Bill’s eyes widened at the sight of what was now a giant fuse for their own floating bomb. The French airship blew apart again, like a bouquet of late-blooming flowers of red, gold, and yellow; but still a section of hull was coming for them. It would have been impressive and rather pretty had it not been for that uncomfortable fact.
“Hard to starboard!” screamed the captain in a burst of sudden sanity. “Hard to starboard!”
“It’s not going to matter,” Bill spat as the wheel in his hands locked hard to the right. “We’re not fast enough.”
The French bow careened into their already-unstable main deck, making their gondola pitch and sway dangerously. Flaming debris now struck the gangway and hull, while loose rigging from the destroyed airship threatened to pierce the balloons overhead. Screams of panicked crewmen filled the air, but what caught Eliza’s attention was an absence of barks to spirits in Heaven. “Crazy Captain Cornwich” had gone strangely mute.
A swathe of fire fell from the sky, and Eliza sprinted for Bill, tackling him hard as the Sea Skipper’s wheel was blanketed in flame and heat.
He looked back, before tipping the brim of his Stetson to Eliza, still wrapped tight around him. “Much obliged. Nice hit.”
Eliza was going to say something about her nation’s chosen sport when she caught sight of their mad captain dashing for the cabin underneath their feet.
“We need a word with him,” she snapped, drawing her pistols.
Some of the crew were attempting to smother the flames, but Eliza saw others sliding down mooring lines and shimmying down rope ladders. What followed seconds later were cries that might have been terror or bravery, before surrendering to the void and the ocean below. Wellington had explained, for some bizarre reason over a rare lunch together on their journey to America, the science of falls to Eliza at some length. The lucky ones would die on impact, she thought grimly as they reached the Captain’s Quarters. Drowning on account of countless broken bones was not a death she would have wished on anyone.
Bill stumbled into the door. “He’s locked it.”
“Don’t worry,” Eliza said, pulling back the hammers of both pounamu pistols. “I have a key.”
Two gunshots and a swift kick later, the door flew open. They both ran into the wide-open transom stern; and on locking eyes with Captain Cornwich, all three of them froze.
The metal monster before them took up most of the cabin, so any luxury usually found in a typical Captain’s Quarters was absent. It was a massive capsule, conical shaped, lying horizontally on the floor with bat-like wings welded underneath it and, at its base, four similar wings creating an X pattern. A constant, thick plume of steam seeped from the base’s centre where a fuse ran from it to Silas’ feet. The captain, himself straddling the fuse cord, was holding a long segment of hemp that disappeared into the ceiling in one hand, and a Verey pistol in the other.
“Well this explains a few things,” Bill said, drawing his Peacemakers and eyeing the captain’s flare gun. “For one, where the ship’s money was going.”
“I may be crazy, ya greenhorns, but stupid? Hardly. Learned a thing or two when me pap went down with the ship. The important one bein’ don’t go down with the ship!” He looked up and shouted, “Yes, Father! I will!” before giving the rope a quick tug. Both Bill and Eliza stumbled at the sudden rush of air that pulled them off balance. Eliza shook her hair free of her face and saw that the far wall of the Captain’s Quarters had fallen away to reveal the outside world, the single light of Currituck once more its usual brilliant white warning to seafarers. Veils of flame and heat fell across the opening while glowing embers of the airship drifted around them like burning snowflakes. “Me pap tells me to quit with the blabbering and light the goddamn fuse. For once, we are in agreement!”
The flare from the pistol punched through the floor underneath them, but on the way lit the fuse. Silas threw the spent Verey pistol at the two of them and scrambled for the capsule’s opening.
“Oh, this one’s a keeper,” Bill swore, holstering one of his pistols. “Crazy like a fox, he is!”
Eliza had already holstered her pounamu pistols and, with Bill, climbed up the small access ladder. The hatch had almost closed, but the American agent pulled hard against it, ripping the door free of the captain’s grasp.
“Get yer own escape pod!” Silas barked, scrambling for its handle.
“On behalf on the United States Government,” Bill pronounced, placing his Peacemaker’s muzzle against Silas’ forehead. “I hereby commandeer this vehicle!”
The captain’s eyebrows drew together—but he wasn’t as mad as all that. He pulled his knees up to his chest and scooted forwards in the pilot’s chair as Bill slipped in. Eliza came in last, wedging herself in the small amount of remaining space between the two men.
The fuse was now off the floor and nearing the escape pod’s nozzle.
“And on behalf of Her Majesty’s government,” Eliza said, grabbing the hatch and pulling it down on top of the three of them, “I demand you gents make some bloody room for me!”
Bill was behind her. Silas squirmed between her legs. This was a waking nightmare, and Eliza thought quickly that life in the Archives did occasionally offer a perk or two. On securing the hatch’s lock, sealing it from the outside, they sat in complete darkness, save for the solitary porthole in front of Cornwich. Their pod lurched. Something roared overhead, from outside. Her grip tightened on the hatch’s wheel lock as it was the only thing for her to hold on to as the Sea Skipper listed. Were they falling?
Another explosion snarled, then roared, from behind them. Eliza usually found explosions fun, but having them this close took any enjoyment out of the moment.
The space between her, Silas, and Bill disappeared as their capsule shuddered and rocked. They lurched forwards, slipping through burning timbers and debris, and then dropped into darkness. She felt Bill, herself, and Conwich all rise from their shared seat. They were apparently in some form of rapid descent.
Then came from behind them a strange pop-pop-pop-pop-pop followed by a deafening roar, and Eliza found herself pushed back into Bill just as Cornwich pressed hard into her, all breath seeming as if it were being squeezed out of her.
Was that Silus’ hand fumbling for her thigh? What was he on about, and did he really want to be risking that right now? She would have thought this was a dangerous enough situation. Eliza went to bat away his groping hand when she felt in the darkness a small lever within reach. Was this what he was after? She wrapped her hand around it and pulled, and their coffin lurched upward, the horizon suddenly coming into view. She no longer felt that sensation of free fall nor was it quick acceleration, but they had levelled out and now the Currituck Light was guiding them to shore.
Everything shuddered around her. Eliza thought of home, of the frequent earthquakes she knew growing up in New Zealand, and she found herself missing those in comparison to the ride she was currently taking in the skies of the Americas.
Provided she lived through this ordeal, she was going to demand Wellington take her to these academic lectures he frequented. Perhaps a bit of science would help her comprehend the madness currently enveloping her.
ELEVEN
Wherein Our Agents of Derring-Do Find Themselves in Absolutely Compromising Positions
This whole situation was not ideal, and Wellington was guessing it would probably end in some kind of torture. It was part of the basic training for all agents of the Ministry, and he, of course, knew all too well from previous experience: capture eventually led to torture. Perhaps he should start praying for another explosive rescue by Miss Eliza Braun?
On second thought, maybe not.
“Are you just going to let him lead us away?” Felicity hissed.
What. Did. She. Say? “I—I beg your pardon?”
“There’s only one of them. Do something!”
&nbs
p; From behind them, the Pinkerton barked, “Quiet.”
“I did do something,” Wellington insisted quietly.
“Well, you’re going to have to do better this time, now won’t you?” she returned.
What cheek!
“Three shots!” he blurted out, rounding on her. “You had three shots—point-blank—and you missed?”
“I told you I don’t like guns!” she said, her bottom lip starting to quiver.
“And how exactly was I to know that?”
“You could have asked!”
“I said, quiet!” warned the Pinkerton.
“Really? And exactly how do you bring up such a topic in polite conversation?” Wellington couldn’t stop the animated gesticulations as he launched into his hypothetical first meeting with her. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Lovelace. I say, seeing as I am in America, I should ask, as custom dictates, what your disposition towards firearms is? Pip-pip cheerio!”
Felicity’s face twisted into a grimace, her voice wavering and high in pitch as she fought not to burst into tears. “I grew up on a farm. Where it’s quiet. I don’t like loud noises!” Felicity motioned to the lighthouse behind them. “You can imagine how I reacted to that monstrosity! I’m trying to do the best I can. I rarely get out of the library. You must know how that is?”
Wellington stared at her hard and repeated. “Point. Blank.”
“I said I was sorry!”
“And I said ‘Quiet,’ so you both hush,” the gunman growled as he stepped in between them. He looked at them both for a moment, his eyes darting from Wellington to Felicity. The man then eased the hammer of his Samson-Enfield Mark II back to a safety position and turned both barrels—still loaded and potentially dangerous, hammers back or in the safe position, regardless—on Wellington. “Being a bit hard on the little filly there, ain’t ya?”
“I am not—” Wellington began, then paused. “Come again?”
He shot a quick glance at Felicity as he heard her mumble loud enough for only Wellington to hear, “I hate it when people refer to me as a horse.”
“The lady said she don’t like guns. Nothin’ wrong with that. Ladies ain’t supposed to know how to shoot anyways. And as I see it, if you don’t talk to each other before doin’ what we do here all secret ’n’ stuff, then that’s not her fault, now is it?”
Wellington cleared his throat. “Am I to understand that I am being handed out a lesson in manners by you? Quite ironic considering that little affair in Homestead.”
The thug actually looked uncomfortable at the mention of the fatal strikebreaking carried out for Carnegie, or maybe he didn’t like being identified as a Pinkerton. “Those were Yankees. Not from around here.”
“Same agency, I believe,” Wellington said with a wide smile.
He shouldered his rifle. “That’s enough. Now apologise to the lady.”
“I’m sorry. Did you—”
“You heard me.” And the Pinkerton motioned with his rifle to Felicity. “You were ruder than a schoolboy after a pot of baked beans. Say you’re sorry.”
Wellington turned to look at Felicity, who, still with her hands in the air, was facing him, an expression of patient expectation on her face.
He had been right in one respect. This capture had indeed led to torture.
His mouth opened to begin what he hoped would be a satisfactory, insincere as it may be, apology for his rash berating of Felicity when, over her shoulder, the airships exploded again. Judging from the impressive size and power of the distant explosion, one of the ships must have been carrying flammable cargo. His eyes narrowed, though, at something falling from the aerial carnage. Something small and bright that suddenly shot upwards back towards the night sky.
“Well?” insisted Felicity.
“You heard the lady,” the guard pressed.
“I know, but—” Wellington couldn’t resist craning his neck as he continued to follow the object as it reached higher and higher in altitude. It stilled for a moment—hovering like a bright mote in the sky. It was an impressive display for an object to fight gravity for so long. The archivist wondered what it could be.
In his peripheral vision he saw Felicity finally drop her hands as she turned to see what had caught Wellington’s attention. The object plummeted again, but he observed it was not an uncontrolled descent. Whatever it was began levelling out the closer it got to the water. It was rather pretty, and yet . . .
“Wellington,” Felicity spoke over her shoulder, “is that shooting star following a trajectory?”
The archivist frowned slightly as the shooting something began a wild corkscrew pattern now, but its course had not changed. He began running quick calculations in his head.
Now a sound could be discerned—a low rumble, like an angry swarm of bees. Wellington knew this sound. He knew this sound intimately. That could only mean—
“That’s not a shooting star,” said their captor, his rifle wavering slightly in his grip.
Wellington glanced at the Pinkerton, his rifle lowered away from them both, and then turned back to Felicity. He could only take care of one, and when he grabbed her wrist and pulled he hoped it was the right choice.
“Run!” he managed to shout before the shock wave smothered all other sounds.
The roar rattled the archivist down to his bones, but he continued to pull Felicity behind him, stopping only to grab the top rail of the fence. Fuelled by fear, both agents cleared it in a single bound. They landed hard on the causeway just before the missile struck both Carolina earth and the Pinkerton agent equally. The impact blew both he and Felicity in the air as if shoved by a giant’s hand. Sand and fire flew all around them, and Wellington’s senses were thrown into turmoil as the chaos consumed them.
Somehow, improbably, in all of this he managed to keep hold of Felicity’s hand.
Sand filled his mouth. He felt what he could only presume was solid ground, and rolled desperately towards the one thing he was certain was there—Miss Felicity Lovelace. He brought his free arm around her, in the hopes that his body could offer some protection while heat, earth, and a blast of super-heated air raged around them.
Yet his thoughts were not of the American that was so close to him. Would Eliza know what had happened to him? Would she care at all that he had died in a strange missile attack? Who would finish the mission and assure her safe return to England?
Then the roaring subsided to a ringing in his ears. He blinked sand out of his eyes, and discovered that he was covered in a thin film of earth with Miss Lovelace tight in his arms. He gave the agent a gentle shake to see if she was alive. Her body was trembling much in the same manner as at the Delilah, earlier this morning.
“This is precisely why I don’t like loud noises,” she huffed, choking back a sob.
Wellington climbed to his feet, feeling himself over for injuries. He would hurt tomorrow morning—of that, he did not doubt—but nothing had been broken or torn. A blessing, to be sure. The only thing damaged was his suit, which was a tragedy since his chances of getting back to Savile Row anytime soon were small indeed. Still, fashion was the least of their worries at this juncture.
The archivist examined the crash site and saw amidst the burning embers of the fence a large trench that the missile had carved into the ground.
A quick tap on his shoulder tore his gaze away from the disturbed earth. Felicity was watching the keeper’s house in the distance where a cart rumbled swiftly back in the direction of Swan’s Retreat. Edison had made it clear he was booked on the next train out of the area, so by the time they got back to the lodge, Edison and his associates would be well on their way.
Felicity stepped closer to him, wrapping her arm around his. “Thank you, Wellington,” she said right before she kissed him sweetly on the cheek.
He looked into her dark gaze and wanted to assure her that
everything was well, but he was not that good of a liar. His first assignment in the field would expose Thomas Edison, one of the world’s most renowned scientists, in league with the House of Usher, and name him in the deaths of how many in the sea and the air? This mission was far from how he had imagined it would unfold.
“Wellington, you’re bleeding,” Felicity said, pulling from her back pocket a clean kerchief. She began to wipe at his neck, but her brow creased. “Just a moment. This—this isn’t your blood!”
“No, it isn’t,” he said, looking at the spot on her. “I believe our captor”—and he swallowed uncomfortably as he continued—“vaporised on impact. I think this is—”
“—some of his vapour that got on you?” Felicity nodded and swallowed hard. “Well . . . you did warn me things would get rather intense once in the field.”
“Yes, I had the luxury of undergoing an orientation of sorts with Miss Braun.” Wellington observed her slightly glassy gaze. “If you are thinking of a bath once we get to the resort—”
“Perhaps for a week, you think?”
“I’m afraid that would be too much of a luxury at present—we’re already losing ground on Edison.” Wellington turned back to the smouldering ditch created by the missile. “Perhaps we should ascertain what created this? Take our mind off things.”
She shrugged. “I’ll still hope for that prolonged bath, thank you very much.”
They followed the length of the trench in silence, reaching the battered metal beast that had expelled itself from the mysterious airship. His inventor’s interest stirred as he bent to examine it more closely. The starboard wing was curling upwards while the port one had been lost completely. The stabilisers at its exhaust were intact, although with the amount of damage sustained they would need to be replaced.
“Simplistic design,” he said, looking down its length. “The hull is still intact, which is quite the accomplishment considering its velocity on impact.”
Felicity’s grip tightened on Wellington’s arm. “I see we found what’s left of that Pinkerton fellow,” she grimaced as she motioned to the textured crimson streaks beginning at the nose of the missile and running to the rocket’s mid-section, just spilling over the edges of the missile’s solitary hatch.
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