The Airshipmen: A Novel Based on a True Story. A Tale of Love, Betrayal & Political Intrigue.

by David Dennington

  “Aye, we do. It was he that brought us together.”

  “Dear Kit, I do miss him,” she said.

  MacDonald looked genuinely pained. “No one misses him more than I. He was the only person I ever confided in.”

  She gave him her most endearing look of compassion. “Then, from now on, you must confide in me, mon chéri.”

  “I shall. And I will confide this to you: When I first saw you with him at the House of Lords that day, I fell hopelessly and passionately in love with you. I felt so desperately guilty. I was beside ma self,” he said, shaking his head, re-experiencing his pain.

  “And I felt exactly the same about you,” she said.

  “And when we all played croquet together, I’m ashamed to say, my longing was unbearable. It was pure agony!”

  “And me,” she said, clapping her hand to her breast.

  “But I have to tell you, in all seriousness, if he were still with us, none of this would be happening,” MacDonald said.

  “Of course not! …He was such a dear, dear man. Now, I have two confessions of my own to make to you.”

  “Oh, how I love these love-bed confessions!” MacDonald said, chuckling.

  “When Kit came to Paris that Christmas, we went into Notre Dame and I lit four candles. One was for my beloved father, one was for Isadora, one was for Abbé Mugnier and the other was for someone else. Kit was dying to know who, and I wouldn’t tell him.”

  “Who was it for?”

  “It was for you.”

  MacDonald blinked in disbelief. “Good grief!”

  “I felt so bad about it afterwards.”

  “And what else are you going to tell me?”

  “Kit always had a recurring dream about this …”

  “Girl in the carriage! Oh yes, he was mesmerized by it,” MacDonald said, his face lighting up.

  “He dreamed of it time and time again and told me about it over and over—it was an obsession!” she exclaimed.

  “Aye, it was that.”

  “He swore it was me, but in the dream the coachman always drove off before he could get a closer look.”

  MacDonald pursed his lips and dropped his head. “Poor Kit,” he said sadly.

  “I told him it couldn’t possibly have been me.”

  “No, of course not, my love.”

  “But Ramsay …” She faltered, her beautiful bosom heaving, about to burst into tears. She pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes. “…it was me!”

  “Oh, my goodness gracious!”

  “I never owned up to it. It would’ve been too painful for him. I was there in Paris with Isadora to pick up my wedding gown. I was to be married in Bucharest the following month, on my fifteenth birthday.”

  “Well, I never did!” MacDonald exclaimed.

  “The sad thing is: I never remembered seeing a young officer on Rue de Rivoli that day.”

  “Poor CB. He loved you so much, sweet lassie.” She watched him reminisce. He looked away into the garden and his face clouded over.

  “I blame myself. I wondered if he was driving them all to their deaths, including his own. He was foolhardy and somehow I knew it. I should’ve put my foot down and stopped him. Now, I doubt my own motives. I canna help myself! It’s something I’ll have to live with. Did I feel about him, the way he’d felt about your husband—hoping for the worst? Nay, I had my doubts and I stood idly by and let it happen. It makes all this bitter sweet.” He put his hands to his head.

  “Oh come, my precious. You tried to stop him—you know you did! Don’t blame yourself. He did what he did of his own free will. He truly believed it would all turn out well. But it just wasn’t to be.”

  Bolstering a man’s spirits was one of her most unique skills. His face brightened; his depressing thoughts banished, for now.

  “What happened to the painting?” Marthe asked, changing the subject.

  “It’s hanging in Mother’s room up in Lossie. He loved that room.”

  “Good,” she said.

  “Do you want it in your flat? I’ll send it over to Paris, if you like?”

  “Dieu non! God no! It would remind me of that detestable, bloody airship.”

  “Mr. Churchill came back and painted some clouds over the damned thing before we took the painting down.”

  “Dear old Winston …” she said.

  “So you wouldn’t see it,” he reassured her.

  “No. I’d know the beastly thing was lurking behind those clouds. I don’t want it! There’s just one thing, Ramsay …” Her voice tapered off.

  “I was just thinking the same thing, my darling. When you come up to Lossie, I’ll have to find a new home for it.”

  “Would you dearest? I’d appreciate that.”

  “Perhaps we can stick it in the shed,” he said.

  Having unburdened themselves, they sat in silence for a few moments. Marthe lay back down on the pillows with a sigh of contentment—and now, exquisite longing.

  “You know, my darling Marthe, from the moment we met, I knew you were a passionate woman—and very highly sexed—if I may say so!”

  To her, when he said this, his Highland accent, sounded like beautiful music, pleasing and seductive—as sweet as Eros’ lyre.

  “You’re such a perceptive man. I always knew you understood me perfectly.”

  “And now, I do believe our wee friend is beginning to raise his head yet again,” MacDonald said, leaning over and gently kissing her hardening nipples. She sighed with pleasure.

  “He is relentless, and we shall not disappoint him. Come back to bed, Ramsay.”

  “Oh, my dear Lassie. Love is all …”

  “Come to me, you sweet, gorgeous man,” she purred.

  104

  THE TOMB

  July 1931.

  Lou and Charlotte stood in silence, reading the names on the tomb. They hadn’t wanted to visit previously; they’d put off coming to pay their respects until it was finished. The dedication ceremony had taken place the day before, but Lou could not bring himself to attend. Red wreaths from that ceremony lay under the carved spread eagle. Lou placed a bouquet of white roses at the foot of the monument, beneath Captain Irwin's name.

  Each name on the seven-foot-high edifice brought a face vividly to Lou’s mind. At some, he smiled wistfully, at others, he felt intense sadness. Potter was such a name …and Capt. Carmichael Irwin ...and Peter ‘Pierre’ Higginbottom. Lou was pleased they’d had the decency to put up the name he preferred. He was unable to suppress a smile when he remembered Pierre telling him his last name was Higginbottom. “No saucy remarks from you, sir, if you don’t mind,” he’d warned with one of his cheeky looks.

  Lou forgave those whom he knew had made wrong decisions. They were all human—only human. It was pride that killed them, ultimately. He realized why Scott drank too much; who could blame him? Deep down he must have been a worried man—perhaps scared—caught in a trap not entirely of his own making, like everyone else. There was also the possibility that he was actually a sick man—something Lou had never considered until this moment. Perhaps he should’ve been knighted back in 1919 when he’d astonished the world with his two-way Atlantic flight. Who knows? Perhaps they wouldn’t be standing here now if he had been.

  He thought about his own role in this saga. Had he done enough to try to prevent it? He remembered his own irrational guilt over R38—which obviously he knew he couldn’t have prevented. He considered all this and finally felt guilt-free. He’d tried his damnedest. It must’ve been Fate. He was satisfied about that. One of life’s big learning experiences!

  Lou was brought back from his thoughts by the sound of footsteps on the gravel. Turning, he was surprised to see the Prime Minister with a beautiful lady on his arm—and by the way they looked into one another’s eyes, they were pretty darned close. MacDonald’s blue Rolls was parked outside the iron gate in front of John Bull’s van. Two men in dark suits hovered nearby. The woman carried a bunch of exquisite red roses.


  “Good morning, laddie. I hope we’re not disturbing you,” MacDonald said, while Marthe placed their flowers in one of the tomb's stone flower pots.

  “Not at all, sir.”

  “How old is your baby?” Marthe said, coming close to Charlotte and peering at the newborn in Charlotte’s arms.

  “He’s two weeks,” Charlotte answered.

  “Oh, how adorable! Such thick, black hair. May I hold him?”

  “Yes,” Charlotte said.

  She carefully transferred the infant into Marthe’s arms.

  “Just look at those blue, blue eyes. He’s so sweet. What’s his name?” Marthe asked.

  “Christian—Christian Carmichael.”

  “How lovely. Did you have friends aboard the airship?” Marthe asked.

  “Yes,” Lou said, “…many good friends.”

  “He was on board this ship and R38,” Charlotte said.

  MacDonald and Marthe were taken aback. MacDonald studied Lou thoughtfully for a moment. “You must be the American I’ve heard about.”

  “Yes, Prime Minister. Formerly, Lieutenant Commander Louis Remington, U.S. Navy.”

  MacDonald put out his hand. “I’m very honored, sir,” he said. “This is Princess Marthe Bibesco.”

  “I heard Lord Thomson speak of you once, ma’am,” Lou said. “This is my wife, Charlotte.”

  Charlotte smiled.

  “He spoke to you of me?” Marthe asked, her eyes full of curiosity.

  “No, ma’am, I overheard him speaking to Captain Irwin, by accident really.”

  “How nice.”

  “He spoke very highly of you.”

  Marthe seemed delighted. Even in death, Thomson complimented her.

  “Tell me, laddie, with all your experience: What do you think of airships now?” MacDonald asked.

  “Sir, if you want to know the truth—I’d have to say: The concept is flawed—at least for the present.”

  MacDonald was thoughtful.

  “Fate has had a hand in me running into you like this. There is much you have simplified for me today with just those few words. I must say, I had reservations myself and I was told I was worrying unduly. What are you going to do now, son?”

  “I’m going back to fixing cars and pumping gas in Yorkshire, sir, and living a comfortable, quiet life in a lovely cottage with Charlotte and Christian.”

  “That’s a noble thing to do.”

  “And maybe I’ll write a book—a novel—about these airshipmen with some sketches—like a tribute,” Lou said, nodding toward the monument. “I asked a writer-friend of mine to write it once, but he wouldn’t. Perhaps I’ll do it myself.”

  “Wonderful idea,” Marthe said. “Let me know if I can be of any help to you.”’

  “The Princess is an acclaimed writer,” MacDonald said.

  “And what will you call this book of yours?” Marthe asked.

  “The Next Big Thing,” Lou said, without hesitation.

  “Yes, wonderful!” MacDonald said. “I look forward to reading it.”

  After a few more pleasantries, Marthe eased the baby back into Charlotte’s arms and Lou and Charlotte turned to leave. As they did so, Charlotte whispered to Lou.

  “Charlotte has just reminded me of something, Princess. I understand you are you a friend of Lady Cathcart.”

  “Yes, indeed I am.”

  Lou put his hand in his pocket and pulled out the silver St. Christopher on its chain.

  “Charlotte found this at the wreck site in Beauvais. I’ve had it in my pocket ever since. Sir Sefton Brancker proudly showed it to me on the ship. He said he’d promised to return it to Lady Cathcart on his return from India. I wonder if you’d be kind enough to give it to her—I know he’d appreciate that.”

  “I shall make a point of it.”

  “Thank you, m’am.”

  “It will be my pleasure, Commander Remington.”

  Lou and Charlotte made their way out of the cemetery to their restored motorcycle, now with a shiny, new sidecar attached. Lou held Christian while Charlotte tied her white headscarf under her chin over her now almost shoulder-length hair. She put on her sunglasses and climbed in. Lou kissed Christian’s forehead and carefully slipped him into her arms. He covered them both with a blanket, tucking them in snugly before leaning over and kissing Charlotte’s lips. He waved to John and Billy sitting in the van with Fluffy in her cage on the seat between them. Potter’s accordion was in the back of the van with the furniture. He’d taken it to Potter’s wife, but she’d refused to take it.

  “You keep it safe for Walt—he thought the world of you—and the kids ain’t musical,” she’d said.

  He vowed to himself that he’d learn to play it—if he could bring himself to try. Perhaps Walt would look over his shoulder and show him how—he had promised, after all.

  Lou kicked over the engine, put on his gloves and goggles and climbed aboard. They drove away slowly up Church Lane in convoy, careful not to dislodge the small, black and white Jack Russell sitting in the dicky seat behind Charlotte. With his chest out and his nose in the air, Spot sniffed the chilly breeze like some little, but very noble, lord.

  Later that year, MacDonald went on the floor of the House of Commons and announced that the British Airship Program had come to an end. A small amount of money was budgeted merely to keep an eye on what other countries were doing. The Germans and Americans continued with their programs until they, too reached the same conclusions as the British after their own similar, painful experiences.

  Soon after that, the government decided Howden R100 had to be destroyed. Lou, Charlotte and Norway made a point of going down to Shed No.1 in October to witness her execution. Norway paced around as though in pain, gnashing his teeth while Wallis’s sacred creature was roughly dismantled and put to death under a great steamroller.

  “If they couldn’t b-bloody-well succeed, then n-nobody else would be allowed to either—despite Thomson’s promise,” Norway seethed.

  “Calm down, Nev, maybe it was all a bad idea. Let it go,” Lou said.

  Charlotte remained silent, but she couldn’t help smiling radiantly.

  “I should remind you that on two occasions we almost lost your precious airship over the St. Lawrence—we very nearly became part of the Canadian landscape—or had you forgotten about that?”

  Norway thought for a moment. “I wonder what in the world would have happened then.”

  “I reckon we'd have been the ones having a lovely funeral in Montreal and Thomson's trip to India would have been delayed for a year or two. It would've turned out to be a fabulous success and he'd have gotten the girl—maybe.”

  Norway calmed down, as though he’d had an epiphany. “Okay, I suppose you could be right,” he said finally. “We took a huge bloody risk and we got away with it.”

  Lou looked across to where the fair usually stood at that time of the year. It never returned to Cardington and he never saw Madam Harandah again.

  Around this time, Lou received a brown envelope from Certified Accountants, Bennett, Wicklow & Brown from an address on K Street in Washington, D.C. It contained a full report on the Holdings of Tyson Lumber and Hardware and a number of other related companies, including real estate holdings. Julia’s name appeared throughout as a fifty-one percent shareholder. The accompanying letter described Lou as an interested party representing the interests of one Mrs. Julia Remington, Joint Chairman of the Board. Lou was fairly satisfied, at least for the time being. The fifty-one percent was intriguing; maybe Julia’s father had owned more than that before his death. He’d look into that when he and Charlotte paid their next visit to the U.S.A. Now that Tom and Julia were married, maybe it was time for Tom to become a member of the board. Lou was sure Uncle Rory would be agreeable to this, after they’d had one of their little chats.

  The Report of the Cardington R101 Court of Inquiry was issued. Though beautifully written, it did little to determine the real cause of the disaster. It was found that the crash i
nvolving His Majesty’s Airship Cardington R101 was due to a loss of gas in bumpy weather conditions. No one was to blame. It would have made any fiction writer proud.

  During these months, while he sat in the garden at Candlestick Cottage with Christian asleep on his chest, Lou often wondered what became of Jessup’s body. Had he washed up on a beach or floated into the marshes of some French backwater? Or was he somewhere out in the endless sea, destined to float around in the Atlantic Drift until he disintegrated and sank to the black depths of the ocean floor? He’d never know.

  THE END

  ST. MARY'S CHURCH, CARDINGTON

  IN MEMORY OF THE FORTY-EIGHT AIRSHIPMEN WHO DIED

  OCTOBER 5th 1930.

  THE TOMB

  VOYAGE OF HOWDEN R100

  From Cardington to Montreal, Canada

  July/August 1930

  VOYAGE OF CARDINGTON R101

  October 4th, 1930

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction—pure fantasy, if you like—based on actual events. It is not a historical nonfiction documentary written to ‘set the record straight’. It is my hope that this novel piques the reader’s interest in this dramatic era of aviation history. Some characters are based on real people, others are fictional. Some events in the novel took place, others did not. After some years of research, I took what I thought was the essence of the characters involved and built on those qualities for dramatic effect, with fictional characters woven into the story to take part and to witness events. In the end, Lou Remington and Charlotte Hamilton became as real to me as Brigadier General Christopher Birdwood Thomson and Princess Marthe Bibesco.

  I did not see any real villains in this story and did not set out to portray anyone as such. But I did see all the characters as suffering with that one trying malady—being human. The myriad symptoms of this disorder include: unconditional love, passion, ruthless ambition, pride, megalomania, greed, spinelessness, jealousy, deviousness, murderous intent, loyalty, duty, trust, obedience, honor, patriotism and selflessness.