Of course I was suspended from duty as soon as I got to Sydney and reported to the local S.A.P. headquarters. Nobody was unsympathetic, especially when they had heard the full story from the other officers of the Loch Etive. But Reagan had already given his story to the evening papers. The worst was happening. AMERICAN TOURIST ATTACKED BY POLICE OFFICER, said the Sydney Herald, and most of the reports were of the most sensational kind and most of them were on the front page. The company and the name of the ship were mentioned; His Majesty’s most recently formed service, the Special Air Police, were mentioned (‘Is this what we may expect from those commissioned to protect us?’ asked one paper). Passengers had been interviewed and a non-committal statement from the company’s Sydney office was quoted. I had said nothing to the press, of course, and some of the newspapers had taken this as an admission that I had set upon Reagan without provocation and tried to kill him. Then I received a cable from my C.O. in London. Return at once.
Depression filled my mind and set there, hard and cold, and I could think nothing but black thoughts on the journey back to London in the aerial man-o’-war Relentless. There was no possible excuse, as far as the army was concerned, for my behaviour. I knew I would be court-martialed and almost certainly cashiered. It was not a pleasant prospect.
When I arrived in London I was taken immediately to the S.A.P. headquarters near the small military airpark at Limehouse. I was confined to barracks, pending a decision from my C.O. and the War Office as to what to do with me.
As it emerged, Reagan was persuaded to drop his charges against everyone and was further persuaded to admit that he had seriously provoked me, but I had still behaved badly and a court-martial was still in order.
Several days after hearing about Reagan’s decision, I was summoned to the C.O.’s office and asked to sit down. Major-General Fry was a decent type and very much of the old school. He understood what had happened but put his position bluntly:
“Look here, Bastable, I know what you’ve been through. First the amnesia and now this—well, this fit of yours, if you like. Fit of rage, what? I know. But you see we can’t be sure you won’t have another. I mean-well, the old brain-box and all that—a trifle shaky, um?”
I smiled wryly at him, I remember. “You think I’m mad, sir?”
“No, no, no, of course not. Nervy, say. Anyway, the long and short of it is this, Bastable: I want your resignation.”
He coughed with embarrassment and offered me a cigar without looking at me. I refused.
Then I stood up and saluted. “I understand perfectly, sir, and I appreciate why you want to do it this way. It’s decent of you, sir. Of course you shall have my resignation from the service. Morning all right, sir?”
“Fine. Take your time. Sorry to lose you. Good luck, Bastable. I gather you needn’t worry about Macaphees taking any action. Captain Harding spoke up for you with the owners. So did the rest of the officers, I gather.”
“Thank you for letting me know, sir.”
“Not at all. Cheerio, Bastable.” He got up and shook my hand. “Oh, by the way, your brother wants to see you. I got a message. He’ll meet you at the Royal Aeronautical Club this evening.”
“My brother, sir?”
“Didn’t you know you had one?”
I did have a brother. In fact I had three. But I had left them behind in 1902.
Feeling as if I had gone completely mad I left the C.O.’s office, went back to my quarters, composed my letter of resignation, packed my few things into a bag, changed into civilian clothes and took an electric hansom to Piccadilly and the Royal Aeronautical Club.
Why should someone claim to be my brother? There was probably a simple explanation. A mistake, of course, but I could not be sure.
Chapter IV
A Bohemian ‘Brother’
AS I SAT back in the smoothly moving cab, I stared out of the windows and tried to collect my thoughts. Since the incident with Reagan I had been stunned and only now that I had left my barracks behind me was I beginning to realise the implications of my action. I also realised that I had got off rather lightly, all things considered. Yet my efforts to -become accepted by the society of 1974 had, it now appeared, been completely wasted. I was much more of an outsider than when I had first arrived. I had disgraced my uniform and put myself beyond the pale.
What was more, the euphoric dream had begun to turn into a crazy nightmare. I took out my watch. It was only three o’clock in the afternoon. Not evening by anyone’s standards. I was uncertain as to what kind of reception I might have at the R.A.C. I was, of course, a member, but it was quite possible they would wish me to resign, as I had resigned from the S.A.P. I couldn’t blame anyone for wishing this. After all, I was likely to embarrass the other members. I would leave my visit until the last possible moment. I tapped on the roof and told the cabbie to stop at the nearest pedestrian ingress, then I got out of the cab, paid my fare and began to wander listlessly around the arcades beneath the graceful columns supporting the traffic levels. I stared at the profusion of exotic goods displayed in the shop windows; goods brought from all corners of the Empire, reminding me of places I might never see again. Searching for escape I went into a kinema and watched a musical comedy set in the 16th century and featuring an American actor called Humphrey Bogart playing Sir Francis Drake and a Swedish actress (Bogart’s wife, I believe) called Greta Garbo as Queen Elizabeth. Oddly, it is one of the clearest impressions I have of that day.
At about seven o’clock I turned up at the club and slipped unnoticed into the pleasant gloom of the bar, decorated with dozens of airship mementoes. There were a few chaps chatting at tables but luckily nobody recognised me. I ordered a whisky and soda and drank it down rather quickly. I had had several more by the time someone touched me on the arm and I turned suddenly, fully expecting to be asked to leave.
Instead I was confronted by the cheerful grin on the face of a young man dressed in what I had learned was the fashion amongst the wilder undergraduates at Oxford. His black hair was worn rather long and brushed back without a parting. He wore what was virtually a frock coat, with velvet lapels, a crimson cravat, a brocade waistcoat and trousers cut tightly to the knee and then allowed to flare at the bottoms. We should have recognised it in 1902 as being very similar to the dress affected by the so-called aesthetes. It was deliberately Bohemian and dandified and I regarded people who wore this ‘uniform’ with some suspicion. They were not my sort at all. Where I had escaped notice, this young man had the disapproving gaze of all. I was acutely embarrassed.
He seemed unaware of the reaction he had created in the club. He took my limp hand and shook it warmly. “You’re brother Oswald, aren’t you?”
“I’m Oswald Bastable,” I agreed. “But I don’t think I’m the one you want. I have no brother.”
He put his hand on one side and smiled. “How d’you know, eh? I mean, you’re suffering from amnesia, aren’t you?”
“Well, yes....” It was perfectly true that I could hardly claim to have lost my memory and then deny that I had a brother. I had placed myself in an ironic situation. “Why didn’t you come forward earlier?” I countered. “When there was all that stuff about me in the newspapers?”
He rubbed his jaw and eyed me sardonically. “I was abroad at the time,” he said. “In China, actually. Bit cut off there.”
“Look here,” I said impatiently, “you know damn’ well you’re not my brother. I don’t know what you want, but I’d rather you left me alone.”
He grinned again. “You’re quite right. I’m not your brother. The name’s Dempsey actually—Cornelius Dempsey. I thought I’d say I was your brother in order to pique your curiosity and make sure you met me. Still,” (he gave me that sardonic look again) “it’s funny you should be suffering from total amnesia and yet know that you haven’t got a brother. Do you want to stay and chat here or go and have a drink somewhere else?”
“I’m not sure I want to do either, Mr Dempsey. After all, you haven’t explained why yo
u chose to deceive me in this way. It would have been a cruel trick, if I had believed you.”
“I suppose so,” he said casually. “On the other hand you might have a good reason for claiming amnesia. Maybe you’ve something to hide? Is that why you didn’t reveal your real identity to the authorities?”
“What I have to hide is my own affair. And I can assure you, Mr Dempsey, that Oswald Bastable is the only name I have ever owned. Now—I’d be grateful if you would leave me alone. I have plenty of other problems to consider.”
“But that’s why I’m here, Bastable, old chap. To help you solve those problems. I’m sorry if I’ve offended you. I really did come to help. Give me half-an-hour.” He glanced around him. “There’s a place round the corner where we can have a drink.”
I sighed. “Very well.” I had nothing to lose, after all. I wondered for a moment if this dandified young man, so cool and self-possessed, actually knew what had really happened to me. But I dismissed the idea.
We left the R.A.C. and turned into the Burlington Arcade, which was one of the few places which had not changed much since 1902, and stepped into Jermyn Street At last Cornelius Dempsey stopped at a plain door and rapped several times with the brass knocker until someone answered. An old woman peered out at us, recognised Dempsey, and admitted us to a dark hallway. From somewhere below came the sound of voices and laughter and, by the smell, I judged the place to be a drinking club of some kind. We went down some stairs and entered a poorly lit room in which were set out a number of plain tables. At the tables sat young men and women dressed in the same Bohemian fashion as Dempsey. One or two of them greeted him as we made our way among the tables and sat down in a niche. A waiter came up at once and Dempsey ordered a bottle of red Vin Ordinaire. I felt extremely uncomfortable, but not as badly as I had felt at my own club. This was my first glimpse of a side of London life I had hardly realised existed. When the wine came I drank down a large glass. If I were to be an outcast, I thought bitterly, then I had best get used to this kind of place.
Dempsey watched me drink, a look of secret amusement on his face. “Never been to a cellar club before, eh?”
“No.” I poured myself another drink from the bottle.
“You can relax here. The atmosphere’s pretty free and easy. Wine all right?”
“Fine.” I sat back in my chair and tried to appear confident. “Now what’s all this about, Mr Dempsey?”
“You’re out of work at the moment, I take it?”
“That’s an understatement. I’m probably unemployable.”
“Well, that’s just it. I happen to know there’s a job going if you want one. On an airship. I’ve already talked to the master and he’s willing to take you on. He knows your story.”
I became suspicious. “What sort of a job, Mr. Dempsey? No decent skipper would...”
“This skipper is one of the most decent men ever to command a ship.” He dropped his bantering manner and spoke seriously. “I admire him tremendously and I know you’d like him. He’s straight as a die.”
“Then why—?”
“His ship is a bit of a crate. Not one of your big liners or anything like that. It’s old-fashioned and slow and carries cargo mainly. Cargo that other people aren’t interested in. Small jobs. Sometimes dangerous jobs. You know the kind of ship.”
“I’ve seen them.” I sipped my wine. The chance was the only sort I might expect and I was incredibly lucky to get it. It was logical that small ‘tramp’ airships would be short of trained airshipmen when the rewards for working for the big ships were so much greater. And yet, at that moment, I hardly cared. I was still full of bitterness at my own foolishness. “But are you sure the captain knows the whole story? I was chucked out of the army for good reason, you know.”
“I know the reason,” said Dempsey earnestly. “And I approve of it.”
“Approve? Why?”
“Just say I don’t like Reagan’s type. And I admire what you did for those Indians he attacked. It proves you’re a decent type with your heart in the right place.”
I’m not sure I appreciated such praise from that young man. I shrugged. “Defending the Indians was only incidental,” I told him. “I hated Reagan, because of what he did to my skipper.”
Dempsey smiled. “Put it how you like, Bastable. Anyway, the job’s going. Want it?”
I finished my second glass of wine and frowned. “I’m not sure....”
Dempsey poured me another glass. “I’m not trying to persuade you to do something you don’t want to—but I might point out that few people will want to employ you as anything more than a deckhand—for a while, at least.”
“I’m aware of that.”
Dempsey lit a long cheroot. “Perhaps you have friends who’ve offered you a ground job?”
“Friends? No. I’ve no friends.” It was true. Captain Harding had been the nearest thing I had had to a friend.
“And you’ve experience of airships. You could handle one if you had to?”
“I suppose so. I passed an exam equivalent to a Second Officer’s. I’m probably a bit weak on the practical side.”
“You’ll soon learn that, though.”
“How do you happen to know the captain of an air freighter?” I asked. “Aren’t you a student?”
Dempsey lowered his eyes, “You mean an undergraduate? Well, I was. But that’s another story altogether. I’ve followed your career, you know, since you were found on that mountain top. You captured my imagination, you might say.”
I laughed then, without much humour. “Well, I suppose it’s generous of you to try to help me. When can I see this captain of yours?”
“Tonight?” Dempsey grinned eagerly. “We could go down to Croydon in my car. What do you say?”
I shrugged. “Why not?”
Chapter V
Captain Korzeniowski
DEMPSEY DROVE DOWN to Croydon at some speed but I was forced to admire the way he controlled the old-fashioned Morgan steamer. We reached Croydon in half-an-hour.
The town of Croydon is an airpark town. It owes its existence to the airpark and everywhere you look there are reminders of the fact. Many of the hotels are named after famous airships and the streets are crowded with flyers of every nationality. It is a brash, noisy town compared with most and must be quite similar to some of the old seaports of my own age (perhaps I should use the future tense for all this and say ‘will be’ and so on, but I find it hard to do, for all these events took place, of course, in my personal past).
Dempsey drove us into the forecourt of a small hotel in one of the Croydon backstreets. The hotel was called The Airman’s Rest and had evidently been a coaching inn in earlier days. It was, needless to say, in the old part of the town and contrasted rather markedly with the bright stone and glass towers which dominated most of Croydon.
Dempsey took me through the main parlour full of flyers of the senior generation who plainly preferred the atmosphere of The Airman’s Rest to that of the more salubrious hotels. We went up a flight of wooden stairs and along a passage until we came to a door at the end. Dempsey knocked.
“Captain? Are you receiving visitors, sir?”
I was surprised at the genuine tone of respect with which the young man addressed the unseen captain.
“Enter.” The voice was harsh and guttural. A foreign voice.
We walked into a comfortable bed-sitting room. A fire blazed in the grate, providing the only illumination. In a deep leather armchair sat a man of about sixty. He had an iron grey beard cut in the Imperial style and hair to match. His eyes were blue-grey and their gaze was steady, penetrating, totally trustworthy. He had a great beak of a nose and a strong mouth. When he stood up he was relatively short but powerfully built. His handshake was dry and firm as Dempsey introduced us.
“Captain Korzeniowski, this is Lieutenant Bastable.”
“How do you do, lieutenant.” The accent was thick but the words were clear. “Delighted to meet you.”
“How do you do, sir. I think you’d better refer to me as plain ‘mister’. I resigned from the S.A.P. today. I’m a civilian now.”
Korzeniowski smiled and turned towards a heavy oak sideboard. “Would you care for a drink—Mister Bastable?”
“Thank you, sir. A whisky?”
“Good. And you, young Dempsey?”
“A glass of that Chablis I see, if you please, captain.”
“Good.”
Korzeniowski was dressed in a heavy white roll-neck pullover. His trousers were the midnight blue of a civil flying officer. Over a chair near the desk, against the far wall, I saw his jacket with its captain’s rings, and on top of that his rather battered cap.
“I put the proposal to Mr Bastable, sir,” said Dempsey as he accepted his glass. “And that’s why we’re here.”
Korzeniowski fingered his lips and looked thoughtfully at me. “Doubtless,” he murmured. “Doubtless.” After giving us our drinks he went back to the sideboard and poured himself a modest whisky, filling the glass up with soda. “You know I need a second officer pretty badly. I could do with a man with rather more experience of flying, but I can’t get anyone in England and I don’t want the type of man I’d be likely to find out of England. I’ve read about you. You’re hot-tempered, eh?”
I shook my head. Suddenly it seemed to me that I wanted very much to serve with Captain Korzeniowski for I had taken an instant liking to the man. “Not normally, sir. These were—well, special circumstances, sir.”
“That’s what I gathered. I had a fine second officer until recently. Chap named Marlowe. Got into some trouble in Macao.” The captain frowned and took a cheroot case from his desk. He offered me one of the hard, black sticks of tobacco and I accepted. Dempsey refused with a grin. As he spoke, Captain Korzeniowski kept his eyes on me and I felt he was reading my soul. He spoke rather ponderously and all his actions were slow, calculated. “You were found in the Himalayas. Lost your memory. Trained for the air police. Got into a fight with a passenger on the Loch Etive. Lost your temper. Hurt him badly. Passenger was a boor, eh?”
The Warlord of the Air Page 9
