The Volcano Lady: Vol. 2 - To the Ending of the World

By T.E. MacArthur

Volcanology is merely an unseemly occupation for a lady in 1883 but, when the lady allows herself to be abducted in route to the East Indies, it's more than the public and her New College of London associates can bear. Her character in question and her professional reputation potentially destroyed, there is little Lettie Gantry can do except to escape from her increasingly insane captor, Robur the Conqueror, and complete her Eruption Prediction Equation - an equation that can save thousands of lives - or cost far more. And to do that she must put her trust in her captor's first mate, a Civil War veteran haunted by his past and deeply confused in his loyalty to his captain and his ship.

Can she trust him with her life?

On the run from the ruins of ancient Borobudur to the dense jungles of Java and the trembling volcanoes of the East Indies, Lettie must get to the one place where she can put her equation to the ultimate test - a tiny island called Krakatoa.

To the Ending of the World is the second volume of the exciting Volcano Lady tale packed with remarkable historical detail, outrageous technologies, and the potential end of the civilized world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: T.E. MacArthur
• Release date: Jan 22, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311995674

T.E. MacArthur

T. E. MacArthur is an author, artist, and historian living in the San Francisco Bay Area with her constant companion, Mac the cat. She received her Bachelor’s Degree in History from Cal State University and spent many an evening in subsequent Anthropology, Geology, Criminal Investigation and Art classes. Writing remains, however, her passion. She has written for several local and specialized publications and was even an accidental sports reporter for Reuters. The Volcano Lady: Volumes I & II follow the adventures of Victorian lady scientist Lettie Gantry, through the worlds of Jules Verne. The Gaslight Adventures novellas continue the thrilling adventures of Tom Turner, following the time honored cliffhangers of dime novels, penny dreadfuls, and weekly serials. To put it mildly, T.E. has a love for all things Victorian (history and clothing from 1870 – 1890 in particular) and is having a lifelong affair with the writings of Jules Verne. For fun, facts and giveaways - http://VolcanoLady1.wordpress.com (http://blog.volcanolady.com.)

Book preview

Chapter 1

May 29, 1883

Island of Walcheren,

On the Öosterschelde

The sunset was lovely, casting colors across the landscape and even onto the pipes that rose above the fog in the ditches. It was a shame they didn’t have time to stop and appreciate the beauty of their surroundings.

Turner and Lettie had to maneuver past the pumping stations and pipes that lay between the compacted earthen levees, and up the second dike. Every mile or so, rumbling generators lying between the dikes soaked up water trying to get past the dike system, drained it from the ditch, and spit it back at the North Sea. The island was surrounded by the pumping stations and the ditches. The stations heated up the water and the soil around them, creating the false fog through which the two escapees waded, sometimes only up to their waists and sometimes over their heads. The artificial weather changed dramatically from moment to moment. A cloud of steam lifted toward the sky from each unit. The vibration from the pumping stations also shook the soil around it, liquefying it and making it dangerous to cross. It was ugly but necessary and clearly not designed by the Dutch, who seemed to put a touch of elegance into all of their survival mechanisms, such as the windmill or drawbridge. Probably Prussian in design, Turner muttered as he twisted his foot out of a particularly grasping hole of mud.

Unlike other locations along the coast, nature had provided some small amount of security from an excitable North Sea. Once the rains came with high tides and storm surges, this particular area would flood without human intervention. The dikes weren’t very tall, but their height was significant compared to the claimed farmland on the other side which lay below sea level.

Fearfully, they inched over the top of dike two, aware that they could easily be seen from either side.

As they climbed down, Turner took advantage of the view. The area was vast and mostly flat. Some small hills popped up out of the thick grasses and organized cultivation. Trees tended to be grouped in spots or lined up along demarcations between fields. Very artificial, yet incredibly clever. The Dutch had created an agricultural miracle. What should have been swallowed up by the sea now produced grains and pasture lands. Bleak and hopeful.

Some land was allowed to grow wildly, giving the soil a respite. Here the grass and shrubs grew thick with an almost violent need to live. Such places would provide them with shelter and invisibility, he noted.

Other portions of the land were neatly sorted into squares of earth separated by roads, streams, trees, and false hills. These were easily spotted as the vegetation around them was quite distinct in color and shape from the crops. Here too, despite the immediate proximity to public thoroughfares, he could hide the pair of them.

In the distance, he saw a quaint silhouette of a small town, complete with tall, narrow buildings and the requisite church spire. Two old fashioned windmills slowly turned, pumping out water that might invade the town. That was a place they needed to avoid, but was worthy of noting; just in case. A village meant both people and livestock. Both provided too many dangers, from being reported or detained, to being accused of property theft or spying. They were strangers and no excuse was impossible. Yes, it felt like Georgia to him. And North Carolina. And all the places he had to go during the war.

Turner shook off the memory. He’d dream about the war soon enough as he always did, why bother with it during daylight hours?

Further in the distance, perhaps some ten miles away, a dark wall of trees waited as his goal. The protective woods were either planted purposefully or culled to be effective as a wind break, preventing inland gales from sweeping unhindered across the land, removing good soil and seed. Once in those woods they could hide and wait. It was what he knew lay between where they were and where they needed to be that worried him. Fens. Water. Old fences to be climbed over. Mud. Witnesses. Wickham. And things far worse. Alone, he could cross the distance in the dark. But not with a woman in tow. Not even Doctor Gantry.

He wasn’t convinced she was up to it, though he had to admit he was never convinced she’d make it this far. He didn’t like not knowing enough to predict her.

Lettie started across some of the grassland, looking for stable ground.

Doctor, wait, Turner called to her as quietly as possible. You ever been to Holland?

Keep your voice down. No. she said testily.

Ever heard of bogs?

I … yes. Of course. She looked down at her dirty boots. Too fast, too fast. Her rush would cost them if she didn’t slow down. And I am the Geologist, she said too quietly for him to hear.

There’s a path here, leading to that stand of trees, he said pointing with his hands. I don’t think either of us could pull the other out of a bog, so let’s stick to a known path.

Are you certain? she asked.

It is how we navigated through the marshes near the Roanoke. The locals know where they are going and how to get there without getting themselves killed. We can trust in that, no matter where one is in the world.

It was logical. You’re right, Mr. Turner. I believe we’re tempting fate enough as it is. She quickly made her way onto the worn path. It wasn’t wide or heavily used, but someone had figured out how to traverse the region safely, or so she hoped.

Chapter 2

May 29, 1883

Island of Walcheren

Holland

They were not into the woods yet; not even close to them. The terrain had been far more treacherous than anticipated. Deep mud, hidden creeks, and potential bogs continually slowed them down. Although the terrain was polder, as the Dutch called their reclaimed land behind the dikes, the natural state of the ground was wet and well below sea level. To the west, the sun had set and things were getting darker by the minute.

They could only creep along in the brush beside the road. The constant crouching and bending was taking a terrible toll on her back and knees. Sharp twigs and stiff reeds scratched her hands and arms as she pushed them out of the way.

A loud sneeze cut into the quiet. Turner grabbed the back of her jacket and pulled her toward him. A farmer with his cart trapped in the mud stood a few yards ahead of them. He cursed and kicked at the wheels, trying to free them. Each time he stomped up to his horse and seized the reins, the creature jerked with panic and pulled franticly at the unmoving cart. The man was alone, desperate to get off the polder. He wanted to get home before it was dark. His cart was old and small, but the left wheel had sunk almost to the axle. The horse was small too but stout and just as eager to get back to drier comforts.

Turner and Lettie couldn’t move past him with a stream on one side and deep mud on the other, and neither could they help him. Finally, Turner guided her by the elbow toward a patch of dried mud between three shrubs which they had passed earlier. The bushes were tall enough to provide some protection. She sat down and rested her head on her hands. Turner dropped into a low squat and waited, chewing on a wheat stalk. He had none of the aromatic cheroots he was so fond of and must have been missing them terribly, she decided.

The moment was too familiar: he was sitting watch, keeping an eye out while the others slept. It clearly had not been Lettie’s intention to fall asleep, but she did so. Perhaps she was used to such deprivation while working in the field but he couldn’t be sure. As much as he wanted to move ahead, he too was glad for the break.

The cart did not dislodge until late, costing them the night’s travel. They would not arrive in the woods until tomorrow. Turner carefully controlled his temper. There was no way for him to change the situation.

Lettie sat up several times, embarrassed by her nodding off. She said nothing about it but colored in the face each time. She could feel the heat on her cheeks. They couldn’t talk until the famer and his cart were gone.

His head jerked up and Turner realized he too had fallen asleep. Looking back toward Lettie, he found himself being observed by darkened green eyes. She’d kept watch over him. As the very last light began to fade, she quietly curled up on the ground, understanding that tomorrow would be their first opportunity to go further. He had to admire that resignation. Gently, he draped one of the coats over her as she wrapped her arms around her valise and used it for a pillow.

When she finally woke, her hands were numb and her head hurt. Holland was blessedly temperate during the day, but nights were bitter and cold. And wet. Her hair was coated with slimy dew. Her clothing was peppered with muck and her shoes had not dried overnight.

Turner didn’t look any better. He’d pulled his sleeves down over his cuffed hands, wrapped the seal-skin coat around his body, and folded himself up in a tight ball. Something about the way he did so with relative ease suggested that this was not the first frozen night he’d spent exposed to the elements.

The search for Robur hadn’t achieved anything except to give them an unpleasant tour of the vicinity. When the tide was out, there was a distinct odor in the air that was quite sickening. The bogs were no better. At any moment the whole plan could fall apart and they might need to surrender again to Wickham or enlist the help of locals. Neither was an ideal choice.

All around them, they could see the sky for miles. A low blanket of gray clouds hung over the area, giving the landscape a dismal appearance.

Twice they hid deep in the grasses while crewmen from the Nautilus searched for them in the distance. Everything echoed under the fog and Turner was certain he could track the searchers movements by sound. Yet, the crewmen’s efforts were unenthusiastic. Perhaps Nemo had instructed them to spare their energies, or perhaps they’d come to the same conclusion Lettie had regarding their ‘temporary commander,’ Mr. Wickham. Either way, Wickham was not amongst them and they clearly felt no exigency today. Despite their commander’s instruction to follow Wickham’s orders, there was no doubt they preferred their true leader, Nemo.

As to Turner’s own employer, Robur remained nowhere to be found. His absence was not in accordance with the plan, but neither was the entire situation as it had developed. And while Lettie did not say so in particular, she was beginning to doubt Robur’s commitment to the fiasco. Not that she would consider any of this Tom Turner’s idea of a horrible joke. So much had gone too far for such a simple answer.

Another day passed before they decided it was safe enough to head further inland, toward the distant woods. While an army could move five to ten miles a day, Turner considered, two people should have been able to travel fifteen. The woods, however, were still out of reach. Lettie was not showing any signs of excessive fatigue, which he honestly expected of a lady. No, the fault lay in the perplexing way Nemo’s crewmen, led by Wickham the Dandy, managed to block every effort they made. Too many times they found themselves waiting for the gang of searchers to pass, to move forward, only to be pushed back. Turner was certain that Wickham was only getting lucky. No one pressed their advantage over the escapees or even seemed to be aware of them. It was damnable luck.

That luck was against them - it rained slightly, soaking both of them to the bone.

As she wiped the wet strands of hair from her face, Lettie was sure that one of them would be in the grip of a fever by daybreak. If not fever, then madness from the boredom. In the field, Lettie was busy, constantly in motion or conversation. The rocks fascinated her and she could stare at them or talk about them for hours. Endless notes would need to be transcribed from scribbling on scrap paper into formal journals. Specific samples always needed to be found, collected, labeled and packed for shipment. No such distractions now. Turner was too preoccupied with keeping them from discovery to be much of a conversationalist either.

The air split with a shrill cry: a man’s voice. Immediate and unnatural. It was desperate, furious, confused, enraged. Importuning. Wickham. The predawn air carried his plea out over the bogs. Something had changed.

It had been three long, terrible days of hiding accompanied by two frigid nights. Even knowing Wickham’s plans, Lettie thought the idea of returning to Nemo’s ship appealing. More than appealing: necessary.

Perhaps Wickham did care that she was out there. Had he considered that she was with Turner; that Turner hadn’t escaped on his own, or that she was in control of her one-time abductor? Of course not, he thought her a weakling and a fool. But his voice … could he act so well? Did he know how to sound as though he was so very desperate to find her?

Please excuse my language, Ma’am, but I wish he’d shut the hell up, Turner said, looking out over her shoulder.

I thought you’d want him giving away our position, to make it easier for your Captain Robur. She glanced over to note his stubbled chin and unkempt hair. His appearance was wildly masculine but very un-military. The circumstance must have bothered him, she thought, he was almost fastidious when it came to the way he looked. In her own case, she hardly looked any better. And a bath was just as appealing as a full meal. Lettie said nothing. If Turner could stand the pressure and unsanitary conditions, so could she. She’d endured worse conditions and could show her mettle if she ignored the fact that they were running for their lives. The concept tended to take any energy out of her confidence.

The Captain doesn’t need Wickham’s help. He settled back onto the ground.

She shifted - perhaps now Turner might tell her something. Her hip was resting painfully on a rock. So why do you want Wickham to be quiet? He’s not giving away some absolute secret. Even we know where he is at this point. The villagers don’t know anything about all this yet and likely won’t want to be involved. If Robur is even trying to find us, then …

It might surprise you, but my Employer may not be the only one out here looking for us … for you.

She turned to him, eyes wide and angry. Oh for Heaven’s sake, tell me this isn’t more complicated than …

It’s a thought … I think that way … it’s my job to think that way …

Lord of Mercy. What haven’t you told me? she spat at him.

That being in a war makes a man paranoid, that’s all. Forget I said anything. It’s … a leftover of an old and not too successful career of mine.

’Not too successful?’ As opposed to your career in kidnapping? She waited while he stared at her. Lack of sleep, safety, and normalcy were making her surly. Very well, she whispered. Maybe a little paranoia is reasonable.

Do we have any water left?

She shook her head. None of the water around them was safe to drink. The brief drizzling rains gave them both at best a tongue full of water. If she had to, she could eat grass to curb the hunger, but no one could go long without water.

Since I’m a little less burdened, he said, acknowledging that she’d freed his hands long enough for him to unload the equipment from his shoulders. Allow me to show you a little Yankee know-how. He took the bottle that had once contained proper water, covered the mouth of it with a kerchief from his pocket, and knelt down near a pool of runny mud. Lettie watched intently as he carefully leaned out to push the bottle down into the mud. As half of the bottle was submerged in the muck, a trickle of clearer water poured into the container. ‘Clearer’ was a generous description. It was still brown and would likely smell as bad as the air around them. With some water collected, Turner cleaned off the opening of the bottle and took a sip.

You’re not falling over ill, she noted.

After tasting that, you may prefer being sick. But it’s water all the same. No obvious parasites or bugs. Just - don’t smell it first.

Lettie did as she was instructed and tried her best to ignore the wretched taste. But Turner had been right … it was drinkable water. They filled themselves as much as they could stomach and left a good portion in the bottle, but it wasn’t a large quantity. And it was vile.

The third night was colder than the last and Lettie was glad for the yet again that she’d taken sets of Nemo’s sealskin coats. Turner breathed into his hands trying to keep them warm before stuffing them into the gloves.

They had been waiting in one place for hours and her nerves were becoming raw. Why hadn’t Robur shown up? Had Wickham given it all away?

For a brief time, she nodded off, but not in a restful way. At first every noise made her think Robur or Wickham was leaning over her, staring, demanding, molesting… Finally she slipped away into a deep hole of unconsciousness. Curled up in an uncomfortable ball, her fingers twitched, and occasionally she slipped away from the dream long enough to feel the hardness of the ground, then back to her dream of Tahuna – on the Grand Sangihe Island. Her father had taken her there, against her family’s wishes. They warned him that it was too dangerous. She was a little girl and belonged safe at home, playing with dolls and learning to become a lady when she grew up. But he had trade relationships with nutmeg growers on the island and Mr. Gantry wanted his only child to see more of the world than the inside of a middle class house.

The family had been right. The largest recorded eruption of Mt. Awu buried Tahuna in ten feet of ash and debris. Worst of all, rain and ash had combined to create a wall of fast moving mud that buried the entire region. Lettie and her father Theodore escaped, injured, yet alive. Her father would not walk without a cane or stand easily again. His business partner, a local man she called Georgie because she could not pronounce his real name, died while rescuing them. While rescuing her - she had been small, weak, slow. If only she hadn’t been.

Her body twitched as muscles contracted, trying to flee the deadly river of mud in her dreams. She could see Georgie’s arm sticking out of the cement-like mud, his bracelet the only element of color in the bleak memory. Slowly, a string of faces, some she knew and some she didn’t, appeared beneath her closed eyes – people she should have saved. She had decided after Awu’s eruption that it was her personal responsibility to prevent further death and mass destruction. That was her particular understanding of volcanoes, like Awu, that tasked her. Her brain, her knowledge, her nature – it had only one real purpose. The faces started shouting at her, some laughing at her. Who was she to think she was so very special? What was the matter with her? She was a failure, didn’t she see that?

Her eyes opened – wet and cold.

Quietly, she opened the latch on her valise, and carefully probed with her fingers until she found Georgie’s bracelet of beads. Georgie’s wife and son had given it to her as she had been so kind to them after the disaster and had wept so very hard for the man. The texture of each bead was familiar and comforting. Slowly, she withdrew her hand and slipped the bracelet back over her hand.

Mt. Awu had been so beautiful. So perfect. Even in its eruption, it had been glorious. She had seen the phenomenon of the ash cloud boiling in hot and cold colors, and the lightning leaping in searing hot flashes from one side to the other. She saw it and knew there was little else in the world she could find as lovely and frightening. She wanted to see more. She wanted to know more.

Lettie rolled onto her back, letting the memories go for the moment.

The sky was pitch black; not even a sliver of the Moon to define the line between land and air, as it had been the two previous nights. New Moon. She had to admit, it was a good set of circumstances if one was approaching from the sky. Yet, wouldn’t they hear him? All Lettie could hear was the roll of waves onto the clipped shoreline and the incessant wind blowing through the tall grasses and