such a workshop for himself in his Hampshire home. And indeed, sitting amidst all of this scientific paraphernalia, was my old friend.
“John,” he cried, rising from his stool and approaching. “You’ve come!”
“Of course I’ve come,” I said, both relieved to see him but somewhat shocked by his appearance: his cheeks were sunken, his eyes red and ringed with dark circles. “How are you, old fellow? What’s all this about?”
He did not answer me at once, but shook my hand, jaw working.
“I was going to tell you, as soon I was able,” he said. “And now that time has come. I need help, John. You see, my daughter Alice – you remember Alice?”
Of course I remembered Alice from my visits to Hampshire – a dark-haired girl with a quick wit and a glint in her eye, who was always tinkering with small machines and devices, clockwork devices, animals and toys. Not the sort of things a lady was supposed to get up to, but given that her father was an engineer and an inventor, I supposed it was not so very strange. She would have been about eighteen years old by now.
“Yes,” I said, “I remember her. Is she well?”
Edward squeezed his eyes shut, and when he opened them again, he said, “No, John. You see, she’s been kidnapped.”
* * *
Dorian hovered near the door as I sat on a tall wooden stool to listen to Edward’s story.
“I’ve been working on several secret projects,” he explained, “in co-operation with the Artillery. Do you know where we are?”
I shrugged. “No idea, I’m afraid. What was that enormous pipe?”
Edward managed a nervous smirk. “That was a unique element of the Halifax tunnel network, a submarine conduit running under the harbour, suspended by chains from floats just under the surface. It leads from the shore to Georges Island. That’s where we are, on the ground floor of the Martello Tower in Fort Charlotte.”
Georges Island was a small rounded island in the middle of Halifax harbour and the key to the inner harbour defences. Fort Charlotte sat square in the middle of the island, an oval stone wall bristling with cannon, with a single stone Martello Tower at its heart.
“You’re saying we passed under water?” I said, quite amazed.
“Yes. Forgive me for resorting to this secret route, but I’ve been specially tasked with developing new weapons for the army and navy, including pneumatic and electrical guns, and other things.” He indicated a glass beaker of pale yellow liquid resting on the bench beside him. “For instance, this is a distillation from the flower of the Bohon tree of Java. Do you know of it? The legendary poison tree?”
I shook my head. “A myth, I thought.”
“No, it’s real, I assure you, and the sap and nectar are particularly obnoxious when it comes to men, for they at first cause madness and rage, followed by a breakdown of the basic faculties, then death. What I’ve done is create what I call a gas bomb, a device that releases a mist made from the essence of the Bohon flower. This gas will kill anything living in a fifty-foot radius, but leave all inanimate material intact.”
This sounded horrible, another awful method for men to kill each other, and I was not pleased that my friend had been involved in creating such a thing. As a soldier I had seen plenty of killing and did not wish to see any more but, of course, killing other men is what the army does, and Edward was still a serving officer with a job to do. Such is duty.
“You know, of course,” he went on, “that the United States is engaged in a civil war, and that Halifax, as a neutral port, is swarming with both Union and Confederate agents?”
“I would expect that to be the case.”
“It is! Somehow a group of Confederate agents, a parcel of rascals, learned of my gas bomb. They took my Alice and are holding her for ransom. The ransom is a completed gas bomb. I must deliver it to them tonight!”
I jumped from my stool.
“This is outrageous! Why don’t you go to the police? Or inform your commanding officer, tell General Hastings-Doyle!”
Edward rocked in his seat and tears sprang to his eyes.
“I can’t do that, John! They’d kill her if I showed up with a file of troops! No, I need a friend, someone I can trust. I have Dorian, of course, but two men against these villains are not enough. I intend to give them the bomb – I have no choice – but I’m not confident that they will release Alice unharmed.”
So, I thought, we were essentially going into battle. This was a bad business, bad all around, and though I believed in the Confederate cause, their desire for independence, I did not like these methods. I struggled to think of some clever suggestion, a way to save Alice without delivering the bomb, but could not. The situation seemed off somehow, but Edward was my friend, and there was no time for reflection.
I glanced at Dorian, then at Edward.
“Very well,” I said. “How do you propose we proceed?”
* * *
We would use the tunnel system to travel to where the Confederate agents were wa
iting, and we would have to carry the prepared Bohon Bomb by hand.
“Take these,” Edward said, thrusting a bundle of white cloth at me and passing another to Dorian. “They’re gas hoods of my own design, which will protect us in case we accidentally stumble in the dark and break one of the vials.”
I unwrapped my bundle and saw that I had two hoods. They were made of a dense canvas, painted white, and fitted with two circular glass lenses to allow one to see.
“How do they work,” I asked, “and why do I have two?”
“The paint on the fabric neutralizes the poison,” Edward said. “And one of them is for Alice. Just in case.”
He rummaged in a box on one of his work benches and produced three pistols, Colt revolvers, and passed one to myself and one to Dorian.
“Keep these concealed,” he advised. “We don’t wish to provoke our tormentors.”
I saw that my pistol was loaded, so removed the percussion caps and placed them in my pocket. An accidental firing was a danger I believed we could do without.
Finally, Edward pulled a canvas cover from a square object that rested on one of the benches, revealing a wooden and copper frame, about twenty inches a side, supporting several glass vials of the yellow Bohon extraction, each connected to what looked like the bell of a small trumpet. Edward explained that the detonator was another vial of acid. When broken, the acid would leak out slowly, corroding a strip of iron which, when parted, would release a spring-loaded clapper which, in turn, would smash through the yellow vials, releasing the gas.
The contraption was heavy but had brass handles on either side. Our first order of business was to get it safely into the tunnels by lowering it down the vertical pipe with ropes. For this purpose, Edward had prepared a block and tackle, fixed to a ring in the floor of the lab. Dorian took hold of the falls and eased the bomb down while Edward and myself waited at the bottom of the ladder to guide it safely to the floor. It was a moment of extreme tension, but a success. After that we shared the burden of carrying the bomb, two men at a time, with the third walking in front, holding aloft a small brass oil lamp to illuminate our way.
I was the lantern bearer when we reached the end of the steel pipe and entered the first brick-lined passageway on shore.
“Turn right at the next divide,” Edward told me.
We walked for some time. Edward was the only one who spoke, giving directions to myself, though not to Dorian, who must have also known the way. Once we climbed a short flight of steps, and another time we passed through a large underground chamber, but our tiny lantern was not bright enough to show its extent.
At last we entered a narrow passage that ended at a rough wooden door with a rusted latch.
“This is it, gentlemen,” Edward announced. “There will be a sentry behind that door.”
* * *
Dorian knocked three times, and the door opened. A young man, bright-eyed and handsome, ushered us into a dirty little room lit by a single lantern. When he called out, a door in the far side of the room opened and four more young men and one woman entered. The woman was no doubt Alice. The men, I believed, were all members of the Confederate army, out of uniform and so spies.
“There you are at last,” said the tallest of the men, a thin fellow with lank blond hair, dressed in a long dark frock coat. “And I see you’ve delivered our goods.”
“It’s there, Major Butler,” Edward said, pointing to the gas bomb where it now rested on the dirt floor. “Now release my daughter!”
“Very well,” said Butler, and he gave Alice a little nudge. She was dark haired and pretty and wearing a deep blue dress with the skirts pinned up, revealing tight-fitting trousers underneath. It was the sort of rig a labouring woman would wear, save for the quality of the cut and cloth. Over one shoulder she carried a small leather bag like a haversack. She threw Butler a look of hatred as she went to her father’s side.
“I apologize for this unpleasantness,” Butler said. “We would not have harmed her. She simply would have had to come with us.”
Edward was trembling. “You damned villain! I don’t believe you.”
Butler’s features darkened. “You call us villains now? I’m surprised and disappointed, but at least you’ve fulfilled your promise at last.”
“I made no promise,” Edward said, a little too forcefully. “You have your bomb, now let’s go.”
He took his daughter’s hand.
“No promise?” said Major Butler. “Of course you made us a promise, sir. An offer and a promise!”
I stole a glance at Dorian, but he was just watching Butler with a similar expression to Alice’s. I turned to Edward. That nagging sense of something off had returned.
“What exactly does he mean?” I asked. “What promise?”
Butler looked at me. “And who are you, sir?”
“Captain John Frame,” I told him, “late of the Royal Hampshire Fusiliers.”
“Well, Captain Frame, did your friend the Major here tell you how we came to this predicament?”
“Let us go now!” Edward almost shouted, making for the door.
Butler produced a pistol, its long black barrel glinting in the dim light. “Stop right there.”
My own pistol was in my pocket and without fitted percussion caps. Dorian’s and Edward’s were similarly inaccessible. We all stood still.
“Major Edwards came to us, sir,” Butler continued. “He offered us the help of his experimental gas bomb. He wished to test it in a battle situation, but then he reneged on his deal, and refused to deliver.”
Edward raised a fist. “I learned your plan and it’s monstrous!”
Butler cocked his head and looked confused. “In what way, Major? Our situation is desperate. General Grant’s forces almost have our capital of Richmond surrounded. Our ports are blockaded and we require supplies. We must resort to extraordinary measures to secure our freedom, sir. You understand?”
“I understand perfectly,” Edward said. “The Federal steamer U.S.S. Castine is in port, and under the laws of neutrality she must depart in twenty-four hours after re-coaling and resupplying at the dockyard. You intend to slip the gas bomb aboard with those supplies. Am I correct?”
Butler’s stony silence seemed to confirm Edward’s suspicions, and I saw it all as clear as crystal. Once the Yankee man-of-war was under way, the bomb would detonate, the gas disposing of the crew so that Butler and his fellows could take possession of the empty vessel. A new addition to the Confederate Navy! Then there was the added chance that the Union would blame Britain for the loss and so declare war, which would, in turn, bring the Royal Navy in on the side of the South.
It was a diabolical plan, and Edward had been a part of it. I looked at him, but he would not meet my eye. Why had he felt the need to hide this from me? Shame, I suppose, but I still would have helped, for I believe a man may admit to his mistakes and make up for them. Instead, I felt my heart sink. At least now I understood why all the secrecy, all this creeping through tunnels.
“You had a change of heart, Edward?” I said.
“I persuaded him to give up on it,” Alice said, pulling away from her father and rounding on Butler. “The plan, the gas bomb, what does it matter? It’s all wrong, every bit of it! Despite all your talk of freedom and fighting for your rights, there is only one right in question, and that is the right of rich men to hold other men in bondage and live off their sweat and toil!”
I found myself nodding. With her words I felt myself, perhaps for the first time, tugged in the other direction regarding the Confederate cause. That brought a moment of dismay at my fickle nature. How could I change my mind so easily? Perhaps it was the experience of being held at gunpoint and having both my life and that of my friends threatened, which had eroded my sympathies for these people on some primal level.
“Enough!” Butler shouted. “I am no cold-blooded murderer and have no wish to shoot any of you, but neither I nor my colleagues will hesitate to do so if any one of yo
u tries to run. I’m afraid you all must remain our prisoners until our scheme is complete.”
Keeping his pistol levelled on us, he looked at Dorian and said, “You there, boy!”
I saw Dorian’s shoulders stiffen. It was absurd to refer to a man his age and size as “boy,” but I knew that this was how some Southerners spoke to all black men.
“Pick up the gas bomb and bring it here,” Butler continued. “You will carry it to its next destination.”
Dorian did not hesitate. Stooping, he grasped and lifted the bomb by its handles. It was then that he looked at me, just a flick of the eyes, and I understood his intentions at once, and also that I had to act quickly.
Dorian took one pace forward, and I fell back, stepping close to Alice, at the same time pulling the gas hoods from my right pocket and saying, with as much composure as I could muster in order to not alarm our enemies, “Put this on, please, at once!”
I think she knew what it was, for her eyes widened and she pulled the hood over her head. I glanced at Edward, and saw that he also understood, for his hood was in his hand.
Dorian dashed the Bohon Bomb against the floor of the cellar. The glass vials exploded, filling the room with a dense cloud of yellow mist. I heard Butler shout, his pistol roaring, and I ducked as I fumbled with my gas hood, at last bringing the twin lenses in line with my eyes. I glimpsed Dorian, his face a mask of anguish, struggling to fit his hood over his head, and then he was gone, into the mist. The room was full of men screaming, a strange and beastly sound. I had a firm grip on Alice’s hand, but could not see Edward in the mist. I hoped that he had also managed to don his hood.
“Edward!” I shouted, my voice muffled by the hood. “Edward!”
Hands suddenly appeared in front of me, hands like claws, reaching for my throat. One of the Confederate agents, his eyes those of a madman, no doubt from the gas, was attempting to tear off my hood and perhaps rip out my throat in the bargain. Finding my pistol in my left pocket, I managed to pull it free and strike the man twice in the forehead. He let go, and I whirled around, saw Alice still there, so grabbed her hand again and pulled her toward the door.
Clockwork Canada Page 18
