“Will he make me bathe?”
“No, he will debate the matter with you until you decide to wash.”
“Ah. One of those. Very well, for you, Airman. Though I may have to murder him in his sleep.”
“Fair enough.”
I waste time talking with this boy. Time to be off. Conor braced his feet against two wooden blocks and stood, leaning forward to grasp the engine’s crank. The engine had always run well enough on a block in the tower, but that was the way of things. Engines ran well until they were needed.
The engine caught on the second revolution, coughing like a sick dog then spluttering forth a roar. The crowd cheered, and Conor felt like doing the same. Stage one, complete; now, if he had done his calculations correctly, the vibrations would not tear his aeroplane apart—for a while, at least.
After an initial burst of enthusiasm, the engine settled to about ten horsepower, spinning Conor’s revolutionary propeller and sending the exhaust fumes streaming over his shoulder. The aeroplane bounced and reared, eager to be off, a wild beast on a tether.
This can never work. I have no speed control. This frame cannot last for more than five minutes. Too late for doubts now. Too late.
Conor strapped on his harness, then released the brake lever, and the plane leaped forward, bumping over the shale surface. In his peripheral vision, Conor saw Uncle urging one of the runners on with strokes from a switch. With one hand, he buckled his harness across his chest, while the other struggled to keep the tiller straight. You should have buckled your harness before releasing the brake. Idiot.
The ocean was approaching fast, and he had not sufficient speed. He urged the craft forward with jerks of his torso, and tried to ignore the smoke and oil spattering on his face and goggles. You should have fixed an exhaust pipe to the body. What were you thinking?
Lanterns sped past on either side, speed trails blurring one into the next. It was all he could do to keep the aeroplane between the lines. The vibration was terrible, rattling his backbone, clicking his teeth, rolling his eyes in their sockets.
Some form of absorbance is needed. Cloth padding, or springs.
This was not the time for ideas. The aeroplane, though just brought to life, was already dying. Rivets popped, material ripped, and ribs groaned. It had minutes left before the engine shook it to pieces like a dog shaking a rag doll.
Conor’s feet found the pedals on the floor and he pushed forward, angling the wings. The aeroplane lifted a fraction, then dropped to earth. He pushed again, and this time the lift was greater and the vibration decreased. No longer could he feel the bump over each stone transmitted through the wood into his rear end, which was a relief.
The water loomed black before him and then underneath. Conor vaguely registered his two runners splashing into the ocean, then he was airborne and away.
I am flying a machine, he thought. Can you see me, Victor? We did it.
Great Saltee
Marshall Bonvilain had arranged for the dinner to be held in his own apartments, which was very unusual. None of the guests had ever been in the marshall’s rooms before this night, and they had never heard of him extending an invitation.
Bonvilain’s tower was separate from the main palace, farther south along the Wall, and had been occupied by his family since its construction. It had the distinction of being the tallest structure on Great Saltee and sat gray and imposing on the skyline like a reminder of the marshall’s power. He could often be seen on his balcony, brass telescope screwed to his eye, keeping a watch on everything, making the entire island feel guilty.
The dining room was sumptuous, decorated with swathes of Oriental silk and painted paper screens. The table itself was circular and low to the ground, surrounded by thick cushions. When Queen Isabella and the Broekharts were ushered into the area, it felt as though they had stepped into another world.
Catherine was especially amazed. “It’s so . . . It’s so . . .”
“Cultured?” said Hugo Bonvilain, stepping from behind a screen. In place of his usual sternly cut blue suit and Templar stole, he wore a Japanese robe.
Bonvilain could not help but notice his guests’ surprised faces. “This is a yakuta tatsu robe. Tatsu is the Japanese word for dragon, embodying the powerful and turbulent elements of nature. I spent a year in Japan in ’sixty-nine, as personal bodyguard to Emperor Meiji, before my father died and I was called back. Emperor Meiji insisted I take some of Japan home with me. I rarely have it taken out of storage, but this is a special occasion and I thought you might like to see a more relaxed marshall.”
Catherine was the first of the small group to recover from her surprise. “You look striking, Marshall.”
“Why, thank you, Catherine. No one minds sitting on cushions, I hope.”
No one objected, though cushions are not the most comfortable of seats for those with ceremonial swords at their belts, nor, for that matter, for those in fashionable dresses.
“Thank goodness bustles are no longer fashionable,” Catherine commented to the queen. “Or we should be rolling about like skittles.”
The meal was mostly fish and rice, served by a single wizened servant.
“Coco is also the chef,” said Bonvilain. “I lured away him from a restaurant in London with the promise of a decent kitchen. He is Portuguese, but can cook any meal you wish. Japanese is one of his specialities.”
An hour passed slowly, in spite of several cultural lectures from the marshall. Eventually Catherine’s patience reached its limit. She made a small snuffling sound and twisted her napkin as if to strangle it. Declan winced. He knew that snuffling sound well. Trouble was brewing.
“The meal is lovely, Marshall,” said Catherine, “but I am sure we did not come here just for food and small talk. Your invitation was vague, and so I would like to know how do you propose to celebrate Conor’s life?”
Bonvilain’s face was a mask of regret and understanding. “You are right, Catherine. I have been shying away from tonight’s raison d’être. Conor. Your son. The hero of the Saltee Islands. I thought we could share our memories of that brave young man, and then perhaps raise a toast. I have been saving a special bottle of wine.” It was a good performance, and the marshall felt that, if needed, he could produce a tear.
“But why now?” prodded Catherine. “I admit to being a little puzzled, Marshall.”
He was spared the need to answer by the sound of a bugle piping from the Wall.
Declan leaped instantly to his feet. “That’s the call to arms.” King Nicholas had insisted that the Saltee buglers learn U.S. Army signals.
“No need for panic,” said Bonvilain, hurrying to the balcony. “I was warned he might show up.”
“Who?” asked the queen.
“An enemy of the state, Your Majesty,” explained Bonvilain, fixing his eye to a brass telescope. “This one calls himself the Airman.”
“Airman,” said Declan. “I’ve heard rumors about him. You mean he’s a real threat?”
“Real? Yes,” said Bonvilain, squinting into the eyepiece. “A threat? Absolutely not. Simply a Frenchman with a kite. Come and look. The lenses in this thing are quite fabulous.”
Catherine grasped Declan’s arm to stop herself shaking. All this talk of flying and Frenchmen had put Victor Vigny in mind. “A Frenchman in a kite?” she said, voice strained.
“Oh dear God, of course,” said Bonvilain, feigning shock. “Exactly like Vigny the murderer. I believe this Airman could be one of his acolytes. A curious hybrid of crazed revolutionary and scientist. I should not have even mentioned him, how insensitive of me. Please remain indoors. The Wall guard will shoot him down.”
Declan took Bonvilain’s arm, leading him to one side.
“Shoot him down, Marshall? But you said he posed no threat.”
Bonvilain bent his head and spoke in a low voice. “Not a realistic one, though my men have found a grenade workshop.”
Declan blanched. “Grenades! Marshall, I am Captain
of the Wall Watch. Why do I not know of all this?”
“Captain. Declan. My informants on the mainland reported to me barely two hours ago. I fully intended to broach the subject after dinner, but in all honesty—a Frenchman, in a glider, dropping grenades? It seemed ludicrous. Something from a penny dreadful. At any rate, the wind is toward the mainland tonight, so how could this madman possibly glide here?”
At that moment a clunking mechanical noise echoed across the channel. It thrummed from a low register to a high one, spluttering alarmingly.
“Perhaps this Airman does not rely on the wind,” said Declan, snatching the telescope from its stand. “Conor always said that one day man would build an engine-powered aeroplane.”
“Engine-powered,” said Bonvilain, through gritted teeth. “A clever one, that Conor, eh?”
Declan glanced down at the Wall. The Watch had extinguished their lights and gathered in a cluster at the third tower. Several had climbed the parapet and were pointing skyward. Two held telescopes pointed thirty degrees northeast. Declan raised the marshall’s telescope to his eye and followed their line. For a moment he saw nothing but night sky and stars, but then something flashed across his field. Not a bird. Too big to be a bird.
Declan zigzagged the telescope, trapping the object in his circle of vision. What he saw took his breath away. It was a flying machine. Conor’s dream come alive in front of his eyes.
The aeroplane could not be called graceful, but it was flying, lurching through the air trailing billowing streams of smoke. In the moonlight, Declan saw the Airman seated behind the engine, shoulders hunched as he wrestled with the controls, face obscured by goggles and soot, gritted teeth white against the blackness.
“I see him,” he gasped. “The Airman. He’s flying.”
Catherine rushed to the balcony and leaned over the rail, peering skyward. “Oh my goodness. If only Conor could have seen this.” She turned to her husband. “This cannot be coincidence. You need to talk with this sky pilot.”
Behind them a shrill whistle blew twice, and immediately the Wall Watch stripped off their cloaks, twirling them like bullfighters. Three Gatling gun teams hoisted their weapons onto custom wall mounts. Whoever this Airman was, he was headed straight for a hail of fire.
Bonvilain still had the whistle to his lips. “The order is given. I had no choice, Catherine. He may be carrying grenades. My first duty is to the queen. Declan, surely you understand?”
Catherine turned to her husband, eyes blazing, fully expecting his support, but it was not forthcoming.
“The marshall is correct,” admitted Declan, though it pained him to say it. “There is an unidentified craft approaching the island. The pilot may be armed. There is no option but to open fire.”
“He is flying a motorized kite,” said Catherine, her eyes stung by Declan’s betrayal. “The walls are four feet thick. Had he a brace of cannon on his wings, he could not penetrate the tower.”
Declan would not be swayed from his duty. “This man has conquered the skies, so perhaps he can conquer our walls too. I hear rumors of grenades filled with poison gas. We must not expose the queen.” He took Catherine’s hands in his. “The queen cannot die, do you understand?”
Catherine searched her husband’s face for a deeper meaning to his words, and she found it. The queen cannot die, because if she does Bonvilain becomes prime minister.
“Very well, Declan. I understand,” said Catherine dully. “The queen must live, so the Airman must die.” She dropped her husband’s hand and stepped across the threshold. “I have no stomach for this murder. Enjoy your victory, Marshall.”
Absolutely, thought Bonvilain, but aloud he said: “One never enjoys the death of another, madam. I have been involved in many battles, but no matter how righteous the cause, I have always concluded they could have been avoided. This time, sadly, there is no alternative.” And with a regretful half-smile on his lips, the marshall raised his whistle and blew one final blast.
Below, on the Saltee Wall, the Gatling operators cranked their handles, pouring a thousand rounds a minute into the sky through their revolving barrel system. The bullets sped toward the Airman, trailing gray smoke tails.
No one can survive that, thought Declan. No one.
Bonvilain was thinking exactly the same thing. It was a battle of vectors and gravity. The Gatling cradles would only allow for a certain elevation, and even though they had a level range of two thousand feet, the Airman was as yet too high to be struck. But gravity was his enemy, too. His fragile craft could not stay aloft forever, and when it dipped, the bullets would shred it to confetti.
The noise and sheer concussion from the guns was shocking. It seemed as though the very island shook. It was easy to imagine the Wall being pounded to dust under repeated recoil. The chambers belched long cylinders of smoke, and steam rose in clouds as the water boys cooled the barrels by dousing them from buckets.
Declan had never seen Gatling guns at work on a battlefield, but he had heard that a single round could tear a man apart. There were enough lead bullets in the air now to defeat an entire army. The sky was thick with their buzzing, like a dense swarm of metal hornets determined to find the same target.
Declan raised the glass for one last look at the Airman. Even from this distance, it was clear that he was in dire straits. Hot oil bubbled on his face and goggles. Both hands were locked in struggle with a vertical rudder, and strips were coming loose from his wings, flapping behind the aeroplane like May Day ribbons.
Declan lowered the telescope. He is gone. We will never know his true purpose.
Seconds later, the Airman lost his battle for control and altitude. His engine spasmed, growled, and died. It seemed then as though there was a moment of echoes as the craft spiraled down, and the marksmen held their ammunition. Waiting.
It was not a long wait. Mere seconds. A short command was barked from the Wall, and the Gatling cranks were turning once more. Eighteen barrels spat fire, and a fresh blizzard of rounds rocketed into the night sky. Spent cases clinked on the parapet like coins thrown to a beggar.
The bullets tore through the wings and body, almost halting its descent. The impact was terrible, splintering the fragile body and tearing the wings to nothing. Round after round slammed into the engine until it exploded in a tight orange burst. Tendrils of flame shot along ribs and ropes, tracing the remains of the aeroplane against the night sky.
They did not hear a splash.
The Night Sky
Conor flew his machine through the sky above Great Saltee. A savage crosswind sheared across his bow, tilting him to starboard, and he noticed a congregation of lights by the third tower. Lights meant guards.
The lights below winked out one by one, and Conor’s stomach heaved with dread. I am the target now. For a moment there was nothing but shadowed activity from the third tower, then dots of fire flashed and a hail of shot erupted toward the heavens. A second later, Conor heard the scream of the bullets and their frustrated cry as they passed below.
Pure panic bubbled in Conor’s chest, and he almost jumped bodily from the machine. Wait. Wait. I must pass Bonvilain’s tower.
The engine was stuttering, missing beats like a failing heart, losing its battle with the skies. Both wings were in tatters now, the wind’s claws ripping strips of muslin from the frame. Below Conor’s toes, the pedal had broken free from its stanchions and jiggled uselessly.
Almost in position. A few more yards. A second swarm of bullets blasted toward him, and Conor felt the highest missiles tugging at the landing gear, sending the wheels spinning. He was in range now. Time to say good-bye to La Brosse. All evidence of his flight would soon be destroyed.
Conor knew that the marshall would never have allowed him to reach Great Saltee alive, so the trick was to persuade Bonvilain that the Airman was finally dead. This was a challenge. As a master of deception, Bonvilain was not an easy man to deceive. But he knows nothing about flight. In the heavens, I am the master.
/> Conor wore his glider harness with one extra strap that connected him to his flying machine. The rest were, as usual, buckling him to his glider, which lay folded across his back, ribs slapping against his flying jacket, ripples running along the fabric. Linus had repaired it for him, and it was stronger now than it had ever been.
One more flight, old friend.
It was difficult reaching down in all the confusion; it was difficult figuring which way was down, so Conor ran his hand along his own body, finding the strap at his waist. He yanked it upward, freeing the buckle, and the aeroplane rocked loosely around his torso but did not fall away, as they were still bound together by momentum and gravity. The bullets were splintering the wood around his legs now; if he did not separate, his invention would become his coffin.
With a practiced motion, Conor reached for the spring-loaded lever at his side. One swift tug, and the glider’s wings deployed. They spread themselves wide against the stars like some great night bird, acting like a powerful brake, lifting Conor clear of the doomed aeroplane.
He watched it go, dipping into the shoal of glinting bullets. His historic invention obliterated completely. Nothing left but burning fragments and a crushed metal heart.
The engine exploded, blew itself into fist-size pieces, which spun into the darkness.
Gone. No place in history for La Brosse.
Far below on Great Saltee, a haze of gun smoke shrouded the Wall, and through it Conor saw the muted glow of electric globes. They turned the lights back on because they believe themselves safe.
Conor hung in the sky, finding his bearings. Bonvilain’s tower was marked out by the rectangular glow of an open door. Isabella and his parents were inside that tower, in mortal danger. It could be that he was already too late.
Into the lion’s den, thought Conor, then dipped the glider’s nose, aiming for the light.