The Great Galloon

by Tom Banks

  ‘MISS!’ shouted the Captain. ‘Haul her in and try again!’ and the team began to haul on the rope, ready for another shot.

  The BeheMoths were upon them. They looked like a diabolical cross between a death’s-head moth and a cockroach of incredible size. Their antennae flickered as they flew alongside the Galloon, sniffing out food wherever they could find it.

  ‘Fire again when ready, men!’ the Captain said to the harpoon crew.

  ‘Sir?’ said a voice at his elbow.

  ‘Yes, Abel?’ snapped the Captain, gruffly.

  ‘Will this work, sir?’ Abel was plucking at imaginary fluff on his lapel.

  ‘We may pick off a couple of the beasts,’ said the Captain, watching intently as a harpoon careered wildly off into the sky. ‘And it’ll give us time.’

  ‘Time for what sir?’

  ‘Time,’ said Captain Anstruther, ‘for Plan B. I believe Cloudier was quite right about the thunderstorm being crucial to scaring off the BeheMoths. But it wasn’t the rain that did it.’

  He pointed at the crowd that was reassembling on the deck, each individual carrying pots, pans, drums and sticks.

  ‘I believe,’ he said, ‘that the BeheMoths are extremely sensitive to noise. I do not know if we can make enough noise to drive off this many. But we must do our best. It may only give us time to land safely, but if that is the case then so be it.’

  At that point another phalanx of BeheMoths made it through the flurry of harpoons and landed on the foremast jib b’loon. Their awful faces seemed to be mocking the crew as they bit into the heavy canvas, and everybody could hear the crunching noises they made.

  ‘They are upon us in ever greater numbers,’ cried the Captain, as yet more of the beasts landed all around him. ‘To arms!’ And with that he began ringing the great ship’s bell as if every life on the Great Galloon relied upon it, which, of course, it did.

  The Brunt sat up on the edge of his bed. The last rounds of noise had really taken it out of him. He looked pale and relatively weak. But he had in his ears the large pair of wax earplugs that Mr Lungren had given him at Rasmussen’s request. He was drinking a large mug of tea that Stanley had made before returning to the daylight, braving the furnace as a favour to his new friend.

  The Brunt yawned and stretched. He took a big gulp of tea, then stood up with a look of determination in his eyes. He grabbed his enormous shovel from where it leaned against the wall and made his way down the corridor to the furnace room.

  He had some stoking to do.

  The orchestra came at last, with Stanley and Rasmussen’s help, to the area below the platform from which they had taken their tumble. Far, far above they could see a tiny rectangle of light, and Stanley was horrified to see the occasional dark shape flit past.

  ‘The BeheMoths!’ he said. ‘We must help. The Captain needs us!’

  ‘How did you get down here?’ asked Mr Lungren politely, but Rasmussen’s reply was not so well mannered.

  ‘We fell!’ she snapped. ‘And as far as I know we can’t fall back up again, and there’s no other way of getting out of here because it’s normally the Brunt who does it and he’s . . . he’s . . .’

  ‘He’s here,’ said Stanley simply.

  He was indeed. Like an avalanche on Carpet Mountain, the Brunt was lumbering out of the gloom towards them. Neither Stanley nor Rasmussen had seen him from a distance yet, and somehow he looked even bigger in this open space than he did in his cosy little room. His horns curled magnificently way over his head, so the orchestra members had to lean right back to take him all in, even while he was a fair way off.

  As he approached, he reached out a thickly furred arm and grabbed hold of a large wooden beam that lay unnoticed in the darkness. He dragged this along with him as he came, and the noise was almost as unnerving as the Boomaphone.

  For a fleeting second, Stanley wondered whether a happy, headache-free Brunt would be as sympathetic as he had been earlier. But he needn’t have worried.

  Despite the quailing knees and quiet moans of the Bilgepump Orchestra, the Brunt meant them no harm. He stopped just in front of them and spoke, in his alarmingly quiet way.

  ‘Hello, Stanley.’

  He seemed to be waiting. Stanley felt Rasmussen’s nudge and replied.

  ‘Hello, the Brunt.’

  ‘Hello, Rasmussen,’ said the Brunt.

  ‘Hello, the Brunt.’

  Stanley was relieved that the Brunt didn’t know the names of all the orchestra members, or they would have run out of time to help save the ship.

  ‘Ermm. What have you got there?’ asked Rasmussen, referring to the beam the Brunt had hauled behind him, and the apparatus it was attached to.

  The Brunt looked at it slowly, then turned back to them, a beam of his own spreading slowly across his wide, leathery face.

  ‘It’s a spare platform, Rasmussen,’ he said. ‘I can pull you up onto the deck, like flour or potatoes.’

  Stanley laughed out loud.

  As his head rose above the parapet at the end of the long, precarious journey to the outside, Stanley saw swarms of gigantic creatures clinging to the rigging, the balloons, the sails and every surface, munching and crunching, blind to the panic all around them. He also saw the entire crew of the Galloon standing in clumps, being directed by Clamdigger, Cloudier, and a few other trustworthy types. They were all banging on pots and pans, blowing into kettles, shouting, and ringing bells as loudly as they could.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he shouted to Mr Wouldbegood, who tutted and adjusted his cap disapprovingly. ‘Band practice?’

  As they clambered off the rickety platform and onto the deck, Mr Wouldbegood told the assembled orchestra, Stanley and Rasmussen about Captain Anstruther’s Plan B, with particular reference to how it wouldn’t have come to this in his day, and how a spell in the army would do these BeheMoths some good.

  Once everyone was safe, Rasmussen leaned over the hatchway and cupped her hands round her mouth.

  ‘Thank you, the Brunt!’ she yelled.

  No reply was heard, but a couple of seconds later the platform gave a kind of shimmy, as if the Brunt was waggling his rope in recognition.

  As Stanley turned away from the hatch, Mrs Wouldbegood was still complaining under her breath. ‘So we’re supposed to make a lot of noise to scare these ruddy creatures off the rigging and so on, but I don’t think we’re going to get anywhere with these little pots and pans. We need something that can make a real noise, like in the olden days.’

  Stanley turned to Rasmussen, and then they both looked at Mr Ramalan.

  ‘A real noise, eh?’ the three of them said together.

  A few minutes later, the orchestra was assembled around the main mast, where only metres above their heads, a thick carpet of BeheMoths was busy chewing through the sail.

  ‘I appreciate the gesture, Miss Rasmussen, Stanley, but is a chamber concert really the best way to deal with this crisis?’ said Able Skyman Abel, from the back of a terrified crowd.

  ‘It’s exactly what’s needed, Skyman Abel,’ said Stanley, giving out the last of the spare earplugs that the orchestra had provided. ‘You’ll particularly enjoy the finale, I believe!’

  ‘Mr Lungren, proceed,’ said Rasmussen.

  ‘What?’ said Mr Lungren.

  Rasmussen held up another delicately handwritten cardboard notice, which this time said:

  Pray, Begin

  The conductor nodded seriously, and with a glance at the BeheMoths above his head, raised his keep-in-time stick.

  With the earplugs in, Rasmussen and Stanley were astonished at the difference in the orchestra’s sound. Where before they had heard discordant clanging, grating and sawing noises, now they heard the gentle rise and fall of a beautiful symphony as it played around the decks. And as they played, each member of the orchestra still wielded his or her instrument as a weapon. The violinists, each with a quiver of bows at his thigh, were firing into the crowd of Behemoths with every pizzicato no
te. The timpanist was bashing away with his beaters at more than just his drums, and the double bass player was holding his instrument like a gigantic club, all the while keeping up a driving backbeat. And at the back was Mr Ramalan, all three arms once more engaged in readying the Boomaphone for its moment. The crew stood in awe, including the Captain on the bridge, and even the BeheMoths that weren’t directly under fire stopped chomping and raised their antennae.

  The music went on for quite a while, building to a peak here, and then falling back to a gentle tune on one instrument, before rising on a stirring crescendo once again. The assembled people even forgot for a while that they were being attacked by all-consuming monster moths, such was the beauty of it. Any BeheMoth that got too close was picked off, but overall the assault continued. Somehow, though, the Gallooniers knew that something big was about to happen.

  Clamdigger and Cloudier stood together, manifestly not holding hands. And then Stanley noticed Mr Ramalan cracking his knuckles, adjusting his position and inflating his cheeks at the mouthpiece of the Boomaphone. A thrill went through him, as he realised that he was going to listen to the noise again, this time on purpose. He hoped it worked, but if it didn’t, what did it matter?

  The Gallooniers had long ago stopped panicking, and the banging on pans was never going to work anyway. The music swelled yet further, and Mr Lungren was standing on tiptoes as he worked up to the Grand Finale. Stanley looked round at the crowd, and felt very proud and pleased to be a part of it.

  Mr Ramalan took an almighty breath, flexed the muscles in all three of his arms, applied them to the relevant pedals, flaps and valves and blew for all he was worth. With the earplugs in, and the new mouthpiece, the sound that reached Stanley’s brain was a fat, warm, chocolaty tone that made him feel safe and happy. It still rumbled up through his belly and made his eyes shake; it still set the Galloon shuddering like a tumble dryer, but it was such a satisfyingly cheerful feeling that he couldn’t help laughing.

  Stanley grabbed Rasmussen’s arm and pointed upwards – the balloon was jiggling like a jelly again, and the BeheMoths couldn’t stand it. They were dropping off in swathes, flapping their enormous wings, and flying silently away from the Great Galloon.

  Looking around, he saw people laughing and shouting, although obviously he couldn’t hear them, and he even caught a glimpse of the Captain’s face under his imposing hat. He thought that maybe he detected the beginnings of a smile there, the closest he had seen the Captain get to a true show of happiness since his ill-fated wedding day.

  The orchestra carried on playing as the BeheMoths flapped away, but soon their music became a jaunty hornpipe, and around Stanley the crew of the Galloon were tidying up and assessing the damage while jigging and reeling about the decks in a ceilidh of triumph. Stanley watched as Clamdigger and Cloudier each picked up one end of a small sail that had fallen to the deck, and folded them into the middle, where they met with a sheepish roll of the eyes. Ms Huntley tapped Cloudier on the shoulder.

  ‘You could ask Mr Clamdigger to our rooms for tea, if you like,’ she said brightly.

  ‘Muum!’ wailed Cloudier, with the diphthong that only a thirteen-year-old girl can pronounce.

  ‘Just a thought!’ replied her mother, wheeling away as a deckhand took her by the arm.

  Rasmussen joined Stanley, and they watched as Cloudier looked up again at the cabin boy.

  ‘Four o’clock tomorrow, then? I’ll make a cake.’ Then she added huffily, ‘I suppose you’ve got “duties”, though,’ and looked at her nails.

  ‘No, I suppose I can,’ said Clamdigger. ‘I think Abel owes me an afternoon off.’ And as he turned away from Cloudier with the sail in his arms, Stanley saw a smile spread across each of their faces, unbeknown to the other.

  ‘Great,’ said Rasmussen. ‘I expect we’ll get invited for cake too.’

  ‘Ermm,’ Stanley began, but the clanging of the great wheelhouse bell saved him from having to let her down gently. They turned to see the Captain standing on the rail of the quarter deck, waving his second-best hat above his head.

  ‘People of the Great Galloon!’ he called, and as ever his voice carried above the wind and hubbub in a way that seemed almost magical. ‘I owe you much. I owe you my life, for those beasts would surely have sunk the Galloon if you were not so brave and hearty. I owe you my loyalty, for you have shown loyalty to me that I scarcely deserve. And I owe you an apology.’

  At this, the crowd, which was thickening now around Stanley and Rasmussen, set up a chorus of dissent. ‘No!’ they cried, and, ‘You owe us nothing of the sort.’

  ‘You are kind,’ continued the Captain. ‘But you are wrong. I have been too long in a brown study, leaving the running of my beloved Galloon to others, however able they may be. I should never have left it to Cloudier to warn us of the approaching BeheMoths, or of the Galloon’s unscheduled descent. But warn us she did, and we are grateful.’

  At this, Cloudier went red and examined her nails minutely, but her mother gave her a hefty squeeze, and a smattering of applause ran round those near her.

  ‘It should not have been up to Clamdigger to bring me her message. Or Stanley and Rasmussen to investigate the worrisome noises. But it was, and I am as proud of them as I am ashamed of myself.’

  ‘No!’ called Rasmussen, and a few others took up the cry.

  ‘Yes,’ continued Captain Anstruther. ‘And as for my self-appointed second in command, Able Skyman Abel . . .’

  Stanley craned his neck and saw, a few hundred feet away, Abel begin to step gingerly backwards down a hatchway, as if hoping no one would see him.

  ‘If he had not convinced you all that I was the real Meredith Anstruther, all those weeks ago, then I would have had a real struggle on my hands.’

  Abel stopped creeping away, and waved at the crowd, beaming with relief.

  ‘Hmmmm,’ said Rasmussen, through tight lips.

  ‘Quite so,’ agreed Stanley.

  ‘So I hope you can forgive me . . .’ said the Captain, to cries of “yes”, and “nothing to forgive you for!”, ‘. . . and join me in this: a rousing three cheers, for the crew of the Great Galloon! Hip hip!’

  ‘Hooray!’ cried the crew, most of whom were now trying to squeeze into the space in front of the wheelhouse, where Stanley stood.

  ‘Hooray!’ they cried again at the Captain’s instigation, and many threw their hats, walking sticks, instruments or children in the air.

  ‘HOORAY!’ they finished, and everyone hugged and backslapped like it was Hogmanay. But in the middle of the throng, Stanley, while being lifted into the air by an enthusiastic grown-up, took the time to look around him. He saw Ms Huntley, staring up at the Captain with a wistful look in her eye. He saw the Countess, radiating beauty and elegantly dancing with Cook. He saw the Wouldbegoods, Rasmussen and many hundreds more, smiling, dancing and cheering with joy. And he saw the Captain, scanning the horizon, already lost once more in the search for his kidnapped bride.

  A day or so after the BeheMoth escape, Stanley and Rasmussen were called to the Captain’s office, with its green leather-topped table, and its smell of brass polish and toasted cheese.

  They explained all about meeting the Brunt, finding the orchestra and all that had happened to them down below.

  ‘But we’d really like to go back down, sir, to check that the Brunt is alright,’ said Rasmussen, at the end of her long and breathless explanation.

  ‘You may certainly visit the Brunt whenever you like, although if I know him, he won’t want to be disturbed too often. However, if it’s proof of his wellbeing you’re after, look up there.’ And, turning them round, he pointed through the window at the huge main chimney-funnel of the Great Galloon. They were pleased to see that it was once again belching out clouds of black smoke, as it had always done before, when they took it entirely for granted.

  ‘The Brunt is stoking the fire!’ said Stanley.

  ‘Yes, he is, which means we’re rising again, and we’ll ma
ke our rendezvous at the Eisberg Mountains in time for the Count’s birthday celebrations.’

  ‘I don’t think we should invite the Brunt to the celebration concert, though,’ said Rasmussen.

  ‘And where will we go after that sir?’ said Stanley, pushing his luck in this moment of solidarity. The Captain was quiet, and his eyes flicked towards the mantelpiece where a small portrait of a beautiful, upright young woman stood.

  ‘I have an appointment in the Chimney Isles,’ he said, with the sadness once again returning to his steel-grey eyes. ‘With my brother, although he will be surprised to see me, no doubt.’

  He seemed to drift away for a moment, then snap back into the present.

  ‘Now, you will recall that you had been volunteered to tidy the hold, scrub the decks and keep watch until we got to Eisberg. I think in view of recent events, you can be excused these duties.’ The two friends punched the air. ‘I believe, however, that you were waiting for an adventure to happen, and I would hate for you to miss it. So for now, you are excused.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Stanley and Rasmussen together, and they turned towards the door. Before he closed it, Stanley looked at the Captain again, bent over his map table, studying it hard with his pipe clamped tightly between his teeth.

  ‘And, sir?’ he said quietly.

  ‘Yes, Stanley?’

  ‘Good luck, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Stanley. That will be all.’

  Honorary Galloonier’s aptitude test

  with Able Skyman Abel

  Those testees who score 100% or more qualify as honorary Gallooniers, and may refer to themselves as such at parties. Pop to the Captain’s Cabin for hot chocolate and a hearty pat on the back.

  Those who score 99% or less, head to your nearest long-distance examinator for further lessons from Mrs Crumplehorn. Or turn the page to find the answers. The test may be taken once, more than once, or more than more than once, as the testee sees fit. Pencils at the ready please.