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Odalisque

Chapter 7

Inconstant in Constantinople (part four)

VII. September 1854, The Aegean Sea, the northward track

Book closed the door while Gabrielle Francesca lit a lamp. She got out the locked box where she kept her confidential papers and set it on the collapsible table that served her as a desk. Fishing under the collar of her embroidered silk shirt, she pulled out a light gold chain, savoring the slithering feeling of the key sliding out from between her breasts and across her upper chest.

Ah, Felicity! She thought at the prompting of the tickling sensation. Get well quickly, oh Best Beloved!

She used the key to unlock the box. Leaving it in the lock, she opened the box's lid and pulled out a sealed document. Meanwhile, Book stepped across the small, neatly-appointed owner's cabin and drew aside the curtains to admit the sunlight.

The two of them settled on the benches to either side of the table. Gabrielle Francesca broke the seal on the letter and unfolded it, spreading it flat in the light from the lamp with her long, graceful fingers. She glanced at the first couple of paragraphs and then began to read aloud.

28 September, 1854
Athens
Dearest Fanny;
I have just had news from the semaphore that the Allies have taken Balaclava. This is good news, as it means the chances of action against Turkey before you can get the factory closed for the winter are slight. The Russians will be too preoccupied with events in the Crimea to concern themselves with Constantinople, so far across the Black Sea and well-defended to boot.

As you know, I do not ordinarily involve the House in politics. Our enterprise is complex enough without adding to it by playing games with kings and princes. However, there is a situation to which we may turn our hand and help a friendly power and possibly make great gain for little effort.

The Russians are making inroads in the Caucasus and threaten eastern Anatolia. Since a good deal of our eastern trade goes through there on camel-back, and will continue to do so for some time to come, I believe ... until the investment in Hong Kong has time to grow a little ... anything we can do to ensure that the routes are protected will accrue to our general benefit in the long term.

There is a mercenary company, Beatson's Horse, (known locally as the Bashi-Bazouks ...)

Gabrielle Francesca gave a little snort of laughter. "What aye, lass?" Book asked her.

"Bashi-Bazouks ... in Turkish, it means 'Rotten Heads'. Like rotten heads of cabbage." She snickered again at the thought.

"There might be another cause," Book replied wryly. "They might be a poxy lot."

Gabrielle Francesca stopped and thought about that, then laughed again. "You may be right, Mr. Book. You may just be right. Rotten heads indeed!" She took up the letter again and finding her place, continued reading.

(Known locally as the Bashi-Bazouks), whose commander is chafing at the bit. He can't seem to get any work for his band of men, (they subsist exclusively on loot and hunger for action). He also seems to have done a proper job of buttering up Lord Raglan, the results of which are apparently his being declared persona non grata in all military areas toward the front, as well as the British quarters in Constantinople. The ambassador is following Lord Raglan's lead in the matter.

It seems to me that, with very little persuasion, this Beatson fellow might be induced to hie himself off eastward to do something about the Russian threat to the Silk Road ... at least so far as the Persian border or the Caspian. Of course, one of the things he will most need is transport. And we, (such a coincidence this is!), we have enormous herds of excellent horses in Thrace and Macedonia, don't we? Do you begin to take my heading?

Beatson's crowd are quartered in Gallipoli. Since you will be there several times on this trip, it would seem to be simplicity itself for you to toddle 'round to his barn and chat him up. See if he can be induced to take on this scheme.

Of course, if it involves spending any of the firm's hard-earned, then it's so solly, no-can-do and thanks ever-so-much for your time. You know the drill.

Keep an eye out for profit. I trust you will.

I remain, as always,
Your loving uncle,
H. Ephesstos

Gabrielle Francesca folded the letter and placed it back in the box. She locked the box and hung the key back around her neck, letting it settle back between her breasts. Then the two of them just sat there for a moment looking at each other.

After that moment, Gabrielle Francesca felt a grin spread unbidden across her face. "My, my," she said. "This should be interesting."

"Aye, lass," Book replied. "That it should be. I believe this calls for a toast." And, good as his word, he poured each of them a glass of single-malt. "Confusion to our enemies," he intoned, glass held high.

"Confusion to our enemies," Gabrielle Francesca echoed and tossed back the fiery liquid. She slammed the glass back down on the table with a satisfied sigh. "Confusion to our enemies." She repeated. Soon, she was lost in thought ... planning her moves as far ahead as she had the vision to see.

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