“Michael?” She blinks, and looks at his face like she’s seein’ him for the first time. “Michael?!”
“Put her down,” he says, like he’s talkin’ to a child. Dashwood just drops Whipsnake in a heap at her feet and, believe me or not, that witch is still alive. She’s gaspin’ and coughin’ like the typhus got her, but she’s alive.
Li Dao Ming comes toddlin’ up in her shortest height and lifts the Snake’s head, cradled in her hands. She starts whisperin’ in her foreign tongue so I don’t know what she’s sayin’, but a mother’s love sounds the same the world ’round. The Snake opens her eyes and just says, “Ma. Ma,” like she’s swallowed the coals of the fire she set in the admiral’s home.
I can’t stand the sight of that wretch what took my hand no more, but I can’t quite look at the cap’n neither as he’s all wrapped ’round Dashwood. So I just sits there holdin’ me arm ’til Martin comes runnin’ back.
“Fat lot of good you were!” I holler in his face. He just waves me and me breath away, ’cuz behind him is comin’ the admiral. He bumbles over, tskin’ and tuttin’ like me own mother.
“Oh, this won’t do, won’t do one bit,” he says, pokin’ about in the tenderest bits. I bite my tongue as every inch of my bein’ is cryin’ out. “Well, I know just the thing. Hoist him up, my good man, and come along with me.”
Martin helps me up amidst all manner of groanin’, and we wanders off into the dark of the Singapore streets. It don’t seem like it could be right, but it sounds like the admiral’s whistlin’.
The admiral tells me it won’t hurt none and that’s so, but I don’t know nothin’ else neither for two days. And when I can open my eyes again, my throat achin’ for water, there’s the sweetest face I ever seen starin’ back at me.
“Decided to rejoin the living then,” Dashwood says, and she hands me a cup, that sainted lady.
I gulp and sputter ’til it’s empty, and I sees all the little places in her face that been stitched back up since the Snake tore ’em apart. There’s even a bit o’ silver in the top of her left ear.
“Where is we?” I asks, not wantin’ to see the damage done in the light o’ day just yet.
“Only a fool in my line of work doesn’t have a second abode,” chimes the admiral from across the room. “A second abode and a back door or two.”
He minces over to stare into my face. He pokes and prods a bit ’til he’s satisfied I’m as livin’ as he can get me. “Most everyone got out, I think. Though, there are a few I haven’t heard from yet. They may have gone into hiding, or Whipsnake may have caught them as they ran.” A shadow passes over his face. “Of course, it did help that most everyone wasn’t there when she sent it up in flames.”
“What’s she got against your lot?” I asks.
“Oh, a good number of them are victims of her training and days as a mercenary,” he says, all matter-of-fact. “Whipsnake is not the only one who blames me for the path she was made to tread. I did what I could to make it right.”
I looks about as he rambles, and it’s all bamboo and thatch, with the sunlight seepin’ through. Could be a good place for a rest were it not for me hand. I realize I’m layin’ on a table so I tries to sit up, but I’m seein’ all the stars a sailor ever sailed by, and gives it up.
Once me head clears, I decides that I had best get it over with. I looks down at me hand. It’s a prettier thing now than it were in the flesh. Polished and hinged and strong as the steel it’s forged from, and there, on the back, the cogged elephant is raisin’ its trunk in triumph. I flex a time or two to test it, and it’s the pain of the night I lost it and the fire shootin’ through it all over again. I must moan somethin’ terrible, ’cuz Dashwood just laughs.
“Easy there, Harris,” says Cap’n, comin’ up behind her. “It takes time before you can go sprinting off. At least, the admiral keeps insisting that’s so.” He ain’t too steady on that new leg of his yet, neither. He has a stick ’stead of a man to prop him up, but you can see he’s gonna be strong on it, come all the wrath of Poseidon.
“You’re lucky that Martin fellow came running to find us, you know,” says the admiral, liftin’ my new hand, one finger at a time, admirin’ each piece as he moves it. “I had enough time to do some of my very best work, I think.”
“How did Martin know where’s to find you, then?” I asks, to keep from hollerin’ again.
“Oh, he didn’t. He was just running towards the surgeon’s street to find someone to patch up whoever was left,” Cap’n says. “We got to the ship, crew told us you had gone to the admiral, so we made our way back. Ran into him just before he made his destination.”
“Did we ever find where Beakman got hisself to?” I asks.
“Dead,” says Dashwood, like she ain’t too sorry ’bout it at all. “They found his body yesterday in a gutter behind that pub you were in. He must have gone to warn Whipsnake that the crew wasn’t going to cooperate, and she never gave him the chance. Must have thought he was the one that told me she was here.”
It’s a miserable end, and no mistake, but his mutinous heart made it for him.
“And I just need you to try flexing the fingers again, please,” says the admiral, and I can barely stand to do it, but each shinin’ finger obeys my command. My pain makes me think of why I’m lying in a hut, dirtier than the admiral’s first. My pain makes me angry, now.
“What happened to the Snake?” I asks.
Dashwood looks away, but the fury is still in her eyes. Cap’n pulls her close a moment.
“Li Dao Ming took her away that night,” she says. “Maybe to nurse her, maybe to bury her. No one has seen either of them since.”
It’d be just like a snake to slither to its burrow. Then again, when last I seen that witch, she weren’t breathin’ too well. It don’t satisfy my loss—not yet—but if she’s livin’, we’ll see her again. I may be a tired old sea dog, but I flex them fingers again, and think of what a hand of steel can do to a snake.
Styled after Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen
“Helm, make your heading one-hundred-ten degrees. Blast it, man! I want to head into the wind! Another gust like the last and we’ll be torn from the sky!” Commander Wilkins Micawber III shouted.
“Aye, sir!”
“Who’s on the ailerons?” he asked. Sub-Lieutenant Bates had been, but Wilkins saw him injured, thrown heavily to the deck when the last hard gust hit. The young man had been helped below to the surgeon, and so another of his officers must have taken the man’s place. There was always redundancy in the Royal Dirigible Corps.
Weller, the tall and broad boatswain, shouted over the howling winds, “The new middie, sir. Mr. Copperfield.”
Wilkins turned but could not see that young man, just finishing his boyhood. He shouted, “I want a full fifteen degrees axis of climb, Mr. Copperfield, if you please! We must get above this blow!” There was a limit to the level to which they could rise. Too much, and the incline would be too steep for men to handle the ship.
Wilkins had been in storms before, and heavy winds, but none like this. A storm like this was a first for most of the crew of the Golden Mary. To those in the air, a wind storm was just as dangerous as to those still in the sea service. Men died in such conditions.
The Golden Mary was wracked again, moving yards to port as another gust hit them. If he could get the prow pointed dead on, he would slice into it. Yet, no wind blew straight. If he could get above it, then he might find respite.
A sharp pain coursed against his cheek. He used his left hand, for his right clutched at a rope, to feel his face. Wet. He saw the end of a halyard snaking around.
“Airman, catch that line!” Wilkins could not afford the time to wrangle it himself. A loose rope in the wind would go every way but to the person trying to get it. Wilkins would lose his concentration commanding the airship if he went for it himself.
The line would be dealt with. Wilkins saw from his vantage point on the quarterdeck one of
the sailors trying to get forward without a rope attached. “Weller, that man! He must have a line.” They were over eight hundred feet above the rolling veldt. Were the airman to be blown over the side, he would plummet to his death.
A matter of time only. Time to get out of the blow. Time before a man made a mistake and got himself killed. Wilkins reviewed in his mind: could he do anything else? Should he have tried to dodge below the winds, releasing air from the balloons? Would that have been faster, safer?
And then, some few minutes later, he could feel the ship below him. A moment before, it had yanked about every time they encountered a gust. Finally, it began to rock. Still with a few yanks this way, or then the opposite way. But it was steadier.
“Mr. Gay, I think we are out of it,” Wilkins said to the first lieutenant.
“Aye, Captain, it appears so.”
“We’ll give it a few hundred feet of elevation more, shall we, and then we can secure.” Wilkins took a deep breath, then looked for his handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his forehead. His hand shook a little, but the action of doing something steadied him. Touching the handkerchief to his cheek, which still stung from the rope that had struck him, he looked at the white cloth and found that it was smeared with blood. He pressed the handkerchief back to his face to staunch the bleeding.
An hour later, he, Lieutenant Gay, and the Master, Mr. Bunsby, looked at the charts. The ship had been blown off course, and they would have to calculate a new solution. Did they have the coal? Was the ship sound, for it had taken a beating in that wind. They must reach the border between the Transvaal and Natal. Wilkins had not told his officers the complete reason for their mission yet, but if he could believe the admiral and Mr. Rhodes, the actions of the Golden Mary could prevent a war.
Wilkins remembered the previous day. It had been late in the day—the time he liked best—when not only the new midshipman had arrived, but Wilkins had been commanded to report to the admiral for orders. The water below the hull lapped gently against the pier. The dirigible docked at the quay while a more permanent landing field was built for the squadron.
Scanning the docks, he saw a young officer in his duty station blues, probably sweating and staining his collar, marching towards the ship. If not stiffly, certainly with a purpose. A stevedore followed and handled the young man’s dunnage.
Wilkins was not much older than the officer, who had been in the Navy just long enough to have gotten himself out here from England. He would learn. That was what a midshipman did: learn.
“Permission to come aboard?” the young man asked. He mounted the scaffolding that led to the gantry. It weaved and bobbed as the air played hell with sails and balloon bag.
Wilkins smiled. The admiral had said the midshipman was no good for sea service. The only day the middie hadn’t been sick on the transit from Plymouth had been when the steamship had found calm seas; hence a transfer to the most junior of services, Her Majesties’ Royal Dirigible Corps.
A service not even a dozen years old, which occupied just three rooms in the Admiralty for offices, and with only a tad more than two thousand men to their roster. The entire fleet was comprised of six corvettes and twelve sloops. Still, aside from the Air Balloon Corps of the Confederated States of America, the most powerful Dirigible Corps in the skies.
“Aye, permission granted,” Wilkins heard the duty officer, Sub-lieutenant Dawkins, say.
The young man must have saluted, and then marched to him.
“Commander Micawber, sir. Presenting Midshipman Copperfield, sir,” Dawkins said. Dawkins was a good lad and had advanced from the ranks.
“Midshipman Daniel Copperfield reporting, sir!” A thin young man, no extra weight upon him, and perhaps an inch or so shorter than himself, Wilkins observed. Copperfield, aside from those sweat stains, presented rather well.
Wilkins smiled and thought how he had wanted the young man for his crew.
Saying to the midshipman, “What’s this? A Copperfield? Really? Thank you, Dawkins. That will be all. You may stand at ease, Copperfield.” Wilkins knew the boy’s background. He had been well informed by the admiral, and other sources.
Midshipman Copperfield said, “Sir, yes, sir.”
“Enough of all that sirring, Copperfield. We are a lot less formal here in the junior junior service.” Wilkins smiled. “I expect you’ll learn soon enough. Trouble on the sea, I understand? Well, I expect that of a Copperfield, seeing as your family has some history with the sea and great tragedy.”
The young man seemed to struggle to grasp his meaning. Surely, Copperfield had to know of the bond. The admiral acted delighted when Wilkins had volunteered to take the midshipman, but surprised to find him so keen about it.
Wilkins took Copperfield to the railing and pointed towards the city. Cape Town was growing by leaps and bounds each day, he thought. “Mr. Copperfield, I have three words for you.”
He was eager, “Yes, sir? What are they, sir?"
"Barkis is willing!"
There was a blank look on Copperfield’s face.
"Surely your family knows of the significance of such an oath?" Wilkins said.
"Sir, the words Barkis had said to propose marriage to Peggotty, the nurse? I thought that was just a legend."
“A legend? Indeed, sir, it is a legend. One that I think binds our families closer than any others. You surely do not think that it is coincidence that you are on the Golden Mary? It has to be the hand of Barkis, once again, true in all things."
Copperfield shook his head. Wilkins knew he had to explain, and, as the rest of the crew stood at a respectful distance, did so.
He signaled to Dawkins. “Do you know much of our service, Copperfield? No? Then I shall explain. When President Davis in the last year of the American Civil War approved the design of what they call balloons, dirigibles were born. Fearing the CSA’s defeat, two of the designers, Texans, didn’t want to live in the Union. They made their way to Australia. In fact, they made their way to Port Middlebay, where we Micawbers make our home. Still, Copperfield, you do not see the connection?” He had a lost look etched on his features.
Wilkins sighed. “My father is Wilkins Micawber II, who has been Lord Mayor of Port Middlebay three times, and owns a great part of the dirigible plant that manufactures the very ship we stand upon! It was thus natural that I, as a lad, helped to build these vessels, take service in them, and now, command one. I am the third of the name in our family. My own grandfather, president of the Bank of Port Middlebay and Magistrate, was once the greatest of friends of your grandfather, David Copperfield. Is that not known by you?”
Copperfield looked about surreptitiously. “Sir, I was instructed, as a lowly midshipman, that perhaps it was best not to make this known. Others might think that you were showing favoritism towards me. The Midshipman’s Berth, as I have learned, is one of politics and pain.”
Wilkins thought the young man sincere. He chose to believe a Copperfield would be the epitome of honesty and integrity.
“Quite right. I shall not treat you in any way special, but that our grandfathers were good friends, I believe they would be pleased that we serve together,” Wilkins said.
They had ascended a hundred feet into the air. The motion was steady, as there were only very light winds, at the moment. The helmsman had angled the planes of the short wings to ensure that the rise had been smooth. The Golden Mary remained tethered to the dock. The line had played out gently. Every new midshipman and crewman was always put to the test with this maneuver.
In the sky, they contested against gale-force winds, as one did at sea. But the force of the waves tearing one in other directions was lacking. For the most part, the wind came at the ship from one direction at a time. No contest between Wind and Wave in an attempt to destroy a dirigible; at least none that Wilkins had found, as yet.
“Can you see Government House from here? I have been summoned there for tea, and so cannot spend such time as I would normally with a new officer. You an
d I have even more to talk of, our two families being known to one another. Patronage is still rife in the senior service, and of course, we are a shadow of them, as well. Though in the RDC, you will find that you have a greater opportunity to make a name for yourself, even if your father is the man responsible for building the fleet.” Wilkins smiled.
Copperfield turned to look at the city, just noticing that they were suspended in the air. As with all new crew, Copperfield may never have ascended before his posting to the Golden Mary.
“Sir, you did not order the ship leave its moorings,” Copperfield observed.
“I prearranged the order. What can you tell me of our present status?”
Wilkins put Copperfield, as a midshipman, to the test. In many circumstances, the technical management of the ship would fall into the man’s charge. The lieutenants and sub-lieutenants were expected to know far more, but a midshipman would stand watch as they maneuvered through the air. And do so at night. Sub-lieutenants notoriously handed over their duty stations to the young gentlemen officers so that they could pursue their own sleep.
For the next fifteen minutes, Copperfield, without showing any signs that he did not have his air-legs, recited all that he had observed. What weight of sail they carried. The air displacement of the balloon envelope, with its six triple-encased inner balloons, two only a quarter inflated to give them such lift. The steam engine, filling the bags, required just one stoker in the engine room.
The ship flew exactly one hundred and seven feet above sea level, per the altimeter. The propellers idled; they were not making way. Half the mid-watch was on deck, the rest dispersed about the ship. Aside from certain warrant officers, the crew distributed between three watches. Each watch served four hours, and then had eight hours off. One of the double periods off, the crew slept. Often, when observing their ‘day,’ the crew would attend to duties the ship required.
Mechanized Masterpieces: A Steampunk Anthology Page 8
