Airship Shape & Bristol Fashion (43 page)

“The men you seek aren’t the first to find these cellars useful.” Emms ignored the gun, unlacing her skirts to reveal a set of fox-hunting whites beneath. “My friends and I were here first. When our… friendly association… found our meeting place had been usurped we set a watch to ascertain their intent, which is how I came upon you.”

“Friendly Association?” said Tom, suspicious. It sounded rather like the sort of radical group that the Illustrated News railed against; the sort that argued that if Africans were allowed the vote then white women might jolly well like it too. Personally Tom had not given the matter much thought beyond noting the kerfuffle such demonstrations elicited. It would be almost a decade before he would need to pick a party to vote for.

Emms folded the discarded skirts and, wedging them behind the wine rack, pointedly ignoring his question.

Tom found the cellars oppressive, with walls that seemed far too close on either side. Emms was cautious with her gas torch, keeping the aperture narrow for the most part and briefly letting the flame brighten in order to point out the next hole through which he was required to squeeze.

Something caught his eye, illuminated by the flickering gaslight. A set of documents had been laid out on an upturned crate and held in place with a half brick and a liniment bottle. Tapping Emms on the arm he silently indicated where she should point the torch.

“What is it?” she whispered.

“Their orders. Shoddy slave-ists. If this had been a British operation these would never have left the captain’s hand. It looks like the attack on the
Great Southern
was only a preliminary,” said Tom flicking to the second page. “Prince Albert on a tricycle!”

“What?”

“They’re targeting the Severn Barrage; they needed
Great Southern
out of the way so that a Nautilus class submersible battleship could sneak in undetected and lay torpedoes along the section of wall between Steep Holm Redoubt and Fort Brean!”

A safety match flared against a cheroot, briefly illuminating a tall, cadaverous man wearing a long coat and wide brimmed hat in the American style, a handgun aimed casually at Tom’s head. “Drop the piece, airboy or you’ll be needing a new girlfriend.”

“She’s not my girlfriend!” cried Tom hotly, closing his eyes and squeezing the Webley’s trigger without bothering to aim. There was no time for thought or planning, there was only the flash of angry embarrassment and the barest start of an idea.

The pistol bucked wildly, almost leaping from his hands, the flash so bright that he could see the veins on his closed eyelids. Ears ringing with the report, he dodged behind another of the crates. The half-formed idea had worked, in a dark cellar the muzzle flash alone had been sufficient, the black hatted man was framed in the light from the dropped gas torch, waving his foot long pistol and blinking furiously against the Webley’s blinding discharge.

“Next shot takes your manhood off!” snarled Emms, demonstrating an entirely unladylike knowledge of anatomy.

“Let’s not,” said a new voice from behind them. Before Tom could turn, the service revolver was snatched from his grasp, the cartridges tinkling against the floor as they were swiftly ejected.

“Like as not that shot was heard, Mulato,” said the tall man, grabbing Emms and pushing her toward Tom. “We should finish ‘em and hightail it.”

“Call me that one more time Van Cleet and we’ll see whose gun hand is faster. As for these, we’ll take them along. Admiral Semmes will want the world to report a strategic military victory, not the murder of a woman,” replied the second confederate agent emerging into the flickering gaslight.

“But you’re…” exclaimed Tom.

“…not white? What would be more appropriate for a Confederate agent? Adam Nemotho Trehearn at your service,” the man bowed slightly, little more than a nod of the head.

“But why are you doing this? We’re on your people’s side,” said Tom.

“You British! All you see is race, you don’t see beyond your own assumptions! Has it not occurred to you that African nations are as different from one another as France is different to Malta or Portugal from Greater Saxony?”

“Well no, but…”

“Your Empress finds the Zulu king an expedient ally, airboy. As my people are the sworn enemy of all that is Zulu, we are inevitably your enemy also. Thanks to these Confederate fools, I get paid a king’s ransom to do what honour and blood already demand of me.”

Trehearn grabbed up the orders from the improvised table. “Get them aboard the A-boat, Van Cleet. The plan calls for Admiral Semmes to lay his mines in less than hour. We just about have time to warn him that the Imperial airfleet is still operational on this side of the estuary.”

Matt clambered down the rope hand over hand, dropping the last few feet onto Bristol Bridge, snagging the airskiff’s line before the tiny airship drifted. Word had reached
Great Southern
that an airboy had crash landed and then run off waving a pistol. The ship’s surgeon had advised Captain Vaughan that Tom had likely taken a blow to the head and was confused. Being a genuinely good sort, the Captain had sent both he and Sam in pursuit.

Making the line fast at the mooring post adjacent to the bridge, he took a moment to inspect his brother’s kite. It looked about as bad as any landing could. Knowing Tommy, he’d doubtless survived entirely intact and gotten himself involved in some completely unrelated scrape.

Something attracted his attention to the river where it bent around past the remnant of the castle’s water gate. The deck of a small paddleboat was being pushed aside by a rapidly expanding gasbag, the paddle rings rotating from vertical to horizontal. Matt took a closer look at the emerging rig; the bosun liked to beat any airboy that couldn’t tell one airship class from another, and this one was peculiar. The craft had a single bag and rib-like stays, but without anti-conflagration measures, implying that the ship was using helium rather than combustible hydrogen. The only known source of helium was a shale deposit deep in Confederate territory, and only their military airships were supplied with the precious inert gas. The innocent looking craft could only be a disguised enemy A-boat, and Matt’s fears were confirmed as its sleek inner hull lifted clear of the unthreatening wooden shell.

Taking a-hold of the rope he gave it a sharp tug, causing the airskiff to rock back and forth. The airskiff’s pilot popped his head out to see what he was up to. Matt raised his arm out into a ‘Tee’, indicating a semaphore message to follow and then moved through the sequence of arm positions necessary to say .

The slow thumping beat of the airskiff’s engines quickened, white smoke billowing from the stubby wing-shaped funnels that projected from her flanks.

Taking a spyglass from the white leather pouch on his belt, Matt raised it to his eye, before kicking the nearest horse dropping in frustration. One of the fugitives was instantly recognisable by posture, uniform and shock of red hair. He’d just sent his older brother’s skiff in lethal pursuit of his younger one, with no way to warn either.

Snapping the glass closed, he looked around for a vehicle to purloin;
Great Southern
needed to be told.

Tom could not help but be impressed by the Confederate A-boat. Whilst the engineering was clearly inferior; no expense had been spared with regard to opulence. The fittings were all of gleaming brass and artfully carved ivory, a far cry from the black painted rivet-steel of
Warrior
and
Great Southern
.

“Got company,” warned Van Cleet “Imperial skiff, already making steam.”

“You’re for it now, you see if you’re not!” crowed Tom.

“Get these two shovelling coal. That skiff won’t fire for risk of hitting the city-folk and we’ll easily outrun it,” replied Trehearn, ignoring Tom’s comment.

Van Cleet grinned and waved his revolver toward the engine room. Now they were in daylight Tom had easily identified the Leech and Rigdon twin barrel, a revolver designed to fire a brace of bullets with each pull of the trigger. The bosun had been scathing about the enemy weapon’s shortcomings as it halved the gun’s capacity from eight single shots to four doubles.

For a moment Emms seemed ready to make a stand, but she gave way at the last, moving toward the stairway that led below.

The engine room was a different prospect from the ornate upperworks. The space was poorly lit, smelling of oil, brasswork and coal. Tom relaxed a little; as an airboy he’d spent many watches in close proximity to such machinery; given the opportunity he could see at least four ways to play the merry devil with the little ship’s out-sized engine. The only obstacle was the dangerous looking Confederate, who might easily swat him like a fly without recourse to the oversized handgun.

He glanced quickly at Emms, who appeared to be bearing up well under the circumstances. The girl slowly removed her gloves, placing them neatly on the lowest step of the stairway. At first Tom concluded that this was simply a silly girlish preoccupation with tidiness, but then noted that she moved with slow deliberation to pick up the shovel. He grinned and then swiftly hid the expression; anything that delayed the delivery of coal to the furnace was worth the effort, particularly if the brute didn’t realise he was being played.

“You realise who that Trehearn is?” whispered Emms, timing her shovelling so that they were in close proximity.

“No, should I?” replied Tom

“Captain Black”

Tom paused, almost forgetting the shovel in his hands. Captain Black was the name the newspapers gave to a mystery man with a very particular reputation. Whilst he was a notorious enemy of the Empire, frustrating the Navy at every turn, he was also considered to be a good sort, an opponent worthy of respect. Black’s victims were often thoroughly bad eggs whose public reputations didn’t bear up under close scrutiny.

“Put your backs into it!” snapped Van Cleet.

Obediently Tom shovelled a little faster, although hardly with the effort a proper stoker would demonstrate.

“You… realise, this will all be for naught, Mr Van Cleet,” Emms said between loads. “Mr Trehearn would appear to have the conviction of his beliefs, but what of you? Do you intend to follow him to perdition?”

“Just dig, missy,” replied the Confederate, giving Emms a push.

Emms stumbled against Tom, their shoulders brushed and she whispered, “On my signal.”