Airship Shape & Bristol Fashion (41 page)

Some of the men cried out in terror, not knowing what manner of beast approached them. Of the eight holding the anchor ropes, six quickly let go and ran and dived into the river. The two men holding Ben pushed him to the ground and drew pistols. One shot, then another, each simply rebounding off of the automaton’s torso. The men had time enough to look to one another before a wooden plank swung from behind them, knocking them out cold. Ben dropped the plank atop their prone bodies.

The automaton stopped, and Sarah led Nathaniel across to Ben. All three turned to see the final two men left struggling to hang onto the airship. The wind had picked up again and they fought to keep themselves grounded, let alone the small airship.

They looked up to the open doorway, to see the hooded figure intently staring at them. He was gesticulating wildly, he seemed frantic. His fury almost sent him tumbling out of the hatch. Both he and another man held rifles and began taking shots at Ben, Nathaniel and Sarah. Their shots were erratic; the wind buffeting the airship played havoc with their aim.

Nathaniel stood below them, bemused, blissfully unaware of what was happening, save for the noise of gunfire. Sarah grabbed his wrist and pulled him to cover behind the carriage.

Ben hurried across to the automaton and unhitched it from the carriage. Two foot plates folded down from behind the upper thighs of the machine. Ben stood atop the plates, his torso showing above its head. Opening a hatch between its shoulders, Ben used his one good arm to quickly make some adjustments.

The automaton walked underneath the airship. Ben jumped off the machine and the foot plates sprang back into place. The machine crouched now. Ben slowly walked backwards. Watching, waiting, all the while shots continued to echo overhead.

With an almighty hiss of steam and a groan of metal, the automaton launched itself up into the air. The airship, roughly twenty feet above, was the target. It may well have hit the balloon but another gust of wind saved the ship from the metal behemoth. Instead the airships port side propeller took the hit, as the soaring machine smashed through it.

Ben stood watching, as his creation soared weightless for just a moment and then plummeted towards his position. Barely in time, Ben, got out of the way. The automaton lay in a small crater, its head dented and an arm damaged. Ben and the machine in that moment reflected injuries. Ben made a mental note to work on landings, both for his automaton and himself.

Above him the airship was blowing away. The two men still hanging onto the ropes had been lifted into the air. Their grip only held out for a few moments before both splashed into the cold waters below. Without the propeller, it was at the wind’s mercy.

“Ben!” cried Nathaniel. “What on earth is going on?”

Ben could not answer as he stared hard at the increasingly distant airship.

“Ben, answer me. Are you alright?”

Sarah answered for Ben. “He looks alright, Nathaniel. A broken arm, some cuts and bruises, I think.”

Nathaniel reached up to Ben’s face. “Come on Benjamin, will you tell me what is going on?”

Ben took Nathaniel’s hand. “I’m fine. I didn’t get the ledger but I met the power behind it.”

Nathaniel noticeably calmed. “Who was he?”

Ben looked out at the airship, barely a speck now, drifting into the distance. “I’m not sure, I didn’t see his face. His voice, it was muffled but it sounded so full of hatred.”

Sarah interjected, “I forgot to tell you, there was one other thing about their leader I found out.”

Ben and Nathaniel turned to listen to her. “No one has seen his face. He apparently does not use a name, but I did hear my Father say something about his right eye once. I thought it silly at the time, or that maybe I’d misheard. It’s not easy you know, listening with a glass against the wall to a bunch of misogynistic old fools. It makes my blood boil. These people, they call themselves upstanding Christian…”

Nathaniel reached his hand up to her lips. “I don’t disagree with a single word you have said but the leader, the hooded figure. You had something else to tell us.”

“Oh, yes, um, sorry. Anyhow, no one has seen his face but they can see his eyes and Father was telling someone how he felt sure that embedded in his right eye, well, it seems daft…”

Ben looked up and spoke flatly, “A small cog.”

Nathaniel gasped, “No. I — I thought him dead.”

“What? Who? Who are we talking about?” asked Sarah

Ben moved off toward the automaton. “I think we need to prepare. We are going to meet again and next time I want to be ready. I want an army of these things.” He patted the automaton.

Nathaniel stood beside him. “We might need to recruit some good men to our cause too. I think we are a little outnumbered.”

“And women!” Sarah stated.

Ben grimaced but spoke determinedly, “We have right on our side.”

Sarah sighed, “Will you tell me what is going on? Let me help you organise ‘our’ troops, and I think I should become your spy or something exciting like that.”

Getting no reply, Sarah decided to broach this subject again later. “First things first, let’s get Ben home and his injuries treated. Assuming that mechanical thing is still working?”

Sarah touched Nathaniel on the arm. “Lord Craddock?”

Ben and Nathaniel replied in unison, “Yes?”

Nathaniel sniggered. “Perhaps a formal introduction is required here. Miss Sarah Renshaw, may I present Lord Benjamin Craddock.”

Ben bowed low.

Sarah stood open mouthed.

Nathaniel nudged Ben. “She’s catching flies, isn’t she?”

“That she is,” replied Ben.

Sarah snapped her mouth shut. “That is — is,” she paused and then smiled warmly, “Is genuinely wonderful. You two are almost everything I’m fighting for. Add in equality for women and we’ll change the world.”

Nathaniel smiled, “Bristol first, then the world”. He went to search the carriage for a punch-card home.

Sarah moved toward Ben. Her touch was warm and Ben, at that moment, forgot his pain, forgot his troubles. For one brief moment, he knew what it was to feel free and blissfully unaware of what anyone else might think. He leant toward her. Propriety forgotten, his lips moved toward hers.

Suddenly, a red, thickly bound book came between their faces. Nathaniel held it at arm’s length between them. “Look what I found. It was underneath some fellow I just tripped over. He seemed to be missing some teeth. Is it important?”

Ben took it from him and with only one good arm, awkwardly started to scan the pages.

Sarah cocked her head and waved her hand in front of Nathaniel’s face. “Are you sure you cannot see?”

Nathaniel snorted, “Blind, yes, but I never said I cannot see.”

Ben snapped the book shut, nearly dropping it. “This is it! This is the ledger!”

Nathaniel grinned, “Mission accomplished after all. Like you said, we can help at least one family get home. Probably even more with this.”

Nathaniel reached out to embrace Ben, who winced as the broken arm and bruises made their presence felt.

Sarah rushed to Ben, ahead of Nathaniel. “Let us get you home, shall we. Soon have you shipshape.”

“And Bristol fashion,” Ben offered. “That’s how Father liked it.”

- Andy Bigwood -

The hangar doors opened, armoured slats pulling apart to reveal first a line of incandescent sunlight, and then the blue and white cloudscape of an English summer’s day. Chill high-altitude winds embraced the steamy air of Her Majesty’s Airship
Great Southern
’s interior, numbing the fingers of the boys as they held onto the bay’s rigging. As was to be expected the officers held their ground without recourse to any such safety aid, an example to their crewmen.

Tom Bishop glanced in the direction of the anchor party. All five airboys stood to attention, eyes fixed on the opposite bulkhead. With all the resolution he could muster, he forced himself not to grin like an undisciplined snot. By some miracle of crew assignment his eldest brother Sam commanded the party and his other brother Matthew stood third in line. Likely as not the two had connived and inveigled their way onto the duty roster, probably at Matt’s instigation; Sam was far too much of an officer to hazard such a venture.

“Pre-sent cable!” ordered Bosun Marckes.

Sam stomped forward in a proper fashion and extended a hand gripping the polished brass cable cleat, “You have the cable, Mister Bishop.”

Hastily Tom took hold of the cable, knowing he had already earned a beating for not having his hand open and waiting to receive.

“I have the cable, sir,” he answered immediately, stamping forward three steps. With what he hoped looked like efficiency he clipped the thin anchor cable to the kite. “Anchor cable secure.”

Further orders followed as each member of the anchor party attended to his part in the kite’s preparation. Matthew winked and gave Tom’s arm a reassuring squeeze as he attached his uniform’s webbing to the kite’s harness. To forestall his fears Tom focused his attention on the city below: Bristol, the
Great Southern
’s home station, a veritable hub of industry, her proud chimneys sending plumes of steam to join the scudding clouds. Trams and trains scuttled like the millipedes he’d seen in British Amazonia, whilst steam lorries chuffed resolutely, hauling the wealth of nations into England’s green heart.

Once the boys were finished, the bosun stepped forward, inspecting the work for the slightest flaw. Whilst the cat-o-nine was no longer considered appropriate, it was widely believed among the boys that Mr Marckes had not handed his cat in and that it still resided in the mahogany case he kept in his quarters.

“Are you ready to fly, Mister Bishop?” asked the Bosun, affixing him with a stare that might easily have turned Medusa to stone.

“Yes, Bosun!” replied Tom.

The bosun’s expression softened and he leaned close, the thump and hiss of the engines masking his words, “If you aren’t ready there’s no shame in it, lad. Not every ten year old has the brass to walk the plank at 8000 feet.”

Tom blushed, certain that his complexion now matched his red hair. He had been less than forthright about his age when he’d taken the Queen’s shilling. In hindsight it seemed obvious the recruiting sergeant hadn’t looked further than his height and weight. The crown needed every able bodied hand for The War on Slavery, regardless of actual age.

“I’m ready,” he insisted, his voice sounding squeaky.

The Bosun looked him up and down one more time and finally nodded his approval.

“Anchor away, Mr Bishop, in your own time.”

Tom pulled down his flight goggles, took three breaths, and sprinted the length of the ship’s plank, launching his arrow shaped kite out into the high atmosphere. For a moment there was a terrible sensation of falling and then exhilaration as the red sailcloth wings filled out, converting his downward momentum into forward velocity. Behind him he could hear the undisciplined cheers of the anchor party and the thrum of the spindle as the anchor cable played out behind him.

Below, Bristol was spread out like one of the Ordnance Survey’s photogrammetric maps. The spires of various civil airship stations were easy to pick out: Cathedral Green, Redcliffe and Cabot. Closer to hand was his destination, the vast black bulk of the Airfleet Tender
HMS Warrior
, her main docking mast standing tall above her sail masts and funnels. Tom adjusted his course to line up with the landing pad that formed the roof of the great ship’s sterncastle.

Fleet rumour had it that one luckless airboy had missed his mark and unexpectedly joined the captain at his table via the employment of an open window. Dazed from his landing, the airboy had handed the surprised captain the anchor cable before collapsing insensible to the floor. Tom had no intention of appending his own name to the anecdote.

Without warning the anchor cable briefly tightened, causing the kite to twitch in response. Glancing around, Tom realised what had happened. A military grade Chinese lantern had become entangled in the cable, the remnant of a Confederate cross burning to nothing as the fire-bale consumed its paper canopy.

Treachery! In his slipstream a dozen more of the infernal devices drifted toward
Great Southern
’s vulnerable hull. Designed as a simple child’s toy, the inhabitants of far Cathay had soon learned that their lanterns were pure death to the hydrogen filled airships of the more advanced nations. The American slaver states had soon learned the technique and an engineering arms race had ensued. The current generation of airship had anti-conflagration paint and the war-lanterns in turn had gained a bamboo syringe designed to pierce the gasbag, allowing the hydrogen to meet the living flame with catastrophic consequences.