by C. S. Quinn
I roll just in time to stop the animal crushing me and get to my feet. My horse makes a high, frightened cry. I look down to see a line of blood across its flank.
In the middle-distance is a guard, holding out a smoking gun. Behind him, seven more armed men. Robespierre’s reinforcements are already here.
My eyes drop to the injured animal. The shot only grazed it, but there’s no use trying to ride the frightened animal now. I stroke its nose, soothing it.
‘You will be well,’ I promise. ‘It’s only a scratch. Lie here and rest.’
The horse snorts in answer.
I scan around for an alternative steed, but the others are far back, running amok in the chaos of the circus.
‘Attica!’ I hear Jemmy shout. ‘This way! I need help to make this thing fly!’
CHAPTER 59
I RUN TO THE BALLOON. IT’S A HUGE GLOBE OF SILK WITH A belt of rope pinching it all the way around the middle. Attached is a basket, hovering above the ground. Inside is red-hot fire, contained in a metal brazier, the size of a barrel and spotted with air holes. There are sacks of coal on the grass near by.
‘We need to get it hotter,’ says Jemmy, the teardrop burn by his eye a shade darker in the heat. ‘It hasn’t enough height to take us out of here.’
My earlier optimism is vanishing away now I’m nearing the balloon. There is little upwards trajectory. I glance behind me to the guards in the distance.
‘Coal,’ says Jemmy, ‘as much as we can load.’ He swings up a sack and upends it into the brazier. There’s a swell of flame as the dust catches. Sweat is pouring from his dark hairline.
‘Get inside,’ urges Jemmy, throwing a leg over the balloon basket. We both climb in and the bobbing vessel sinks straight back to earth.
I notice a set of bellows, grab them up and start pumping at the base of the brazier. The fire burns redder and flames shoot from the top.
The smaller pieces of fuel blaze with a happy crackle and the balloon wobbles uncertainly, straining to a lift. We’re hovering now, inches above the sawdust-scattered earth.
‘It’s working!’ says Jemmy, looking over the edge. ‘We’re getting off the ground.’
He grabs the bellows and begins pumping hard.
‘The coal isn’t catching fast enough,’ I say, looking at a line of large black pieces, resisting combustion. The guards have run out of ammunition at least, so no more shots are going off. Our balloon is now a few feet high, exactly the height most difficult to defend. It shows no signs of more upward propulsion.
Jemmy’s dark hair is slick to his head. Despite his efforts we’re not getting any higher.
‘We need to get more air to the flame,’ I say. And then I remember. Jemmy has gunpowder.
‘Jemmy,’ I say, ‘your black powder.’
He stops pumping, wipes his brow. His highwayman coat is hanging open, his black shirt beneath soaked with sweat.
‘Are you mad? You bore me half to death with your “don’t trust guns” talk and now you want to load an explosive into a fire we’re standing right next to?’
‘The metal fire-basket.’ I point. ‘It’s thick. You must have worked cannons aboard ship,’ I add, ‘you know about controlled explosions. Could it work?’
Jemmy is looking more analytically at the brazier now.
‘It’s a third of the thickness of a cannon,’ he says. ‘Punched with holes that would weaken it.’ He picks out his bag of black powder. ‘If I use one fifth of charge,’ he decides, carefully pouring black grains into a measuring horn, ‘half an ounce. It could work.’
‘Half an ounce sounds like a lot,’ I say uncertainly.
‘Only to someone who doesn’t like guns,’ retorts Jemmy. ‘You load for twenty-five per cent of the projectile weight,’ he adds. ‘I lifted you when we were dancing and you’re heavier than you look.’
‘Brain weighs more than brawn.’
I make a quick calculation.
‘You need one-third of an ounce,’ I say. ‘One-fifth of a cannon charge adjusted for the catalyzing effect of the coal.’
‘Am I to take it you’ve never fired a cannon?’
I nod. ‘No. But detonation and combustion are my favourite studies. Grace and I used to bet on gun salutes.’
I glance across to the guards, getting closer every second.
‘Trust me,’ I say quickly, ‘I was almost never wrong.’ ‘Almost?’
‘It’s not an exact science.’
Jemmy looks at the approaching men.
‘See you on the other side,’ he mutters.
I shut my eyes tight as Jemmy empties the measured powder into the brazier.
And all I remember next is an explosion and empty air beneath my feet.
CHAPTER 60
I’M TOLD LATER THAT A NUMBER OF PEOPLE SAW OUR balloon shooting up into the sky and thought it a sign that God approved of revolution. I don’t recall myself, because as the gun powder exploded, two things happened. Firstly, as we’d theorized, the coal was ignited rapidly and the balloon lifted upwards, faster and higher than we could ever have hoped. Secondly, the power of the gunpowder blew out the top half of the brazier nearest to me, which hit me square in the chest and sent me flying backwards, over the edge of the basket.
Beneath us, the amazed guards were looking up as we rose from their reach. Then I came spilling out with such force I tipped full head over heels, plummeting feet first.
All this happened so fast, I couldn’t tell you any of it for certain. But what I do remember is a painful jerk of my wrist and something cutting into my fingers.
Jemmy’s head came over the side of the balloon, an expression of fierce determination on his face.
‘I’ve pulled aboard more than one drowning man,’ he says, ‘you won’t fall, I swear it.’
‘It’s hot,’ I manage, coughing. Smoke is coming from somewhere.
‘Your dress is on fire,’ says Jemmy calmly. ‘Don’t let it worry you.’
He drops another hand around my forearm and wrenches me back inside. Jemmy rips away the burning bottom part of my skirt, which is so thin it has already frizzled up to almost nothing, and tosses it over the side. Then we’re in the basket together, floating up, the circus growing smaller beneath us.
‘Thank you,’ I manage. I look down at my cotton culottes, smoke-stained but unburned. My feet have miraculously maintained their pointed shoes.
I look over the side, breathless, awestruck. My fingers grip the wicker side. Jemmy comes to stand next to me.
‘Can you believe it?’ he says. ‘We’re flying.’
For a moment, we just watch. And then we’re both grinning, ear to ear. We turn to one another, unable to keep the smiles off our faces.
‘It’s all so small,’ I say, looking down. ‘Can you control our direction?’
‘Not like on a ship,’ says Jemmy. ‘You pull ropes on either side and I can work with the wind. Paris is a big enough target,’ he adds, ‘we’ve a fair chance of clearing the city walls.’
‘If it could take us all the way there,’ I say excitedly, ‘we might get to the Bastille before Grace?’
Jemmy points down.
‘Judge for yourself.’
I squint in the direction he’s pointing. Far below, are four tiny horses pulling a black carriage behind.
‘That could be any carriage,’ I say.
‘Perhaps,’ agrees Jemmy. ‘But it’s the only vehicle on the Paris road. Word’s spread there’s no way into the city. But that doesn’t apply to His Majesty’s prison cart, does it? That can come and go as it pleases.’
I watch the horses, dust from their striking hooves like sprinkled crumbs on a fallen ribbon.
‘If you’re right, we’re outpacing them,’ I say.
‘As long as the weather holds,’ says Jemmy. He grins again, white teeth glinting. ‘What do ye think of it, Mrs Pimpernel? We’re flying like birds.’
He turns his head to look out, the breeze ruffling his black hair. He ducks do
wn into the basket of the balloon.
‘What are you doing?’
‘These balloons are used for nobles,’ he says, sliding out a wicker hamper. ‘I’ll wager no French aristocrat engages in any leisure pursuit without victuals. Aha! I was right.’
He stands triumphantly, holding two bottles of wine and some cheese wrapped in paper.
‘One bottle each,’ he says, unwrapping the cheese and breaking me off a piece.
‘Thank you,’ I say, biting into it. ‘Goes some way to making amends for your taking advantage of me in the Rolands’ house,’ I add wryly.
Confusion wrinkles his brow for a moment and then understanding dawns.
‘The kiss? Oh, come now, little primrose, I saved us both. You’re lucky I didn’t kiss you for real,’ he adds, raising his dark eyebrows. ‘Women have died from less.’
I laugh. ‘I’m glad to hear it. You currently rank beneath Madame Roland.’
CHAPTER 61
THE BALLOON IS DRIFTING TO PARIS ON THE BREEZE. Jemmy and I are drinking wine and eating cheese. It all feels very dreamlike.
‘What happened to your girl in New York?’ I ask, looking sideways at him.
Jemmy extends his arms, pushing back against the basket. ‘Which one?’
‘You know very well which one. The figurehead on your ship. The one you won’t replace, though your crew wants it.’
‘Ah, her. Well, we thought to be married once.’ He examines his fingernails. ‘But she was a religious girl. Jewish. I wouldn’t convert and nor would she. Eventually it came between us.’
I consider this. ‘Seems a silly thing to be parted over,’ I opine, thinking how I would give anything for such a trifling issue between Atherton and I.
He nods good-naturedly. ‘True enough,’ he says, ‘true enough.’ His eyes connect with mine. ‘And what about you, Attica Morgan? Why are you so frightened of marriage?’
‘Who says so?’
Jemmy leans back, considering my face.
‘You pick up a thing or two about people when you captain a pirate ship. It’s important to see in a man’s eyes if he has a past.’ He looks at me closely. ‘I’d say you have a few ghosts that gnaw at your soul. But in my experience, there’s nothing so bad as heartache. It’s none of my business, of course,’ he adds with a shrug, ‘but I’m a good listener if you care to tell me.’
I chew a fingernail.
‘There’s ... a man,’ I admit, ‘in London. I love him, he loves me. But we can’t be together. You met him,’ I add. ‘It was he who arranged our first meeting. And briefed you to come out here and do my job for me.’
This still stings.
‘Atherton?’ Jemmy raises an eyebrow. ‘The clever one with the long face and the sticks for walking? That’s who you’re tumbling the hay with?’
‘He’s married,’ I say curtly. ‘There’s no tumbling.’
Jemmy pulls a face. ‘That would make him the only man in England to keep faithful to a marriage made for political advancement.’
‘Perhaps he’s the only good man in England.’
Jemmy snorts. ‘I’d bet my ship that Atherton would forget his vows at the slightest nod from you. Are you sure it’s not his twisted legs botherin’ you?’
I laugh. ‘Of course not. Atherton is the best and bravest man I have ever known.’ I hesitate, feeling Jemmy is gaining the wrong impression. ‘I grew up semi-illegitimate in English society,’ I say. ‘I’ve seen into the little half-world of courtesans and mistresses. There’s a great deal of pain in that place. It’s better to keep things simple.’
Jemmy laughs.
‘If only life were like that,’ he said. ‘Love is a messy business, Your Ladyship. If you’re waiting for a painless relationship, you’ll be waiting a long time.’ He assesses me. ‘It’s a lot easier to be in love with someone when you can’t have them,’ he says. ‘Saves awkward questions, too.’
I frown. ‘It isn’t only that,’ I say, choosing my words. ‘I’ve grown used to freedom.’
‘Sounds like an excuse to me. Plenty men join my ship saying much the same. I’ll tell you what I tell them: loneliness isn’t a cure for anything.’
‘Better, surely, than hurling myself into every heartbreak that looks my way,’ I say pointedly.
‘Ah,’ says Jemmy happily. ‘You have me to rights there, of course. Every mad girl within a mile of Hell’s Kitchen. That’s what me mama used to say.’ He drums his fingers on his knees. ‘Well,’ he says after a moment, ‘everyone feels that way one time or another, Attica. Loving someone we can’t have. Time to grow up, move on, stop wallowing.’ He pats my leg then stands to look over the edge of the balloon.
‘So what else, then?’ he says. ‘Being as you’re in a confessional mood. How did this friend of yours die?’
‘Who says I had a friend who died?’
‘I do,’ he says easily. ‘Unless you care to correct me.’
I lift the wine, drink.
‘I’ve had a lot of friends die,’ I say finally. ‘The same as you, I imagine. Why don’t you tell me,’ I add, ‘how you came to be a privateer?’
He moves to sit next to me on the floor of the balloon.
‘Nothing much to tell,’ he says and I have a feeling he’s not being quite honest. ‘Left America broken-hearted and your government thought my sailing might come in useful. After they arrested me for piracy. Flung me in a Bermuda lock-up then a London one.’ He grins.
‘Try the red,’ he says, raising his bottle at me. I take it gratefully and exchange my bottle with his.
We drink and say nothing. It’s cold and I huddle nearer.
So we sit like that for a long time, drifting through the calm French sky, with only the birds for company.
CHAPTER 62
ROBESPIERRE IS WALKING BACK AND FORTH, WIGGED HEAD bowed, hands clasped behind him. The wide floorboards of his study creak beneath his buckled leather shoes.
He stops and raises his head, round glasses catching the light.
‘The guards were found on the road?’ he says.
‘Yes.’ The messenger is still panting with the exertion of the horse ride back to Paris. Robespierre reminds him of a little bird, small shoulders back, chest puffed out, always alert.
‘All gone?’ confirms Robespierre.
‘All.’ The messenger coughs. ‘They were seen ... They got inside the globe aerostatic. The wind is against them now, but if it changes there is a chance they will clear the city wall.’
Robespierre’s neat eyebrows lift very slightly.
‘Oh?’ His voice is icy.
‘They might well make it to Paris.’
Robespierre shows no obvious emotion at this, but if you looked hard enough you might see a slight strain to the face, a rigidity to the gait, and something dark and bottomless in the eyes.
Robespierre touches his neat white wig as though fearing an unravelled curl, then he holds out a hand. ‘The letters, if you please.’
The messenger has them secured inside his leather satchel. He never ceases to be astounded at Robespierre’s foresight. There are two, requested by carrier pigeon. He pushes them both into Robespierre’s cold little fingers.
The first are the prison lists: inmates of the city’s twenty-one prisons. He begins leafing through papers.
‘Four new souls incarcerated in the Bastille,’ Robespierre observes disapprovingly, ‘without trial.’
He selects the hardest-looking chair in the room and sits, knees neatly touching as he reads.
‘Elopement with a married member of the aristocracy. Can you even call this a crime?’
The messenger says nothing, feeling ill equipped to comment. He is a farmer’s son.
Robespierre looks down, shaking his head, wishing for a more worldly companion.
‘She is not there yet,’ he says to himself. ‘No English girl has been committed.’
Robespierre had been hoping Grace would be in the Bastille governor’s custody by now. He has a secondary plan.
He always has a secondary plan. Usually several, in fact.
‘Foulon’s whore, Angelina Mazarin,’ he says in his high voice.
The messenger shuffles uncomfortably, not sure who this is.
‘Someone must pay her a visit.’
Robespierre is speaking to himself, the messenger realizes, relieved. The lawyer looks up, surprised to see him still there, then signals curtly to dismiss him.
As the messenger exits, walking a little too quickly, Robespierre opens the second letter, breaking a seal from a house with an English name in Paris. He is pleased. His good foresight is paying dividends as usual.
Long before sending Janssen to Madame Roland’s disgustingly indulgent chateau, he had the prescience to write to the English Embassy.
It informed the Head of Command that a traitorous pirate, Jemmy Avery, was active in Paris. Robespierre had been careful to give just enough detail of how their trusted privateer was also working for France. There really was only one course of action for the recipient of the letter.
Bring in Jemmy Avery, dead or alive.
Robespierre dashes out another message, informing the Embassy that the pirate may sail over the city walls in a stolen globe aerostatic. Avery has a female accomplice, Robespierre adds, who should be considered dangerous, insofar as a woman can be.
Robespierre permits himself a small smile as he imagines his bird outpacing the unwieldy flying basket. Villains falling from the sky.
CHAPTER 63
DAWN IS BREAKING AS I WAKE JEMMY. THE WIND BUFFERED us away from Paris all night and for a time we doubted if we would get over the wall. But now the bad weather has dropped away and though our fire is almost burned out we’re headed straight for the city.
Jemmy blinks groggily. His hazel eyes look muddier against his tired face.
‘Paris is close,’ I say excitedly. ‘We’re going to make it. I can see the city wall!’
The fire has gone down a great deal, but even with the loss in height we’ll clear the high fortification by six feet or more.
Jemmy rubs the stubble of his chin.
‘Well, there’s a thing,’ he says, moving to the brim of the basket.
