Iron Horsemen

by Brad R. Cook

  “Captain, I wish to aid this girl,” the boy in the blue turban said. “Her father helped smuggle me out of India.”

  “I understand.” Baldarich nodded. “Well, young lady, this is going to cost you—to Gibraltar and back, plus fighting. ’Cause you know there is going to be fighting. But we are having a deal on saving damsels in distress, and I owe this guy a favor or two. It will cost you a thousand Pounds Sterling. Same offer I made your father.”

  I sighed and leaned against the one of the corridor arches. Where would we ever get that kind of money?

  Genevieve smiled and nodded. She stuck out her hand. “Deal.”

  The captain laughed and clasped her hand in his. “Welcome to the Sparrowhawk!”

  CHAPTER 8

  THE SPARROWHAWK

  Baldarich gestured toward the cowboy. “This is my first mate, Ignatius Peacemaker, fastest draw this side of the Atlantic.” The cowboy tipped his hat to us as the captain turned to the man on his left. “That’s Hunter, and this beauty is Gretel, his elephant gun. The man you really owe is my boatswain, Indihar Singh. He’s in charge of the crew so you call him Mr. Singh.”

  I gestured toward the boy. “But he’s a kid?”

  Baldarich laughed. “That’s why he’s so good. He’s a Sikh, only seventeen, but he’s the best warrior I got, and the kid knows how to airsail.”

  I nodded to the three men, relieved to have found some help. The dripping wet Genevieve curtsied in her men’s clothes.

  Baldarich leaned toward Ignatius, “Get us out here, have bunks prepared and let Gustav know there’ll be two more for dinner.” He started to walk off, but stopped and turned around. “Mr. Singh, get them something dry to wear.”

  Mr. Singh bowed. “Please, this way.”

  Genevieve and I followed as the other two men walked off in a different direction.

  The hull opened beside us and the long yardarm swung out and unfurled the wingsails. The Sparrowhawk lurched. Genevieve and I grabbed the brass-accented wooden handrail to keep from slipping. The outer door closed, leaving open pits where the wingsails had been.

  Mr. Singh simply swayed and continued on. Turning back, he smiled. “Your sky legs will come in time.”

  The bow rose and I found myself walking uphill. I heard the whirring and chug chug of the engines echoing behind me. I couldn’t wait to see the Sparrowhawk ascend into the sky. Flying had always been my dream, but until now it had remained only in my fantasies. Now it would be real. And flying with Sky Raiders, too!

  Mr. Singh led us down narrow steps to the cargo hold and gun-deck. Crates filled the center, marked with the fleur-de-lis, a golden, stylized, three-pedaled lily, one of the symbols of France.

  “Wow, cannon.” Two cannons sat on each side of the gun-deck toward the front, but I stopped next to a contraption that looked like a bunch of guns bound together. “What is that?”

  Mr. Singh smiled. “A six-barreled, hand-cranked, rapid fire Gatling gun. Captain picked them up after your country’s civil war.”

  “Can I crank the handle?”

  “No.” Mr. Singh opened the door to the forward compartment and they entered an open room with crates of cannon balls, ammunition, and other supplies for the gun-deck.

  The floor sloped upward and I realized we stood at the front of the ship. My broad smile couldn’t hide my excitement.

  The Sikh smiled and nodded to Genevieve, “I apologize that we don’t have better accommodations, but I don’t think you should bunk with the rest of the crew.” He bowed to us and said, “Ignatius will bring clothes and I shall return to give you a tour of the Sparrowhawk.”

  “Mr. Singh, I’m afraid this will not suffice.” Genevieve looked around at the room. “I cannot stay here. He’s a boy– it simply isn’t proper.”

  “A boy?” I shook my head. Why didn’t she just say a commoner and really dig the knife a little deeper.

  Mr. Singh bowed to Genevieve. “Perhaps I can build a wall between the two of you.”

  “I wouldn’t want to be an imposition.”

  “It would not be a problem.”

  I crossed my arms. “I still want to know what the problem is?”

  Mr. Singh walked over and tugged on several hammocks hung on the walls by ropes woven through the bunched canvas grommets. “Here is your bed. Flip this latch and your hammock will slide over and anchor to that beam.”

  I flipped one of the latches on the port side and the canvas unfurled. “I’ve always wanted to sleep in a hammock.”

  Mr. Singh nodded. “You will feel like you are floating.”

  Genevieve asked. “This room is for storage, right?”

  “Yes.”

  Genevieve looked around with a furrowed brow. “But this is also where we sleep?”

  “Yes”

  Her jaw clenched. “Does everyone sleep this way? Surely you have room set aside for sleeping.”

  “No, you are not the captain and only he has his own room.”

  Genevieve’s expression remained stoic. “I will just have to manage.” She bowed. “My gratitude for your assistance, Mr. Singh.”

  As the door shut behind Mr. Singh, I hopped in the hammock, letting my feet dangle.

  I noticed Genevieve tried to hide her smile as she watched the water drip from my clothes. She took a piece of canvas and arranged a place for Rodin, tucked up in the narrowest part of the bow.

  The little dragon picked at it with his claws, and with a final wiggle of his butt, settled down into a comfortable spot.

  I kicked off my sopping boots. “We have luck on our side.”

  “I suppose.” Genevieve cocked an eyebrow and shook her head. She went through her bag, and carefully folded her coat. “But nothing is going the way it was supposed to.”

  “I think this is a good thing. I’ve always wanted to travel in an aero-dirigible.” The Sparrowhawk leveled off and my hammock swung on its hooks. The buffeting winds pushed the whole craft up and down, and side to side as the unceasing whistling permeated the hull. “Moving though the sky will take some getting used to.”

  The door opened and Ignatius Peacemaker walked in. He tossed me some clothes, then walked over to Genevieve and set a bundle before her. “We ain’t got much in the way of women’s clothes but we recently borrowed a few crates from a French merchant ship.”

  Genevieve nodded. “Thank you.”

  Ignatius left, and Genevieve picked through the clothes. I threw off my wet shirt and reached for a rag to wipe off. I looked at her, fumbled for the door and tripped over a crate of cannonballs. “Ow!” I rubbed my leg. “Sorry, you change. I’ll be outside … sorry.”

  Closing the door, I sat on one of the cannons, and felt the chilling draft whip around me. I rubbed my arms to keep from shivering.

  The door opened, Genevieve stepped out and smiled. “Room’s all yours. You should really get out of those wet clothes.”

  My head snapped up. I did a double take, and tried to keep from staring. She looked so different from the ladies I saw walking around London. White pants tucked into high, brown leather boots rose above the knee with a flap at the top. A dark-brown leather corset with three brass-buckles covered a white top. A long, blue military overcoat gave her a noble appearance. Her fingers toyed with her locket’s silver chain. Whipping my gaze away, I ran for the room.

  Pulling my bundle of clothes apart, I found dark brown pants, a white button down, and brown boots. After dressing, I needed a belt. I took a leather strap from the wall and buckled it around my waist, but several feet remained. Without a proper knife to cut the strap, I kept wrapping it around myself—up over my shoulders and then down my right leg, where I buckled the end just above my knee.

  Looking down at my new attire, a surge of confidence stirred deep within. I stood a little taller. I’d never liked school uniforms, too constraining, and I could almost hear my schoolmates’ taunts. It made me smile; stiff suits were not my style.

  Genevieve waited for me by one of the cannons. Her
eyes widened. I walked up to her and asked, “So is the strapping too much?”

  “No,” she quickly replied.

  I smiled. “You look good, like a soldier, but in a noble way.”

  Her face lit up, but Mr. Singh interrupted and bowed. Genevieve returned the gesture and I tried, but my bow lacked their grace.

  “I am to show you the Sparrowhawk. Your duties will be assigned later.”

  “Duties?” Baldarich fired one last burst

  Mr. Singh laughed. “Come, the captain is waiting.”

  I ascended the stairs to the main deck, the middle of the three, and walked forward toward the bow. We passed a room with a two long rows of hammocks stacked atop each other on the curved outer wall. From the other side, I heard pots banging as heavy footsteps thundered from the galley. I wanted to peek, and the smell was very enticing, but Genevieve pulled me along.

  Mr. Singh walked by a small door in the bow. “This is the forward gun-deck.”

  I wanted to see but we continued. “The Sparrowhawk is well armed,” I remarked.

  Mr. Singh smiled. “The captain is good at acquiring things.”

  Genevieve shot Mr. Singh a look with one eyebrow raised. “Things?”

  “All kinds of things.”

  He led us aft to the engine room, through a corridor lined with several large tanks. Three immense engines, their pistons and cranks revolving in syncopated rhythm, drove the vessel through the sky. Steam pipes twisted around the walls and ceiling, their segmented copper sections and brass fittings reminding me of my anatomy classes back at Eton. A man climbed through the rotating gears and propeller shafts but Mr. Singh continued before I saw him clearly.

  Genevieve stepped forward. “Pardon me, how did you meet my father?”

  Mr. Singh smiled with a pleasant expression. “It was a few years ago. Your father traveled throughout the Punjab fighting a rebel threatening the region.”

  “I remember that trip.”

  “The day the rebels exterminated my family, I drew my Kirpan.” He patted a curved dagger tucked into the sash around his waist. “I charged in to avenge them and would have been killed, but your father saved me. He smuggled me to some traders traveling the Silk Road. From there I made my way to Europe.”

  “I don’t remember that part. He never told me that story.”

  “Have you gone back since then?” I asked.

  “No, I believe my holy path lies elsewhere.”

  We climbed the narrow stairs to the top deck, and Mr. Singh pointed to the crawl spaces on either side of the shortened corridor. “Those lead to the helium containers, the large humps on both sides of the Sparrowhawk’s back. That will be your first duty in the morning, to inspect the tanks for leaks.”

  I stared at the small hatches, wondering what lay behind them. Was it dangerous? Could I get hurt? Was it goopy? It sounded like more interesting work than polishing brass fixtures. Mr. Singh passed a ladder leading to a small, round space above. I stopped. “Where does this go?”

  “The conning tower and out on top of the vessel.”

  I wondered if I could stand on top while it was moving. That would be fun.

  We passed two rooms on their way to the door at the end of the corridor. It opened onto the bridge of the Sparrowhawk.

  My heart soared as we entered. My eyes darted from one side of the room to the other. I stood on the bridge of an aero-dirigible. I wonder if they’d let me fly it?

  Mr. Singh pointed to the man in the brass pilot’s seat. “This is Coyote.”

  With both hands Coyote gripped the large wooden wheel like any ship of the sea. He cast a glance over the shoulder of his long, dark gray coat that draped all the way down to wooden deck.

  He looked thin but remained hidden beneath the bulky coat. I wondered if Coyote might be a gentleman, but his clothes weren’t nice enough. “Are you from a western state?”

  “I’m busy and you’re distracting me.”

  I cringed. “Sorry, it’s just that your name is—”

  “I know what my name is, kid. Have a seat and enjoy the ride.”

  I watched the pilot adjust our flight path not only by turning the wheel from side to side, but pushing it forward and back as well. Three copper throttle controls rose up next to his seat, and Coyote kept moving his gaze from the clear skies to a panel with a lever, switches, and dials.

  Several connected panels of glass allowed me to see the arcing blue horizon, and brass-ringed portholes gave me a view of what lay to either side.

  On the port side of the bridge, large and small brass dials, shiny knobs, and switches displayed the engines’ status and other gauges. On the starboard side, a map of Europe had been spread across a large flat table. Beside it, a wall of cubby holes each contained a different map.

  In the center, raised on a small platform, the captain’s chair sat behind a small brass railing. Four copper pipes rose up in front of the railing and bent toward the captain’s chair.

  As Mr. Singh, Genevieve, and I approached, the captain leaned forward, opened the hinge of the farthest left tube and called out, “Gears, this is the bridge. I want all three propellers by dinner.”

  A voice echoed back through the tube. “Aye, aye captain!”

  Captain Baldarich turned and welcomed us with a smile. “I see you got dry clothes. I didn’t think we had anything for a lady.”

  Genevieve smoothed out her jacket with her hand. “Ignatius said they were from the French crates you borrowed.”

  “Ah yes, let us thank the French.” Captain Baldarich laughed and Genevieve smiled. “So tell me, why do you need my vessel?”

  I walked around the bridge in awe. “My father and I moved to London last summer, he’s teaching at Eton College. It turns out he was summoned by Queen Victoria to help translate some ancient texts about a great evil that rises up every so often. A secret society, the Knights of the Golden Circle, kidnapped him so he’ll help them unleash that evil.”

  Captain Baldarich toyed with his moustache. “Sorry I asked. I hate to tell you, kid, but the world’s full of ancient evils. Could you be a bit more specific?”

  The smile drained from Genevieve’s face. “According to my father and his colleagues, every time a certain comet appears it heralds the four horsemen.”

  “You mean from the Bible? The four horsemen of the Apocalypse? From what Ignatius says they only come at the end.”

  She glared at him with a cocked hip. “The four horsemen are older than that. Apparently they have sown destruction through every age. My father used to tell me tales of our family’s heroes. I always thought they were just stories, until now.”

  My family marked me as a commoner, especially with her bloodline’s long history. I certainly would never know the queen or be able to make such a claim. She truly came from a different world. I’d often been made fun of at Eton by the boys with distinguished lineages, their two favorite lines, calling me a commoner among great men or a traitorous colonist.

  Captain Baldarich stood and opened all four speaker pipes, “Well men, we’re off on a great quest!”

  CHAPTER 9

  THE TALE OF CAPTAIN BALDARICH

  Genevieve and I followed the smell of spiced potatoes, bread, and beef stew to the galley. A long table left only enough room for the crew to squeeze around with forks in hand. The sound of the chef rooting around the kitchen accompanied the delicious aroma.

  My stomach grumbled and roared like Rodin. The little dragon looked down from Genevieve’s shoulder and cocked his head to the side. Everyone laughed as my stomach rumbled again and the captain slapped my back.

  “Don’t worry lad, Gustav will take care of that for you.” Baldarich turned to the doorway and yelled. “Hurry, our guest might pass out soon.”

  A thick German accent echoed from the kitchen, “Coming right up, captain!”

  I stepped back as the dirtiest man I had ever seen walked in from the corridor. Black grease and soot covered everything except his teeth, which glowe
d like moonlight in the middle of his midnight-colored face. He started to sit as Gustav emerged from the kitchen. The portly man in a white apron speckled with stew broth yelled, “Don’t you dare!”

  Gears froze, his backside hovering inches above the bench. In German he said, “You’re worse than the Kaiser. I just want a quick meal before heading back to the engines.”

  Mr. Singh stepped between them. “Gears, Gustav, no arguing. Many are hungry, including the captain.”

  A vain bulged on Gustav’s forehead. “Listen Donkeyman, I’ll not have you getting grease all over my food!”

  “Your food is already greasy.” Gears sat down and a cloud of soot rose up around him.

  Gustav slammed down the pot of stew and handed out bowls to everyone but Gears. “You don’t get any, you dirty wrench-rocker.”

  Shaking his head, Captain Baldarich turned to Gears. “Go wash your hands; I don’t want soot in my soup.”

  Gears left behind a happy Gustav who turned his attention to the newest guests of the Sparrowhawk. His scowl vanished like a passing wind, replaced by a large smile as he filled our bowls. In broken English he said, “Good stew for growing bones.”

  I drained my bowl and moaned in delight as the tender beef fell apart in my mouth. I savored the last of the squishy potatoes, carrots, and other vegetables in the salty broth and looked around the table to see what else I could eat.

  Everyone filed out of the galley and made their way into a large open area on the main deck. The crew who weren’t on duty sat around on crates and in a few hammocks hanging from the hull. One man played guitar, and another struck an empty barrel like a drum.

  Captain Baldarich sat beside me and Genevieve. He ordered Coyote to the bridge as Gears continued past them, looking eager to get back to his engines. The captain leaned back against the wall.

  I looked up at him and asked, “How did you become a Sky Raider?”

  The crew laughed and clapped their hands, as Baldarich leaned in and gave me a long hard look. I started to think I’d asked the wrong question until the captain slapped my shoulder, almost knocking me over. “It’s a grand tale. I used to serve in the Kaiser’s army.”