by Tom Banks
‘No – something’s still on it. I fear something’s going wrong down there, I really do!’ said Clamdigger, desperately heaving on the winch.
‘Oh my. If only there was some way of seeing what was going on,’ said the Countess, putting a hand to her mouth.
‘Ermmm,’ said Rasmussen, who was sitting in the rigging by the Countess’s head. ‘There is!’
‘What? What do you mean, darling?’ said the Countess.
‘What about all these magnificent toffs and their flying machines?’ said Stanley, pointing to the charabanc that Charlie had flown aboard earlier that day, though it felt like a lifetime ago.
‘Why … of course,’ said the Countess. And then, turning to the crowd of assembled partygoers and Gallooniers, ‘My friends, would you …?’
‘Rather!’ came the reply, and ‘’course we would!’ and ‘Tally pip and toodle-ho!’ and ‘Where d’you want us?’ and any number of other affirmative variations, as the partygoers who had arrived by flying machine scrambled to their places, and lined up for take-off, lift-off, bunk-up, and all the other methods they employed to get off the ground.
A symphony of growls, rumbles, flaps and whirs accompanied the starting up of the flying machines, and Stanley for one was extremely pleased when Hawthorne, the Count of Eisberg’s trusty guard, called to him and Rasmussen.
‘Hop in, Stanley!’ he called, as he sat in the front seat of the winged omnibus. ‘Rasmussen, you too – you don’t want to miss the action!’
So they hopped up into the long bench seat next to Hawthorne, and pulled the seat belt across both of them at once. And not a moment too soon – next to them, the gyrocopter spluttered and chuffed into the air, a flimsy-looking biplane shot past them across the decks, and the balloon-type craft, its bellows being pumped by a grumbling Mr Wouldbegood, popped and farted its way off the deck.
Hawthorne backed the steam-driven beast up a little, then threw a long lever that stuck up between his legs. There was a moment of stillness, during which a number of ball guests clambered into the back of the omnibus, and the machine began to trundle across the deck towards the rail.
‘Woopwoopwoop!!!’ cried Rasmussen, as they careered across the Galloon, scattering ball-goers and Gallooniers as they went.
‘Go get ’em, fellas!’ called Clamdigger, as the charabanc’s canvas wings gained just enough lift to take it off the deck, and over the taffrail. Stanley’s stomach flipped as the scene below them became a snowy slope, hundreds of feet beneath, upon which he could just make out crowds of Sumbarooners converging on a point in the shadow of the Great Galloon.
Fishbane screamed past them, squawking at the top of his lungs, and Stanley felt a thrill as he watched the Seagle drop into a steep dive, aiming his stoop at a cluster of Sumbarooners.
‘Look behind!’ called Rasmussen, and he turned to see more Gallooniers and ball guests dropping from the side of the great vessel on ropes, in parachutes, and by any other means available. Stanley also caught a glimpse of Cloudier, being helped onto the deck of the Galloon by Clamdigger and Ms Huntley. He was glad to see that she was okay, but she didn’t seem to be with the Brunt any more. The Captain and crew must have been working hard to bring the Galloon as low as possible, for now it was only a few dozen feet above the snowy slope.
Behind Stanley and Rasmussen, the busload of ball guests was preparing for battle. The Countess was giving a rousing speech, while around her, duchesses, butlers, waiters and lords did whatever they could to make ready. A selection of umbrellas, walking sticks and kitchen implements had been hastily handed round, and they were all being brandished in preparation for the forthcoming set-to. The charabanc wheeled and banked crazily, and Stanley felt a bump as it grazed the snowy slope, on its way to where the Sumbarooners were thickest. A sharp lump jumped to his throat as he realised that the focus of the Sumbarooners’ attentions was a furry, growling bump in the snow – the Brunt!
Fishbane flew into the throng with his webbed talons whirling, and created enough of a gap for Stanley to see the Brunt, on all fours, seemingly cradling something to his chest, while fighting off the Sumbarooners with one arm. They were shovelling snow onto him, and ripping off the last vestiges of his hot suit, and Stanley could see that his strength was failing.
‘We’ve got to help him!’ cried Rasmussen, who had been watching the same scene. They were now only a short distance away, and Hawthorne brought the charabanc to a skidding halt in the snow.
‘Out, out, out, out!’ shouted the Countess, helping passengers over the side of the charabanc, as Stanley and Rasmussen leapt free too.
‘I’ll go back for reinforcements!’ cried Hawthorne, bringing the big bus round so that it faced down the slope.
‘Bring rugs and blankets!’ called Rasmussen, and Stanley understood her meaning immediately.
‘And hot water bottles!’ he cried, as he leapt away towards the Brunt, drawing his rusty little sword as he went.
Around them, the other contraptions were landing, floating to the ground, or otherwise entering the fray, and the tide of the fight was changing. Next to Stanley, the Sultana of Magrabor let fly a bloodcurdling war cry, and pulled a huge hatpin from her turban. The Countess of Hammerstein brandished her parasol round her head in a whirling parabola, and Little Ern rolled the spare wheel from the charabanc into the fray, where it knocked some Sumbarooners for six.
This gave Stanley the chance to jink through the crowd to the Brunt, who was now lying face down in the snow, both arms outstretched.
‘Don’t let them take it, Stanley,’ he said weakly, before flopping down into the snow once more.
Stanley threw himself onto the Brunt, and wrapped his arms round one great leg, although he couldn’t quite reach all the way round. Beside him, Rasmussen enveloped an arm, and they clung on tightly as the Sumbarooners continued to shovel snow onto them. Some of Zebediah’s dastardly crew seemed to be intent on turning the Brunt over, which Stanley didn’t understand the reason for at first. But as the Gallooniers around them began to engage the Sumbarooners in battle, he realised that their intent was to wrest from the Brunt whatever it was that he was clutching to his chest in one great hand. The Brunt seemed to be asleep again now, but at least the Gallooniers were beginning to win their fight to keep the enemy at bay.
‘Keep him warm!’ cried Stanley, as the Count of Eisberg leapt from a wobbling gyrocopter.
‘We got your message!’ he called back, as he fought off an iron-clad Sumbarooner with a tea tray and a candlestick. Wrapped round his waist was a thick blanket, and when he came close to where Stanley and Rasmussen were clinging to the Brunt, he flung it to them. Stanley used it to wrap around one of the Brunt’s legs, and as he looked round he saw that all the new arrivals to the fight were bringing rugs, blankets, hot water bottles and the like, which he and Rasmussen began to pile up on top of the Brunt.
Soon, the snow around him began to melt, and the attacking Sumbarooners began to melt away too, as it became clear that the fight was all but lost. More and more Gallooniers abseiled, flew and parachuted down from above, where the Galloon itself still hung like a solid thundercloud overhead.
The Brunt began to stir as the warmth returned to him, but Stanley knew the blankets would not be enough.
‘We need to get him back onboard!’ he called to Rasmussen, who was busy arranging hot water bottles around the Brunt’s head.
They were now in the middle of a defensive ring – Gallooniers and ball guests were standing in a circle round the Brunt, keeping the Sumbarooners at bay with their improvised weaponry and dazzling skill. The flying vehicles were circling their heads, but Stanley knew that they could not get complacent.
Fishbane screeched past, and dropped a thick rope into the snow next to Stanley. The rope was coming from one of the flying machines. As they came close, each machine began dropping ropes, and Stanley and Rasmussen began tying these round the Brunt’s great limbs. Beside them, Tarheel and Tamp appeared, and with their expertise i
n knotting, the Brunt was soon trussed up like a turkey, swaddled in blankets, and attached to the flotilla of flying contraptions by a net of ropes. The Sumbarooners were now standing off at a distance, trying to goad the Gallooniers into following them down the mountain, but Stanley was pleased to see that no one was biting. Reduced to flinging snowballs and abuse at the ring of stalwart Gallooniers, some Sumbarooners were starting to retreat. The Brunt was being lifted, carefully and slowly, from the snow, and was making stately progress up towards the Galloon. But would he get there quickly enough?
‘They took it, Stanley! They took the token,’ the Brunt called, as he shivered in the harness, and Stanley knew immediately what he was talking about.
‘The Captain’s love token! They found it, but the Brunt couldn’t hold onto it!’ he yelled at Rasmussen over the noise of the battle and the circling machines.
‘For the Galloon!’ shouted the Countess, who had overheard him.
‘And for the Captain!’ cried Snivens the butler, who had been in the thick of the battle throughout.
With a leap and yell, the entire company of Gallooniers, from stable girls to minor royalty, began to rush down the mountainside towards the Sumbarooners. Stanley was distraught to see that Zebediah’s men had a hefty lead, and that one of them, a tall thin woman in black, was waving a golden necklace above her head in triumph. At that moment, Stanley felt a pricking sensation as something grabbed hold of his shoulders. Looking up, he saw Fishbane the Seagle, his hooked beak just inches from Stanley’s face, his talons holding tight to Stanley’s jacket.
‘No!’ called Stanley. ‘I need to be down there!’
But Fishbane was having none of it. Stanley watched the rush of battle from afar, as the Galloon’s company routed Zebediah’s men, but it was with a heavy heart that he was borne away, and back to the safety of the Galloon.
A half-hour or so later, Stanley was standing on the deck of the Great Galloon, where Cloudier now sat, blankets round her shoulders, drinking hot tea and warming her hands at a brazier. Clamdigger stood awkwardly behind her, as if unsure what to do with his arms. The Bilgepump Orchestra was still playing, but other than that, all semblance of a party was over. The Brunt lay on the deck, surrounded by braziers, under a pile of blankets, onto which Gallooniers were now piling yet more hot water bottles, bedpans and rugs. Ms Huntley was standing with Cloudier, and even Skyman Abel was making himself useful, handing out mugs of tea to the frozen warriors as they returned from the battle down below, while telling everyone what a vital role he had played, by staying on deck.
‘The Galloon needed guarding, you see, a terribly dangerous job, but someone had to do it, and as usual it fell to me …’
Stanley knew that for once there was some truth in Abel’s boasts – it was Abel, the Captain and Ms Huntley, along with a skeleton crew of brave Gallooniers, who had kept the Galloon safe, a few dozen people doing the job of hundreds, as most of the Gallooniers were overboard on the mountainside. Between them they had kept the Galloon rock steady, trimming sails, heaving at the wheel and manning the huge burners that let air into the network of balloons. It must have been a gargantuan task.
Yet the mood onboard was sombre. Everybody was aware that their whole quest had been for nought. Fishbane reported that the Sumbaroon had been seen limping out of the mouth of the cave, broken and bent but not destroyed. The Sumbarooners had returned to it in their flotilla of little boats, with the Captain’s love token in their possession. The Galloon had stayed put, of course, as many of the Gallooniers were still on the mountainside, but Stanley knew it must have hurt the Captain immensely to let his brother get away. The Brunt’s heroics, Cloudier’s long journey, even the whole business with Fassbinder and the Grand Winter Ball, had all been for nought. The Captain was no closer to regaining the pendant, with its secret that was fundamental to the Galloon’s future. And Zebediah had once again got away scot-free.
The last of the Gallooniers were now returning to the deck, including Rasmussen, who was perched in the cockpit of the gyrocopter. She was just about the only crewmember still smiling, and Stanley put this down to her joy at being flown about in all these fabulous machines. As the ’copter sputtered to a halt on the deck, Stanley was distracted by the arrival of the Captain himself, who was riding towards them in the back of a dog cart much like Clamdigger’s. The Gallooniers, most of whom were milling about on deck, turned to look at him as he approached Cloudier. Stanley was surprised to see a broad smile crack the Captain’s face as he held out a hand to her.
‘I’m so relieved to see you well. I owe you everything,’ he said to her, simply. Stanley thought he even heard a slight crack in the booming voice.
‘But … we didn’t get the love token,’ said Cloudier, looking to where the Brunt lay under his pile of blankets.
‘Not through want of trying,’ said the Captain. ‘Your actions were an example to us all. If we had such a system in place, I would promote you forthwith.’
Cloudier smiled weakly, and Skyman Abel spluttered into his tea, as the Captain continued, turning now to the whole deck.
‘Once again, I owe you all my thanks and my apologies. I have let my own priorities put my loyal friends at risk. We shall continue to chase down the Sumbaroon, of course we will. But first we will return to Eisberg, where we will help my good friend the Count repair his home, and where those of you who wish to do so may disembark. No longer will I pressure anyone into assisting me on my personal quests.’
A hubbub of noise greeted this announcement, the gist of which seemed to Stanley to be that no one was ready to disembark just yet.
‘We can’t just let the Sumbaroon float away!’ called a marquess, to a chorus of agreement.
‘We’re here now, you won’t get rid of us that easily!’ shouted a young woman in a black and white uniform.
‘I am moved, truly,’ said the Captain. ‘But the responsibility I feel for you all …’
‘Nonsense!’ called a cut-glass voice that Stanley recognised as the Sultana of Magrabor. ‘We’re all grown-ups. Enough of this nonsense. Let’s get the Brunt here down below, so he can warm up and get stoking again. Then we can chase down this no-good brother of yours, retrieve the pendant and convince Isabella she’s with the wrong man!’
‘Hear hear, Sultana of Magrabor!’ called the Brunt, to a rousing cheer. He was now sitting up, with blankets round his shoulders and his arms wrapped round a red-hot brazier.
‘Well, I’m moved, I really am …’ said the Captain, who seemed genuinely unsure as to what to do for the best. It took the Countess of Hammerstein’s typically no-nonsense attitude to help make things clear for him.
‘Captain Meredith Anstruther. We are here because we want to be, and we help you because we are your friends. If you would please take that into account in future, I think we have a good chance of finding your stolen bride, and bringing her back to your side.’
With tears in his eyes, the Captain managed to croak, ‘But … without the token, we’re constantly at risk. And what … what if she doesn’t believe me?’
‘Of course she’ll …’ began Ms Huntley, with a tone of exasperation Stanley was getting used to hearing from her in her dealings with the Captain. But she didn’t finish her sentence, as an ear-splitting whistle cut across the deck, emanating from the spot where Marianna Rasmussen sat on a water butt, swinging an item of jewellery from one nonchalant fist.
‘Do you mean this lost love token?’ she said, examining her nails in an infuriatingly offhand manner.
‘Egad!’ cried the Captain, as the noise level amongst the crowd swelled with excitement.
‘Marianna Rasmussen!’ cried the Countess. ‘How on earth …?’
‘Well,’ said Rasmussen, with a slightly sheepish look on her face now. ‘I may have … erm … swapped it for a priceless Hammerstein family heirloom necklace while we were trying to keep the Brunt warm in the snow …’
Stanley laughed out loud as he thought of the look on Zebediah’s
face when the triumphant Sumbarooners brought him a ‘lost love token’ in the shape of a bejewelled kitten-shaped compact on a golden chain.
‘Sorry, Mother,’ said Rasmussen, with a look of genuine contrition on her face that Stanley had never seen before.
‘My dear, even if that compact had been worth as much as the Galloon itself, it would have been worth the swap.’
The Countess looked around, before appearing to make a decision.
‘And besides,’ she said, her head held proudly in the air. ‘As it happens, I sold all the Hammerstein family heirlooms many years ago, to make ends meet. That compact was a piece of paste, nothing more. We are as poor as Little Ern here.’
‘Oh I say!’ cried Able Skyman Abel, but his shock was drowned out by a wave of laughter that swept around the crowd.
‘You may be penniless, Birgit,’ cried the Count of Eisberg, but you will never be poor – not while you have the Galloon and its people about you!’
This pronouncement was followed by an uproarious cheer. Rasmussen, slightly sickened by this cloying turn of events, but relieved to be off the hook, leapt down from where she sat and ran over to Mr Lungren, who stood watching the goings-on from his place by the band. She whispered in his ear, and he turned to the Orchestra. They struck up a lively dance number, and soon the party was in full swing again.
The Captain, who at first seemed dumbstruck by recent events, was soon to be seen dancing with all and sundry, the golden pendant gleaming round his neck as he twirled and leapt in a complicated ceilidh of joy. The Brunt stayed a short while, being slapped on the back, and sheepishly deflecting questions, but before too long he was seen sneaking back down the main hatchway, a brazier under each arm, on his way back to his hot little room and the home comforts he held so dear.
After a few dances, the Captain, sweeping stray hair from his eyes, slumped down onto a chair next to where Stanley and Rasmussen sat eating cake.
‘You know, you may well have saved the day once again, my young friends,’ he said quietly.
