The Gentleman

by Forrest Leo

  The shots stop. We all clamber to our feet. The wings of Kensington’s machine beat even quicker. The engine causes the ground to tremble.

  Lancaster slips his shirt back on and raises his hands over his head. Lizzie and Simmons and I do the same. We slowly advance toward the line of police. The portly sergeant barks something, and every gun is trained upon us. We continue toward them. They split into two groups and come at us cautiously from either side. Within a few moments we are roughly and impolitely handcuffed.

  A small, thin man in plainclothes accompanies the portly sergeant. He seems the more sensible of the two. He says, ‘My name is Detective Inspector Walter Dewhurst.* This is my colleague Sergeant Paisley. You are under arrest in the name of Her Majesty.’

  ‘You can’t arrest us, damn you,’ says Lancaster. ‘Do you know who I am?’

  ‘No, sir, I do not. But we have it on good authority that you are all members of the’—he pulls out a notebook and checks something—‘the Alec Rubeum, an anarchist circle intent upon the aerial bombardment of the Cities of Westminster and London.’

  ‘That we’re what?’ I demand. ‘Is this a joke, sir? I’m Lionel Savage the poet, and this is Ashley Lancaster!’

  A murmur spreads through the ranks of police—my words have struck a nerve. I do not know if they know my name, but they certainly do Lancaster’s. For a moment I think we have trumped them; but we have not. After brief deliberation they reject our story. I glance at my small party and at once see why. We are to a man covered from head to toe in mud and engine grease; our eyes are bleary and our hair wild; and Lancaster is but half-clothed.

  ‘Don’t think that’s true,’ shouts Paisley. I believe shouting is for him less a choice than a state of being. ‘Look like anarchists to me!’

  ‘I am compelled to concur with my deep-lunged colleague,’ says Dewhurst. ‘But we were told there were five of you.’

  ‘Damn that cabman,’ I mutter.

  ‘Where is the fifth?’ demands Dewhurst.

  ‘There are only four of us!’ says Lizzie.

  ‘I heard otherwise.’

  ‘No, sir,’ says Simmons. ‘There are but four.’

  ‘’E’s lying!’ cries one of the police. ‘They both are! I seen ’im myself—’e went and got into that airship when we was dug in.’

  ‘It’s true!’ puts in the fellow Lancaster hit with a rock. His collarbone seems to be broken and his arm is in an improvised sling. ‘I seen ’im, too. There’s five, guv’nor, ain’t no doubt about it.’

  I glance over my shoulder. The machine is still on the ground. Lancaster catches my eye and raises an eyebrow. He, too, is baffled. Why has Kensington not taken off? Were our repairs incomplete?

  Dewhurst looks at us sharply. ‘Is there a fifth in the airship?’

  None of us say anything.*

  Dewhurst orders Paisley to take the bulk of the force and advance on the machine. He remains behind with three men to guard us.

  ‘Why isn’t he taking off?’ hisses Lizzie.

  ‘I’m not familiar with the Alec Rubeum,’ says Dewhurst, taking out a pencil to go with his notebook. ‘Are you an isolated splinter cell, or part of a larger organisation?’

  ‘We’re not anarchists, damn you!’ says Lancaster.

  I have a perverse impulse to offer no defence. If they want to brand us revolutionaries then let them do as they list. I have had quite enough of the rules of society. I am growing increasingly impatient with conventions which come between me and the reclamation of my wife. We haven’t the time for this. Afterward I’ll write a poem about it all, but at present what’s called for is action.

  Paisley’s group closes in on the flying machine. He shouts an order and his men split into two pincers. He seems intent on encircling Kensington. The Cirrus’s wings are by now beating so quickly they are just a blur, and great quantities of steam pour from the engine—but still the craft sits squarely and firmly on the ground. There is a part of me which does not believe this enormous mass of wood, cloth, brass, and steel can possibly take flight.

  ‘We’ve got you surrounded!’ bellows Paisley. ‘You have thirty seconds to surrender before we open fire!’

  Kensington makes no reply. I have a sudden terror that perhaps one of the reckless shots from earlier struck him. I would be sorry indeed to lose the acquaintance of so poetical a person.

  Lancaster appears to share my dark thoughts, for he says to our captors, ‘If that boy’s dead, you’ll have the Devil to pay.’ There’s an alarming steel in his voice—which, taken in conjunction with his size and wild aspect, causes the policemen to take an involuntary step backward.

  Only Dewhurst, who seems to suffer from the foolhardy courage peculiar to short men, holds his ground. He says, ‘So you confess to a fifth?’ and makes a note.

  Lizzie says, ‘You have no idea the inquest you’re about to face.’

  ‘You,’ says Dewhurst primly to her, ‘are guilty of lying to an officer of the law. That will be all, miss, if you please.’

  ‘I don’t please!’ cries Lizzie. ‘This is ridiculous! We’re not anarchists, we’re poets and explorers and artists! Under whose authority do you arrest us? Upon what charges? Seeking adventure? Pushing the limits of invention and ingenuity? Looking skyward when we dream?’

  ‘No,’ says the prosaic little man, ‘you are arrested upon charges of treason, sedition, and anarchy, in the name of Her Majesty’s government.’

  ‘Twenty-eight!’ shouts Paisley. ‘Twenty-nine!’

  We brace ourselves for the fusillade. But on the count of thirty, two things happen simultaneously—neither one of which has deadly consequences. The press arrives, and the flying machine begins to rise.

  At first, the miracle happens almost imperceptibly. Where a moment before it pressed heavily into the damp earth, it now grows visibly lighter. It is as though it is made of paper—what looked heavy now looks nearly weightless. This eerie sight stops the command to fire in Paisley’s throat. With an audible squelch the machine detaches from the earth. For ten seconds it simply hovers a foot off the ground. They are perhaps the best ten seconds of my existence. My entire world expands. It’s as if my whole life I owned only a single volume of the Encyclopaedia Britannica which I believed to be the whole work, and that after twenty-two years of labouring under the impression that everything in the world worth knowing fell between the words ‘Gouda’ and ‘Hippopotamus,’ I am abruptly given the complete set.

  This moment, I feel sure, will change the course of human existence.*

  The noise of the engine increases in pitch and volume. The beating of the wings makes a sound like a gale in the treetops. Dewhurst’s and Paisley’s hats are blown off at the same moment, and neither man makes a move to reclaim them.

  Time, which has stopped, resumes. Slowly at first, then with gathering speed, the craft propels itself skyward.

  Behind me I hear the explosion of flash-lamps and the frenzied scribbling of pencils. To my left, Lancaster is staring, agape. On my right, Lizzie is grinning like a madwoman. The police have lowered their rifles and look on in wonder.

  The machine is a dozen feet in the air and rising quickly when Kensington comes to the rail. He is smiling impishly. He raises his hand to his head and doffs an invisible hat, then bows to the police. ‘Your pardon, gentlemen!’ he calls. ‘I have an appointment in Heaven!’

  To us, he waves and yells, ‘Please don’t think me a deserter! I will see you all soon!’ Then he throws a lever, and the machine shoots forward like a greyhound from its slip, gaining altitude with every moment. We watch dumbfounded as it flies off.

  Dewhurst recovers first, but by the time he cries, ‘Fire!’ Kensington has disappeared into the fog. A few rifles crack, but with nothing to shoot at the gunmen soon break off.

  When I rip my gaze away from where the airship vanished, I see that we have been jo
ined by twenty or thirty members of the press. There are photographers, journalists, newsboys, sketch artists, and a handful of curious hangers-on. One of them says in a familiar voice, ‘Good God, Savage, what have you done to your clothes?’ and for the first time in my life I am pleased to see Whitley Pendergast. He has found me in a moment of glory, and I believe that my supremacy over him is forever sealed—for I am certain that the man has never in his strangest dreams dreamt of the adventure upon which he now finds me embarked.

  ‘Pendergast!’ I cry. ‘How lovely to see you! You’re looking unusually fresh this morning. As to the state of my clothes, I’m afraid I ruined them while escaping from a dungeon and building an airship and fighting off the police. You must come round for tea and I’ll tell you all about it, if I’m not locked up in Newgate or off sailing the skies. By the way, you’ve got a bit of sticking plaster just under your nose.’

  ‘Cut myself shaving, Savage, which is an act civilised men perform every morning—you ought to try it sometime. As for your exploits, I must say I’m impressed. Didn’t think you had it in you, frankly. I’d shake your hand if you weren’t covered in dirt.’

  ‘And I’d shake yours, if you were any other man upon this earth.’

  Before he can think of something witty to reply, a member of the press exclaims, ‘By Jove, is that Ashley Lancaster?’

  ‘Damn!’ cries Lancaster. ‘I haven’t told Mummy I’m back! Savage, hide me!’

  He tries to take cover behind me, but the disparity in our sizes makes it quite hopeless. My slight frame only calls attention to his distinctive height and breadth.

  An excited ripple runs through the crowd. Dewhurst looks abruptly nervous. ‘It is!’ says someone else. ‘It’s Lancaster!’

  ‘Ashley Lancaster’s back in Britain!’ cries a third.

  The flash-lamps begin exploding all over again.

  Fifteen

  In Which Lizzie Commits an Indiscretion to Rival All the Rest, I Nearly Fight Another Duel, We Have Several Visitors, & Matters Come to a Head.

  It is morning. I am woken by birdsong, which is a drawback to living too near a park. I stare at the canopy of my bed, feeling claustrophobic. I have not slept well. I am perturbed. I am also excited. I am still I think thrilled by yesterday’s commotion and the further prospect of imminent adventure. Which is peculiar. I had thought a night of sleep and reflection would cure me of this strange inclining. I am after all not an adventurer of the body: I am a wayfarer of the imagination. But still I find myself roused to the chase.

  The remainder of yesterday was spent in a morass of bureaucracy and explanations. As soon as Lancaster and I were identified by Pendergast and the press (who have a keener eye than the police), all charges against us were dropped and profuse apologies were made. There still remained, however, many hours of explanation before Will Kensington’s name was cleared. We had to explain the matter to several commissions, and it was made complicated by the fact that we of necessity had to gloss over a few significant details—for instance, the involvement of the Devil and Vivien’s abduction. There are certain things one simply does not tell the government.*

  By the time we made it back to Pocklington Place we were exhausted and discouraged. We had none of us slept in two days, and seemed no closer to launching our rescue expedition. We should have been famished but no one had much of an appetite, which offended Mrs Davis mightily. After a half-hearted attempt at conversation we collapsed into our respective beds.

  Every time I began to feel the approach of sleep, however, Vivien’s face drifted unbidden into my restless mind and I was plunged into a fresh whirl of remorse and concern. When at last I drifted off my dreams were troubled. As I stare at my canopy this morning, though, I do not feel tired. I wonder if today I will become a mariner of the air.

  I rise and dress and make my way downstairs. As I descend I note that I have not shaved in days. I must do that, when there is time. It would be a shame to rescue my wife looking like a caveman. I think of Will Kensington. I have thought of him often since his ascension. I hope that he had no trouble either with bullets or engineering, and that he was able to put down safely somewhere. I wonder when we will see him again, and hope that it is soon. Yesterday’s delay was unfortunate, and I am eager to be once more upon the trail.

  There are muffled voices coming from my study. I open the door and collide with Lancaster, who is exiting hastily. He looks harried.

  ‘Sorry, old boy,’ I say, ‘I was just—’ Then I see Lizzie and break off.

  She is standing in the middle of my study beside a full-length mirror, facing a canvas, holding a brush and that damned wooden board which holds paint, and wearing not a stitch of clothing.*

  ‘LIZZIE!’ I cry.

  ‘Good morning, Nellie!’ she says cheerfully, not looking up. ‘Do you like my painting?’

  She seems to be making a portrait of herself, by means of the mirror. She glances over her shoulder to observe her reflection, then turns and daubs a few strokes on the canvas.

  ‘Put. On. Your. Clothes.’

  ‘Alas, they are covered in paint. Besides, I’m not quite finished.’

  From the look of it, she has barely begun. The canvas bears rough lines here and there, and the outline of an hourglass which I am quite certain she made not from her own reflection but from the real thing resting on my desk. On the upper part of the outline are two circles I take to be crude breasts.

  ‘Then for God’s sake,’ I cry, ‘put on something. A rug, a lampshade, I don’t care. Here.’ I find a blanket on the arm of the sofa and throw it at her head. It tents over her neatly. She burrows out from under it and wraps it around herself, looking at me with deep reproach.

  ‘Better?’ she says scornfully. ‘I find it astonishing that you call yourself modern men.’

  Lancaster is hiding in a corner, facing the wall, hands over his eyes. The backs of his neck and ears are bright red, and he mutters something conciliatory to me which I do not catch and do not care to.

  ‘Lizzie, you’re a calamity,’ I tell her. ‘You’re indecent.’

  ‘You won’t let me paint Simmons, you won’t let me paint Ashley, God knows you’d never sit for me, so what am I supposed to do?’ she fires back. ‘I want to learn about painting. I want to learn why for two thousand years and more great artists have painted and sculpted the human body. What is it that they find so fascinating or beautiful or whatever it is they find it? I’m not indecent, Lionel, I’m curious. There’s so much to know, and I want to know it all! Doesn’t it bother you that we know nothing about art? But last night while you were feeling sorry for yourself and despairing over yesterday’s setback, I was reading Tompkins’s books of art history, and do you know what I discovered? I discovered that there was a painter—there have been many painters!—who don’t just explain, but who actually show you how to get to Hell!’

  ‘I believe I’ve mentioned as much,’ says Lancaster, still facing the wall.

  ‘Shut up!’ I say to him. I cannot forgive him for seeing Lizzie in a state of undress.

  ‘But it’s true!’ she says. ‘You silly men don’t understand the half of it! I believe that if we fly into the mouth of a volcano we’ll be directly incinerated—but if we instead—’

  ‘I’ve decided to kill myself,’ I say abruptly, cutting her off. I am not interested in art. I am interested in the retrieval of my wife. I have been contemplating the matter all night.

  ‘Lionel!’ reprimands Lizzie—apparently angry not that I might die but that I have interrupted her.

  ‘All things considered, it seems rather a poor time for it,’ says Lancaster, taking the notion of my suicide in stride. ‘Despair’s fine and all that, but we’ve work to do.’

  Neither of them seems to understand me. ‘No,’ I say, ‘I mean, to find Viv. I’ve been thinking about it, and it seems the surest and most expedient manner.’

&
nbsp; ‘Ah,’ says Lancaster. ‘Well now, that may be. But Lizzie said that she had ideas—’

  ‘Lizzie stands naked with a paintbrush! I reject her ideas. Give me a bullet.’

  Lizzie makes a face at me and flops down on the sofa. Wrapped in the blanket, she looks like a harem girl.

  ‘You’re serious,’ Lancaster says with surprise and I think a little admiration. I have taken up one of the pistols from our duel and begin to hunt for a spare charge. ‘You want to kill yourself in order to go to Hell to rescue my sister. Savage, that’s a terrible plan!’

  ‘It truly is,’ says Lizzie.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I snap. ‘Orpheus did it and it worked.’

  ‘It didn’t, actually,’ she points out.

  ‘It would have! I won’t look back or do whatever else it is that I’m not supposed to do.’

  Lancaster frowns. ‘All of this is of course assuming you’re going to Hell.’

  I had anticipated this objection. It was one of my considerations during my sleepless pensing. ‘Lancaster,’ I say, ‘I married for money and sold my wife to the Dev’l.’

  ‘I retract my previous comment,’ he says promptly. ‘But still, Savage—’

  ‘But nothing. It makes sense. And besides, I’m in love. Which means I’m lucky. So, quick, before Simmons comes in and throws a fit. I need a bullet for your pistol.’

  I know Lizzie is upset with me, for she does not object. Lancaster, though, looks dubious. ‘That’ll necessitate an awful lot of clean-up, old boy. I’d really prefer—’

  ‘Good God, man,’ I cry, ‘I’m talking about KILLING MYSELF for your sister and you’re complaining about a little—’

  I am cut off by the sound of my pernicious doorbell being rung vigorously and without cease.

  ‘SHUT UP!’ I bellow.

  I hear the front door admit the bell ringer, and before I can say anything the door to my study is flung open and a funny-looking little man tiptoes in, carrying two fencing sabres.* We all swing to face him, and he cowers under our collective gaze.