by Chris Paton
“What is the Captain’s name?” Luise bumped against Hari as The Flying Scotsman listed to port.
“Cairn,” Jacques grinned.
“Just Cairn?” Luise steadied herself.
“Aye, he has no other name.”
“And yours?” Hari reached out his hand.
“Jacques McGhan,” he shook Hari’s hand. “The Captain is my uncle, on my father’s side. He was a Scot. My mother was French Canadian.”
“Well, Jacques,” Hari let go of the man’s hand. “Perhaps we should meet your uncle. If he is as fair and rational as you say, perhaps he will look favourably on a couple of stowaways looking for safe passage out of the country.”
“Oh, I doubt it,” Jacques shook his head as he led Hari and Luise to the stairs. “The Captain is terrible fierce when it comes to stowaways on his ship.”
“Really?” Luise glanced at Hari.
“Oh, yes,” Jacques began to climb the stairs. “The last time we had stowaways, he had them thrown overboard.”
“Then why...”
Jacques turned at the top of the stairs. He sat down on the top step and looked Hari and Luise in the eye. “My uncle is the Captain, but there is another man,” Jacques shuddered, “some German who is ordering my uncle about something terrible. Him and his men. They are under orders from their government and have kind of taken control of The Scotsman.” He paused. “You’ve met the boys.”
“Yes,” Hari frowned.
“Big as they are, well, you can hardly call them brave now, can you?”
“What are you saying, Jacques?” Luise held onto the banister as the airship returned to an even keel.
“My uncle has some physical difficulties – he is missing an arm – and this slows him down sometimes. That and the terrible cough he has raging on his chest. But he always says he became successful by making the most out of every opportunity, even the most unexpected.” Jacques lips spread into a wide grin. He pointed at Hari’s kukri and then looked from Hari to Luise. “I think I have just found an opportunity to help my uncle even the odds and get his ship back.”
Chapter 3
The Flying Scotsman
Somewhere over the North Sea
May, 1851
In the space between the cargo deck and the first of three cabin decks, Hari and Luise ducked around the metal ribs and spars spanning the lifeboat section of the airship. His back bent, Hari paused by the side of a small hydrogen balloon, one of many running either side of the space. Leaning over the safety rail, Hari glimpsed the sea far below them through a break in the clouds.
“We’ve got fifty-two lifeboats,” Jacques joined Hari at the railing. “These small balloons have enough lift in them to carry two passengers each, three if they are slight like yourself, miss,” Jacques smiled at Luise as he tugged at the leather bucket-seat harness attached to the balloon.
“How far will they fly?” Hari pressed his palm against the thin fabric.
“Well they don’t fly as such,” Jacques scratched his head. “If you release the hydrogen then they will descend, but there is no means of filling them again. It’s a one way trip.”
Hari turned to look at Jacques. “What if you release too much or all of the hydrogen from the balloon?”
“Well, then it is a very quick trip. Isn’t it?”
“I suppose it is,” Hari pulled at the leather harness.
“They are only lifeboats,” Jacques stepped away from the railing. “A last resort.”
“Come on, Hari,” Luise curled her hand around Hari’s arm.
“Wait, Luise. What have you done with the machine?”
“While you were getting acquainted with Jacques, I forced open the bottom crate in our den,” Luise grinned, “and stuffed it inside.”
“We must not forget it.”
“Don’t look so worried, Hari. We won’t forget it.”
“But, if it is found...”
“If it is found, it will appear to be nothing more than a curious object with very little use.”
“And if someone decides to experiment with it and crank the handle?”
“They would struggle with that,” Luise patted the satchel. She paused. Pressing her fingers to her brow, she shook her head and smiled at Hari. “Honestly, Hari. After all we have been through, you think I would just let anybody get a hold of my impediment machine?”
“No, I suppose not.” Hari burped. “I am sorry, Luise. I am not entirely accustomed to flying.”
“Are you going to be all right?”
“Yes,” Hari looked at Luise. He nodded. “Truly.”
“If you say so.” Luise took Hari’s arm. “Let’s keep going.”
Jacques waited for them at the foot of a metal ladder rising up from the walkway and through an oval hatch above them. Climbing the rungs of the ladder, Jacques opened the hatch and led Luise and Hari onto the lower accommodation deck.
Adjusting her satchel after the climb, Luise marvelled at the plush red carpet lining the corridor between the cabins as Hari joined them. Her eyes reflected the soft glow of the sodium crystal lamps burning inside the glass bulbs above each door. Hari followed her gaze.
“This is the economy deck,” Jacques closed the hatch, pressing the handle flush with the carpet. He stood up. “The cabins are a bit poky,” he whispered, “but the view is actually pretty good, especially through the toilet.”
“The toilet?” Hari searched Jacques’ face for the punch line.
“I mean it,” Jacques nodded. “You can see all the way down to the ground.” Pausing for a moment, Jacques looked up and down the corridor. His gaze lingered over a large clock at the far end. “Lunchtime. We should be able to get up to the bridge while everyone is eating. It’s this way.”
“What does he mean about the toilet?” Hari quizzed Luise as they walked along the corridor, bracing themselves against the cabin doors when the airship pitched in the wind.
“Never mind, Hari. He is getting away again.”
“We’ll take the spiral staircase. It’s quicker,” Jacques pointed at the stairs spiralling up toward the ceiling. “It’ll take us through decks two and three. Deck three is where the Germans are quartered, but they should be in the dining room now. All the same, the staircase comes out on deck four, right by the side of the buffet table. If you have to run for it,” Jacques paused, “then I can slow them down. Just keep running forwards,” he pointed with both hands toward the front of the ship. “There’s a large metal door with a porthole in it. That’s the door to the bridge. It opens outwards,” he added.
“And what do we do on the bridge?” Luise studied Jacques’ face.
“Talk to my uncle,” Jacques shrugged.
“The idea, as I understood it, Jacques, was that you would present us and your grand plan for not getting us thrown overboard.”
“That’s right, miss. But if I am slowing the Germans down, well...”
“We will improvise,” Hari sighed. “Come on then. Lead on.”
Decks two and three sped them on their way with the scent of potpourri and wood varnish. Jacques slowed as they spiralled up the stairs and onto deck four. Rising from the stairwell, Hari and Luise stared at the hot and cold dishes tipping within gimbals recessed in large oak tables. The passengers rocked with the buffeting of the airship, holding onto the tables, calming their nerves with tiny glasses of tea.
“It’s always worse up here, in bad weather,” Jacques explained. “All the weight is beneath us.”
“Truly,” Hari slipped his hand over his mouth.
“Hari?” Luise climbed onto the next step and smoothed her hand on his cheek.
“I will be fine,” Hari took a shallow breath. “But, perhaps we can move away from the buffet. Where is the bridge?”
“That way,” Jacques pointed. “But there’s a table of Germans between us and the door.”
“It won’t be a problem,” Luise nodded at the passengers. “Everyone is trying not to be ill – Hari included.” Tugg
ing Hari behind her, Luise pushed past Jacques and swayed across the deck past the buffet tables, the dishes squeaking to the rhythm of the storm.
“Luise,” Hari paused to match his step to the motion of the deck. “One of the Germans is staring at us.” Luise let her hair fall over her eyes, peering between the strands of her fringe as they closed on the table. “He is getting up,” Hari hissed.
At the German’s table between them and the bridge, a bald man rose from his seat, the buttons of his uniform straining to close his uniform jacket. He stared at Hari.
“Come on, Hari,” Luise moved faster.
The passengers seated on the starboard side of the dining room cried out as The Flying Scotsman healed over, spilling drinks into their laps and providing those who had yet to close their eyes with a spectacular view of white crests of the waves churning the sea far below them. Hari and Luise slid to the right, stopping only when Hari hooked his arm around a support beam in the middle of the room. The German officer staggered into a table for two, spilling the male passenger’s drink. Steadying himself, palms on the table, he apologised in a rough English accent.
“Now, Hari,” Luise pressed forward as the airship began to right itself. The German pushed himself off from the table, and staggered across the floor toward Hari and Luise.
“It’s all right Herr Blom,” a short man stepped in front of Hari and Luise, blocking the German officer’s path. “I know these people. They are my f-friends.”
҉
Admiral Reginald Egmont ret. paced around the stuffed armchairs in The Blue Drawing Room of Buckingham Palace. Steam piffed out of piston-powered brass leg attached to the stump below his right knee. Cursing through his bushy white beard, Egmont stopped occasionally to scowl at the wiry old man cleaning his glasses in the armchair closest to the door.
“My dear Admiral,” Smith examined his glasses in the soft glow of the sodium lamps. Slipping them onto his face, Smith pressed the bridge higher onto his nose with the tanned index finger of his left hand. “Are you going to slow down? You will run out of steam,” he glanced at Egmont’s brass leg, the cushioned suspension pad in the tip forcing a cloud of steam from the exhaust valve with each of the Admiral’s steps.
“Don’t start, Smith,” Egmont pointed a stubby finger in Smith’s direction. “We’re not in Calcutta. Your Indian Office of Cartography has no jurisdiction here.”
“Admiral,” Smith sighed. “After all we have been through, you choose this moment, in this very establishment, to question the jurisdiction of my office? Come now, Reginald. You are tired. It has been a long day.”
“A long day?”
“Yes.”
Egmont stopped pacing. “I have been summoned, Smith.”
“And you don’t like it.”
“No, I do not.”
“There’s not a lot you can...” Smith paused at the opening of the drawing room doors.
Marsland, the queen’s courtier, walked in, stepping to one side as a tall African officer of the 5th Queen's Own Hussars strode into the room, carrying his bearskin shako in the crook of his right arm.
“Noonan,” Egmont acknowledged the officer’s arrival with a brief wave of his hand. “This is Smith.”
Noonan walked over to Smith and extended his hand. “Major Noonan.”
“Yes,” Smith shook Noonan’s hand, “the Admiral mentioned you over a warm beer in The Dog and Thistle. Have you ever been there?”
“The Dog and Thistle?” Noonan let go of Smith’s hand and positioned himself between the armchair and Egmont. “Yes, it is a popular establishment.” He glanced at Egmont. “You know why we are here, Admiral?”
“You know I do, Major.” Egmont scowled. “Will Her Majesty be joining us?”
“I have spoken at length with Her Majesty...”
“Of course you have,” Egmont’s brass leg piffed as he resumed pacing.
“Her Majesty is,” Noonan shuffled his feet, “rather disappointed.”
“With what, exactly?” Smith crossed his legs and leaned back in the armchair.
“Careful, Noonan.” Egmont stopped pacing by the side of the drinks cabinet. Pouring himself a large measure of whisky in a cut glass, he leaned on the cabinet and glared at the Major.
“Careful?” Smith stared at Egmont. “Is there something you are not telling me?”
“I don’t know what you do, or do not know, Mr. Smith, but the Admiral and I had a very specific set of orders pertaining to the young woman.”
“Romney Wallendorf?” Smith shifted position.
“Oh no, sir,” Noonan watched as Egmont drained his whisky. “I am referring to the scientist, Miss Hanover.”
“Really?” Smith moved to stand up.
“Don’t get up, Smith.” Egmont slammed the glass down on the surface of the cabinet.
“Then do you care to explain, Reginald?”
“All you and your office need to know,” Egmont glared at Noonan before continuing, “is that Her Majesty has a particular interest in anyone going by the name of Hanover.”
“A very particular interest,” Noonan added. “So much so, Admiral, she has empowered me to seek alternative means of satisfying her interest.”
“Such as?” Egmont reached for the whisky decanter.
“Employing agents with the sole task of discovering the whereabouts of Miss Hanover, without the distraction of some worthless machine or other.”
“Worthless machine?” Smith pushed himself out of his chair.
“Who?” Egmont raised the glass to his mouth, crushing the whiskers of his white beard against the lip of the glass.
Noonan fished a square of paper from his pocket. “A man called Blaidd.”
“Blaidd?” Smith turned to look at Egmont. The Admiral drained his second glass of whisky.
“A Welshman, I believe.” Noonan stuffed the paper back into his pocket. “He came highly recommended, although I couldn’t tell you why. The man was in a bit of a sorry state when my men found him lying in an alley south of St James’ Park.”
Smith pushed past Noonan and walked toward the drawing room doors.
“Where are you going, Smith?” Egmont put down his glass.
“Out,” Smith turned at the door. “Where I can do something about this debacle you have set in motion.”
҉
“Dieter,” Luise whispered as the German mechanic standing in front of the officer turned and smiled. Leaning into Hari as the airship listed to starboard, Luise looked from Dieter to the German officer and back again. “It is good to see you again.”
“Hello, F-fräulein Hanover,” Dieter dipped his head smartly, steadying himself with a hand on the back of an empty chair.
“You know these people, Mueller?” Blom staggered to one side before recovering with a shuffle of his feet.
“Yes, Herr Blom. I instructed F-fräulein Hanover in the f-finer art of steamracing.” Dieter gestured at Hari. “Of course, Herr Singh was a lost cause.”
“Truly,” Hari let go of Luise’s hand. Tugging a napkin from the lap of a passenger, he held it to his mouth as he made his way to back to Luise.
“Hari?” Luise smoothed her hand on Hari’s arm.
Hari shook his head. He looked at the German officer and glanced at the door to the bridge.
“And what are you doing aboard The Flying Scotsman?” Blom flicked his fingers, beckoning to the officers seated at his table. “There is no record of you on the ship’s manifest.”
“They came aboard just before we launched,” Jacques handed Hari an empty bowl he swiped from the buffet table. “Just in case, Mr. Singh.”
“Thank you,” Hari clutched at the bowl.
Jacques turned to Blom. “I was just taking them to see the Captain.”
“Why?” Blom reached out toward Luise. Gripping the strap of her satchel with his right hand, he nodded at the two officers approaching from behind them. “What is this?”
“It’s none of your business,” Luise pulled at the stra
p. “It’s personal.”
“Nothing belonging to stowaways is personal. I will see it.”
“Please,” Hari wiped the napkin across his mouth. “Please, do not touch my friend.”
“Mueller,” Blom’s fingers turned white as he gripped the satchel strap, “you will inform the Captain that he must change course. We are to proceed directly to mainland Germany.”
“But these are my f-friends, Herr Blom.”
“It is Oberleutnant Blom, you stammering f-fool,” Blom’s knuckles cracked as he slapped Dieter across the face with the back of his left hand, toppling the German mechanic onto the deck of the dining room. “Your friends are wanted by the Confederation.” Blom pointed at Hari. “His face is particularly memorable from the drawings we received from Herr Bremen’s assistant in London. Don’t you think?” Blom turned to the officers standing behind Hari and Luise.
Picking himself up from the floor, Dieter turned to Hari and Luise. He straightened his jacket. “I helped you in London.”
“Yes,” Luise nodded. She flinched as the officer behind her took hold of her shoulders.
“I will be happy to help you again.” Dieter glanced at Hari. “Especially as Hari is not f-feeling so well.”
“Your help,” Hari shrugged at the grip of the man behind him, “will be most appreciated, Dieter. I am,” he gagged, “not feeling at all well.”
“Mueller,” Blom let go of Luise’s satchel and took a step toward Dieter. Making a fist, the knuckle of his index finger extended, Blom stabbed it into Dieter’s chest. “You are a traitor to your nation.” Blom pulled back his fist as Dieter reeled before him.
“Ja, maybe,” Dieter wheezed. “But I am still their f-friend.” As the airship rolled to starboard, Dieter launched himself into Blom’s legs, felling the overweight officer like a rotten tree, straight into the dinner table behind him. Screams and curses pierced the tense air circulating through the dining room as the passengers of nearby tables scattered, scrambling further to starboard to escape the brawling Germans.
“No,” Jacques slid into the side of the heavy buffet table. “Not that way. Not to starboard.”
