by David Healey
"What do you expect me to do?" The captain's voice sounded tense and angry. "I lost ten good men today due to those damned Napoleonists and their bomblets. There are another twenty in the surgery being treated by the surgeon and Professor Hobhouse."
"You sea-lubbers weren't the only ones with losses today," Captain Amelia snapped back, sounding every bit as angry as Bellingham. "Mr. Rigley and Able Airman Hazel launched with the gryphon named Biscuit to meet the surprise attack by the French beasts. They engaged the enemy and Able Airman Hazel fell during the air battle."
Alexander was struck by the term "fell," which sounded so noble compared to the reality of the boy's death. He had heard from the other flyers that Able Airman Hazel—who had turned seventeen two weeks ago—had been hit by a lucky shot from a Napoleonist pistol and his restraining harness had given way as he slumped in the saddle. His body had then pinwheeled several hundred feet before plummeting into the sea. The bullet may or may not have been fatal, but the plunge into the sea definitely had killed him, to put it less poetically.
Bellingham nodded silently. It was unsaid, but he was in a difficult position. Though they were of equal rank, Bellingham technically commanded Resolution and all those aboard. Although she was not attached to the ship, having come there bearing messages from fleet command, Captain Amelia by privilege of rank not only commanded all flyers and gryphons aboard but now spoke for them.
"You ask a great deal of me, Amelia."
"I know you'll do the right thing, Bellingham. This is one of your crew. A British flyer and gryphon in danger of being captured by the French."
There was silence at the implications of that. The thought of a Royal Navy flyer and gryphon falling into Napoleonist hands was almost too terrible to contemplate. It was well known that a captured flyer found alone on French soil might be treated like a spy rather than a proper soldier. That meant he could be hanged or shot.
And then there was the treatment of captured gryphons. Gryphons were more loyal and intelligent than horses or even dogs, so it was believed a gryphon that had trained closely with one flyer never could be completely trusted with another—especially if that flyer was French. There were rumors that the Napoleonists kept captured gryphons for breeding, but that they cut off their wings so that they could never return home to help the English. It was a cruelty almost too awful to contemplate.
Captain Amelia broke the silence. "Well," she said. "It's quite clear that we shall have to go after them."
"What? Fly into France after one flyer and gryphon? That's madness, Amelia!"
"Come now, Bellingham. I would have thought you'd see it as a matter of duty."
Off to one side, the sailing master began to sputter in much the same way that a lid clatters on a boiling pot. "A horse has better sense than a gryphon," he said. "At least a horse will return to its stable rather than fly into enemy territory!"
Captain Amelia regarded him coldly. "I can assure you, Mr. Drury, that a gryphon is not a horse. And if I recall, Resolution was under severe attack at the time. Lemondrop knew to lead the attackers away from us, toward the coast."
"The French coast!" Mr. Drury, done with sputtering, nearly shouted. "Not bloody England!"
"A gryphon is a beast, Mr. Drury," the flyer captain responded. "A clever beast, to be sure, but not one that's particularly able to reason or do sensible things. Lemondrop was following his instincts to protect the ship and his flyer."
The sailing master puffed up his wide cheeks, ready to respond, but the captain stopped him with a wave of his hand. "Belay that, if you please, Mr. Drury. We'll make no headway in debating the faults and merits of gryphons. What do you propose, Amelia?"
"A rescue mission."
The naval officers exchanged glances, but knew better than to speak up before the captain. What was unsaid was that a rescue mission into French territory was highly irregular. But that was a flyer for you. Always doing the unconventional. And Captain Amelia made most flyers look dull as a country vicar by comparison.
"What an interesting proposal," the ship's captain said.
"Think of the audacity of it, Bellingham. We'll be operating under the very noses of the French. We'll take two gryphons into France," she said. "Mr. Hope and myself on Desdemona. Mr. Rigley on Biscuit, one of our strongest flyers."
What Bellingham said next surprised Alexander. "Why on earth do you want Mr. Hope?"
Alexander might have asked the same question. It was no secret that Alexander had done well flying with Parkington on Lemondrop. But he wasn't so sure he wanted to fly clear to France.
"He is Lord Parkington's closest friend on this ship and he's not bad in the air. From what I can see, he's still too green to be of much use on your ship." She paused. "But he has certain skills that may be useful."
"Parlor tricks, Amelia! Nelson’s hat, but this mission you've proposed is truly madness." Captain Bellingham clasped his hands behind his back and paced. The small, crowded room was confining, so that he resembled a tiger in a cage. "I don't know. If things go wrong the French will have gained a Flyer captain and two more of our gryphons. It seems a bad trade to me for a wounded ensign and a gryphon, if you forgive me for saying so."
"I shall, though your practical nature at times smacks of cruelty toward Lord Parkington," the flyer captain said. Several eyebrows went up in the cabin, but Bellingham seemed nonplussed. A silence fell around the room. The captain's words had had the ring of finality, but Amelia had hinted that she had yet to play her trump card. It was well known around the fleet that Captain Amelia held aristocratic titles in contempt and used them grudgingly, even with her superiors. She avoided calling Parkington anything other than "mister," as if he were nothing more than a lowly adolescent ensign.
"I believe that will be all, Amelia," the captain said.
"Not quite, Bellingham. Let me point out that Lord Parkington may be a mere boy, but he is cousin to the king," she said quietly, as if she and Bellingham were the only two in the room. "Do you think King George would wish his young cousin to be a hostage and prisoner of the French? Napoleon would like nothing better than to use him as a pawn in this game of kings and emperors, or hang him as a spy to thumb his Gallic nose at the English throne. Let us bring him back among friends."
Captain Bellingham thought about it for several long moments, and then slowly nodded. "Very well then. But you shall also take Professor Hobhouse."
"Why in the name of Jupiter would I do that? We’re going to rescue an earl, not conjugate verbs or do long division."
"Hobhouse speaks fluent French," Bellingham said, as if it was perfectly obvious. A slight smile crossed his face the way a ripple of wind might cause a sail to dance. "Whatever shall you do if you need to stop and ask directions?"
• • •
They spent the next few hours making preparations for the mission into France. Alexander made several trips around the ship, gathering items as commanded by Captain Amelia. It didn't help that a cold rain had sprung up, driven by a gusty wind across the English Channel. Alexander was soon soaked to the skin. It did not seem like promising weather for a secret mission into France, but the flyer who would be accompanying them was reassuring about the rain.
"A gryphon can fly in almost any weather short of a full-blown gale," Rigley said. "My Biscuit and Captain Amelia's Desdemona are two of the best creatures there are with two wings. And dirty weather like this will keep the French lookouts from spotting us, so that works in our favor."
Alexander's errands kept him too busy to think much, but he had to agree with Captain Bellingham that flying into French territory seemed liked madness. Yet Captain Amelia sounded confident enough, as if this were no more than a message run between ships in the fleet. Never mind that they had been busy gathering pistols and having the armorer sharpen their cutlasses. Following Captain Amelia’s orders, Alexander also had fetched a quantity of bandages from the ship's surgeon and packed them in a waterproof saddlebag.
A cloaked figure
appeared above as Alexander climbed a ladder toward the upper deck. He nearly fell when a boot stamped on his hand. Alexander looked up irritably. It was Fowler, who was coming off his watch on deck.
"Look where you're going, Hopeless!" Fowler said, a nasty smile on his face. "I've just heard about your little mission to save his lordship. I wouldn't give a brass farthing for your chances, considering you can't seem to make your way around the ship without coming to harm."
"Do try to keep the rum barrels safe while I'm in France," Alexander said.
"You'll forgive me if I don't wish you luck," Fowler said, shaking the rain off his coat and into Alexander's face before climbing the rest of the way down the ladder. "I'm sure some French cuirassier is going to gut you like a fish as soon as you touch down. What a pity."
Alexander was still gnashing his teeth when he found Roger bundling himself in a foul weather cloak on his way to his shift on watch. Roger took him by the arm urgently. "Alexander! I've been looking all over for you but I just now have to go on watch. I'm glad I found you! I just wanted to wish you luck, and hope that you get Lord Parky back here in once piece. Those bloody flyers are so much trouble. It just figures that it takes a good sailor to rescue them!"
Alexander was so touched that it was all he could do to mumble, "Thank you, Roger," before continuing on his way.
Once they had everything assembled and packed, Alexander was bone tired. But he expected he would be far too excited—and anxious—to get much sleep. He was already uneasy, and it didn't help that Amelia wanted him to sleep in the gryphon deck.
"Stick with Rigley. I don't want to have to track you down among all those sleeping ensigns," she informed him, and then wrinkled her nose. "You boys are a smelly bunch, I might add, stinking up your quarters with dirty stockings and bean farts."
Alexander was a bit embarrassed. There was a certain funk that hung about the ensigns' quarters. He might have said the same about the gryphon deck. The smells here were so foreign. Unlike the cramped ensigns' quarters, there was plenty of fresh air from several open ports. The gryphons preferred the smell of open sky. Alexander was already wet through from running errands in the cold rain to get ready for the mission, and he soon found himself shivering as he followed Rigley toward Biscuit’s stall.
While the air was cool and fresh, the smell of the gryphons themselves was unnerving. Like horses, the beasts had their own peculiar scent. It was more lion than cat, both feline and feral. The smell was something he might never get used to, at least not for one night. He also soon realized that unlike the ensigns' berth, there were no hammocks.
"Where do you sleep?" he asked, looking around.
"I sleep in the stall with Biscuit," Rigley explained. He offered a conspiratorial grin. "Warmest place on the ship."
Alexander took one look at Biscuit, who appeared calm enough, but gazed at him with the unsettling stare that a cat might use on a mouse. Each gryphon was different. He recalled that Lemondrop was built lean and long as a thoroughbred racehorse, making him extremely fast. Biscuit was heavy and lumpy as his name implied, somewhat ungainly on deck due to his large size, but a very powerful beast in the air. The sheer size of him tended to intimidate the French gryphons.
"Won't he roll over and crush you?"
"No, and neither would a horse, you ninny, and gryphons are much smarter and more attached to their flyers." Rigley paused, as if considering something. "There's room for you, if you wish. It will save time in the morning. Otherwise, you'll probably get lost down here or oversleep and we'll have to hunt you up."
He looked around. There was a nice warmth. A lantern gave off a dim light, and the stall was lined with fresh straw. It was almost cozy—and definitely more spacious than what either the ensigns or the sailors might expect. "All right," he said. "As long as you promise your devil-beak doesn't get hungry during the night and have me for a treat."
"You'd be a bit too stringy for his tastes, I'd wager. Not nearly enough meat on your bones for him."
Alexander rolled himself in a blanket. To his horror, Rigley lay down next to the beast.
"Good night," he said.
"Good night," Alexander answered. He had expected to have trouble sleeping, here in these strange quarters, among the beasts. He thought he would have missed his hammock. He also knew he should have been afraid for an entirely different reason—not because of the gryphons but because they would by flying into enemy territory tomorrow. Instead, Alexander found that he was excited. That alone might have kept him awake, but all at once the warmth enveloped him and exhaustion stole through him. He closed his eyes and slept.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It only seemed like minutes later that they were awakened in the dark by Captain Amelia herself. Alexander had slept in his clothes again—he scarcely remembered what it was like not to—and he reached for his boots and pulled them on. The flyers' steward came around with coffee and biscuits, but Alexander waved him off. The gryphons were being fed chunks of raw meat—the sight and smell of fresh blood would have taken away Alexander's appetite if he hadn't already been too nervous to eat. Then the gryphons were saddled. They were traveling light, taking nothing other than their weapons and medical supplies.They filled the remaining space in their saddlebags with bread and flasks of water.
When it came time to climb aboard Desdemona, Alexander was still so groggy with sleep that he fumbled with the brass buckles.
"Oh for heaven's sake, Mr. Hope!" Captain Amelia cried in exasperation, so that one of the flyer crew members hurried over to help strap Alexander into his long distance flying harness. They then rigged up the speaking tube, which made for easier communication on long flight, eliminating the need to yell at each other over the roar of the wind.
He glanced over at Professor Hobhouse and Rigley on board Biscuit. Rigley was old to be a mere flyer ensign, but Alexander had learned that there were ensigns like him who wanted nothing more than to fly. He had no interest in commanding his own squadron someday. Rigley had a reputation for being one of the best gryphon pilots in the fleet, though he was something of a daredevil. There was a gleam in his eye that showed he couldn't wait to get in the air. Professor Hobhouse looked rather pale and drawn, but resolute. He was so tall that he looked out of place, even on Biscuit, one of the larger gryphons. Once up on Biscuit's broad back, he had to stay hunched over to keep from cracking his noggin against the beams overhead.
The gryphon port was already open to the gray morning and cold sea air washed in, smelling strongly of salt. The ship had come about so that the gryphon port opened into the wind to make the launch easier, but being broadside to the waves made the ship roll heavily.
Alexander could hear the waves lurching against Resolution, and he found himself reaching out, willing the waves to quiet themselves. Nothing seemed to happen, other than the telltale beginnings of a headache. Alexander forgot about the waves and put his mind to other things, such as getting a good grip on the saddle horn. Unlike the so-called "English" saddles that most horse riders used, gryphon saddles were deep enough to grip the rider and had a horn that one might hold onto for balance when, say, swinging a sword at the enemy.
"Goggles on, if you please, Mr. Hope," said Captain Amelia, then guided Desdemona out the gryphon port and onto the wide wooden launch platform. The flyer captain stood for a moment and scratched Desdemona's ears. The gryphon nuzzled Amelia in return and made a nickering sound deep in her throat, almost like a horse. Compared with the other gryphons aboard Resolution, he had noticed that Desdemona was smaller than the others—built more like a panther than a lion, lithe and quick. But she was still strong enough to carry them both. "That's a good girl. We're in for a long flight and a bit of dodgy business if we meet a squadron of the enemy."
Looking on, Alexander was struck by the obvious connection between the flyer commander and her gryphon. He had thought of Amelia as harsh, but what he was watching was a private scene of tenderness between the gryphon and the flyer captain—and Ameli
a didn't seem to know that she was being watched. Then she climbed aboard the gryphon.
The wind whistled here on the launch deck, and the gray waves below looked hungry. Alexander gulped. Desdemona seemed to coil herself on her powerful hind legs. She sprang forward and suddenly there was no longer a wooden platform beneath them but only the waves, coming up at them fast.
Desdemona stretched out her wings and caught the wind. The gryphon gained altitude and with a few beats of her wings rose high above the ship. Below them, Biscuit took to the air in much the same way. He was a great, heavy beast—a sort of gryphon version of a Clydesdale—and had to beat his wings much harder to get aloft. Alexander felt dizzy as he watched the ship grow smaller far below.
He wasn't sure how many times it would take him to get used to riding a gryphon, if he ever did. He was quickly learning that it was neither the heights nor the stomach-churning aerial maneuvers that bothered him much. It was the sense of not being in control. He had come to realize that he didn't particularly like being a stern rider aboard a gryphon because he was, after all, just along for the ride.
Captain Amelia had other ideas.
"Keep a sharp eye out, Mr. Hope," she said into the speaking tube. "There will be enemy patrols that we wish to avoid."
It turned out that Resolution had been cruising just beyond sight of the French coast. The two gryphons flew so swiftly that the shoreline soon came into view. Alexander hardly knew what to think. All his life he had been taught that the French were the enemy. At the same time, France had seemed so distant from the woods and fields around Kingston Hall that it may as well have been the moon. Now here was France on the horizon, growing closer every moment.
Desdemona was very swift, being a messenger gryphon, and Captain Amelia guided her expertly to catch every favorable eddy of the air. He had the distinct impression that Biscuit was lumbering along heavily, puffing with the effort of keeping up with the swifter gryphon, and that Desdemona was holding back in order that they might fly in together.
