‘Punished? Surely that would be counter-productive? Like kicking someone when they’re already down?’
‘Not the way they did it.’ Askwith huffed. ‘Our particular circumstances give them certain creative options when it comes to punishments. The first time we didn’t meet our quota they reduced the heating during the night and you can imagine it got pretty cold in here. The second time they stopped the food for the day. The third they reduced the air for a few hours - that was extremely uncomfortable, I can tell you. Even so, we wanted to keep resting the worst people, knowing they would just die if they had to work, but after that third day of missing our quota they got fed up. They ordered us to have everybody working all the time, no matter their condition, saying that next time they would just jettison the people who didn’t. As you might expect, after that we did what they wanted and now we have no other choice but to work until we drop.’
Drake was rendered speechless and he remained that way because his injuries soon caught up with him and he no longer had the breath to ask questions.
At midday they took an hour to rest and most people went to get food. While Drake ate listlessly he noticed that a few people had just staggered to the mats and fallen asleep, while a couple more had just collapsed where they were at the capstan.
Askwith saw him looking and leaned close. ‘They’re the ones that have almost given up. It happens every time - they get so tired they can’t eat, which just makes them weaker. If they make it to the mats they have a couple of days at the most. The ones that collapse at the capstan probably won’t last the rest of the day.’
‘Can’t we do anything?’
Askwith shrugged. ‘The only thing that will save them is if we get wherever we’re going and stop using so much spring tension. They need rest, that’s all.’
Drake’s face hardened and he began to stand.
Askwith put a hand on his arm to stop him. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m going to take them some food.’
‘Don’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Don’t you think we haven’t tried that? They’ll just throw up anything they swallow and in the end all you’ll do is make it worse for them. If you want to help them, to help any of us, the best thing you can do is keep up your strength and pull your weight. That way you take the strain off someone weaker than yourself.’
It didn’t sit right with him not to help someone in need, but the last thing he wanted to do was harm them further, so Drake reluctantly tore his eyes from the unfortunate men and women and returned to his food.
All too soon the hour was up and they made their way back out to the capstan.
True to Askwith’s prediction, one of the two men who’d dropped where they stood didn’t get up again and was dragged away by a guard.
Drake found the afternoon to be much harder going than the morning; not only were his energy reserves completely gone, but the break had made his injuries stiffen once more. This time there was no injection from Prussian doctors to lessen the pain and it was almost overwhelming, but he nonetheless gritted his teeth and put his back into the work, determined to do his full share.
According to the clock on the wall, it was after midnight when the klaxon sounded, signifying that the spring had been fully wound, and the day ended - they had been working for about seventeen hours, if the rest periods were taken into account.
The next day came and went in a similar fashion and Drake was beginning to think that Gruber had forgotten about him, but then, at about five in the afternoon on the third day, two army guards came into the room and descended the staircase. One of the sailors pointed them towards Drake and they dragged him from his place on the bar and shoved him towards the exit.
Drake was on autopilot and for a few seconds he wasn’t really conscious of what was happening. He tripped on the stairs, his legs still trying to take the short, strong paces needed at the capstan, and he only just managed to catch himself before his face hit the step. A few painful kicks from the guards woke him up to his new circumstances, though, and he grabbed at the railing, using it to pull himself up and to the top of the steps.
Waiting for him in the guard room beyond the pressure chamber was the counterfeit RAC dress uniform from the airbase and a razor. He was pointed towards the shower and told to hurry by one of the guards, who then watched while he cleaned and shaved himself.
He was ready less than half an hour later and the guards ushered him out and along the corridor towards the stairwell. He wasn’t amused to see that there was indeed a lift, but he said nothing, not wanting the guards to change their minds and make him walk up the stairs.
The guards punched the button for deck nine, which he remembered held the Navy Officers’ Mess, and his legs buckled beneath him as the mechanism accelerated rapidly. He threw out a hand to grab the safety rail, but before he could even grasp it, the lift was decelerating just as sharply, which took the weight off his legs and allowed him to stand straight again.
The doors opened directly into a cloakroom, and the steward, Friedrich, was waiting for them there. He dismissed the guards with a wave, before giving Drake a respectful nod. ‘This way please, Lord Drake, the Generalleutnant is expecting you.’
They passed through a thick wooden door and into a lounge, which was almost as large as the capstan room in the bowels of the vessel. It was decorated in a light and airy style, as if it were a First Class Lounge on one of the Zeppelins that had flown the rich around the world in the years before the First Great War, during the golden age of airship travel - the thick carpet was Prussian grey with an interlocking cogwheel pattern picked out in gold thread and three of the walls were painted a tasteful off-white, kept bare, as if not to distract from conversation, apart from a few portraits and brass fittings for the electric lights. Even the bar was unpretentious - just a long piece of highly-polished metal along the wall in front of recessed shelves stocked with dozens of colourful bottles.
Drake barely noticed any of these things, though, because his eyes were drawn directly to the fourth wall, which was nothing more than a row of floor to ceiling windows, sloping gently outwards, providing an awe-inspiring and unbroken view of blue.
The room was filled with deep sofas and armchairs with lightweight metal frames, which were occupied by officers from all three branches of the Prussian armed forces. They were of course all wearing dress uniforms, but there was nothing of the colour, flair or individuality of the uniforms of other countries; the Prussians had “modernised” their dress uniforms a few years ago and now they were all identical across their armed forces, the only thing differentiating them the colours, which made Gruber’s black dress uniform all the more unique. As the steward led him across the room he received curious looks from many of the men, but none met his gaze for very long, as if uncomfortable with his presence there.
At the far end of the room, sitting in armchairs around a glass coffee table, were the senior officers. They looked up as Drake approached and Gruber flashed him his best smile. ‘Ah, Lord Drake. So good of you to come.’
Drake’s mind was so numbed with exhaustion that he was almost overwhelmed by the sudden impulse to leap across the table and pummel the man. It wasn’t so much Gruber’s hypocrisy in thanking him for something he’d had no choice in, but rather the fact that he was apparently going to pretend that he hadn’t left him to rot in the dungeons for three days and that there were men and women dying just to power his airship. Manners and social skills ingrained in him almost since birth as the heir to the Drake name served to restrain him, but he was unable to stop his fists from clenching; his boxing instincts overriding some of those more refined ones.
‘How could I refuse?’ He smiled coolly at Gruber, then nodded in turn to the other men around the table - the admiral, a grey-haired Italian civilian in a stylish grey suit, and an army officer in his sixties - receiving polite nods in return.
‘Please join us.’ Gruber waved to an armchair that had been left
empty for him.
Drake took the seat and the steward leaned over him to whisper in his ear. ‘Aperitif, sir? A cocktail? Champagne?’
Drake didn’t feel much like drinking or celebrating, but certain things were expected in company. ‘Champagne, please.’
A long flute filled with bubbling golden liquid appeared on a silver tray in front of him and he sipped from it, finding it to be a particularly good French vintage which was most likely spoils of war, as he watched the officers. With the perfunctory greetings done, they had returned to their conversation in German: a discussion of Italian politics and in particular the Prime Minister’s recent declaration to follow Prussia’s lead and return Italy to the glory days of Ancient Rome. While the topic of conversation didn’t particularly interest Drake, the dynamic of the group did and the same social instincts that had allowed him to regain his control made him aware of the distaste that the other men had for Gruber. They hid it well, but to someone as well-versed in the niceties as he was it was plain to see. Gruber, however, was such a coarse person that he had no idea.
The polite smile that was fixed on Drake’s face widened and became genuine as he realised that he had the perfect way to get some measure of revenge - he would show the man up in front of the admiral, the senior officers and his Italian ally. If it were done correctly, the man would never even realise what had happened, but it would require delicacy and tact so that he himself didn’t come off as a bounder.
When the men laughed at the admiral’s anecdote about the adjustments he’d had to make when he’d left his seaborne flagship behind and taken to the skies, there was a natural break in the conversation and Gruber blinked at Drake, almost as if he’d forgotten he was there. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Lord Drake. Where are my manners?’ He glanced around at his fellow officers with an ingratiating smile. ‘Does anyone have any objections to our speaking English for our guest?’
Drake came to a flash decision - it wasn’t really of much use to him to keep his knowledge of German a secret anymore, but he could use it to fire the opening salvo in what would probably be a very one-sided war.
‘Thank you for your concern,’ he said in English, then paused for a heartbeat - a tiny but telling gesture that Gruber wouldn’t notice, but which he was confident that the other men would pick up on and realise the significance of - before continuing in German. ‘However it is unnecessary; I am actually quite fluent in your language. Please don´t trouble yourselves on my behalf.’
The other men did indeed realise what Drake was implying - that a good host would have switched languages immediately - and a hint of a smile crossed the admiral’s face. Gruber, however, remained oblivious to the fact that he had done anything wrong and gaped at Drake in surprise for long seconds. ‘Oh. Good. That’s good. Better for everyone.’
Gruber forced a smile, then turned back to the other men, introducing a new topic of conversation as if nothing had happened.
At precisely six, dinner was announced and they made their way through double doors at the back of the lounge and into the adjoining dining room. The admiral announced, to everyone’s surprise, that Drake was to be the guest of honour and he was placed at the man’s right hand, displacing a somewhat disgruntled Gruber, who stalked off to the other side of the huge table in a huff.
After the modern, and frankly quite cold, lounge, the dining room was warm and inviting and had a distinctly nautical feel to it, with dark wooden tables, chairs and panels on the wall. The Prussian Navy had never really distinguished itself, but it dated back to the sixteenth century and mementos of the sailing ships of bygone eras were prevalent here in the decorations, along with paintings of maritime scenes. Like the lounge, windows took up an entire wall, but, continuing the nautical theme, they had been made to look like the stern windows of a ship and were framed with more wood.
Overall, the dining room was not nearly as impressive as the captain’s state room on the Arturo, which had been a replica of the Dining Cabin of the HMS Victory, but it had a distinct, classical style, and the spectacular view of the sunset more than made up for any deficiencies.
During the meal, Gruber’s complete lack of grace and table manners gave Drake ample opportunity to take digs at him and he availed himself of each and every one of them. It was the kind of character assassination he had always hated, having seen it far too often at school and university, where men and women, who had admirable qualities, were ridiculed and ostracised simply for being less fortunate in the manner of their birth, but he had no qualms doing it to Gruber.
At no point did the man become aware that he was being made fun of, on the contrary he seemed to enjoy being the centre of so much attention. Other diners cottoned on to what he was doing very early and, as the dinner progressed, Drake was delighted to see that they often contributed to setting the odious man up, offering him wine that didn’t go with the course, making sure that the wrong condiments were always at hand, or simply giving him backhanded complements. Afterwards, they even provided him with the opportunity to pass the port to the right, which he took, to general but concealed merriment.
With the exception of Gruber himself, the entire mess had been in on the joke, in fact, which had made for a very jovial and enjoyable meal indeed and Drake was almost disappointed when it was all over and the officers made their farewells. There was sympathy in the eyes of most of them, but none openly expressed any opinion, instead limiting themselves to thanking Drake for, among other things, being so entertaining.
Finally, he was left alone with Gruber.
‘Well!’ Gruber said, rubbing his hands together in glee. ‘I usually find these meals extremely dull, but that was most enjoyable!’
‘Yes it was,’ said Drake, smiling, while trying not to stare at the dried crème brûlée stuck to the side of the repulsive man’s chin, which had provoked so much laughter during the brandies.
‘I don’t know how you did it, but I should definitely invite you more often!’
The man seemed to be proud of himself, as if he’d gotten one over on Drake by displaying him as a trophy, using his well-bred captive to advance his own reputation. Drake didn’t disavow him of the notion. Instead he shook his head and grinned cheekily. ‘Actually, I rather think it’s my turn to play host. Shall we say tomorrow at seven, winding room three? The chef is preparing something special.’
Gruber stared at him for long seconds before breaking out into guffaws. ‘Wonderful! That English sense of humour! Always laughing in the face of defeat.’ He gave a short, very German bow. ‘I regret that I’m going to have to decline your invitation.’ He rubbed his hands and looked around the mess, now deserted apart from a few junior officers drinking at the bar and the ever-present steward, Friedrich. ‘I did promise you a tour, but it’s getting a little late. Perhaps next time?’ He smiled at Drake’s nod. ‘Tomorrow then. I’m playing host to the admiral and his senior staff in my mess. You must join us to liven things up again.’
‘I believe my schedule is clear, so I will be happy to accept.’
Gruber laughed again. ‘Until tomorrow, then.’
He walked off and out of the mess, leaving Drake with the steward who bowed. ‘This way please, sir.’
Drake followed the man to the cloakroom, where the guards were waiting, bored and half-asleep. They grumbled as they got out of their seats and took custody of Drake for the trek back down to the winding room.
Now that the excitement and the tension at being in the company of high-ranking enemies of his country had gone, the adrenaline that had kept him going completely dissipated and Drake’s exhaustion made itself felt once more. He dozed on his feet during the ride in the lift and was barely aware of getting changed in the guards’ room, before being shoved into the winding room. It wasn’t until he was shuffling across the winding room towards the faint light coming from the bathroom and a couple of shadowy figures appeared from nowhere in front of him that he jolted back into full awareness.
‘What...? Who...?’
One of the shadows lunged towards him and, before he could react, a body hit him and a hand closed over his mouth. He fought, trying to shout for help, but then he recognised Tanya’s soft voice, hissing in his ear.
‘Rudy, it’s just me!’
He immediately stopped struggling and after a few seconds the body against him relaxed and the hand moved from his mouth. ‘Bloody hell, Tanya... What are you doing here? Who’s that with you?’
‘It’s just me, Drake, old boy,’ said the second figure in Askwith’s upper-class accented voice. ‘Have a nice evening?’
‘Super, thank you.’
‘Jolly good. Well, you can tell us all about it over breakfast.’ He reached out to pat Drake on the arm. ‘Just wanted to make sure you got back in one piece and that they hadn’t thrown you overboard yet.’
‘You could have done it without scaring me half to death.’
‘And where would be the fun in that?’ Askwith chuckled softly. ‘Goodnight, Ace.’
‘’Night, sir.’
Askwith wandered off and his silhouette appeared briefly in the doorway as he went into the room.
Drake waited a few seconds more to make sure he was completely out of earshot before speaking. ‘Um, I’m not struggling anymore, Tanya.’
The Muscovite woman hadn’t released him after stopping him from shouting out and her body was still pressed up against his, her arms around him.
She chuckled softly. ‘I know. I don’t care.’
Drake found his eyes had adjusted to the weak light and when he leant back and squinted at her he was surprised to find a wide smile on her face instead of the downcast look she’d had for the past couple of days. ‘You look better.’
She nodded. ‘I have decided not to be unhappy, because that would just be letting them win.’
The Lion and the Baron Page 14