Airship Shape & Bristol Fashion

by Howard, Jonathan L

  Ben and Nathaniel replied in unison, “Yes?”

  Nathaniel sniggered. “Perhaps a formal introduction is required here. Miss Sarah Renshaw, may I present Lord Benjamin Craddock.”

  Ben bowed low.

  Sarah stood open mouthed.

  Nathaniel nudged Ben. “She’s catching flies, isn’t she?”

  “That she is,” replied Ben.

  Sarah snapped her mouth shut. “That is — is,” she paused and then smiled warmly, “Is genuinely wonderful. You two are almost everything I’m fighting for. Add in equality for women and we’ll change the world.”

  Nathaniel smiled, “Bristol first, then the world”. He went to search the carriage for a punch-card home.

  Sarah moved toward Ben. Her touch was warm and Ben, at that moment, forgot his pain, forgot his troubles. For one brief moment, he knew what it was to feel free and blissfully unaware of what anyone else might think. He leant toward her. Propriety forgotten, his lips moved toward hers.

  Suddenly, a red, thickly bound book came between their faces. Nathaniel held it at arm’s length between them. “Look what I found. It was underneath some fellow I just tripped over. He seemed to be missing some teeth. Is it important?”

  Ben took it from him and with only one good arm, awkwardly started to scan the pages.

  Sarah cocked her head and waved her hand in front of Nathaniel’s face. “Are you sure you cannot see?”

  Nathaniel snorted, “Blind, yes, but I never said I cannot see.”

  Ben snapped the book shut, nearly dropping it. “This is it! This is the ledger!”

  Nathaniel grinned, “Mission accomplished after all. Like you said, we can help at least one family get home. Probably even more with this.”

  Nathaniel reached out to embrace Ben, who winced as the broken arm and bruises made their presence felt.

  Sarah rushed to Ben, ahead of Nathaniel. “Let us get you home, shall we. Soon have you shipshape.”

  “And Bristol fashion,” Ben offered. “That’s how Father liked it.”

  The Lanterns of Death Affair

  - Andy Bigwood -

  The hangar doors opened, armoured slats pulling apart to reveal first a line of incandescent sunlight, and then the blue and white cloudscape of an English summer’s day. Chill high-altitude winds embraced the steamy air of Her Majesty’s Airship Great Southern’s interior, numbing the fingers of the boys as they held onto the bay’s rigging. As was to be expected the officers held their ground without recourse to any such safety aid, an example to their crewmen.

  Tom Bishop glanced in the direction of the anchor party. All five airboys stood to attention, eyes fixed on the opposite bulkhead. With all the resolution he could muster, he forced himself not to grin like an undisciplined snot. By some miracle of crew assignment his eldest brother Sam commanded the party and his other brother Matthew stood third in line. Likely as not the two had connived and inveigled their way onto the duty roster, probably at Matt’s instigation; Sam was far too much of an officer to hazard such a venture.

  “Pre-sent cable!” ordered Bosun Marckes.

  Sam stomped forward in a proper fashion and extended a hand gripping the polished brass cable cleat, “You have the cable, Mister Bishop.”

  Hastily Tom took hold of the cable, knowing he had already earned a beating for not having his hand open and waiting to receive.

  “I have the cable, sir,” he answered immediately, stamping forward three steps. With what he hoped looked like efficiency he clipped the thin anchor cable to the kite. “Anchor cable secure.”

  Further orders followed as each member of the anchor party attended to his part in the kite’s preparation. Matthew winked and gave Tom’s arm a reassuring squeeze as he attached his uniform’s webbing to the kite’s harness. To forestall his fears Tom focused his attention on the city below: Bristol, the Great Southern’s home station, a veritable hub of industry, her proud chimneys sending plumes of steam to join the scudding clouds. Trams and trains scuttled like the millipedes he’d seen in British Amazonia, whilst steam lorries chuffed resolutely, hauling the wealth of nations into England’s green heart.

  Once the boys were finished, the bosun stepped forward, inspecting the work for the slightest flaw. Whilst the cat-o-nine was no longer considered appropriate, it was widely believed among the boys that Mr Marckes had not handed his cat in and that it still resided in the mahogany case he kept in his quarters.

  “Are you ready to fly, Mister Bishop?” asked the Bosun, affixing him with a stare that might easily have turned Medusa to stone.

  “Yes, Bosun!” replied Tom.

  The bosun’s expression softened and he leaned close, the thump and hiss of the engines masking his words, “If you aren’t ready there’s no shame in it, lad. Not every ten year old has the brass to walk the plank at 8000 feet.”

  Tom blushed, certain that his complexion now matched his red hair. He had been less than forthright about his age when he’d taken the Queen’s shilling. In hindsight it seemed obvious the recruiting sergeant hadn’t looked further than his height and weight. The crown needed every able bodied hand for The War on Slavery, regardless of actual age.

  “I’m ready,” he insisted, his voice sounding squeaky.

  The Bosun looked him up and down one more time and finally nodded his approval.

  “Anchor away, Mr Bishop, in your own time.”

  Tom pulled down his flight goggles, took three breaths, and sprinted the length of the ship’s plank, launching his arrow shaped kite out into the high atmosphere. For a moment there was a terrible sensation of falling and then exhilaration as the red sailcloth wings filled out, converting his downward momentum into forward velocity. Behind him he could hear the undisciplined cheers of the anchor party and the thrum of the spindle as the anchor cable played out behind him.

  Below, Bristol was spread out like one of the Ordnance Survey’s photogrammetric maps. The spires of various civil airship stations were easy to pick out: Cathedral Green, Redcliffe and Cabot. Closer to hand was his destination, the vast black bulk of the Airfleet Tender HMS Warrior, her main docking mast standing tall above her sail masts and funnels. Tom adjusted his course to line up with the landing pad that formed the roof of the great ship’s sterncastle.

  Fleet rumour had it that one luckless airboy had missed his mark and unexpectedly joined the captain at his table via the employment of an open window. Dazed from his landing, the airboy had handed the surprised captain the anchor cable before collapsing insensible to the floor. Tom had no intention of appending his own name to the anecdote.

  Without warning the anchor cable briefly tightened, causing the kite to twitch in response. Glancing around, Tom realised what had happened. A military grade Chinese lantern had become entangled in the cable, the remnant of a Confederate cross burning to nothing as the fire-bale consumed its paper canopy.

  Treachery! In his slipstream a dozen more of the infernal devices drifted toward Great Southern’s vulnerable hull. Designed as a simple child’s toy, the inhabitants of far Cathay had soon learned that their lanterns were pure death to the hydrogen filled airships of the more advanced nations. The American slaver states had soon learned the technique and an engineering arms race had ensued. The current generation of airship had anti-conflagration paint and the war-lanterns in turn had gained a bamboo syringe designed to pierce the gasbag, allowing the hydrogen to meet the living flame with catastrophic consequences.

  Sam Bishop smiled, quietly proud of his brother’s steadfastness as he launched-anchor for the first time. The flightpath looked good in his opinion. Tom had previously earned the flight-name ‘Ducky’ for his tendency to make a kite’s wings flap uselessly. This time his little brother was holding up just fine. A series of small objects emerged from the clouds, and Sam’s eyes widened in shock, his hand instinctively reaching for the steam whistle’s chain.

  “All hands! Lanterns at six o’clock!” he yelled.

  The Bosun strode forward, grabbin
g the rigging next to Sam and taking in the situation at a glance.

  “Well spotted Mr Bishop. Duty flight… launch kites! Support crew… parachutes on, Marines; clear the Lewis guns for action to starboard. Now! Move! Move, damn your eyes!” Marckes turned to the speaking tube, “Bosun to Engineering! On my authority, Full ahead, Dump all ballast, make course 030 degrees port 12 degrees elevation! This is not a drill!”

  “Full ahead, dump ballast 30 port elevation 12 aye aye,” came the muffled reply, accompanied by a thump, thump, thump as the Great Southern’s boiler driven heartbeat quickened.

  Sparing his middle brother a glance Sam raced for the parachute rack and slipped the device across his shoulders. The infernal ladyskirt was designed to emulate the clothing of a suicidal lady who had survived a fall from Clifton Bridge. The crew universally held to the view that a ladyskirt parachute only worked if you dropped on top of very soft mud. Grabbing a second ladyskirt he thrust it into Matt’s waiting hand.

  “Be ready, Matthew. If we have to jump there’ll be no time for hesitation.”

  “Who would want to attack us here?” gulped Matt, glancing toward the marines who were hastily attaching a steam-line to the Lewis rapid-gun.

  “No idea. At least Tom’s clear of it.” Sam took a Lee-Metford rifle that was handed to him and passed it to Matthew. “Remember, aim for the fire bales.”

  With a sinking feeling Tom realised that most of the lanterns had already ascended beyond his reach. Worse, the act of looking over his shoulder had caused his kite to bank away, losing still more precious altitude. He forced himself to concentrate on the city below. Bristol was the squadron’s home port, a brazen attack here in the heart of the Empire should have been unthinkable. Fortunately the lantern was at heart a primitive foreign built device and could only be launched from directly below; finding the villains should be an easy task.

  Behind and above, a siren screeched ‘battle stations-ship’. The captain and senior crew would be safe enough. The gondola was expected to act as a land-battleship should the Great Southern be shot down, a crawling leviathan taking the Pax Britannia to the recalcitrant slave-ist states. Unfortunately the airboys and other crew had no such protection should the worst happen. Tom comforted himself with the knowledge that the company of marines were crackerjack shots with a rifle and well drilled against surprise attack. He offered a quick prayer for his brothers’ safety and focused his attention at the ground below. His was the only kite launched thus far, therefore detecting the enemy and retaliating fell to him alone. Some rotten fellow was going to pay a price when he caught up to him.

  A movement on the ground caught Tom’s eye. Almost everyone along the docks was standing still watching the unfolding affair, eyes tilted skywards. The exception consisted of two men, running, barging past gentlemen and ladies without any consideration of their sensibilities. A quick glance to the rear revealed a river barge with its holds open to the sky, doubtless the hiding place for their cargo of death.

  From below he heard the groans and gasps of dismay. The bosun had warned all the airboys, if you can hear the land, you’re about to hit it. Tom mouthed a curse that he knew his dear mother didn’t know he knew.

  His quarry was elusive. For several moments he feared that he’d lost them, assuming that they made for Redcliffe Air Station or the rail terminus of Temple Meads beyond it. Only at the last did he spot the two as they raced along the cobbled Welsh Back toward Bristol Bridge and the warren of medieval streets around Castle Green. He leant forward to accelerate the kite, sending it stooping toward the cobbled streets like a bird of prey.

  Flying is the easy part; it’s the landings that hurt. It was the first lesson every Imperial Airboy learned, often combined with lurid tales of unfortunates who’d been decapitated by telegraph wires, minced in the wheels of a traction engine or chased over a cliff by an enraged ram.

  Landing on Bristol Bridge seemed to be a capital idea at first. The reality was somewhat less agreeable. As Tom’s feet touched the ground a gust of wind pulled at the starboard wing, flipping the kite and leaving him dangling upside down from his harness. The kite’s wing undoubtedly attracted a liberal coating of horse droppings as it slid to a stop. For a moment Tom feared the Bosun’s wrath, before remembering that he was in hot pursuit and therefore might be excused some amount of disorder in the equipment.

  There was a hissing-click-clack sound. At first he didn’t comprehend the significance, associating the noise with the reptile vivarium at the zoological gardens. A moment later the true source of the sound became evident; the kite had come to rest straddling the pneumatic tramway. The hiss signified compressed air escaping from the central rail ahead of an approaching tram. Tom wondered briefly what he had done to deserve such a day, full of ill luck.

  Before he could move to free himself, some other person was fumbling with the fastenings of his harness. A second later he was pulled clear and thrown bodily across the road. The rescue was just in time, a moment later the driverless tram ploughed remorselessly through the anchor kite, breaking it utterly, never slowing in its journey toward its station.

  Tom opened his mouth ready to thank his rescuer, and then snapped it shut at the shame of it. An airboy… rescued by a young woman? The loss of the kite was bad news, but the bosun’s wrath was a small thing compared to the ribbing he would receive from the other airboys. Worst of all, the lady was pretty; that would make the teasing infinitely worse.

  “Well really!” snorted the young woman, placing white gloved hands on her hips and glaring down at him. “Have you no words of thanks, sir?”

  “I… “ sputtered Tom, before reality caught up. “Thank you, Miss.”

  “Better! Now, as pertains the two miscreants you were chasing, I believe they have just now ducked into that barber’s shop,” replied the lady, indicating the half-timbered Dutch House with a nod of the head (it would have been unseemly to point).

  “But how did you… “

  “Elementary, as they say. Will you be after them or should I attend to the matter?”

  Tom blinked in surprise; the girl really was exceptionally forthright (and pretty). She was also correct; every moment counted. Pulling his Webley from its holster he sprinted up High Street toward the labyrinth of old shops.

  “Good heavens!” protested the elderly gentleman sat in the barber’s chair.

  For a moment Tom made the natural assumption that the presence of the handgun was the cause of the customer’s discomfort. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed the true cause of dismay, the young lady from the street had followed him in, completely disregarding the ‘gentlemen only’ sign.

  “Two scoundrels… where are they?” demanded the girl.

  “Ran straight through and into the old Guardhouse Passage, Miss,” replied the barber.

  Without further ado the girl charged through into the back-of-shops alley that took its name from old gatehouse that straddled it. Tom followed, bumping into her as she stopped abruptly. Like all such private commercial spaces, The Backs was cluttered with detritus. Crates, bicycles, a broken handcart and a variety of less than savoury debris filled the narrow passage with a cornucopia of hiding places and bolt holes.

  “Beg your pardon, Miss. But you should allow that it’s best if I went first.”

  “Emms,” replied the young woman.

  “Sorry?”

  “My name… Emaline Brice. But you may call me Emms. I won’t have you calling me Miss, it’s demeaning.”

  “Tom Bishop, Airboy 2nd Class. I really must insist, Miss Emms, I believe those men to have murderous intent.” Tom earned another glare for his use of ‘Miss’. “They just tried to firebomb an Imperial airship.”

  To Tom’s surprise the revelation did nothing to discourage Emms, eliciting only a pursing of the lips and a raised eyebrow. Carefully he inspected the nearest hiding places, keenly aware that the villains might easily overwhelm him in such close quarters. “I wonder why they cut through here, had they turn
ed right instead of left they could easily have lost all pursuit in St Nicholas Market.”

  “Rats running to a nest, I’ll be bound,” replied Emms. “I’d hazard that they’ve a hidey-hole in what’s left of the castle’s cellars and dungeons.”

  “I thought they were all collapsed to make way for the pneumatic tramlines?”

  “Hardly. This part of town is sat atop a veritable warren left unused since Protector Cromwell slighted the castle,” said Emms. Her tone implied that any boy with more education than a chimney sweep might be expected to know all such facts.

  “Likely you know of an entrance then,” scoffed Tom, infuriated by the girl’s lack of decorum. Why, he wondered, could she not simply swoon and be saved by a dashingly heroic military lad in the fashion depicted in the pages of the Illustrated News?