Dawn of Steam: First Light Read online

  The trip to Scotland was more uneventful than the days in England proper, a fact for which I am grateful to the degree that my life has not been further threatened, and the countryside has its quaint charm. Therein lies the extent of my gratitude, for my companion, lacking saboteurs or war heroes of legendary status in their own time to inspire him otherwise, has been quite cross and eager to make up for the loss of face he seems to imagine he suffered when he could find no unkind word to offer Miss Jillian Coltrane. Just as savage beasts despise any sign of weakness, that I dared witness him in a moment of near neutrality, he has badgered me no end with small facts and geography concerning his sole habit of any interest. And when he is not speaking of quality smokes, he is most often splitting his attention between smoking determinedly and glaring.

  While I am not certain what else might be my fault, and thus worthy of such sinister scrutiny, I am quite certain that he feels that I somehow did some portion of the job entrusted to him when my interjection into his conversation with Sir James did more for the recruitment effort than his entreaties and offers of fame and money. Indeed, it was quite unintended at the time, but it makes a certain sense to me now, that a soldier who has already achieved great fame and possessed considerable wealth and station before the war, and more after it, would relish a challenge far more than he would simply more coin to count. That succeeding at a challenge would add to his reputation may or may not have meant anything to him. I had hoped in the aftermath that Mr. Toomes would simply hold success as its own reward, and be relieved we had successfully recruited the help and resource needed for the effort on behalf of our mutual patron, but it was not to be.

  I can be grateful for Mr. Toomes to one extent. My sense of smell, always reasonably precise, seems to have become extremely well attuned by its reluctant exposure to countless forms of pipe smoke. Just as I found our saboteurs purely by a distinctive variety, the long hours in an enclosed space with that military gentleman and his pipe made me certain to appreciate every scent in the Scottish air when we were released from our carriage. Inquiries with some of the locals acquainted me with at least five types of flowers, which I was able to tell apart and find by scent, and I was never so grateful for the aroma of grass and sheep as when first freed from our travel accommodations. That we were getting out at what had once been a hunting lodge and had been converted into a small military base for the mustering of troops from Scotland had no bearing on this. The Coltrane estate was pure luxury. The inns we had stayed at along the way since, in those couple times the train had needed to stop for the night for resupply and cooling had been no comparison, but were at least comfortable. The converted base, on the other hand, had plenty of bunks, and very little else to offer.

  Now this place was largely serving like most of the post-war military infrastructure: there until someone found a better use for it. There were many troops still serving out their time, maintaining equipment, patrolling the extensive countryside for signs of foreigners, and converting resources back to the countryside. The last is especially slow in the case of those families who had lost their young men. The English government certainly feels a considerable debt of gratitude to these young and brave men. Despite that feeling of debt, many were lost in a very short time. Additionally, with the agreement to allow Catholics to serve, and the additions of large number of Irishmen, Scotsmen, and Americans, exactly how that debt would be paid and what may be owed to who remains occasionally hazy.

  Upon our arrival, we learned that Mr. McBride was not on the premises, but out on one of the foot patrols, which he volunteered for as often as allowed. In the meantime, we were given serviceable but uncomfortable bunks with what privacy we could be permitted and would be allowed a meeting with him upon his return. During the while, I found myself inquiring of his fellows as to what sort of man Mr. McBride was. I admit, as I have before, that Sir James surprised me repeatedly in our meetings, shattering my illusions as to what he looked like, and proving every inch the dashing young hero he was purported to be. I have learned that such stories are most often exaggerated. And this time, I wished to be better prepared where it concerned Mr. McBride.

  The first thing I quickly learned was that no one in his acquaintance for long was permitted to call him Mr. McBride outside of business dealings. And you could quite quickly tell if he had taken a liking to you or not. If he did not, and you had no business with him, then he would dismiss any man regardless of name or station, for which he had suffered a handful of reprimands, and weathered them without changing a whit. It seemed he did not suffer fools lightly, and considered many men to be fools. If he did not take a liking to you, but your business was legitimate, then Mr. McBride would do fine, and you might well think him simply efficient, for with such people, the stories said he was quite terse, set to getting his business finished quickly so he could move on to other pursuits. It had taken some time, but apparently the officers now in charge of this locale's post-war days had finally convinced him that they fell into this category. I can scarce imagine a soldier ever insisting such formality out of a superior officer, but apparently he was a special case. Indeed, the words special case, in reference to Mr. McBride, have arisen many times, so much so that I wonder if there is not some meaning I am missing. Regardless, there is a final category that he puts people into, which includes most of the men with whom he has served, every man in this company who has given a hand, leg or eye in their country's service, and some few people they say are lucky enough to find what sense of humor he has. And if you are one of those, you will know it, as no matter who that man is, he will tell him the same thing, and from then on will brook no other means of addressing him. Specifically, apparently, you know that you are, at least temporarily on the man's good side should he ask you to, and I again quote many references saying this precisely, “Call me Eddy.”

  Aside from this peculiarity, Mr. McBride came from ordinary enough circumstance. (5) He was the son of the keeper of a hunting lodge, as this place once was. He grew up a lad accustomed to rich men of station, but not one of them. The McBrides provided one of those rare services their direct servants could not due to a matter of skill and training. His father, and Mr. McBride when old enough, maintained the land, maintained the guns, saw to the dogs and horses, and all those other duties necessary for a successful hunt. It was from this background that he is said to have learned the skills for which he has become a wartime legend second only to Sir James Coltrane – where Coltrane is known for his battle suit and its raw power, Edward McBride is considered by some to be the finest shot in the isles, though some of the riflemen of the colonies insist that there are better in America.

  Nonetheless, many amazing feats of precision have been attributed to him, both for accuracy in dealing with small targets, and nigh unbelievable shots at great range. Secondly, he evaded the enemy time and again, and is said to be able to disappear like a ghost. Indeed, the French, Germans, and Italians all have their own nicknames for him, and each is synonymous with some local ghost story to their countries. While but a single man with one gun, the effect he had on opposing morale as he picked off one officer after another from seemingly nowhere – past their ability to find his hiding spot – was reputed to be enormous.

  His greatest feat and story remains his deeds upon the death of his unit, however. Because each man who has told the story has told it slightly differently, I will not recount it here for fear of passing on false information. The facts of the matter are that he was with a unit of Scotsmen who, through some error on either their part or communications, depending on who one asks, ended up in the way of an enemy advance. Edward McBride was the only survivor, and suddenly behind enemy lines. For over six weeks, he evaded the enemy patrols, picked off opposing scouts, and eventually managed to sneak into an enemy commander's personal command tent and steal maps, plans and information regarding both supply lines and troop numbers. He then somehow crossed back into friendly territory, and passed this information on to English generals
.

  For this, after much debate, he was inducted into the much honored 95th rifles, though even then, it seemed his Scottish pride allowed him to accept this unique honor only if he was permitted to wear his tartan, in the colors of the Black Watch, even in English service. I am not certain how this was accomplished, but it seemed that as thereafter he would often operate nearly alone, this was eventually permitted. He was, also in this time, apparently given three things. The first was unusual freedom, told to select targets of opportunity rather than being instructed to look for specific persons or opportunities. Sometimes the pursuit of war, it seems, requires unusual compromise and improvisation or recognition of an individual's talents, be they a gift for literacy and photography, or a sharp eye for the points where a battle might turn.

  More materially, it seemed that in support of the war effort, the minds at Oxford had devised an unusual method for reloading a rifle. Eight balls, already packed with wadding and powder, were loaded into a cylinder, which could then be attached to a specially made Baker rifle designed to accommodate the change. By means of turning a hand crank, the rifle could thus be reloaded in a small fraction of the time it took to reload one of those rifles, famed almost as much for their difficulties in reloading as they are for their accuracy at range. However, because of the gears in the crank mechanism, and requirement of pre-loading such precise amounts of wadding and powder, this rifle was also given to occasional jamming and other problems, and if struck, had the small potential of exploding. There was the added difficulty that once those eight shots were fired, it took a considerable time to remove the old cylinder and load a new one.

  Even so, the possibilities of a repeating rifle occurred to many, and the scientists asked if it might be of use to the army. In testing, it was determined that it was almost useless for men of the line, for after eight shots, it was nearly useless, the gears were frequently ruined by mud and moisture, and the mechanism and its added weight required a man to crouch or otherwise better support the gun to fire it accurately, lest it pull to the left. However, in the hands of a single shooter who could make all eight shots count, would not be closely engaging the enemy with regularity, and had some freedom to lie down or crouch before firing, it was a godsend. As such, it was given to Mr. McBride to field test.

  Finally, apparently by his own devising, a tool was made incorporating a pair of protective eye goggles with the lenses of field glasses put on pivoting arms. Similar to the magnifying effect some high end jewelers have begun using for magnifying minute detail, it is said that he has gained a better ability to estimate ranges through determining when an image is most clear using differing combinations of lenses. How a man of so little known education devised such a thing and constructed it, I do not know, though a few men have their theories. Regardless, that he did construct this unique tool and wears it proudly remains a fact. I am now most curious to meet Mr. McBride myself.

  (5) Cornelius Jeffery Jones has written a thoroughly comprehensive account of the early life of Eddy McBride, available from St. Andrews University Press. – C B-W.

  March 5th, 1815

  ---- Base, Scotland

  Dear Sir,

  I am writing to report our latest success in the venture to which you have assigned us. Because news from Scotland does not so swiftly reach the London club scene as that from elsewhere in England, I thought it best you hear the news from me, though it should come as little surprise, as this was part of your assignment in the early stages. We have made contact with Edward McBride, most recently of the 95th rifles until he was returned to his home region for more standard service until such time as he would be needed in active duty. Your letter was well received by the base commander, and pending his acceptance, we were informed that Mr. McBride would be released into our service for the noble venture you have put forth. I am pleased to report that there was no trouble on this front, and indeed, many of the fellows about the base were most pleased to hear that Mr. McBride might be moving on. By all accounts, he is far happier when he has something active to put his talents and will towards, and all about him are happier when Mr. McBride is happy.

  As a figure of national interest, I thought it best that I give some detailing of the heroic figure that is the Ghost of the Moors, amidst the other colorful nicknames assigned him in the media accounts of his exploits. For all of his reputation for stealth, I would have thought the size of the man exaggerated by his accounts, and perhaps it was a little, but he is, indeed, only some small part short of two meters, and as it is reported here, some 17 stone. He has the very look to him of a wildcat, all lean muscle and sinew, and quick of motion and reflex.

  For all this size, I received some demonstration of the skills for which he is so well regarded. It is the habit of the local sentries to announce the approach of men returning and visitors aloud. Two of the soldiers near me had a bet placed on whether the man would call Mr. McBride's name, or if he was in such humor as to bypass the guard station entirely. Considering it is well secured here and there is little area with the slightest cover, I was sure this was some local inside joke or the men having some fun with the Englishmen.

  Surely enough though, near the time in which he was scheduled to return, I felt a tap upon my shoulder. I will acknowledge that, expecting no such thing and quite tense in anticipation of gaining another voyager among our company, and one of such note, I was quite unready for such a thing, and startled in such a manner as to greatly amuse everyone about, and sending my chair tumbling backwards – with myself, sadly, still in residence. As I was barely aware of anything more than a ringing in my skull on account of its sudden meeting with the floor, a powerfully muscled hand was presented to me, against a field of plaid.

  The man who stood over me at that moment looked like nothing so much as one of the bears in the London zoo. His voice was just as deep in timbre as you might imagine from my description so far, and the thick accent of our neighbors accompanied by his own tone seemed to render some words almost a throaty growl. At first, I was unsure if I should take the hand and the spoken offer to help me up after such a fright. When I did offer my own hand, I was hefted to my feet with such force and speed as to almost overbalance once again and go pitching forward. I can only imagine I'd have done so had I not crashed into the Scotsman the helping hand was attached to, moving him not an inch. This amused him no end, prompting the question, as I recall, “Drunk, son, or just learning to walk?” The other men about took up this same humor at my expense. I believe I muttered something akin to “Not every day a man sees a ghost, sir.” the last spoken with as much respect as I and my growing headache could muster. This drew more laughter from the man, and soon all about.

  He seemed to take a new estimation of me at this response, and answered, “I don't like the sound of sir, today.” Even as he spoke he did me the favor of righting my chair for me and kicking it back in my direction. “Call me Eddy.”

  Past this seemingly inauspicious first meeting, we talked for quite some time. I must say that Mr. McBride has quite the robust, if entirely gallows sense of humor. It was little time before he had questioned us as to all the manners in which we might horribly die or suffer on our long trip, when he heard account of what has been proposed. Per your instructions, Mr. Toomes made every attempt to answer the questions posed to us. Though I am not certain what you will glean from Mr. Toomes's reports, I feel I should have it noted for the record that I meant your aide no disrespect, but Mr. McBride has clearly taken some dislike to Mr. Toomes. To this end, Mr. McBride was most specific that in asking his questions, he was addressing me, not Mr. Toomes, and insisted that the requested information, in as graphic a detail as was possible should, come from me, if he was to remain interested. I do not think any of the difficulties of this meeting were because of any fault on Mr. Toomes's part. Mr. McBride, simply, is an unusual individual, and I do not think their personalities and styles meshed particularly well.

  All supposition aside, trying not to put imagination
to work adding color to the visions in my head as I answered every way in which I might imagine our trip could meet with disaster, and certain that he was at this point out to refuse and simply make me look the fool, Mr. McBride acknowledged that those risks sounded dangerous enough to pass a day or two. He agreed that if I would join him and the officers for dinner that evening, that he would make all needed arrangements, and leave with us the following morning. I am uncertain precisely where Mr. Toomes dined that evening, for Mr. McBride made it quite clear the invitation was not for both of us, but I knew that the first priority for the both of us was success at the task put before us, even if we suffered some discomfort along the way.

  As a note of sure interest to the men of military experience who will be reading the letters sent to you, I have also seen the fabled gun Mr. McBride uses in preference to all others, though he has quite the personal armament. It is as beautiful and precise as has been described in reports of it, a perfect condition Baker rifle, despite all the campaigns it has seen, kept far more clean and precise than the man himself, who did not bother to shave before dinner. The gears and handle for the complex reloading system used are akin to clockworks, and clearly require extensive and regular care. Among the gear packed by our new traveling companion, indeed, are all manner of clean rags and oil.

  I will tell you as well that throughout dinner, he and his fellows shared tales of the war with me, passing on information primarily from the Scots regiments, information which I had largely missed, and that they felt might be of interest to my reading audience, even though my employment as a war reporter had passed. Mr. McBride shared a tale or two of his own, but primarily insisted that I would have time enough to write down the tales of his affairs in wartime, and restricted himself to speaking only of his time with the Black Watch. Instead, dinner time extended quite long into the night, moving directly from meal time to thick beer, upon which they were most insistent that I write down all of these accounts.