John Schettler - Devil's Garden

“What would you lay odds on the outcome if it comes to war again soon, Sir Roger?”

“Well of course I’ll have to pull my oar the Duke of Wellington.”

And so on it went, with Thomas listening until the wine dulled his senses and made him want to sleep again.

They were soon back in the Captain’s quarters for the night, and the Duke was lying on the bed, resting his eyes. The room was lit by the glow of an oil lamp and the gentle rocking of the ship seemed to lull them toward sleep again.

“You held out bravely in the mess hall, Mister Thomas. Odd to pass a meal without the barest whisper of a television, radio, cell phone or touch pad at the table. I suppose you think this is all a grand act to satisfy the indulgence of a silly old man with nothing better to do with his time and money.”

Thomas smiled, glad that the Duke was coming clean with him now, or so it seemed.

“Yes,” Ames went on, “it would take a pretty penny to arrange a scene like this, the ship and crew being rather spectacular, eh? Well, you haven’t seen anything yet, my man. The wine was very good tonight, was it not?”

“It was, sir, though I may have had one glass too many. Those men had me half believing I was really on a British merchantman at the edge of another era. Quite convincing, sir.”

“Yes, quite. Well, you sleep on it now, and when you waken in the morning have a good look around at Ostend when we make port. Then I think all will be made clear to you.”

Thomas needed his rest that night, the last night of that proverbial calm before the storm as the Captain put things at dinner. By mid-day the following morning they spotted land and were soon sailing towards the small harbor, but what he saw there was something that no amount of money could have staged.

The place was nothing like the Ostend of 2021, so strikingly different that he first thought they had come to some smaller harbor on the coast. There were no tall buildings or hotels rising on the main waterfront, no cranes for offloading cargo containers. He could see no vehicle traffic on the coastal road to the north as it approached the harbor, and no sign of any other significant commercial sea traffic or tourist cruise ships…just sailing ships, more two and three mast wooden ships than he had ever seen before. This must be a very special event, he thought, but as the Ann negotiated the narrow mouth of the harbor he could see that it appeared to be a town from another place and time.

Sir Roger leaned on the gunwale, smiling. “Ever been to Ostend?”

“Once or twice, sir…”

“Things have changed, have they not? I have endeavored to persuade you as to the period we now find ourselves in, Mister Thomas, but let me say it plainly to you. You will see no motorcars, or busses, or steamships here. You will see no aircraft in the sky, no ugly electrical power lines, and no high rise buildings with glass facades. All of that was from the world we left behind.”

Thomas was looking from the harbor quay, where every person he saw now was in period dress, and then to Ames, an incredulous look of amazement on his face.

“Yes,” said Ames. “That little stairway we took in Lindisfarne Castle was more of a journey than you may have realized. With each step we took we were, in fact, traversing time, as well as space. The years have fallen away and, to make matters short, we have reached a bygone era in that short walk. As I said before, this is no play or theater. It is indeed the year 1815 and, after I mix about at the ball being thrown by the Duchess of Richmond, we are going to the Battle of Waterloo.”

Thomas could not believe what he was hearing, yet the evidence of his eyes was more than persuasive. This was clearly not modern Europe, and either he was still well hung over, still asleep, or the Duke was telling him the truth here!

“Waterloo?” It was all he managed to say. “How is it possible? Why on earth?”

“How it is possible will be something I will relate to you in more detail later. As to why…Well I trust you have packed your military effects in that luggage we’ve been dragging around. A good rifle with a long range scope will come in very handy soon, because we are going to kill someone.”

Itwas a long train ride, but Admiral Togo finally reached the Harbor at Kure, eager for news. He had a carriage waiting for him at the train station, and was taken immediately to naval headquarters where he was surprised to find Saito waiting for him there. Apparently the Vice-Admiral and Minister of Naval affairs was also curious as to what was happening, and he had come all the way from Tokyo to meet with the Fleet Admiral and discuss the matter.

“You say it was a Russian ship?” said Togo. “You are certain of this?”

“That was the report. The ship was even named in the signal we received: Kirov . It came across that tramp steamer, Tatsu Maru , and we have seen what they did. Thirty-two men died in that attack! It would have been worse if Kanto Maru had not been on the scene to pull men out of the water. Our Captain Kawase was on maneuvers out of Amori with a few torpedo boats and wisely cabled me in Tokyo before taking any action. He reports this is a very large warship- very large. It must be something we haven’t seen before. So I handed the matter to you. What have you done about it?”

“Kirov … Yes, I have no knowledge of this ship. Vice Admiral Kamimura has sortied from Maizuru with his squadron of armored cruisers and the two battleships we took from the Russians. I thought we’d send them along to remind them what happened last time they challenged us at sea.” Togo was drinking green tea and he reached to fill Saito’s cup now. “I have just been informed that we have received a wireless telegraph from him, so I thought I would enjoy my tea while I am waiting for the transcript.”

The wait was not long. As if on cue, there came a subtle knock on the door, and Saito turned his head expectantly. “Well they did not wait for your tea to grow cold. Let us hope this is good news.”

An adjutant came in, handing a transcript to Admiral Togo while Saito looked on with some curiosity. Togo read it for some time, a look of concern disturbing the otherwise placid calm of his face.

“Kamimura reports an engagement,” he said at last. “They spotted this Russian ship and it fired on them at long range. There was damage to his ship and two others. Then the Russians broke off before his squadron could close on them. The ship was last seen heading south in the Sea of Japan.”

“Then it could be coming this way,” said Saito. “Good! The Russians sail right into our strength. Have they learned nothing?”

“There is more… Kamimura’s cruiser Izumo was hit eight times and forced to fall off his battle line early in the action. Yet the inspection of the damage indicated it was inflicted by a small caliber round, perhaps no more than 6 inch shells.”

“And how many times was the Russian ship hit by our gunners?”

“It seems our ships never got close enough to fire. This is most unusual.”

“Surely our cruisers have the speed to run down a Russian battleship! They are much faster.”