Just got a quick question about whether or not I still consider myself a Steampunk Enthusiast.
Well, I bought all of Professor Elemental’s comics earlier this year. I consider that a hint as to where my heart lies. I might not get out much, but I’m still a Steampunk enthusiast at heart.
Category Archives: Steampunk Writer
I’m always on the lookout for great Steampunk books. Andrew Knighton also write short stories in the Steampunk genre.
After nagging you all about writing Steampunk narrative, I thought it might be nice if I finally shared one of my Steampunk stories with you.
Three Men in a Submarine – to Say Nothing of the Vampire
By Lynne Lumsden Green
“The Strategic Advantages of Submersibles
- ‘Tis private: a man may thus go to any coast in the world invisibly, without discovery or prevented in his journey.
- ‘Tis safe, from the uncertainty of Tides, and the violence of Tempests, which do never move the sea above five or six paces deep. From Pirates and Robbers which do so infest other voyages; from ice and great frost, which do so much endanger the passages towards the Poles.
- It may be of great advantages against a Navy of enemies, who by this may be undermined in the water and blown up.
- It may be of special use for the relief of any place besieged by water, to convey unto them invisible supplies; and so likewise for the surprisal of any place that is accessible by water.
- It may be of unspeakable benefit for submarine experiments.”
John Wilkes, 1648
One of the founders and a lifelong member of
The Royal Society of London for Improving Natural Knowledge
Somewhere in London, on the docks, 1814
The workshop was busy, even at this time of night, choked with steam, noisy, and blazing with heat, with at least a dozen men hard at work on various projects. The smithy tolled like a great bell, while a fountain of sparks sizzled as they rained down from the hammering that accompanied the welding. The room was surprisingly well lit, thanks to a profusion of Faraday electric lamps, but the flashes from the welding created strange shadows on the roof and walls. Everything stank of the death of metal: coal, hot iron, burning tin, and singed copper. Something had to suffer and die in the creation of a new invention.
The man-powered submarine dominated the centre of the room, for it was nearly 13 yards long and 10 feet across the beam. It was highly polished and its sides gleamed like fish scales – the only piscine attribute it appeared to display. As the supposed pinnacle of British engineering, the vehicle didn’t look splendid or inspiring.
To Sir Joseph Banks’ eyes, it looked like someone had taken the hulls of two boats and glued them together to form an enclosed space, and then clad them in copper plate, brass beams, and rivets. It looked lumpy and graceless, and very unlike a fish of any description. He had been expecting something less clumsy, with the sleek lines of a pike or a shark.
“I can’t imagine anything that looks less like a predator,” said Sir Joseph, president of the Royal Society. He felt angry, rather than disheartened. He banged the armrest with his fist to emphasise his remark. “This is a monstrosity. It looks like it will sink like a stone.”
Mr George Caley, botanical collector (retired) and currently Sir Joseph’s assistant, was pushing his employer’s wickerwork chair. He twitched to see his employer turning puce with excitement. “Remember your health, sir,” said Caley, retaining his faint Yorkshire accent even after so many years abroad in the antipodes and further years spent living in London, “or your good wife will be having my guts for garters. Mistress Banks will also pour harsh words in my ear, and that is not the soft option.”
Sir Joseph rolled his eyes, but ceased his protests. His wife was not a woman to be crossed, and nor was his sister. He was an old man; exposure to the chill night air made his bones ache, and those aches tended to make him grumpy. At least it was warm in the workshop and his pains were fading to twinges. He found it quite easy to give into Mr Caley’s admonishments when the man had his – Sir Joseph’s – best interests at heart. To be truthful, Sir Joseph was regretting that he had agreed to this outing.
Sir Joseph Banks was, as a favour to the Crown, supervising any scientific research relating to the war effort. He might have declined the honour if he had known it would mean sneaking off to covert, late-night meetings. It wasn’t in his nature to be secretive. He was a firm believer in Science being separate and above political differences, and encouraged communication between scientists no matter what nationality they were, even the French. Proper science was meant to take place during daylight hours with lots of witnesses, not the other way around.
It never occurred to Sir Joseph that he could have delegated any late night meetings to one of his colleagues in the Royal Society, or that he could have sent Mr Caley in his stead. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust others – certainly, Mr Caley had proved himself to be dependable and able to work without supervision – but Sir Joseph had always taken the motto of the Royal Society to heart: ‘Nullius in verba’, which Sir Joseph took to mean ‘take nobody’s word for it’. He’d found that nobody could replace the knowledge gained by firsthand observation and experience. Being confined to his wheelchair by gout was not going to prevent him from doing his duty.
Field Marshal Arthur Wellesley, recently made the Duke of Wellington, patted Sir Joseph on the shoulder with his fine-boned hand. His long face might have looked severe with his high cheekbones and thin mouth, except his features were generally lit by a merry smile, and the expression in his eyes was always kind. Sir Joseph privately thought the Duke looked too good natured to be a proper soldier. When the Duke spoke, his voice hinted of his childhood spent in Ireland, though the lilt was being eroded as he cultivated a plummy, English accent.
“I know it doesn’t look like much. It is a work in progress. But Napoleon has encouraged great strides in science, and we can’t be left behind,” said the Duke.
Sir Joseph shook his head and said, “Napoleon’s scientists abandoned this design. And Fulton had already tried to get our government interested in his man-powered submersibles before going home and forgetting about the project entirely. I believe he is now working on designing steam-powered ocean-going ships, and good luck to him. So why did we build another vessel based on Fulton’s designs? Why not copy the design of one of the other submersibles?”
“To be sure, the British research on Fulton’s design stopped because of our victory at the battle of Trafalgar. It took away our main motivation to continue. But our London office still had copies of Fulton’s designs,” said the Duke. “I feel the man-powered submarine could be very useful in gathering information.”
“Spying, in other words,” said Sir Joseph. “All that secret poking about leaves a bad taste in my mouth, I’m afraid.”
“I don’t see it as spying. I see it as gaining information that might save the lives of my men. And maybe the lives of some of the French navy as well.”
“Isn’t it a tad underhanded using Napoleon’s own submarine design against him?”
“Not at all,” said the Duke. “Isn’t it the stated goal of the scientific community to have a free exchange of ideas and information over and above the mere shackles of politics?”
“Fiddlesticks!” exclaimed Sir Joseph. “You are parroting one of my speeches. Don’t throw my own words back at me.”
The Duke gestured to some of the other inventions around the workshop, cannons and guns and such. “Isn’t it better to see science used for spying rather than making weapons?”
Sir Joseph was about to make a sharp retort…
Mr Caley cleared his throat in a respectful manner. “Milord,” was all he said, but the reproach in his voice was the leash for Sir Joseph’s temper.
At this point, one of the welders appeared to finish his task, for he set his tools to one side, climbed down a stepladder and started making his way over to the visitors.
Sir Joseph noted with approval the welder’s goggles and leather cap, heavy leather gloves, even heavier leather apron, and extremely robust leather boots. He trusted a man who took his work seriously and dressed appropriately.
The apron was gently smouldering from the constant flow of sparks, and the welder removed it before approaching the visitors. Under the apron he wore sensible overalls, and this revealed a surprisingly slim, almost boyish physical frame; it didn’t seem muscular enough to have handled the hammer used for banging away at red-hot rivets. Then he took off his gloves and cap and goggles, revealing a cheery grin with too many sharp teeth and a luxuriant flow of red curls. The welder was a female! And a vampire!
“Who is this?” spluttered Sir Joseph. “I don’t recall any vampires in the employ of the government.”
There was a softly muttered curse from behind him. Sir Joseph subsided. He hadn’t used to be so curmudgeonly, but being confined to a chair soured his temper, for he was constantly reminded that his body was no longer as active as his mind.
Mistress Liùsaidh Lesley – known as Lucy to her friends – smiled at the Duke of Wellington. With her red hair, white skin and green overalls, she resembled a Christmas decoration or a peppermint candy cane, most appropriate for the coming winter season. She turned to the Duke.
“Good evening, your Grace. I’m assuming you didn’t warn them?” Her voice was a warm contralto, also accented, this time with a Scottish brogue from the Borderlands. Sir Joseph guessed she originated from Berwickshire or somewhere close to it.
Am I the only native to London here? he thought privately. Ah well, all the brightest and best in the Empire end up in the capital eventually.
The Duke smiled back at the young-looking mechanic. “No. I didn’t have a chance. Sir Joseph insisted on accompanying me to this test dive. He was most persistent.” He turned to the elderly man in the wicker chair and said, “Sir Joseph, may I present Miss Lucy Lesley, our chief mechanic and engineer. Mistress Lesley, this is Sir Joseph Banks, president of the Royal Society and his assistant, Mister Caley.”
Miss Lesley bobbed, in what approximated a curtsey in her overalls. “I am honoured,” she said.
“It is a pleasure to meet you,” replied Sir Joseph, bowing his heavy, leonine head in return. Miss Lesley looked about twenty, but to be an engineer – and most certainly since she was a vampire – she had to be much, much older. Sir Joseph wondered how she had become interested in the science of machines and engines, and how long she had been working for the British government. He turned to the Duke and asked, “Arty, how did you come to make Miss Lesley the head of this project?”
“Miss Lesley comes from a tradition of Scottish engineers. She is a master craftsman in the field,” said the Duke. “The Crown was approached by a group of British vampires who offered their skills in return for a promise of recognition as citizens; the vampires want to have the same rights as the living.”
Miss Lesley nodded. “Being declared dead can be an awful bore. I’ve had a dreadful time retaining my ancestral home, because my cousins keep threatening to take me to court, just because they believe they should inherit the place since I am ‘dead’.”
The Duke continued on, “The Crown saw an opportunity to benefit the war effort and it was decided to give them a chance to prove themselves. Miss Lesley had some very clever suggestions and so she was given charge of building and operating the Nautilus II. And, due to her nature, she is very good at keeping secrets.”
“I heard what you said about her looking clumsy,” said Miss Lesley to Sir Joseph. “A swan looks very clumsy on the land, too. The Nautilus II will prove her worth once we get her wet.”
“My dear, any engineer worth their salt is never going to say their project isn’t workable,” said Sir Joseph, but he smiled to take the sting out of his remark. “It might need more time, more money, more research, more equipment and more manpower, but an engineer will get it to work in the end, or die trying.”
“That’s where I’m ahead of the game,” said Miss Lesley, with a tiny shrug, her smile both wry and rueful.
Sir Joseph coloured up. “Please forgive my rudeness. That was an inexcusable thing to say.”
Miss Lesley shook her head making her curls bounce in a lively jig. “No need to apologise. I could see it wasn’t meant in a nasty way, which makes for a refreshing change.” She turned to face the submarine, and her expression softened into maternal pride. “I do believe, gentlemen, that since you are here to accompany me while I take my treasure out for a short excursion, you can soon decide for yourselves if she has any grace or not.”
“Will all of us fit?” asked Sir Joseph. Even though the Nautilus II dominated the workshop, it didn’t look like it would be spacious on the inside.
The Duke rubbed his hands, anticipating his comrade’s reaction. “It isn’t as comfortable as a clubroom, but I think you are going to be pleasantly surprised.”
There was a certain amount of fuss to get the portly Sir Joseph into the submarine, since he was no longer trim or limber. At first, he suggested that he could climb the ladder up to the conning tower, where the hatch was. After all, he had once scooted up trees and clambered over cliff faces in search of rare plants.
Gritting his teeth with determination, Sir Joseph stood up, with the faithful Caley hovering at his side. Sir Joseph shook off his assistant with a gruff, “I’ll be fine.”
Stop treating me like an invalid, he fumed silently.
He gripped the ladder for support, ignoring the pain in his feet. He went to pull himself up to the next step. The pressure of the step on the joint of his big toe felt like some creature was savaging his foot. Humiliated and betrayed by his own infirmity, his arms couldn’t support his weight, and he felt himself slipping.
Mr Caley jumped forward – followed closely by Miss Lesley – and grabbed him before he fell. “Thank you,” Sir Joseph said, gruff nearly to the point of rudeness.
In the end, Miss Lesley and Mr Caley had to carry him up the ladder and then lower him through the hatch in the conning tower. He came embarrassingly close to not fitting through the hatch.
“It looks like his coat is catching on the edges,” said Miss Lesley. “It might be best if you take it off, Sir Joseph.”
Mr Caley was very red in the face as he helped Sir Joseph out of his coat. He was a rangy fellow with a surprising amount of strength, but Sir Joseph was not a small man.
“I’m regretting all those puddings,” said Sir Joseph, as way of an apology.
“Not as much as I am, milord,” muttered Mr Caley.
Sir Joseph allowed Mr Caley the impertinent remark, since his assistant was trained as a botanical collector, and not as a nursemaid. Mr Caley duties were meant to be more those of a secretary and research assistant. Neither Sir Joseph nor Mr Caley had ever imagined that Mr Caley would have to try and carry Sir Joseph into a tin fish, and certainly not with the able help of a lady vampire.
Overall, entering the submarine was not an experience that Sir Joseph enjoyed; it was so undignified to be slung around by someone who resembled a slight, pretty girl, even if she was much, much stronger than any man. It also galled him that the entire episode was being witnessed by the Duke of Wellington. At least he knew the man wasn’t a gossip.
Once inside, he was settled into a comfortable chair in the main cabin. The chair was upholstered in leather, and it was fastened to the floor by a screw so that the chair could be swung to face in any direction, and then there was a lever that could fix the chair in place when you didn’t want it to swing. Sir Joseph took the opportunity to catch his breath and inspect his surroundings.
His chair was one of five in the cabin. The cabin itself was small but as luxuriously appointed as the chair, panelled in oak with polished brass fittings and elegant scrollwork decorations, so that it looked more like an office than a craft of war. It smelt very strongly of beeswax and oil. The submarine had only a few tiny portholes, so heavily glazed that he only caught a dim, obscured view of workroom; he wondered how anyone was supposed to steer with such a view. Behind him was another hatch which led through a bulkhead into the propulsion room.
This hatch was open, and Sir Joseph caught glimpses of several people busily working pedals and gears, oiling them and tightening screws, as far as he could tell. The Duke took the chair beside him, and Caley sat closer to the bulkhead. The chair closest to the front of the cabin, and closest to a desk set with switches, dials, levers, wheels, and gauges, was taken by Miss Lesley, after she had sealed the main hatch.
“Where is the captain?” asked Sir Joseph.
“That would be me for this jaunt,” replied Miss Lesley in a severe manner that brooked no argument, as she toggled switches and pumped a lever.
“May I ask you a question, Miss Lesley?”
“Of course, milord,” said Miss Lesley, and she tapped a glass-covered dial. “Ask as many as you like. I can’t promise that I’ll know the answers to all of them, but I’ll do my best.”
“I’ve actually seen a copy of the plans for this vessel. Isn’t there supposed to be a false sail attached behind the conning tower, to make the submarine resemble a sailing boat?”
“Ah! I know this one. That false sail created more problems that it solved. The Nautilus II isn’t meant to dive very deep, but it is still meant to be able to dive under the keels of ships. The original Nautilus did manage to dive to below ten fathoms. We can’t dive with the sail up, and getting out to lower and unstep the sail negates any attempt at secrecy.”
“Oh. That seems obvious now that you’ve explained it,” said Sir Joseph.
“May I add to Miss Lesley’s answer?” asked the Duke.
“Of course!” said Sir Joseph. “After all, this is your project. Fulton’s plans would have been forgotten, languished, if you hadn’t pushed to see this submarine built. Personally, I don’t like to see any research discarded before its full potential has been explored.”
“I am pleased you see it that way,” said the Duke. He gestured to the ceiling and the walls surrounding them. “Originally, these man-powered submarines were meant to have a bomb or two on board. The sailing ship disguise was to obscure the submarine’s function and let it get close enough to an enemy vessel to blow a hole in its hull. Miss Lesley adapted the design to make a silent and hidden vessel that can make sorties into enemy waters and spy out the lie of the land and the location of troops and camps.”
“I see. Very clever,” said Sir Joseph. “It reduces the risks taken to obtain information.” As much as Sir Joseph disliked spying and sneaking, he did prefer spies to bombs.
Miss Lesley turned to the Duke and said, “Your Grace, we are ready to launch. Do you want to do the honours?”
The Duke shook his head. “The Nautilus II is yours to command.”
Miss Lesley rewarded him with a charming smile. She shouted into a large shell shape hanging from the ceiling. “Chocks away!”
There was a clanging noise and a bump. The submarine started to tilt nose down. Then there was the sensation of movement, of falling. When Sir Joseph glanced at one of the portholes, he could see blurry objects moving past the glass. The vessel tilted further and gained speed. Then there was a tinny splash, foam and dark water danced past the portholes, and the Nautilus II slid into the water.
We must be on rails like a steam locomotive, thought Sir Joseph. But I don’t remember noticing rollers or wheels.
Since it was night time, once they were submerged it was like diving into an ink bottle. The lights inside the submarine could only illuminate the water for a couple of yards. All Sir Joseph could see were anchors and chains looming out of the dark for a moment before they disappeared back into the murk behind them.
“I would advise everyone to hang on to something,” announced Miss Lesley.
There was series of clanks and clicks, as catches released their hold on the Nautilus II. Then the submarine jerked as it bobbed away from its moorings. Sir Joseph – gripping his armrests for all he was worth – was grateful for the warning, as he might have been propelled from his seat otherwise. The hull beside his head hummed a deep note, sounding like a gigantic tuning fork; soon the humming was replaced by rather alarming creaks and groans as the hull adjusted to the pressure of the water.
The point of the man-powered submarine was to make the craft as silent as possible, for the sound of an engine could be heard for long distances through water. As well, an engine has exhaust fumes, smelly and hard to eliminate. Sir Joseph wondered if the Nautilus II was that much quieter, with the whirring and clanking that was coming from the propulsion room. He looked around at his fellow submariners, who were stirring in the seats.
“Might I suggest some sort of safety harnesses for the chairs,” said the Duke of Wellington. “Just as a precaution.”
“An excellent idea, your Grace,” said Miss Lesley. “I tend to forget mortals are easily bruised or broken.”
In the soft light of the cabin, the vampire looked … more sinister. More alert. Sir Joseph thought her canines seemed sharper and more prominent.
Miss Lesley noticed his expression. “You need not fear me, my lord,” she said. “I would never harm anyone under my protection. But I must let my more monstrous nature assert itself while we are under the water, so that my senses are much more acute and my reflexes are faster.”
“Well, that is just using good sense then,” remarked Sir Joseph. “I had heard some rumours to that effect.”
“Indeed. These days, we tend to use vampires for all our risky tests,” said the Duke.
Miss Lesley nodded and said, “Of course I would never endanger you or his Grace. This isn’t the first time the Nautilus II has been fully submerged. Most of the problems have been fixed.”
“This is only meant to be an inspection, isn’t it?” asked Sir Joseph. He looked nervously at the walls, almost expecting to see them leaking. Then it occurred to him that his assistant was being very quiet – much too quiet for the garrulous George. He swung his chair around to check on Mr Caley.
Mr Caley’s skin was nearly as pale as Miss Lesley’s complexion, his eyes were squeezed tightly shut and he was shaking, slumped in his chair like a sack of grain.
Sir Joseph said, “Good lord, man. Whatever is the matter, Mister Caley?”
Mr Caley opened his eyes with reluctance. He gulped and rolled his eyes, and said, “Well, your lordship, I was never a good sailor at the best of times. And I’m not overly fond of tiny, enclosed places, since I’ve spent most of my time out-of-doors under a big sky. I’m sure my nausea will pass.”
“I never took you for a pansy, Mister Caley, for all your botanical skills. Buck up! Show some backbone.”
“Yes, milord,” said Mr Caley. He sat up in his chair, but he gripped the armrests with desperate strength.
“Don’t be too hard on Mr Caley,” said the Duke. “Bravery comes in many forms. I wouldn’t have liked to trot off into the wilderness of New South Wales to look for plant specimens, with nothing but a backpack and hat, with that entire great unknown before me.”
“Hah! I’ll bet you’ve never had a fearful moment in your life!” said Sir Joseph.
The Duke looked thoughtful. “Once my blood gets up, I am like that boy in one of Mr Anderson’s fairy tales, for I lose all fear. If I’m afraid in battle, it is not for my own safety, but for my soul. I’m afraid of becoming a butcher and killing men unnecessarily.”
Sir Joseph thought for a moment before he spoke. “That seems unlikely. Your interest in the success of the Nautilus II would indicate it isn’t in your nature to seek unnecessary death.” He looked at poor Mr Caley, as white as a baker’s best flour. “This excursion can’t be too long, anyway. We need to keep the Nautilus II a secret. So we have to have her back at the dock well before sunrise.”
Sir Joseph glanced back at the open door to the propulsion room. “Can we trust the men manning the pedals?” he asked.
“Yes. Sir Joseph,” said Miss Lesley. “For the same reason you can trust me. They are all vampires and used to keeping secrets. But, if that isn’t secure enough for you, the crew are all vampires that I have personally converted. They are my coven, my family. They cannot speak, because I have ordered them to not to.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Sir Joseph. “Did I hear you correctly? Is that the specific reason why you chose them for crew? Because they can keep a secret?”
Miss Lesley smiled, and then stopped when she realised her expression wasn’t particularly reassuring. “Well, in a battle, a submarine is very likely to be damaged. Vampires can see very well in the dark, and it gets dark a few fathoms under the water even on the sunniest days. All vampires have extraordinary strength and reflexes, so they can keep pedalling the ship for a lot longer than mortal men. They don’t really need to breathe, and they can’t be killed by drowning or pressure.”
“Goodness. It’s a wonder that all our troops vampires,” said Sir Joseph. He didn’t look impressed; quite the opposite, in fact.
Miss Lesley stopped smiling and shifted in her seat as it has suddenly grown too small for her, but she answered honestly all the same. “Well, in a battle, vampires can die just as easily as anyone else, from untipped arrows, wooden pikes, or having our heads cut off by swords. We can’t fight during the daytime, of course; this is why all the portholes in the Nautilus II are made from a special safety glass that filters out the dangerous elements in the sun’s rays. And then, there is a lot of blood in a battlefield. It would send most vampires into a frenzy and make them rather useless as soldiers, to be honest. They might end up killing men from their own side.”
“Ah. I see,” said Sir Joseph. “Certainly, I can see the advantage of an entire crew of vampires in submarines.” As he considered how they might recruit such a crew, he felt concern, and then anger. “However, I hope these are not British sailors purposely converted to being vampires just to man this vessel? I could never condone such an act!”
“I haven’t ‘recruited’ these men. They were already members of my coven, and since I have agreed to assist the British government, well, that gains their assistance as well,” said Miss Lesley.
“These man-powered … vampire-powered submarines are just for short voyages. Sabotage. Spying,” said the Duke. “That is why I pushed for the government to fund the building of the Nautilus II. I know that the French abandoned the project, but the French didn’t have the genius of Miss Lesley to call upon.”
If Miss Lesley could have blushed, she would have. “You’re too kind, your Grace.”
Sir Joseph decided he should make up for his harsh question and said, “Well, Miss Lesley, I see that you have plans to become a mermaid. You will make a particularly beautiful one.”
“Thank you, Sir Joseph, for the compliment, but can I point out that mermaids traditionally lured sailors to their deaths by singing beautiful songs. I’m afraid singing is not among my accomplishments,” said Miss Lesley. “However, we four could always have a go at a barbershop quartet.”
“I’m not certain Mr Caley is up to singing,” said Sir Joseph. “However, if he gets his sea legs-”
It was then, by sheer bad luck, that an anchor from an unseen ship was released on top of the submarine. Everyone in the cabin heard the splash and rattle, and then suddenly the whole vessel rang like a bell as the metal anchor struck them. Because the Nautilus II was moving at a fair clip, the anchor dragged its way over the top of the hull, scraping the copper plates and catching at the ribs and rivets. It then became entangled in the structure around the rudders.
The Nautilus II began to bob and jerk like a fish snared on a hook, as the ship and anchor began to drag it along. Mr Caley turned a sickly green.
Sir Joseph knew a bit about the history of submersibles; he knew that the Spanish Ictineo I had been scuttled in an accident with a cargo vessel. The German Brandtaucher, another prototype submersible that had been powered by human beings rather than an engine, had sunk during diving trials. It looked as if the Nautilus II was going to suffer a similar fate.
“Bloody hell,” exclaimed Miss Lesley and swung her chair back to face her panel of instruments. Her hands were frantically busy as she tried to stabilise her vessel.
Sir Joseph tried to brace himself in his chair, so that he wouldn’t be tossed around the cabin like a ball. However, he could feel his hands and legs weakening.
Bloody gout! thought Sir Joseph.
Mr Caley was starting to moan and looked as if he might throw up. The Duke was firmly gripping his armrests, but his expression was rather cheery (to Sir Joseph’s surprise).
Near the ceiling hatch, a damp patch appeared. It grew rapidly, and water started dripping from the ceiling and running down the walls. It took only a minute for the floor to be awash with half-an-inch of water which continued to rise rapidly. It sloshed around everyone’s boots and smelt strongly of rotting fish, sewerage and the ocean.
I guess this is my time to die, thought Sir Joseph. Well, I never did want to die quietly in my bed.
He was surprised at how calm he felt. He supposed it was due to the full life he had led, and his constant battle to bring the light of rationality to the world. He liked to think of himself as the candle maker, helping others to shine against the darkness of ignorance. When a man has done his best all his life, he has few regrets at the end of it; well, maybe he had just the one … that his wife had no children or grandchildren to comfort her after he was gone. He gave himself a mental shake for such grim thoughts.
But what about the Duke? he asked himself, glancing over to his colleague. Arty is an essential part of our war machine. And poor George came back to England, thinking he would die safely in bed between clean, white sheets.
A quick glance at Mr Caley showed him to be manfully containing his nausea. Sir Joseph wished he could take back his hard words about his servant’s fortitude. With all the tossing about, even Sir Joseph was feeling ill.
Against all common sense, the Duke was looking happier as events advanced. He was grinning like a maniac as the submarine bounced him around, enjoying the experience just like a small boy on a carousel. Sir Joseph supposed that a soldier would enjoy the danger inherent in the situation; you didn’t become a professional soldier because you liked things safe and cosy. However, someone had to take charge of the situation. Miss Lesley was too busy fighting with the controls to think.
Dash it all, thought Sir Joseph. I might be old but I’m not dead yet. Time I put my much-vaunted intellect to work. We need not die here.
“Lucy! Take her up! Blast any pretence at secrecy. We must save the Duke at all costs!” ordered Sir Joseph over the din.
“Aye, milord,” said Miss Lesley. She shouted into the shell again. “Emergency! All hands prepare for an emergency release of the ballast.” She turned back to her passengers. “I know you’re all already hanging on. Be ready for an almighty bump!”
Lucy dragged at a lever and the Nautilus II rolled and yawed and spun. There was a sudden blast of bubbles past the portholes as the submarine sprang to the surface like a frolicking dolphin. Sir Joseph was pushed back into his chair by the force of their rapid ascent and felt his ears pop.
Everyone was jolted out of their seats as the Nautilus II rebounded from her leap into the air. Sir Joseph was flung into the ceiling and then the side of the cabin, to land in an untidy heap with the Duke and Mr Caley on top of him. For a moment, no one stirred, waiting for more gymnastics, until Sir Joseph groaned. The other two men hastily crawled off him, and Mr Caley helped him back into his chair.
“Milord! Are you unhurt?” asked Mr Caley. “Mrs Banks will strangle me if you are injured while you are in my care.”
Sir Joseph took a cautious look around. The submarine was still dancing a lively jig, but the action was smoother and water was no longer seeping through the ceiling. Most of the lights had been doused during the accident, but two lamps were still flickering. He felt a sore patch on his bottom lip, where his teeth had cut him while he was being tossed around. He put his hand to his mouth and came away with blood on his fingertips.
He looked up towards Miss Lesley, who had kept her seat. Their eyes met, and they both looked down to his fingertips. The vampire woman’s eyes gleamed very red, nearly as red as her glossy hair, and her teeth visibly lengthened as he watched. He felt his fingers tremble.
Miss Lesley jumped out of her chair and onto the ladder to the conning tower hatch. Her fingernails elongated into talons, as she grimly unscrewed the door fastenings. As soon as the hatch opened, there was a sudden gust of chilly fresh air into the cabin; Sir Joseph hadn’t noticed how stuffy the air had become. Then Lucy climbed out into the night faster than the eye could follow.
Sir Joseph nearly collapsed with relief.
It was but a moment later that the men heard the crunch and groan of metal being rent. And the Nautilus II ceased its frantic dance.
Sir Joseph looked to Mr Caley. Poor George was muttering curses or prayers under his breath, but he no longer appeared to be close to vomiting. He bent over Sir Joseph and helped his employer to his feet.
Pulling himself back onto his chair, the Duke looked rather disappointed that the wild ride was over. When Arty saw Sir Joseph looking at him, he grinned.
“I think we can say the excursion was successful,” said the Duke. “No one has died.”
The sounds of complicated destruction were still coming from the region of the rudders.
The Duke added, “And I do believe Miss Lesley is doing some on-the-spot structural modifications.”
“As one does,” said Sir Joseph. He wondered if it was appropriate to send flowers to a woman for not eating you. Maybe a nice cameo or a bracelet? He would have to ask Lady Banks … then again, thinking of his wife’s face as he tried to explain the circumstances, maybe not.
Mr Caley settled back into his seat and cleared his throat. “May I ask a question, milord?”
“Certainly,” said Sir Joseph. “At this moment, I believe you can ask me anything.” Sir Joseph prepared himself for a request of termination of employment. And he couldn’t really blame George. He rather felt like resigning his position with the government himself.
“This is meant to be a weapon for use against the French?” asked Mr Caley. His expression was earnest, serious.
“Yes? Your point being?” asked Sir Joseph, bewildered.
“Well, sir, I can see that it will be a very effective way of demoralising their troops,” said Mr Caley. “But how are we going to convince them all into taking a ride?”
The Duke of Wellington roared with laughter…
When I imagine changing places with her I get the feeling I do on finishing a novel with a brick-wall happy ending – I mean the kind of ending when you never think any more about the characters . . .
Dodie Smith; I Capture the Castle
I am currently rereading I Capture the Castle. It is one of those novels that always reveals something new when you read it. This time round, I can see where, on page 324, the author, Dodie Smith, is foreshadowing to the audience exactly how she will be ending her book. In case you’ve never read it (and why not?), it doesn’t have a ‘brick-wall happy ending’. She wanted her audience to think about the characters after the book has finished, and this has contributed to the continuing popularity of the novel.
Why am I bring this up?
I am rather terrible at writing endings.
I’ve never been a woman able to write a brick-wall happy ending, where they “all lived happily ever after.” Is this because I don’t like ending the story and leaving my characters behind? Is it because real life never has a neat and tidy ending? Is it because an ending is sort of sad and melancholy, and I am avoiding those feelings? It is probably a mixture of these reasons, among others. Endings are complex.
What makes a good ending? Tidying away all the plots and subplots satisfactorily? Vanquishing the villain and leaving the protagonist victorious? A slap-up feast with a roast boar and gallons of ginger-ale? Do you prefer a tragedy; seeing everyone sitting in the ruins of their lives? Or – like me – do you prefer a drawn line in the sand, with the expectation that the characters still have an important part of their lives to go on with?
I prefer being able to peep over the wall, rather than slamming up against it. Yet this means that I have to make hard decisions about where to leave things for the characters. I do tend to punish my villains and antagonists, but I am less inclined to ‘reward’ my protagonists with a tidy ending. I prefer to infer they go on to have further adventures.
There is plenty of time to rest after you are dead. Who wants to laze around for the rest of their life? Where is the fun in that? It is fine to take a breather and relax after an adventure, but no one really wants the adventure to end.
In I Capture the Castle, Dodie Smith ends the book well before the ‘happily ever after’. It is left up to the reader to decide whether or not the protagonist and the romantic lead end up together. I’ve spent many a happy daydream giving them a range of happy endings, and wondering which one is the correct one (from Dodie Smith’s hints throughout the text).
In my Steampunk work-in-progress, I’ve got two areas in the timeline when I could end the story. Neither will provide me with a neat and tidy ending, but one of them is ‘tidier’ than the other. However, that ending also brings a better resolution to the end of the adventure. At one point, I was tempted to end the story sooner, and that second ending was going to be a whole new book. The problem was … there wasn’t really enough story left to write a whole new book, at least, not without adding in more subplots. I prefer not to add subplots for the sake of adding to the word length. It feels like you are trying to stuff more clothes into drawers that are already full, and just makes everything cramped and crushed and creased.
I think too much of my current story to do that.
But it still leaves me with the problem of how I am going to end my story in a satisfactory manner.
This post was inspired by a discussion with author, Kara Jorgensen.
I’ve discovered the biggest difference (for me) between writing and editing. The more I write, the easier it becomes to write. However, it never works that way with editing. *sigh* I get to a point where the manuscript I’m editing no longer makes any sense. Sometimes I have to step away to ‘freshen my brain’. I think of it as the Editing Blues or Editing Burnout. (This is why I use beta readers. Sometimes, I just get blind to the problems.)
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate editing. It just makes me want to add more, polish more, and fiddle with structure. It tends to become a never-ending process. The more I edit, the more I can see where I can add more details to help refine the plot, or highlight the importance of the setting, or to intensify characterisation. I want to make my Steampunk manuscript absolutely perfect.
In the past, I’ve been able to sit down and write a novel from start to end, and some of these novels haven’t needed that much polishing. I suspect this is because I am not so emotionally invested in these stories as I am in others. Some projects seem to require more attention than others. I suspect my expectations are higher. It is like expecting a pass mark for Phys. Ed. and a top mark in English; I am just better at some things and it is easier to put in the extra effort for a good mark. Maybe that isn’t the best analogy.
A mother shouldn’t like some of her children better than the others … but I do. My Steampunk novel has to be utterly perfect before I send it off. I want the plot to be convoluted by still logical and easy to follow; I want the characters to be fully realised and unforgettable; and I want the settings to act as framing devices par excellence, full of metaphor, resonance, and meaning. I want the prose to sing! To make my readers remember part for weeks after they have read the book, and smile to themselves. I wasn’t to see online discussions of who would play which character if a movie or television show was made based on the book. This book should bring as much joy to my readers as other books have thrilled and enchanted me.
That kind of perfection takes work. Sometimes, it seems like too much work and I am overwhelmed by my own vision.
This is when the skills of learnt as a writer kicks in. Take it one page at a time. It kind of reminds me of that old adage: looks after the pennies and the pounds will look after themselves. Get one page right, and then the next page, and so on … and one day the editing will be finished. It takes time and dedication to climb a mountain.
In other news, I’ve received another rejection; my story wasn’t long enough and they felt I overestimated age of the suitable audience. This is great feedback, because now I know to re-target my submission list for this manuscript. I am well on track to get 100 rejections in this financial year!