Iron Horsemen

by Brad R. Cook

  “Captain!”

  He spun around. “That witch has the worst timing.” He pointed at me. “Head down to the gun-deck and assist Mr. Singh.”

  “Aye, captain.”

  CHAPTER 25

  STORMS

  I ran to the gun-deck but found it empty. I began gathering cannon balls and powder charges next to the port side guns. The Storm Vulture approached from that side and from what I’d learned, we would bank, come alongside, and then the broadsides would begin.

  From the copper tube above, I heard the captain’s voice. “Battlestations! Port guns prepare to fire.”

  The crewmen charged down onto the gun-deck led by Mr. Singh. I set three pre-loaded magazines next to the portside Gatling gun. I looked up to find the Sikh watching me.

  “You prepared the guns?”

  I saluted. “Yes, sir, I knew we had to be ready and assumed the captain would keep them on the portside.”

  “Good job.” Mr. Singh commanded the gunners, “Open gun-ports and prepare to fire.” He shifted back to me. “Open the starboard ports as well. It will help clear the smoke.”

  I ran over and pulled a series of levers to snap open all the starboard gun-ports. A cold wind carrying the smell of rain whipped through the gun-deck. I ran into the forward compartment, grabbed my leather jacket and a pair of goggles. Returning to the gun-deck I saw the Storm Vulture coming alongside. Fear threatened to immobilize me, but I pushed it aside. Fear would have to wait; I had a duty to perform.

  The Sparrowhawk banked toward the Storm Vulture, and I wondered what Baldarich was thinking, until I realized the distance was closing between us. In moments we would be in position to fire, before the Storm Vulture would be ready. I smiled, and made a note to remember that tactic.

  Mr. Singh pointed his shamshir at the pirate vessel; the sword’s curved blade and handle remained firm in his hand. “Cannon one, fire. Cannon two, fire. Gatling, fire at will.”

  I watched as the first shot ripped through the hull of the Storm Vulture forward of the wing. The second plunged through above the wing as the Gatling gun aerated the hull just behind it. I jumped up, cheering the success.

  Mr. Singh stood stoically before the others and said, “Prepare to receive broadside.”

  Uh oh. I didn’t like the sound of that.

  The airmen manning the guns ducked behind whatever they could find, but Mr. Singh remained defiantly exposed in the middle of the gun-deck standing before the Storm Vulture.

  I saw four puffs of smoke from the Storm Vulture. Cannon shot ripped through the hull beside me. Dust and smoke choked the air, splinters of wood and shards of metal exploded across the gun-deck, biting my skin as they flew by. The outer hull peeled inward as a cannon ball punched through and whipped past me. Another passed harmlessly through an open gun-port and straight out the starboard side.

  Mr. Singh pointed his shamshir at the airmen. “Reload.”

  They returned to the cannons, and loaded their second shot as the men operating the Gatling gun opened fire. A shower of lead spewed a choking cloud from the barrel and filled the deck with smoke. The rapid fire of the Gatling ripped into the side of the Storm Vulture as fast as the men could crank the handle on its side.

  The chaotic scene playing out before me reminded me of a machine, they way everyone moved in unison, each with a function and a duty, like interlocking gears. The battle frightened me to my core and made me want to cower in a corner. But I knew there were no safe places on the ship and I needed to be prepared to jump into action at Mr. Singh’s next command.

  Mr. Singh aimed his shamshir at the Storm Vulture again. “Fire!”

  I saw a single puff of smoke from the last gun-port of the Storm Vulture, but only one. Had they held back one cannon from their broadside?

  Two cannon balls connected by an iron chain ripped through the first cannon’s gun-port. The chain-shot cut through the men manning the cannon.

  The second cannon on the deck of the Sparrowhawk, the one I stood frozen behind, roared in a burst of smoke and fire. The force messed my hair but I didn’t flinch, the horror before me locked my muscles and wrenched my insides into knots.

  I tried to reach the first cannon but slipped in the oil and blood, and crashed into the cast-iron weapon and its wooden carriage. I frantically searched for the burning rope to light the wick and fire the cannon. The punk lay beside the remnants of one body, extinguished.

  I looked around for another source of fire but saw nothing. The lamps that were lit now lay shattered on the deck. Mr. Singh ran to the cannon and tore a piece of his blue tunic. He dug a small shard of flint from the pouch on his belt and struck his sword above the fabric. A few sparks showered down but would not ignite the silk.

  Above him, I saw the little bronze dragon soar down the stairs to the gun-deck. I called out, “Rodin!”

  The dragon flew down and landed on the cannon.

  Mr. Singh stopped trying to light the cloth, which blew away in the raging wind, and said, “Remember to aim.”

  I sighted between Rodin’s legs and saw the side of the Storm Vulture through the whirling smoke. I pointed to the wick. “Rodin, fire, come on I need a fireball.”

  The little dragon wiggled his backside, all the way to his tail. He extended his neck and a small ball of fire shot out and ignited the wick.

  Sparks raced into the barrel and the cannon hurled its shot toward the Storm Vulture. The cannon recoiled back from the blast. I fell backward and avoided being struck by the ropes which held the cannon in place.

  Rodin flew toward the ceiling startled by the blast.

  We looked out through the smoke and saw a new hole in the engine room of the Storm Vulture. Black smoke billowed out the side.

  I clenched my fist and shouted with excitement. “We did it!”

  Mr. Singh looked over his shoulder at me. “Load another; I’ll get two men to relieve you.”

  “Aye Mr. Singh.”

  I picked up the tightly packed cloth powder charge and slid it into the barrel. With the ramrod held tightly in my hand I drove it to the base of the barrel.

  As I ran for the ball, Mr. Singh’s voice call out the dreaded words, “Prepare to receive broadside.”

  I looked for Rodin; he was just above me flying around the deck. I grabbed the bronze dragon, pulled him close to my chest, dove against the wall at the front of the vessel and prayed we would survive.

  The gun-deck exploded as the cannon shot ripped through, showering wood and metal on everyone inside. Shards tore into the wall above me, but Rodin and I remained unhurt. I popped up and saw Mr. Singh still commanding the deck. One of the airmen stepped around me with a small piece of metal in his arm and grabbed an iron ball.

  I sat up, but held Rodin tight to my chest. The little dragon clung to my jacket and kept its wings tucked close to its body. I rubbed Rodin’s horned nubs. The dragon looked just as scared as I felt. The smoke swirled, dissipating in the strong winds whipped up by all the holes and open ports. The smell of gunpowder and imminent rain filled the air, making me cough and choke.

  I called out to Mr. Singh. “What should I do?” The Gatling gun’s magazines had to be reloaded, more iron shot was needed for the cannons, and injured crew members needed care.

  My thoughts turned to Genevieve. Was she safe? I whispered to Rodin. “Go find Genevieve, make sure she’s okay.”

  Rodin flew off, soaring up the steps.

  Suddenly, the Sparrowhawk banked steeply to starboard and climbed higher in the sky. Everything not secured, including me, tumbled backward.

  I grabbed hold of the starboard cannon and righted myself. Looking out the gun-port, I saw the black clouds of the storm engulfing the Sparrowhawk. “The captain is brilliant to hide. The armada will never follow us in there.”

  Mr. Singh nodded. “But we could still be torn up by the high winds or lightning could spark the charges. We must trust in god.”

  I nodded, but Mr. Singh wasn’t making me feel any better. He
may put his trust in his god, but I put mine in the captain.

  CHAPTER 26

  CRASH LANDING

  Once the rain started, I wondered if it would ever stop. It pelted the vessel and poured through the shattered hull in sheets. The sound of hail battering the airship sounded worse than the rapid-fire of the Gatling gun as the Sparrowhawk was buffeted by the storm. The wind roared through the gun-deck, and Mr. Singh and I fought through it to seal the hatches. I hoped the captain knew what he was doing, but I feared that if the armada didn’t take us down, the storm would.

  The gun-deck plunged into darkness between each flash of lightning. After the hatches were sealed, I helped secure the cloth-covered charges to keep the gunpowder dry. Mr. Singh stopped me from loading the last four into a chest. He grabbed two and said, “Not these. You men wipe down the barrels. Alexander, load the cannon and plug the barrels. I want to be ready if the Storm Vulture comes into range.”

  I joined with the other men and said, “Aye, aye.”

  The crew wiped the rain out of the cannons. Once dry, a relative term in this heavy storm, I rammed the charge down the barrel followed by the iron shot. One of the airmen handed me a large wooden plug and I sealed it into the end of the barrel.

  “Just remember to remove it before you fire,” I said with a black-humored smile.

  The airmen laughed just as a lightning bolt arced inward from the outer hull and struck one of the cannon.

  Mr. Singh checked the cannon and sighed. “It didn’t ignite the powder, thank god.” He leaned out one of the holes in the hull. “I think the lightning rods have been damaged, they’re supposed to direct the lightning around the Sparrowhawk.”

  I wondered what would happen if it had exploded, but cast-iron shrapnel wasn’t something I wanted to see.

  Bolts of electricity arced past the Sparrowhawk’s starboard side, but I heard no thunder and it came from below.

  It wasn’t the storm.

  “The Storm Vulture’s lightning cannon?” I asked. “What do we do when they’re firing from behind and below us?”

  “We pray,” Mr. Singh said with his usual happy grin.

  “We don’t have any guns back there, do we?”

  “Go tell the captain, he may not be able to see the bolts. Tell him we have a surprise waiting for those jackals.”

  I extended my hand. “Be careful, Mr. Singh.”

  We grabbed forearms. “Watch yourself as well, Master Armitage.”

  I ran up the stairs and found the captain. “The Storm Vulture is firing its lightning cannon from behind and below us.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “Mr. Singh has a surprise waiting for those jackals.”

  Baldarich nodded and a devious grin crossed his face. “Now that is good news.”

  “Wait with your father.” The captain pointed to the professor who clung to the bolted-down map table. “I think I know how to get us out of this mess.”

  My father looked me over. I knew I was a mess, soaked with blood and rain, the smell of gunpowder clinging to my clothes, and scratched all over from the shivers of wood and metal that ripped through the gun-deck. Genevieve’s face registered alarm and concern, but I couldn’t read my father’s expression other than that he was not happy.

  The captain snapped his new pilot’s attention back to the wheel. “Genevieve! Put the wind on our backs, and get ready to turn our side to those vultures.”

  Genevieve struggled to turn the wheel as she let out a hearty, “Aye, captain.”

  Ignatius spoke up from the engineering station. “Captain, I don’t think the Sparrowhawk can handle the stress. We’re already buckling.”

  “She’ll hold,” Baldarich said with a smile. “I know something that witch doesn’t. The Sparrowhawk has integrated helium tanks but the Storm Vulture’s flying under an external hydrogen tank. It can’t handle the stress of the wind. Her external tank will be ripped away from the fuselage if she tries to follow us. Besides, maybe we’ll get lucky and one of those lightning bolts will find her hydrogen and give us a fireball to light our way.”

  The Sparrowhawk banked to port and I grabbed hold of the map table to avoid sliding across the bridge.

  The vessel lurched right and then back left, buffeted by the strong winds. Thunder roared around us, quickly followed by the rapid flashes of multiple lightning bolts. I noticed my father trying to count the seconds in between the thunder and lightning, a trick I’d been taught years ago to tell the distance from the center of the storm, but these came too close together. We were in the heart of the storm.

  I found my footing, let go of the map table, and ran to the port window. The black storm clouds had enveloped us making it darker than a moonless night – except when the lightning flashed.

  As electricity ignited the sky, the Storm Vulture burst through the dark, billowing clouds. I called out, “I see them. They’re still behind us.”

  Thunder crashed and I watched as lightning struck the Storm Vulture. I wanted to cheer, but the outer hull beside me peeled back in the high winds. My nerves told me to get away from the window, but I remained until I saw the sky pirate’s bank away from us. “Captain, the Storm Vulture’s turned starboard.”

  “Genevieve, hard to starboard!” Baldarich flipped open the copper tube and yelled, “Mr. Singh, fire all starboard guns!”

  The Sparrowhawk banked to the right. The guns erupted. The iron shot cut through the clouds and slammed into the front of the blimp, which blew apart in a fireball larger than any I had seen. But only the first compartment—the rest remained intact. The Storm Vulture limped into the dark clouds and disappeared.

  Thunder exploded and an ache in my gut told me something bad was about to happen. I turned to Baldarich, but the sky ignited as lightning crackled around us. The Sparrowhawk lurched, shook violently, and listed to port like a ship about to sink. My stomach tightened.

  Baldarich slammed his fist against the railing. “We’ve been hit! Was it the Storm Vulture?”

  I looked back out the window. “No, they’ve fled into the clouds.”

  Gear’s voice echoed up through the furthest left copper tube. “Captain, port wingsail’s been ripped to shreds! Also, pressure’s building in engine three. I have to shut it down.”

  Ignatius checked the dial and nodded his head. “It’s at the red line, captain. We don’t want it blowing up in this storm.”

  The captain shook his head. “But we can’t make it through these winds without it.”

  I stared into the dark clouds below. “We’re going down aren’t we?”

  “What kind of talk is that, lad?”

  A rumble echoed through the hull and the Sparrowhawk lurched suddenly, throwing everyone on the bridge from their posts. Captain Baldarich fell but held onto the railing throwing out his arm, he caught my father who grabbed me by the collar of my shirt. Ignatius tumbled out of his chair and hit the wall. Genevieve tried to remain at her post but was tossed from her chair causing the wheel to spin wildly. The Sparrowhawk listed far to port before finally turning on its side. We all tumbled onto the wall and the vessel nosed over hurtling everyone against the bow. Only Rodin was unaffected as he darted around the bridge avoiding debris.

  Baldarich and Genevieve struggled to climb up to the pilot’s wheel. The captain pulled himself into the seat and grabbed the spinning yoke. Yelling a guttural battle cry that hurt my ears, he pulled the wheel against his chest trying to right the Sparrowhawk.

  Ignatius clung to a rail at the bow of the vessel and looked at the gauges of the engineering section. “Engine three is about to blow and it looks like the other two have stopped. Cap, I’d say we’re—”

  “Don’t say it! I’ve never crashed a ship, and I don’t intend to start now.” Baldarich’s veins bulged in his forehead and his knuckles turned white. “Right yourself, you fickle beast!”

  I rolled over and looked out the window I’d fallen against. We’d broken through the cloud bank, and the li
ghts of a large city spread out below us, sparkling like the Milky Way on a crystal clear night.

  Genevieve grabbed the wheel with the captain and pulled hard. Slowly the Sparrowhawk began to level off, still listing severely to port.

  Ignatius ran to the copper tubes, flipped them all open, and yelled. “Gears! If you’re still alive, we need an engine now! Mr. Singh, get the port wingsail working!” He ran off the bridge, stumbling as he tried to navigate the debris and slanted deck.

  I stumbled over to the engineer’s station and studied the dials. None of the needles were in the places they were supposed to be. Out of the tumult, I heard my father’s voice.

  “It’s Paris, and it’s getting closer.”

  The captain’s voice strained as he continued to pull on the wheel. “Thanks for stating the obvious, Professor. Brace for impact.”

  My father ran to the map table and said, “Alexander, Genevieve, secure yourselves.”

  I unwrapped the leather strapping from my body, and tied one end around the railing of the engineer’s station. Genevieve left the captain and grabbed hold of me. I bound us together with the leather strap. Huddled side by side, we locked eyes. Then she called out for Rodin. The little bronze dragon flew down and landed beside us. Genevieve grabbed him and clutched him to her chest. I wrapped my arms around her and waited for the impact.

  Paris loomed below us, too close and getting closer. The Sparrowhawk’s nose still tilted downward and listed to port which caused it to continue turning no matter how steady the captain held the wheel. The winding Seine River cut the city in half and we appeared to be aimed at a large park on the western edge.

  Baldarich’s gritty voice squeezed through clenched teeth. “Let’s hope we miss the river. I don’t fancy a swim at the moment.”

  The captain wrangled the Sparrowhawk with all his might. Once over the river, he pushed forward on the wheel and the nose plunged into the park. The impact jolted the bridge, and Genevieve, Rodin, and I swung forward but remained secured by the leather strap. My father tumbled from underneath the map table, and the captain slammed into the wheel.