The Laughter of Carthage: The Second Volume of the Colonel Pyat Quartet (Colonel Pyat Quartet Series Book 2)

by Michael Moorcock

  Later, when he had reduced the power and there was a lull in the wind, the major shouted above the engine’s whine: ‘These smaller blimps don’t have enough power, so can’t keep their course as efficiently as the big ships. In decent weather they’re a lot easier to handle.’ The altimeter in my cockpit showed we were now a thousand feet up while my speedometer indicated forty-five knots. At first I had felt uneasy in my stomach but the sensation was forgotten as I peered through the windscreen at wide fields and strips of trees. Immediately below were the railroad tracks which, as was normal in those days of primitive instruments, Major Sinclair followed. Soon I was enjoying the spectacle of a long freight train moving like a fire-breathing snake across the brown and yellow ground. Occasionally there would be a tiny car or, more commonly, a horse-drawn buggy on a dirt road, a small farm, a collection of shacks, a mansion, still doubtless the core of some great plantation. The sky remained lively, the sun was frequently obscured by garish, unstable cloud. Major Sinclair planned to put down in Little Rock for the night. There he could also refuel, complete his business in Arkansas, then head South East for Tuscaloosa and more benzene. From there, he said, it would almost certainly be a direct flight to Atlanta. He usually carried a rigger with him, but the man had been caught drunk by the police in Knoxville some nights ago and was in jail. (Major Sinclair no longer had any use for him. ‘He can let me down and I’ll give him a break. But I won’t let him drag the Klan under. He knew what would happen to him.’) Our job in Little Rock was chiefly to ‘show the flag’. We would advertise the newspaper by taking a few turns over the city, drop some leaflets, drive home the fact that the Klan was not the mob of disaffected farmhands and backward manual labourers people claimed. Then we would land just outside the city and take delivery of funds for the central treasury in Atlanta. Personally, I would be glad to be heading east again. At that moment we fought headwinds. If they remained constant they would help us when at last we turned towards Georgia. Major Sinclair constantly had to correct course while I, checking map and compass, acted as observer. Great stretches of land were virtually featureless to my unfamiliar eyes and I prayed I correctly identified the few rivers and small forests, the tracks and plantations which occasionally appeared below.

  As we crossed deeper into Arkansas on the Western banks of the Mississippi I noticed less land under cultivation. There seemed to be more virgin forest. We had entered a country of smallholdings and cropsharers and consequently found still fewer features by which to steer. The wind gradually reached its former strength. Major Sinclair was forced to give his whole attention to controlling the ship while I desperately scanned the ground for landmarks even remotely resembling those on my map. Soon it began to rain and I could see little of the terrain. Eventually we were flying entirely by our compass. The rush of sleet and wind on the hull overhead, the roar of our engine, the whining suspension rigging made it impossible to hear anything else. My goggles streamed with water. It was difficult even to make out Major Sinclair’s head and shoulders in the forward cockpit. This extreme discomfort and uncertainty was frequently the most familiar aspect of the ‘romance of flying’ in those days.

  Almost at the moment I had managed to adapt myself to all this, the wind suddenly hit us like waves. It pounded us with enormous force. Our gondola began to bounce dramatically in her cables. I was certain we must either be flung out of our cockpits or be wrenched piecemeal from the battered gasbag. I saw Major Sinclair shaking his head urgently and signalling with his hand. We were going down. I was convinced we were crashing. My shaking body at once became still. Calmly, I prepared myself for death.

  The machine’s nose already dipped towards the ground; the gondola had begun to swing from side to side, like a crazy pendulum. As Major Sinclair valved out gas for a rapid descent, the engine’s noise was lost behind us. We had hardly been in the air for five hours. I thought it ironic that, with all my dreams of magnificent flying liners, I should die in this ramshackle government surplus antique. But then the ship eased out of her descent and I knew Major Sinclair had regained control. I hoped we were close to Little Rock. It was more likely my friend wished to get below the worst of the storm to check our bearings. The gusting rain continued to swing us from side to side and I was still fearful our hawsers must snap. Gradually I was recovering my nerve when without warning the engine cut out.

  The ship was thrown helplessly backwards and sideways by the wind. I could understand nothing of Sinclair’s gesticulating yet it was plain we had no choice but to land. I had no idea how he planned to accomplish this. Normally there had to be people on the ground to take our mooring lines. My friend was probably hoping to find a small town or large farm able to supply a party of men large enough to pull us to earth. I was experiencing at first hand the real disadvantage of the small airship over the light aeroplane. Moreover, without wireless equipment The Knight Hawk had no means of requesting assistance.

  The rain gradually became lighter and the air much calmer by the time we had drifted low enough to make out a dismal panorama of waterlogged fields, a scattering of thin trees. In the grey light it seemed the whole world had been turned into a wasteland of yellowish excrement. For a moment I thought we were already dead, condemned to Limbo. Then Sinclair shouted and stabbed his left finger at the starboard horizon. Emerging from the mud, almost like a natural formation, were buildings little different in colour to their surroundings. Again the major concentrated on his engine, cursing to himself, forced to stop every few moments as he shook water from his arm or wiped his face. Then, shuddering in its frame, the engine spat rapidly, let out a series of unhealthy coughs, and came to life. Sinclair was yelling to me; the propeller spun, we lumbered forward. I could not hear him. Urgently he signalled for me to lift our grappling hook out of the spare cockpit to my right. With this, as he had earlier explained, he hoped to effect a temporary mooring. Once I understood, I leaned over to obey him; whereupon the gondola swayed sickeningly. I was only able to save myself from being pitched out by driving my knees into the side of my compartment. Busy with his control vanes, Major Sinclair could not help me. The rope was curled on top of my surviving suitcases. Sweating and close to panic I finally grasped an end, drawing it in towards me as the gondola resumed a relatively normal angle. For a second or two I sat back, taking enormous breaths, then I prepared the grappling hook in my right hand, ready to drop it over the side.

  With a glance back to make sure I was ready, Sinclair tilted the ship even more radically, driving it down like a monstrous artillery shell at the shacks ahead. The light was fading so rapidly I was afraid I would be unable to see to aim our anchor. ‘Get a tree!’ Sinclair shouted. ‘Or a hedge. A fence is no good!’

  He reduced speed, holding the ship almost stationary against the blustering wind which still caused the gondola to sway horribly. Twice, as I squinted through the gloom, I missed the chance to hook a stunted tree. By now it was twilight. Finally, in desperation, I hurled the thing at random into a field. It stuck into something but we continued to drag for yards until, to my enormous relief, the machine halted with a jerk. Major Sinclair switched off the engine, steadying the craft as best he could. We peered into the semidarkness below. We were less than fifty feet from the swampy ground. Sinclair reached behind him and pulled back the cover from the little winch. We each took a handle and, by careful calculation, gradually got The Knight Hawk down.

  Our good spirits recovered, we grinned like fools at each other. The winch was secured. Major Sinclair shouted to me to put my rope ladder over the side and get down to check that the anchor was firmly planted. The wind was still high; our gasbag boomed and rippled; the hawsers creaked. I was still cheerful as I climbed down the swaying ladder and, after about ten feet, felt my flying boots sink into mud. I followed the grappling line to where it had dug itself behind a rock, called up for some slack, then wound the rope around a small oak. Our machine was safe for the night.

  We should now, of course, have to wait until m
orning before continuing our journey. This was normal practice in those days when bad weather would bring any kind of aircraft to an unexpected stop. That was why aviation experts like myself were struggling to produce machines unaffected by sudden storms, which would be able to fly at night. My own ideas were far in advance of Sinclair’s ship, which was of a type first built in 1914, but design had not altered much in eight years. Airships were more costly to develop and maintain than small aeroplanes.

  Although inconvenienced, neither of us was surprised by this turn of events. A flyer tended to congratulate himself if he completed a journey without coming down at least once. By the time Major Sinclair stood beside me in the field, it was very dark. He shook his head and shrugged. He had been over-optimistic, he said. He had expected the north-easter to subside. We now had no choice but to request hospitality from the nearby buildings. I asked if it was prudent to leave the ship unguarded. He laughed, taking me by the arm. ‘You think some nigger’ll steal her! Let’s go, colonel. We’ll see if we can get a bite of hot food.’

  We struggled through the mud towards the dim, yellowish lights of oil lamps. Overhead, clouds moved swiftly in the sky. From time to time the moon revealed buildings ahead: rough, unpainted shacks repaired with patches of rusting metal and miscellaneous lengths of timber. As we approached, a figure appeared in the light of an entrance, staring out of its lean-to for a few seconds. Then, suddenly, the door was slammed. In another unglazed window several small black faces observed us from cover. I began to feel uncomfortable. Major Sinclair chuckled. ‘They’re just nigger shacks, colonel. There should be something else further on.’ We made our way through this decrepit shtetl, hearing the clucking of chickens, strange, stealthy sounds, the creak of a shutter, until at last we reached a dirt road. A little further on we found a group of houses on either side of the road. These were in almost as bad condition as the others. However, Major Sinclair seemed confident we should do better there. Advising me to imitate him, he removed his helmet and goggles. ‘Folks here are a little wary and more than a mite superstitious. We don’t want some fool taking a shot at us because he thinks we’re robbers or spooks.’ While I waited at a broken-down gate, he selected one of the nearby houses and walked up the yard calling out, ‘Hi, there! Is anybody home?’ He knocked at the frame of a ragged screen door. I saw a candle flicker on the other side. Major Sinclair began to tell someone we did not need to speak to the man of the house. We were passing through and wanted a place to stay for the night. ‘Thank you kindly, ma’am,’ he said. He returned to me, shaking his head and smiling. ‘They aren’t much brighter than the niggers. None of the men are back from the fields yet and she won’t open her door to strangers. There’s a preacher down the road about half a mile. Let’s hope he’s more helpful.’

  The muddy track took us between broken fences, collections of unidentifiable detritus, thin, bare trees, hen coops and pig pens. We passed the occasional silent, wide-eyed unhealthy child or ragged, thin-faced woman. Nobody spoke to us. In the moonlight the whole miserable settlement was eerie and menacing, stinking of hopeless poverty. I had never expected to experience again those weeks when I had the misfortune in, 1919, to be stranded on the Ukrainian steppe. Yet here, in America where everyone was supposed to be so much richer, people of European descent plainly endured the same burden of unspoken, habitual despair; villagers so starved of food or mental stimulus they lived out their entire lives in a helpless trance. I could not tell if their general appearance of idiocy was a result of circumstance or interbreeding, but I had seen the same expressions in Russia, in the slums of Constantinople. I was glad to reach the clapboard church with the preacher’s shabby house beside it, a collection of youngsters, scarcely any more articulate or better fed than the rest, playing in the yard. A woman in a cheap print dress came out to the porch door. She grunted a question. She had light grey eyes, a cancerous skin and was not more than forty, though her hands had the stained, blotchy look of the very old. Returning a cautious, tired smile in answer to Sinclair’s courteous question, she said her husband was over at the other church holding the Wednesday prayer meeting. He would be back around nine. Major Sinclair explained our problem. The preacher’s wife said we should go back down the road a piece, to Miss Bedlow’s. She rented rooms. My friend saluted and said we were much obliged. Again I was reminded of the wretched shtetl synagogues, the ramshackle churches of Ukrainian peasants, their priests often as ignorant as the communities they served. I said nothing of this to Sinclair, however, for in a dim way I thought I might offend him.

  Eventually we made out a sign we had missed on the way to the church. Miss Bedlow’s house had once been painted green. Someone had attempted to cultivate the front yard and the porch seemed in reasonable repair. Major Sinclair advanced up the few wooden steps. Again he knocked. This time I could clearly see the man who answered, for the light was brighter. He was fat. He had red, weather-beaten features, a bullet head, pale hair, almost no eyebrows. He wore a pink undershirt and overalls which he had loosened at the top. Something he was chewing stained the corners of his mouth. Though he did not seem greatly suspicious he made no attempt to disguise his curiosity, staring from me to Major Sinclair and back again. My friend explained our predicament. The fat man slowly became impressed until he almost stopped chewing altogether. ‘You boys flyers?’ I could hardly understand him. The words had actually sounded to my ears like ‘Y’baahs flahars’ but with extra vowels. I am famous for my quick ear and ability to reproduce accents and vocabularies. This came close to defeating me. The man went back into the house, calling for Miss Bedlow who emerged, a well scrubbed colourless woman in an old-fashioned woollen dress. She had one room she could rent us, she said, but we would have to share a bed. The charge was a dollar each, plus twenty-five cents apiece if we wanted breakfast. She could fix us supper now. Pork and greens would be another thirty cents. Gravely Major Sinclair told her the terms were reasonable (I think the woman was asking the most she dared) and she relaxed, inviting us in. The house smelled of mould and boiled food. The fabric of furniture, curtains and carpets was threadbare but clean and save for some differences of decoration was what one might find in the home of a Ukrainian moujik in similar circumstances. This was my first real experience of the American peasant and it depressed me. I had expected more, I suppose, of the United States. We went up the creaking staircase to our room, stripped off our flying gear, washed in the basin provided and went down again to be introduced to the other guests. Two elderly widows, the fat man, a grim farmhand and a young half-wit all showed comical astonishment at my accent. When Major Sinclair told them I was from England it created no specific change in their expressions.

  The fat man spoke first. He had served in France for over a year. He had heard England was pretty. Was it anything like France? In some ways, I said. In others it was more like Maryland. He had never been to Maryland. He heard it was pretty there, too. He frowned for a while, then offered his view that France could also be mighty pretty, though it was a terrible thing what those Boshees had done to her. Shrugging, he added: ‘But I reckon she’s more cleaned up now than she was.’ I said her wounds were healing.

  Seeing the difficulty we were both under Major Sinclair took over the bulk of the conversations, since I could follow them scarcely any easier than they could me. He explained where we were bound, why we had come down. He also managed to say a little about the Ku Klux Klan, the problems of whites undercut by black labour. The fat man said they never had trouble with their niggers, except once some buck got drunk on moonshine and the Sheriff over in Carthage had to come out.

  ‘Did you say Carthage?’ I thought I had misheard.

  ‘Sure did,’ said the fat man, wondering at my obvious curiosity. He waited politely for me to say more.

  ‘There’s Carthages all over,’ Sinclair said with a smile. ‘And Londons and Parises and St Petersburgs.’ He returned his attention to the fat man. ‘Then we’re not too far off course.’ He unfolded our m
ap. ‘Here’s Pine Bluff. And this here’s Little Rock. Yes, now I see.’ He was pleased. ‘We’ll be there by tomorrow noon for sure,’ he said to me.

  Like me, Major Sinclair ate sparingly of the abominable mess of grease and pulped vegetable served us. Then there was nothing else to do but say goodnight and return to our room where we slept uncomfortably, back to back in our clothes, until dawn. When I looked out of the narrow window at bare trees and broken rooftops, I was relieved to see the wind had dropped. The grey cloud had lifted; an early morning sun rose into a sky full of heavy cumulus promising dry weather.

  After a breakfast of bacon and grits we paid Miss Bedlow. She told us who she thought would be able to help us with our ship. Two or three houses back down the dirt road, in a yard full of old tyre rims and rusting metal, we approached two wiry young men who lounged outside on a porch so rotten half the boards had fallen in completely. These were Bobby and Jackie Joe Dally. Major Sinclair quickly struck a bargain with them and the four of us set off to where we had moored the ship. By now word had evidently spread throughout the settlement. We were the centre of attention. First the white children, then the women, then the old people fell in behind us. By the time we could see The Knight Hawk’s swaying gasbag we had come to the negro section. Scores of blacks, keeping their distance from the whites, crept in a staring mass at the rear as our procession entered the field.