Dawn's Early Light

by Pip Ballantine

  “Did you see it again? Last night?”

  “Saw—something,” he wheezed.

  “Sir,” Wellington spoke softly, “we will look into it. You have our word.”

  Merle’s hand clenched on Eliza’s. “Know—you—will.”

  From behind her, she heard Felicity say, “I couldn’t find anything on these men in the way of identification. Except for these.” Eliza looked over her shoulder to see Felicity pass on to Bill a silver ring she recognised at a distance.

  “Usher boys,” Bill said.

  Something brushed against Eliza’s ankle. She looked back to Merle, now looking down at his good hand. “Heard this name—after—you left.”

  Eliza looked in his hand. A small piece of paper with a name: Clayton Mercersion.

  “Smuggler,” he whispered.

  “We need to find out who this is,” Eliza said, passing the name to Felicity.

  “Certainly,” she replied.

  “Merle, thank you.”

  Eliza went to take Merle’s other hand but she paused. Apparently underneath the slip of paper, there had been a medal. Now in plain sight, it was warm to the touch. How long had he been holding on to that?

  “Southern Cross of Honour,” Bill said, his voice tight. “Awarded for valour.”

  “Stay,” Merle managed to gasp out.

  She took the old man’s hand and smiled. “Okay, Merle. Okay.”

  Wellington and Bill, in tune for that particular moment, both doffed their hats and held them by their sides while Felicity took a seat on the dilapidated stair connected to the porch, her head bowing as she did so. Eliza took Merle’s hands, the Southern Cross pressing into their palms, and settled in next to him.

  “You’re not alone,” she whispered to him. “You did what was right, and you’re not alone. Rest now.”

  In silence, they watched the eternal machinations of the earth, a simple splendour of nature, as the waves rolled and churned against the Carolina shore. Regardless of his time lost in drink and loneliness, today Major Merlin Brantfield would die with honour, and with respect.

  EIGHT

  In Which an American and God’s Own Are Blinded by the Light

  The horse clipped and clopped its way down the beach, the glow from Thomas Edison’s gaudy display of light casting their shadow ahead of them. Seeing that monstrosity on the beach in the daylight was an eyesore, but seeing it lit up at night was nothing more than technological posturing. It also cast a strange glare that made stargazing difficult. Once free of it, however, she could then enjoy the Outer Banks nightscape.

  Eliza looked down at the horse and suddenly asked, “What’s your horse’s name?”

  “Athena,” he said, urging their mount forwards.

  “An appreciation for the classics,” Eliza said with a chuckle. “You’re a man of hidden interests, Bill.”

  “Don’t be lettin’ your mind wander now,” Bill chided. “Maybe our partners are enjoying a night off, but we are still in the field. Tonight, it’s a lot of hard sweat, boredom, and watching your back, since the crew would stick you in the kidneys for a share of loot.”

  “Last night it was a saloon brawl. Tonight, we’re smuggling contraband with outlaws and cutthroats.” Eliza cocked her head. “Are you trying to sweep me off my feet or something?”

  They both chuckled as Athena continued to trot deeper into the darkness. Now free of Edison’s silly display, the night sky opened up before them.

  “It’s damn beautiful out here,” Bill murmured, pressing closer to her. “Mind you, the company helps.”

  She’d heard that tone of voice from a variety of men on a variety of continents. Out of the corner of her eye, she observed Bill as covertly as she could, and wondered what Wellington would have said had he been with them instead of with Felicity at Edison’s lecture.

  Yes, Wellington.

  Eliza pressed her lips into a hard line. The archivist who had kissed her so thoroughly in the middle of his own shelves, still stubbornly refused to talk to her about what had happened. What’s more she was sure that he was actively avoiding being alone with her for that very reason. Wellington Books was many things, but he was most certainly a man of conviction. He had told her in the Archives that he did not want to put her at risk simply by loving her.

  No, wait—he never said love. He said he cared about her a great deal, and that was hardly the same as being in love with someone. Could the kiss have been nothing more than an impulse on his part?

  Merely thinking about all this was draining away her good mood, but still she began to plot ways to get Wellington alone and force out of his mouth what was going on in his head. Perhaps he was in the adjoining guest room, but there was not a lock built yet that she couldn’t pick. She contemplated with a grim smile the archivist waking up with her atop him, pinning him to the bed, and demanding some explanation of his behaviour. He wouldn’t be able to wriggle his way out of that one.

  If only she’d brought some of Blackwell’s truth serum from the chemistry clankertons. The side effects were supposedly minor.

  “Eliza.” Bill interrupted her train of thought most effectively by pulling her even closer. Athena had come to a halt.

  She spoke over her shoulder, finding herself nuzzled quite comfortably in the crook of Bill’s neck. “What’s your game, Bill?”

  “Look,” he urged, pointing forwards, “just ahead.”

  Against the expanse of stars, gigantic shadows bobbed back and forth along the beach. Men could be heard clambering between the cut-out suspended in the night’s sky and the shore. Bill eased her down to the sand, slipped off Athena, and pushed her in the direction of the resort.

  “No need to fret,” he said. “She knows where to go. And so do we.”

  They had not walked for more than a few minutes before torches became visible. The calls between ship and shore were discernable now. Eliza felt her blood rush. New Zealand was an island nation, and she knew smugglers when she saw them.

  “This place is still a den of pirates.” Bill chuckled. “Just like in Blackbeard’s day.”

  Eliza rapped her knuckles against his chest. “So what’s the plan?”

  Dusting the sand off his clothes he stood up. “Follow my lead.” He held out his hand to her. She kept her eyes on him. “Now come on, Lizzie, have a little faith in your Wild Bill.”

  After a moment’s further hesitation, Eliza let him lead her towards the torches and shadows.

  They could just make out the pale canvas of the dinghy’s balloon when a torch appeared from the dunes. One of the men advancing on them was armed with a rifle. It was too dark for Eliza to tell which one; but in the present setting, any rifle pointing in your direction was a bad rifle. “Who the hell are you?”

  It was a reasonable question. The rest of the people loading the boat froze, their gazes on the agents as intent as foxes. Eliza crossed her arms, appearing to shiver in reaction to the cold, warming her hands inside her jacket. Under the lapels, her fingers gripped each of her pistols, just in case they decided to be more like wolves.

  Bill threw his hands up in the air and gave a friendly chortle. His broad Texas accent was gone, suddenly transformed into the southern drawl of the Carolinas as he said, “Clayton Mercersion sent us here. Said there was work to be had.”

  The rifle lowered, but Eliza still kept a hold on her pistols. The rifle was still too high for her liking. “Clayton sent you?”

  “Yessir. Told us to hitch our horse by Swan’s Retreat then start walking. Said we’d find you here.” When Bill turned to Eliza, his face and posture were softer. He looked meek. “Me ’n’ my girl here, we’re good workers, never stop. Ain’t that right, Mary?”

  Eliza stepped up, tightening her grip on herself. She felt herself hunch, and let her eyes hop back and forth along the shoreline. “Yessir,” she muttered.

>   That was all she dared. She desperately needed to work on a southern American accent.

  The smuggler’s face was still concealed in the darkness, but he was taking measure of the two of them. It seemed possible to actually hear the cogs turning in his head.

  “So Clayton sent you?” the leader’s voice trailed off. “And what’s Jack’s thinkin’ about this, I got to wonder?”

  Bill turned to Eliza, and shook his head in such a way only she saw it. She looked down, but refused to let go of her pistols.

  “Well, seeing as Jack is still in jail, I don’t know. I jus’ talked to Clay over at Quagmire’s and—”

  “Goddammit,” he swore, dropping the rifle to his side. Eliza’s grasp on her own pistols eased as the smuggler spat and said to the crewman closest to him, “I’m tellin’ you, one day Clayton’s going to be recruiting a greenhorn outta that pisspot and it’ll be the law! You watch!” He shook his head. “Well, climb on in.”

  “Yes, indeed, sir, yessir,” Bill said. “I’m Joshua, and this is my gal, Mary. Clayton said you really needed the help, and I’ll be honest, mister, we really need the coin.”

  “Clayton’s got a soft spot for every sob story in these parts,” the smuggler grumbled.

  They climbed into the small airship alongside three other men and the cargo. A moment later, they were away from the surf and in the air, slipping upwards into the night. The men around her were as silent as rocks, remaining stoic until another shape appeared above them. The larger airship they were positioning themselves under, via controlled venting of the balloon above them, bore no running lights of any kind. Its engines were silent.

  When a rope ladder was dropped and the lead smuggler from shore offered it to her, Eliza shared a glance with Bill. He merely smiled wolfishly. This was indeed a test for a couple of new smugglers.

  Bill held the base of the ladder steady as two of the crew started climbing up. Bill motioned with his head for Eliza to climb, and so she did. Halfway up her climb, she looked around her—the endless stars above, the cold and unrelenting Atlantic below.

  She was back where she belonged—in the field.

  Bill had just pulled himself over the side of the airship as its engines were spinning up with some mechanical protest. A crewman manning the rope ladder handed each of them a long leather coat. It didn’t stave off the cold completely, but it helped.

  “The other two not coming?” she asked, bunching up the leather duster around her. It was ridiculously large on her petite frame.

  “No, they were in charge of securing the cargo for hauling. That”—and Bill looked at her—“and they mentioned something about not being paid enough to board this ship.”

  “An’ here I was worried,” Eliza said, her voice trailing into her best approximation of an American drawl, “this was all too much excitement for an old-timer like you.”

  “Are ya done talkin’ in tha’ moonlight, greenhorns?” someone barked from above them. Bill and Eliza turned to see a squat man advancing on them. He was not as intimidating as his facial hair. It was a beard thick and wild enough to offer a cosy home for a hedgehog, and in the man’s glassy eyes was a madness that insinuated he might welcome the company in his beard. “The name’s Silas. This is my operation, so my word is second only to the Lord.” He jerked his head up and shouted, “Yes, Father, I’ll tell ’em!” He shook his head, as if bothered by the interruption and continued. “Do as you’re told, you’ll leave with coin. Keep with the jibber-jab and lover’s talk, and this will be a very short night for you.”

  Bill looked around at the threadbare crew, then peered down to see only three men tending to the newly arrived contraband. “Mind if I ask, Captain,” he began, seeming to steel himself for something unpleasant, “can your direct line to the All Mighty give us thoughts for tonight’s run?”

  A wild fury filled Silas’ gaze as he babbled wildly, “I won’ be toleratin’ blasphemy of any kind on this ship!” Silas blinked, and then looked up. “Beg ya pardon, Father?” He looked at the two of them, then back up to the sky. “Of course. My mistake.” He cleared his throat and then addressed both Bill and Eliza in a calm, reasonable tone. “I do not converse with His Lord, but me pap. Captain Elijah Cornwich. Lost at sea, he was”—and Eliza caught in the ship’s gaslight a strange twinkle in the man’s eye—“which is why I took to the air.” He slapped Bill in his arm, and smiled, a sight that made Eliza flinch on seeing the condition of the captain’s few teeth. “Welcome aboard the Sea Skipper.”

  With that Bill and Eliza ceased to be of much interest to the captain. He disappeared deep into the bowels of the airship, leaving them in the middle of the deck with no orders. From here, Eliza observed the Sea Skipper was as far from Apollo’s Chariot as a donkey was from a racehorse. Gaps in the woodwork—that creaked alarmingly—did not inspire much confidence, and its engines did not purr like a kitten so much as they hacked and sputtered like an elderly cat coughing up a hairball. The bladders high above their heads, though, were the largest she had ever seen for such a small gondola as this. Eliza could only speculate the balloons were compensating for heavier cargo when the Sea Skipper’s hold, precarious as it was in its construction, was at full capacity. Whatever this airship’s spoils of smuggling were, the profits were clearly not invested into the Sea Skipper itself, as the craft was clearly held together by string, fencing wire, and faith. As for its captain—

  “Mad as a hatter, that one,” Eliza said.

  “Aww shit,” Bill swore, whipping off his hat and running his fingers through his hair. “Cornwich. I read this idiot’s file. ‘Crazy Captain Cornwich,’ folks call him ’round these parts. Washington’s got a bounty on his head, but thing is no one can catch him on account—”

  “Let me take a wild guess,” Eliza stated, watching the captain climb out of the hold, shimmy up the ship’s rigging, swing over to the ship’s wheel, wet the tip of his finger to check for something in the air, and then bark out a few commands. “Aerial evasions?”

  “I got friends in the Air Calvary. They told me about this clown and how many times he should have died.” Bill replaced his hat, pinched the bridge of his nose, and whispered, “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all . . .”

  “Too late now,” she hissed back.

  “If we make it out of here alive, I’m goin’ back to Quagmire’s, track down this Clayton Mercersion—”

  “About that,” she said, placing a finger on his chest.

  “That’s all Felicity,” he said, beaming. “Once we got back to the Retreat, she did what she does best. Clayton Mercersion has been the sole visitor of one Jack Flanders. Flanders’ last rabble-rousing involved the mayor’s son and landed him in jail for an extended stay. Clayton is Jack’s right hand, running the operation in Jack’s absence.”

  “She got all that between Merle’s and tonight? Nice work.”

  She felt a tiny twinge of pain in her temples on admitting that.

  “It’s all about the details, isn’t it?” Bill asked before motioning to the poop deck. “Now it’s up to us to keep up appearances lest Crazy Captain Cornwich toss us both into the Atlantic.”

  Grey plumes belched out from the stern, shrouding parts of the sky from view; and with what Eliza could only describe as a battle cry, Cornwich threw a few levers that shot the Sea Skipper forwards while the sudden lurch sent her back into Bill’s arms. I should be shrugging him off, she thought, but she remained there a moment longer. Bill’s smile was warm and unnervingly charming. The man gently pushed her forwards, back on her feet.

  Silas handed out goggles to them all, barking up a few times to his dearly departed father, which slowed the process. Eliza considered the protective gear, which was as ramshackle as the airship itself. Over the keening of the wind, he shouted from the bridge, “We’re meeting another airship just beyond the breakers. Can’t risk landing so we’ll be working airship t
o airship.” He then pointed to Eliza, “Greenhorn!” He threw her a pair of binoculars. “You’re on watch.”

  “But,” she began, fearing the answer, “we’re not running with lights. What about our rendezvous?”

  “She’ll be running dark as well.” Cornwich saluted her. “Ye know what ta look for now!”

  As Eliza slipped her goggles on over her face, adjusting them as best she could, she wondered idly if Wellington was worried about her. He was aware of Bill’s intention to get the two of them into the smuggling channels of the Outer Banks. Perhaps it would bring them closer to agents of Usher. Wellington knew better than any of them what it meant to challenge them. Would he be worried for her?

  She hoped he was. It was nice to have someone to worry about you. It meant that someone cared. For a long minute she tried to imagine the expression on his face if something went wrong tonight or—if the worst unfolded—if she were lost at sea.

  Then she thought about Felicity. Would she distract Wellington from important things like worrying about his junior archivist? Would she console him in light of his loss? Eliza’s hands clenched slowly into fists.

  “Eliza,” Bill called to her, “what’s got you all wound up?”

  When he motioned to her fists, Eliza felt her skin, even amidst the cold chill of the altitude, prickle with heat. “Nothing. Just trying to stay warm.”

  Bill shook his head. “Well, save it,” he whispered to her, and gave the nape of her neck a gentle rub. “This could be a long night.”

  Suddenly she was able to direct her anger in his direction. Bill was the one who had gotten them on this stupid, rickety old airship that could well kill them both. If she wasn’t the trusting type she might have thought that he was conspiring with Felicity, to keep her away from Wellington.

  On that thought Eliza forcibly unclenched her jaw. Now she was starting to think like a giddy-headed schoolgirl—and that only made her angry at herself.

  Yes, it was going to be a long night indeed.

  “Look lively, lads!” the captain called as he turned back to the crew. “We are meeting some Frenchies out here tonight, willing to part with some of their fine cognac! Just no lighting any cigarettes until we’re back upon God’s green earth!”