by Forrest Leo
‘Don’t talk to me of decency,’ says Lizzie. ‘You sold your wife to the Devil and then stayed out all night without so much as letting me know whether you were alive or dead. First I was angry and then I was hurt and then I was worried and then I felt the stirrings of ennui and so I found myself a diversion.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘But the evening turned out rather differently than we had anticipated. Now get dressed, we have to leave—Viv’s time may be running out.’
‘Differently? How so, differently?’ she demands. ‘An extra five minutes won’t hurt your wife, and I’m going nowhere until you tell me what’s happened and where you’ve been.’
‘We were mistaken for government spies and imprisoned in a dungeon beneath Pall Mall.’
She drops her paintbrush and rounds on me. (We will never remove the paint from the carpet, I am certain.) ‘Damn it!’ she cries. ‘You had an adventure with Ashley Lancaster and I missed it! Nellie, I shall never forgive you.’
‘Forgive me? It was you who decided to come home!’
‘Only because you wouldn’t defend my honour! I wanted with every bone in my body to tackle that silly butler and dash into the club and join on the spot, but I couldn’t because I’m small and probably wouldn’t have been able to bring him down and just would have looked stupid, and because I’m a woman and being a woman in this horrid society of ours is awful, which you couldn’t possibly know so don’t presume to pass judgment!* So I did not tackle him: but then I saw that Lancaster was getting ready to hit him, and I really cannot have anyone doing violence on my behalf which I cannot do myself—it’s not right. So what else was I to do, Nellie? It broke my heart, but I saw no alternative. And now you’re yelling at me about it.’
I recognize how difficult it must have been for her not to be included, and I try to forgive her for being slatternly. Besides, we really do have to be going—and further argument will only prolong things. I take a breath and let it out. ‘I’m sorry, Lizzie.’
The apology seems to mollify her. (I had of course apologised once already; perhaps she did not think it sincere.)*
‘Well, I’m still dreadfully cast down,’ she says. ‘But I would consider forgiving you if you told me the entire story without leaving a single thing out. How did you escape?’
‘If Simmons WILL PUT HIS CLOTHES BACK ON, I’ll tell you.’
He does, and I do.
Lizzie is quite transported by the whole tale, and beside herself with excitement to meet the inventor and see his flying machine. Simmons is typically restrained, though something about his manner is queer—I chalk it up to his brush with nudity.
It is turning into a chilly, foggy November day. Simmons and Lizzie put on coats and we walk down the steps to the waiting hansom. The driver may think me lunatic, but he finds Lizzie beautiful and our money good. I dispatch them to the Heath, and go to locate a sailmaker.
Thirteen
In Which Repairs Are Made.
Sailcloth, it turns out, is much heavier than I could have guessed.* My cabman lets me off at the edge of the Heath, and helps me to heave what cannot be less than several hundred pounds of canvas onto my back.* He looks concerned as I stagger under the load, and offers to help, but I decline. It doesn’t seem wise to bring strangers to our air-wharf. One never knows who might alert the press. (Good heavens, I am beginning to sound like Lancaster—do adventuring and fear of publicity go hand in hand?)
My journey bearing the sail across the Heath will surely be immortalised in the annals of love. If it does not sound as glorious as swimming the Hellespont, it is because you have never walked a half-mile across a heath carrying sailcloth.
As I struggle with the weight I think of Viv. She has come to consume my thoughts. (I understand that this is one of the risks of falling in love.) At each dreadful step I see her face before me, and press on with renewed vigour. I recall how once of an evening I asked her what she was reading and she replied, ‘A history of adventure,’ and spoke no more. At the time I thought her manner cold. As I look back, however, it is clear that she was overflowing with love for me and I was simply too blind to notice.
I round the bend and see the barn before me. When I call out, Lancaster bounds down the hill to help me with my burden. He lifts the folded cloth off my back and says approvingly, ‘This is rather heavy, Savage. We’ll make a man of you yet, by Christ!’ Then he puts it under one arm and trots back up the hill.
I follow, gasping for breath.
Though I was only gone a few hours, the flying machine looks much better. The broken wing is mended, the tail is stripped of its muddy tatters and is ready to be skinned, and the hull has been patched in several places. Simmons and Lizzie are here and appear quite at home. Simmons uses a rag to polish the dull metal of the engine to a gleaming brass, and Lizzie is bent down next to Kensington, who tinkers with knobs and dials on the bridge, recalibrating something or other.
They all look up as Lancaster and I enter. ‘Look what I found!’ announces Lancaster, dropping the bundle on the floor. He looks pleased to be quit of it, which makes me pleased.
‘Oh look,’ says Lizzie, still angry with me for forgetting her, ‘it’s a Lionel. How nice.’
‘The machine looks better,’ I say.
‘Oh yes!’ says Kensington. ‘Yes, I daresay it does! Your family has been very helpful, Mr Savage. Miss Savage reminds me ever so much of Thomasina. When this is all over, you all must come to stay with us at Kellwick House.’
My previous frustration with him has vanished, and I have decided that I can live with his deferential demeanour if he can live with my callous one. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘That sounds— That sounds very nice. I would like that.’ Friendship. What a peculiar thing.
Re-skinning the tail turns out to be difficult. The canvas has to be stretched tight as a drum or the craft will upset; so it is necessary first to cut the cloth precisely, then to stitch it together in a very specific pattern—all the while ensuring that it will fit over the existing frame, and that the stitching will not pull out even in extreme circumstances. (That is what happened when Kensington crashed.)
It is mid-afternoon by the time the tail is in working order. My fingers are bloody where I have pierced them with the needle, and my thumbs are bruised where I have smashed them with the hammer. (Tacking on the canvas was worse than sewing it together—I gained a new appreciation for upholsterers.) I have hit my head no fewer than three times walking under the wings and failing to duck properly, and one arm of my coat is ripped from catching it on a lever as I passed by.* But my heart is full, and I am happier than I can recall being in a very long time.
I may not have any native aptitude for it, but I believe I could learn to love the life of an adventurer. I mention something to that effect aloud, and Lizzie laughs at me and Simmons keeps a carefully straight face—but Kensington grins, and Lancaster claps me on the back, so I think I cannot be exclusively an object of mockery.
At around half past three Kensington announces that repairs are complete and it is time for a test flight. Together the five of us haul the flying machine out of the barn. This may sound simple, but it is not. The machine weighs several tonnes* and is very difficult to move. Here is how we do it. Kensington attaches a rope to the craft’s prow (does one call the front of a flying machine a prow?)* and Lancaster ties the free end around his chest. We remaining four clap on to the rope behind him, and at his count we all pull together.
When the machine is out in the open it looks at once even grander and much smaller. The notion that we are going to fly it across the open ocean and into the mouth of a volcano becomes concerning to me in a manner I had not anticipated. The bent wood of its wings, the sailcloth (so sturdy it seemed upon my back!), the little steam engine—they have a magisterial beauty when seen in the afternoon light of a misty moor, but it is the beauty of the miniature. They look too frail to withstand the stormy Nor
th Atlantic.
If the others share my dark thoughts, they do not show it—and Will Kensington, at least, is only enthusiasm. He dashes about readying his ship with indomitable good spirits, a model of boundless energy. He pulls a lever, and with a cough, a sputter, and a hiccough of smoke, the engine starts. Another lever, and the wings begin to move up and down slowly, as if the machine is waking from a long sleep. Kensington cries out triumphantly, and the rest of us applaud the young inventor.
Leaving the engine to warm up, he hops down from the ship. ‘I believe it works,’ he says with modest restraint.
‘I hope so,’ says Lizzie, ‘because I’m coming with you!’
‘On the test flight?’ says Kensington. ‘Oh, Miss Savage, I hope you do not think me impolite to refuse you—but it’s entirely too dangerous.’
‘You’re going,’ says Lizzie stubbornly.
‘Well, yes,’ says Kensington. ‘Someone has to fly it. But in the event of a crash it would be very silly for more of us to be killed than is absolutely necessary.’
‘Hm,’ says Lizzie. ‘Yes, that’s true. Simmons, Ashley, Nellie—I regret to inform you that the three of you must remain on the ground, as your presence aboard is not absolutely necessary.’
‘Lizzie,’ I say.
‘ARE YOU GOING TO ARGUE WITH ME, LIONEL SAVAGE?’
I see it is hopeless. ‘No,’ I say meekly.
‘Captain Kensington,’ says Lizzie, ‘I declare myself your first mate.’
I shudder at the double entendre.
‘Now hold on a minute,’ objects jealous Lancaster. ‘You can’t just—’
‘It would be a shame, Mr Lancaster,’ says Lizzie stiffly, cutting him off, ‘for our acquaintance to end scarcely before it has begun—would it not?’ I have said already that Lizzie is more persuasive than a loaded gun.
‘It would,’ he concedes, and says no more.
Kensington looks to me for guidance, but it is obvious that we are all quite helpless before her. He shrugs and holds out a gallant hand, which she takes.
Before they can climb aboard the airship and disappear into the sky, however, something unexpected happens. Scotland Yard arrives, and we are all arrested for anarchists.
Fourteen
In Which Scotland Yard Makes a Mistake & I Am Glad to See Whitley Pendergast.
Lo! From the ground— Lo! Rising to the sky!
What is this thing which climbs upon the breeze—
Which rides the back of clouds like Arion
Upon his dolphin, ever higher, ever
More wonderful? My friends, I’ll tell you straight—
’Tis nothing less than Progress manifest.
—From ‘The Skyship,’ by WHITLEY BARNABAS PENDERGAST*
More accurately, Scotland Yard arrives and tries to arrest us.
It happens like this. Lancaster is preparing to boost Lizzie into the machine when there is a shout and a gunshot. We look east and see a dozen police officers swarming up the neighbouring rise. Now I must here state that, despite the questionable nature of my mental activity and pseudonymous writings, I have never in my life been chased by the police. I may say without shame that a thrill shoots through me, and I briefly consider how glorious it would be for us to make a heroic last stand here behind our buttress of ingenuity. But we do not. We haven’t any weapons, firstly, and secondly Simmons counsels against it.*
When we first see the police, they are perhaps a quarter mile distant.
‘Damn!’ says Lancaster. ‘What are they doing?’
‘They can’t possibly be here for us, can they?’ asks Lizzie.
‘I fear they are,’ replies Kensington, his brow furrowed in annoyance. ‘The police have harried inventors these past several years. They must have gotten wind of my machine.’
‘My cabman!’ I cry. ‘The scoundrel informed on us! But what are we going to do? Simmons!’
The noise of our persecutors draws nearer. We can just make out their yells—the word ‘anarchists’ is repeated often, borne aloft on the afternoon breeze.
‘It seems that Mr Kensington must flee,’ says Simmons. ‘If he is taken, his machine is likely to be confiscated.’
‘I can’t leave you!’ protests Kensington. ‘Come with me!’
‘Yes,’ adds Lizzie hastily, ‘we’ll go straight to Iceland!’
It sounds like a most exciting proposition, and I consider it briefly. ‘If we depart now,’ I muse, ‘we would be to Iceland sometime Wednesday morning—which, given that Wednesday is after all Odin’s day, seems rather propitious. To arrive in the land of the pagan gods on the feast day of their chief strikes me as eminently sensible.’
‘Doubtless, sir,’ says Simmons, ‘but we haven’t any supplies or provisions. Surely we cannot be expected to storm the gates of Hell half-starved and weaponless.’
‘He’s right,’ says Lancaster. ‘It won’t do, old boy.’
It is true; but all the same, Simmons’s obvious lack of adventurous inclination is beginning to wear on me. He seems quite set on delaying the expedition, though I cannot for the life of me understand why.
The policemen meanwhile are thundering up the hill.
‘Mr Kensington would really be very well served to depart immediately,’ says Simmons.
‘I’m afraid he’s right again,’ says Lancaster.
‘But I can’t just leave you!’ says Kensington for a second time. ‘It wouldn’t be right at all! We’re in this together now; it would be shameful to desert.’
‘There’s no shame in a strategic retreat,’ says Lancaster. ‘We can regroup later on, but if your machine gets taken then we’re in quite a spot.’
‘We’ll all escape together!’ cries Lizzie. ‘We can land a few miles away and sneak back into the city at night!’
‘I cannot help but point out,’ says Simmons, ‘that the machine has not yet been tested.’
Kensington nods. ‘It’s not safe.’
‘So you’re going to leave us for the police?’ demands Lizzie, rounding on him. She fixes him with a glare that would have basilisked a basilisk; but somehow Will Kensington shrugs it off.
‘I’m sorry, Miss Savage,’ he says. ‘But it wouldn’t be right to take you aloft with the Cirrus in this state. There’s no telling what might happen, and I would be villain indeed if I were responsible for your death.’
‘Besides,’ says Simmons, ‘we can reason with the police. We’ve done nothing wrong, after all. Incidentally, they are quite close now.’
‘What do you mean, “reason with them”?’ says Lizzie. She is stubborn.
‘If we all flee,’ says Simmons, ‘it will seem a tacit admission of our guilt. Our staying when we had means of escape will speak volumes in a court of law.* We must allow ourselves to be taken in order to clear Mr Kensington’s name.’
‘Oh, you don’t have to bother about that—’ begins Kensington; but he is cut off by the bellowing of a portly sergeant puffing his way up the hill.
‘Simmons is right,’ I say reluctantly. ‘Best be off, Will Kensington.’
‘I cannot in good conscience—’
Something whizzes by us and impacts on the hull of the machine. A split second later I hear the sharp crack of a rifle.
‘Hold your fire, damn you!’ thunders Lancaster.
‘Was that a bullet?’ I ask in bewilderment. ‘Are they shooting at us?’ I’ve never been shot at before.
‘Not very sporting of them,’ says Lancaster disgustedly.
‘I think,’ says Simmons, ‘that it is really time for Mr Kensington to be going.’
‘But—’
Another shot rings out. We all throw ourselves facedown in the dirt, and Lancaster yells several things which make Simmons blush.
‘It does seem,’ says Kensington, ‘that we should decide quite soon.’
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br /> ‘You should go, lad,’ says Lancaster. He finds a large stone and, coming briefly to his knees, hurls it at our attackers. It seems a vain enterprise—they are still a hundred yards off—but his arm is like a cannon. The stone strikes one of the vanguard in the shoulder and he goes down. The others halt their advance to see to their companion, then draw up a line of battle.
‘It’s true,’ I say. ‘We’ll sort things out here. Find somewhere to hide the machine, and contact us as soon as you’re able.’
Kensington hesitates, then says, ‘Very well. I feel a frightful ass, but I’ll be off. I am so sorry, Miss Savage. I hope you won’t think badly of me.’
‘No, no,’ sighs Lizzie. ‘They’re all quite right, of course. Off you go.’
‘I will return as soon as—’
‘Go, you idiot!’ she says.
Kensington crawls on his belly to the front of the craft, then springs up and vaults over the gunwale. The sudden movement elicits several more shots from the police, none of which come near us. I hope there are no picnickers in the vicinity or their lives may be in serious jeopardy.* I cannot from my vantage see into the machine, but Kensington must have made his way to the engine; for the wings, which have been moving up and down lazily, begin to beat quicker. They move in alternation—first the back wing on both port and starboard (though I do not know which is left and which right),* then the front pair.
More shots, one of which murders an unsuspecting pigeon. Lancaster has been fumbling at his buttons for some moments; he now stands up, and I see that he has unbuttoned his upper body. He sheds coat and waistcoat and removes his shirt. I am less offended by his nudity than I was by Simmons’s, partly because Lizzie is not staring at him and partly because he does not look entirely human. The muscles under his skin are not those of a man, but of a great beast in some foreign jungle. I was mistaken, Lizzie is staring at him. I am about to demand he make himself decent when he begins to wave his shirt over his head and I suddenly understand—it is a white flag of surrender.