by V. E. Ulett
“Why, for as long as the wind serves. Deep breaths now, Miss. The wind-engine provides thrust and we steer her with the headsails, do you see? The rudder is no good to us here, in course, and we half ship it and use it as a wind-engine mount.”
Miriam nodded with a quizzical expression. Rudder and headsails she may have heard of, but the wind-engine was almost as unknown as the existence of the crack ship herself.
“Those clouds,” she said, “I’ve never seen such beauty, like a blanket of sea foam.”
“Stratus, they are called, Miss Miriam. I have a transcription of On the Modification of Clouds, that classifies them, if you care to read it.”
She gazed up into his face, her eyes bright. “She is incomparable, your ship. Truly Nonesuch like her.”
Her words made Maximus’s heart glow. Miriam seemed steadier on her feet now, her grip on his arm lessened. He was grateful she allowed her hand to remain there. Maximus was thinking how best to acknowledge her fine compliment, when a voice broke in on them.
“‘The calm Philosopher in ether sails, Views broader stars and breathes purer gales, Sees like a map in many a waving line, Round earth’s blue plains her lucid waters shine; Sees at his feet the forky lightning glow, And hears the innocuous thunder roar below.’”
“You have recovered yourself I see, Mr. Dashwood.” Maximus turned toward the mooing sound of the lieutenant’s voice. “Step this way, if you please.”
Miriam’s hand dropped from his arm, she held to the lifeline and a stanchion instead.
Mr. Dashwood was at last properly clothed, with a cap over his flowing locks and woolen scarf wrapped round his face. Maximus took his pulse, gripped the lieutenant’s head with the fingers of one gloved hand, and peered into his eyes.
“My foster father was an Edinburgh physician, ma’am. Among other things. You asked whether Nonesuch had a surgeon. Aboard this ship, we all must do double duty, as we can. I studied Physic and was meant for the medical profession, before I became—”
“An aeronaut!” Mr. Dashwood flung out both arms in an ecstatic way, nearly smacking his captain in the face.
“Steady on, Mr. Dashwood. One hand for the ship. I was meaning to say, mariner.”
The ship gave several bumping lurches, and they all three staggered where they stood. Maximus glanced upwards at the balloons, letting his gaze travel down along their net wrappings and the lines securing them to the ship, and then to the braziers and bellows.
“I believe I must ask you to step below, Miss Miriam,” he said.
To Maximus’s great regret he was not the one to catch her, as Miriam slowly sank to the deck, and then to carry her below. Mr. Dashwood was the more fortunate, and standing closest as Miriam went into a swoon.
Chapter Seven
Miriam awoke in her tiny sleeping quarters and recollected with a pang what had occurred. She was ashamed and a little incredulous she should have fainted, like the girl who, when the much longed for horseback ride finally comes, falls off and knocks herself senseless. At once she put her hand up and felt a nose and ears that were still whole, with no blood caked to her skin. Maybe it had not been so bad, and she might hope she wasn’t entirely disgraced by the episode. Her breath clouded in the air before her, and with the easy motion of the ship, Miriam knew they were still aloft. Still sailing in ether, as Mr. Dashwood had recited from the poem by Erasmus Darwin. Was it the romantic Mr. Dashwood or Captain Thorpe who’d borne her below, and tucked her into her cot?
Someone had left a dark lantern hanging in Miriam’s sleeping cabin, with the shutter almost closed, so that she should not be disoriented on waking. A fine, soft, warm woolen blanket covered her. She sighed and pulled the patterned blanket over her nose, stretching and luxuriating. With an inward start Miriam realized who placed it there in her sleeping space, remarkable before for its complete lack of niceties and appointments. Captain Thorpe was its owner and had laid the tartan over her as she lay, vulnerable and insensible. It was difficult to work out how she felt about the Captain, or any man, carrying her about and putting her to bed.
Miriam sat up suddenly to put a stop to a dangerous stream of thought that started with poetry and the sensual luxury of a warm blanket, and moved rapidly on to the erotic. It must be the rarified air. Miriam shook her head and jumped off her shelf like cot. She was wearing Mr. Dashwood’s trowsers still, and a tunic with no overdress. She put on a gown hanging from a peg in the cabin, donned hijab and cap and great coat, and made a dash for the quarter gallery, the privy in the stern of the ship.
Her timing was good. When she emerged, the seamen with mallets were knocking down bulkhead partitions. Saramago was carrying away an armful of Miriam’s bedding, including the fine tartan cloth.
Captain Thorpe came down the after hatchway companion ladder with a great noise of boots on wood, strode up to Miriam, and taking her wrist in one hand, began to take her pulse. He peered into her eyes; it was disconcerting to gaze directly back into those odd colored ones; and pronounced that she should do.
“I am glad to hear it, Captain,” Miriam said. “And I do beg your pardon for behaving like such a ninny.”
That brought an unexpected smile to Captain Thorpe’s weary face. He made a secretive gesture toward Mr. Dashwood, coming up behind them, and murmured, “I wish all parties aboard had your good sense, Miss.”
“I am obliged for your kind care of me. And grateful I didn’t take frost bite.” She realized now what ailed some of the crew, and that it was their captain who tended them.
“God between us and evil.”
Saramago came in and served the three of them cans of maté, and then went forward to bring Mr. Dodd his tot. Looking at the two tired faces as they sipped, Miriam recalled the Captain’s words about the care and attention that must be paid to their canopy, the balloons that kept them in the air. She supposed the officers, Captain Thorpe and Mr. Dashwood and Mr. Dodd, and many of the seamen, were on duty during the entirety of Nonesuch’s time aloft. How long exactly that had been, Miriam was unsure.
She felt a gut level need to understand how the ship worked, and how they were to make the descent. Wasn’t that why they were once again drinking maté? A little knowledge would go a long way toward balancing her terror at sailing in Nonesuch with her wonder.
Miriam decided to brazen it out, risk overstepping a boundary by questioning the ship’s captain. “Is there a reason we are to come down just here, Captain Thorpe, and in the nighttime?”
Much to her relief, Captain Thorpe set his empty can down on the tray, and turned to her with an enlivened and eager countenance.
“A capital question, Miss Miriam, and very observant in you to discover we mean to descend. Mr. Dashwood’s reading of the Mechanism puts us several hundred leagues from the Cape, and with the blessing we shall make the prettiest landfall at Table Bay within the week. As to the nighttime, well Miss.” Captain Thorpe broke off and grinned at Miriam and Mr. Dashwood in turn. “A sailor will think he’s seeing things if he catches sight of a ship descending from the night sky, but during the daylight hours he is not so easy to persuade.”
“That’s correct, ma’am,” Mr. Dashwood said, “crack ships are clandestine, we always descend at night.”
Captain Thorpe shook his head at this, and glanced warily at Miriam.
“We need the lift from strong winds to help us ascend, and fine weather and darkness, if we can get it, Ma’am, to smooth our way down. Mr. Dashwood, please to relieve Mr. Dodd at the yoke, and send him to me on deck.”
Miriam calculated it must be nearly time for her to be strapped in the stern with ropes, so she spoke at once. “Captain Thorpe, if I may be so bold.”
He turned from having been about to hurry off, and bowed to her. Miriam was conscious of his sudden concentrated attention on her.
“You spoke about everyone aboard doing a double duty, and I wanted to offer my...ah, services. If there is any small service I might perform. As during the ascent?”
&nbs
p; She immediately regretted her tone, and having put that last as a question. It sounded at once both too forward and over-subservient, neither of which she meant to be. Miriam found Captain Thorpe nodding at her with a kind expression, and she added, “I am determined not to faint again.”
He opened his mouth to speak, and closed it again, considering. “Wrap yourself warmly then, Miss, and you may accompany me on deck for the readings. You shall free one of the lieutenants from attending me.”
On deck once more, where Miriam found she’d wanted to be since waking from her faint, the terror and grandeur of the night enveloped her. This was what she’d longed to experience again. The wisps of cloud floating by, the overarching night sky like a pierced dome with a multitude of brilliant stars shining through. Closer. They were nearer to the stars here in the ether than she’d ever thought possible. Miriam gazed at it all and recalled those lines in Persian, “my soul it drinks wine, and is wild with delight.”
Like Mr. Dashwood, Miriam wanted to share her joy, though she’d thought him rather silly at the time springing up spouting poetry. It brought to mind other canting individuals she’d known. But it was possible she judged too harshly. Miriam wanted to translate the fine Persian sentiment, that so exactly described the feeling of being on the deck of Nonesuch in the open night air, and share it with the ship’s captain.
Captain Thorpe was attending to business, his head not in the clouds with hers and Mr. Dashwood’s. He put a line round Miriam’s waist and clapped it to the lifeline in a trice. Captain Thorpe led her past the voltaic pile of six hundred four inch square double plates, explaining as they went their function in powering the bellows that stoked the enormous braziers. The famous pile was what Miriam had mistaken for the ship’s boats, underneath a canvas covering on the deck. She stood behind Captain Thorpe as he paused to order the men attending the braziers to begin reducing fuel.
He moved toward the front of the ship and once past the braziers and the shadow of the great balloons, the view on deck opened up. Miriam’s head spun with the immensity of the vista. The endless space and glorious stars above, and looking over the ship’s side, through wispy clouds, Miriam caught sight of lapping waves and the sea. She fervently hoped she was not to faint again, she felt a tingling in her feet that was rising to fill her whole person.
“Captain Thorpe!”
The Captain glanced back at Miriam over his shoulder. He had one hand on the lifeline, while tucked beneath the other arm was one of the ship’s journals and his instruments.
“You may take hold of my arm, or my coat, Miss. In a few paces we shall halt and you can sit upon the deck, to make note of the readings. Will that suit you?”
Miriam nodded, struck dumb, chewing hard on the plug of coca leaves Saramago had given her earlier. She took a seat on the deck in a spot indicated by the Captain. Miriam felt it would be all she could manage to write a legible hand, through her layers of gloves and with her trembling fingers.
Try she must though, for Captain Thorpe was actually letting go the lifeline in order to take proper hold first of sextant, and then barometer and theodolite. Miriam dipped her quill pen and waited as he stood feet apart, taking a celestial sighting and then atmospheric pressure and temperature. Captain Thorpe called the readings to her in a strong voice, and Miriam did her best to scratch them carefully in the places he’d shown her in the journal. Bless the man, Miriam thought when she finished the inscriptions and looked up at Captain Thorpe with the dark heavens framing him, for allowing her a small part in this wonder.
“Do take hold of the line, Captain Thorpe, I beg.”
He smiled and did as she asked. Captain Thorpe went down on one knee beside her and examined her notations.
“That’s very pretty writ, Miss, I am obliged to you. In a moment we shall proceed below decks, where I must leave you.”
Miriam nodded, replacing the pen and ink pot in a pocket of her boat cloak. “I hope I can manage better than to crawl there.”
Captain Thorpe gave her a look of affection, if Miriam did not mistake, but he was prevented from making any remark by the appearance of Mr. Dodd. Or, from Miriam’s perspective, Mr. Dodd’s heavy boots.
“Wind-engine dismounted and ready to cast off ballast, Sir.”
“Very good, Mr. Dodd, stand by if you please. I will take Miss Albuyeh below and then I shall be with you, and we will begin the countdown procedure.”
Miriam swallowed hard and stood, and faced about on the lifeline from which she’d never been detached. She fought the paralysis that wanted to grip her and forced one foot in front of the other. As she plodded back to the after hatchway companion ladder she kept her head up and tried to fix it all in her mind. The towering balloons overhead, sagging now or beginning to, and the men stationed by the voltaic pile and slowly feeding the braziers. More men were gathered near the main chains on both sides of the ship, ready to cast off ballast at the captain’s word. Miriam was aware Captain Thorpe was trusting her with a great deal, allowing her to see so much of his ship and her operations.
Below decks Miriam descended into the relative comfort of the enclosed environment. It was a degree or two warmer, and there were familiar faces. Jugma Bora, his eyes large in his head, was stationed alongside a port side cable running between the yoke and the upper works. Saramago appeared as soon as the captain’s foot touched the gun deck, and he relieved Captain Thorpe of the journal, barometer, and other instruments.
“You will allow Saramago and me to lash you in the stern once more, Miss Miriam,” Captain Thorpe said, as soon as his steward returned from storing the instruments. “I hope and trust?”
Miriam’s heart began to pound as they tied her against the stern lockers. She wished she could take in the whole spectacle from the upper deck, if only she could be quite certain of not face planting into it.
“Spit out the coca leaves, Miss,” Captain Thorpe said, startling Miriam. “Spit them right out. Here you are, Saramago has a basin.”
She removed the quid delicately from her mouth with two fingers and placed it in the pewter cup Saramago extended, it was not the oddest thing yet to occur. For no particular reason, Miriam said, “I wonder where Thrax has got to?”
“Pissamdeared,” Saramago said.
“I believe what he means is, disappeared.” Captain Thorpe pulled on the lines binding Miriam in the stern to make sure they were fast. Then he rose, bowed to her, called forward to Mr. Dashwood at the yoke, and hurried up the companion ladder.
A great shouting and stomping broke out on the upper deck. Mr. Dodd appeared on the companion ladder and relayed orders to Mr. Dashwood. Miriam experienced that sensation of her stomach rising and dropping again. Captain Thorpe ran heavily down the fore hatchway companion ladder and took over from Mr. Dashwood at the yoke.
“Aft! Aft, Mr. Dashwood, and let go the hundred weight ballast at the word!”
Captain Thorpe appeared to wrestle the yoke, bearing it down by degrees, shouting orders over his shoulder at Mr. Dashwood.
“Strike stunsails,” Captain Thorpe called in a strong voice. “Let go the hundred weights!”
Mr. Dashwood shouted to the upper deck. Nonesuch’s descent slowed as the ballast was cast off. There came several more sickening falls and recoveries, and then a smacking collision followed by a series of severe bumps as though Nonesuch were dragging across a reef.
“Huzzah!” cried Mr. Dashwood.
In his exuberance and joy Mr. Dashwood lost his grip, and as the vessel careened along he was thrown backward off the ladder. He landed on his backside and slid nearly to Miriam in the stern, his long legs curving round to come to rest near hers.
“Now is not the time for tomfoolery, Mr. Dashwood.” Captain Thorpe ran aft and gave Mr. Dashwood his hand to help him rise.
Gripping the Captain’s hand, Mr. Dashwood swayed into an upright position. “Any landing you sail away from is a good landing, so it is said among aeronauts, Miss Miriam.”
Captain Thorpe’s
brows lowered in a pained expression, as though Mr. Dashwood were giving away a club secret.
“Come, Mr. Dashwood, if you are unhurt,” Captain Thorpe said. “The rudder will not ship itself, and there is much to attend to before we will be having ourselves a comfortable caulk.”
Captain Thorpe was moving to follow the first lieutenant up the companion ladder when he suddenly whipped round, strode over, and gave his hand to Miriam as she was casting off the lines about her.
“Forgive me for using the sailor’s cant before you, and for being a laggard in gentlemanly ways.” Captain Thorpe assisted her to her feet. “You’ve done so well I begin to think of you as a right sailor. The carpenter’s mates will be putting up the bulkheads, the walls that is, and you shall have your private space back soon.”
Privacy was the last thing Miriam craved at that moment. Captain Thorpe couldn’t know how strongly his words had struck her, nor how inspired she felt by the experience of...flight. Now Miriam had named it, she wanted to talk about it, to jump and shout ‘Huzzah’ like Mr. Dashwood. But of course, she wouldn’t detain the Captain.
Miriam thanked Captain Thorpe and curtsied to him.
“Only look, here is Thrax!” Captain Thorpe cried, leaning down to pat the Hell-Cat’s head. Thrax evaded his outstretched hand. “The rogue, coming along when all the excitement is done!”
Chapter Eight
The ascent and descent into the South Atlantic integrated the newcomers almost as thoroughly as a battle would have done, in Maximus Thorpe’s estimation. They’d lain to for a day to rest and recover, and were presently under easy sail for the Cape of Good Hope, Africa. Though he might suffer from an excess of zeal, Mr. Dashwood was proving an excellent navigator and a proficient with the Mechanism. In spite of his early swoon, Mr. Dashwood recovered, and he’d not done badly with the management of crew, sails, flotation, and ballast. Overall, Maximus was pleased. Mr. Valentine Dashwood might do very well.
