The Lost Kingdom

by Matthew J. Kirby

  I locked my eyes on the path ahead, chin high. I imagined my mother and my siblings behind us, and I felt their waves and smiles like sunlight on my back. Only this time, I was the one growing small and distant in the road.

  We set off at a brisk pace down the Darby Road. A low fog still hung about the fields. But as we rolled along, the first full rays of sun charged in and drove the mist away. A mile down the road we arrived at the Lower Ferry, where we crossed the Schuylkill River. From there we drove to Cedar Street, which we followed east into town.

  “Mr. Franklin asked us to stop by his home on our way to the ship,” my father said.

  I remembered the French spies had stolen a drawing of a ship from my father’s study, and I assumed that meant we would be going by river into the frontier. But I wondered what about the ship made a drawing of it valuable to the French.

  Mr. Franklin’s house was grand, redbrick with two chimneys and carved marble casings around the windows. It also had a curious metal spear stabbing upward from the tallest point of the roof. My father noticed it, too, and he asked Mr. Franklin about it after we’d been shown into the parlor.

  “I call it a lightning attractor,” Mr. Franklin said. “I installed it last autumn. If my house is struck by lightning, that metal rod will conduct the electrical fire safely to the ground and spare the intervening structure.”

  “Ingenious,” my father said.

  “Before long, I think all buildings will have them.” Franklin paused. “But I did not ask you here to discuss fire prevention.”

  My father waited.

  “John, I do not want to alarm the others, but I’ve told Cadwallader and I’m telling you. And I trust you to keep this quiet, Billy.”

  “What is it?” my father asked.

  “Since the break-in at your farm, I called on a few spies of my own. It seems the French have a greater presence in the Ohio Country than we anticipated. Right now, there is a force of fifteen hundred troupes de la marine marching south through the valley, led by Captain Paul Marin.”

  “That name is familiar,” my father said.

  Mr. Franklin nodded. “He destroyed Saratoga seven years ago. He’s a veteran, and he drives his men mercilessly. The Six Nations dare not oppose them, and any English trader they’ve encountered has been sent to Montreal in chains.”

  I listened, trying to appear both grave and unafraid.

  But I was afraid.

  “I was hoping,” Mr. Franklin said, “that in light of this information, you would reconsider your opposition to bringing guns on the expedition.”

  “No.” My father sliced the air sideways with his hand. “No guns, Ben. The de Terzi is a vessel of philosophy. Not a ship of war. She will keep us aloft and out of Marin’s path.”

  Mr. Franklin sighed. “That is the hope. But it could also be said that you are flying our greatest invention right into the enemy’s hands.”

  Flying? Had I heard him correctly?

  My father folded his arms. “We won’t let that happen.”

  “I trust not. But make sure she touches land infrequently and only when absolutely necessary.” Mr. Franklin inhaled and rubbed his hands over his waistcoat. “I have to say that in spite of all the dangers, I wish I were going with you.”

  “As do I,” my father said. “But you’re a man of politics and business, Ben. Not a frontiersman.”

  I listened to them, trying to make sense of it all but feeling like I was missing a large part of the conversation.

  “You’re right, of course.” Mr. Franklin tapped his chin with a finger. “Though, I do fancy those coonskin caps.”

  “You do realize the hat does not actually make the man,” my father said.

  Mr. Franklin smiled at me with one side of his mouth. “You might be surprised. But speaking of frontiersmen, I’ve received confirmation that George Croghan is currently at Aughwick Old Town. You’ll rendezvous with him there. If the winds prevail, the de Terzi will have you there within a day. After that, it’s onward to the Forks of the Ohio.”

  It was afternoon when we left Mr. Franklin’s house and took a circuitous route north through the city. “We keep the de Terzi in a quiet part of town,” my father said. “Away from curious eyes.”

  Before long, we turned toward the wharves that lined the Delaware River and came to an immense warehouse. The street was indeed quiet. Deserted, even. As we pulled up, a broad-shouldered man in a white wig, with red cheeks, appeared in the low warehouse doorway.

  “Welcome, John!” His wave had the sharp quality of a salute. “This must be Billy.”

  “Greetings, Cadwallader.” My father brought the wagon to a halt and climbed down. I did the same. “Billy, this is Mr. Colden, the leader of the expedition.”

  I shook his hand. “It is an honor to meet you, sir.” He had thick eyebrows.

  “Pleasure to meet you, too, Billy. Mr. Franklin was greatly impressed with you, and I’ve looked forward to making your acquaintance.” He turned toward the warehouse as several Africans emerged through the doorway. “My men will take care of your things, John.” The Africans went to our wagon and unloaded the first crates.

  My father frowned. “That won’t be necessary. Billy and I will do it.”

  “Nonsense,” Mr. Colden said.

  But my father ignored him, walked to our wagon, and hefted a small crate. I did the same and followed my father through the doorway, where I almost dropped the box.

  Inside the cavernous warehouse rose a mighty ship, the aeroship Mr. Franklin had been talking about. Her broad bow stretched high above me, elegant and fluid, and her length retreated into the shadows away from my view. Around her foremast she bore four massive copper spheres, each as large as a sail. Their glinting metal sang with the light they seemed to catch and wrap around themselves. Above those, she bore the English flag.

  My father stopped ahead of me and turned back. “She is quite astonishing, isn’t she?”

  “She — she flies?”

  “That she does.”

  I nodded toward the spheres. “What are those?”

  “Vacuum balloons. We evacuate the air from them, which then provides the lifting power she needs. Like a bubble rising in water.”

  “Just leave the crates there.” Mr. Colden had followed us inside. “They’ll load them with the crane.”

  I looked up and saw a thick timber arm, draped with ropes and pulleys, swinging into place overhead. A few more Africans approached us. My father sighed and set down his crate, and I did the same. We went back out and brought in another load. Then another. Each time I carried a crate into the warehouse, I stole a glance up at the ship, at her sweep and line, her polished copper and varnished wood. I decided that she was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen, the first of her kind.

  On one of my trips back to the wagon, Mr. Colden leaned into me as I passed him. “Your father doesn’t approve of slavery.”

  “No, sir,” I said, breathing hard.

  “I freed my slave years ago,” my father said from behind us. “You should consider doing the same, Cadwallader.”

  I noticed the Africans were listening to us without looking up.

  “You Quakers are always upsetting the natural order of things,” Mr. Colden said with a nervous laugh.

  “Slavery is decidedly unnatural,” my father said. “A fact impressed on every soul from birth, including yours.”

  Mr. Colden closed one of his eyes partway, as though looking at my father through a microscope. “Yes, well. Be content that we granted your request and won’t use any slave labor on the expedition.”

  “At least you granted me that,” my father said. “Is everyone else here?”

  “With the exception of Mr. Godfrey, yes. Kinnersley has been here since dawn. You should see the equipment he’s already loaded on board.”

  “What kind of equipment?” my father asked.

  Mr. Colden shrugged. “Electrical equipment, naturally, though I failed to recognize much of it.
There were several Leyden jars.”

  My father put his hands on his hips. “I am uneasy with this.”

  “Your objections are noted. And now if you’ll excuse me, I must see Mr. Faries regarding some final preparations. I’ll see you on deck, gentlemen.”

  “Thank you, Cadwallader,” my father said.

  We exited the warehouse and met a young woman as she was coming in. She wore a blue dress and appeared to be about my age, pretty, with hair the color of ripe corn. Having just come from inside the dark building, I found myself blinking in the sunlight.

  She curtsied. “Hello, Mr. Bartram.”

  “Hello, Jane,” my father said. “I’d like to introduce you to my son Billy.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Billy,” she said, and I felt a little heat in my cheeks.

  I squinted. “Pleasure to meet you as well.”

  “Jane is Mr. Colden’s daughter,” my father said to me. “She assists him in his philosophical pursuits, much as you assist me.”

  She folded her hands before her at her waist. “Do you draw, Billy?”

  “I do,” I said.

  “So do I,” she said.

  My father clasped his hands behind his back. “You’ve been helping your father today?”

  She nodded. “I have.”

  “And have you had the opportunity to board the de Terzi?” he asked.

  “This morning.” She looked past us up at the warehouse. “My father showed me all around. She is truly a marvel. I only wish that I were coming.”

  “I know your father will miss you,” my father said.

  “It shall not be for long.” She sounded as though she believed it.

  “That is a splendid attitude.” My father tipped his head. “Billy and I must see to our wagon. Good day, Miss Jane.”

  She curtsied again. “Good day, sir. Good day, Billy.”

  “Good day,” I said, watching her go inside.

  We drove the wagon to my older brothers’ apothecary, where we said our good-byes to Moses and Isaac and left the horses and wagon for them to return to the farm. Then we walked back to the warehouse.

  By that time, evening shadows had filled the streets up to the rain gutters. I lagged a bit behind my father, and as I rounded a corner after him, I heard the skip of a boot on the road behind me. But when I turned to look, there wasn’t anyone there. A cold feeling settled in my chest, and a sense of dread slithered up my neck, the feeling of being watched and followed. I glanced back again at the empty street and then hurried to catch up to my father.

  “Is everything all right?” he asked as I came up beside him.

  I didn’t want to confess any fear to him. Not now, just as we were about to embark. “Everything is fine.” And I convinced myself that it was, that I had imagined it.

  “Where does her name come from?” I asked.

  “The ship?” he said. “From the man who conceived of her. Francesco Lana de Terzi. He lived nearly a hundred years ago but lacked the materials and ability to realize his creation. Thanks to Mr. Faries, whom you will meet shortly, we have now brought his vision to life. She’ll make the journey to find the Kingdom of Madoc much easier and safer.”

  I still found something of the impossible in her. “She really flies?”

  The corner of my father’s mouth lifted. “Yes. She flies. As will you.”

  I understood the meaning of his words, but I could not imagine actually doing what they suggested. I was about to fly. How was that possible? Nervous excitement gripped my stomach and my throat, and quickened my pace to the warehouse.

  Inside, Mr. Colden stood above us at the aeroship’s bow. He waved to us.

  “Come aboard, gentlemen!”

  My father led me along the port side of the ship to a steep ramp, and we climbed it, up through the massive timbers that scaffolded the de Terzi’s dock. And then we reached the peak, and I stepped onto the aeroship’s deck.

  I looked up at the copper spheres, and they were even larger from where I now stood. But apart from them, the de Terzi resembled any sailing vessel meant for water. She had two masts. One forward, around which the spheres appeared in orbit and a series of thick metal pipes grew like strangler vines. A second, taller mainmast jutted behind it. There was a small aft cabin, and two hatches leading below deck.

  “What do you think, Billy?” Mr. Colden asked.

  “She’s mighty impressive, sir,” I said.

  “She is now. You should have seen her sorry state before Mr. Faries got hold of her. She’s an old schooner, and she wore her age poorly. I didn’t think she was salvageable.” He tapped his foot on the deck. “But she has good bones. She’s seen her share of seas and rivers, and now she’s ready to ply the air. Come, let me show you.”

  Mr. Colden led me up to the forward parts of the ship.

  “No carved maiden, nor hero, nor beast of legend for us,” he said, and pointed to the prow. “Here is our figurehead.”

  The de Terzi’s bow bristled with polished brass instruments: multiple telescopes of varying sizes and lengths, octants, barometers, a complex arrangement of wires, pipes, valves, and gauges, and many other curious devices for which I could not guess the uses. And along her deck, where another ship might have wielded cannons or cranes, the de Terzi bore periodic stations with yet more scientific equipment.

  As my father had said, she was not a ship of war. Nor commerce. She was a ship of philosophy.

  “Magnificent,” my father said. “Even having seen her, she continues to inspire.”

  “That she does,” came a voice from behind us.

  We turned as Mr. Franklin walked up the deck toward us.

  “Is everyone here?” he asked. “And is everything in order?”

  “Everyone else is below,” Mr. Colden said. “And we’re almost prepared to leave. Mr. Faries is still completing his inspection of the flight systems, and we’ve a few more things to sort and secure.”

  “Well,” Mr. Franklin said, “let’s get to it. It is almost time for you to leave.”

  With that, we went below.

  I had expected it to be dim and gloomy below. But the space was lit almost as well as the warehouse and the open deck above. I searched for the source of the light and found a series of glass lenses and bowl-shaped mirrors mounted along the low ceiling in such a way that they gathered the light coming down from the hatch and tossed it between them throughout the hold.

  “You’ll both need to choose a berth,” Mr. Colden said, and pointed upship.

  To the fore I saw our sleeping quarters. A column of bunks lined the hull to either side, with a row of hammocks strung between them. My father and I claimed two available beds with our satchels. He wanted a bunk, but I saw how narrow they were and chose a nearby hammock.

  Mr. Colden then led us down past a bulkhead to the middle of the ship. “And here is the de Terzi’s heart. We call it the Science Deck.”

  We entered a room crowded with several men. I spotted our crates among a stack of other boxes. Behind them, I saw a bookcase already carrying the weight of several volumes. In the center of the room, the foremast rose up through the ceiling, and from its base sprouted a ring of desks. Above each desk hung a bowl-mirror, reflecting light downward, but each had an oil lantern as well. A few larger work stations had been built into the bulkheads and hull, several of which had apparently already been claimed.

  Mr. Franklin placed a hand on my arm. “Billy, I’d like to introduce you to the other members of your expedition.”

  He guided me to a station that bore a series of glass bottles, vials, beakers, and tubes, along with a few burners. Near it stood a young man who wore no wig and had long blond hair pulled back in a ponytail.

  “This is Dr. Bond,” Mr. Franklin said. “The Chemist.”

  The man shook my hand. “Call me Phineas. You’re a member of our society, Billy. No need to stand on ceremony among peers.”

  “Thank you … Phineas.” I looked to my father, but he did not s
eem to disapprove of the informality.

  Next, Mr. Franklin led me to a much older man seated near the bookshelves. His wig had too much powder and appeared flattened, as though someone had left it under a pile of books. When he stood to greet me, his clothing gave off a whiff of the ancient and moldering.

  “This is Mr. Godfrey,” Mr. Franklin said. “He is our Natural Philosopher, and there is no one in all the colonies more well versed in ancient Greek and Latin.”

  “It helps that I was there.” Mr. Godfrey’s voice was stronger than I expected. “Or at least it feels that way to an old man like me.”

  I nodded. “A pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  “This is my station.” Mr. Colden gestured toward a desk stacked with what appeared to be astronomical charts and mathematical tables. “I am currently our society’s Mathematician. Though my interests also include the study of astronomy and botany. My daughter Jane makes drawings of my specimens for me.”

  “I do the same for my father,” I said.

  Mr. Colden patted my back. “Yes, of course.”

  Mr. Franklin looked around. “Now, let us see. Who is left?”

  “I am Mr. Kinnersley,” came a sharp voice from behind me. I turned around to greet an angular man with a small, severe mouth.

  Mr. Franklin turned to him. “Ah, Ebenezer. Is everything arranged to your satisfaction?”

  “No. But it will do.”

  “Mr. Kinnersley is our Electrician,” Mr. Franklin said to me. “Studying the relatively new science of electrical fire. It can also be said that his generous financing allowed for the de Terzi to be built in the first place.”

  “A worthwhile investment,” Mr. Kinnersley said.

  The mention of this electrical fire intrigued me. I’d heard of it before. And the way my father talked, it sounded dangerous. I looked around the room. “Where is your station, sir?”

  “I have my own quarters.” Mr. Kinnersley’s eyes flicked downship. “Near the stern. My equipment required it.”

  The blond man, Phineas, chuckled. “And your money paid for it, I’d say.”

  “What sort of equipment?” I asked.