Diana Pho - Steampunk World

They argued. Their voices were loud but I did not understand what it was about.

“Yes,” said Budo. “You are right. Rigid is better, but takes more time and skill. A non-rigid—“

“—Is a flying bomb. I will not be a part of that.” Omolola did not like losing arguments.

In between this activity they copulated compulsively. I envied their vigour and youth.

Using untreated leather and alloyed iron sheets he built armour for our men. He attached metal tanks to each hollowed-out tree. I could not help myself, I had to ask what they were for.

“They are boilers,” said Omolola. “The coal furnace heats water and generates steam. A one-way valve allows it to generate steady pressure.”

“Pressure for what?” I asked but she spied her lover entering his bunk.

She became feral and dismissed me. “ Abyssus abyssum invocat .”

Deep calls to deep. I taught her that when she was twelve. She had been my most talented student. She was also a painter and sculptor. Wild of heart, fickle, capricious, but brilliant. Not to be underestimated.

In all of his actions I saw that Budo was cultured, had good manners and could read and write. He scratched out symbols in the dust, frowned and drew others. For days on end smoke, steam and foul smells emanated from the building where they carried out their research and erections. Budo listened to all the stories of the griot. He attended the chief who laughed with him and at him, sparking my envy.

When the raid happened we were prepared. The older villagers such as myself hid where we could observe. The young women and men went to their designated jobs as soon as lookouts reported redcoats. They fired up all furnaces. Omolola set dials on mechanisms that were little more than naked mainsprings. “No time for aesthetics,” she said, when I asked.

The British came with rifles and swords, most likely planning to intimidate us into surrendering our healthy ones without a fight. I am not ashamed to say I was in favour of this non-violent approach. Appeasement ensures survival. The English stood back and barked instructions to the Indians in their turbans and the black collaborators who made up the front line. They fired a warning volley from their Lee-Metford rifles even before they reached the village. This was their way. When I was a child we used to call the guns lightning sticks or amunowa , bringers-of-fire.

The blacks and the Indians broke cover, exploring the village, puzzled. The English came on their heels, sweating, arrogant, expectant. One man noticed the small furnaces smoking on the trees, but had no time to examine them. Misshapen bladders of black rubber rolled out from doorways of buildings and huts. Archers nocked, aimed, and let loose their arrows, puncturing each bag, releasing a green miasma that crept forward, hugging the ground, engulfing the invaders. I was curious about the smell, but Budo had us wear gas masks and we looked like glass-eyed demons to each other.

The invaders choked on the noxious gas. “Fall back!” screamed someone, but the moment for retreat had passed. The mainsprings wound down at the same moment.

“Get down,” yelled Budo at everyone.

The men nearest the tree were lucky. They died instantly, heads pulverised as the steam vented and the metal projectiles flew in every direction. Each tree discharged a foot-long metal missile. Men further away took hits to the belly or chest and died in agony. The ones furthest did not die. The depleted force embedded the rods in their bodies. They screamed in pain, and would live until they succumbed to inevitable corruption of the flesh.

Some of these tree-cannons failed. Boilers ruptured without building up the necessary pressure to propel the projectiles. Furnaces fizzled out. The rods went awry. Despite this, enough fired to discourage the English force.

We celebrated with loud cries and songs thanking Olodumare, the creator. Our mistake was to misidentify a skirmish for the war. The second wave hit before we could reload Budo’s magnificent weapons. They gave no quarter. They razed the village and killed old men, women, children. The English singled out Budo for particular cruelty as the architect of their suffering but also for his secrets. He never talked.

Omolola and her six children disappeared.

That was five months before.

If Kenton wanted Budo it was for the engines of war trapped in the prisoner’s head. The problem would be how to motivate Budo to give up his secret knowledge. I translated rapidly.

“…Légion étrangère, Algerian infantry, Penal Light Infantry Battalions, Zouaves and a smattering of mercenaries,” said Kenton.

“They came up river?” asked Budo.

“Under false Trading Company flags, then disgorged troops on the west bank of the Niger.”

A map sprawled over the table showing the rivers Niger and Benue, and where they met to form a Y. A Matroyschka doll marked the position of the French.

“How seasoned are your men?” asked Budo.

Kenton shrugged. “They are well-trained. Some have seen battle against the Mohammedans and a few of the older ones are veterans of the West Africa Squadron that was tasked by the Crown to catch or sink slavers. Make no mistake, we would have been able to defeat them quite easily, but our little…afternoon tea with your village left our numbers depleted. We have never lost to the French.”

Budo stroked the map. I noticed the cartographer frown and he seemed about to speak when Kenton silenced him with a look.

“What will you do for me in return?” asked Budo in halting Yoruba.

“Release. Full exoneration. You’ll have the thanks of the Crown,” said Kenton.

Budo laughed when I translated. “What do I care for their Crown’s gratitude?”

“You can receive papers that force anyone to assist you, or forbid any impedance. This is worth more than sacks of gold,” I said.

“I don’t care for gold either,” Budo said. “Why are you trying so hard to convince me? Do you enjoy being their slave so much?”

“I am not a slave,” I said.

“No, just a traitor.” He scratched his crotch. He had nits on his head and, I felt sure, his pubic hair as well. “Tell your Kenton that I will require absolute and immediate obedience of all my instructions if I am to do this on time.”

The first thing he did was snatch ink from the cartographer and request writing surfaces.

I will not pretend that I fully understood what happened in the days and weeks that followed. Budo supervised the making of engines using a complicated combination of dried bamboo sticks, repurposed iron and steel, rubber, gunpowder and different crystals of myriad colours. Kenton came into the workshop one day and picked up one of the contraptions which was a pole with a large but hollow ball of steel on one end. He looked at me, but I could not tell him anything. He was tired and worn out.

“You hate us, don’t you?” said Kenton.

I could not speak. All I had to do was lie, but despite all of my compromises I did not have this in me.

“Try to remember that we are people. These men have wives and children in England. I have family. I also have instructions that I must carry out.” He frowned, then turned and left.

We waited for the French just like my village waited for the British. The English still armed themselves with bolt-action rifles, but Budo had marked out places they could not walk. His eyes held a glint that was not battle-thirst. He wanted to see how well his mechanisms would work.

Rather than over-extend himself trying to defend the compound Kenton deployed forces to the south-east direction to meet the French. When the battle joined a light rain fell, drizzling, cooling every surface, causing mist to rise from the heat of the noon sun. They used conventional weapons, sinew, and raw courage. The foreigners shot at each other, and some died, some lost limbs, fighting over land that was not theirs.