Chasing the Green Fairy: The Airship Racing Chronicles

by Melanie Karsak

  “Amazing!” he yelled.

  From below deck, I could hear Angus whooping loudly.

  It was the fastest I’d ever flown. We shot so fast across the sky that I cast a worried glance up at the balloon, but the ship was just as tight as she seemed. Not one tether loosened or stretched. The ship was built for speed.

  On the horizon ahead was a small hill that would disrupt the wind current. We were riding the shear. It would either mold to the shape of the land, pushing us up and over, or we would grind to a screeching halt as the current flattened. Judging by the size of the hill, I expected the wind to carry us over with a bump. It would be like flying up a ramp.

  “Pidge, Angus, bump up ahead,” I yelled.

  Pidge looked out with his spyglass. “Hold on!”

  As we neared the small hill, the wind shear pushed us from behind. I was right. It would be a jump. As the Stargazer rode the wind over the hill, she tipped up a bit at the prow. Then the airship moved with the wind, climbing the current. The Stargazer catapulted through the air.

  Below deck, Angus yelled in excitement.

  “Whooo!” Byron shouted, squeezing my shoulders excitedly, rocking me back and forth.

  I grinned from ear to ear.

  On the other side of the hill the land was flat. We dropped back into the normal west-east current. I rang the galley. The propeller dropped speed. The balloon took the weight of the ship, and we coasted. It was beautiful. We were flying fast, so fast, but easy and clean. The ship was a winner.

  I started jumping up and down. Angus crawled out of the galley, and Pidge climbed down from the basket. They were hugging each other happily. Dizzy with excitement, I turned and planted a passionate kiss on Byron’s red lips. He seemed startled but fell into it all the same, his wild excitement matching my own.

  When I had let the passion out of me, I pulled away and screamed loudly, Angus and Pidge joining me. I grabbed Angus and Pidge, linking my arms in theirs, and rattled off a reel that they quickly joined:

  Heigh-ho!

  Sing heigh-ho!

  Unto the green holly.

  Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly.

  Then, heigh-ho! The holly!

  This life is most jolly.

  Byron stood smiling at me. I grinned happily, knowing fortune was finally on my side.

  IT WAS ALREADY AROUND NOON when I woke on the deck of the Aster with a pounding headache. Curled up alongside the rail, the secretary was still sleeping. Overhead, the balloonman looked like he was drifting. The Aster was still flying fast, but the captain looked like he was about to drop. I rose and stretched, joining the captain at the wheel.

  “I can take over if you’d like to rest,” I told him.

  “It’s all right, Lily. I can finish the trip.”

  “Where are we?” We were riding high aloft. The ground below was concealed by clouds.

  “About two hours south of Pescara. We stopped there for just a bit. I didn’t see any reason to wake you. We’re following the Italian coast. We’ll hop across the sea this evening and follow the Greek coast south to Missolonghi.”

  “Is the ship on heading?”

  “It is.”

  “I can take the wheel. Just get a little sleep. I’ll wake you if I need anything.”

  “Are you . . . are you sure you’re okay?”

  I nodded. I wasn’t, but I hoped flying would help.

  Reluctantly, the captain agreed. He let the balloonman and his galleyman know I had taken over then sat down along the rail. He was asleep within minutes. I pitied him. There was nothing worse than flying with the feeling that the hounds of hell are chasing you. Part of me hoped that somehow, with me at the helm, maybe I could coax a little more speed out of the Aster.

  DURING THAT FIRST ENCOUNTER WITH Byron, I’d arrived in Calais with a mix of feelings. It was my own fault. I should have known better. Byron was a notorious womanizer whose erotic tastes had led him to self-imposed exile. Byron was the kind of man every mother warned her daughter about, but my mother had tried to drown me in a river, so I pretty much just ran on instinct. And his blue eyes haunted me with feelings I didn’t understand.

  He let me go easy, which further puzzled me. In Calais, he found a transport to Italy. I was still unsure what to say or how to thank him as I went with him to his transport ship.

  “Lily . . . Lily Stargazer,” he’d teased. “It was a memorable journey.”

  “Thank you, George. I don’t know what else to say. I’m just so grateful.”

  Byron tapped the brim of my cap. Then, as if on second thought, he planted a knee-melting kiss on me. I dissolved into it. My senses imploded with the sweet taste of his lips, his scent of orange blossom and patchouli, and the feel of his strong hands pressing me tightly against his muscular body. When he finally pulled back, leaving me breathless, he whispered in my ear: “See you around.”

  He winked, jumped on the ship, and smiled playfully at me as they debarked. When I didn’t hear from him again, I was not surprised. I figured I’d just fantasied the connection I’d felt, chalking it up to the so-called “Byron effect” which left women fainting in his path. But I should have realized, trusted my instincts, which told me that my chance meeting with Byron would completely redirect the course of my life.

  THE CAPTAIN OF THE ASTER didn’t stir until the turbulent sea air jostled the small airship. It had been a smooth ride down the Italian coast, but as I guided the ship offshore, the sea breeze shook the gondola. Flying over water was always tricky. Flying over the water on a moonless night was even trickier. And I still hated flying over water. Suddenly, I was feeling exhausted.

  The captain joined me at the wheel. “Any problems?” he asked with a yawn.

  I shook my head. The skies had been dead. There had been no one and nothing else in the air. It was very late evening. I had been flying below the clouds so I could see the coastline rather than just trusting the ship’s instruments. The cloud cover overhead was thick and black. There was not a star in the sky.

  “I can take it from here,” he said as he checked his instruments. “Just a couple more hours to go.”

  I nodded and went to the prow of the ship. I fished around in my satchel for my tobacco pipe. It was the last habit I allowed myself. I tried not to use it since it whet my already suffering appetite, but I carried it nonetheless. I lit the pipe, inhaled the stale tobacco, and watched the dark waves below. The taste filled my mouth, and soon I was imagining the tastes of all the other things I’d given up: the alcohol—absinthe in particular—opium, and Byron. In the end, I had given him up too, hadn’t I?

  It was not long before the dark shape of the Greek shoreline came into view. It rose out of the sea like a tomb. The Aster began to drop altitude. Again, I inhaled deeply. I let my mouth fill with the taste. As I exhaled, the smoke snaked from my mouth then dissipated in the wind.

  AS WE DESCENDED TOWARD MISSOLONGHI, my mind wandered to my first time racing the Stargazer on the international circuit. It was the New York City leg of the 1819 Grand Prix, and we didn’t win. We placed second, but for our first entry internationally, we were happy. Cutter wasn’t racing back then; the win had gone to the American racer, Bill Tallmadge, and his ship, the Liberty. Tallmadge, who died later that year in some street fight, was a hell of a drinker and a lot more fun than Cutter. Alejandro Ferdinand, the Spanish racer, had placed third. We were just coming off the winner’s platform on the New York City towers, situated in Lower Manhattan, when a circle of tower guards escorted a small party from the notables’ platform to greet us.

  “Racers, your sponsors are here to congratulate you,” the American Marshall had said.

  While Tallmadge and Ferdinand moved forward without hesitation, Pidge, Angus, and I had all looked at one another. In 1819, you only needed a small fee to race in the British qualifying. We’d scrounged up enough running fares. The real problem was the entry fee for the World Grand Prix. All international racers had sponsors. We hadn’t.
Even though we’d won the British qualifying by “a fucking miracle,” as Angus had called it, we didn’t actually have the cash to race in the Prix. We’d flown to Amsterdam to work out a deal before the New York City leg. A stout, balding man in too-yellow pants had said: “Stargazer? But your sponsor already paid your fee.”

  “Who?” Angus had asked.

  The man shook his head. “All I know is your account is settled,” he’d said and handed us our papers.

  Therefore, it gave us pause when we were told to meet our mysterious sponsor in New York. The American and Spanish teams stepped aside to reveal Lord Byron standing there, two well-shod gentlemen at his sides. I could not help but smile.

  “I knew it,” Pidge said in singsong under his breath. It had, in fact, been a running debate between the three of us over the identity of our sponsor. Pidge “knew” it was Byron. I’d always heard Byron lived perpetually in debt, his tastes grander than his bank account, so I’d had my doubts.

  “Look who, in the end, caught who,” Angus whispered in my ear.

  Byron took me gently by the elbow, peeled off my sticky leather glove, and kissed the back of my hand. “Congratulations.”

  “Lord Byron, you have our thanks,” Angus said.

  Byron looked up at me from under his perfect eyebrows, his blue eyes flashing in the late afternoon sun. “Well, one can’t just leave the fastest girl in England, and her team, without the means to race.”

  Angus smiled.

  “My associates,” Byron said then, introducing us to Percy Shelley and Edward Trelawny. I liked Edward right away, sensing he was exactly what he seemed, but Percy Shelley made my skin crawl: a hungry-eyed man. “Tonight, you will dine with me,” Byron told me. “We’ve been invited by a notable New York family. I’ll send a carriage. Where are you staying?”

  “You can just send the carriage to the towers,” I replied, hoping my cheeks had not reddened. I didn’t want to tell him we’d planned to sleep on the ship.

  “Very well,” he said. “Well done, chaps,” he added, clapping the boys on the shoulders, then walked off. As he walked away, I smiled. Perhaps that kiss, that feeling, had not been the “Byron effect” after all.

  When the carriage arrived at the towers later that evening, Angus hurried me along. I’d become a mess of nerves. After all, what did I know about going to a formal dinner? It’s not like Mr. Fletcher and Mr. Oleander spent any time teaching me table etiquette. I suddenly felt miserable over how common I really was.

  “But Angus,” I groaned as I pulled up my long skirts and tried to get into the carriage, “I’m going to make a fool of myself, and worse, of him.” I cursed as I stepped on the hem of the dress. My friend Celia, a dressmaker in London, had insisted I bring along something formal to wear just in case. She’d fashioned me something special. Modifying a traditional empire gown made of red satin, she’d sewn the union jack into the tail of the dress and cut the gown short in the front so I could sport an air jockey’s traditional shorts or trousers and boots. “Beauty and function,” she had said, but as I tried to load myself into the carriage, I cringed. I felt totally out of my element.

  “Be yourself. He seems to like you as you are.”

  “But what about you and Pidge? I don’t want to just leave you here.”

  “We’re going to meet Tallmadge at Strawberry Hall. Come by when you’re done.”

  I nodded.

  “Stop worrying,” Angus said, closing the carriage door behind me. He motioned to the driver. While Angus sounded confident, the lines around his mouth showed me that he was nervous for me. He waved as the carriage pulled away.

  I sat in terrified silence as the carriage made its way down sparsely populated Fifth Avenue toward central Manhattan. From the window, I saw massive mansions under construction all along the street. Otherwise, the place was an expansive wilderness. I must have taken a couple of doses of laudanum; by the time I arrived outside a pale-colored mansion, I was feeling remarkably light.

  The driver helped me out. I was met at the door by a footman who asked me to wait in the foyer. Moments later, Byron arrived.

  “How delightful,” he said, taking me by the hand and giving me a spin so he could look over my gown.

  “By the by, I don’t even know where I am,” I told him.

  Byron grinned. “You’re at the home of Katherine and Manson Mingott. Mingott has one foot in the grave so he’s upstairs in bed, but Katy is keen on meeting you.”

  “Lord Byron, if you will, we are ready to seat you and your companion,” a footman said.

  Byron motioned affirmatively. “Are you ready?”

  Definitely not. I nodded and put my hand in his.

  Byron led me through a richly decorated parlor filled with fine furniture and expensive artwork toward the main dining room. Assembled in the parlor were at least a dozen other dinner guests who had to wait their turn to be seated after Byron—as custom dictated when there was a guest of honor. I took a deep breath.

  “Who is that?” I heard one prim woman ask another from behind her dainty fan.

  “That’s the English airship racer,” the second woman replied.

  “Not her. Him!”

  “Are you daft? That’s Lord Byron.”

  “Lord Byron and Lily Stargazer,” the footman announced.

  I was puzzled. After dumping the name Fletcher, I had just been going by Lily. Why in the world had they married my name to my ship? My eyebrows furrowed. Had there been some confusion? I was about to say something to the footman when Byron laughed. I turned to look at him. “Wait, did you-”

  “One can’t go around without a surname. It’s obscene, Miss Stargazer,” he replied with a laugh.

  After I moment, I laughed too. It was as good a name as any.

  We were led into the dining hall where a long, ornate table had been set. Byron and I were greeted by the lady of the house, a toothsome and cheerful looking girl, about my age, whose breasts were larger than her head. “Lord Byron. Miss Stargazer. Welcome to my home. I’m Katy,” she said with a wide smile.

  “Madame, my thanks for your invitation,” I said.

  “Well, when I heard Lord Byron was in New York City, I was quick to invite him. It shall make for a rather good piece of gossip. I then learned the two of you are acquainted, so how could I resist?”

  I wasn’t quite sure how to reply, so when Byron laughed, I followed his lead.

  The rest of the diners were seated shortly thereafter. I fretted as polite conversation began, tapping my fingers against my knee, wishing I’d smoked more opium before I’d left. Byron and I were introduced to the assembled company. I noticed that Byron remembered everyone’s names at once. And he didn’t fail to dazzle every woman in the room. They were glued to his face and every word. I couldn’t blame them. His suit neatly tailored, a gardenia on his lapel, and his eyes sparkling in the glow of the crystal chandelier overhead, he was magnificent.

  “I am told you are quite the race fan, Mrs. Mingott,” Byron said to Katy as the footman served the soup.

  “It’s true! Miss Stargazer, I have to tell you, we picnicked on the roof of the mansion today to watch the race. We had a good view of your return from Philadelphia. For a moment, it almost looked like you would overtake Tallmadge,” Katy said.

  “Tallmadge knows the winds here better than I do. I was able to catch a wind shear and creep up on him, but in the end, he earned the win,” I replied.

  “How long have you been racing airships?” an elderly gentleman sitting across from me asked. Was his name Archer? I’d already forgotten.

  “I was practically raised on an airship, Sir. My foster father owned transport ships. I barely remember a time when I wasn’t on a ship, but I must have started piloting when I was about nine.”

  Intrigued, Byron raised an eyebrow at me.

  “Are you the only female racer in the Prix?” a young woman sitting down the table from us asked. I wasn’t sure from the look on her face if it was disdain or exci
tement she felt. Maybe she wasn’t sure either.

  “The Italians have a girl in the balloon basket, but I’m the only pilot.”

  “And the best in the British league! Quite a feat! We’ll have our eyes on you for the rest of the Prix,” Katy said cheerfully.

  Despite Katy’s pleasant demeanor, the dinner went on insufferably. First of all, everyone was drinking politely, which meant I wasn’t drinking enough. And second, I had no idea how to negotiate proper table etiquette. Byron picked up on my confusion and discomfort. As inconspicuously as possible, he guided me through the meal. While the food was delicious, lobster bisque, platters of smoked salmon under heavy cream, braised venison in wine sauce, richly herbed mushrooms, and other divine dishes, I was glad when the main courses were done. I noticed that Byron savored the meal, complimenting the rich sauces and scrumptious plates.

  “I’m so glad the food is to your taste,” Katy had said.

  “When food is prepared at its finest, it can bring great pleasure,” he replied with a naughty wink that made Katy chuckle.

  After the dessert, a light berry trifle, I was hoping we could leave. But then the conversation turned to poetry. All eyes in the room went to Byron.

  “I do think poetry on the subject of love is the most divine,” the same young woman down the table had just finished saying as she eyed Byron with such intensity that I had to grin.

  Katy chuckled behind her hand.

  Byron leaned back in his seat and put his hands behind his head. “The subject of love becomes boring. What I am interested in is passion,” Byron replied.

  “Is there a difference?” the girl asked.

  “Of course,” Byron said. He dropped one arm across my shoulders and stroked my neck with his fingers. Most of the women in the room look defeated. A chill traveled all the way to my toes. I turned and looked at him, his blue eyes meeting mine. “Passion is something rare. To feel passion is to feel something like love then something more. Love is commonplace. Love marries then grows weary. Passion burns.”