by Rebecca Diem
Tales of the Captain Duke
The Stowaway Debutante
By Rebecca Diem
WOOLF LIKE ME
Publishing
Text copyright © 2014 Rebecca Diem
All Rights Reserved
Cover art by Sarah McComb
Cover design by Krys Huot-Ricketts
First Edition
Woolf Like Me Publishing
978-0-9938874-5-1
To my parents (R&K), my grandparents (R&M&B&P),
and everyone who took the time to tell me a story.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1: In which our heroine finds herself in an unlikely predicament 6
Chapter 2: In which our heroine meets a legendary figure 13
Chapter 3: In which our hero acquires a new pilot 18
Chapter 4: In which our heroine finally gets to wear trousers 21
Chapter 5: In which our heroine sups aboard an airship 27
Chapter 6: In which our heroine finds a friend 34
Chapter 7: In which our hero regrets his egregious assumptions 37
Chapter 8: In which our heroine begins to understand her choice 45
Chapter 9: In which our hero learns to expect the unexpected 50
Chapter 10: In which our heroine takes matters into her own hands 54
Preview: From Haven to Hell 60
Acknowledgements 62
Chapter 1: In which our heroine finds herself in an unlikely predicament
It had been quite easy to sneak onto the airship. Easier still to carve out a hiding place between the stacks of crates and the wall. Clara had a rather comfortable berth under the circumstances. The sacks of grain piled here and there in the cargo hold were more than adequate for her journey to London, though she very much hoped it would be a short one. She spent her time considering various plans for her arrival and snacking on the food she had hurriedly packed: a few early apples, a chunk of yellow cheese, two soft buns, and a small cake with summer berries. The apple made a pleasant crunch as she bit into it, staring through a porthole at the passing landscape below. The airborne vessel drifted over the English countryside as she considered her options.
Clara estimated the trip to be no longer than a half day’s journey, or so she judged by the speed with which they crossed to the mainland from the airship docks on the Isle of Wight. She hoped she could eventually make a run for it and get lost in the midday bustle of the London docks, but first she needed to return to solid ground. Her brother Archie’s glider might have been useful to this purpose, but once he saw her safely below deck he’d had to be off or risk discovery himself. The glider was far too cumbersome to be hidden, and it would likely be of little use to her once she made it to London. She would have to find some other method of escape. Her best bet to avoid discovery was likely to conceal herself in one of these crates. Clara sighed and stood, brushing the dust from her dress. Resolving to find more appropriate attire upon her arrival, she went to examine the nearest crate.
The cover was firmly in place. She looked around the hold for something useful and discovered a crowbar resting by the steps. She was quite pleased with her progress. It would be a simple matter of replacing one of the grain sacks with herself when the time came to unload the ship. She crossed the room to retrieve the tool, gathering the excess material of her skirts at her hip as she climbed out from her hiding place. Crates were stacked three deep around a large open area in the center of the hold. She retrieved the iron bar and placed the slimmer end into the edge of a large crate marked “GRAINS AND ASST. GOODS.” Clara pulled with all her strength, bracing her low-heeled boot against a neighbouring case. The crack that followed was louder than she anticipated, but she was certain that the noise of the propellers and engine would mask it. What she had not expected were the contents of the crate.
Gunpowder.
Clara had just begun to ponder this new problem as she recovered from the shock, when footsteps coming down the stairs sent her scrambling to hide as silently as she could. She clutched the crowbar tightly as her veins filled with ice.
“I swear, I heard something,” the first voice called out. The sound of three pairs of heavy boots carried through the hold.
“Maybe one of the boxes fell?” suggested a more timid voice.
“If it did it’ll be you taking a flight over the rail, boy. The Captain said it was to be handled with care. With care! Heard of it?” a loud voice boomed, and the sound of a brief scuffle followed. Behind the crates, Clara held her breath, straining to make sense of their movements and position through sound alone. She had a sinking feeling that this was no simple merchant’s ship, and the barely restrained violence of the loud man’s voice did not lend itself to a diplomatic resolution if she were caught.
“Leave him be, Johnny, the kid is alright. Nothing seems out of place,” the first voice spoke again.
“Well check and be sure, I won’t have the Captain taking his displeasure out of our pay, or I’ll take my share out of the boy.”
Clara stole a quiet breath of relief when the loud man’s boots retreated toward the stairwell. She could hear the other two moving about the hold, and hoped that her own thudding heartbeat would not betray her position. She quickly thought through her options: Could she bribe them? Should she fight? Could she run? She made herself as small as possible and waited, every instinct on high alert. The lighter pair of footsteps was getting closer.
A shuffle. A step. He must be less than four feet from her, only the crate she huddled against blocking her from his view. When his voice called out the blood froze in Clara’s veins.
“Hey, look over here!”
“What do you got?”
“It’s… an apple core, I think.”
Damn! She cursed herself for not paying better attention to her waste. To come all this way and fail for leaving an apple core on top of the stacks, she might as well have posted a sign.
“You been snacking on the job?”
“No, I swear. It’s not mine.”
“Mine neither. Take a look around the stacks over there. Maybe there’s more.”
This was it. She would be discovered and arrested, maybe killed, or worse, taken back to the Isle in shame. Clara was about to give herself up to their mercy, when shouts came from the decks above.
“What’s that?” the first speaker called out.
A series of heavy thuds answered him.
“Hell, it’s Johnny! Quick!”
Seconds later, the footsteps pounded up the stairs. The commotion above increased in volume, shouts and bangs and crashes. Was it a mutiny? Were they under attack? Clara huddled by her crate, her knees protesting the prolonged stillness, every sense extended to try to determine the nature of the noises above, until her curiosity overwhelmed her and she finally rose to risk a peek toward the stairs.
A body lay awkwardly across the bottom steps. He was the loud man, she presumed. And by the amount of blood pooling beneath his chest, he was also very, very dead.
The noise above was becoming more frantic, and as time passed with no resolution to her present troubles, Clara was feeling quite anxious herself. Stuck in a cargo hold with grain that was gunpowder and a dead body to boot. She was at a complete loss. Nothing in her life had prepared her for an airship battle over the English countryside. A bubble of hysterical laughter escaped as she wondered what her etiquette instructor might say. Likely something about grace under pressure and that one’s resolve could be seen in one’s spine, but also that ladies would not find themselves in such a mess to begin with. She caught herself questioning her decision to leave the island for the first time since she had determined it to be the best course of action. She was completely out of her element. How cou
ld she ever have thought that her venture would be successful? She worried that she was a fool. Was this the end of her journey? Lost in an airship battle before she truly lived? Clara forced herself to take deep breaths to calm her racing heart. No, she thought. This was her choice and she would find a way through. She would do whatever necessary.
She unconsciously straightened her posture as she waited for some sign of the situation above. More information was needed before she could logically proceed. She would act when she had a better understanding of her circumstances. Until then, she would hide and wait.
The frenzy above gave way to a cacophony of whoops and hollers. Someone was cheering, but was the airship won or lost? The shouts were closer now but still too indistinct to interpret. A door banged open and someone crashed down the stairs, swearing an oath as he tripped over the dead man and scrambled further into the hold.
This is it, she thought.
Two more sets of footsteps came down, slow and precise, but all the more intimidating for their measured pace.
“A captain in the cargo hold. You must be in a hurry to die. No true captain would abandon their pilots to carry on while hiding with the goods,” a voice called. The voice was pleasant, aside from the underlying threat of imminent injury.
“You’ll not be taking my ship today.”
“You’re sure about that?” called a woman’s voice. “It looks as though I’ve got your sword right here. Pistols too. I’d say you’re a little outmatched.”
Clara peeked between the crates and caught a sliver of the standoff. White blouse, breeches, a tall boot, but she could not see the speaker.
“Shoot me then. I will not see my ship surrendered to pirates! The Tradists are closing in on your little operation, oh yes. Your misdeeds will catch up to you sooner than you think, be assured of that!”
“Well, Trick? Can I shoot him?”
“If you must. A coward’s death for a coward captain.”
Clara heard the pistol click into place, and realized the captain’s plan. Throwing all caution to the winds, she scrambled to climb above the crates and yelled: “STOP!”
“By Victoria, there’s a lady on board!” the woman swore, still aiming at the captain. The scene was frozen as each dealt with his or her respective shock. The man called Trick broke the silence.
“And what might your objection be? If you’re feeling a bit delicate we can escort you above decks while we finish down here.”
Clara found her voice, “No, not at all. Pardon me, but it’s the gunpowder.”
They stared.
“The crates behind him, they are filled with gunpowder, not grain. The hold is full of it. If you shoot him, you may blow the entire airship,” she explained, as patiently as she could.
The woman narrowed her eyes while the man let out a deep belly laugh before whistling for others who quickly joined them in the hold.
“Well and you almost had us there, take him up and tie him well,” he ordered, before turning back to her.
The captain was subdued, and escorted up the stairs, grumbling and spitting all the way. The man and woman stayed below, staring up at the girl in the stacks.
“Now my dear, what to do with you?”
Clara stared back at them, balancing on the crates. Their weapons were holstered now, but she did not hold illusions of her safety being secure under the current circumstances. The woman was tall, taller than the man beside her, though it was obvious that she deferred to his authority. Dark blonde hair was captured in a plait that hung past her waist. The man had a stocky build, with hair as dark as Clara’s own. His open expression seemed capable of turning fierce or friendly, as he chose. She did her best to calm her breathing, calculating escape plans and dismissing them just as quickly. She was dependent on their good will. Clara figured that saving their lives was a good start. An act of trust would need to follow.
She carefully picked her way over the crates with as much dignity as she could muster in voluminous skirts and an over-sized jacket with a crowbar concealed in the sleeve. The man crossed the floor quickly to offer a hand to help her down. She elegantly dusted off her skirts, though the action made little difference to their sorry state, and waited for them to address her. As the silence dragged on her courage began to waver, and she decided the first introduction was to be hers.
“Good morning sir, madam. My name is Clara.”
They stared.
They kept staring.
Would they ever stop staring?
The man cleared his throat. “Well then Miss… Clara, I’ll be Patrick Kilarney, known to all as Trick. This here is Nessa.”
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Kilarney, Mistress Nessa.”
More silence. Nessa shifted her wide stance, a hand still resting on one of her holsters, “No offense, Miss, but I haven’t seen many pilots in evening wear and most guests don’t bunk in the cargo hold.”
Clara could understand the confusion. She had not had time to change out of her ball gown, and the skirts were rather worse for wear. Her brother’s coat was just a tad too large for her despite their similar, slender builds. She probably made quite a sight in the present moment.
“Well I can settle that for you, I’m a stowaway.”
Both Trick and Nessa’s eyebrows shot up. “A stowaway? Well,” he scratched his head. “I suppose we are at your service Miss Clara, for saving the ship and all.” His broad grin was at odds with the large sword at his side, but friendly all the same.
“Hold on, how do we know she’s being truthful about the gunpowder? She seems clever enough to make a story of it,” Nessa asked.
Clara raised a single brow at the challenge and allowed the crowbar to slide smoothly from her sleeve. Nessa took a quick step back and cocked a pistol at her. She gave the piratess her most gracious smile and went to the nearest crate, bracing herself to wedge it open. The front came off with a satisfying crack on her second attempt, revealing the barrels of gunpowder hidden within.
Trick grinned and pushed Nessa’s pistol down, walking over to Clara and extending a hand.
“My thanks again, Miss.”
“Yes, our thanks,” said Nessa, with some reluctance before turning back to Trick, “But what are we going to do with her? Drop her off in the countryside?”
Clara considered her options. It was unlikely that the captured ship was bound for London.
“Might I ask where the ship is going? My plans are… adaptable, shall we say.”
“Well we’re not at liberty to share that information, but you can take it up with the Captain. Have no fear, he’s an honourable man,” Trick said. He offered her an arm and began to escort her towards the steps.
“Honourable, but a pirate, I presume?” she asked, finally giving voice to the word.
“I prefer the term ‘liberator,’” a voice spoke from above.
Clara’s gaze shot up. A tall man, lit from behind as his silhouette filled the doorway, his features obscured by shadow. One hand rested casually on the hilt of a slim sword. He walked down the steps into the hold, only pausing to allow Nessa time to drag the corpse aside. As the light of the portholes caught his face, Clara did her best to remain composed. His hair was a fiery red, spilling over his shoulders in a manner that was almost obscene. His sternness was almost overcome by the hint of dimples at his cheeks, but there was a dangerous amusement in his eyes and mouth.
“Trick, I see you have found a debutante.”
“A stowaway, Captain.”
“A stowaway debutante? How curious.”
“She saved us all, sir, warned us about the gunpowder in the hold.”
“I see. What a happy concurrence,” he said, stepping closer to her. “We are in your debt Miss—”
“Clara. Just Clara,” she spoke at last. He reached for her hand and bent in a sweeping bow to kiss it.
Trick grinned, “Miss Clara, may I present to you, the Captain Duke.”
Chapter 2: In which our heroine meets a lege
ndary figure
The Captain Duke!
Clara had heard of this man. His name was whispered in all the major ports, with more rumours of his exploits and motivations than one man ought to inspire in a lifetime. However, in Clara’s estimation, he couldn’t be more than thirty years of age. As the three escorted her to the deck above, she adjusted her appraisal. In the clear light of day he looked even younger.
Her attention was distracted by the activity on the decks. Pilots were sorting and counting the goods while others watched over the imprisoned crew and captain. The ship’s large oblong balloon towered over them, secured to the metal ship with heavy chain netting. A second airship was secured alongside the first, smaller and sleeker than the merchant vessel. This one had polished decks of light wood. Each tier of the deck was sculpted to break the high winds, rising as one moved astern with staircases curving up along each side. Large multi-paned windows lined the hull, and three smaller balloons held it aloft, tied together with rope and canvas. Propellers were spaced evenly along its sides, designed for swift navigation. Its delicate scrollwork made the utilitarian cargo ship seem ugly and corpulent by comparison.
The Captain Duke barked orders to his crew as they ran between the decks, transferring supplies with ingenious rope and pulley systems that Clara wished she had time to examine more closely. Instead, she hurried to keep up. He stopped in front of a bridge of knotted rope stretched between the two ships.
“Will you require assistance?”
Clara tore her eyes from the gap to meet the challenge in his eyes. She took a breath. If she was going to talk her way onto his ship she would need to prove she was capable. Steeling herself, she reached down to remove her boots. Passing them to the rather flustered Trick, she gathered her skirts and stepped out onto the bridge, steadying herself with the ropes stretched alongside. She was surprised to find it sturdier than many of the fence posts she had balanced on as a youth. The wind tore at the flaps of her jacket and the gauzy material of the dress, and the slightest glimpse from the edge of her sight of the land far below set her heart racing. Once again she cursed the circumstances that had prevented more suitable attire, but her feet were sure upon the ropes. She crossed the span between the ships with her head held high and jumped down to the other deck.
