“Very convincing,” Ramsey said. Grant was less than impressed, but kept his silence. Davis, who left the workshop before the demonstration had begun, had returned with another man, well dressed, small, and rotund.
“Why, Mr. Parrott,” General Ramsey said, smiling broadly, “how very good it is to see you again. General Grant, this is William Parker Parrott, the eminent gunsmith.”
This General Grant could understand. “Mr. Parrott, this is indeed a pleasure. I believe that your weapons are the best in the world. God knows that I have fought and won many a battle with them.”
Parrott beamed with delight. “I shall treasure those words, General. Now let me show you why I asked Mr. Ericsson to invite you and General Ramsey here. Or rather why Mr. Ericsson and I have collaborated on an invention. It all began when Mr. Ericsson was visiting my office some time ago and saw on my wall a British patent application for a totally impossible invention.”
“As it was then designed,” Ericsson said. “But improving on the original is not impossible to men of genius — which is a distinction that Parrott and I share.” The inventor was never the one to hide his light under a bushel. “When I had finished my Carnot engine, I thought at once of the patent for the impractical steam wagon. Now, I said to myself, now it can be built. And between us we have done just that.”
He led them across the room to a bulky form draped with canvas. With a dramatic gesture he pulled away the cover. “There, gentlemen, a practical engine wagon.”
It was such a novel machine, so strange to the eye, that they could not take it in all at once. It appeared to be a triangular platform of sorts with spiked wheels on its two front corners, a single wheel at the back. The stocky black engine sat sideways across the device. A cogged wheel was fixed to the engine’s shaft. This, in turn, transmitted power to a heavy chainlike device, which, in turn, rotated another cogwheel on the shaft connecting the two front wheels. Behind the engine was a small seat facing some gauges and a tiller that was connected to the steerable rear wheel. The mechanic started the engine and stepped back. Parrott climbed proudly into the seat, worked some levers — and the machine rolled slowly forward. Using the tiller to move the rear wheel, he trundled slowly about the workshop, making a complete circle before he returned to the starting place and turned off the engine. Even Grant was impressed with the demonstration.
“Remarkable!” Ramsey said. “Strong enough to tow a heavy gun over rough terrain.”
“Yes, it can do that,” Ericsson said with a smile. “But it can do even more.” He signaled to the door, where two men were waiting. They went out and returned with a wheeled Gatling gun. With practiced movements they placed a ramp before the machine and rolled the gun up onto the platform between the front wheels.
“So you see, gentlemen, with a single addition the powered wagon becomes a mobile battery.”
Grant was still puzzling out the precise meaning of this new machine when Ramsey, who dealt with ordnance on a daily basis, gasped with sudden comprehension.
“A mobile battery — no, not one — but a squadron of them! They could take the battle to the enemy, decimate him.
“Your engine will bring the guns swiftly into battle. Firepower that no army can stand against. Why — I think that this invention will change the face of warfare forever.”
IN THE ENEMY’S HEARTLAND
“All aboard. All aboard, if you please,” the guard said, nodding at the two well-dressed gentlemen. They had dark silk hats, expensive suits, gold cuff links; he knew the gentry when he saw them.
“And where is first class?” the Count asked.
“This entire carriage, sir, thanking you.”
Korzhenevski led the way down the corridor and slid open the door of an empty compartment. They sat at the window facing each other. General Sherman patted the upholstered seats.
“Cut-glass mirrors and brass fittings,” he said. “The English sure know how to take care of themselves.”
Korzhenevski nodded in agreement. “They do enjoy their luxuries and little indulgences. But only at the top, I am afraid. If you looked into a third-class carriage on this train, you would not be that impressed. In all truth, I do believe that this country, at many times, reminds me of Mother Russia. The nobility and the very rich at the summit, then below them a modicum of the middle classes to keep things running. Then the serfs — they would be the working classes here — at the very bottom. Poverty-stricken, deprived, ill.”
“Why, Count — you almost sound like a republican.”
Korzhenevski smiled wryly. “Perhaps I am. If there will be any changes to my country, they will certainly have to come from the top. The bourgeoisie and the mushiks don’t want to change their lot, while the serfs are powerless.”
Sherman looked out of the window, lost in thought, as the train got under way. It rattled along the shore for a few miles, until the tracks turned inland. The train was not fast, but still it was a pleasant journey through the green countryside, past the farms and forests, with the occasional stop at a town along the way. Sherman had a small leatherbound notebook in which he made careful notes, his eyes never leaving the window. They stopped at a larger station, on the hill above a pretty city that was set against the ocean.
“Falmouth,” the Count said. “There is a very good harbor here — you can see a bit of it there, above the rooftops.”
Sherman looked out through the glass of the compartment’s door, then through the corridor window beyond. An officer in naval uniform appeared there, taking hold of the door handle and sliding it open. Sherman looked away as he put the notebook into his inside jacket pocket. The Count stared straight ahead, just glimpsing the newcomer out of the corner of his eye. They of course did not speak to one another since they had not been introduced. After the train had pulled out of the station, Korzhenevski pointed at some buildings outside the window, then said something to Sherman in Russian.
“Da,” Sherman said, and continued looking out of the window. Long minutes passed in silence after that, until the newcomer put his fist before his face and coughed lightly. Neither man by the window turned to look at him. Then he coughed again and leaned forward.
“I say, I hope I’m not making a fool of myself, but I would swear, that is, I think that I heard you speak Russian…”
The Count turned a cold face toward the man, who had the good grace to blush deeply.
“If I am wrong, sir, I do apologize. But I think that I know you from Greenwich; you were years ahead of me, quite famous. A count; your name, I am afraid I do not remember. I am sorry that I spoke out—”
“Count Korzhenevski. You do have a good memory. But I’m afraid that I don’t recall—”
“I say — no need to apologize. I don’t believe we ever formally met. Lieutenant Archibald Fowler at your service.”
“What a pleasant surprise, Archie. And I see that you are still in the service.”
“Rather. Stationed aboard the old Defender in Plymouth. Just popped down to see some cousins in Falmouth for a few days.”
“How pleasant. This is my friend Boris Makarov. I’m afraid he speaks no English.”
“My pleasure.”
“Do svedanya,” Sherman answered with a bow of his head.
“I shall dine out on this for years,” Fowler said enthusiastically. “How we envied you and your friends, the parties, the champagne — yet you were always there, hard at work, on Monday mornings.”
“We were young and enthusiastic and, I must say, quite strong, to carry on as we did.”
“We did have some smashing times, didn’t we? So what brings you to Cornwall now?”
An innocent enough question — or was it? Korzhenevski racked his brain for an answer, bought some time. “For me it is always a pleasure to visit your lovely country, to see old friends.”