Chasing the Green Fairy: The Airship Racing Chronicles

by Melanie Karsak

  Taking a break, I pulled out my tobacco pipe. I hoped the tobacco would help me clear my head a little. My back against the wheelstand, I lit the pipe and smoked as I stared up at the stars through my spyglass. They twinkled brightly in the last of the night’s sky.

  “Stargazer.”

  The sound of another voice startled me. I lowered the spyglass to find Byron sitting up in the hammock looking at me.

  “Pardon?”

  “You’re a stargazer,” he said then motioned to the stars overhead. “By the by, where am I?” he asked as he rubbed his temples.

  “You’re aboard the Deirdre.”

  “Have you abducted me?” he asked with a grin.

  I smiled. “Rescued, more like. We plucked you out of a ditch.”

  “That was kind of you. Where are we headed?”

  “Stuttgart.”

  “Whatever for?”

  Given that I wasn’t prone to sharing the personal details of my life, I looked Byron over and considered my answer. Still, I said, “I’m after a new ship.”

  “Why?”

  “We ran second in the British qualifying last year. This year we will win.”

  “The airship races?”

  I nodded.

  “Lily, Stuttgart towers,” Pidge called.

  I rose, smiled at Byron, then took the wheel. I rang the galley. “Angus! Docking! Wake up!” I called, stomping on the deck.

  After a moment, the propeller eased.

  In the dim, pre-dawn light, I eyed the lights on the airship towers.

  “Spots open on the south end,” Pidge called.

  I lifted my spyglass and looked. Byron, wrapped in my blanket, came up beside me. He stared at the towers.

  I handed him the spyglass and grabbed the wheel, turning it ever-so-slightly starboard.

  “Up a bit, Pidge,” I called. “Five percent or so.” The burner heaved and the balloon lifted. We coasted toward the dock.

  “You piloted the ship that placed second in qualifying?” Byron asked as he stared through the spyglass toward the towers.

  “Yes.”

  He lowered the glass and looked down at me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him smile.

  The crew in Stuttgart waved us in. With a few wheel turns, I brought the Deirdre to anchor in the southern tower.

  Angus climbed out of the galley, and we went about anchoring the ship while Pidge debarked to go talk with the stationmaster. Byron, who had dropped the blanket and was making an attempt at tidying himself up, watched with fascination.

  After we were done, Angus turned to Byron. “Good morning, Lord Byron,” Angus said, sticking out his hand. “We were never properly introduced. Angus MacArthur.”

  “MacArthur? I understand I owe you thanks, brother.”

  “Well, you can’t just go and leave a fellow Scot lying in a ditch in Paris,” Angus said, winking at me.

  “Thankfully, apparently not,” Byron replied.

  Pidge returned with the stationmaster and a stout looking man who was, no doubt, the airship vendor. Neither man spoke a word of English, but Pidge, whose mother hailed originally from Berlin, managed the conversation.

  “The racer is here, Lily. By god, wait until you see!” Pidge exclaimed excitedly.

  The vendor, Herr Weber, eyed the Deirdre over, nodded politely to us, then motioned for us to come along. Pidge and Herr Weber talked seriously as we followed behind.

  “Remind me, Lily, how old is the Deirdre? When was she built?” Pidge asked me.

  “1814. She’s four . . . she’s only had one other owner besides me,” I replied.

  Angus looked at me but said nothing. There was no need to get into the details of how I had come to own her.

  We crossed onto the eastern platform just as the sun rose above the horizon. I scanned the docking bays but saw nothing that looked like a racing ship. I started to feel depressed. It would be the same scene as in Paris all over again. We headed down a platform toward a whale of a boat. Dammit! I had it in my mind to dig in my heels and not take another step forward when the first rays of sun glimmered brightly off the timbers of a nearby ship. I winced.

  “God,” I heard Angus gasp.

  When I opened my eyes again, I saw that Angus had taken a few steps forward and was staring, mouth open, at the docking bay. I followed his gaze, again wincing in the sunlight. There, her honey-colored timbers gleaming, was the most beautiful racing ship I’d ever seen. She was magnificent.

  “Try not to look so impressed,” Byron whispered in my ear. “It worked on me.”

  I smiled and looked up at him. He dropped his arm around my shoulder, filling my senses with his sweet scent of orange blossom and patchouli. We went forward to look at the racing ship. With Byron’s arm around me and the ship of my dreams before me, I felt like I was on fire.

  Herr Weber invited us aboard the racer. When I touched the ship, I felt a jolt. She was perfect. She was lightweight, built tight, and had the most advanced propeller system available. Even the balloon burners were retooled to burn more efficiently. She was perfect. Not only would we be able to place in the qualifying, but this ship could be a contender in the Prix.

  Keeping Byron’s suggestion in mind, I casually asked Pidge to inquire what Herr Weber wanted for the ship. I tried not to let on I’d give my right hand for it. Herr Weber, who seemed to be good at this game, inquired if we were interested in considering the Deirdre in the transaction. Of course we were, because without the trade, the three of us had little by way of coin. Though none of us had eaten a proper meal in the last year for sake of saving all our fare money, the earnings we had were not impressive. When Weber named his price, I nearly burst into tears. It was twice what we had in coin. Pidge, however, impressed me. He laughed kindly, clapped Herr Weber on the shoulder, and tried again.

  Byron watched the exchange with interest. I stood, fretting, as I listened to Pidge and Herr Weber while Angus crawled all over the racer. He returned midway through the negotiations with his assessment.

  “Her beams aren’t nearly as tight as they should be, and she has galley parts that need replaced to meet our specifications. She’s running illegal bits we’ll need to trim out. She’s not as good as she looks,” Angus said with a frown, Pidge translating.

  Herr Weber looked surprised. He scowled as he reconsidered.

  Byron turned to Angus and asked him a question in a Gaelic dialect I recognized but didn’t understand. When Angus answered him, Byron nodded but kept a straight face. I looked from Angus, whose face gave away nothing, back to Byron. A small glimpse into Byron’s eyes told me that Angus had lied. I looked away.

  Herr Weber considered thoughtfully, gave me a hard look, then asked Pidge a question.

  Pidge smiled at me then nodded.

  I worried.

  Herr Weber began talking very quickly.

  Pidge turned toward us. “We can’t quite come to terms on price,” he said with a shake of the head. “He wants more than we have, the Dierdre included, but he has daughters Lily’s age and likes that Lily is going to pilot the ship. He is a believer in fortune, so he’ll give us a shot. He says that if we can best him in a game of cards, he’ll make the deal.”

  “Based on a game of cards?” I asked, aghast.

  Pidge nodded.

  Herr Weber rubbed his hands together, his eyes glinting with a card player’s passion.

  I looked at Angus. In truth, I was an opium eater and an alcoholic, and Angus was just as much of a drunk as me, but neither of us were card players. Pidge, who went to church on Sundays, was about as straight as they came. It was over.

  “Let’s play,” Byron said.

  I looked up at him.

  “It’s as easy as rhyming,” Byron told me with a shrug.

  Herr Weber smiled, and we headed to the guard station. The stationmaster cleared a table for Byron and Herr Weber, and soon the cards were being dealt. I could tell from the impressions on the faces of the stationmaster and the guards that they
thought we were in for a trouncing. Apparently, in Stuttgart, Byron was not yet famous.

  The two men sat across from one another, both with serious expressions on their faces. I tried to read Herr Weber. He looked like he was settling in for a battle. His cheeks were flushed with excitement. I dared not look at Byron, knowing that if I read him, others might be able to read me. I waited. Three exchanges in, Byron called. Herr Weber looked shocked when Byron lay down an unbeatable hand.

  Just like that, it was over.

  Herr Weber, who looked like he was trying to decide whether or not to be angry or to laugh, ultimately laughed out loud. The man reached across the table and shook Byron’s hand. Byron had won us the ship.

  WHEN I ARRIVED AT THE large, two-story brick building overlooking the Thames, workmen were hanging a sign above the door: The Daedalus Company. I looked through the windows to see Sal making his way down an aisle on the factory floor. I felt guilty. I’d been lost in my memories of the Stargazer and Byron. It seemed unfair to Sal. He was my life now; Byron was my past.

  I gazed up at the sign. On it was the image of Daedalus soaring with his tinkered wings spread wide. I smiled. The man I loved was about to become very wealthy. My stunt in Paris at the 1823 World Grand Prix had brought acclaim, not only to the Stargazer’s crew, but to Sal. A French tinker experimenting with a heliography device managed to photograph my leap from the Stargazer, parachute fully launched. The image was re-interpreted and printed as an engraving in every American and European newspaper. The minute everyone realized that there was a reliable parachute to be purchased, they wanted one. Sal found himself in the fortunate position of having far more work than he could ever manage on his own. When the race league decided to make it mandatory for all racers to have a parachute, Sal went from being a tinker to being a businessman. I ducked under the sign and entered the factory.

  “Sal?” I called.

  He turned and smiled at me. His small, round glasses were pushed up on his head. He carried a bundle of rope over one shoulder and a fist full of papers. “Ahh, here is my Lily.”

  “How is it coming?” I wrapped my arms around him, pressing my head against his chest. Amongst all the chaos of the day, this was a moment of peace.

  Deliverymen were everywhere. Workers were uncrating equipment and stowing supplies. Sal had hired ten young men and three young ladies to apprentice under him. They were excited. I didn’t blame them. Unlike most factory owners, Sal promised his apprentices both an education and payment for their services. Indenturing of apprentices without pay, which was a common practice and a fate I had suffered under the guise of adoption, was something Sal and I both found repugnant. Sal was determined, in a fatherly sort of way, to pass on his knowledge. The apprentices were lucky, and they knew it. The gusto with which they worked showed their appreciation. They only stopped when they saw me come in. They began whispering excitedly.

  “Excellent. The rolls of silk just arrived from the Orient,” Sal said, motioning to a row of large crates sitting on the floor. “Mr. Duncan’s shipment of sewing machines came yesterday, and we’ve just finished setting up the tables for the girls,” he said, motioning toward one corner of the workshop.

  The young ladies Sal employed would work only in part on the parachutes. At my urging, Sal decided to market another of his ingenious inventions: the clockwork bodice, an easily removed undergarment Byron once highly admired on—and off—of me. Sal’s design, however, needed a female touch, which the seamstresses could provide. The girls, who were setting up their stations, smiled and waved at me.

  “They’ve just finished the work upstairs. Would you like to see?” Sal asked carefully.

  Neither he nor I were sure how I’d respond. After the race, I sold my flat on Hart Street and had been bouncing between staying with the boys, on the Stargazer, and with Sal at his flat near Hungerford Market, which was really too small for us both. When Sal suggested that the space above the factory be transformed into our home, I’d only trepidatiously agreed. Part of me knew that if I wanted to make this work, I needed to try to have a normal relationship. But more and more, I got the sense that Sal was starting to see me as his future wife—and maybe even the mother of his children. The fatherly looks he gave his apprentices and the cozy way he handled me was starting to make me feel a bit edgy.

  I pulled back from our embrace and looked at him as steadily as I could. “Sure, let’s take a look.”

  Sal set down his equipment, signaled to Henry, the eldest of the apprentices, and we headed upstairs. Pushing open the trap door, Sal took my hand and helped me up.

  The second floor of the factory had tall, windows on all sides. The space, save the private bath, was entirely open. The layout would have scandalized the typical housewife. We had furnished a parlor space, dining space, workspace, and our bedroom in separate areas. Sal had purchased some dressing screens for our bedroom. He’d also won us an enormous bed at auction. The four-poster canopy bed had once belonged to a noble family. Such a regal piece of furniture looked funny in such an odd space but not bad.

  “Everything is in working order, livable,” Sal told me.

  I scanned the space. Was this really my home? This was what I wanted, wasn’t it? It was, after all, what I had chosen. I went to the window and looked out. I could see the airship towers where the damaged Stargazer was docked. I touched the glass.

  “If you are having second thoughts . . .”

  “No,” I replied absently. I wasn’t, was I? “I’ll bring my things over. We can sleep here tonight,” I said then paused. I could feel his eyes wandering over me. “It’s not that,” I said, turning to him, strengthening my stance. “We’ve had some bad luck on the Stargazer,” I said then explained to Sal what had happened.

  “I’ll ask Henry to mind things here,” Sal said after I’d relayed the situation. “I need to go back to my stall at Hungerford and pick up some parts. With so much damage, it might be a good time to sketch a better design.”

  “You have an idea?”

  Sal nodded. “I’ve been considering one for a while now. I think there is a way to get better rotation . . . well, we can discuss it later. I have some drawings at the workshop. What time is the qualifying meeting?”

  “Seven.”

  Sal wrapped his arms around my waist. “You’ll be fine, my Lily. We’ll have you racing again in no time,” he whispered in my ear.

  I wanted to believe him, yet something within me ached, and I couldn’t shake the feeling. I looked back at the towers. The clouds overhead were dark, and rain had started to fall.

  ANGUS, JESSUP, SAL, AND I stood outside the door of The Lancelot Club, in the rain, waiting for permission to join the other league teams. We were there for two things: news about the upcoming British qualifying race and to learn which cities would be hosting the 1824 World Grand Prix. The longer I stood in the rain, however, the more annoyed I was getting. Given we had to take a Thames ferry to Chelsea rather than just holding the meeting near the towers, I was about to lose my patience. I was far less tolerant than I had been with laudanum pumping through my body. It was ridiculous that we were made to wait. Everyone knew who we were.

  “Maybe we should have brought the ’23 World Grand Prix cup,” Jessup grumbled.

  “Formality, friend. You Brits have a knack for formality,” Sal joked.

  “You suppose we ought to queue up?” Jessup replied.

  Sal grinned.

  Neither Angus nor I were laughing. Considering we were both already ready to pummel someone for the condition the Stargazer was in, one more slight felt like one more too many.

  “Miss Stargazer, so sorry to make your team wait. The league chairman has permitted your entry,” the doorman finally said.

  “What a fucking joke,” Angus swore as he pushed past.

  Sal nodded politely, Jessup following behind him.

  “Sorry, Lily,” the doorman whispered under his breath as I passed by.

  I smiled reassuringly at him. />
  We were led to a large meeting room at the back of the club. Every team in the British Racing League was already assembled. I felt like I was in a den of wolves. Every eye turned to us; some looked on with envy, some with anger, and a scant few with pride. Julius Grant, his team, and his sponsors were all there. Lord D and his team, all wearing fashionable—and matching—suits, had also assembled. Other pilots and their peerage or company backers also filled the room. I saw so many new faces in the crowd. Money, it seemed, was buying entrance for pilots better suited to polo.

  There were only two other teams in the room from our slice of society: the commoner air jockey. Last year, the British Racing League had enacted a heavy fee for entrance into the club. With Byron’s help, we’d had enough to make it in, but many others who were better pilots than most of the moneymen in the room could not afford to join. The new rules rendered them too poor to race. I didn’t like the direction things were headed.

  The air was thick with cigar smoke, and everyone was drinking. A footman offered us drinks from a silver serving tray. Angus took two. Jessup joined him. Sal, out of consideration, passed. I knew I dare not touch a drop, but my mouth watered at the thought.

  “All right, racers. With Stargazer’s team here, we are all accounted for. Take a seat, one and all,” the British league chairman called.

  We took a seat in the very back with the teams for the Mary Stewart and the Falstaff.

  “Hey Bigsby,” I whispered to the pilot of the Falstaff, “where is Mandy?”

  “Out,” Bigsby replied in a whisper. “Didn’t you hear? The Ruby burned.”

  “What? When?” Angus asked.

  “Two days back.”

  Jessup leaned toward Bigsby. “How?”

  Bigsby shrugged. “Accident, I guess.”

  We all looked at one another. Mandy was the only other female pilot in the British racing league.

  Sal took out a pen and journal and began writing. Angus checked his gun. Even I’d brought my sidearm tonight. It was safely stowed inside my vest. I scanned the room. Grant’s head was bowed, but his eyes, hiding under a lock of dark hair, were fixed on me. He smiled, his large lips pulling taut across his small face. The expression looked like it pained him. I wanted to punch him in the mouth. I looked away.