Nell Gwynne's On Land and At Sea by Kage Baker, Kathleen Bartholomew Page B

there that needed fuel: possibly Erato’s postulated steam engine. There were dull metal tanks going down as well, their tops fitted with stopcocks—when one banged into the stone well coping, there was a frightened shout and curses Herbertina could hear in her bower: evidently they held some gas or fluid, under pressure and decidedly unsafe to bang about.
    Interesting, all very interesting; and surely suggestive of some clandestine hooliganism afoot…
    Totally damning, however, were the unmistakable cannon balls going down, netted like the coal. There was other eccentric ironmongery as well, things with linked chains and knobs and iron thorns; she rather thought Lady Beatrice could put a name to those.
    All in all, not cargo for a yachting holiday. And conspicuous in its absence was any sign of provisions—unless the crew of the mystery vessel had one of those crates packed with box lunches, nothing that resembled potable drink or durable dry goods was going aboard. Perhaps that meant no long-range journey was anticipated? While Herbertina had seen the speed with which the submarine craft could move, she had no idea of its cruising range. The coal indicated they needed to refuel en route, though.

The rising moon had cleared what little haze lay on the night ocean, and its light flooded the meadows atop the cliffs. The shadow of the crane over the well was suddenly a solid wedge of black extending into the grass and gorse behind the cottages. In fact, Herbertina saw with sudden interest, so long and dark it was that it quite obscured a straight line running between some broom bushes and the back walls of the cottages themselves. And those bushes were very near her hawthorn trees.
    After a moment’s calculation, she re-pocketed her spyglass, lay down on her belly, and began a serpentine crawl through the gorse to the inviting pathway of the crane’s shadow. To her surprise, it was really quite easy—the gorse was at least half a foot over her head for most the way, and the drab clothes she wore became an even better Tarnhelm when randomly striped by the twiggy moonlit branches.
    The broom bushes had a convenient and sweet-scented hollow round their roots, from which she could reconnoiter the area. While men were going steadily in and out of the cottages’ back doors and round the walls with loads, the majority of them were safely in front. And even from her own ground-level view, the long pergola of shade was an impenetrable avenue: nothing at all could be clearly seen under the arm of the crane’s shadow.
    Which was quite convenient until, about twenty feet from the back walls of her goal, Herbertina ran nose-to-nose into a very surprised fox terrier.
     

     
    Back in their parlor in Torquay, the other Ladies were waiting with steadily decreasing ease and good grace. The evening was running on, and there had been no message nor return from their absent members. Dora kept watch in the window seat, on the alert for any strange lights or sounds from the shore; but the town was quite silent tonight. There were not even enough pedestrians taking the evening air to provide her with anything on which to comment amusingly to the others.
    They had all fallen into an anxious quiet. The Aetheric Transmitter remained silent, save for the normal low maintenance hum; which, had declared Miss Rendlesham, not only interfered with her ability to concentrate on reading Dombey and Son aloud, but was giving her a headache.
    Maude had then declared that that was fine with her, as Miss Rendlesham’s reading was not only giving her a headache, but—combined with the hum of the Transmitter—might very well be upon point of producing a brain seizure. Mrs. Otley had therefore diplomatically begged Miss Rendlesham to leave off and save the doubtless exciting conclusion of Mr. Dickens’ work for another evening; whereupon a dissatisfied silence had fallen in the room. Jane was now sewing with less enthusiasm than doggedness and Dora was