Lessons From Underground

by Bryan Methods

  “Mr. Scant, can you use your claw to pull us to the top?” I asked.

  “The motor’s built to bring the claw back in,” said Mr. Scant. “Not to pull four people up fifty feet. We could use the cable to climb, but it would take just as long as the ladders and be more dangerous besides. Once we reach the top, it will help us get us down to the deck from the outside, though.”

  “Beg pardon?” said the Valkyrie. “You can’t mean we’re going to climb down the outside of this thing? I’m not much of a climber.”

  “By all means search for another way out,” said Mr. Scant.

  “No!” I said. “We need to stay together, otherwise we won’t be able to chase Aurelian. Miss Troughton, you’re the Valkyrie. A little thing like this can’t hold you back.”

  The Valkyrie drew herself up to her full impressive height. “I’ll do what I can.”

  And so we began our climb up what seemed like an endless number of ladders linked by metal walkways. I started to get tired about four stories up but shook my head every time the adults asked if I needed help.

  When we reached the very top of the funnel, we saw that half of it was capped, but we could exit through two hatches covering the other half. Pushing through them, we came face-to-face with another man covered in soot, looking at us in alarm from where he sat. A smoldering cigarette fell from between his lips.

  “Oh, er, hello,” I said, breathing heavily after the long climb.

  “Who the bloody ’ell are you?” the man asked in a vulgar tone. “You can’t be up here.”

  “Police business, my good man,” said Mr. Jackdaw.

  The man took him at his word and touched at his hat as a kind of apologetic bow. “Begging your pardon. I won’t say nothing . . . here! You can’t do that.”

  He was looking at Mr. Scant now, who peered over the edge of the stack and down to the deck far below. I took the opportunity to do the same.

  I found a quite astounding view. The ship’s deck was pristine, with lifeboats lined up on either side. I could also see Ireland, though the liner had stopped a long way from the Queenstown dock. Colorful houses covered the city’s hills, surrounding its tall, spiky cathedral.

  I felt a strange pang of sadness for this unfamiliar place, where today so many would say goodbyes to those they loved, many of those loved ones never to return. Though distant glimpses of the crowds assembled to see this majestic new liner reminded me that as much joy as regret would fill their day.

  “Meticulous timing,” Mr. Scant said. In the water nearby, the little boat that would ferry departing passengers to Queenstown was drawing away from the Titanic—and I could see Aurelian aboard it. We would have no chance to reach him now.

  “Let’s get on with it,” Mr. Scant rumbled. He had affixed the cable from his claw to a rail near the top of the funnel. “It’s not long enough to reach all the way down to the deck. So we go first to the pipe directly below us. Then we make our way down that pipe. Ready?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer, clambering over the funnel’s edge. I stretched to watch him and saw he had wrapped the cable around himself. He leaned backward as he lowered himself, using his feet to half-walk, half-bounce down to the thin pipe he had mentioned. Once he made it securely, he called up, “You next, Master Oliver.”

  And so I took hold of the cable and used it like a climbing rope, heading downward while scraping my feet along the outside of the funnel. The cable was much thinner than a climbing rope, and keeping my grip was a challenge, but soon enough I reached the pipe Mr. Scant had mentioned. It was like a thick drainpipe, and warm to the touch. I pulled at it doubtfully.

  “Are you sure this will take our weight?” I asked.

  “Not entirely.”

  I swallowed hard, then continued downwards. Climbing down the pipe proved easier than climbing down the cable. There were various other pipes attached to the outside of the funnel, which I could use as handholds or to stand on for a rest, and finally I dropped to the level of the deck. Once I saw no sailors were coming to accost me, I ducked under the rails and waited for the others.

  Mr. Scant called up that Mr. Jackdaw should come next. He and Mr. Scant would support themselves on either side of the pipe, they’d decided, and then they’d help support the Valkyrie as she made her way down. Though she was still wearing her fancy first-class passenger clothes, she moved quickly and confidently down to the pipe. After she got within the reach of Mr. Scant and Mr. Jackdaw, the pair of them steadied her down the rest of the pipe. For her part, she didn’t seem too troubled by the climb.

  “What do we do now?” I asked once we were all safely on the deck.

  “We have to get off this ship,” said Mr. Jackdaw. “We can’t ride it to America. That’s going to take days.”

  “What can we do? The boat to shore has already left. And we’re too far away to swim.”

  “I’m a strong swimmer,” the Valkyrie said. “I can help you get there. There were life vests in our room. I’m certain we can make it.”

  “No,” said Mr. Jackdaw. “It would take too long and be much too dangerous. We need to find the wireless telegraphy room.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Those cables,” Mr. Jackdaw said, pointing up to a long wire running the length of the ship, above even the funnels. “They’re for the radio room. We can send out a telegraph in Morse code. I say! I say, you! I wonder if you can help me . . .”

  He had spotted a seaman and went bounding over to him. Identifying himself as a Scotland Yard police officer got Mr. Jackdaw shown to the “Marconi Room,” up at the other end of the boat deck. From there, Mr. Jackdaw made his transmission.

  “To whom did you send a message?” Mr. Scant asked.

  “To an old friend of mine named Selwyn. He’s sending a man to fetch us.”

  “Out here?” I said. “Is it a flying machine?”

  “Not a flying machine,” Mr. Jackdaw. “A motor yacht.”

  So it was that we left the unsinkable ship. Mr. Scant had run out of cable, so we could no longer be discreet in making our exit. Instead, Mr. Jackdaw again used his authority as a police inspector to get the men on a lower deck to open the same door that departing passengers had used to board the boat. We’d then lower a rope ladder the remaining fifteen or twenty feet to the water.

  “How long will it take?” I asked as we waited for the motor yacht. “Perhaps we should go and enjoy the first class facilities a little more before we leave.”

  “Please stay focused, Master Oliver.”

  “Just seems a waste, that’s all.”

  We stayed put on the low deck, under the watchful eye of two staff members, even as the great ocean liner shuddered back into motion, beginning to leave Queenstown. After what seemed an hour or more, our motorboat arrived—a very fine but rather small vessel. It sliced through the water as easily as any fish but seemed a little unsteady as it bobbed up and down, matching the speed of the departing Titanic.

  A slim woman with alert eyes and brown skin pulled off the goggles she had been wearing and smiled. “Long time no see, Agent Featherton.”

  Mr. Jackdaw nodded respectfully. “Agent Petra.”

  I wondered if just maybe Featherton was Mr. Jackdaw’s real name, as unlikely as that seemed. He turned to us and said, “This is a very dear colleague of mine, Mrs. Petra. She was my senior when I was in training.”

  “A pleasure to meet you,” she said. “Miss Troughton. Mr. Scant. Master Diplexito.”

  “Nice to meet you too,” I said as the others nodded.

  “Better come aboard for handshakes,” she said, still smiling. “This is Mr. Edge’s brand new motorboat, the Napier V, designed to set new speed records on the ocean waves.”

  “She’s a beauty,” said Mr. Jackdaw.

  “Nothing but the best,” said Mrs. Petra. “Although you can’t bring all those heavy things aboard. Too much weight. Small bags only.”

  And so we left the famous unsinkable ship—the pinnacle o
f human scientific achievement and the most luxurious vessel ever opened to the public—by clambering down a rope ladder. I had to leave behind a lot of clothes, but nothing I regretted abandoning. Even without our luggage, however, the little motor yacht was rather a tight fit for all of us.

  As we began to speed away on Mrs. Petra’s motorboat, I looked back to the ocean liner, the immense floating city. Soon I was able to cover it with a fingertip.

  Back on solid ground in Queenstown, Mrs. Petra led us to a nearby café. She ordered a double espresso, which smelled strong enough to make my eyes water.

  “What do we do now?” I asked.

  “Clearly we have to go on to Cape Town,” said Mr. Scant.

  “In Africa?” the Valkyrie said. “Nobody mentioned anything about that to me. We’ve spent all this time running around doing all the wrong things. I have half a mind to just go home.”

  “Please don’t leave us,” I said. “We still need you. More than ever.”

  “I should very much regret seeing you go too,” Mr. Jackdaw said, his hand on his heart. “But the diamond is going to Africa, and so must we. That’s why I contacted Mrs. Petra. She’s our authority on the place.”

  “North Africa,” said Mrs. Petra. “Africa is a big continent, and I don’t think anybody can be an authority on all of her countries. I was born in Tripoli but I grew up in Cairo, before my father’s business and second wife took us to London. And I’m currently spending what’s meant to be my home leave acting as support for this rapscallion.” She waved a disapproving hand at Mr. Jackdaw, who did his usual grin.

  “What was it like growing up in Egypt?” I asked. “I’d like to hear more about it from someone who really lived there.”

  “You can ask me anything you like later on, when we’re on our way,” Mrs. Petra said with a smile.

  “We’re forever indebted to you,” said Mr. Jackdaw. “There was nobody else I could turn to.”

  “Oh, nonsense,” she said. “I can think of at least two others who would support you without immediately telling the boss what you’re up to. Granted, neither of them are in this hemisphere. And I can’t say I fully trust Agent Redwood.” She looked directly at me and said, conspiratorially, “He only eats beige-colored food.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “If you have helped us, madam, you have our thanks,” said Mr. Scant.

  “Less of the ‘madam’ please,” said Mrs. Petra. “I’ve only found two gray hairs in my head so far, so it’s a bit early for that.”

  Mr. Scant gave a respectful nod.

  “Have you found us passage to Cape Town?” Mr. Jackdaw asked Mrs. Petra.

  “I have,” she said. “I’ll take you as far as Plymouth and set you on your way. I can’t risk being caught up in your mess any more than I already am.”

  “I’m grateful you’ve done as much as you have,” said Mr. Jackdaw. “But it’s up to us to fix our mistakes. It’s our duty to king and country to get that diamond back where it belongs.”

  “And that’s London?” said Mr. Scant.

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “I wanted to be certain,” Mr. Scant said, turning away.

  “When is the liner from Plymouth?” I asked. “Aurelian has a big head start.”

  “It leaves the day after tomorrow,” said Mrs. Petra. “Noon. A disappointing menu. I checked for you.”

  “Two days?” I said. “We can’t just wait for two days.”

  “I’m afraid you may not have much of a choice in the matter,” said Mrs. Petra. “I’d say you’re lucky there’s passage from Plymouth at all.”

  “Thank you for the help, but maybe we can get there faster,” I said. “I think Father can help us. Or at least, his business partner. Have any of you met Mr. Beards?”

  XIX

  Flying Machines

  hese days, Mr. Beards didn’t really have much to do.

  His business, Binns and Beards Financial Services and Dirigibles, had come to a sad end when Mr. and Mrs. Binns had gone to prison for being the leaders of a criminal cult. But Father had absorbed the airship manufacturing part of their business into his company. Now Mr. Beards pottered about in a supervisory role at one of Father’s factories. But his passion for airships remained as strong as ever, which was the important thing for us. We quickly received a reply to our telegraph, with Mr. Beards telling us to wait for him by the Queenstown town hall that very evening.

  Mr. Jackdaw had access to a gentleman’s club for government employees, so after bidding Mrs. Petra farewell, we waited there discussing what we could have done differently on board the Titanic. A few hours later, we approached the town hall with time to spare. The hall was a pretty little building with ornate chimneys and the shape of a brooding hen. It sat on the water’s edge, with a little jetty and a length of road nearby. The scene was quiet, and the air was still, so we heard Mr. Beards long before we saw him.

  “What’s that buzzing noise?” said the Valkyrie.

  “Could it be Mr. Beards’s airship?”

  “Too loud for one of his dirigibles,” Mr. Scant said, standing and looking to the skies.

  The noise became louder and louder, like some immense and terrible hornet, until we saw its source.

  “Is that one of those aeroplanes?” said Mr. Jackdaw.

  “Two,” said Mr. Jackdaw.

  “Do you think that’s Mr. Beards?” I said.

  “It would seem so.”

  And indeed it was. A small coastal road seemed an absurd place to land an aeroplane, but that’s what happened. A flying machine bumped and screeched upon landing, coming to a halt, and another followed it.

  The aeroplanes were not like the ones I had seen in the newspapers, with two sets of wings above and below. Instead they had only one pair of wings each. Solid wings too, made of wood and polished like furniture. The planes looked as though they couldn’t possibly stay in the air. Their tails were long and thin, composed of nothing more than a wooden frame that you could see right through. It appeared to be about as sturdy as a spider’s web. Nonetheless, these machines had conveyed Mr. Beards to us, presumably all the way from London.

  When Mr. Beards heaved himself out of the box he had been sitting in and removed his goggles, he looked as hale and hearty as I had ever seen him. He was out of breath, and his round belly seemed to weigh him down as he stumbled over to us, but I couldn’t recall another time Father’s friend had smiled like this. The other pilot stepped more gracefully from the other identical aeroplane, dressed in a striking purple flight suit and long leather boots.

  “My dear Master Oliver!” Mr. Beards said, holding up his hands for an embrace, which he caught me in before I could quite understand what was going on. After chuckling and slapping my shoulder for a while, he stepped back and said, “Why, I’ve never felt so alive! What a time we live in. What a thrill! Getting my flying license was a matter of short hops here and there between fields and air bases. But taking one of these beauties out over the Irish Sea and coming in to land in a city like this . . . Why, it makes ballooning seem about as interesting as a game of lawn bowls.”

  “Thank you for coming, Mr. Beards.”

  “Oh, my pleasure.” He turned to the other pilot walking over. “A real pleasure, wouldn’t you say, Miss Quimby?”

  I looked in surprise at the pilot in purple. Somehow I had expected a second Mr. Beards. Now that she had taken off her goggles, I saw that she was instead a woman. She stood tall and confident with a young, healthy face and ready smile.

  “A pleasure indeed,” she answered in an American accent. She removed her glove so that she could shake our hands when Mr. Beards introduced her.

  “This is Miss Harriet Quimby,” he said, “critic and motion picture screenplay writer. Also the finest pilot I’ve ever had the privilege to meet!”

  “Oh, please, you flatter me far too much,” Miss Quimby said. She had a firm handshake and said hello to each of us as we were introduced, which was strangely endearing.

&nb
sp; “We got your telegraph and thought this would be a fine chance for a flight,” said Mr. Beards. “Miss Quimby is here from New York. She’ll be the first woman ever to fly from England to France in an aeroplane.”

  “Any excuse for some practice,” said Miss Quimby. “Especially when some generous soul is supplying the fuel!”

  “So you write for movies and you’re a pilot?” I said. “That’s incredible!” And then I coughed because my voice had squeaked on the last word.

  Miss Quimby smiled. “Anywhere I go, young people understand the cinema the best. I think it’s because they care about what they’re watching. Grown-ups who go to the theater, on the other hand, care much more about being seen. If you’re ever in New York, I’ll take you on a tour of our studio.”

  Meanwhile, Mr. Scant was serious as ever. “May I ask about the matter of getting to the Cape Colony?” he was saying to Mr. Beards.

  “It’s not a simple thing,” Mr. Beards replied. “First, we’ll go from here to our research facility on the Isle of Man. Then we can discuss it further. These aeroplanes only seat two at once, so we’ll have to make a couple of trips.” He tried to say it dolefully, but the way he smiled betrayed that he relished the prospect of further flights.

  After some more discussion, we decided Mr. Scant and Mr. Jackdaw would go first. That way, they could begin planning the next steps in our journey. The two of them donned the extra flying jackets, hats, and goggles that Mr. Beards had brought for them, and off they went.

  The Valkyrie and I were left standing by the town hall, and presumably she felt just as I did, totally unsure of what to say. We began to talk about getting some food. She said that since we were by the sea, they probably had some fine fish and chip shops about. When I said I had never tried fish and chips because Mother thought it was unhealthy, the Valkyrie sniffed, “You mean she thinks only poor people eat it.” With that, we set off to find the nearest chip shop and give me my baptism by oiliness.

  Our search didn’t take long, and we stopped at a shop on a corner not far away. Knowing that the Valkyrie wasn’t as wealthy as our family, I gave her some coins from my pocket.