The Forever Engine (17 page)

In answer I raised my glass in a toast.

“To our joint endeavor,” I said, first in Turkmen then English.

Then we got down to business. Gordon laid out our plan: hire boats and travel twenty-five miles up the Lim River to the border village of Uvats. The Lim flowed into the Drina about seven miles upstream from Višegràd. Depending on the speed of the boats, and how fast the rivers were flowing after all this rain, we could make the trip in a long day or a long morning. From Uvats we would have to travel overland. The large Serbian town of Priboj straddled the Lim River just across the border, and Gabrielle had told us Serbian batteries commanded the river, so we’d have to go overland from there. Kokin Brod was only a dozen miles southeast of Priboj, but it was through mountainous countryside.

Cevik Bey frowned through the description, but more in thought than irritation, I thought.

“So, you will not go from here by land? A pity. I know a man who has mules for sale. Very good price.”

There was enough regret in Cevik’s expression that I suspected he would have gotten a piece of the “very good price.”

“Ask him if we can get enough boats to move all his troops upriver,” Gordon ordered.

“No, not on such short notice,” he answered after I translated the question. “I doubt we can find enough to move over fifty men by tomorrow, and that may cost you a pretty penny. You have silver?”

The fact that Cevik Bey had, in an offhanded and conversational tone, let me know the Turks would not be underwriting the expedition was not lost on me. As to money, Gordon had over five hundred pounds’ worth of British, Turkish, German, and Serbian currency in his “war chest,” but there was no point in advertising the fact.

“We have silver, Cevik Bey, although our pockets are not bottomless.”

“Ah, whose are?” he asked with a shrug.

“Ask him if he will support the mission as he was ordered to,” Gordon said.

I did, but with a bit more diplomacy.

“Yes, of course we will help. These Serbs, they make nothing but trouble. They deserve to be punished, and will be. But my orders are we cannot cross in force without provocation. You understand?”

I translated for Gordon and then translated his reply back, but without the insult and profanity.

“The threat posed by the Old Man of the Mountain is as great to Turkey as it is to Britain,” I said. “Surely the Sublime Porte intends more vigorous Turkish action.”

“Ah, but the Sublime Porte also knows that the world judges the vigor of Turkish actions differently than it does those of others,” Cevik Bey answered. “Less than two years ago the Bulgarians raided across the Danube on a regular basis, intent on provoking war. The world paid little attention to the vigor of their actions. But when Turkey responded with force, the world noticed. Great Britain itself noticed, and joined the world in condemning the
vigor
of Turkey’s response. ‘Outrage’ was the word the British prime minister used, I believe, and the British newspapers used stronger words, ugly words.

“So now Britain remembers its friend Turkey. This makes us happy. It makes
me
happy, Mr. Fargo. I have always admired the British.”

To prove the point he flashed Gordon an enormous smile. Not knowing the gist of the exchange, Gordon returned the smile, if with less enthusiasm.

“However, our other neighbors are not so friendly as Britain,” Cevik Bey continued. “When you are gone, we will still live next to them. So it must be clear to the world that Serbia is the more . . .
vigorous
participant in this incident, and that Turkey acts only in response to their crimes.”

“How do you plan to arrange that?” I asked.

Cevik Bey took another sip of champagne and considered his answer.

“I have a battalion of Bosnian riflemen and two mountain guns. I will march them overland to Uvats and wait there. We will cross the border when and if it is necessary to prevent harm to you, our friends.”

“How will you know when we are in difficulty?”

“Signal rockets,” he answered, and waved his hand as if in imitation of a rocket spiraling up into the sky. “We will send a dozen with you. Send them up if you need help.”

“And how will we stay alive while we’re waiting for you to march a battalion and drag two guns up those mountain valleys?”

“Ah, I send soldiers with you as well, just not so many as to be a provocation, you see? I sent a platoon of good riflemen ahead to Uvats under a sergeant I trust very much. Also, he speaks English. He was American once, but converted to Islam. He is . . . scouting into Serbia, actually. But I sent no Turkish officer, so no provocation. You see?”

Not entirely, but it sounded as if the patrol he had out, if it was lost, was expendable. We probably were as well, in his mind. I translated for Gordon to give myself time to think it over.

“It’s important you not react with surprise or anger to this,” I said to Gordon as a preface. His frown grew deeper, eyes darker.

“Just tell me what the bloody Wog said.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Cevik stiffen. He may not have spoken English, but he knew the word “wog.”

“Look at me, not him when I tell you this. He understands the word you just used. Are you trying to blow this mission up?” I asked calmly, as if discussing the weather. “Are you trying to get the Turks so pissed off they’ll send us away and you won’t have to go through with it? Because that’s how it looks to me, and it’s probably how it will look to General Buller as well.”

He didn’t say anything in reply, but his face began getting red—whether with anger or shame I couldn’t say. Probably both—they usually keep company.

“Cevik Bey will back us up with a battalion once we’re in trouble,” I said. “But for now we get just a rifle platoon he sent to scout ahead into Serbia.”

Gordon sat quietly for a moment, lips compressed in a hard thin line.

“One
platoon
?” he said finally.

“Here’s a better question: all the local officers along the border were alerted and told to cooperate. How did he know we’d come here and send someone ahead?”

His anger disappeared, replaced by confusion and then curiosity.

“A spy?” he asked.

“Maybe, but I don’t think so. Too complicated, too many spies. Maybe he was just being proactive, but I bet he already had his guys out there and is using our appearance as an excuse. We’re his fig leaf for maybe going over the line in poking the Serbs.”

He thought about it for a moment and then nodded.

“Very well. Tell him we appreciate his help and foresight.”

Not bad. I passed the sentiment along, and Cevik Bey smiled again.

“Will you cable ahead to Uvats and have your men waiting?” I asked.

“Unfortunately, the telegraph to the frontier is out of service. It happens fairly often. I have written a dispatch to the commander of the
Jandarma
in Uvats and another to Sergeant Durson, when you find him.” He held up the two sealed letters. “Sergeant Durson reads, by the way. Quite admirable for a sergeant. He may not be in Uvats but he was to keep the Uvats
Jandarma
informed of his activity. Finding him should not be a problem.”

I translated for Gordon, who took the news without visible reaction aside from a small nod. He was getting better at this.

“You understand,” I said to Cevik Bey, “that even with this platoon of riflemen, who I am sure are among your very best, our party may suffer casualties before you can come to our assistance?”

His face became serious, with a trace of sadness in his eyes. “Ah, let us hope not. If so, it would cause me great distress.”

“Because of how much you admire the British,” I offered.

He smiled, bowed his head slightly, and spread his hands. “We understand each other perfectly. But let us pray it does not come to that. Ibrahim Durson is an excellent sergeant. His men are always under control, and he follows orders exactly. He also never makes annoying suggestions. It is bad for a sergeant to have ideas of his own. Does Captain Gordon not agree with this?”

“He says he likes it when sergeants know their place and keep their opinions to themselves,” I translated for Gordon.

“I don’t know about sergeants, but I certainly agree with respect to translators.”

TWENTY-FOUR

October 9, 1888, On the Lim River, Bosnia

The rhythmic
chuh-chuh-chuh-chuh
of the steam launch’s motor, the slap of waves against the bow, and the low German and English conversations of the men packed into the boat seemed small things in the emptiness of the river.

Bosnia had a somber, brooding beauty—granite cliff faces and massive outcroppings from a distance looking like moss-covered boulders, scattered among scrub forest and meadows. The rain had passed on to the east, but a solid roof of dark clouds kept the sun from lighting the glens and woods, made them all home to imagined lurking menace.

Earlier we had seen groups of people on the banks, then a solid flood—families, some with carts, bundles on their backs, livestock, others with nothing but their lives. We passed boats as well, mostly fishing craft. The boats, the people on shore—all headed downriver, northwest. They said nothing to us, nor did they have to. I had seen refugees before.

I wanted to stop, question them, but Gordon insisted we had lost enough time already, were making slow enough progress.

“The river is running so fast this relic of a boat is hardly making headway against it. We need to make Uvats by dusk. We’ll find out what’s happened once we get there.”

I wasn’t so sure. The flood of refuges dwindled then dried up, and for the last hour we had seen no one.

I scanned all around us. Gray sky overhead, gray river broken by white chop ahead, and behind, seemingly forever, empty banks to either side—no wonder the men grew jumpy, talked only in lowered voices, checked and rechecked their rifles and ammunition. Gabrielle seemed restless, unsettled.

“What do you think, Gabi?” I asked.

“About what? Oh, the lack of people on the banks? Either the danger has passed or it has consumed Uvats,
oui
?”

Leave it to her to see to the heart of the matter.

“You don’t feel like uncasing that Winchester?”

“
Non
. If thirty armed soldiers cannot deal with the situation, I think one more gun will make little difference.”

She was right, but I checked my Webley all the same. Danger in the abstract was one thing, but as we grew closer to whatever was happening up ahead, the butterflies in my stomach woke up and started flying around. Gabrielle staring at me didn’t help.

“What?” I asked.

“Your wife, how did she die?”

My stomach clenched again, and for a moment I was afraid I was going to throw up. I felt a cold sweat on my face and knew I must have gone pale. I looked away, out over the river, but not for the view, just to avoid her eyes.

No one else here had asked me that. Not polite, you know, to inquire after a chap’s personal life. The answers might be embarrassing to everyone, and we wouldn’t want that, would we? But Gabrielle’s rather limited grasp of social convention was always trumped by her curiosity. Normally I liked that about her. I liked it a lot.

“She . . . um . . . killed herself.”

“This is so? My mother killed herself as well. Sometimes I wonder if she did so because of me.”

I looked at her. I’m not sure what I expected to see in her eyes. Maybe a hidden pain forced to the surface, a key to unlocking her trapped emotions. Instead I saw a thoughtful frown. Her mother’s suicide was another emotional puzzle for which she had no solution.

“Your mother made her own decision,” I said. “You can’t blame yourself for that.”

“Then why do you?”

The launch’s Bosnian skipper spoke enough pigeon Turkish to let me know what he was thinking when he felt like it. Now he raised his head to catch my eye, and I was happy for the distraction.

“Uvats. After hill,” he said.

I looked upriver, saw a bend to the right about two miles ahead with a large hill on the bank.

“That hill?” I asked pointing.

He nodded. I took a closer look. Faint smoke rose from behind the crest.

“How long?”

His face wrinkled up in thought. Then he let go the wheel and held up both hands, fingers spread, closed his fists, opened them a second time, closed them, opened them again.

“Thirty minutes?”

Nod.

I passed the word to Gordon, who called von Schtecker back to join us. Both officers seemed jumpy to me, both working hard at not showing it. Like me.

“Pilot says half an hour to Uvats,” Gordon started. “No telling what sort of a reception we’ll have there, so we need to be ready for all eventualities. Now, here’s my plan. Once we land I’ll take the Marines and find the local gendarmerie. Fargo, you will accompany me. Leftenant von Schtecker, you guard the boats and supplies with your chaps. Be prepared to support our withdrawal if things get hot.”

“Ja, sehr gut,”
von Schtecker answered.

“Mademoiselle Courbiere should stay with the boats, I believe. You know how touchy these Mohammedans are about women,” Gordon added.

I knew how touchy some Englishmen were.

“You mind missing all the fun?” I asked Gabrielle.

She wrinkled her nose in disdain.

“I have no desire to walk through a burning town.”

Gordon and von Schtecker both gave a small start.

“Burning town?” Gordon demanded. “What’s all this, then?”

“Didn’t notice the smoke?” I asked and pointed at the smudge above the hill. Gordon and von Schtecker both turned and studied it, frowns creasing their faces. Gabrielle looked at them and shook her head.

Uvats was a sprawling, motionless, nearly colorless town of gray stone and stucco buildings with brown tile and gray slate roofs, spilling down a low ridge to the harbor. The waterfront was abandoned aside from a couple small boats swamped in the shallows and scores of large blue-black crows, fat and unalarmed by our arrival. They studied us not so much with hunger as speculation.

The fire didn’t look as bad up close; the heavy rains last night must have drowned most of the blaze. Several buildings in the town still smoldered, and the fires might grow and spread, but for now all they produced were dirty coils of smoke that formed a veil of mourning over the dead town. At least it looked dead.

As soon as the launch bumped against the dock, the Marines scrambled over the gunwale and spread out into a skirmish line followed by the Bavarians.

The air was tinged with the smell of wood smoke, but something else as well, a sour, oily smell that tickled my gag reflex. It made my heart rate climb and sweat break out on my forehead. As soon as I was on the dock, I unfastened the leather cover on my holster, pulled out the Webley, and kept it pointed at the sky, finger out of the trigger guard but ready to go.

“Bloody hell this place stinks of garbage,” Gordon cursed, and von Schtecker nodded his agreement.

I looked at the Marines, the Bavarians, and saw some noses wrinkled in disgust, but nothing more. That told me something about them: they’d never been to war, at least not a long, nasty one.

“That’s not garbage,” I said. “It’s decomp.”

Gordon turned to look at me.

“Decomp?”

“Decomposing human bodies, lots of them.”

Gordon’s look of mild curiosity changed to disbelief and then horror, quickly concealed behind a mask of nervous indifference. A murmur ran through the Marines and Bavarians, a ripple of movement as men became alert and scanned the buildings near the waterfront. I heard a zipping sound behind me, turned, and saw Gabrielle kneeling on the dock, uncasing her Winchester shotgun.

“If something happened here long enough ago for the bodies to start to rot,” Gordon asked, “why hadn’t the Turks heard of it?”

“Weather’s been warm and damp, so I’d say this could have happened within the last three days. Why no news of it back in Visegard? Telegraph was out. You heard Cevik Bey. Happens all the time, so no one thought anything of it.”

“Good Lord, what happened here?” Gordon asked.

Something bad, that was sure. As if to emphasize the point, a wolf appeared from an alley and stood sizing us up. A rifle cracked from the crowd of men on the dock, a slug knocked a chip from the corner of a building a few feet from the animal, and the wolf streaked back down the alleyway.

Gordon looked around uncertainly. One of the Marines opened the bolt on his rifle, and a spent brass cartridge case clinked musically on the dock.

“You call that shooting, Private Kane?” Corporal O’Mara demanded.

You call that fire discipline?

But it wasn’t my army so I kept my mouth shut.

Gordon looked at the steam launch, clearly wanting to reboard and head downriver. But then what? He looked into the silent town and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Well, let’s see if anyone is still here other than the wolves. Leftenant von Schtecker, same plan as before. You stay here with your men and guard the launch and our provisions. Make certain this cowardly bugger of a boatman doesn’t run off and leave us hanging. If you hear heavy gunfire, and you are not yourself engaged, send one section to support us, but you are to stay here with your other section and guard this boat.”

“Jawohl, Herr . . .
Yes, Captain.”

I glanced back at Gabrielle and gave her a reassuring smile as we set off into the town. She nodded, face serious, and went back to pushing shells into the magazine of her Winchester.

“Any idea where we’re going?” I asked Gordon. We’d originally planned on asking directions once we got to town.

“It isn’t that large a town. The public buildings will be on the square.”

That made sense. We started up the cobblestone street. It wound up the hillside at a slope I felt in the calves of my legs after a dozen paces.

Up close the town looked pretty bad. The street was littered with clothing, broken crockery, soggy paper, the detritus of looting and panicked flight. The rains which put out the fires had left a muddy gray sludge everywhere, ash washed from the sky. Most of the doors stood open, some off the hinges. A lot of roofs had collapsed, the support timbers burned out from under them. What the hell happened here?

Once we were out of the waterfront and onto what looked like the main street of the town, the Marines went from skirmish order into a ragged group, walking up the middle of the street. Shipboard combat was their main duty, and I figured they were trained for use as a landing party as well, but they clearly didn’t know much about street fighting.

I moved over to the right side of the street and looked in an open door. A rug shop, with some woven baskets as well. Living quarters were probably upstairs. No sign of recent habitation.

“Anything?” Gordon asked as I turned away.

I shook my head.

“Corporal O’Mara, have the men check out the buildings to either side of the street,” he ordered.

“You heard the army captain,” O’Mara barked. “Jones, Riley, left side of the street. Williams, Kane, right side. Hop to it.”

We hadn’t gone more than a block before Kane, the private who’d fired at the wolf, drew back from an open door and vomited.

“Something here, Corp,” the Marine with him called out.

I walked over and looked in. Three bodies, and the wolves had gotten to two of them. All were bloated, the skin stretched and shiny. The decomp smell was strong, but there was something else, almost as strong.

“Diarrhea,” I said to Gordon as he came up beside me and looked in, white-faced and covering his mouth and nose with his hand. “Looks like these people shit themselves to death. I’d guess cholera or something pretty close.”

He took a step back and nodded.

“Small wonder they tried to burn the infected bodies,” he said, voice shaking. “Corporal O’Mara, send a runner back to the dock. Tell the Bavarians there is cholera in the town and they are under no circumstances to drink any water until it has been boiled.”

“You heard the army captain, Kane. Get going.”

Gordon was using his head, which was a good sign. And he knew cholera was water-borne and boiling was an effective prophylaxis. I wasn’t sure when folks figured that out, but obviously before 1888, at least in this world.

Gordon walked faster to draw ahead of the Marines and gestured for me to follow. When we were a dozen paces ahead he spoke to me in a low voice without turning to look at me.

“Cholera is endemic to the region. I cannot think people would abandon a town in panic because of it.”

“No, me neither. Something else must be going on.”

We walked in silence for a few more seconds. Then Gordon cleared his throat.

“I . . . ah . . . cannot say this to anyone else here. I am quite frightened by all of this, to the point that I fear my judgment may be impaired. But I am responsible for the success of the expedition. I cannot appear uncertain in front of the others. You understand?”

“Yep. Been there myself.”

“Really? As a translator?” he asked, doubt in his voice.

I glanced at him. It must have taken a lot to open up like this, especially to me.

“The truth is, I wasn’t always
just
a translator.”

“I see.”

I wondered if he did. We walked on in silence for half a block.

“My point is, I’m a bit at sea, trying to sort out what to do next. Everything seems . . . quite different than we anticipated.”

“No plan survives contact with the enemy.”

He grunted, almost a laugh.

“You’ve read Moltke, I see. I met him, you know. Not at all what I expected. Of course, he was quite old at the time. I’m rambling a bit, aren’t I?”

“Yeah. You want my advice? First things first—find the Turkish soldiers. We can use the extra firepower and someone who speaks the local languages. But if we can’t find them, we still have Gabrielle, a map, and the element of surprise.”

The street opened into a plaza ahead of us, with a church on the left side and what looked like a municipal building opposite it. Gordon motioned to O’Mara, and a barked command sent two of the Marines trotting toward each building. Gordon took out a cheroot and tried to light it, but his hands trembled too much to get the match lit. I lit a match myself and held it for him while he puffed the cigar to life.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.