Prisoner of the Seraglio

Prisoner of the Seraglio

A Cordelia Delacourt Adventure

Chapter 17 La Tortue

“Sacre bleu, you imbecile! Do you want to blow us all to the Devil?” Antoine August Marchand, le Compte d’Artois, strode across the engine room and pushed aside his assistant. Quickly, he pulled a lever. There was a shriek of escaping steam and the Count breathed a sigh of relief.

“Not over 30 atmospheres, Pierre,” he said more calmly. “The boilers just won’t handle it.”

“Calmly” referred only to his manner of speaking. He still had to shout at the top of his lungs to make himself heard over the din of machinery.

“I am sorry, Monsieur le Comte,” Pierre answered. “Perhaps we should consider enabling the governors once again.”

“They are set a bit low for these circumstances. I want the maximum pressure we can get away with. We are racing the rainy season. I want to get Le Tortue as far from here as possible before we are caught in the deluge.”

“We managed well enough in the swamps. A little rain shouldn’t hold us back.”

The Count stared at his dark-haired stocky assistant. “With all respect, Pierre. You’ve only been out of Canada for a couple of years. You’ve never seen the rainy season in central Africa. I would very much prefer not to be here.”

Pierre attempted to wipe the grease from his hands with an even greasier rag. Frowning at his lack of success he tossed the rag down and picked up a metre-long wrench. “I’ll just make sure that I torqued down that manifold. I don’t want it coming loose.”

“Good idea, Pierre. My apologies for my rather brusque language. I’m heading back to the control room, before I go deaf.”

“Too late for me,” Pierre grinned and headed toward the rear of the engine room.

The Count breathed a sigh of relief as he closed the massive metal door of the engine room. The sound of the huge engines was always with him in one way or another. Even when he reached the relative calm of the control room he could feel the vibration beneath his feet.

He ran up the gangway with practiced ease, compensating for the motion of the huge machine as it plowed its way across the African landscape. Jules was at the controls, as usual. The huge Senegalese was the best helmsman he had, handling La Tortue’s ungainly bulk as if he had been driving a one-horse shay rather than a several hundred ton iron monster.

The Count moved to the chair next to Jules and strapped himself in. It was just a precaution, generally La Tortue’s ingenious suspension system compensated for any irregularities in the terrain. It was an innovation of which the Count was justly proud, but he had found from experience that what appeared to be a fairly even surface could sometimes hide soft spots or even small gullies that made for a sudden lurch the suspension system could not entirely deal with. He had no wish to slam his head into the ceiling any more times than he had to; that had already happened enough and he had the lumps on his head to prove it.

He peered through the five-centimeter-thick glass front observation port. Jules, as usual was piloting La Tortue with his usual care, steering around obvious obstacles and trying not to crush too many trees as he knew that wanton destruction of vegetation tended to annoy the Count.

Small animals darted nimbly out of the way; or at least most of them did. The armoured goliath moved at only five kilometers an hour, slowly enough for most ambulatory organism to move out of its path.

Jules steered La Tortue into a narrow ravine between two vegetation-covered rock outcroppings. He eased back on the throttle. The ravine was the only way through, but there were often large boulders in such defiles. Usually La Tortue simply crushed them, but it was best not to take any unnecessary chances; there had already been more than enough delays since setting out from Senegal two months ago.

The Count checked the chronometer. Only about two more hours of daylight. He would order a stop soon. Traveling by night through such wild country was not recommended. He had no desire to have La Tortue driven over a cliff or bogged down in a swamp. He peered ahead again. As always, the African landscape was interesting. Hi eyes narrowed. “Mon Dieu,” he muttered. “What the devil….?”

But Jules had already seen them. He pushed the throttle forward, and with a grinding crunch and a hiss of escaping steam, La Tortue came to a shuddering halt. Jules looked at the Count in disbelief and opened his mouth to speak.

“I know,” the Count said, anticipating him. “What in the name of the saints are two white women doing in the middle of Africa?”

Cordelia plodded forward. She looked back to make sure that Liz was still following. They would have to stop soon, but her stubborn nature pushed her on. Finding food had not been as easy as she had hoped. It had seemed easy when Burton had done it, but where the explorer always seemed to be plucking some sort of fruit from a convenient tree or finding edible tubers just by stumbling over them; she and Liz found it hard work to find enough just to stay alive. The result was two very tired and hungry young women, struggling across a landscape they barely understood.

Utmost in Cordelia’s mind was fear of wild animals. At night she and Liz slept in shifts, feeding wood into a large fire. It was hardly conducive to a good night’s rest, but the roaring of lions, the haunting chuckling of hyenas, and the screams of other unknown animals kept her terrified most of the night hours. Usually she only slept when she was so exhausted she could not keep her eyes open, and it was the same for Liz.

Daylight was better. At least they could see the dangers, but other than the sword and knife they had no weapons to fight off any wild animals. Cordelia became convinced that sooner or later some prowling lion or pack of wild dogs would leap out of the bush and rip her and Liz to pieces before they had a chance to run. Thus it was no great surprise when she heard the crashing sound of some great beast tearing through the forest toward them.

“Run Liz,” Cordelia screamed as she saw the trees behind her bending aside. “Find a tree!.” The fact that whatever was coming at them was snapping off trees like matchsticks did not immediately enter her mind, she simply ran like a frightened rabbit, her right hand gripping Liz’s left.

She stumbled and fell more than once, but got up and staggered forward. Behind her she could hear the animal that was chasing them gaining with every…

She suddenly realized that whatever was pursuing them was making a sound like no animal she had ever heard. She chanced a quick glance over her shoulder and came to a complete halt, staring in stunned surprise. Bearing down on them was a monstrous smoke-belching machine the size of a house. One either side three enormous drive wheels, each at least thirty feet in diameter, crushed everything in their path. They were like gigantic gears ripping up the ground and throwing rocks and chunks of earth behind them.

“Cordelia!”

Liz’s scream broke her out of her trance. She turned and ran, realizing as she did so that it was too late. She and Liz were trapped in a narrow defile that was choked with vegetation. There was no way that they could outrun the iron beast grinding toward them.

And then suddenly, there was a change in the sound of the huge machine. Cordelia turned, too exhausted to run farther. Just thirty feet away the iron monster had come to a halt. The panting of its engines mimicking her own breathing and that of Liz. While she watched in stunned amazement a hatch opened in the roof and a head popped out, and spoke to her in perfect Parisian French.

“Bonjour mademoiselles. Puis-je vous aider ?”

“Thank god,” Cordelia thought. She swayed in exhaustion, but kept her feet. Breathing almost too hard to reply, she gasped out that the man who had greeted her certainly could help her.

Liz, not understanding the language, was a bit less enthusiastic. “Here,” she gasped. “Another Frenchy, What’s he want?”

Cordelia had to admit that after DesLaurier Liz’s suspicions might be justified. But she and Liz were in no position to be choosy. For better or for worse they were in the hands of the men who commanded the incredible machine that had almost crushed them beneath its wheels. Maybe this time they would be lucky and come across a rescuer who would not sell them off at the first convenient opportunity, or worse yet force them into a life of sexual slavery.

The man’s head disappeared and Cordelia assumed that he was probably taking steps to come to their aid. While she waited she took in the bizarre and obviously powerful machine that plowed through rainforest with the ease of a mower crossing a meadow.

It was approximately rectangular in shape; sort of a huge box on wheels. It stood about twenty feet off the ground and was about fifty feet long. So far as she could see it was constructed entirely of iron. Driven by six wheels that were even taller than it was, its front was shaped like a plow that was notched like a saw on its lower lip to enable it to cut through trees and other obstacles more easily.

The sound of the monster’s engines never stopped and it stood hissing and puffing like a huge beast while Cordelia waited. A hatch opened just behind the front wheel and the man who had greeted her stepped out. He was of medium height, which meant that Cordelia was actually taller than he was by about three inches, but he moved with the elegant grace of a dancer. His hair was a sandy colour, his features regular, and he sported a small mustache and goatee. A pair of piercing blue eyes swept over her and Liz as he approached.

“Bonjour mademoiselles,” he said as he lightly took first Cornelia’s hand and then Liz’s, touching his lips to their fingertips. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Antoine August Marchand, the Count d’Artois. I welcome you to my land cruiser, La Tortue.”

“Turtle,” thought Cordelia. “What a strange name.” She withdrew her hand, all too well aware that her fingernails were cracked and dirty and the rest of her hand and most of her body were none too clean as well. She answered the Count in perfect French, making it clear, however, that is spite of her French surname that she and Liz were citizens of England.

The Count seemed undeterred by her revelation. He smiled enchantingly and swept his arm toward his land cruiser. “Would you care to share my hospitality? I am most interested in learning how two such enchanting young women came to be wandering the wilds of Africa.”

Cordelia and Liz readily agreed. What else could they do other than throw themselves upon the mercy of another stranger? “At least the Count didn’t have to buy my freedom,” thought Cordelia. Perhaps this time, she and Cordelia would be more fortunate in their choice of saviours.

Cordelia sighed and set down her fork. Like Burton, the Count d’Artois did not travel lightly. He had with him a complete thirty-piece place setting, complete with the finest Limoges porcelain and Sterling silver cutlery. Unlike Burton, however, every man in La Tortue shared in a meal that had been prepared by every man under the Count’s command with the exception of the few who tended to La Tortue’s engines. The hiss and thrum of steam machinery never stopped. As the Count explained. “It takes too long to get up steam if we let the fires die. La Tortue must be ready to move at all times.”

“It almost sounds as if he is afraid of something,” Cordelia thought. Although what could possibly hurt a machine like La Tortue was beyond her. She doubted that even the most powerful of field guns could penetrate its iron carapace.

The Count regarded her closely, although not in a manner that Cordelia found threatening. “Perhaps you and Miss Brown would like to bathe. Hot water is something that we have plenty of and the crew has set up a private bathing area for your convenience.”

“Hot water!” thought Cordelia. It sounded delicious. She had not had a hot bath since leaving England. She had bathed, and often, in the harems of the Aksumi and Timbuctou, but the water there had been cool due to the tropical heat. The prospect of warm water in the middle of the African wilderness was almost erotic.

“Ooh,” Liz cried, unable to disguise her exuberance. “Just show me where it is!”

The Count smiled. “Please follow me.” He escorted them to the other side of the land cruiser. A small wooden hut had been set up next to the iron side of the mechanical monster. Cordelia could sense the heat even before she entered the bath house.

“I have had towels and clean clothes placed inside,” the Count said, smiling. “We will see about getting you something more feminine at the first opportunity. Perhaps after you have bathed and had a chance to rest you can tell me how two very attractive young Englishwomen came to be stranded in the middle of Africa.”

Cordelia and Liz were too tired to do more than ask for a place to sleep after their bath. The Count directed them to a tent set up in the middle of the encampment. Apparently very few members of the expedition stayed on board La Tortue at night. The tent, however, was quite comfortable and had a wooden floor, a wash basin, and a chamber pot. At a small table were two chairs, a bottle of wine and two crystal goblets.

Cordelia had noted that every table during the evening meal had displayed one or more bottles of French wine and wondered just how much of La Tortue’s cargo space was devoted to service as a wine cellar. She had, however, had more than enough to drink for one evening. She was reminded that the last time she had drunk heavily of wine she and the Emperor of Aksum had wound up in a ménage a trois with Liz. The memory, while not exactly painful, was one she found embarrassing. She and Liz had never spoken of it and Cordelia had no intention of bringing it up.

The next morning they were roused by the shriek of escaping steam. She and Cordelia clambered out of bed, splashed water on their faces, used the chamber pot, and dressed in the clothes the Count had provided. Unlike the crew of the Adler there was no uniform pattern to the clothing worn by the crew of La Tortue. Instead the men wore a variety of workmanlike clothing; all except the Count, who wore tight-fitting trousers, knee-high black leather boots, and a ruffed white shirt. About his waist he wore a bright red sash and a sword. When Cordelia reached his table he rose and bowed. She saw that he had almost finished eating his light breakfast of bread and coffee and was looking at the sword she had taken from the emperor’s apartments.

“A fine weapon,” the Count commented. “How well do you know how to use it, mademoiselle Delacourt?”

“I don’t,” Cordelia replied. “I stole it when Liz and I escaped from captivity. It was the only weapon I could find.”

“Ah yes,” the Count smiled. “I remember you promised me your story. You can begin now while we eat.”

Cordelia insisted that Liz help tell the story as well. It seemed only fitting as Liz had shared almost all of her adventures. She hoped that the girl would not blurt something out about their sexual exploitation, although by now there was no way she could tell the truth without revealing that she and Liz were no longer chaste. She almost smiled when she thought of “chaste” as a word applying to Liz, but she reminded herself that Liz had had no real choice in the way she had been forced to live. If she told the story carefully she could make it seem as if both she and Liz were equally innocent victims of cruel male exploitation.

As it turned out, Liz remained silent. She simply did not speak French well enough to participate, despite the lessons she and Deslaurier had given her. It took Cordelia most of the morning to tell the first part of her story. All that time, she and Liz, along with the Count and his huge black helmsman were in the control room of La Tortue, strapped into swivel chairs that allowed them a 360 degree view of the surrounding countryside.

Cordelia was intrigued by La Tortue and was dying to hear about its construction and what it was doing in the middle of Africa. First von Jaggermeister and then the Compte d’Artois. She was beginning to wonder if Africa was a refuge for every mad inventor on the surface of the earth.

The Count listened quietly while she told her story, interrupting only twice, and then with surprising vehemence. “Mon Dieu!” the Count exclaimed, when she told of her treatment at the hands of the bey. “That scoundrel! I wish I had been there; I would most certainly have stopped him.” But he almost exploded when she got to the part where she escaped from the palace in Timbuctou.

“Von Jaggermeister?” he exclaimed. “That lunatic? I was afraid he would get to the source of the Nile before me.” He cursed roundly for several seconds and then calmed himself and apologized for his outburst. “Please continue, mademoiselle, and forgive my rudeness.”

Cordelia did continue, but had to wait while the Count vowed violent retribution when she described their humiliating and painful punishment at the hands of the German scientist. When she was able to continue she had the pleasure of seeing the Count smile when she told of the Adler’s destruction. He opened his mouth to comment and then shut it to allow Cordelia to go on. A short while later however, he did interrupt. “It is noon, mes demoiselles,” he said. “Time for us to stop for lunch. You may continue after we have eaten.”

The Count’s idea of “dejeuner” was a rather drawn out affair lasting two hours. It included several bottles of wine, fine cheeses, and fresh-baked bread. It gave Cordelia the time to complete her story.

She dealt with the numerous occasions in which she and Liz had been forced to submit sexually as delicately as she could, but there was no way that she could disguise the shame she felt at the admission. She was after, admitting that she was no longer an upright and virtuous English maiden, but instead a young woman who had been forced to submit sexually on so many occasions that she was little better than a whore.

The Count did not comment on her revelations, however, instead he reserved his strongest reaction for Burton. “The man is a disgrace to his county. To abandon two young women who were under his care is behaviour not worthy of a savage. I will find him for you, mademoiselles and when I do you will be avenged.”

By the time Cordelia finally reached the end of her adventures, her throat was dry from so much talking. The Count reached out a gentle hand and laid it upon hers. “Mademoiselles,” he said quietly, “you have suffered much due to the actions of others. Be assured that you need fear no such treachery from me. You are finally safe, and I intend to return you to your father.” He directed one final comment at Liz before rising and moving toward La Tortue. “And you, Mademoiselle Brown; is there no one waiting for you back in England?”

Liz’s complexion darkened as she flushed in humiliation. It was obvious to Cordelia that the girl now wished to hide her sordid past. Quickly, before Liz could answer, Cordelia stepped in. “Miss Brown was orphaned when very young. My father is the only parent she has ever known.”

“Ah,” said the Count, raising one eyebrow. “Then it is my duty to make sure that you are both returned to your home.”

“And what about you, Monsieur?” Cordelia asked, quickly changing the subject. “Are you not going to give me an explanation of this?” She motioned toward the great bulk of the land cruiser.

“Tonight,” replied the Count, “during the evening meal. It is time for us to make up for lost time.” He ended the conversation by entering La Tortue, Cordelia and Liz following.

“It is simple enough,” the Count began. “I chose Africa for the same reason that von Jaggermeister chose it. It is free from the prying eyes of government and competitors. You would be surprised at the number of people who would try to sabotage my project. La Tortue is my life’s work, a machine capable of crossing any terrain. It was my intention to prove its value by being the first to discover the source of the Nile. You can imagine my chagrin when I learned that von Jaggermeister was engaged in the same quest.”

“However, the team I had assembled in Senegal had a considerable lead on the German madman and I hoped I would attain my goal before his flying machine was ready. You can imagine my joy at hearing that the vaunted invention of my rival is now scattered across Africa. It means that there is no one to stop me.”

The Count rose from the supper table. “Let me show you my invention, mademoiselles. It is much easier to show than explain.” He motioned toward La Tortue. “We will start with the engine room.”

Cordelia and Liz followed the Count into the giant machine. They soon found themselves in the uncomfortably warm surroundings of the engine room. “These,” said the Count, pointing to the giant engines, “are the key to the success of my invention.”

“Triple expansion engines,” commented Cordelia. “But of a design I have never seen.”

“You know engines?” the count asked excitedly. “I would have thought that an exceedingly unfeminine interest.”

“I am not necessarily like other women,” Cordelia answered. “I found the display of Mr. Trevithick’s engines at the Crystal Palace most interesting.”

“Ah,” the Great Exposition,” the Count replied. “I regret that I was so busy with the construction of La Tortue that I was unable to attend. Tell me Mademoiselle Delacourt, have you always had this interest in technology?”

“Ever since I was a little girl I have been interested in things mechanical. Unfortunately, due to my gender I have been constrained in my exploration of science and technology, my father and tutors preferring that I interest myself in more ladylike pursuits”

“That is a shame,” the Count said. “It shall be my mission to show you as much as I can of the science behind the construction of La Tortue.” He turned to Liz. “And Mademoiselle Brown as well, of course.” Liz smiled her appreciation of the Count’s words and then the Count then gestured to the engines. “As you have divined. These are indeed triple expansion engines, but of a design superior even to that of Mr. Trevithick. You English may have invented the steam engine, but I have perfected it.” He proceeded to give them a technical explanation of the engines that Cordelia had some trouble following, and then took them on a complete tour of the huge machine. A good deal of it she did not comprehend, but the Count was always willing to explain and by the end of the tour she understood a good deal more than she had previously. She also found that she quite enjoyed the Count’s company. Out of the corner of her eye she watched Liz to see if the girl showed any interest in the French aristocrat, and it gave her a quiet pleasure when she noted that Liz was paying little or no attention to anything that the Count said. She realized after thinking about it, that Liz’s knowledge of French was rather limited, which probably explained her lack of interest. Nevertheless, Cordelia experienced a perverse pleasure in the fact that this time she would not have a rival for the attentions of the expedition leader.

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