by Robin Paige
Reaching for the ripcord again, Rolls hesitated. “Bog and fen? Should we go further, then? What is beyond?”
“Beyond?” Charles laughed briefly. “A short way beyond lies the North Sea. Vent the gas and bring us down, Rolls, or you shall find yourself making that crossing you’re so keen on.” He began to wrap the end of a long mooring line around the middle of a sandbag, tying it firmly. He was working on the second sandbag when he looked up to find Rolls with his hand on the ripcord, staring upward.
“Come on, man, vent the gas and bring us down!” Charles shouted. “We don’t have much time!”
“I can’t,” Rolls replied, and yanked frantically on the cord. “The damn thing is jammed!”
Charles was a calm man, but this news shook him. From everything he had read—including reports of disasters—the landing was the most challenging part of the flight. It would have been difficult enough to land the balloon without the grapnel. But with no means of letting out the gas and bringing the balloon down, it was utterly impossible.
13
A few weeks ago I read a flourishing account in one of the motor journals written by a female novice, who triumphantly recorded how she had thoroughly mastered the first car she had attempted to drive in the short space of a single halfhour . I confess I entertained sentiments of the profoundest admiration for that lady, and looked enviously upon her as a phenomenon. But a word of caution may not be out of place, especially as such enthusiastic testimonials are apt to prove misleading in the extreme to less highly-endowed mortals.... Even when the novice has mastered the steering, and flatters herself she has attained to a wonderful pitch of perfection, she makes a great mistake. She does but stand at the outside portico of motoring knowledge.
-Mrs. EDWARD KENNARD
“Motor Driving For Ladies,” 1902
On the east terrace, Kate shaded her eyes, following the balloon as it flew up and up, its gondola dangling under it like a fragile bauble suspended from a chain, and in the gondola the man she loved with all her heart.
“Goodbye, Charles, goodbye,” she cried, waving.
Beside her, Patsy Marsden was still taking photographs. “Oh, how I wish we could have gone with them,” she sighed. “Think of all they shall see from that height! Imagine the photographs I should get!” She frowned. “But what was all that shouting at the last moment?”
“I don’t know,” Kate said, turning toward the site of the launch. “I couldn’t make out what was going on. It had something to do with that angry group of men who invaded the Park just as—”
“Lady Kathryn! Lady Kathryn!”
Kate turned to see the journalist from Autocar running toward her, his coat flapping open, his black eyes popping with excitement. “The balloon,” he gasped, as he reached her and skidded to a stop. “The balloon! It went up without its—” He was suddenly seized by a fit of wild coughing. “Without, I mean to say, the device that—” He bent over, red-faced, coughing so hard he could not speak.
Patsy’s hand went to her mouth. “Oh, dear,” she whispered. “Whatever they’ve left behind, I hope it’s not awf‘ly serious. But p’rhaps,” she added, seeing Kate’s face, “it was only the sandwiches.”
Kate did not wait for Sam Holt to recover. Suddenly apprehensive, she picked up her skirts, and forgetting her dignity, ran down the terrace steps, and pushed her way through the crowd of marchers, who seemed to have lost something of their angry energy and were milling about without direction, leaderless.
“Bradford!” she shouted, over the din. “Bradford, where are you?”
“Here, Kate!”
She turned. Bradford and the vicar, grim-faced, were standing at the launch site. With them was Squire Thornton and a thickset man with heavy shoulders, a beetling brow, and stubby red whiskers.
“What’s happened?” Kate gasped. “That journalist—he said Charles forgot something.”
“It wasn’t forgotten,” Bradford said angrily, brandishing what looked like a bundle of large iron fishing hooks welded together. “It was snatched from its place and dropped on the ground. By this man! Tom Whipple!” And he shoved the grapnel into the red-bearded man’s stout stomach. The man doubled over with a loud “Whoomph!” and fell to his knees, grunting, Kate thought, like a stuck pig.
“Lord Bradford,” the vicar cried, horrified, seizing his arm and wrestling the hook from him. “Violence will not do. It will not do at all!”
“But his was a violent act!” Bradford exclaimed furiously, pulling away from the vicar. “He has killed two men. Without that grapnel, the balloon—” His eyes went to Kate, and he stopped, biting his lip.
Kate forced herself to speak calmly. “Without it, what?”
The vicar affected a smile. “Without it, the descent will be a bit more difficult, my dear,” he murmured, in a soothing voice. “But there is nothing to worry about, I assure you. Mr. Rolls is an experienced balloon pilot. He can certainly manage—”
Thornton exploded into a laugh. “Experienced? Why, that young idiot is no more a pilot than I am. He’s been up a time or two as a passenger, but as far as piloting a balloon, he has no experience at all.” He bent over. “Up, Whipple. Get up, man.”
“I didn’t do‘t,” Whipple said thickly. He struggled to his knees, clutching his stomach. “I didn’t pull that grapnel down. ’Twas someone else!”
“Don’t worry,” the squire said. “It’ll be made right.”
Kate only half-heard this exchange, for she had grown icy cold. No pilot? Charles was thousands of feet in the air with a boy who lacked the necessary competence to bring them both down safely?
“Rolls has no experience?” the vicar asked, wide-eyed. “On what do you base that assertion, Squire Thornton? Is this hearsay, or—”
Thornton snorted as he pulled Whipple to his feet and supported him with an arm. “It did not require a Sherlock Holmes to investigate young Rolls’s background. Vicar. He is a great conniver, but not particularly clever at covering his tracks.”
“And you, Roger,” Bradford interjected coldly, “were especially moved to uncover them, I suppose. With my sister in mind, eh? I seem to recall that Patsy has preferred Rolls to you of late.”
“Indeed, I have had Miss Marsden’s welfare at heart in all I have done,” Thornton replied stiffly. “But perhaps you would care to tell Lady Kathryn how much you knew about Rolls’s ballooning experience, and whether you shared that knowledge with Sir Charles.”
By this time, there was a considerable crowd gathered around. The lawn was crowded with spectators, and Kate saw Constable Laken elbowing his way through the throng.
The vicar fixed his pale eyes on Bradford. “Is it true that Rolls has no experience, Lord Bradford? And if it is, did you inform Sir Charles about the risk?”
Bradford shifted his feet uncomfortably, avoiding both Kate’s and the vicar’s eyes. “Well, y‘see... That is, I—” He coughed. “It was to be a short flight, d’y’know. We did not expect to encounter difficulties.” He glared at Whipple. “Or sabotage.”
“I di‘n’t,” Whipple whimpered, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “Whoev‘r did it, ’twan’t me.”
“Who can say it was sabotage?” Thornton asked. “Perhaps the grapnel was but carelessly attached.”
“Nevertheless,” the vicar said, “it would be better—and safer—for the constable to take the man into custody, while we discuss what to do about the—” His eyes went to Kate.
“I want to know,” Kate said firmly, “exactly how difficult it will be for Sir Charles and Mr. Rolls to land their balloon without the equipment that has been left behind.”
Thornton gave a strangled laugh. “How difficult? In the absence of an experienced pilot, and without that grappling iron to bring themselves down safely, the balloonists are lost.”
Kate’s stomach was churning and her knees felt rubbery. But she only lifted her chin and gave the three men her most charming, most confident smile.
“Lost, are they?” she inq
uired in a pleasant tone. “Well, then, gentlemen, I suppose I shall have to go and find them.” And with that, she turned on her heel and walked swiftly away.
Kate had driven a motorcar—Bradford’s Daimler—only twice before, with Charles at her elbow, instructing her. If she had paused for a moment to reflect on what she was doing, she would not have imagined doing it herself.
But she did not pause, nor did she reflect. Having learned that Charles was in danger, her first and only thought was to go to him—and the quickest means to that end was a motorcar. Unfortunately, the four racing machines had already disappeared down the lane, or Kate might have commandeered one of them, and the driver. Mr. Rolls’s Peugeot stood idling nearby, however, its motor having been started as a demonstration. The car was polished within an inch of its life, its wire-spoke wheels and black leather seat gleaming, and the three and three-quarters horsepower engine chugged smoothly, with only an occasional hiccup.
“Pardon me,” Kate said, pushing aside the shirt-sleeved man who was extolling the motor car’s virtues to a crowd of marveling spectators. “Mr. Rolls is in need of his motorcar.”
The man was horrified. “But this machine is the most powerful in England! It is far too dangerous for you to operate. With all due respect, ma’am, you cannot be allowed to—That is to say, I cannot permit—”
“Step aside, sir,” Kate said firmly. Disregarding the man’s sputtered protests and the amazed gasps of the crowd, she settled herself on the tufted leather seat, seized the tiller, adjusted the air mixture, and began to ease out the throttle, just as Charles had showed her. She paused, however, when a breathless Patsy Marsden, holding her hat and reticule in one hand and her camera in the other, darted out of the crowd and tumbled onto the seat beside her. She was pursued by an ardent Sam Holt.
“Lady Kathryn!” he cried. “Where are you going?”
“After my husband,” she said, adjusting the throttle.
“You shan’t have all the fun for yourself, Kate!” Patsy cried. “I’m coming with you.”
“But this car cannot be operated by a female!” cried the shirt-sleeved man, attempting to lay hold of the tiller. “You will be killed!”
Sam Holt was dancing up and down. “What a story!” he cried. “Beautiful Ladies Commandeer Automobile for Death-Defying Chase!”
“You’re sure, Patsy?” Kate asked. “They’re right, you know. It is dangerous. I have driven only twice before.”
“Dangerous, pooh!” Patsy scoffed. “I’m sure you can do it.”
“Very well, then,” Kate said, “but you will have to push, if we come to a hill we cannot run up.”
Patsy’s mouth was determined. “Of course I shall, if I must.”
“Then we must be off without delay.” Kate engaged the low gear, raising her voice over the earsplitting noise of the motor. “Hold onto your hat, Patsy! Here we go!”
And with that, they rattled at a great speed down the lane, the astonished spectators jumping out of their way, cheering and waving farewell.
Had that motorcar journey been featured in one of Beryl Bardwell’s novels, the skeptical reader might have accused the author of painting it in a more desperate light than was really the case. But it was, quite simply, the most harrowing journey of Kate’s life. Although she was almost sick with fear for Charles, aloft in a balloon, whipped heaven knew where by the scudding winds, the motorcar so fully occupied her brain and her hands that she hardly had time to think about his desperate plight. Later, when she recalled all that happened, she felt that it was impossible that she and Patsy should have survived.
It was all that she could do to steer the Peugeot and manage the knobs that controlled the car’s speed. The brakes—large wooden blocks that rubbed on the tires—were operated with both hand and foot levers, which had to be applied judiciously during the downhill runs. But even with the brakes full on, Kate did not feel as if she had the necessary control over the machine, which accelerated fearsomely as it ran downslope. To make matters worse, the lane was so narrow that had she come upon another vehicle she must necessarily have driven into the ditch, and so full of corkscrew twists that she became dizzy and disoriented, scarcely knowing which way to push the tiller.
The worst moment came near the village of Wix, where they saw a horse-drawn cart approaching. The road was wide enough to pass, but the horse, panicked by the loud, foul-smelling motorcar, bolted across the Peugeot’s path, tipping the cart and spilling out two portly passengers—one of whom, Kate saw out of the corner of her eye, was a uniformed constable. Patsy screamed.
With an adroitness born of terror, Kate pushed the tiller hard over and steered across a ditch, dodging between a tree and a stone fence and back onto the road again, bouncing from one side to the other so violently that she feared the Peugeot would roll over. As they careened back into the road, Kate glanced behind her to see the stout constable jumping up and down, waving his hat and shouting, “Halt, in the name of the Crown! Halt!”
“What did he say?” Patsy cried, over the noise of the engine.
“He said, ‘Hurry, you’ll be late,’ ” Kate replied, and urged the car forward.
The journey was finally over. As Kate chugged into Great Oakley, where she knew Lawrence Quibbley and her footman Pocket were to have been stationed, she encountered a wizened old man who gaped at the motorcar and its driver in toothless wonderment, then replied, in answer to her query, that Mr. Quibbley and his helper had been and gone.
“It cum down, y‘see,” he said, in a flat, nasal twang. “They went t’git it.”
“The balloon came down?” Patsy cried. The wind had plucked the silk flowers from her hat and she had finally put it on the floor, holding it firmly with one foot and abandoning her coiffure to the elements.
“Aye, the balloon,” the old man said. “They went to fetch it. Wot’s left o’it,” he added knowingly.
Kate’s heart seemed almost to stop. Had the balloon crashed?
“Where is it?” Patsy asked. “Tell us where!”
The old man blinked. “Not shure I kin recall jes’ wheer,” he said.
Patsy reached into her reticule and drew out a coin. “Where?” she demanded.
The old man snatched the coin and bit it “In Farmer Styles’s pasture,” he said. “But there ain’t no need to drive like the devil’s at yer back. They two be deed, along o’ Farmer Styles’s old brown cow, Bessie. That’s wot comes o’ flyin’.”
“Dead?” Kate gasped.
“Dead?” Patsy echoed weakly.
“Aye, deed.” The old man’s smile was cheerful, his nod vigorous. “Deed’r’n doornails.”
But Charles was not dead, and neither was Farmer Styles’s cow, although it had been a very near thing.
He and Rolls had struggled for several minutes with the ripcord, finally freeing the vent valve with a frantic jerk. But this only magnified their peril, for the valve opened partially and refused to be closed, allowing gas to escape with a loud, long whoosh, like the roar of a blast furnace. The balloon was suddenly propelled into a pitching descent, the gondola whipping wildly, the balloonists braced and holding on for their lives.
When they reached an altitude that Charles guessed to be about eight hundred feet, they dropped the heavy hempen trailing rope over the side. As the rope’s weight was supported by the ground, it acted as discarded ballast, slowing their precipitous fall and bringing their descent at least partially under control. Then Charles, having tied the rope-ends to the gondola, dropped his fettered sandbags. He hoped that they would serve the same function as the missing grappling iron and snag something sturdy enough to anchor the balloon.
What the sandbags first snagged, as Charles discovered later, was Farmer Styles’s wood-railed fence, smashing it to splinters. Then they caught in the crotch of an apple tree, serving their purpose with such a stunning efficiency that the gondola was suddenly and fiercely jerked half round and flung to the ground, striking with a violent thump that rattled every tooth
in Charles’s head. The balloon pitched onto its side, the half-filled bag rolling and heaving like a gigantic whale stranded in a shallow bay.
The envelope fetched violently up against a thorny hedgerow and ruptured. The gondola upended, tumbling Charles and Rolls onto the ground under the nose of a startled brown cow. She, as bewildered as the dazed and unnerved aeronauts, broke into a bawling gallop, full-tilt in the direction of Farmer Styles’s barn.
Some moments later, Farmer Styles himself appeared, as astonished as his brown cow at the sight of the bright silk bag draped over his hedge—but not so amazed that he could not immediately demand recompense for his ruined fence and his lame cow. With the farmer was his boy, whom Charles (having somewhat regained his composure) dispatched to Great Oakley with a message for Lawrence Quibbley and his helper, Pocket. Then Charles and Rolls and Farmer Styles, muttering that his fence had been erected just three short years before and did not deserve to be ruined by furriners, began to remove the mesh and coil the lines.
Shortly, Lawrence and Pocket appeared with the wagon, Lawrence looking vastly relieved to see Charles on his feet. “We ‘eard you was dead, Sir Charles!” he cried. “The village ’as it that you was killed!”
“Almost dead, Lawrence,” Charles said, feeling quite cheerful, now that they were safely on the ground. “As you can see, however, we have escaped.”
“And a good thing ’tis, sir!” Lawrence replied emphatically. They set about examining the damage that had been done to the balloon, discussing its repair, and folding it. The work went swiftly, and within an hour from the time it had descended so unceremoniously, the balloon and its gondola were loaded on the wagon, ready for return to Bishop’s Keep. By prior agreement, however, they were to wait for the arrival of the motorcars—an event which Charles, at least, now believed would never happen.