by Brad R. Cook
The captain propped his hands on his hips. After a moment of tenseness, he sat back down. He raised his hand. “Mr. Singh, delay that order.” He winked at me.
“Aye Captain.”
Did he really just wink? He had a plan.
The baron stepped forward. “Captain. We will need to return to London immediately. My apologies for this inconvenience. I assure you, there will be consequences for their actions.”
The captain flew out of his chair as if it had exploded behind him. “That’s going to be difficult baron.” He walked over to the table. “We’re already past the coast. You paid me to take you to Cairo via northern France and that is exactly what I will do. Nothing will divert us from that path.”
“Captain, may I remind you who is in charge of this operation?”
“You may, though it is not you. I spoke to Grand Master Sinclair before our departure.”
I pushed into the center of the group and said, “You did?”
“Yep. We even talked about this possibility.” He swung his finger about, indicating the three of us. Then leaned in and nudged my shoulder. “He knows you better than you think.”
“Wait,” the baron barked, “Archibald Sinclair told you my daughter might stowaway on your ship and if she did, to bring her along?”
The captain ran his fingers along his mustache. “He did.”
The baron stepped away. “I’ll kill him.”
“O-o-o-h, please sell tickets. I would definitely want to see that duel.”
The baron snapped the captain a look of malcontent, but Baldarich just laughed. The captain grabbed my shoulder. “They’re better warriors than you give them credit for, and trust me, you’re going to need them.” He walked over to his chair and flipped open the four copper tubes rising up from the floor. “Attention! This is the captain. The son of our esteemed Zulu guest, Chief Zwelethu has come aboard, along with two returning members of the crew. Alexander and Genevieve are back! So, pay up. All of you!”
Ignatius Peacemaker stood up and dug a dollar out of his pocket. He pulled his Stetson off and tossed the bill in. He walked around to the other members of the crew on the bridge and each one added a dollar.
“Did you bet on my son?” my father asked.
“Of course. The crew thought you’d lock him up or something, but I know these two. Can’t keep them from an adventure.” He pointed to the young man in the blue turban. “Mr. Singh held firm, too. He knew they’d be coming.” Ignatius stepped around Mr. Singh, and the captain said, “You’ll get your cut, too, Mr. Singh, after Ignatius collects all our winnings.”
Mr. Singh nodded. No wonder he wasn’t surprised to see us.
Ignatius pulled the money out of his hat and handed it to the captain. “I’ll go and round up the rest for yah, Cap,” he said, his mix of western and continental accents slurring together. He slapped me on the back as he passed and grunted, “Welcome aboard, kid.”
CHAPTER 12
AGINCOURT
A few tense minutes passed before my father and the baron accepted we weren’t going anywhere. I don’t think they knew what else to do. Besides, nothing bad had happened.
At least not yet.
The captain leaned into me and Genevieve, “I got a new pilot. Say hello, Hienz.”
I peered over at the small-framed man at the controls and wondered if he was a good pilot. Baldarich grabbed my shoulder, “My sister’s kid, this one. She wants me to turn him into a man.” He leaned over toward Genevieve and chuckled, “He’s not bad, listens to orders, so I haven’t tossed him overboard. Yet.”
Heinz had my job. I’d hoped I’d get to try out for pilot, but I’d never get to now, not with family flying the ship.
Hienz shifted in pilot’s seat and saluted, “Hallo.”
I raised my hand. “Hi.”
I pointed my thumb at myself and looked at Baldarich. “Well, if you need another, I’m pretty good.”
“I’ll remember that, lad.” He winked at Genevieve. “But I’m staring at the lady of the clouds. I still remember your skill at the controls, milady.”
Genevieve smiled and tried to hide her excitement.
I fumed. I could have flown just as well as she, but I was down on the gun deck during the battle against the armada. I can fly. I just have to find a way to prove it.
The captain nudged me right out of my funk. “Good to have you two back on board.”
“Thanks, Captain Baldarich. Me, too. I see you fixed her up a bit.”
“Yes, the Sparrowhawk looks quite refreshed, doesn’t she?.” Baldarich tucked his thumbs under his lapel and leaned back. “I made sure she was worthy of serving as a privateer in the queen’s service.” He wrapped his arms around us and pulled us in. “But I left a few things, like that loose rivet above the engine room.” I nodded and Genevieve smiled. The captain laughed. “Well, sit back and enjoy the ride.”
He released us and walked over to the map table. I heard the rushing wind in the distance. I motioned for Genevieve and Owethu to follow. When we stepped out of the hatch, the deafening wind whipped Genevieve’s long auburn hair around her face, and Rodin flew off. We walked past the cabins toward the door and saw that Mr. Singh had the main cargo door open. With the wail of the wind, they’d never hear me, so I waved my arms to grab his attention.
Stepping to the edge, he and two crewmen pulled hand over hand on a rope, retrieving a small pod, like a mini-Sparrowhawk, dragging below the airship. When I motioned for Owethu to come and have a look see, he shook his head emphatically and hung back by the cabin door.
Mr. Singh set the pod on the deck. He leaned toward the device and checked the gauges mounted on its side. I recognized the temperature and wind speed dials, but not the others he studied. Recording the numbers on a slip of paper, he handed it off to one of the men who rushed them to the bridge.
Mr. Singh looked up at me and nodded, his blue turban slightly misshapen by the wind. He pointed toward the ground, and turned my attention to outside. We’d crossed back over land. France, I guessed. Below me lay fields covered in snow. Even though the bitter wind chilled me to the core, I could have stood here all day.
The aero-dirigible slowed and began to descend, pitching slightly forward. Owethu, still plastered againt the wall, gripped the wooden railing with straining fingers, but kept stretching to see out the cargo door.
The baron stepped off the bridge as the wind settled. He walked up to the open cargo door, standing beside Genevieve and looked down. He motioned for us to come over and pointed to the ground below. Gently rolling hills and farmland spread as far as the eye could see.
The baron pointed. “Agincourt.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Who is Agincourt?” Owethu asked as he stepped to the edge.
“Not who, but where,” the baron answered. “The battle of Agincourt was fought in 1415 during the Hundred Years’ War.”
Genevieve continued. “The French knights were defeated by the English longbow.”
“How?” I asked
“Mud,” my father said as he pushed his glasses back up on his nose and joined us. “Weighed down by heavy armor and horses, the French knights became bogged down in the mud.”
The baron pointed to a small rise. From here, I could see the terrain perfectly. “The English bowmen set up there, on the high ground between the forests,” he added. “It had been raining for days.”
The field squeezed between two dense woods was higher on one end. In front of the raised ground lay a depression. What now was a farmer’s field, had once been an open expanse of deep muck, churned up by horses’ hooves.
Studying every inch of the land below, I noted, “Alexander the Great ran into the same problem in India.”
The baron nodded but stared at the scene as if the battle were raging right now. “Unable to maneuver, the knights found themselves cut down by the English bowmen, whose armor-piercing arrows went far beyond the range of the French archers.”
“What happened?”
Owethu asked.
“Many knights were killed. Around six thousand. King Henry V lost only a few hundred.”
“Go England!” I said with a raised fist, but no one else cheered.
“Alexander,” my father scolded, “now, is not the time.”
“My ancestor fought in this battle.” Genevieve reached up and held her locket.
“General Kensington, I bet.”
“They were my wife’s ancestors,” the baron said. “Her line was almost wiped out at Agincourt.” He put his arm around Genevieve’s shoulder.
“Oh.” I leaned toward the baron. “Where is your wife now?”
The baron seemed surprised by my question, but answered. “She stayed in London.”
Genevieve toyed with the locket on the silver chain around her neck but stared out to some distant point in the sky. I’d seen that look before.
The loss of our mothers was something we had bonded over last year. I wanted to comfort her, but she refused her father’s gesture and stepped away. Rodin soared through the open cargo door and landed on her shoulder; he rubbed his head against hers.
I wanted to tell her everything would be all right. But even I knew that wasn’t true. The pain of losing a loved one never healed. It only faded over time, and the wound would occasionally get ripped open again. Like now.
As the Sparrowhawk turned, the baron’s expression changed. He reached in his jacket and pullout a collapsible telescope. Extending the segments, he raised it to his eye and adjusted the lenses. “We have a problem.”
Owethu followed the baron’s sightline. Genevieve dropped her locket and returned to her father’s side. I looked up at the baron and my father, who put his hand over his brow and squinted. Off in the distance, I saw a castle surrounded by roses, but nothing looked out of place.
“What do you see Maximilian?” my father asked.
“The airskiff we have been following has landed.” He handed the telescope to my father. “Look to the trees in behind the castle. See the red and black? It’s the airskiff.”
“I see it.” My father adjusted the lenses. “Some of those trees aren’t in the ground. They were moved in front of the airskiff to hide it.”
The baron walked past us toward the bridge.
“Where are you going?” my father asked.
“To tell the captain we’re stopping.”
CHAPTER 13
THE CASTLE
I followed the baron onto the bridge and saw him whispering in the captain’s ear. Baldarich looked concerned but smiled as the baron finished.
“Bring us around, Hienz,” the captain ordered. “I want guns on that castle.”
“Aye, aye, Uncle.”
The captain looked at the pilot, shook his head, but remained focused on the castle. He flipped open the brass tubes in front of him. “Battle stations. Prepare for ground assault.” The Sparrowhawk erupted into activity. Crewmen hustled around the ship to prepare for battle. The captain sat in his chair but spun around to face Owethu, Genevieve, and me. “You two get to the gun deck and help Mr. Singh. Milady, if you would make certain Heinz doesn’t drop my baby out of the sky, I would appreciate it.” Genevieve nodded, a gesture repeated by Rodin. I nudged Owethu’s shoulder and we jogged off to the gun deck. No time to lament that Genevieve got to pilot the ship. As we were leaving the bridge, the captain’s barrel voice echoed with confidence. “Ignatius, you’re with the baron and me.”
Owethu and I slid down the ladder to the gun deck. Two cannons and a Gatling gun lined each side of the long room. The gun ports, already opened for ventilation, allowed the sunlight to fill the deck. The cold wind whipped through like a cannon ball as crewman prepared the starboard guns.
“This is going to be astounding.” With a big smile, I nudged Owethu and pointed to the large guns. “Have you ever seen a Gatling gun fire?”
His answer was nearly lost in the wind, but I knew he’d said, “No.”
I nodded. “You’re in for a treat.” I pointed to Mr. Singh who directed the chaos like an orchestra conductor. “We should see what he needs us to do.”
He nodded.
We stepped over and Mr. Singh turned to face me. His stern expression softened and a smile replaced his warrior façade. He grabbed me by the shoulders. “Alexander, I am glad to have you at my side again.”
“Glad to be here,” I yelled. “What can we do? Captain sent us to help you.” I gestured toward Owethu. “Put us to work.”
Mr. Singh pointed to stacks of crates toward the back of the gun deck. “I need someone to secure that cargo.”
I stuck up my thumb. “Done.”
Owethu and I ran over to the crates and barrels stacked up in the center of the hold. I grabbed some rope for the crates and told Owethu to get the thick netting. We wrapped up the cargo and tied it down, securing it to the posts and structure of the ship.
“What about this?”
“About what?”
I followed Owethu’s finger to a tightly wrapped canvas bundle behind the crates. I peered through the mass of wooden struts and saw an ornate brass burner in the shape of a bird. “It’s an airship.” I walked around to the other side. “But I’ve never seen one so small.” On one of the struts I saw painted lettering—Kite Skipper.
“We should secure it,” Owethu said.
“You’re right. Here take this end and tie it off. I’ll loop the rope around the post over here.”
Moments later Owethu looked up and said, “Done.”
“Excellent.”
“What is this word?”
“Oh, it means we did really well.”
“We would say, kuhle kakhulu (very good) or kahle ngempela (really well).”
“Fascinating.”
Owethu got a strange look on his face, and I quickly stuttered, “It means—”
“I know that word. I am very fascinated by your culture.” Owethu chuckled and poked me.
I shook my head and laughed. “Me too. About your culture, that is. I hope to visit your land some day.”
He nodded.
Mr. Singh rushed by and the serious look on his face deflated our laughter. He ran over to a copper tube sticking out of the ceiling. He flipped it open and yelled, “Ready to fire, Captain.”
“Announce us, Mr. Singh,” the captain returned, his voice reverberating out from the pipe.
Mr. Singh turned to the crewmen. I hit Owethu’s arm and covered my ears. He did the same. Mr. Singh yelled, “Fire!”
The cannon exploded as smoke enveloped the gun deck. The artillery punched back straining against the thick ropes. A crewman cranked the handle on the side of the Gatling gun and bullets rained down on the castle. More smoke billowed across the deck only to be whipped up by the wind coming in from the other side.
The cannons and guns roared continually, and I felt the hot breath of each blast against my skin. The explosions hurt my ears even through my clenched hands. The crewmen pulled the guns back into position, swabbed them out, and reloaded. Their actions were choreographed like a well-oiled machine.
The baron, the captain, Ignatius, and Hunter walked down to the gun deck. The men walked over to one of the grapplers and a crewman opened a hatch on the starboard side of the floor. Hunter and Ignatius turned two wheels aiming the grappler at the castle and fired. The thick cable spiraled down, catching onto the stone battlement. All four men hooked straps to the cable and slid down toward the castle as enemy fire erupted.
I watched them tumble onto the battlement, pop up, and rush the guards. I wanted to slide down the cable and fight by their side. A wave of frustration washed over me, but orders were orders. Even though I’d saved London—and the entire world—they still saw me as a kid.
The guns beside me continued to roar. The next cannon shot slammed into the tower of the castle, destroying the artillery perched on top. Captain Baldarich zapped two men with his lightning cannon, the pistol he kept tethered to a box on his belt. They fell to the stones twitching uncontrollably a
s Baldarich stepped over them. Ignatius ran alongside him, using every pistol he had tucked away to shelter the baron from incoming fire as he cut down several men with his sword. Hunter remained by the grappler line, set up behind some crumbled stones, and picked men off as they stormed the stairs of the forebuilding to the castle. Gatling gun lead rained down on them as well, shattering the stone like fine china, and filling the air with putrid smoke
It was beautiful, exciting, like the scene of a novel playing out before me. Yet scary. Deadly.
Owethu tapped my shoulder. I pulled back, and he pointed to Mr. Singh standing beside him.
“Get to the bridge and tell Heinz to keep me on target. He’s drifting.”
“Got it.” I pulled back from the hatch. “Concentrate your fire on the courtyard, Mr. Singh. The wall is won.”
He nodded. Owethu and I ran off for the bridge.
When we arrived, my father stood by the window, but it was Genevieve who looked in charge. She stood in front of the copper tubes with her hands on her hips, and Rodin wrapped around her shoulders. Before I could even take another step, she shouted, “Three degrees starboard with a one degree downturn.”
“Aye, aye captain.” Heinz paused but turned and pushed on the wheel.
Genevieve looked out the window and nodded. “That should give Mr. Singh the view he needs.” She spun around. “Alexander.”
Rodin, jolted by her movement, popped off her shoulder and flew over to me. He landed on my chest, gripping the leather strap, and rubbed his head on my chin. Then he climbed up and sat on my shoulder.
“Hi, Rodin.” I ran my fingers along the leathery skin of his neck as it stretched out. I stepped up to Genevieve as my father came over. “Captain,” I said with a smile, “I have—had—a message from Mr. Singh, but you just fulfilled the order.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “I only noticed that we drifted on the wind.”
I nodded but couldn’t stop grinning. She was so calm and collected. She looked as if she belonged here. With her long blue coat trimmed in gold, the pants and shiny black-buttoned boots, she looked like an officer in the Royal Flying Corps. “The wall is won, but this isn’t over yet,” I said.
