Airship Shape & Bristol Fashion (44 page)

The tiny Confederate ship leapt away; rather than gaining altitude as Sam had expected, the craft twisted in a skidding turn that took it over the Brush & Bellows manufactory, clipping a house chimney before dropping partially out of sight behind the spire of St. Mary Le Port.

Matt had had the right of it; only desperation could cause a pilot to navigate such a hazardous course. Reaching to his left he pushed the pressure boost levers all the way forward. Flying at rooftop level might give the enemy vessel a reprieve, but it was a false hope. The great weakness of any small airship was the blind spot created by the ship’s own gasbag; as long as he was above the rogue airship when it reached open land it was dead.

Sam checked that the airskiff’s rapid-guns were clear for action, and sent the ship clawing its way into the sky shedding sand ballast like a gritty cloudburst.

Tom was frustrated; when Emms had whispered he’d expected instant action, but it hadn’t happened. Van Cleet kept a weather-eye on them as they shovelled coal, the Leech and Rigdon never wavering despite the weight of the piece. It was fully ten minutes before Emms’ cry of “Have at you!”

Tom found that he was at least as surprised as Van Cleet when Emms delivered a spectacular spinning kick that slammed the toe of her riding boot against the Confederate’s windpipe. Tom had never seen anything quite like it. He had seen boxing contests, marines brawling with jack-tars and circus acrobats doing somersaults; Emms appeared to combine all three in an attack that was almost a dance. Realising that his own contribution was lacking he hastily he aimed a blow with the shovel, but Emms had already put the man down with a flurry of precisely aimed blows and kicks. The finale had Tom wincing in sympathy as Emms stamped down viciously on Van Cleet’s ‘dignity’. It was a blow so low that even a Frenchy would have withheld it.

The ship slewed unexpectedly as if caught in a choppy sea, causing Emms to stagger. Tom could hear the ship’s wheel spinning, untethered. Instinctively he dived for the Rigdon, swinging it around one handed and letting off a shot as soon as Trehearn reached the head of the steps down to the engine room. Tom found that he didn’t care that he faced Captain Black himself, protecting Emms was all that counted.

The oversized gun twisted wildly in his hand, sending pain shooting up from his wrist to elbow. He swapped hands but found he didn’t need a second shot. Trehearn staggered backward toward the deck-rail, two fist sized fireballs burning their way into his chest, a terrible stench like fried bacon mixed with cordite filling the air. Without a word the Confederate agent and enemy of the Zulu king fell overboard. In some curious way Tom felt cheated; in a proper illustrated adventure a chap of Captain Black’s stature always took time to have a last word before his fall.

“Oh my word!” gasped Emms.

“Anti-airship rounds, Miss.” Tom wiggled the fingers of his right hand, relieved to find he could still move them. “They’re made of elemental phosphor, nasty business. I have to say that was a dashed fine kicking you gave Van Cleet. I’ve not seen anyone fight like it, not even a Royal Marine.”

“I… My friends hold that if women should wish to have the vote, we must prove ourselves the equal of any gentleman in any of his undertakings. One of our number, Juliet, taught us how a lady might effectively defend herself
‘in extremis’
. I had not thought I should find myself in such an adventure. Oh Tom, I believe I may have murdered Mister Van Cleet!”

Tom glanced at the body, which was indubitably dead. The slaver’s face was an unnatural white-blue shade and his larynx looked… wrong. Whilst he was no surgeon, nor great detective, he was fairly certain that Emms’ very first blow had done for him.

“There’s no blame to be attached and you shouldn’t dwell upon it,” Tom knelt to close the villain’s eyes. “We’d better get cracking; someone needs to know about that Nautilus.”

Emms smiled weakly and wiped her eyes, smearing a long streak of coal dust across her face.

The ship lurched again, this time the motion was accompanied by a scraping noise. Fearing a puncture Tom raced up to the weather deck to see what was afoot, Emms following at his back.

“My word!” exclaimed Emms, as they emerged into the sunlight “Is that Clifton Bridge?”

“Aye it is,” Tom replied, reaching out a hand and pushing against the wall of stone the uncontrolled airship had drifted up against. “The Leigh Woods abutment to be precise, if you look over the other handrail you’ll see the main arch and Clifton village.”

“I’ll take in the view later, Tom. We’ve got company.”

Sam carefully manoeuvred the airskiff alongside the drifting A-Boat and slid back the cockpit’s side window. It had been a long chase, but at the last somethin
g had gone awry aboard the fleeing ship. The enemy had pulled another surprise move dipping into the confines of the Avon Gorge, only to lose steering and drift lazily until it reached the recently completed bridge.

“In her Majesty’s name, surrender and prepare to be boarded!” he yelled, careful to ensure that the airskiff’s cannons were trained on the enemy ship’s impellers.

“Hello Sam!” shouted his infuriating younger brother from the deck of the A-Boat.

“Tom! What in Victoria’s name are you doing there?”

“I’m formally claiming this Confederate airship as a prize of war! Is your radio-telegraph working? There’s a spot of bother
Great Southern
will want a part of.”

Signalling his Engineer to attend to the radio, Sam opened the cockpit door and leapt the six foot gap, landing easily next to his brother and at the feet of a beautiful young lady who’d been hidden from view. Not wishing to make a bad impression he straightened his uniform and kissed the lady’s ungloved hand, eliciting an “Oh!” of surprise.

“Ma’am,” he said, momentarily forgetting Tom and whatever crisis he’d uncovered. “Midshipman Bishop, at your service.”

Great Southern
emerged from the coastal fog only fifty feet above Telford’s Severn Barrage, its brick arches forming a seemingly endless line as it threaded its way to Wales. Clearly visible, a long whale-like shape lay in the shadow of the vast structure, its ramming blade projecting above the listless waves like a saw-toothed shark fin.

Captain Vaughan handed his spyglass to a waiting ensign. “It seems your brothers were correct, Mr Bishop. Please relieve Mr Pritchard at the targeting engine.”

“Aye, aye,” replied Matthew, slipping into the vacated seat that was usually manned by a bridge officer.

“Engage the enemy Mister Bishop, all six Congreves if you please.”

“Aye sir, firing one through six.”

The mighty airship lurched upward as nearly a ton of rocket propelled ordnance detached and hurled itself at the enemy Nautilus. There was almost no chance of a direct hit due to the intervening water. Not that it made a difference, the shock-wave from the detonation would crack the submersible open along its seams like a parboiled egg.

Spray from the explosions slapped against the bridge’s glass window, seconds later the estuary erupted as the submersible’s magazine detonated.

“Target destroyed, Sir. Permission to launch rescue kites?” asked Mr Pritchard.

“Make it so,” replied Vaughan grimly.

Naturally the Lanterns of Death Affair made it onto the front page of the
Illustrated News
. Tom was less than happy, the illustrator had made fundamental changes. In the printed version the younger brother was on the ship, the older rescued the girl (who had swooned) and the notorious Captain Black had survived, swearing to get even. Unfortunately it had all given his brother ideas.

The sight of two airships racing along the city streets had been noteworthy; it had only been natural for the great and the good to organise a victory ball in their honour.

Tom sat in the Colston Hall, arms crossed, quietly fuming. It seemed entirely unfair that Sam should be so bold as to invite Emms to the dance, and worse, that she should accept the invitation without any consideration to his own feelings upon the matter. It seemed his earlier conclusions had been entirely accurate. Girls were stupid, and so were big brothers.

Andy Bigwood
is an artist, draughtsman, bookbinder, cartographer, and illustrator from Trowbridge, Wiltshire. Trained in technical illustration in Bath (shortly before the evolution of computer aided art), Andy has provided artwork, cartography and cover designs for a variety of fantasy, horror, and science fiction novels, twice winning the BSFA Award for best artwork for the science fiction anthologies
disLOCATIONS
and
Subterfuge
. Andy is also a published author, with five short stories in print.