“I’ll take it for your half, but I can pay for my own,” she said.
We sat on a little bench inside the shop while the shopkeeper prepared our meal. As the air filled with hissing and sizzling, I remarked that there was something fun about being able to hear your food cooking.
The meal didn’t look very appetizing when it arrived—in all shades of brown—but I had to admit that when the fish, potato, and white sauce I didn’t know the name of all mixed together, it was a very fine sensation.
Soon I was sated. “I can’t eat the rest,” I said apologetically.
“Give it here, then,” said the Valkyrie. “No point it going to waste.”
Another customer regarded us with curiosity as he waited for his order, looking up and down at our expensive clothes. “Aren’t yez a bit fancy for a place such as this?” he rumbled at us.
“Not too fancy to give you a smack around the head,” said the Valkyrie, and the man decided to whistle to himself rather than risk saying more.
After we finished eating, we returned to the town hall, and Mr. Beards and Miss Quimby returned not long after that. There was a bit of a problem when we found the Valkyrie couldn’t fit into the flight jacket Miss Quimby had brought. Mine was too big, but that was less of an issue.
“Never mind about it,” said the Valkyrie. “My skin’s tougher than a flimsy jacket anyway.”
“Well, just put it over yourself like a blanket,” said Miss Quimby. “You’ll regret it if you don’t.” She handed us both our pairs of goggles. “Now let’s hurry. If we don’t get back by the time it gets dark, we’ll be in hot water and no mistake.”
And so it was that I had my first ride in an aeroplane. The craft was quite unlike a balloon or a dirigible, especially when leaving the ground. Rather than rising up gently, the machine seemed to take to the air by wrenching itself free of gravity. My insides felt as if they’d been left behind for a moment and had to race to catch up. But the scene below was very beautiful indeed, the buildings shrinking away, the sea and hills rushing in to show us how small human life truly was.
My pilot was Miss Quimby. She tried to shout back a few conversation points, but I couldn’t hear her at all over the roar of the propeller, so I just said I was sorry and concentrated on the view. This was a fine way to travel, and faster than even a motorcar, but if Miss Quimby would be breaking some sort of record for simply going from England to France, I couldn’t see how we could fly all the way to Africa. Which was a pity. The aeroplane’s wooden seats were small and simple, but something about the judder of the engine was strangely comfortable.
I leaned back and, for the first time in weeks, relaxed. Clouds hovered above me, alongside me, all around me. I was suspended in the air, and the only things that kept me from falling to my death were the plane’s wooden frame and the combustion engine that propelled us forward. It was about the most dangerous place I could imagine being, yet I felt completely serene.
I closed my eyes, at peace.
XX
To the Cape
woke up to people laughing at me.
“That’s Sandleforth’s son, all right,” I heard Mr. Beards say.
I opened my eyes and groped in confusion at whatever was strapped to my face. Flight goggles. Then I remembered where I was.
“I’m pleased you were able to relax in such a trying situation, Master Oliver,” said Mr. Scant. I sat up but winced. I had drifted off in an awkward position, against the side of the aeroplane’s wooden frame, and now my back ached.
“How on Earth did you sleep through the landing?” said the Valkyrie. “The way up was frightening enough, but the way down made me think my days were numbered. Maybe yours wasn’t as bumpy as mine.”
“Give the boy space,” Miss Quimby was saying. “He might have fainted because of the thin air up there. Are you feeling all right, Master Oliver?”
“Yes, thank you, Miss Quimby,” I said, pushing myself to my feet. “I think I did just fall asleep.”
“I don’t think we have anything to worry about,” Mr. Jackdaw said, helping lift me down and then clapping a hand on my shoulder. “Stiff upper lip and a good constitution, that’s the British way.”
“I think it’s very sweet that you could sleep in a place like that,” said Miss Quimby.
“I’d prefer ‘fearless’ to ‘sweet,’ ” I mumbled, which only made her laugh again.
We had flown to a small airfield on the Isle of Man, in between England and Ireland. Specifically to one of the research sites Mr. Beards’s old company had set up, which I supposed made it one of my father’s research sites now. We passed a number of balloons and dirigibles as we made our way from the airfield to what looked like a huge warehouse.
Inside, Mr. Beards confirmed there was no way to reach the Cape Colony by airship, the method Mr. Scant and I had used for our trip to China.
“As you fly south, the temperature becomes a huge problem,” he said by way of explanation. “The issue isn’t so much the extreme heat in the daytime—though it would be extremely unpleasant flying over the Sahara—but rather the depths of cold we would have to endure. I have faith that the machines would survive. But the passengers? Of that I am much less certain. There is also nowhere south of Cairo where we could refuel, nor a source of the hydrogen you would need to do so.”
“So our only option is by sea?” said Mr. Scant. “Perhaps we can try to charter a vessel that could get us to Cape Town before the Binns boy. But time is of the essence, and we’re well behind him.”
“Now hold on just a moment,” said Mr. Beards. He had put on little round spectacles and looked far sprightlier than I ever remembered him. “My dirigible business may only be a small part of Sandleforth’s empire, but I still have my ways. While we may not be able to fly a balloon over the whole of Africa, that doesn’t mean there’s nothing at all we can do. If speed is of the essence, I’m sure I can come up with a route.”
He led us to a large map laid out on a table. Various pins were stuck in it with bits of string running between them. He’d also arranged pairs of compasses, pencils, and what looked like the checkers from a backgammon board to mark different points around the world.
“From here,” Mr. Beards continued, “we can take a dirigible to the secret airfield in Malta where my old friend Colonel Templer is developing airships for the navy. Now, this is very hush-hush business, so none of you heard about it from me. Even those of you who may have already known about it.”
He gave Mr. Jackdaw a pointed look, and it struck me that perhaps Mr. Beards wasn’t quite the harmless old coot I had always thought he was.
“I have a fair amount of equipment of my own there,” Beards continued, “and Templer owes me a favor or two. From Malta, we load a collapsible balloon onto a steamer. And this we take down the Suez Canal. The balloon won’t be a dirigible or anything of that sort, but it should serve your purposes.
“We can stop at Aden and Mombasa to resupply or hire a faster steamer, then continue to Madagascar and launch the balloon from the ship. That will take you where you need to go. I’ll help with the launch, but you’ll have to return by more conventional means. With the route before you, I guarantee you’ll beat any liner that left today or yesterday, probably by quite some time.”
“Malta, Aden—and then Mombasa?” Mr. Scant said, following the route on the large map. As everyone leaned in to try to make sense of the journey, Mr. Beards turned to Miss Quimby and clasped her hands. “I’m sorry, my dear, but I think I will have to miss your grand feat. I’m needed here.”
“You’re all quite mad,” Miss Quimby said with a smile. “But that’s why you’re my friend, after all. I’ll send you a postcard from France.”
“It will be a treasure for me,” Mr. Beards replied, “and I’m sure it will be in all the newspapers.”
Mr. Jackdaw looked skeptical. “You’re proposing we take an airship, then a steamer that can take us the full length of the African continent, and then a balloon . .
. but that it will be faster than the commercial route Binns will be on?”
“Certainly. The portions by steamer will be the same speed as young Aurelian’s vessel, but in the air, we’ll be faster. The boy likely won’t be travelling directly to Cape Town either. He may have to spend some days at a port, waiting for a second boat. There are not so many ships sailing directly to Africa.”
“What’s in it for you, though?” the Valkyrie asked. “The airship, privately-chartered steamers, a balloon to just abandon when we get there. That’s a lot of expense. Even if you’re a friend of the Diplexitos, why would you do it?”
Mr. Beards took a moment to clean his glasses before finally saying, “I suppose you wouldn’t quite believe me if I said it’s the adventure of flying. The truth is, Aurelian’s father, the elder Binns, was my close friend and my business partner for many years. The boy—I held him in my arms before he could walk, before he could speak. I went to his christening, bought him toys for his birthday. And I was deceived.
“Nothing in all that time led me to understand what sort of person Binns—or his wife Thomasina, or the boy—was underneath. I was the one betrayed, but in truth I feel I let everybody down. An old fool, not suspecting a thing. And I suppose I never meant enough to Roland for him to share his plans with me either. That he was this master thief, this Ruminating Claw. I hadn’t the faintest idea of the truth of it. And in a small way, I suppose, I want to make amends.”
A short silence followed. Troubled, I said, “Mr. Beards, I think you should really know—”
Mr. Scant interrupted me: “You have no reason for a guilty conscience.”
“Hear, hear,” said Mr. Jackdaw. “But if you do this, I know all of us will be eternally grateful to you. And as the government expands its interest in airships, if you find yourself wanting more involvement . . . perhaps something can be arranged.”
“I should like that,” said Mr. Beards.
Mr. Scant interjected again. “How soon can we leave?”
“Well, we have a lot of arrangements to make, and I’ll have to get in touch with Templer, but I see no reason we couldn’t depart first thing in the morning.”
The first arrangement Mr. Beards made involved a call to a local inn, which had several rooms open for the night. So after saying goodbye to Miss Quimby and wishing her well for her historic flight, we retired there. I ordered a plate of cheese and crackers to eat in the bar area, which—the bar, not the plate—was rather dusty and cluttered with old-fashioned furniture that sprouted fringing like dead trees sprout fungus. Mr. Beards and Mr. Jackdaw continued to plan for our journey, so I ate with Mr. Scant and the Valkyrie. Mr. Scant had a brandy, and the Valkyrie some red wine. I opted for pressed apple juice.
“Nice to have a quiet moment after everything that’s happened,” I said. “I suppose we had some time while waiting for Mr. Beards and Miss Quimby in their aeroplanes, but that wasn’t what I would call relaxing.”
“I wouldn’t call this relaxing either,” said the Valkyrie. “Waiting and relaxing are different things.”
“Why did you stop me telling Mr. Beards the truth?” I asked Mr. Scant.
“It’s complicated,” he replied.
“How is it complicated?”
The Valkyrie laughed a little. “When adults say it’s complicated, what they mean is that it’s too difficult to explain.”
Mr. Scant bristled. “How would it have helped us, telling Mr. Beards all our secrets?”
“It would have helped him understand everything that’s happened,” I said. “He’s given us so much, and I feel like we’re lying to him.”
“We can’t risk any setbacks right now,” Mr. Scant said. “He could feel betrayed enough to rescind his offer of help. If you want to tell him, feel free to do so after all this is over.”
“I don’t want him to know I used to do the Society’s dirty work and stop me from helping you,” said the Valkyrie. “Actually, now that I think of it, that might have been a good way to get out of this.”
At what must have been a wounded look from me, she sighed. “I suppose part of me wants to just go home and forget all about these last few days. That’s normal, isn’t it?”
“That’s normal,” I said. “I bet even Mr. Scant feels like that. Right, Mr. Scant?”
Mr. Scant ignored me. “We need to contact your father,” he said. “This wasn’t the plan.”
“Sailing off to the United States, sailing off to the Union of South Africa,” I said. “Is it so different?”
“The journey may not be, but the destinations, certainly. You’ve never been to the Cape Colony. I have. It’s a dangerous place. And things have only got worse since I left. You saw the problems that emerged from a European presence in China. They are nothing compared to what happened in the Cape. Imagine men and women expected to toil in the darkness of a mine to make a man from London or Amsterdam richer than he already is. How do you suppose they feel?”
I was taken aback. “They must be angry.”
Mr. Scant smiled for a moment, but there was no happiness in it.
“Once, I thought we brought enlightenment with us. That our cathedrals and our factories meant progress. Civilization. But to the man down in the mine, praying today won’t be the day a collapsing mineshaft claims him, I don’t suppose that makes a jot of difference. He’s not a slave, true, but the mine’s owner may take away his freedoms more subtly, by law. And even if the miner is the luckiest of the men like him that day and unearths the greatest diamond ever found—it is plucked from his hands and he’s paid the same as any other day. Just enough that he and everyone he knows is kept under control. The control of a man like Basil Fields, who becomes a hero to his Empire, his name given someday to a town, a city, a whole plundered country.”
There was a stunned silence for a few moments. before we disbanded for the night.
“You certainly have strong feelings about this,” the Valkyrie said.
“Yes,” Mr. Scant said, finishing his brandy. “Yes, I do.”
We departed the next morning. From somewhere about the inn, the Valkyrie had procured a plain blouse and men’s trousers, which looked to be much more comfortable than her disguise from the Titanic. Mr. Jackdaw told her she was “a vision of loveliness,” and she snorted out a strange laugh.
The dirigible we boarded was much larger than the airship Mr. Scant and I had ridden to Shanghai. It could have been a suit of armor for an enormous fish. A pointed nose stretched out from the front end of the craft, while at the back end were little fins. We entered the gondola at bottom, and several of Mr. Beards’s colleagues began to unload the ballast from a separate compartment beneath the dirigible. With none of the fanfare of the launch of the Titanic, Mr. Beards took us up into the skies.
We spent the first day travelling to Malta—still in Europe, Mr. Scant informed me, but not far from Africa’s northern coast. We arrived there later than planned, at the last light of day, though a series of electrical lights guided us down safely. I was very eager to get out of the gondola while Mr. Beards met his friend Colonel Templer. Mr. Scant was making me study physics, while the Valkyrie kept reading aloud passages from a dreadful romance novel whenever the book’s dashing Russian prince did something impressive. Mr. Jackdaw enjoyed trying to find fault with all of the prince’s gestures, which put the Valkyrie in a huff.
We stayed on uncomfortable army bunk beds that night, and dinner was a bland beef stew with stodgy bread, but we were glad of the hospitality. Colonel Templer was a jolly soul with a waxed moustache and shiny bald head, and he told of his exploits during the second Boer War long into the night.
“For men in service, our utmost priority is to protect British souls,” Colonel Templer concluded. “War is coming to Europe, and the moment we become weak is the moment we are snuffed out.”
I expected Mr. Scant to be scowling, but he only looked at the ground and seemed to nod just a little.
The next day, we headed to a beautiful dock on
Malta’s shore, where the sea seemed to be strewn with a million glistening diamonds. How simple life would be, I thought, if I could have plucked one out to take back to London. We boarded an ugly steamship but one large enough to store our balloon for the final leg of our journey and the canisters of hydrogen we’d need to fill it. Mr. Beards said his goodbyes before we embarked, as he intended to stay with his friend to learn about the latest developments in ballooning. He also left us with strict instructions on how to use the small balloon, but Mr. Scant said he had experience.
The captain of the steamer, Captain Owen, was a very serious man who told me at once that he detested children. Though I said I would try not to disappoint him, he turned away and never spoke another word to me directly. He and his crew stayed close to the coastline until we reached the Suez Canal. We were in Africa—Egypt, to be precise. And all at once the air seemed to become much hotter. Sandy desert hemmed in the long, straight passage of water, as if the land was forever trying to quench its thirst, yet was never quite able to reach.
We next traversed the Red Sea. At first it was pleasant voyage. I lay with my shirt open, fanning myself. But soon I began to long for the frigid darkness of the Ice House. After two days, we stopped for supplies in Aden. It was a city I had never heard of—apparently a part of India, even though India was hundreds of miles away. A kind of mountain loomed over the port. Mr. Jackdaw told me it was once a volcano, and the city itself seemed to have been carved out of the rock that poured down in a great eruption long ago.
We didn’t have much time in Aden, but we disembarked for long enough to have lunch at the city’s “Steamer Point.” The little port town housed a number of shops and restaurants run by British people. We were even able to eat lamb chops with potatoes—a rather strange experience, under the heavy sun of the Middle East. Throughout Steamer Point, men in long robes and colorful turbans nodded to us politely, some coming to see if they could sell us cloths and jewels, but we didn’t have anything to pay them with.
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