Ghosts of Engines Past (39 page)

“But lightning is highly visible.”

“This was lightning made small, apparently. I swore Sir Charles to secrecy and sent him back to his estate, escorted by a young captain from my staff and fifty soldiers. They have been guarding Ballard House ever since. That very night I wrote a letter to General Wellesley and sent it on the very next supply ship to Lisbon. I wanted the device assessed by a man with a real understanding of battlefield messaging, not some coffee house fop from the Admiralty or Horse Guards. Wellesley sent you. Why?”

“With all due respect, sir, I am under orders not to speak of that.”

“So, you probably
are
one of Wellesley's secret code breakers. Perhaps you are even George Scoville himself, sent here under a false name. No matter, there is work to be done, and I must take you at face value. You are to go to Ballard House tomorrow, assess this spark semaphore, satisfy yourself that it is no trick, then advise me on how to build dozens more for use in the Spanish campaign. Remember, too, that the range is eighty miles. The distance from Wimbourne Minster to Cherbourg is less than eighty miles.”

“So I am also to check the loyalty of all those in Ballard House?”

“Indeed. Were the French to learn this secret we might as well hand the world to Napoleon on a silver platter. Sir Charles is a patriot, but is also heavily in debt. His father had a love of gambling, you see. During the Battle of Trafalgar a cannon ball cured him of the habit, and since then Sir Charles has tried to salvage the family fortunes by managing the estate prudently, marrying money and not playing cards. All that has not been enough, and he needs the financial largesse of the crown as much as the crown needs his spark semaphore. You may remind him of that, should he forget his manners.”

“Thank you sir, I shall remember that.”

“Oh, and be sure to heed some important advice when you get to Ballard House.”

“Sir?”

“Sir Charles is somewhat... intensely devoted to his work, while his wife, Lady Monica, is rather highly spirited.”

“They do not get along?”

“No. Try not to take sides.”

It took me a day to ride from Portsmouth to Wimbourne Minster. The countryside was all lush farmland, and so peaceful that you would not think there was a war raging anywhere in all the world. The guards were encamped in a field beside the road near Ballard House. I was met by Captain Hartwell, who was a delicately handsome youth of perhaps seventeen, with rosy cheeks and curly blonde hair. His family had bought him a commission, but was not willing to let him risk his life in Spain.

“Not the most exciting of posts, Lieutenant Fletcher,” he said as we walked on to the house.

“I've had my fill of excitement for the three years past, sir.”

“Oh surely not! What of war's glory, and the grand adventure of combat?”

“For me the war has been mostly boredom, with moments of intense fright. The glory and adventure must have been happening to someone else.”

“I would give anything to swap places with you.”

“Sometimes wars are won by those who just stand sentinel, sir.”

“If so, I'd rather be doing the fighting, while someone else wins the war.”

Hartwell explained that he was not permitted within Ballard House due to some disagreement with Sir Charles, so he left me at the front door and led my horse on to the stables. Sir Charles was informed that I had arrived, and presently he came downstairs to the parlour. He had a rumpled, untidy look, was unshaven rather than bearded, and his hair was long and tousled. His expression was that of a man who had been interrupted while doing something important, and was feeling a bit cross about it. He had a magnifier lens in a frame strapped over one eye, and his hands were stained and scratched, like those of an artisan.

“Papers?” he snapped, holding out a hand.

I gave him my orders. He read the documents carefully, glancing up at me from time to time.

“It says here that you are a second lieutenant,” he said, speaking so rapidly that I could barely follow him. “Field commission!”

“Yes sir.”

“For bravery?”

“For intelligence work, sir.”

“Signaling?”

“I have a strong background in signaling, sir.”

This told him that I was an expert in an important field, yet his attitude did not soften.

“So you have been sent to assess my work?” he asked.

“Yes sir.”

“Was not my demonstration to Major Jodrel convincing enough?”

“It was very convincing, but Major Jodrel knows only signals, not electrical machines,” I replied. “I have some knowledge of both.”

“I told him that I was willing to give my spark semaphore to the crown for the war effort.”

“And the remission of certain debts,” I added.

He glared at me, but did not dispute the point. Although he was lord of the estate, he now knew that my fingers were upon the strings of the purse.

 “What more does he want?”

“He wants you to explain the device to
me,
Sir Charles. I can then arrange for many more to be built.”

The rule in Ballard House was that downstairs belonged to Sir Charles's wife, while upstairs was the domain of Sir Charles. Lady Monica had a very good sense of style, so the furniture, paintings and rugs were both expensive and tasteful. Climbing the stairs took us into a realm of bare walls, exposed floorboards and rooms full of untidy, roughly wrought mechanisms on cluttered workbenches. It reminded me of a collection of watchmakers', carpenters' and gunsmiths' workshops, all jumbled together and presided over by a toymaker. Half a dozen men were working at various tasks ranging from glass blowing to coating harpsichord wires with wax.

Sir Charles believed in the value of models to work out ideas. Within the bedchambers, corridors and drawing rooms upstairs were dozens of working models of signaling devices, weapons, steamboats, and even hot air balloons. Leading me into his study, he opened the lid of a sea chest.

“Thunderstorms were my inspiration,” he said proudly as he gestured to a tangle of brass, porcelain, coiled wires and wax.

“Thunderstorms are beyond human control,” I replied politely.

“What is a spark between two electrical wires if not a small flash of lightning?” he snapped back. “Stand here. Watch the gap between the two brass spikes.”

He threw a small lever protruding from the side of the rosewood chest. Two wires ran from the chest to a curtain rail above the window. Walking across to the other side of the room, he threw a lever on the side of a similar chest, which also trailed wires.

“The two devices are now active, lieutenant,” he explained as he lifted the lid of the second chest and reached inside. “Don't watch me, man! Watch the spikes.”

There was a soft buzz, and a length of blue spark appeared between the brass spikes. It reminded me of lightning seen at a great distance. There was another, briefer, spark, and they continued until I had counted thirty-two sparks. I felt my pulse quicken when I realized that nothing connected the boxes.

“Draw that lever back,” said Sir Charles. “The Voltaic piles are quickly drained.”

“So these sparks were passed between the two boxes, through the air, invisibly?” I asked, trying hard not to seem too amazed.

“So you noticed! You are not entirely a fool, then. What can you tell me about the grouping of the sparks?”

It was definitely a code. British lives depended on my ability to recognize and break codes, and I had become very good at teasing patterns out of chaos.

“There was a pause after every group of four sparks. The third and seventh groups of four were identical. The third and seventh letters in my name are E. At a guess, you may have just sent the word FLETCHER between these two boxes.”

For the first and only time I saw Sir Charles's jaw drop open with surprise.

“Incredible!” he exclaimed. “So, you must be one of Wellesley's master code breakers.”

“I am not permitted—”

“Damnit man, I'll have none of that secrecy nonsense, more important people than you trust me with secrets. Examine my device. Take as long as you like.”

About half the space inside both sea chests was taken up by Voltaic piles. This meant that if the device and its source of electrical charge were put in two smaller boxes, they could be carried like saddlebags on a horse, and used on battlefields. The implications of that made my head spin.

“These two boxes have greater military worth than a hundred thousand cavalry,” I finally managed. “How long would it take for you to explain the principle and operation to me?”

“You broke my dash-dot code on the first hearing, so you must have a formidable intellect,” Sir Charles conceded grudgingly. “I would say... one week.”

“And their manufacture and maintenance?”

“Who knows? I have never tried to teach that to anyone.”

Sir Charles's wife, Lady Monica, joined us for dinner in the late afternoon. She was younger than Sir Charles, although older than myself by perhaps five years. The dining room was hung with paintings by Constable and Rubens, while ancient painted urns, probably plundered in Greece, stood on pedestals at each corner.

Lady Monica was aware that she was surpassingly beautiful, and was well practised in wielding her charms. She had a particularly unsettling way of flirting with her eyes alone, so that Sir Charles noticed nothing. Her hair was black and wavy, and pinned up in the manner of the highborn Spanish ladies. She wore a blue velvet coat over a while lawn gown with a red boa draped over her shoulders, it being currently fashionable to dress in the colours of the British flag. She used no makeup, perhaps to emphasise that her skin was flawless.

“This is Lieutenant Fletcher, he breaks French codes for Wellesley in Spain,” said Sir Charles. “Lieutenant Fletcher, this is my wife Monica.”

People were shot for such careless talk in Spain, but I reminded myself that this was England.

“Charmed, ladyship,” I said as I bowed and kissed her hand.

“So, a handsome killer with brains,” she replied. “What chance has that poor Napoleon got against men like you?”

The meal was in the patriot style, being beefsteak, with shallots, baked potatoes and beetroot, accompanied by mustard and port wine, and served on more silver than I had ever seen on one table. This was quite a departure from what I was used to in the borderlands of Spain and Portugal, apart from the port wine. They were certainly trying to keep up appearances.

Sir Charles spoke continually of his dash-dot code and spark semaphore machine, while Lady Monica stared at the ceiling or rolled her eyes. Presently he realized that his beef was getting cold, so he gulped it down, then excused himself and hurried back upstairs. It was if he had a lover waiting for him there, but I was fairly sure that his lover was made of brass, wire and wax. Lady Monica and I continued on to asparagus, beetroot pancakes, and a rather delicate German wine.

“I would like to know a little of your background,” she said once we were alone.

She fluttered her eyelashes at me. The effect was highly disconcerting for someone who had been in the remote mountains of the Iberian Peninsular just weeks earlier.  

“There's little to say, ma'am. I was a corporal, then I was lucky enough to distinguish myself and gain promotion.”

“In spying?”

“In... using mathematics to help the war effort.”

“Most redcoat corporals don't say 'mathematics', they say 'countin' or 'sums'. You must come from a good family. What did you do before you enlisted?”

“My father is a Vicar. I was a teacher before the war.”

“I would wager a hundred guineas that you have never so much as smiled at a whore.”

This was true, but she had no way of knowing it. It caught me off-guard, so I allowed a pause to collect my thoughts. I knew the rules and manners of polite society, but I was aware of being an outsider.

“Only vendors need to smile,” I replied.

“Oh very good, parry-riposte to you.”

“Why did you propose your wager?”

“There is a certain boldness about men who make use of whores, lieutenant. They think all women are whores, but concede that some whores cost more than others. You are suave, rather than bold.”

“You flatter me.”

“I do indeed. Now you have a cue to flatter me, yet you do not.”

By this stage I was beginning to see what Major Jodrel had warned me about.

“It is not my place to flatter you, ma'am.”

“No? You are ill at ease in my company, lieutenant, especially when I smile. That flatters me, too.”

“Do you assist Sir Charles with his signaling devices?” I asked, lamely trying to change the subject.

“Me, take an interest in wires, sparks and steam engines? Surely you jest. I only pay attention when he takes long trips to test his toys, leaving me to manage Ballard House, the brave soldiers who guard it, and their most gallant young officers.”

With that she got up, so I stood and bowed to her.

“Will you take supper with me at ten?” she asked.

“Alas, ma'am, I am ready for sleep.”

“But it's only six o'clock, the sun is still up.”

“I'm very tired. I was aboard a ship when I last slept.”

She sauntered across the room.

“Good night, ma'am,” I called after her.

She turned back to me at the door.

“Good night, my brave and gallant young officer,” she purred, swayed a hip in my direction, then walked on.

That night I slept as if I had been shot dead, but like all soldiers in wartime, I rose before dawn. Attacks generally come with the sun, and my habit was to be dressed and ready. Sir Charles was nowhere to be found, and I was not in a hurry to encounter Lady Monica alone, so I went out to the encampment. Young Captain Hartwell met me there, and we took a stroll around the grounds as the sun rose.

“So, are you satisfied that Ballard House is not a hotbed of French spies?” he asked.

“I'm never happy about anyone, sir.”

“Anyone at all? Is even, say, a duke not above suspicion?”

“A duke may whisper secrets to his mistress as they tumble together in bed. Is his mistress above suspicion?”