The Ghost of Captain Hinchliffe

by David Dennington

  Maybe they all should drink themselves into oblivion!

  They crossed London and then weaved their way through the Downs to the coast. He marveled at the skill of his good friend Johnny Johnston. He'd been glad to have him in the navigator’s seat many a time—he was the best. As they crossed the English coastline and moved out over the black, raging water, Hinchliffe saw the look of dread on passengers' faces. Thomson himself was upbeat and completely confident—too confident. After enjoying a cigar in the smoking room with a number of others and witnessing the sight of the French coast, he went to bed and wrote up his journal. He was jubilant. Hinchliffe leaned over his shoulder, reading his words:

  His Majesty’s Airship Cardington R101

  Saturday, October 4, 1930.

  A successful day. Airship standing up to gale admirably. Having crossed the English Channel, we are now heading toward Paris. Tomorrow, I anticipate enjoying sunshine over the Mediterranean. Today, we have put an end to all the naysayers. Success is within our grasp.

  Hinchliffe then saw Thomson admiring the key ring and the postcards his valet had brought back from the souvenir vendor. He watched him happily slip the keyring into his dressing gown pocket. It was the red one.

  Throughout the evening, Hinchliffe stayed close to his good friend, Sefton Brancker. He knew Brancker was terrified, he had been even before he'd arrived at the tower. But he'd gotten pretty sozzled and was feeling no pain. He was quite comical, with his monocle screwed tightly into his eye socket. Hinchliffe was glad he was just about paralytic when Lou Remington helped him into this cabin and laid him down on his bunk. The American was a good fellow. Hinchliffe liked him. It was a pity most of them would be dead before the night was over.

  After crossing the French coast at St. Quentin, the airship struggled against what was now a full-fledged gale. The weather had become much worse, as Captain Irwin had worried it might. They were blown way off course toward the dreaded Beauvais Ridge—a place Irwin had been anxious to avoid. Hinchliffe paced around the ship, looking in on his friends. Brancker and Johnston were asleep in their cabins. Thomson was now also well away, snoring.

  The ship came in low over Beauvais. Hinchliffe stood beside Captain Irwin and Commander Remington, gazing down at the city. It would have been a wonderful sight under normal circumstances, but not tonight. It was time to change the watch, but Irwin decided to remain in his place until they'd cleared Beauvais Ridge, then he'd hand over to the relief officers.

  Hinchliffe left the control car and walked down to the crew's quarters, where he saw Binks still fast asleep in his bunk. His foreman was trying to wake him.

  “Come on, Joe, you should have been on watch by now! Bell's waiting for you,” the foreman said, pushing a mug of cocoa at the bleary-eyed Binks.

  “Oh, bugger! I don't have time for that, Shorty. Bell's gonna be mad!”

  “You'd better drink it, mate, or I'll be mad,” the foreman warned.

  Binks swallowed it down and sprinted out and along the catwalk to his engine car, followed by Hinchliffe. While lightning flashed, Binks slithered down the steel ladder, hanging on for his life, and into his engine car. Bell gave him a dirty look.

  “Well, thanks for coming, Joe,” Bell said, eyeing the wall clock. “Glad you could make it!”

  Binks peered out the window and gasped. He'd seen something in a flash of lightning.

  “What's the matter with you?” demanded Bell.

  “I just saw a church steeple,” Binks whimpered. “Only yards away!”

  Bell pushed Binks aside, and looked out. “Silly sod. You're still asleep. I can't see anything.”

  Suddenly the ship dived, throwing Binks back against the engine. “Oh, bloody 'ell!”

  “Don't panic Joe, it's only the storm,” Bell assured him.

  But then, above their heads, they heard the rumble of stampeding feet.

  “Something's very wrong, Ginger. I'm really scared,” Binks whimpered.

  The ship leveled out, but as it did, they felt harmonic vibration, and then an awful creaking and groaning. Suddenly, the telegraph bell rang. They saw the indicator move to SLOW. This filled Binks with terror. “Oh, no! Now what?” he groaned. There were more pounding feet. “Oh, blimey!”

  The ship dived again and both men were thrown backward a second time. Now, they heard Chief Coxswain 'Sky' Hunt’s voice above in the crew's quarters. “We're down, lads!”

  “Oh, no, that's Mr. 'unt. We've had it now!” Binks sobbed.

  Hinchliffe had stuck with these two characters all through this episode. Hinchliffe knew Binks could see him, when he showed himself. The time had come to help Binks and Bell. In mere moments, after the commotion above, and being suspended at a strange, almost vertical downward angle, the ship gently settled on the ground. But the feelings of relief for these two men were short-lived. They felt massive explosions start at the bow and work in their direction, toward the stern. All around them was suddenly ablaze.

  Binks stared out the window from the center of this inferno at the muddy, wooded plateau. It was difficult to believe they were down—there'd been no jarring crash. They watched the rapidly disappearing airship cover being devoured by fire and the vast steel skeleton exposed in blinding light. Hinchliffe sensed their terror, although he couldn't feel their pain. Their faces and bodies were being blistered by the searing heat, especially their legs, where flames were licking up through floor.

  “Safety first. What a bleedin' joke!” Bell shouted.

  “Sweet Mother of Jesus, save us,” Binks cried.

  “We’ve got to get out. This thing’s gonna blow any second,” Bell hollered.

  Hinchliffe knew they'd be done for if that starter engine petrol tank blew up. He stood near the doorway, enveloped in flames and smoke. Binks looked up and saw Hinchliffe. His eyes bulged out of his head.

  “Don't move, Mr. Binks!” Hinchliffe yelled, putting up his hands.

  Binks had no doubt Hinchliffe was there to help them. “Hey, hold on a sec, Ginger. Trust me on this,” he shouted, putting a hand on Bell’s chest. Bell frowned, but didn’t move. A moment later, without warning, one of the ballast tanks above ruptured, sending a torrent of water cascading over them and their car. The flames were doused and the car cooled momentarily. The two men picked up their wet coats, and threw them over their heads.

  “Come on, run for your lives,” Hinchliffe shouted.

  “Let’s get out of here!” Binks screamed.

  They climbed out onto the car’s entry platform into intense heat and blinding fire, and jumped. They fell on their hands and knees into the mud, then dashed, slipping and sliding through smoke and steam to a safe distance, where they collapsed on the ground, badly burned, but alive.

  “Thank you, dear merciful Lord God in Heaven!” Binks exclaimed. “And thank you, Captain ‘inchliffe!”

  “I owe you one, Joe. I’m sorry I was mean to you about being late, mate!” Bell croaked. “But how did you know water would come down on us like that, eh?”

  Binks laughed. “Captain 'inchliffe told me. It's a gift, Ginger.”

  “'Who is this Captain 'inchliffe?”

  “Right now, mate, he's our best friend,” Binks said, with a chuckle.

  *

  When the chief coxswain shouted ‘We're down, lads’, it woke Millie from her slumbers. She heard it as clearly as if he'd been standing in her bedroom. Suddenly, the airship was foundering in front of her, in a steep dive. She watched as the bow gently kissed the ground. The great bulk seemed to be hardly moving. Millie saw the ship's nose cone plough a furrow in the ground well into the forest, which bordered the grassy terrain. She heard tree branches snapping off, clanking sheep bells and wild bleating, in all the confusion.

  Millie watched the airship gently settle down onto the plain with half its structure in the trees, and then gasped in horror as six million cubic feet of hydrogen erupted in a series of explosions. Flames lit up the French countryside for miles. She heard the cries of hapless
souls on board and could smell the foul, burning odors wafting across the fields. A hundred yards from the wreck, she saw the diminutive rabbit poacher sitting in shock, clinging to his terror-stricken prize. The eyes of both creatures seemed to protrude from their heads, so great was their dread.

  The scene unfolded as if Millie were in a movie theater. Men emerged from the wreck, all of them blackened, burned, unrecognizable. They fell down on the ground in the mud and merciful rain, moaning. Soon, a column of lights came across the fields from a local village—rescuers, carrying lanterns, stretchers, ropes, spades, shovels and sheets.

  Millie’s vision faded. She sat up holding her head, trying to catch her breath. What could she do? Nothing. She lay back down, numb, for half an hour, until she’d recovered her composure. She got up, went to the kitchen and made tea. Presently, Kate joined her, telling her she couldn't sleep either. Then Sinclair came down. Millie told them what she'd seen. They took it seriously. They sat drinking tea for an hour in an unhappy state, and then returned to their beds to wait for morning. They'd listen to the news and find out what happened.

  Sinclair was up before six and turned on the BBC for the 6 o'clock news. They listened again at seven, and at eight, and nine. There was no news of the airship. Not a word. The fact that there wasn't even a progress report seemed ominous. If only she could contact Hunter. He'd know what was going on, Millie thought. She jumped in the car and went to the phone booth in the village and got through to his desk. He confirmed her worst fears.

  “Millie, Cardington R101 crashed in France on a hillside near Beauvais—just as you said it would,” he said.

  He'd been up all night monitoring foreign news outlets. They had a shortwave radio in the office and knew about it almost as soon as it happened from French radio reports. He said they thought there were eight survivors. The Sunday Express printing presses had been stopped during the night so they could write the story. They were putting out a late edition.

  40

  CAXTON HALL

  Saturday, November 8, 1930.

  Lord Inchcape sat perfectly still in Millie's ornate armchair, in which many other notables had sat before him. He wore a Harris Tweed jacket of gray tones, a white shirt and a black and blue tartan cravat. His attitude was different from the last time they'd spoken, at Glenapp Castle.

  “I have a confession. I must admit I didn't come here just to have my portrait painted,” he said suddenly.

  Millie put down her pallet and brushes.

  “No, please, don't get me wrong. I want the painting. I'll pay you handsomely for it. But it wasn't my main reason, that's all.”

  “Why did you come?”

  “First of all, I want to pay for Elsie's portrait. I was so very impressed—and it's given us all so much comfort.”

  “No—that was my gift to Jonathan.”

  “I also want you to know that, although our religion frowns on communication with the dead, I admire you very much for everything you've done.”

  Millie sneered with self-contempt. “I failed miserably.”

  “It may seem to you that you've not succeeded, but you have, in ways that you can't comprehend. You've been very brave.”

  “Elsie was very brave too, you know.”

  “Yes, I realize that now.”

  Lord Inchcape put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a small box. He handed it to Millie.

  “I wanted you to have this,” he said.

  Millie opened it. It contained an ornate, gold crucifix on a chain. She cradled it in the palm of her hand.

  “It was one of Elsie's. It's been in our family for centuries.”

  Millie was touched. “I'll treasure it. Thank you.”

  “There's something I ought to tell you, though I was sworn to secrecy at the time. But that doesn't matter now.”

  Millie frowned. “What is it?”

  “Regarding the settlement: I was under enormous pressure from every quarter—you have no idea. Lord Thomson called me, urging me to make a settlement. He said you deserved the money and that your husband was a great pioneer. He said you’d made his life difficult—but he admired you. He’d followed your every move. Said you were one of the most courageous women he’d ever met.”

  Millie was incredulous. “My Goodness!”

  Oh dear, poor Lord Thomson. I was so hard on that man.

  “He wasn't such a bad old chap, was he? He said good things about Elsie, too.” At this, he dropped his head.

  She remembered her thoughts of Thomson at the tower and all the qualities his aura conveyed. “No, he certainly wasn't. Misguided, that’s all.”

  “There's something else,” Inchcape said, putting his hand in his pocket again. Suddenly, he held up Hinchliffe's lucky black cat charm, swinging from side to side on its string of worry beads. Millie eyes widened in astonishment as it swung in front of her face.

  “I believe this belonged to your husband?” he said.

  Millie sat in her bedroom at her writing table, his worry beads beside her. She'd decided to write a book. The title would be: The Return of Captain Hinchliffe. Her goal was to educate people about life after death. Hunter had introduced her to a publisher interested to look at a finished manuscript. He also said he'd gladly give her assistance. Millie stopped after writing a few sentences to reflect on the past eight years. She fingered the worry beads as she glanced out the window at the garden. The flowers that she and Hinchliffe had planted the year he met Elsie were finished for the season. Most of the leaves had fallen, creating a golden carpet. The climbing rose he'd planted below the pergola clung to the structure, leafless and without blooms.

  There was a sound across the room and she turned toward it. Hinchliffe had materialized, holding a white rose. “They were beautiful this year, weren't they?” he said.

  “I was just thinking that, and of you and our friends,” Millie said.

  “I know.”

  “Are they with you?”

  “I've spent a lot of time with Bird, Johnny and old Branks. They've been in a bad state. They say they feel like murderers for killing all those boys. I've not seen Thomson yet. He has much to answer for. I would not want to be him. That burden will be heavy on his soul for some time.”

  Tears were welling up in Millie's eyes. “You've come for a reason, haven't you, Ray?”

  “Yes, I have. I know you'll cope, Millie.”

  “Yes, I suppose I will somehow.”

  “I've been happy that George Hunter has been so helpful. He's a bit rough around the edges, but he's got a good heart. He thinks the world of you, you know.”

  “I've been lucky to have him around. I must admit he’s grown on me.”

  “I liked that American fellow. That was a nice portrait you did of him. I know you admired him.”

  “Yes, he was lovely,” Millie said with a rueful smile. “He reminded me of you.”

  “Not as reckless—or as good-looking. But he's out of the picture now, Millie.”

  Millie nodded sadly. Hinchliffe laid the rose down on her manuscript and moved close to her. “I've loved you so much, Millie. I tried so hard. I was foolish—very foolish. I'm truly, truly sorry.”

  “Oh, Ray. I'll always love you, you know.”

  “It's time for you to live your life now, Millie,” Hinchliffe said, tenderly kissing her forehead.

  She sobbed quietly as he faded away. She picked up the rose and smelled its fragrance, closing her eyes.

  Later that day, Millie went down to her studio and worked on the finishing touches of Hinchliffe's portrait. She'd never felt so completely alone. Over the weeks since the crash of Cardington R101, she'd felt the need to complete it, as though this was the right time—the end of a major chapter. Hinchliffe stood before his Sopwith Camel, dressed for flight in his leather greatcoat, pilot's cap and goggles pushed up over his forehead. She painted him with his black leather eye-patch—it gave him that proud, indomitable look—the stuff of the British Empire!

  *

 
It was dark and it was cold when Millie arrived at Caxton Hall in a black Daimler, sent by the organizers to collect her from Pickwick Cottage. The Sinclairs traveled with her, leaving the children with a newly hired nanny. Despite the weather, there were throngs of people under the canopy awaiting Millie's arrival at the front steps of the building. Two festive Christmas trees, decorated with colored lights, stood each side of the entrance. An advertisement in a glass case announced coming events.

  TONIGHT 8 p.m.

  MRS. HINCHLIFFE SPEAKS

  LIFE AFTER DEATH

  Speed Graphics flashed as Millie elegantly eased herself out of the limousine onto the sidewalk. For a few moments she posed, beautifully dressed in black furs and a striking red cloche hat, her face radiant and perfectly made up. Photographers and reporters pushed forward excitedly around her, calling out questions.

  “Mrs. Hinchliffe, what have you come to tell us this evening?”

  “I am overjoyed! And tonight, I shall tell you why,” Millie responded.

  “Is it true you're writing a book, ma'am?

  “How do you feel about airships now?”

  Millie closed eyes, pained. Her long lashes fluttered. “I'm very sad—and extremely bitter, as you can imagine. I suppose hard lessons have been learned by our government—at least we can only hope so!”

  She made her way to the doors and was escorted along a corridor leading to the rear of the stage in the Great Hall. There was an excited buzz in the auditorium filled with mostly older ladies dressed in their Sunday best. At last, the house lights were dimmed and a voice came over the speakers.