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Chapter 8
Inconstant in Constantinople (part five)
VIII. October 3, 1854, Gallipoli, Thrace, The Ottoman Empire
When they made landfall at Gallipoli, the Bella Donna tied up at a jetty on the Dardanelles. Gabrielle Francesca and Captain Book, in appropriate and proper dress for Western Europeans and accompanied by a handful of sailors who were armed and looking particularly rough and businesslike, walked the top of the stone jetty to its landward end where they hired a wagon to take them all to Beatson's quarters, an old Byzantine fort perched atop the sea cliffs outside the city proper. Gabrielle Francesca seated herself regally on the padded bench at the front of the wagon's bed, leaning back against the driver's box, while Book rode up front, and the men arrayed themselves protectively around her in the open back of the heavy vehicle.
On the way, they fell into a well-worn bit of mummery that they'd worked to good advantage in ports from the Pillars of Hercules to Alexandria and the Black Sea. Book pretended to be in charge of the party, with Gabrielle Francesca his niece or daughter. The relationship was deliberately left vague and could be altered at whim as suited the situation. While attention was focused on Book, Gabrielle Francesca sat back and took everything in with her quick eyes and razor-sharp mind, directing the whole gymkhana through a combination of secret hand signals and code messages concealed within girlish vapors, demands, and tantrums. Almost never was the veil of their deceit ever pierced, and even more rarely did anyone see past the mask the young woman assumed of a spoiled featherbrained brat. Most people couldn't get shut of them fast enough, which suited Gabrielle Francesca just fine, as the less anyone saw of their little play acting the better.
Of course, the whole thing only worked with strangers. They had to take a different tack with people who knew them and who she was and with whom the House did business on a regular basis. With those, there was a subtler masquerade. Even before men who knew that she was in charge--that she held the reins of the whole of Olympia Holdings in her slender hands--she had to tread lightly. For this was the Orient, and the men with whom they traded took a whole other view of women's place in society and were generally less yielding than their Western counterparts who, even in those enlightened modern times, were themselves less than completely tolerant of women in positions of power or authority.
James Book, it should be plain, was an unusual man who thought it perfectly natural for a woman to be in charge, although he was enough of a man of his times not to be outraged at the subterfuges needed for her to exercise her authority in some situations. In later years, of course, Gabrielle Francesca became so notorious in the East that male merchants thought it a great game to contest with her and to try to best her in business, (not realizing--or not being allowed by their testicular egoism to realize--that all of the struggles through which she had had to endure and prevail had made her far smarter, faster, stronger than any opponent any of them had ever faced).
However at that moment, in the fall of 1854, she was a little fish virtually unknown outside of her small pond of Athens and the Olympia Holdings fleet, and men did not then see the latterly famous Gabrielle Francesca East, but only a "little bit of a thing" whom they alternately sought to protect or dismiss out of hand. And, of course, being who she was, she would permit neither. But she had always been a canny one and she learned early that she was too small and slight to use brute force as, for example, her older brothers could. So she studied subtlety and subterfuge. She became a past master at misdirection. She got to be very good at assessing a situation with very few clues and divining the path of least resistance to her goals. It was this skill for which she was a prized commander among the fleet, and, as I said, it would become the thing for which she became best known in the latter years of her career as the factor of the gods.
But on this pleasant October afternoon in the garrison town of Gallipoli on the strait called the Dardanelles or the Hellespont that ran between the Aegean and the Sea of Marmara on the border between Europe and Asia Minor, she was content to play the scatterbrained niece to Book's doting uncle and to sit back and manipulate the strings of the situation like a feminine Stromboli with consummate grace and skill.
She lolled on the seat behind the driver's box and traded jibes with Book and the men who lounged in the bed of the wagon. She led the crew as they sang bowdlerized versions of her favorite sea chanteys, jigs, and reels, (rendered thus genteelly for the benefit of their driver, for their Fanny knew all the songs and more and would lustily sing along with the crew, given the opportunity). They interrogated the driver on myriad subjects ranging from the nature and history of the ruins scattered profusely thereabouts to the flora and fauna of the district. They told stories and swapped lies and generally enjoyed the ride. Some fifty years later, her stories of those times would inspire a certain English playwright to invent a girl named Wendy and a tribe of boys who would never grow up. He managed to capture in his story a little of the sense of what it was to be her and to occupy her circle of intimates and colleagues in that magical age.
As the quarters of Beatson's Horse were some distance outside of the city proper, the ride was long, and the day was hot and dusty. By the time they crested the road up the bluffs above the town and started across the broad campus toward the fort, the men had loosened their kerchiefs and were passing around a skin of watered red wine to supplement the fresh water in their canteens. Gabrielle Francesca sat primly on the box, shaded by a wide-brimmed hat, trying desperately not to scream at the extreme discomfort of her heavy clothing and--in her opinion--overwrought underwear. She thanked the gods that her natural figure allowed her to avoid the torture of a whalebone corset. Nevertheless, she wished, not for the first time, that she could have dressed more sensibly, as she did aboard ship, in a light shirt and loose-fitting trousers.
Next trip, I will disguise myself as a man. I swear I will. This infernal packaging they call a dress is unbearable. Thank the gods it is early Autumn and not high Summer!
It was a familiar lament. She had never been one who took to girl's clothes easily. Her birth mother, (and later Aphrodite), had despaired of keeping even the most rudimentary clothing on her until long past the age when she should have been wearing nothing but dresses that were miniature versions of those worn by her elders. But she would not concern herself with frills and frippery, (as she saw them), there being far more interesting things to see and do in the nearest mud puddle or bramble patch or up a tall tree than were ever seen in a nursery or a sewing room. A pair of boy's trousers and a sailor's blouse was enough. She even went barefoot in fair weather, to the scandal of the proper ladies of Surrey, where the Hephaestus Smith-Jones household lived at the time.
And Aphrodite, being who she was, understood and would sigh and promise to do better tomorrow. It was not until Gabrielle Francesca's own body began to present her with disturbing reminders of her sex that she allowed herself, as a practical matter, to be taught to dress properly. And then, as she did in everything, she learned it brilliantly and letter-perfect, and never had to be reminded. Her dress was always pin-neat and appropriate to the occasion.
But that didn't signify that she liked it.
About a mile beyond the edge of the bluff, they came across a solitary man walking beside the dusty road. He hailed the wagon and, after a brief exchange with the teamster and Book, swung aboard the back, taking up a seat at the very back of one of the sturdy side rails, seeming perfectly comfortable and secure in the precarious perch. The crew quickly and not-so-subtly arranged themselves in a protective screen between the newcomer and Gabrielle Francesca.
"My thanks, Captain," he called to Book. His voice was deep and gravely, though not unpleasant. He spoke with a bluff accent that fairly screamed "India!" It was plain that he was a soldier of the British Raj. "I would reimburse you for the cost of the ride."
"Oh, pshaw!" Gabrielle Francesca scoffed. "Surely, Uncle, we can be charitable to a countryman afoot in such desolation."
"Well, now, Fanny ..," Book began, but the stranger interrupted him.
"I'll not take charity, an' it please ye, ma'am. I can pay my way, and would take it a kindness if ye'd accept my coin in payment for your trouble in transporting my carcass to yon fort."
"Ye see, lass?" Book made it final. "We'll have no more such talk." Then to the stranger, he said, "Would it suit you, sir, to settle up at the fort?"
"It would indeed, sir. And to whom do I owe my thanks?"
"James Book, sir. Captain of the sloop Bella Donna out of Athens, up here on business for the owners. This is my niece, Fanny, and some of my crew."
The other nodded in lieu of a bow. "Captain Richard Francis Burton of the 18th Regiment, Bombay (Native) Infantry, Seconded to Beatson's Horse for the duration."
"A pleasure, sir," Book replied. Gabrielle Francesca got out some socially-correct inanity, but her heart was pounding.
Richard Francis Burton! Somehow, as she struggled to retain her composure in front of this stranger, she felt the shadow of fate steal across her where she sat. Who is this man to excite me so?
#
The wagon rumbled along the rutted, dusty track at a slow walk. The distance to the fort didn't seem to diminish in the least as the sun rose in the sky and bleached the color out of the landscape and the starch out of the small motley collection of humanity riding in the wagon.
Gabrielle Francesca rose from the bench and scrambled to the back of the wagon bed with a sailor's practiced motion and counter-motion against the lurching progress of the vehicle. She always kept a hold on something solid to give her balance. She never moved her foot without at least two other points--usually a hand and the other foot--being firmly planted beforehand. Yet she was so practiced at it that she appeared to fairly dive from one end of the wagon's bed to the other, to end up at the tail gate, pulling rank on the sailor seated in the bed opposite Burton on the bench and making him surrender his place to her.
Book made as if to protest, with an almost pro-forma, "Fanny ..." and a sigh. But she wouldn't let it go so easily.
"Uncle! Captain Burton is a British officer and ipso facto ..." the Latin words tumbled proudly from her lips, "... a gentleman."
One would have expected some reaction from the man thus boldly discussed in the third person--any reaction at all, from coy embarrassment to a naked, ungentlemanly lust. But there was nothing. He just sat there, occupying the space on the bench ceded to him for the journey, and watched the goings on--one could almost hear him typing them as her antics--with frank, utilitarian appraisal the only expression on his face.
Gabrielle Francesca settled down, cross-legged, on the floor of the wagon bed, her skirts spread modestly across her lap, concealing her legs from scandalous view, (although she wouldn't have given a damn otherwise). The sailors politely and pointedly ignored her hoydenish behavior and pretended to occupy themselves.
And with her wide-brimmed hat tilted at a rakish, go-to-hell attitude, and with all of the considerable charm and charisma she could bring to bear, she turned her full attention on Captain Richard Francis Burton, late of the 18th Regiment, Bombay Native Infantry.
"So. Captain Burton. You're rather far from Bombay, aren't you?"
He returned her sunny interrogation with a broad raconteur's smile. One could tell that he loved to talk and that quite possibly his favorite subject was himself. Indeed, it turned out to be the case. But he was not too full of himself. The tales he told were rife with self-deprecatory detail, and he didn't always shine in the stories, even if he did come off well in his telling of them. From what she could read of his expressions and in what he said and did not say about himself and his life and times, he was a bookish sort, who loved languages, ethnography, and people in huge, swarming multitudes. He was a man of vast enthusiasms, who threw himself into his interest of the moment without hesitation or reserve.
As she listened to him, she studied him, a scrutiny he appeared to accept with neither pride nor humility. He mere accepted it, as if to say, "Here I am. Take or leave me as you will."
His face was handsome in its overall configuration, although it was stark in detail. He had dark, narrow eyes, set rather wide above high cheekbones and broad, flat planes that dived to a firm jaw line and a definite, boot-like chin. His nose was large and straight and in perfect proportion to the impossibly luxuriant moustache that dominated the lower part of his face.
The skin of his hands and face was tanned and weather-worn, as was fitting for a man who had spent the last dozen years out of doors in tropical climes. As for the rest, it was covered by his clothing, which was remarkable only for its plain nature. He was dressed in a working uniform of some lineage or other--the tropical kit of the armies of John Company, once could assume--a blouse and trousers of khaki twill, with red-and-gold pips on the epaulets and collar. A heavy revolver occupied a leather holster at his belt at the left hip, butt forward, and a largish knife in a well-worn leather sheath looped on the belt to the right. He had a bandolier of pistol cartridges slung across his chest with casual ruthlessness that spoke of his readiness to resort to weapons if the situation warranted it. A pair of supple brown boots encased his feet and laced up his legs to the knee. A wide-brimmed felt hat hung on his back from a braided cord around his neck. A blue bandanna covered his head against the sun, knotted over one ear in a piratical manner. A red one was knotted around his neck. He made a practice of wetting both from the canteen that had been slung over one shoulder when he walked and was set between his feet on the floor of the wagon at the moment.
"Fanny," he said. "That's a pretty name for such a pretty flower, if somewhat abrupt."
"Oh, it's not my name. It's just what they call me because Gabrielle Francesca is too much of a mouthful." And you, sir, will find me too much of a handful, I'll wager. I wonder if any woman he has desired has ever said, "No!" to him.
His eyes narrowed and he pursed his lips. "Gabrielle Francesca," he said contemplatively. "That has a familiar ring to it ..." Then one eyebrow lifted a fraction of a millimeter and his smile finally reached his eyes. "When I was in Gallipoli this morning, there was a sloop coming in on the tide flying the flag of a certain company... the Olympia Trading..." he snapped his fingers as if trying to recall some trivial bit of information.
"Olympia Holdings, Ltd.," Gabrielle Francesca supplied coolly.
"Yes, exactly!" he exclaimed, leveling his forefinger at her in acceptance of her datum. "Olympia Holdings. Some years ago, after I was--" he gave an embarrassed cough, "--rusticated from Oxford and had not yet settled on a career with John Company, I had occasion to visit a certain Doctor Darwin in Surrey and, while I was staying at his home, he was visited by a family of neighbors of his, Hephaestus and Aphrodite Smith-Jones. I clearly remember those most remarkable names. Their brood included two charming if wholly rambunctious young girls, one quiet and dark as a shadow, the other bright and bold as brass. Felicity was the one's name, and the other's name was..."
"Gabrielle Francesca. 'Twas I."
"And you grew to become... a clerk in your father's company?"
"Factor," she said rather coldly before she remembered her aims, and then continued more warmly. "I am the factor of Olympia Holdings at Athens. You have caught me out."
"Then Captain Book is not your uncle. Indeed, far from being your guardian, he is your subordinate."
She gave him her best La Giocanda smile and bowed her head to him. "I say again: you have caught me out, Captain."
"And you had me telling you tales like you were some star struck schoolgirl. Hell's Bells, woman! If half of what the old biddies in London say about you is true..."
"Now, now, Captain Burton. I'd not have you believing of me the worst that the biddies of London say about me when the truth is so much..."
"...More?" he ventured, seeking to finish her sentence for her with an ingratiating smile.
"...More," she said simultaneously. They laughed.
Gabrielle Francesca glanced at Book, who was watching her nervously. She smiled to reassure him and turned her attentions back to Captain Richard Francis Burton and a nascent plan that was forming in her fertile mind.
"So, Captain Burton. Tell me. What is a man of your obvious accomplishments doing in this backwater garrison? Why aren't you at the front, where all the action is?"
#
GFE and Burton conspire to transport horses owned by Olympia Holdings and at that time on farms in Thrace to Gallipoli for use by Beatson's horse in the relief of Karsk.
Somehow, GFE is captured and transported to the slave market in Constantinople. Burton follows and attempts to buy her free. And it looks like he might succeed when he is outbid by the Sultan's buyers.
He started out simply wanting to rescue a business associate. But, when she was stripped for display in the slave market, he fell in love with her.
GFE is taken to the harem of the Seraglio, where she is bathed, inspected, has her body hair waxed and shaved off. Despite her unconventional attitudes about her body and sex and so-forth, she finds the handling very demeaning and more than a little frightening.
But she keeps her courage up and begins plotting to escape.
Meantime, a crestfallen Burton begs leave of his commander to go to Athens. It is granted. Then Burton has to bring the sad news to Capt. Book, who calls him out. Burton refuses, saying that he dare not risk losing a duel while he has the gaeas laid on him of rescuing Gabrielle from the Seraglio.
Book reluctantly, angrily, transports Burton to Athens, where the latter must face Hephaestus. At first H refuses to use godly powers to intervene unless GFE's life is threatened, which it is not. He doubts that threats would work and tells Burton that descriptions of the gods' powers are greatly exaggerated.
"In ten thousand years, Captain Burton, I have not fired a single thunderbolt, or brought down a single plague, or visited a single flood on humanity, and I do not intend to do so now. As much as I love dear Fanny, she is only one of a long procession of her line to serve the gods as she does. They have all died at one time or another. From the time of King Atreus of Mycenae, the East family have served the gods, and not one of them survives beyond the present generation. I will mourn Gabrielle Francesca in her time, but I will not lift a finger to help her other than what may be hers in any case via human agency."
Hope, so horribly dashed by the god's initial refusal, sprang forth renewed in Burton's breast when his ears comprehended the import of that last.
"Does this mean, sir, that you will allow your fleet and your men to be turned toward this task?"
"Yes. But only insofar as it can be done secretly. I dare not reveal our existence to the outside world, and most especially not to the Muslims. Nor would it serve our ends for our mission to be revealed to the Ottomans. After all, if they have bought Gabrielle for the Sultan's harem, even if only as an odalisque and not a concubine, they do not intend that she should ever leave the Seraglio alive. Should it become apparent that there is a large and concerted effort afoot to win her free, then they would be obliged to let her go ... which would not bode well for her. I have heard stories of how women leave the harem. Bound up in sacks. Rowed out to deep water and thrown in the Sea of Marmara to drown. I do not wish that end for my beloved Gabrielle. No."
And there we leave the story -- for now...
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