Honor Bound

by Robert N. Macomber

  Earlier, Yablonowski had spread two pieces of canvas hammock between some trees about fifty feet back from the edge of the hill. I ordered everyone to retire to that location, where we’d have at least some shelter from the storm. Rork stayed on watch at the observation point that looked out over the compound below us. One of Yablonowski’s soldiers was stationed to watch the animal trail we’d used for ingress.

  Huddled under the canvas, the rain an incessant drumroll, I glanced about me to gauge the effect the imposing sight of Forteresse des Nyajs had on my associates. Cynda wore a determined expression. Gone was the demure Southern lady, her eyes now displayed an animal ferocity—we were close to where her son might be at that very moment. Roche, silent as usual, seemed to be grimly designing the destruction of Sokolov’s hideout. Dan and Corny were discussing aeronautics and the amount of lift needed to accomplish what Sokolov planned.

  Corny was dubious. “He can try, but there is a point beyond which the laws of physics stop you. This is nothing more than a madman’s impossible delusion.”

  Dan is normally reserved in most conversations, but warms quickly in scientific matters, where his mind had a natural affinity. I listened in as he angrily retorted, “No, Corny. You know about languages and cultures and history, but you’re completely wrong on this. Sokolov’s idea can be done.”

  Dan waved away Corny’s coming objection. “You are way behind the science on this, my ethnologist friend. Arthur Krebs and Charles Renard, and the Tissandier brothers, have all built powered aerial ships in France. And flown them repeatedly. Krebs and Renard are using an eight-and-a-half-horse-power Siemens electric motor from Germany for the propulsion, with a nine-hundred-fifty-pound battery for the motor. And that setup got them going at over ten miles an hour through the sky.

  “But that’s not the latest. I’ve personally met the men building an aerial ship with a gasoline-fueled internal combustion motor in Germany. Karl Wolfert and Ernst Baumgarten are using a new type of combustible engine from Gottlieb Daimler. It was supposed to be flown this summer, but, of course, we’ve been busy sampling life in paradise down here in the tropics, so I don’t know how it went.”

  “All right, Dan, I give up,” said Corny. “The Russian’s contraption is possible.”

  Dan wasn’t going to let him off that easy. “Corny, this apparatus is not only possible, it’s quite feasible. I’ve studied the dynamic physics of flight—it’s not that far from the dynamics of ships. Archimedes Principle, Boyle’s Law, Charles’ Law. The primary factor in the air is lift, very similar to that for ships. Archimedes long ago worked it out: the buoyant force exerted upon a body immersed in a fluid is equal to the weight of the fluid displaced. Works the same way in air.” He looked at Woodgerd. “They using hydrogen, I believe you said?”

  “Yes, sir. The shed over by the airship barn houses the hydrogen generators.”

  “Very good. Hydrogen will lift about seventy-one pounds for every one thousand cubic feet of volume displaced. Renard and Kreb’s ship displaced somewhere around sixty-six thousand cubic feet, so they could lift about forty-seven hundred pounds of weight. That’s counting the whole airship and everything in it. Got that, Corny?”

  “Yep, I’ve got it.”

  I could tell he didn’t, but appreciated him not arguing. We were all tired and wet, and I wasn’t in the mood for any more quarreling. Besides, this was getting interesting.

  Dan was positively enthusiastic now. I’d only seen him this way during the evening philosophy and science sessions, usually enhanced by gin cocktails, at the Celestial Club in Washington. “All right, Corny, so now we go to Boyle: at constant temperature, the volume of a gas varies inversely with the pressure. As the pressure increases, the volume decreases, and also the reverse. Charles’ Law works out a companion factor: at constant pressure, the volume of the gas varies directly with temperature changes. If the air gets hot, the gas expands. When it gets cool, the gas contracts.”

  Dan took a breath and the lecture continued. The man was encyclopedic.

  “So my point is this, that the factors involved in lighter-than-air flight have been well known for a long time. Others have learned how to conquer these factors with aerial ships, even handling the critical weight problem. If Sokolov knew of these developments and was able to decrease the structural weight of his machine, while keeping the same capability for lift, he’d be able to build an aerial warship with the ability to carry out his intentions. And if it’s bigger than the French ship, with more cubic feet of lift, the Russian’s potential would be even more increased. It’s a fascinating concept.”

  “Well, I think it’s a depressing concept,” huffed Corny. “Good Lord, bombs and typhus infections? This is a violation of the norms of basic humanity and the laws of war. A damnably barbaric machine of death, if you ask me.”

  Dan wasn’t swayed by the ethical counterattack. “And that Hotchkiss gun over there, staring right at us, is pretty barbaric, my friend. But humane notions don’t stop science.”

  I was very surprised at Dan Horloft’s knowledge on the subject. He was bringing up things that were in the technical reports I’d read, but hadn’t really understood until then.

  “I had no idea you were so well versed on the developments in flight, Dan. Where the hell did you learn all this?”

  “I was in Europe last year to inspect naval building programs, Peter. Along the way, I met some German aeronauts and heard what the French and Brits were doing.” He gestured to our surroundings and added disgustedly, “Must admit I never thought I’d be discussing this in the jungles of Haiti. Or that I’d even be in Haiti, for that matter.”

  “Do you know the operating procedures for these aerial machines?”

  He shrugged. “The basics, yes. The crew has to keep all three of those laws of physics in mind all the time for—unlike in the laboratory—when they are in the air, temperature and pressure and volume are constantly changing. Control it wrong and you fall to earth. And there are a lot of subtle nuances to steering one of these things also. The whole operation is three dimensional, not two dimensional like a ship.”

  Dan then expanded upon the subject of aerial navigation. I saw Roche listening intently and wondered how much he already had known of Sokolov’s plans but wasn’t saying. He’d told me earlier that he would destroy the machine when we found it. However, as I mulled over what I’d just learned about aerial craft and their potential, another option began to take shape in my mind. A dangerous option, to be sure, but it just might work.

  Meanwhile, as Dan’s class on the dynamics of aeronautics was unfolding, I noticed our young Bahamian friend sitting off by himself, staring at a tiny jungle orchid and ignoring us. His lips were moving, perhaps praying that he would wake up from his bad dream. Further back in the bushes, Yablonowski was busy explaining the situation in Creole to his men, all of whom had their frightened eyes on that wicked-looking Hotchkiss.

  They were young conscript soldiers—uneducated, untrained, ill-equipped, and unmotivated. But even they knew that cast-off thirty-year-old muskets were useless against the modern rifles and machine-driven large-caliber guns in evidence before them. They also knew that an assault on Sokolov’s lair would result in several of them dying for a cause and people they couldn’t understand. I couldn’t blame them for looking terrified and ready to run. There was no way I could count on them for any crucial assistance, and from his sad expression, I was beginning to doubt Yablonowski’s commitment to rescuing Luke.

  We were resting there in a lull from the rain and wind when a large bell sounded deeply five times, coming from somewhere inside the compound. Creeping back toward the observation point, we saw a commotion near the airship barn. A large group of Bizangos were gathering at the north end, straining together on long lines leading back inside the building.

  Then out of the open end of the structure emerged the black bow of the object, floating in the ai
r. It was as if a reptile were hatching from an egg. It kept materializing until I could see the forward end was moored to a pair of rail cars on parallel tracks—each pulled by the line of men. It was an enormous balloon ship, inflated to a shape unlike any balloon I’d see. Not spherical, but elongated, cylindrical. Like a fat cigar, more than anything else.

  Woodgerd informed us it was fully one hundred eighty-five feet long and forty across. When it emerged completely, a white man walking beside it shouted and lines holding it down to the four rail cars were slacked off. The monster rose thirty or forty feet above the ground, tethered from the bow to a mooring mast. As it ascended, I saw a long boatlike structure dangling beneath it. It was wooden—mostly bamboo framing—with a mechanical apparatus and wide-bladed fan propeller at the forward end. There was a section of woven basketry, twenty feet in length, behind the propeller. A large canvas rudder was mounted aft of a metal device at the stern. The rest of the hull was open framing.

  “Ah, I see it’s a bit bigger than the French aerial warship,” commented Dan. He paused and stared at a leaf-cutter ant on the ground, whispering calculations to himself. When he had finished, he announced, “So let’s figure that he has enough cubic feet—eighty thousand would be a conservative estimate—to lift fifty-seven hundred pounds. Ah, just as I thought, he’s using the French method of propulsion. Electricity. The German idea of a gasoline or kerosene combustion engine gives greater speed but is too prone to accidental fire.”

  “Yes, it’s electric,” said Woodgerd. “He ordered a Seimens electric motor, then modified it to generate ten horsepower. The battery is at the back end, way behind the crew basket, so the weight counterbalances the weight of the motor and propeller at the front end.”

  Dan rubbed his chin in contemplation. “Hmm, and I see that the front end with the propeller and motor are farther away from the center of effort, the fulcrum, of the ship, which would allow a smaller weight to counterbalance the heavier weight of the battery. Very well done.”

  Another shout came from the white man, this time toward two other whites inside the hull. Woodgerd told us the man shouting was Sokolov. The propeller began to turn, but quietly. The electric motor made no sound. I immediately thought of a night attack scenario—the monster sailing silently over a city through the dark sky, achieving total surprise. Victims wouldn’t even comprehend the source of their deaths.

  The propeller’s revolutions increased. There was noise now, but not from the motor. It was a constant thumping as the blades thrashed the air, the ship struggling against its tethers. Then it slowed and stopped.

  Dan was clearly impressed by Sokolov’s design efforts. “So, I would estimate the weight of the propeller assembly and motor at just about eight hundred pounds. The battery would be a thousand. That means eighteen hundred and fifty pounds for propulsion gear. If he deduced some way to make the entire airship weigh, let’s say two thousand pounds, which is quite light for this size craft, then that’s a total fixed weight of thirty-eight hundred pounds.”

  Dan rubbed his chin again. “Now, about the variable weight—the Frenchies had a crew of three, if I remember correctly. Colonel Woodgerd, how many does Sokolov plan to run this thing?”

  “Four. A helmsman, a gas adjuster, the bomb man, and Sokolov as commander. And maybe the boy—if he takes him, which I’m not convinced he’ll do.”

  “Hmm, figure six hundred pounds for the men , without the boy. Now we’re up to forty-four hundred pounds. Then there’s water, food, and other provisions and supplies—about two hundred pounds, which gets him to forty-six hundred. I’m guessing ballast would account for at least ten percent of the total, or about six hundred pounds. Total is now fifty-two hundred pounds of lift used up. That leaves him five hundred pounds of cargo or weaponry for a total weight of fifty-seven hundred pounds.”

  I was still doing the mathematics when Dan said, “It’s absolutely amazing, Peter. This fellow may well be a demented madman, but he has splendidly managed to master the fixed weight problem. But how, I wonder? The battery and motor are what they are, and can’t be diminished. It must have been the ship herself. Colonel Woodgerd, do you know?”

  “Sokolov’s proud of how he saved weight using native materials he found in the jungle down here,” said Woodgerd. “Light and strong. Balsa wood and bamboo for the hull and framing. Hemp that the Europeans use for rigging is too heavy, so he uses native vines. Green liana vines for the long rigging, Monkey ladder vine for the short rigging. The crew basket is woven from friendship vines. Sokolov told me they are half the weight of hemp. The big weight saver was the covering he used for the airship balloon—goldbeater’s skin.”

  “You’re joking!” exclaimed Corny. “The old Egyptian technique for making gold leaf? There’s no gold on that thing that I see.”

  “It’s the old technique, yes, but not used with gold in this case. It’s used on cattle intestines. They’re pounded out into extremely thin sheets—you can see through them—then wetted down and plastered together by their inherent adhesion. When they dry they are incredibly elastic, impermeable, and strong. There are two layers of the stuff on there.

  “Sokolov told me he learned the British were doing it, so he tried it and it worked well. Much stronger than the doped silk usually used, and much lighter. He trained some of the men here in the technique. Turns out that the local cows’ intestines are perfect for it. Took a lot of them, though, to cover that thing.”

  Dan nodded. “That makes sense. Major Templer, an aeronaut with the British army came up with it five years ago. His balloons in Africa were covered with goldbeater’s skin.”

  “Cows,” I mused aloud. “Well, that clears up the mystery concerning the cattle farm. Remember? Laurent told us the Russian was buying thousands of cattle but hadn’t sold any.”

  White lettering was painted along the side of the ship. It appeared Cyrillic, and I asked Woodgerd the meaning.

  “It’s Sokolov’s name for his aerial warship. Rodinia Voskhod. I think it means ‘The Homeland’s Uprising,’ or something like that. He wants everyone on the ground in Russia to know that it’s time to rebel against the tsar.”

  Roche corrected him. “Rodinia is the ancient name of our Russian trans-continent—the Motherland. In English, this writing would mean approximately, ‘Mother Russia Rising.’ It is a naive call to the peasants to revolt against their gracious sovereign. I will acknowledge that Sokolov is a brilliant scientist, but he is foolish when it comes to understanding his own countrymen. Peasants cannot read. They do not even want or need to read—their priests do that for them. They just want to be left alone to make babies and work the land.”

  A squall line appeared over the ridge behind us, sliding down the slope toward Sokolov’s base. Hurried shouts set the men to straining again and the behemoth was lowered back down onto its rail cars. When the squall’s gusts hit it, the airship heeled over and swung her stern downwind like a ship. The men quickly lashed the mooring lines down to prevent them from running out. After the squall raced through, the thing was pulled back to the rails and returned to its wooden cave.

  The wind was from the south now, a good sign that the center of the hurricane had passed to our west. The squalls spaced out more and diminished in strength. Our problem, though, wasn’t the wind and rain—it was the torrent between us and Luke. The river was well over its banks and raging its way down to the coast. The rocky shoals disappeared. There was no way we could ford it. The boy was fifty yards away, but he might as well have been on the other side of the earth. That night, I told everyone that we would wait for river to subside.

  But we weren’t idle.

  Map 4

  Image 3

  32

  Plan of Attack

  Forteresse des Nyajs

  Montay San, Northern Haiti

  Wednesday, 5 September 1888

  The next morning, the first in which we actually saw a sun
rise, I called everyone together for a briefing on the strategy of action. The air was fresh and sweetly moist, scented by the jungle muck airing itself out. The sky was the clearest I’d seen so far in Haiti, empty of the usual smoke haze.

  The storm had roared off to the west, after washing away half our bags of food, one musket, two canvas shelters, and an alarming amount of our perch on the side of the mountain. However, the most important geographical component to our plan—the river crossing—now seemed possible, for overnight the water had dropped enough to see the rocks. By that coming evening, I predicted it would be fordable. The next obstacle—the Bizango guards—also had a solution, a uniquely Haitian one. I’d been informed of it in the dark, five hours earlier.

  ***

  Rork had the watch when he woke me from a fitful sleep in the middle of the night. Whispering in my ear, he informed me, “The colonel wants a bit o’ a private gam with jes’ you an’ me. Methinks he’s got a wee idea o’ what to do ’bout the Rooskie fort. Nice an’ quiet-like, if ye please, sir. The camp’s asleep.”

  We met under a bush away from the others. Woodgerd had Aubrac with him. The colonel wasted no time. “Aubrac and I were just talking this through. He has an idea on how to take care of the guards, or at least slow down some of them. They’ve got a toad here, called the bouga, that’s got a deadly poison in it. It’s as bad as that Calabar bean you told me nearly did you in, Peter. Aubrac’s seen several of them hopping around here. Rain must’a flushed them out. He suggested we use them to make a poison, then slip it into the guards’ clarin during the voudou ceremony they’ll have tonight. He knows the recipe for the potion.”

  I glanced at Sergeant Aubrac, squatting there stone-faced. It was the classic pose veteran army sergeants and naval petty officers use when in the presence of superiors who are talking about them. Rork does it, too, especially when admirals are around.