Empire of Ruins (14 page)

A
s they rounded into the Heads—the cliffs that guarded the entrance to Port Jackson and the city of Sydney—Mr. Socrates rose from his table, pulled on his greatcoat, left the cabin, and marched to the forecastle of the ship. He was surprised at his own eagerness and that the aching in his bones seemed to be gone, despite the cool June wind. He’d been to Sydney more than twenty years earlier, during the first wave of the gold rush, and had hired a team of ex–military men as prospectors. Within six weeks he’d capped off his personal fortune. He’d had a soft spot for Australia ever since.

The spray was hitting the rocks so hard that it looked as though the lighthouse on South Head were in danger of being washed away, but as they entered the inland sea the water grew calmer. They passed a small village, cottages dotting the wooded hills. Paddle-wheeled steamboats, yachts with their white sails bright in the sun, and other
craft plied the waterway. As they approached Sydney proper, there were more houses and roads. The city had grown. He noted the spires of several churches, rows of large houses with broad terraces and steps that led right down to the water. He spotted the signal station, a four-story sandstone tower, and the observatory beside it. Somewhere behind it would be the old Rum Hospital, which had become Sydney’s Parliament House. He had once stood inside that building warning the politicians to guard their young country well.

This was what he needed. To see what the young colonies were doing. He’d been sitting at the old heart of the Empire for far too long.

“We really are in the new world now,” an unfamiliar voice beside him said.

He turned and was surprised to see Modo. His voice had sounded deeper. The boy’s face was perfectly formed; he really had mastered the transformations.

“Yes, son, we are,” Mr. Socrates said.

There was a lift in his heart, coupled with sadness, as he called Modo his son. His only real son had died moments after being born many years before. But still, Modo was more valuable than any other agent. Even more, there was something about the boy’s innocence that had got under his skin. If he was honest with himself, there were times when Mr. Socrates had wanted to shield Modo from the world. A foolish and unrealistic thought.

“This is one of the most attractive ports in the world,” Mr. Socrates said. “Picturesque, even. Its description stumped Anthony Trollope. Did you read his work before our visit?”

“There were very few books in our house that mentioned Australia, Father,” Modo said.

“Ah, I should have remedied that. We left too quickly to gather the proper educational materials. Well, this is a mariner’s and an engineer’s dream, so many natural bays with calm water. And gently sloped hills.”

“It’s more established than I thought it would be,” Modo said.

“We civilized this area years ago. The colonies have thrived under the nurturing hand of the Empire. Well, that and the gold rush. There are around two hundred thousand souls here in Sydney. We sent our ne’er-do-wells, our Scots and Irish, our explorers, and look what has been created by British ingenuity.” He waved his hand. As the boy looked at the city, Mr. Socrates glanced at him. At times Modo seemed to worship him. It was both a compliment and a bad habit. He would have to harden the boy’s heart. The world out there was tough, unforgiving, especially for one whose real face would frighten children and repulse adults. If there was one thing he knew about British society, it was that it loved to destroy the ugly. He would have to be more disciplined with the boy, for his own good.

Then he took another look at Modo and realized: he was no longer a boy. How old would he be now? He’d discovered Modo fourteen years ago as a toddler. He would be fifteen or sixteen. A young man. Why hadn’t he given Modo a birthday? He could have picked a date out of the air.
You sentimental old fool
, he chastised himself.
What does Modo need with a birthday?
He’d been protecting him far too much. Modo had been ready to go on several missions in
the past few months, but Mr. Socrates had held him back. He’d almost lost him last time.

A thought suddenly occurred to him. Could it be that he was really on this voyage to be Modo’s protector? The pain that shot through his heart gave him his answer.

No, he thought staring down into the water. He must not attach himself to his subordinates. He’d learned that as an officer in Crimea. Those rules applied here, too. Britannia couldn’t be protected by bleeding hearts and soft hands.

“Enough sightseeing,” Mr. Socrates said. “Go prepare. We’ll be debarking soon.”

“Yes, Father,” Modo said, and immediately turned on his heel and began walking down the deck. Mr. Socrates watched him go. It had been such a long time since he’d rescued the boy from the Gypsy wagon. It already seemed a lifetime ago.

M
odo stood outside his cabin next to his luggage and watched as the RMS
Rome
docked at Cockatoo Island. The island’s quaint name was amusing, and a sign that he was no longer in London.

“It used to be a prison island,” a cabin boy said as he tagged Modo’s luggage. Parker. That was the boy’s last name. “The docks were built by convicts. The prisoners have all been moved to some other jail, so don’t you worry yourself about them dangerous types, sir. Only their bones and restless spirits have been left behind.”

Modo tipped him, and soon after that, the porters arrived to carry away his luggage. He was glad to see the last of his cabin. It had been comfortable enough, but he was tired of feeling like a chicken in a coop.

The rest of his party came out of their cabins and Mr. Socrates guided them down the gangplank. Modo was taken by Octavia’s rather fetching green hat and green
crinolined dress. Mrs. Finchley, too, had dressed up for the city.

They had docked next to a British war steamer,
Rosario
, and as they walked along the boardwalk Modo studied it, impressed by its size and the guns aimed from its decks. He wondered what the sailors’ lives would be like, with many of their years spent at sea. He’d stick with being a secret agent. He preferred solid ground under his feet.

While Tharpa monitored their luggage and equipment being unloaded, Mr. Socrates led the rest of them to a ferry. It transported them over calm waters busy with smaller steamers and yachts. What would the streets of Sydney be like? Modo wondered. Sheep and kangaroos stampeding around? They disembarked on the north shore docks and climbed into one of the waiting carriages. Modo sat beside Mr. Socrates, gawking out the window as they rolled along the pebbly streets of North Sydney. None of the buildings were as tall or as old as anything in London. How new everything looked, though very dusty. Maybe Sydney was more like New York before the Americans put up so many high buildings.

“Civilization at last,” Mrs. Finchley said. “One more night on a boat and I would have thrown myself to the sharks.”

“Our hearts would break with you gone,” Octavia said. “And with whom would I be lucky enough to play cards?”

“Aren’t you the kindest!” Mrs. Finchley patted Octavia’s shoulder.

Modo wished he’d thought of a compliment for Mrs. Finchley. She and Octavia were getting along famously.

The carriage arrived at the front doors of the Rag and Famish Hotel and everyone stepped out. Modo gave the building the once-over: an oversized cottage with maybe ten rooms, low trees growing behind it. Two unshaved sailors stumbled out of the front doors, obviously drunk even at midday. They paused to give both Octavia and Mrs. Finchley red-eyed stares, then staggered down the slate sidewalk.

There were only ground-floor rooms, Modo noted. If necessary he could climb in and out of his room easily, but so could anyone else.

In the lobby were travelers from several nations: Indians, Englishmen, and four French soldiers. Out of habit Modo scanned the room for an exit at the rear and gauged the windows as being large enough to jump through. They approached the main desk, which was also the bar.

“Are we really staying here, sir?” Mrs. Finchley asked.

“Yes, Mrs. Finchley. I know it’s below your standards, but you’ll endure. The owner, Mr. Bullivant, is an old friend. Clever of him to name his establishment after Ensign Rag and Captain Famish, isn’t it?”

“Who were they, Father?” Modo asked.

“I’m surprised that you ask. They were imaginary characters that some artist invented; you seem to have an addiction to all that literary nonsense. The Rag is the flag, and Famish, well, that’s what happens to all the ensigns on the sea. Bullivant doesn’t think back fondly on his years in the navy.”

Mr. Socrates handed cash to the innkeeper and in return received three keys. He gave one to Modo. “I do hope you get your land legs back soon, son.”

Modo did feel wobbly: keeping up the Doctor face was exhausting him. He’d been too excited as they approached Sydney and had changed his body into this shape far too early.

“Steady as a rock, Father,” Modo said.

After freshening up in their rooms, the four met in the pub and dined on boiled hen and potato. As they were finishing, Tharpa arrived and nodded to Mr. Socrates; a message had been received.

Mr. Socrates stood and raised his goblet of red wine. “A toast to the colonies!”

Modo sipped his tea as Mr. Socrates continued. “I’ve been in London far too long. One forgets the young energy of the colonies. It invigorates me.”

“You’ll need a lot of invigorating,” Octavia said.

“Ah, Octavia, would you be referring to my age? Well, let me say, I feel young enough that we should all go for a jaunt.”

He led them out of the hotel to a carriage. The driver was a flat-nosed man in a tan coat.

Modo climbed up to the top bench and sat beside Tharpa, while Mr. Socrates and the women sat inside. “Where are we going?” Modo asked.

“Sahib is enjoying keeping this a secret.”

Tharpa signaled to the driver for them to proceed and they rumbled north through the streets until the houses grew sparse. Soon they were in the hills, farms on either side. But these farms were nothing like any Modo had seen from the train in England. They were vast tracts, with hundreds, perhaps thousands of sheep wandering across them.
The road became a line of dust between the trees and hills. Modo could hear Mrs. Finchley complain from below.

A half hour later they turned in to a dusty lane, passing a sign that said HADES ACRES. Someone had a sense of humor. They stopped near a brick farmhouse, and Modo followed Tharpa off the carriage, hopping the last few rungs of the ladder onto the ground. They were greeted by three tall, grim men in dusty leather greatcoats and tan slouch hats, each carrying a rifle. Their boots looked like something from the American West. They had no insignia, so Modo surmised they were militia. Their faces were stony, all business, when Mr. Socrates stepped out, but as the women emerged, the men puffed out their chests a little and smiles appeared.

One, a man in his midforties, stepped up and shook Mr. Socrates’ hand.

“Welcome back, sir,” the man said. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“Likewise, Clow. We haven’t aged a day in twenty years. Is everything in order?”

“Your materials have arrived safely and are being unpacked as we speak. And
she
is here.”

The way he emphasized
she
caught Modo’s attention. He’d almost spat the word. But Mr. Socrates didn’t react in any perceptible way. “Good. Good.” He turned to the group. “Come along, you laggards, your mounts await.”

Mounts?
Would they be climbing into saddles? He’d never ridden and didn’t relish having to learn how in front of all these men. And Octavia.

Soon he’d have to change his shape; he could already
feel his face drooping. Fool! He’d forgotten to bring his mask. He calculated how long it had been since they disembarked. He wouldn’t have much more than half an hour before his body began to revert.

He’d intended to walk with Octavia, but already one of the men was beside her, so Modo stayed a few steps behind. She laughed at something the man said, and Modo rolled his eyes.

They carried on to the long, one-story brick house that looked as though it had been painted white about a hundred years earlier. Behind it was a large wooden shed and an open area where several men were unloading Mr. Socrates’ crates. Two of them used a pry bar on the lids.

A lithe, big-shouldered woman with short dark hair, dark skin, and a tan greatcoat stood in the middle of all the action. “Not there, but over there!” she shouted.

The men cringed. Modo could tell that they weren’t pleased to be taking orders from her.

As Mr. Socrates approached, she turned to face him. Modo had to work hard to disguise his shock at her face: it was attractive, but her lips were tattooed in a dark blue, and swirling blue lines curled along her lower lip to her chin. Why would she permanently mark her face like that?