Read Online Nell Gwynne's On Land and At Sea by Kage Baker, Kathleen Bartholomew - Free Book Online
Authors: Kage Baker, Kathleen Bartholomew
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ground bent over her mechanical albatross.
Mrs. Otley was almost unaware of the passage of hours as she worked. The unchanging temperature and light in a cave were no indication of time; the constant small noises—a drip of distant water, the slide and whisper of a falling stone—did not occur in any living rhythm. However, the small watch she wore pinned to her bosom chimed the hour faithfully, and at last she had to regretfully admit she had excavated the better half of the day away.
And her lamp only held so much fuel. There were rumors of amazing devices available to field agents, lamps that ran on strange and sophisticated substances or gave one the night sight that Mrs. Corvey enjoyed. Mrs. Otley, however, was still a captive of whale oil.
As she sifted through a last spadeful of dirt, her reward suddenly tumbled into her hand like winning dice. Very like dice—they were, unless she much missed her guess, vertebra—seven or eight of them, and very human-looking. Her excitement was great, but there was no time left to examine them closely. She drew a rough rectangle in the excavated dirt to mark where she had found them, then wrapped her trove carefully in a handkerchief and stowed it in her basket.
She fairly danced out of the cave, then, and blew a kiss to the great blind face as she passed it.
Mrs. Corvey studied the fourteen Talbotypes on the table before her, anchored with perfume bottles, tea cups and two of the vases of flowers that had been arriving daily from Mr. Pickett (via the villainous Felan). She passed them one by one as she finished to Lady Beatrice and Mrs. Otley (just returned, rosy-cheeked and excited from her digging, and pressed immediately into service as an analyst). Those two ladies were the best suited to see details and patterns in the images, and possessed besides between them a good working knowledge of both marine life forms and ordnance.
“To dismiss the obvious at once,” Mrs. Otley said, “this is not a whale. I think it is nothing alive at all.”
“So much for the fishermen seeing Leviathans hereabouts,” said Mrs. Corvey. “Something big’s supposed to have come under one man’s boat, though, and fetched it a good enough whack to pitch him overboard, and that looks big enough.”
Her lenses made a soft whirring sound as she adjusted their light sensitivity, bringing one picture closer to her face. “That’s something , for certain, just under the water—the light falls on it differently. What I can make out through the foam and glare looks like…a barge. A sunken barge. A barge underwater, at any rate. What on earth moves it?”
“There have been some very nearly successful attempts at submarine propulsion using steam engines. And treadmills, too. But they are very slow, I am told,” offered Mrs. Otley.
“That thing isn’t slow.” Herbertina’s voice was rather muffled. She lay on the sofa with her face on her folded arms, while Dora massaged neck muscles strained by the sudden weight of the Talbotype camera. “It went like bloody blazes! I barely had time to refocus and never did manage to change the paper pack—I’d have gotten more if I had. Sorry, Mrs. C.”
“Not your fault, dear. You weren’t anticipating a speed trial of the thing. Speaking of which, Erato, I don’t think that a “very nearly successful” method can be what’s driving this. A treadmill is a ponderous slow machine, I can tell you from my workhouse days.”
“I don’t see how a steam engine would work at all,” said Miss Rendlesham from the window seat.
“It didn’t,” said Mrs. Otley in some embarrassment. “It blew up. I believe there was a problem with venting.”
Lady Beatrice looked up from the image she was going over with a magnifying glass.
“Mrs. Corvey? Would you examine this, please? If you would, pay attention to that object that resembles an organ pipe.”
Mrs. Otley took the image; her lenses whirred and extended slightly. After
Mrs. Otley was almost unaware of the passage of hours as she worked. The unchanging temperature and light in a cave were no indication of time; the constant small noises—a drip of distant water, the slide and whisper of a falling stone—did not occur in any living rhythm. However, the small watch she wore pinned to her bosom chimed the hour faithfully, and at last she had to regretfully admit she had excavated the better half of the day away.
And her lamp only held so much fuel. There were rumors of amazing devices available to field agents, lamps that ran on strange and sophisticated substances or gave one the night sight that Mrs. Corvey enjoyed. Mrs. Otley, however, was still a captive of whale oil.
As she sifted through a last spadeful of dirt, her reward suddenly tumbled into her hand like winning dice. Very like dice—they were, unless she much missed her guess, vertebra—seven or eight of them, and very human-looking. Her excitement was great, but there was no time left to examine them closely. She drew a rough rectangle in the excavated dirt to mark where she had found them, then wrapped her trove carefully in a handkerchief and stowed it in her basket.
She fairly danced out of the cave, then, and blew a kiss to the great blind face as she passed it.
Mrs. Corvey studied the fourteen Talbotypes on the table before her, anchored with perfume bottles, tea cups and two of the vases of flowers that had been arriving daily from Mr. Pickett (via the villainous Felan). She passed them one by one as she finished to Lady Beatrice and Mrs. Otley (just returned, rosy-cheeked and excited from her digging, and pressed immediately into service as an analyst). Those two ladies were the best suited to see details and patterns in the images, and possessed besides between them a good working knowledge of both marine life forms and ordnance.
“To dismiss the obvious at once,” Mrs. Otley said, “this is not a whale. I think it is nothing alive at all.”
“So much for the fishermen seeing Leviathans hereabouts,” said Mrs. Corvey. “Something big’s supposed to have come under one man’s boat, though, and fetched it a good enough whack to pitch him overboard, and that looks big enough.”
Her lenses made a soft whirring sound as she adjusted their light sensitivity, bringing one picture closer to her face. “That’s something , for certain, just under the water—the light falls on it differently. What I can make out through the foam and glare looks like…a barge. A sunken barge. A barge underwater, at any rate. What on earth moves it?”
“There have been some very nearly successful attempts at submarine propulsion using steam engines. And treadmills, too. But they are very slow, I am told,” offered Mrs. Otley.
“That thing isn’t slow.” Herbertina’s voice was rather muffled. She lay on the sofa with her face on her folded arms, while Dora massaged neck muscles strained by the sudden weight of the Talbotype camera. “It went like bloody blazes! I barely had time to refocus and never did manage to change the paper pack—I’d have gotten more if I had. Sorry, Mrs. C.”
“Not your fault, dear. You weren’t anticipating a speed trial of the thing. Speaking of which, Erato, I don’t think that a “very nearly successful” method can be what’s driving this. A treadmill is a ponderous slow machine, I can tell you from my workhouse days.”
“I don’t see how a steam engine would work at all,” said Miss Rendlesham from the window seat.
“It didn’t,” said Mrs. Otley in some embarrassment. “It blew up. I believe there was a problem with venting.”
Lady Beatrice looked up from the image she was going over with a magnifying glass.
“Mrs. Corvey? Would you examine this, please? If you would, pay attention to that object that resembles an organ pipe.”
Mrs. Otley took the image; her lenses whirred and extended slightly. After
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