Fires of Hell: The Alchemystic

by Maureen L. Mills

  The galley adjoined the engine room, taking up the side of the corridor opposite the head and the storage compartment. It consisted of a coal-fired stove, an oven incorporating the overflow heat from my engines, a system of pantries and shelves containing the necessary tools and comestibles, and a long counter where Henry mixed, diced, and stewed the hearty meals that kept us fueled for long hours of labor. Crewmen ate at the counter, as well, space being at such a premium.

  A small, circular wicker table with four minuscule chairs crowded the other end of the room, providing a more civilized dining area for the captain, lieutenant, and the occasional paying passenger or two.

  Henry’s dark eyes were nearly lost in mahogany wrinkles deepened by the sleepless night. He set a mug of Turkish-style coffee—my preferred morning beverage—and a plate of hot scones in front of me when I slid onto the bench fronting the counter.

  My eyebrows rose even as my mouth watered. “What’s the occasion?” We usually got oatmeal, kippers, and dry toast for breakfast, whether we liked it or not. An occasional boiled egg appeared on the menu, when we’d made landfall in farming country, but that was the exception. Hot, fruit-filled scones were beyond everyday imagining.

  Henry grunted, plunking a jar of deep red jam down beside my elbow. “Could’a died last night. Could’na sleep after.”

  With a shrug, Henry turned back to his oven and using the bottom of his canvas apron to remove another tray. “A’sides, all the oatmeal and kippers got tossed overboard.” A miracle somewhat on the lines of the loaves and fishes for the poor peasant who found it in his garden this morning. Of course, being a French peasant, kippers and oatmeal might seem more like a demon’s curse.

  Reuben entered on the heels of Henry’s terse statement. “Cheer up, McDonnell. We still had the two aether bags. We might have landed with a bit of a thump and been stranded for the night in some farmer’s field, but we never would have been killed for a little leak like that.” Reuben slid onto the stool beside me, nudging me over with a friendly shoulder to make room.

  Perhaps he was right. Perhaps our descent had not been as dangerous as it had seemed last night. Still, if we’d landed badly, or in deep water, or (God forbid!) the boiler had cracked and failed on impact, last night’s mishap could have been a disaster.

  Sharp sparks of guilt stung my conscience. I was chief engineer now, not a flighty apprentice, or even a carefree engineer’s assistant. I should never have left the ship last night. My irresponsibility could have cost us injuries among the crew and tarnished our reputation with whatever mysterious government agency Mr. Jones represented, severely limiting our income from that source.

  At least one good thing had come from last night’s debacle. I hated oatmeal as much as any Frenchman. Spooning up a large dollop of the jam, I spread it on the roughly shaped treat.

  It may have looked malformed, but the scone melted on my tongue like the finest Parisian pastry. “Mmm,” I moaned. “I’ll have to fix it so we nearly crash every night.”

  Henry grunted again and snatched the jam away from my reaching fingers.

  With a rueful sigh, I finished my jammed scone and began on the plain one left on my tin plate.

  “Back from exile, I see.” Reuben took the mug and plate Henry shoved at him.

  I smiled. “It seems so.” I liked Reuben; I had since the day he’d first set foot aboard the Mercury as a new crewman when I’d been a gawky girl of fourteen. He hadn’t so much as blinked an eye when I’d been introduced as Chief Butterfield’s assistant, shaking my hand with an expression of grave politeness on his sharply angular, endearingly ugly face that went a long way toward easing my well-honed defensive tendencies.

  That had been about the last time I’d seen him grave, however, excepting Captain Rollins’ death. He was a cheerful soul, always whistling or singing the chanties that had begun to migrate into the air service from ocean-going vessels, with a quip and a laugh for nearly every occasion. If I’d had a big brother, I imagined he’d be very like Reuben Dodd.

  Now, between Henry’s gruff approval and Reuben’s teasing, the world seemed to settle into a more normal course.

  I crammed a last scone into my mouth, aware of time and distance slipping away. “We’ll see how long it lasts. I suspect I’m not the captain’s favorite crew member at the moment,” I mumbled around the mouthful.

  Reuben laughed, heaping a spoonful of jam, which Henry had returned to the counter, onto his scone. “Who could blame the man, with you nearly wrecking the ship on his first voyage as captain?”

  I felt my smile go stiff. From Reuben’s sudden look of concern, I could tell he’d noticed.

  “It really was my fault.” I pushed my plate across the pine planks of the counter toward Henry. He raised the tray loaded with fresh, hot scones, asking wordlessly if I wanted another.

  I shook my head. My appetite had fled. “I should have noticed something was wrong with the bag and the temperature gauge. I should have inspected the ship once more before we took off. I should have—”

  Reuben broke in before I finished my self-recriminations. “No, Mel. You know Chief Butterfield wouldn’t have re-inspected the bags after such a short flight, not more than a visual from the deck, anyway. These things happen, sometimes.”

  I knew differently. The tear in the envelope had not simply “happened.” I’d seen the clean edges of the cut, appearing subtly different from the frayed threads where the silk had torn after I had leaned on the weakened fabric. I remembered the feel of the sticky substance that had been smeared on the cut.

  “I… I left the Mercury last night, after Captain Rollins ordered us all to stay on board.” I spoke so low, my voice was nearly lost in the roar of the engines and the wind against the hull, a foot from my shoulder. “I should have been here to watch out for the safety of the ship.”

  Reuben laughed. “D’ye think you’re the first crewman to skip out without leave? If you hadn’t, you would have been the only one. I managed to skive off to the airfield pub for a pint or two when by rights I should have been in my hammock. Henry had to go check on supplies. Where do you think this very fine jam came from?” He waved the jar grandly, and Henry snagged it from him at the apex of the gesture, a repressive frown creating folds deep enough to swallow his eyes completely.

  Reuben made a rueful face before turning back to his breakfast mug of strong airmen’s tea. “Whitcomb had dinner with another gentleman in the airfield’s officer’s quarters. Even young Benjamin sneaked out to the stables to see the horses. Old Obadiah kept you on a pretty tight leash if you don’t know how ‘no shore leave’ works.”

  “I… but…” I stammered. How had I not known this? I had thought I knew everything about how the Mercury operated. Granted, Captain Rollins—my Captain Rollins—seldom denied shore leave, and on those rare occasions he did, he kept me busy tinkering with the engines or working on my lessons under his sharp but tolerant eye.

  “The trick,” Reuben continued, chuckling at my obvious discomfiture, “is to avoid attracting the captain’s attention. If I’d incurred the captain’s wrath, I’d have stayed on board and out of trouble.”

  Too bad I had not thought of that before I’d sneaked off the ship. I could not regret the information I obtained from my unsanctioned leave, however.

  Benjamin skidded into the galley, panting. “Chief Everley! Lieutenant Whitcomb says to lower the temperature twenty-five degrees!”

  “We must be on final approach,” Reuben said, springing up from his stool. “Well, back to work.” He swung out of the galley to man the ropes and grapnels that would secure the ship to the mooring towers at Marseille’s airfield.

  I scrambled out, mortified I’d dawdled so long that I had missed the call over the speaking tube in the engine room, where I should have been waiting and ready. At this rate, I would help sink the company, not keep it afloat. I’d have to work harder, and try to keep my mind on business.

  Resentment churned the scones in my belly as
I realized that, perhaps, worrying about catching Captain Rollins’ murderer would have to wait until I’d completed my stint as Josiah’s nanny.

  Chapter Thirteen

  We entered Marseille airspace through a haze of smoke blown inland by the freshening morning breeze. Torn free from the grey veil, the port city’s ancient cathedrals, stately public buildings and bright terracotta roofs gleamed gold and adobe pink and white below, cradled by the deep blue of sky and sea.

  I hated landing at the Parc Longchamp airfield. The airfield’s small size and uncertain winds frequently overwhelmed the aerologists the airfield employed. They, along with the numerous hydrologists required by a water-side city of this size, lodged mainly at the local Alchemical Society, a massive Romanesque building of white stone and a many-pillared facade not far from Parc Longchamp.

  Any phlogistologists employed by the city to control house fires would be lodged elsewhere—under lock and key. For their own protection, of course. As if anyone believed that. I certainly didn’t.

  The airfield itself always had two or three air-workers on hand to guide airships into port. Today, three of them stood on the balcony ringing the pale, brick tower, seeming small as gulls against the backdrop of the other airships docked beyond them. Their white and gold robes fluttered in the ocean breeze before they rounded the zephyrs up and forced them to dance to the tune of their choosing.

  As soon as we were safely moored and I’d banked the flames and shut down the engines, I ducked into the storage compartment slotted between the head and the crew quarters to rummage for a length of silk with which to repair the damaged airbag. Unopened bags of coal were stacked to the ceiling behind the retaining bars that secured the bags in place in case of turbulence. Two bags leaned haphazardly against the already full rack, blocking the walkway between the cabinets and shelving. I’d have to climb over them to reach the shelf where the bolts of silk and canvas were stored.

  Even as I stood there, shaking my head over the folly of Josiah’s refusal to trust my fuel consumption charts, Reuben entered, yet another bag of coal pellets slung over his shoulder.

  “Stop, Reuben! Take it back,” I said, stepping into his path. “The weight will unbalance the ship.”

  Reuben paused, grinning apologetically. “Captain’s orders, Mel. He said as how I should stow the new coal supplies.”

  “And now I am telling you to return it to the depot—and take the rest of these extra bags as well. As Captain Rollins is not currently present, I am the ranking officer here. You can tell Captain Rollins I ordered you to, if he asks what you are about.”

  “You can be sure I will, Chief,” he said, turning to leave, but not before tugging one of the curls that had come loose from the knot I had fashioned at the back of my neck. “I can hardly wait to watch the fireworks.”

  I feared his prediction of fireworks was right. I had backed down from our confrontation on this subject in Paris. This time, I was determined to come out on top of our little showdown. The Mercury could not fly with a load so far unbalanced. We would wallow through the air like a cow, losing speed and maneuverability. If the slightest squall stirred up, we would founder for certain, a deadly proposition over the ocean, where our next leg took us.

  I clambered over the excess bags of coal and took out the bolt of silk, slashing off a length longer than I’d thought I’d need. Better to be safe than to waste a piece entirely by cutting it too small. Besides, a larger patch would spread the strain over a larger area, making the repaired section stronger.

  Raised voices rang out from the main deck. One raised voice, that is. The other, Reuben’s, sounded as calm and light as always; too low to hear his actual words. I heard Josiah’s sharp tones clearly, however, as he asked, with a few colorful embellishments, what Reuben thought he was doing.

  Reuben’s ever-cheerful voice replied; my name—complete with title—clearly audible over the brisk morning breeze.

  I pinned back my shoulders, readying myself for the battle sure to come. After closing and securing the cabinet, I scrambled back over the coal bags.

  When I straightened, Josiah loomed in the doorway right in front of me, his face set, his storm-grey eyes snapping with temper. Reuben slouched behind him in the passage, leaning against the galley’s counter opposite with a twinkle in his eye, hands in pockets, as if waiting for a carnival’s juggling act to begin.

  “Do you want to lose your position?” Josiah asked, his voice incredulous and a little hoarse, showing the strain from the near-disaster and sleeplessness of the night before.

  “Of course not!” I replied. “But…”

  This time he used my own trick and cut me off before I could finish. “Then why do you insist on undermining my authority with the crew? I cannot maintain proper discipline when some slip of a girl argues over my every decision.”

  “I do not argue over every decision. Just the stupid ones!”

  Josiah cast his eyes skyward as if asking for divine intervention to help him maintain his patience. “Not again with the coal tallies.”

  “Yes, again with the coal tallies! Always with the coal tallies until you can see that I am right and you are wrong!” I did not need to see the dangerous flash in Josiah’s suddenly narrowed eyes to know I had made a tremendous mistake. The tenderest part of a man was not his privates, although a knee to the groin remained a very effective form of self-protection in a pinch. No, the absolute worst place to attack a gentleman was his pride. And I had taken a good, hard swing at Josiah’s.

  I did what I could to redeem the situation. Cramming myself into the tiny space between the shelves and the bags of coal, I waved a hand at the excess fuel. “See for yourself,” I said. “We do not need any more coal!”

  Josiah’s face had flushed an angry red, but he said nothing. He looked at the completely filled storage rack and the bags tossed on the floor in front of it, and then shifted his burning gaze to me. I saw a muscle in his jaw jump and twitch.

  Impressive control of his temper. Perhaps his silent plea for divine patience had been answered. “Keeping the Mercury in the air is my responsibility,” I said. “I know her, beams and cladding, engines to gas bags. Why can’t you trust me to do my job?”

  Josiah took a deep, controlled breath. “I can see,” he said in a deceptively calm tone, “I shall have to reassess your charts, Miss Everley. For now, in this matter, I shall trust your judgment.”

  Triumph, of a sort. Perhaps our association was not doomed to abject failure, after all.

  He sketched me a short bow and turned to leave. I pushed away from the shelves digging into my back and hips to follow him out, trying to decide if I should be happy that I appeared to have won this particular battle, or to be frustrated that he still would not call me by my proper title of “chief”. I waited for Josiah to move out of the way, but he seemed to have become stuck in the doorway, hands braced on either side of the jamb. He spun, glaring down at me from so close our breaths blended.

  “Your judgment had better be correct,” he snapped.

  It appeared my optimism was premature. I met his cold eyes with my own steady gaze, my neck cricking as he loomed over me. “Your father trusted me, sir.”

  He did not answer right away—an unfortunate circumstance, as it gave me too much time to feel the warmth radiating from his body. He still smelled of sandalwood. I could only imagine what I smelled like. Smoke, coal, and sweat, to my best guess.

  “Your pretty face and feminine wiles may have fooled him about the extent of your abilities. I assure you I will not be swayed by them.”

  A direct hit. One that had to be answered, damn the consequences. “Your father, sir, was a perceptive and logical man, fully capable of seeing past mere physical appearance. A pity he didn’t pass those traits on to his son.”

  Josiah paled, and his hands came up, half-curled as if to grasp my arms and give me a good shaking. But he seemed to gather himself before he touched me. He spun smartly and marched into the corridor, narro
wly missing treading on Reuben’s toes, and strode out onto the deck.

  I stood frozen in the doorway, all the warmth from Josiah’s proximity turned to blackest ice, watching as he made his way up to the bridge. I well knew what he thought of me, but to insult his own father that way infuriated me far beyond what I felt I could bear—perhaps because my own faith in Captain Rollins’ infallibility was so shaken.

  Reuben shifted forward, took hold of my shoulders and guided me out of the storage compartment. “I couldn’t decide for a moment there if he was going to knock you down or kiss you,” he said, chuckling as he hefted one of the extra bags of coal.

  Reuben had gone insane. That was the only explanation for his jest. Kiss me? No, that airship had clearly flown.

  “I hate him, Reuben,” I said, trembling with rage. “He could not be ruder or more oafish if he tried. He’s the exact opposite of his father.” I unhooked the netting from the shelves at my elbow with unsteady hands and took out the extended safety harness, slinging it over my arm along with the silk.

  “Oh, he’s not so bad, Mel. I’ve worked for a number of captains in my time, and Josiah Rollins seems as fair as any.”

  “To you, maybe. Not to me.”

  “Well, now, who could blame the man, with you using your ‘feminine wiles’ on him and all?” Reaching out, he swiped at my cheek and held up his fingers to show the streak of soot. “Is this the latest style of face paint for fashionable women?” He grinned.

  I shoved him roughly out of my path with a blistering oath.

  “Seriously, though, Mel,” he continued, catching my arm as I went past. “If you can’t find a way to get along with our new captain, perhaps you should find a company that would suit you better. I know the captain of the first ship I crewed on would not have cared if you were a wild Hottentot, so long as you could keep the engines running smoothly.”

  “Really? Which company was that?” If Fairlane’s offer fell through, I might be forced to look at other companies as soon as we got back to England. Leaving my beloved Mercury would come close to breaking my heart. One more sin to lay at the feet of Josiah Rollins.