The Great Curry Contest: A Steampunk Short Story

Part I

James Billingsworth was drunk. His companion, Henry Emerson, was cursing him with a loquacity that, had anybody nearby understood the Queen's English, would have left their ears burning and their cheeks red.

The two British airmen were both thoroughly enjoying Cairo.

"Come away from there you sodding tosspot!"

Henry steered his friend past the colorful bottles on display in the stall and out of reach of their more-than-questionable liquid contents.

James was momentarily nonplussed to have his plan for imbibing further exotic spirits so frustrated, "You know, for a naval man you're much too temperate, Henry."

"We sail the wind, not the waves. No need to seek oblivion like our soggy brothers in arms." Henry grunted as he deftly parried an attempt by his comrade to double back to the stall, "Besides, the army's shipping off to rescue Gordon any day now, as soon as the Voyageurs battalion arrives." He placed his body between the stall and his friend and matched the other's sidesteps and feints until James gave up with an exaggerated sigh and turned to go. "And I've no desire to pilot an airship with an aching head and a cotton filled mouth." At this last he plucked a little green bottle just visible in James's rear pocket and placed it, with an apologetic look towards the stall's vexed owner, back on the shelf where it had resided a moment earlier.

For reply James blew Henry a raspberry.

The market around them was a riot of colors, sounds and smells. Cairo in the spring of 1885 was awash with the new and the alien, and the nearly three thousand troops of Her Britannic Majesty, here to end the Mad Mahdi's ill conceived rebellion and rescue the famous Charles Gordon, only added to the din. The blood red uniforms of British soldiers on leave shared the narrow alleys and winding marketplaces with native merchants in white robes, foreign traders with their flamboyant silks, and the strange head coverings and poltroons of men from the colonial regiments of London's far flung Empire.

A group of this last, dark, be-turbaned Sikhs in the dusky blue of the 2nd Bengal Clockwork Artillery, were making their own way through the dozens of covered stalls in the market. They all laughed uproariously as one of their number, his arms gesticulating broadly, finished a joke for his companions.

James perked up his ears, "Those fellows seem less temperate than you." And he was off.

Henry, with an exasperated glance heavenward, chased after his impetuous comrade.

When he caught up to him, James was already in earnest conversation with the four other men. As he drew nearer Emerson could tell it was an argument; a good natured affair of the sort that soldiers in the same army, but different regiments, will use to settle or engender healthy rivalries.

"You British have no stomach for it. It is why it has taken you so long to commit to rescuing Gordon, after a year of public outcry, and it is why we poor colonials must now bear the burden of your indecision." The speaker was a slight man, the same one who had told the joke earlier. He had a large mole just below his left eye. His trimmed beard bobbed as he spoke, "As soon as you encounter one setback your people lose all their will, and the ministers recall the soldiers and wash their hands of the whole distasteful business. It happened with Hicks and it would have happened with Gordon if he wasn't so popular."

Both young Britons rushed to their country's defense, Henry interjecting as James made to speak, "Poppycock! If it weren't for the British will to end the slave trade Gordon wouldn't be in the Sudan in the first place."

"No, Gordon is an exception, as a rule your people have no stomach for difficult things. It is why English food is so bland. Why, Englishmen do not even dare eat the traditional curry of my homeland of Jagaipuri."

James was growing indignant, "We English eat whatever food suits us and if we do not eat your spiced glop it is because we choose not to, not because we cannot." He swayed slightly on his feet.

The short Indian soldier looked around at his friends with a conspiratorial smile, which they all returned. "Do you care to place a wager on that?"

Before Henry could diffuse the trap, James walked right in to it, "We'll match you farthing for farthing. The strength of the English stomach is unimpeachable."

The jaws sprang shut, "The Indian soldiers' mess is hosting a spicy curry eating contest tonight. I'll bet you a guinea you two don't make it past the first bowl."

Henry tried to answer ahead of his friend but before his mouth was even halfway open James had sealed their doom, "It's a bet!" He shook the Indian artilleryman's hand.

"See you at eight o'clock then," and the group of colonial soldiers walked off, leaving James and Henry amid the bustling native traffic of the marketplace.

The two stood in silence for a moment, until Emerson finally found his voice, "You blithering sot!"