by Eoin Colfer
His fingers grazed the rope and a second later felt it slacken as the balloon exploded.
Conor swore and quickened his pace. Only six balloons left. He barged through the assembly, caring nothing for angry looks. If any of these gentlemen wished to fight a duel over a rough shouldering, he would have to oblige them another time.
Shouts and protests followed him down the path. He was attracting attention but there was no helping it.
It was a race now. Conor versus the Saltee Sharpshooters. He could only hope that his own father was not holding a rifle as Declan Broekhart rarely missed.
The next balloon detonated, the concussion seeming to shake the very island.
Overloaded that one. Surely.
There were four balloons aloft now and a fifth anchored on the quay wall under a tarpaulin. The moving target. The flying balloons glowed bright like the moons of some distant planet. They bobbed in the wind, difficult shots.
Not difficult enough, two more exploded in quick succession. Conor could hear the applause from Great Saltee. A grand affair indeed.
He made a decision. No time to rein in the flying balloons, he must go for the earthbound. It would be watched by a guard, but that must be risked. It was his last chance in this night of botched plans.
His way was clear now, so Conor ran, butcher’s apron flapping around his legs, the smell of pig blood hot in his nostrils. A guard blocked his way, not intentionally; he was simply there on duty. Conor thought to barge him from the wall, but at the last second changed his mind and ran him into the battlements instead. A sore head was preferable to a crushed skull.
The wall was more or less deserted. High society can move at a pretty pace when their fine garments are under attack. All that stood between Conor and the last balloon was a courtesy rope and another guard who was actually sucking on a lit pipe.
A lit pipe beside a hydrogen balloon.
‘Hello!’ called Conor. ‘You there! Guard.’
The guard stood, eyes round with a natural doziness.
‘Sir. Yessir. What can I… Who do you be?’
Conor leaped the rope with no slowing of his pace. His boots clicked on the uneven cobbles as he hurried towards the guard. The quay wall ran a hundred yards into Saint George’s Channel, acting as a breakwater and a semaphore station.
‘You are smoking, man!’ shouted Conor, in a voice of authority. ‘There is hydrogen in that balloon.’
The guard paled, and then yelped as another balloon burst into multicoloured flames. The rope sagged slowly to earth like a beheaded snake.
‘I… I didn’t know…’ he stammered, tossing his pipe away as though it would bite him. ‘I never thought…’
Conor cuffed the man roughly, knocking off his hat.
‘Idiot. Buffoon. I smell a leak. And you have put sparks on the ground.’
More stammering from the guard, but not one protest that hydrogen was an odourless gas.
‘I must… I must… run away,’ he said, tossing his rifle aside, so that the bayonet raked the cobbles, throwing up more sparks.
‘Dolt,’ said Conor.
‘I didn’t even want the bayonet,’ whined the guard. ‘It’s ceremonial.’
‘We must cut the balloon loose,’ said Conor.
‘You do it. I will commend you for a medal.’
And with that the guard launched himself into space, legs running through the air until they found purchase on a group of rich gawkers in the keep below. The lot of them went down in a pile like skittles.
Conor was alone with the balloon for the moment, but already there were more astute guards mounting the steps, perhaps wondering why a butcher was handing out orders. Conor twisted the bayonet from the rifle, no time to struggle with knots now. He pulled back the greasy tarpaulin to find a glowing balloon encased in a fishing net and tethered to several lobster pots.
Conor held the balloon with his left hand, sawing at the ropes with his right, careful not to puncture the balloon itself.
‘Tom,’ called a voice to his rear. ‘What are you playing at, Tom? That’s the entire show’s climax, that is.’
‘She’s ruptured,’ shouted Conor. ‘And the fuse has caught a spark. I can hear it buzzing. Stand back.’
So, like prudent guards who were paid less than your average street hawker, they stood back for a few moments, but then nothing much happened except a butcher hacking at ropes.
‘Eh, Tom. There’s a two-second fuse on those yokes. You shouldn’t be much more than a smear of butcher-coloured mush on the walls by now.’
‘Oh my God,’ shouted Conor over his shoulder, seeking to spread alarm. ‘God help us all.’
Pike was one of the guards, and he was all too aware that Billtoe would lump him with responsibility for the balloon, and so forged past the others up the steps.
‘Stop what you’re doing, butcher,’ he called, in a voice quavering with fear and forced courage. ‘Cease or I will spill your innards on the stones.’ He hoped the word cease would lend him more authority than he possessed.
The last strand of the last rope pinged and the balloon lurched towards the heavens, almost yanking Conor’s left arm from his socket. He would have let go, had he not tangled the arm in the netting up to the elbow.
‘Help me,’ he shouted, knowing they could never reach him in time. ‘Save me, please.’
Pike thought about shooting the balloon down, but decided against it for two reasons. If his bullet did ignite the fireworks he could kill himself and the several daring minor European royals who had wanted a closer view of the spectacle. Death by whizz-bang was not a pleasant way to go. And even if he survived the fireworks, Billtoe would use his head for a boot polisher.
Better to take a shot and miss completely. He hoisted his rifle, taking careless aim.
‘You’ve had your warning, butcher!’ he yelled, pulling the trigger.
Unfortunately Pike was a terrible shot, and his deliberate miss took the heel from Conor’s boot.
‘Halfwit,’ shouted Conor, then a gust of easterly wind caught the balloon and snatched him away.
The guards watched him go, slack-jawed and befuddled. It was obvious what had happened, but how exactly? And why? Did the man steal the balloon or did the balloon make off with the man?
Pike was struck by the strange beauty of the scene.
‘Look at that,’ he sighed. ‘Just like the fairy wot caught hold of the moon.’
And then, on remembering Billtoe, ‘Stupid butcher.’
Great Saltee
The Saltee islanders were genuinely happy. Now that Good King Nick’s girl had taken her place on the throne, things could go back to the way they had been. Queen Isabella would set matters straight. She was a good girl, a kind girl – had she not demonstrated it a hundred times? Shipping supplies to the Irish poor. Sending the palace masons into town to work on village houses. That girl remembered the name of everyone she met, and would often visit the hospital to welcome new babies to the island.
It was true that Isabella had faded since her father’s assassination. Losing Conor Broekhart had compounded her pain. No father and no shoulder to cry on. But now her grieving was done and Captain Declan Broekhart was by her side, proud as punch, for the entire island to see.
This was a day for celebration, no doubt about it. The only one wearing a sour expression was that old goat Bonvilain, but he hadn’t smiled in public since Chancellor Bismarck tripped over the church steps on a state visit in the late seventies.
Isabella was queen now and Captain Broekhart was himself again. Soon there would be no more taxes, and no more innocents hauled off to Little Saltee on trumped-up charges. No more mercenaries landing on the docks with their rattling haversacks and cruel eyes.
The coronation ceremony had proceeded without a hitch. Isabella’s insistence that the dinner seating be rearranged to accommodate the Broekharts had ruffled a few noble feathers, but the young monarch would not be put off. Declan and Catherine had sat on her left
for the entire day, with Queen Victoria on the right. Marshall Bonvilain had been forced to shuffle down two seats at the first table and was not best pleased. Not that he cared a jot where he sat, but Catherine Broekhart had been whispering into Isabella’s ear for the entire day, and he had never liked that woman. Too political for her own good.
Bonvilain sulked through the meal, complaining that the wine was tepid and the soup too salty. The lobster shell, he declared, was far too brittle.
Even Sultan Arif, a Turkish mercenary who had been with Bonvilain for more than fifteen years and risen to the position of captain, raised an eyebrow at this.
‘A Templar concerned for the state of his lobster?’ he said. ‘You have been at court too long, Marshall.’
Bonvilain calmed himself. Sultan was the closest thing he had to a friend, though he would have him murdered without remorse if it ever became necessary. Arif was the only man in the kingdom brave enough to speak plainly.
‘It’s not just the lobster,’ he said, nodding towards Declan Broekhart.
‘Ah, yes. The lapdog remembers that he is actually a guard dog.’
‘Exactly,’ said Bonvilain, happy with Sultan’s imagery.
Sultan tossed a stripped chicken bone on to his plate. ‘In Turkey, if a guard dog turns on its master, then we simply slit the beast’s stomach.’
Bonvilain smiled at the idea. ‘You can always cheer me up, Captain. But this particular dog is very popular, as is his mistress. We must consider this problem carefully.’
Sultan nodded. ‘But don’t rule out my solution.’
Bonvilain stood, as a toast was proposed to the new queen.
‘No,’ he whispered to Sultan Arif. ‘I never rule out stomach slitting.’
Sultan smiled, but his eyes were cold. Every season, he promised himself that he would leave this madman and return to Ushak. In fact, Bonvilain was barely a man any more. He was the devil. And sooner or later the devil destroyed everything in his reach. It was his nature.
After the coronation dinner, the official celebrations began, though for the 3,000 Saltee islanders and more than 6,000 visitors, the celebrations had been in full swing since the moment the papal nuncio laid the ermine-trimmed crown on Isabella’s head.
There was a strong army presence on the street. No one below the rank of lieutenant had been given leave to enjoy the coronation. In fact, Bonvilain had borrowed a company from the English General, Eustace Fitzmorris, stationed in Dublin, and paid handsomely for the privilege. An extra 130 troops with instructions not to tolerate verbal abuse or public drunkenness and to keep a special eye out for Frenchmen acting suspiciously.
There was a carnival atmosphere as Queens Isabella and Victoria mounted the dais outside the palace at Promontory Fort. The citizens congregated in Promontory Square, and listened raptly as the new queen delivered her first royal address.
Bonvilain could not fail to notice that she squeezed Catherine Broekhart’s hand for courage throughout.
Sultan leaned in to comment. ‘A fine speech,’ he said. ‘I especially liked the phrases tax revision and political amnesty.’
Bonvilain made no reply. He was beginning to wonder if he had miscalculated by allowing Isabella to live. He had supposed she would be easily manipulated, and until now she had been. Also, he needed an undisputed heir on the throne. It would be most inconvenient if a dozen or so gold-digging pretenders landed at Saltee Harbour with a family tree rolled up under their arms, and their own agenda for the Saltee diamonds. Great Britain and of course France would be delighted to see political uncertainty in the Saltees – it could be just the excuse they needed to step in and support a new order. This was Bonvilain’s kingdom, but he needed a figurehead to keep him in power.
No, Hugo Bonvilain decided. Isabella needed to live, at least until she provided an heir to rule after her. Then there would be an unfortunate accident. In the royal yacht perhaps.
Sultan spoke again. ‘Ah, you’re smiling. In public too.’
‘Thinking pleasant thoughts,’ said Bonvilain, waving a jolly wave down the line at Declan Broekhart.
Declan Broekhart was on the verge of enjoying himself, though every time a smile tugged at his lips, it was accompanied by a twinge of guilt as he remembered his dead son.
What were you doing in the palace, Conor? How could I have put you in that man’s care?
It was still difficult to believe how easily Victor Vigny had fooled them all. Catherine had refused to believe that Vigny was a spy and assassin, until a search of his quarters revealed a trunk of weapons and poisons, detailed plans of the Saltee defences and a letter from an unnamed author threatening to kill Vigny’s family unless he obeyed his orders.
Catherine saw her husband’s eyes cloud over, and realized she was losing him to memories.
‘Isn’t this fabulous, Declan,’ she said, stroking her husband’s hand. ‘Isabella is queen. A great day for the islands.’
‘Hmm,’ said Declan. ‘Those English soldiers are a disgrace. Ruffians, every last one of them. I wouldn’t be surprised if Fitzmorris cleaned out his prisons. Look at them, unshaven, slouching ne’er-do-wells.’
‘Your sharpshooters look well enough.’
‘Yes, they do,’ said Declan, proud in spite of himself.
A dozen of his men stood on the Great Saltee Wall across the square, level with the top step of the dais. They were buffed, brushed and smart in their dress uniforms, gold epaulettes winking in the lamplight. They seemed almost like identical toy soldiers but for one thing – each carried his own distinctive rifle. Most were Sharps, but there were a couple of Remingtons, an Enfield and even some modified guns. The sharpshooters were the best marksmen on the islands, and it had always been army custom to allow these elite soldiers the weapon of their choice.
One of Isabella’s aides passed a folded note to Declan. He read it quickly, then sighed, relieved that there was no emergency.
‘Queen Victoria is tired,’ he explained to his wife. ‘But she would like to see the balloons before she retires to the royal yacht.’
Catherine smiled. ‘Everyone wants to see these balloons, Declan. Fireworks balloons, what an ingenious idea. Nitroglycerine bullets, I imagine.’
‘You are right, as usual,’ said Declan, thinking, Conor would have adored this. It’s just the kind of harebrained scheme he would have come up with himself. ‘It’s a little early for the full effect. Not yet fully dark.’
Catherine pinched his shoulder. ‘Away with you to your men, husband. This is not a day for disappointing queens.’
‘Or wives for that matter,’ said Declan, with a rare smile.
Declan moved easily across the square. Even the biggest braggarts and drunkards stepped smartly out of his path. It did not do to trifle with an officer of the Wall with a Saltee Sharphooters’ badge on his shoulder. Especially Declan Broekhart, who didn’t have much use for life since a rebel took his son.
His men were waiting on the Wall, faces sweating above stiff collars and below hard hats.
‘Not long to go, boys,’ said Declan, digging deep inside himself to find the spring of camaraderie that once flowed freely. ‘A pint of Guinness for every man who finds the target.’ He peered across the sound at the glowing balloons straining on their leashes, nearly a mile away in half darkness. ‘Make that two pints of Guinness.’
‘Now you’re talking,’ muttered one brave lieutenant, a skinny Kilmore man whose father had served on the Wall before him.
Captain Broekhart grunted. ‘She’s all yours, Bates.’
Bates leaned a modified Winchester on the battlements, flicking up his sights.
‘Your own barrel?’ asked his captain.
‘Yessir,’ said the sharpshooter. ‘Had it bored special, and added three inches to the length. Keeps the bullet on the straight for another hundred yards or so.’
Declan was impressed. ‘A neat trick, Lieutenant. Where did you pick that up?’
‘You, sir,’ said Bates, and pulled the tri
gger.
It was a long shot. Long enough that they heard the gunshot before the bullet hit its mark. The glowing globe exploded in a riotous ball of Chinese sparks.
‘Two pints to me,’ said Bates, grinning.
Declan groaned ruefully. ‘I shall be a poor man before the night is out.’
He turned to wave across the square at Catherine. She was on her feet applauding, as was everyone on the dais, including the normally stern Queen Victoria. Isabella, who had not yet got the hang of royal decorum, was hooting with delight.
Declan turned to his men.
‘It looks like you boyos are to be the heroes of the night. So, who will be the next to take beer from me?’
A dozen rifles were instantly cocked.
Conor flew up so fast, it felt as though he were falling down. None of his calculations could have prepared him for the sheer chaos of his flight. He’d entertained notions of a brisk elevation, but calm and steady, with time to collect his thoughts and observe his surroundings. In short, master of the situation.
But this was a waking nightmare. Of all the elements in this equation, Conor had least control. There was wind in his face, blasting across his eyeballs, stuffing into his ears. He was deafened and almost blind. His arm was strained to the limits of muscle and bone, and finally with a violent gust of wind, nature casually dislocated Conor’s shoulder. The pain was a white-hot hammer blow that spread across his upper chest.
I have failed. I cannot escape alive. Just let me lose consciousness and wake in Paradise.
This class of fatalistic thought was not normal for Conor, but these were extraordinary circumstances.
It seemed as though his arm would be ripped away utterly, and when this did not happen, his keen senses sliced through the fog of pain and pandemonium which enveloped him.
The balloon was gaining height, but its acceleration had slowed, and the air currents were calmer at this particular altitude. Conor knew he had to make any observations he could during this lull.
Altitude? Perhaps fifteen hundred feet. Drifting towards Great Saltee.
The islands shone below him like diamonds in the foreboding sea. Hundreds of lamps bobbed on the decks of visiting crafts, anchored off Saltee Harbour. Stars above and below.
