Excerpt: Clockwork and Cholera

Her Majesty’s Airship Vanir cruised over the smog shrouded skyline of London at twilight. The throaty roar of its steam engines driving the props was just a hum to the ears of Margaret Temple who sat on the roof of the tenement she reluctantly called home. On the roof, above the bustle of the streets of London, Margaret escaped, at least for a brief moment. Escape from the poverty. Escape from the chaos. Escape from the dire corruption that festers in the dark alleys of London like gangrene in the wounds of the workers at the docks and factories. On the rooftops where only the chimney sweeps made their living, there was a sense of freedom.

Margaret checked her silver pocket watch that dangled from her skirt on a long chain. She snapped the watch closed and stood up. The streets below began to bustle with men coming home for working in the warehouses and docks that lined the Thames. Smoke for cook fires billowed from the chimneys poking up through the roofs across the skyline. Vendor calls from the market filled the night air along with the sound of carts being pushed along the cobblestone. Margaret began to climb down the rickety iron stairs that led from the roof to the ground five floors below, with a convenient landing right outside the window of her apartment.

The HMAS Vanir hovered over the landing field illuminated by dozens of large gas reflector lights. The crew of the ship dropped lengths of rope that was caught by groundcrew who quickly and efficiently wrapped the thick mooring ropes around winches. The master longshoremen pulled a cord to sound a steam whistle before pulling the lever on a clutching mechanism connected to the winches which began to slowly wind the rope and pull the airship down. Margaret didn’t stay outside long enough to see the ship actually touchdown. She had seen airships come and go everyday. Everyday the ships floated to and from the far reaches of the British Empire, carrying passengers and cargo, supplying the forces in the Crimea, bringing spices and textiles from India, providing a vital commercial link.for the Empire.

Margaret’s apartment was furnished with large heavy pieces of furniture. She lifted her long skirts and stepped in through the window. She quickly lit a gas lamp on the wall and brightened the room, revealing the thick chenille fabric drapes that hung around the window she just came through. A package tied up in paper sat on a small table to one side of the room near a closed up cabinet. Two pipes poked up from the floor near the cabinet. One fed the gaslights, the other fed into the side of the cabinet. Margaret untied the strings around the package and removed the small round loaf of bread inside. She pulled a piece of the bread from the loaf and chewed on it slowly. She was dissatisfied with the dry bread, but knew she could pick up a mug of curds and whey on her way to Garrett’s Coffee House. She’d have to change clothes. Women, despite have two Regents of the same gender were excluded from many of the day to day activities of modern society.

Margaret began to shed her layers of clothes and put on a linen suit. She tucked her brown tresses into a cap and examined herself in a mirror that hung over a pitcher and basin. She looked like a teen boy, old enough to be in the coffee houses, which is all Margaret needed for tonight.

***
Art Mac Cathail disembarked from the HMAS Vanir dressed in the full dress of the Scots Guard. A porter reached out to take carry his bag for him from the airship. “No, lad, no. I did not need a valet on the field of battle, I do not need one here in the capital of Queen Victoria’s empire.”

“Of course, sir. Of course.”

“You can help me out with one thing, lad,” Art said to the young porter.

“What do you need, sir?”

“I need a bit of lodging and a bit of whiskey.”

The porter frowned, “Won’t you be staying at a garrison or palace or someplace set aside by the military?”

Art laughed loudly and slapped the young boy on his shoulder, “Ach mon, answer the question I asked not ask me one of your own.”

The porter shook under the power of Art’s commanding voice and indicated a few public houses near the airfield that would suffice for Art’s purpose. Art gave him thanks and slipped a few pennies in his palm.

Art found his way to a suitable public house. Upon entering several laborers who sat around the door looked up at the tall burly man dressed in full regalia for a moment before returning their gazes back into their glasses. Art marched through the room to the bar where the landlord stood in his apron, serving whisky from a brown bottle.

“What can I get you soldier?” the landlord asked.

“A whisky and a room,” Art answered, lowering his bag to the floor.

Thomas Miller owned this public house for ten years and had seen a variety of men come and go. There was always something new to see though. He set a glass on the counter and filled it with the rotgut. “I ain’t seen many soldierin’ types in here, at least not in full dress uniform. Where you in from, Cap’n?”

“I just came in from Turkey,” Art answered before dumping the whisky into his mouth.

“How goes the conflict with those pesky Russians, anyway?” Thomas asked, always eager to elicit a good tale of battle to help entertain the patrons.

Art looked at him with a sterile glare, “How about the room, mate? The cots on the airship weren’t so comfortable and there was quite a wind that kept the ship rocking back and forth in a most troubling of manner.”

Thomas nodded, “Right, right, you can have the fourth room up the stairs. You might not find the cot any more comfortable than your airship, though. What shall I call you?”

“Art Mac Cathal,” the bear of a man replied curtly.

Thomas wrinkled his brow, “Art? That sounds like an Irish name to me. We don’t much like that rebellious scum here.”

Art turned his head and grinned. “Might I remind you that you are speaking to a member of the Scots Guard. We don’t take affront to our honor so kindly.”

Thomas decided no matter Art’s origins, it was not a matter he felt a need to really address at this very moment, seeing Art’s size and apparent martial bearing. He waved Art on to the stairs to the second floor.

Art reached into his purse and pulled out a collection of coins to pay the rent for the night and gave a friendly nod to Thomas before taking the set of stairs to the second floor and his quaint room. The cot did look more like a hay stuffed burlap sack, but Art didn’t mind. Compared to the ditches and mudholes he had found himself in the past, this dry burlap sack would feel like a feather bed at Buckingham Palace.