Airman

Chapter 11:

TO THE QUEEN HER CROWN

The Saltee islanders were preparing for celebration. The British royal yacht, HMY Victoria and Albert II, a 360-foot paddle steamer, lolled regally in Fulmar Bay with the waves of Saint George’s Channel tipping her gently like the fingers of a child on a rubber balloon. The queen herself was happily ensconced in one of the palace’s sumptuous apartments. Her diary records that: I find the air of industry in this miniature kingdom wonderfully exhilarating. Looking down from my balcony window at the commerce far below, one almost feels as though one has arrived in Swift’s Lilliput.
Almost every patch of Great Saltee’s 200 acres had been appropriated for the celebrations. The South Summit was festooned with clusters of pikes decorated with crimson and gold flags. The streets of Promontory Fort were painted in the same coloured stripes. Every man with a hammer was banging in nails, and every man without one was hanging bunting from those nails. Even the weather gods were proving benevolent on the day, pouring down sunshine on the little principality, setting the waves dancing with sparkles. The southern cliffs lost some of their gloom, fringed in beards of white spume.
It seemed to the gentlemen of the world’s press as though the kingdom of the Saltees was an oasis of calm amid the political consternation of Europe. They sat in seaside taverns in Fulmar Bay, boiling up their gullets with traditional spicy gull pancakes and cooling them off again with tankards of Irish stout. No journalists were permitted on Little Saltee, and none had been invited who might press the matter.
On the surface, happiness and contentment abounded, but as in many things the surface gave a treacherous reading. Many were unhappy in the kingdom. Taxes had been reintroduced, and heavy tithes on imports. Public services were so skimped on that they were almost non-existent, and residency had been granted to an assorted bunch of motley characters who were then spivved up and handed commissions in the Saltee Army, the best barracks too. Common scarred veterans most of them, landing on the port with clanking sacks of weapons. Bonvilain was filling his ranks with mercenaries and turning away raw recruits. Building his own private army many said, though the marshall claimed that he was merely protecting the princess from revolutionaries.
Captain Declan Broekhart would, once upon a time, have objected vehemently to Bonvilain’s politics, but now he was too besieged by his own demons. Catherine Broekhart too was haunted by sadness, though she concealed it for the sake of their eighteen-month-old baby son, Sean.
Declan was consumed and ravaged by grief. He wore it like a coat. It was more a part of him now than his eyes and ears. It took his hunger and his strength. It ate away his girth and his stature. Declan Broekhart had grown old before his time.
Often Catherine would encourage him to fight his way clear of his dark mood.
‘We have another son now, Declan. Young Sean needs his father.’
His answer was always a variation on the following:
‘I am no father. Conor died at my post, doing my duty. My life is gone. Spent. I am a dead man still breathing.’
Declan Broekhart shunned close contact, eager for punishment. He grew tight-lipped and short-fused. He returned to his duties at the palace, but his manner had changed. Where before he had inspired devotion, now men obeyed him through fear. Declan worked his men hard, chastising honest soldiers who had been at his side for years. No dereliction of duty was left unpunished, however slight. Declan prowled the Great Saltee Wall at night, clothed entirely in black, searching for an inattentive sentry. He demoted soldiers, docked their pay and on one occasion had a watchman dismissed for nodding off in the guard hut.
This last was three days before the coronation, when Declan was at his most tense. When the news trickled through to him that the punished watchman was worn out with newborn twins and a wife still in her bed, Catherine believed her husband might come to his senses, but instead Declan Broekhart turned a degree colder.
Little Sean cried from the bedroom, his midday sleep disturbed.
Catherine wiped her eyes, so the baby would see her happy. ‘Do you think Conor would want this?’ she said, making one last attempt. ‘Do you think he looks down from a hero’s heaven and rejoices at what his father has become?’
Declan cracked, but he did not break. ‘And what have I become, Catherine? Am I not still a man who fulfils his duties to the best of his abilities?’
Catherine’s eyes blazed through the last of her tears. ‘Those of Captain Broekhart, certainly. But Declan Broekhart, husband and father? As you say yourself, those duties have been neglected for some time now.’
With these harsh words Catherine left her husband to his brooding. When he was certain that she could no longer see him, Declan Broekhart clasped his hands on either side of his head, as though he could squeeze out the pain.
Declan had never recovered from Conor’s supposed death, and perhaps he never would have, had two events not occurred one after the other on the day of Isabella’s coronation. Alone, these events might not have been enough to raise him from his stupor, but together they complemented one another, shaking the lethargy from Declan Broekhart’s bones.
The first was a simple thing. Common and quick, the kind of family happening that would not usually qualify as an event. But for Declan something in those few seconds warmed his heart and set him on the road to recovery. Later he would often wonder whether Catherine had engineered this little incident, or for that matter, the second one too. He questioned her often, but she would neither admit nor deny anything.
What happened was this. Little Sean came waddling from his room, unsteady on chubby legs. When Conor had been that age, Declan called his legs fat sausages and they rolled on the rug like a dog and its pup, but he hardly noticed Sean, leaving the rearing to Catherine.
‘Papa,’ said the infant, slightly disappointed that his mother was not to be seen. Papa ignored him. Papa was not a source of food or entertainment, and so little Sean toddled on towards the open bay window. The balcony was beyond, and then a low wrought-iron railing. Hardly enough to contain an inquisitive boy.
‘Catherine,’ called Declan, but his wife did not appear. Sean skirted a chair, teetering briefly to starboard, then on towards the window.
‘Catherine. The boy. He’s near the window.’
Still, no sign of or reply from Catherine, and now little Sean was at the sill itself, a pudgy foot raised to step over.
Declan had no choice but to act. With a grunt of annoyance he took the two strides necessary to reach the child. Not such a momentous undertaking, unless you consider that this was perhaps the fifth time that Declan Broekhart had set hands on his son. And at that exact moment the boy turned, pivoting on the ball of his heel, the way only the very young can, and Declan’s fingers grazed Sean’s cheek. Their eyes met and the boy reached up, tugging Declan’s bottom lip.
The contact was magical. Declan felt a jolt run through his heart, as for the first time he saw Sean as himself and not a shadow of his dead brother.
‘Oh, my son,’ he said, hoisting him up and drawing him close. ‘You must keep away from the window; it is dangerous. Stay here with me.’
Declan was halfway back to life. Perhaps he would have continued the journey in fits and jumps, an occasional shared smile, the odd bedtime story, but then there came a knocking on the front door. A series of raps, actually. Regal raps.
Before Declan had the chance to register the sounds, the door burst open and one of his own men stepped across the threshold, holding the door wide for Princess Isabella.
Declan was caught tenderly embracing his son, a most un-Broekhart-like action. He frowned twice, once for the soldier: a warning to keep this sight to himself. A second frown for Princess Isabella, who was clothed in full coronation robes. A vision in gold and crimson silk and satin, more beautiful than even her father could have dreamed. What could she be doing here? On this of all days?
Isabella opened her mouth to speak. The princess had her entreaty prepared. Declan had requested Wall duty for the ceremony, but she had needed him at her side, today of all days. She missed Conor and her father more than ever, and the only way she could get through the ceremony was if the man who she considered a second father was restored to her. And not simply in body, but in spirit. Today Declan Broekhart must remember the man he had been.
Quite a fine speech; obviously the girl would make a fine queen. However, no one heard the words, for the moment Isabella laid eyes on Declan cradling his son, her posture slumped from queen to girl and she flung herself at his chest weeping. Declan Broekhart had little option but to wrap his free arm around the weeping princess.
‘There, there,’ he said uncertainly. ‘Now, now.’
‘I need you,’ sobbed Isabella. ‘By my side. Always.’
Declan felt tears gather on his own eyelids. ‘Of course, Majesty.’
Isabella thumped his broad chest with her delicate fist.
‘I need you, Declan. You.’
‘Yes, Isabella,’ said Declan gruffly. ‘By your side. Always.’
Catherine Broekhart stepped in from the balcony where she had been waiting, and joined the embrace. The guard at the door was tempted, but decided against it.
The coronation was a wordy affair, with clergy and velvet and enough Latin chanting to keep a monastery going for a few decades. It was all a bit of a blur to Declan Broekhart who installed himself behind his queen on the altar, so he could be there to smile encouragingly when she looked for him, which she did often.
Shortly after the papal nuncio lowered the crown, Declan noticed his wife’s dress.
‘A new dress?’ he whispered. ‘I thought we weren’t coming?’
Catherine smiled archly. ‘Yes, you did think that, didn’t you.’
Declan felt a glow in his chest that he recognized as cautious happiness. It was a bittersweet emotion without Conor there at his shoulder.
They rode in the royal coach back from Saint Christopher’s towards Promontory Fort, though in truth the town now covered almost every square foot of the island. As the population increased, houses grew up instead of out and were shoehorned into any available space. The higgledy-piggledy town reminded Declan of the Giant’s Causeway, a chaotic honeycomb of basalt columns in the north of Ireland. Though these columns were marked by doors and windows and striped by the traditional bold house colours of the Saltee Islands. As for the islanders, it seemed they were all on the street along with half of Ireland, cheering themselves hoarse for the beautiful young queen.
The coach was shared with Marshall Bonvilain in full ceremonial uniform including a Knights of the Holy Cross toga worn loosely over it all. The Saltee Templars were the only branch to have survived Pope Clement V’s fourteenth-century purge. Even the Vatican had been unwilling to risk disrupting the diamond supply.
Bonvilain took advantage of the new queen’s distraction to lean across and whisper to Declan.
‘How are you, Declan? I’m surprised to see you here.’
‘As am I, Hugo,’ replied Declan. ‘I hadn’t planned to come, but I am happy to find my plans changed.’
Bonvilain smiled. ‘I am happy too. It does the men good to see your face. Keeps them alert. Nice work dismissing that sentry by the way. Sleeping sentries is just the opening the rebels need. One chink in the wall and they’re in. And I needn’t tell you the heartache they can cause.’
Declan nodded tightly, but in truth Bonvilain’s speech seemed a little hollow on this day. There had been little rebel activity for many months, and some of the marshall’s arrests had been made on the flimsiest of evidence.
Bonvilain noticed the captain’s expression.
‘You disagree, Declan? Surely not. After all the Broekharts have endured?’
Declan felt his wife’s fingers close around his. He gazed past Isabella’s shining face, through the window, over the heads of a hundred islanders and into the blue haze of sea and sky.
‘I don’t disagree, Marshall. I just need to think about something else today. My wife, and my queen, they need me. For today at least.’
‘Of course,’ said Bonvilain, his tone gracious, but his eyes were hard and his teeth were gritted behind his lips.
Broekhart recovers, he thought. His scruples are already returning. How long before the dog bites his master?
Hugo Bonvilain waved a gloved hand at the cheering citizens on the roadside.
Better not to take the chance. Perhaps it is time for a little blackmail. Declan Broekhart could not bear to lose his elder son a second time.
Little Saltee

Conor was ready for flight. His sewing was done. A double seam would have been better but there was not a strand of thread left. The device was as sound as it would ever be.
The sounds of revelries drifted across from the Great Saltee Wall. Singing, cheering, stamping of feet. A great coming together. A thousand faces flushed in the glow of the wall lamps. Conor imagined the crowds lined a dozen deep waiting for the great show of fireworks. It seemed as though the very prison walls shook, though a stretch of ocean separated prisoners from the party.
The buzz of coronation excitement had communicated itself through the prison, and many of the prisoners hooted through their windows or dragged tin cups across their barred windows.
Surprisingly perhaps, most of the inmates showed monarchist leanings in spite of their incarceration at Her Majesty’s pleasure. A ragged chorus of ‘Defend the Wall’, the Saltee national anthem, bounced off the walls and under Conor’s cell door.
He found himself humming along. It was strange to hear the words King Nicholas already replaced by Queen Isabella.
How could you believe Bonvilain’s lies? Why did you not send for me, Isabella?
Confusion bred heat in his forehead and Conor felt the strength of it cloud his brain. His senses piled on top of one another. Sight, touch, smell. Grime in the wrinkles of his forehead. The cell door seemed to shake in its housing. Sweat, damp and worse from his cell. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply through his nose. One of Victor’s tricks, brought back from the Orient.
Breathe in cold air, clear the mind.
Conor pushed thoughts of Isabella aside. Time now to concentrate. Billtoe’s steps were on the flagstones outside. One last time through the checklist.
Mud on his back?
Yes. He could feel it crusting inside his collar. At last, a use for the damp wall. There is always a use for everything, Victor had told him. Even pain.
The device secured?
Conor reached round under his loose jacket, tugging at the rectangular pack concealed on his chest. The ropes groaned at his pull, but they were homemade and imperfect. Woven from raggy ends and cut-offs. Spliced together and daubed with candle wax.
The cuff peg?
Concealed in his palm. A jagged ivory cone, measured by pressing the cuffs’ ratchet hard into his palm when Billtoe was removing them. The cuff peg was an old escapologist’s trick, and would only work on a set of single-lock cuffs with some play in the bolts, but Billtoe’s cuffs were old enough to have belonged to Moses, and Conor had been yanking at the bolts for half a year now. There was enough play. When Billtoe slapped the cuffs on, Conor would quickly plug the hole with the ivory peg. The ratchet would be deflected while appearing to close.
Mud, devices, pegs! This plan was lunacy.
And as such could never be anticipated. Conor stepped on his uncertainty with a harsh boot. There was not the time now. His plan would liberate him, or kill him, and both were preferable to more long years in this hell pit.
Billtoe’s key clanked into the ancient lock, turning with some effort. The guard shouldered the door open, complaining as usual, but with one cautious hand on his pistol.
‘An angel is what I am, sticking it out with you clods, when a man like me would be welcomed into any discerning society in the world. I could be a prince, you know, Finn. An emperor, darn it. But here I stays, so that you can tell me my twelve-shot revolver is not ready yet.’
‘It is ready,’ blurted Conor, playing the excited, eager-to-please prisoner. ‘I have the plan here.’
Billtoe was canny enough to be suspicious. Lesser brains would have lost the run of themselves and the price of their distraction would be a stove-in skull, but Arthur Billtoe’s prime instinct was self-preservation.
‘Where, exactly now, would that plan be? I won’t be doing any bending over, or fumbling in shadows.’
‘No. Lying on the table. Shall I hand it to you?’
Billtoe cogitated. Coughing up a lump of recently swallowed rations for a re-chew.
‘No, soldier boy. How’s about I cuff you as per usual, then have a little look-see at the plan myself.’
Conor extended his hands, happy to comply. ‘Do I get my walks, Mister Billtoe? You promised I would.’
Billtoe smiled as he clamped on the cuffs, one eye on the table.
‘It’s your beard that has me grinning. A pathetic shrub. It ain’t ready for growing yet. You ought to trim it back, thicken it up. The Rams ain’t going to be ordered to by some runt with a bare gorse on his chin. And we’ll talk about walks after I have a good study of this drawing.’
Billtoe plucked the page from the table with two grubby fine-boned fingers.
‘You know, I’ve been talking to a few mates. Apparently there’s a German makes twelve-shot revolvers.’ He spat a stream of tobacco juice on the flags, to show his displeasure.
‘But small calibre,’ argued Conor. ‘To accommodate the bullets. With this design the cylinder is actually a screw, so the bullets can be as big as you wish, and the weight is spread out more efficiently so it will work for rifles too.’
The design was preposterous and utterly unworkable, but looked pretty on paper.
‘I don’t know,’ grumbled Billtoe. ‘A screw, you say?’
‘Have one made. Like the balloons. Do a test.’
Billtoe folded the page roughly, stuffing it into a pocket.
‘That I will, Master Finn. And if this turns out to be a scatterfool’s daydream, the next time you see daylight will be on the day I toss you from the south wall.’
Conor nodded glumly, hoping his excitement did not shine from his forehead like the Hook Head lighthouse.
Billtoe had made a mistake. In his eagerness to see the revolver plan, he hadn’t noticed Conor’s sleight of hand, plugging the Bell and Bolton handcuffs, diverting the ratchet to one side. His hands were free, but it was not yet time to make use of this.
‘This is no daydream, Mister Billtoe. This is our future. You can register the patent, then perhaps pay a few bribes to get me out of here.’
Billtoe feigned great indignance. ‘Bribes! Bribes, you say. I am deeply offended.’
Conor swallowed, a man holding his nerve. ‘Let’s speak plain, Mister Billtoe. I am in this hole for life, unless you can pull me out of it. I’m not expecting freedom right away…’
Billtoe chuckled. ‘I am relieved to hear it. The pressure is on, says I to meself. Immediate freedom or no deal. But you’re not expecting freedom, so there’s a worry lifted.’
‘But I would dearly love a cell on the surface. Or near it. Maybe a mate to share with. Malarkey would be suitable, I think.’
‘I bet he would. Lovely and cosy, all Rams together. No wheedling now, Finn. First I have the model made, and when it doesn’t explode in my face, then we parley.’
‘But, Mister —’
Billtoe held up a flat hand.
‘No. Not a word more, soldier boy. Your balloons have not taken flight yet. I may be coming for you in the morning with a Fenian pike.’
Conor hung his head in defeat, in reality hoping he had not overplayed his role. The entire revolver notion was merely misdirection, any magician’s meat and potatoes. Fill Billtoe’s mind with notions so that he would be less attuned to what was unfolding in front of his eyes.
‘Now, let’s be off to work. Well, work for you. I’m off topside to supervise your… my… coronation balloons.’
Conor sidled past Billtoe, through the doorway, careful to keep his mud-caked back on the guard’s blind side. His plan was a house of cards, a citadel of cards. One unlucky glance could bring the entire structure down.
No time for that now. Begin your count.
His count. Another largely theoretical card in the citadel. Conor had long since discovered that there was a blind spot in the corridor between his cell door and the diving-bell wing. One of the mad wing’s occupants had been in front of him six months previously on the walk to the warden’s weekly speech. The man was tiny with a disproportionately large head, especially the forehead, which sat atop his eyebrows like a porcelain slug. It was the man Billtoe had called Numbers, because inside his strange head, everything was reduced to mathematics, the purest science. He would spout long streams of digits, and then laugh as though he were watching cabaret in Paris.
On that morning, half a year ago, Conor had watched the man lope down the line before him, muttering his numbers, measuring his steps.
Fourteen was the last in his list.
Then Numbers took a sideways hop, and disappeared.
No. Not disappeared, but certainly not as visible. There, in sudden black shadows, shaking with mirth at his own joke. A joke that could see him hanged.
Numbers held his position until Pike noticed him missing, then hopped from his hiding place.
‘Fourteen,’ he exclaimed in a screeching shriek. ‘Fourteen, eighty-five, one half.’
Pike did not get the joke, proceeding to cuff Numbers round the ear hole several times.
There were no more demonstrations from Numbers, but Conor learned quickly. He had seen the trick once and set about dissecting it.
How do you unravel a magician’s secret?
Start at the reveal and work backwards.
There was a natural blind spot in the corridor, something magicians and escapologists created artificially on stage with lights, drapes or mirrors. A tiny spot of isolated darkness, surrounded by stimuli that drew the eye. A patch of near invisibility. It would not stand up to any scrutiny, but for a second in frenzied circumstances it would do.
For the next few weeks, Conor watched the space and analysed the numbers.
Fourteen, eighty-five, one half.
It was no deep code. Numbers had taken fourteen steps from his cell door along the path, then hopped half a step, eighty-five degrees to the right. Into the belly of the blind spot. Conor simply added the five steps necessary to find the spot for himself.
Once there, he was amazed by how obvious it was. Overlapping layers of shadow, untouched by torchlight, further shaded by a slipped cornice stone, with a spume of spilled crimson paint on the flagstones a foot to the left. A cylinder of blackness that would take no more than a heartbeat to pass through. But, once inside, it formed a cloak of near invisibility that could be enhanced by further misdirection.
Billtoe walked beside him, muttering about his lack of respect for his superiors.
Twelve.
‘And the warden? Don’t talk to me about the warden. That man makes decisions that boggle the mind. Too much time in the Indian sun if you ask me. Blooming Calcutta fried his mind.’
Fifteen.
‘The money the man wastes. The cash money. It makes my heart sick. I fair feel ill just talking about it, even to a Salt.’
Nineteen.
Billtoe clicked his fingers at Conor, meaning stop where you are.
Now comes the vital moment. All strands converge. Live or die on this instant.
Billtoe stepped to the wing door, tinging the bell with his fingernail. No response for a long moment, then a familiar mocking voice from the spy hole above.
‘Ah, Billtoe. Is it out, you want? From the mad wing? Are you certain sure that’s the right direction?’
Billtoe’s posture stiffened. A dozen times a day he had to endure this ribbing.
‘Can you not simply open a bolt, Murphy? Turn the wheel and lift the bolt, that is all I require from you.’
‘Sure I know it’s all you require, Arthur. The rest is free, a little daily gift. I am the funny fairy, dropping little lumps of humour on your head.’
Six feet up, the wheel was turned and bolt lifted. The door to the mad wing swung open.
‘If I could put in words how much I hate that man,’ muttered Billtoe, turning. ‘Then Shakespeare himself could kiss my…’
The final word of Billtoe’s sentence turned to dust in his dry throat because his prisoner had disappeared. Vanished into the air.
Not my prisoner, thought Arthur Billtoe. Marshall Bonvilain’s. I am a dead man.
?

While Billtoe stood glaring skywards into the spy hole, Conor found himself rooted to the spot. He had imagined this moment so often that it seemed unreal to him now, as though it could never really materialize. In his mind’s eye he saw himself confidently putting his plan into action, but the flesh-and-bone Conor Finn stayed where he was. One and a half steps to the left of the corridor’s blind spot.
Then Billtoe began his turn, and Conor’s life to come flashed before him. Five more decades under night and water until his skin was leeched of all colour and his eyes were those of a tunnel rat.
Act! he told himself. It is a good plan.
And so he acted in an exhaustively practised series of movements. Conor took a pace and a half to his right, spun round so his muddied back faced Billtoe and tossed his open handcuffs into the grate of the nearest sealed chimney. The rattle drew Billtoe’s eyes away from the blind spot.
‘Stupid boy,’ he groaned. ‘He’s gone up the spouts.’
The guard hurried past Conor, who huddled camouflaged in his hiding place, his brown jacket blending effectively with the corridor walls. Billtoe kicked the grate angrily, then bent low to holler up the chimney.
‘Come down from there, halfwit. They are sealed, all of ’em. The only thing you’ll find up the spouts are the mouldering remains of other scatterfools.’
There was no response, but Billtoe imagined he heard a rustle.
‘Aha!’ he shouted. ‘Your clumsiness betrays you. Down now, Finn, or I will discharge my weapon. Do not doubt it.’
Conor moved like a prowling cat, stealing sideways to the open wing door. He must not reveal himself. This plan would only succeed if nobody worked out that he was gone. To be spotted now would mean a brief chase and a long time recovering from whatever beating the guards decided to dish out. He edged beneath the spy hole, searching for a face. There was none, just the tip of a boot and the lower curve of a cauldron stomach.
Conor slipped across the door saddle, and the closeness of freedom sent him light-headed. He almost bolted for the outer door. Almost. But one stumble now could kill him. It was so close, tantalizing. Only a dark wedge of stained wood separated him from the outside world.
The door opened and two guards strolled through, sharing a snide sniggering joke.
I will have to kill them, decided Conor. It will be easily done. Snag the first’s dagger and gut them both. I can make a run for the balloons.
He flexed his fingers slowly, getting ready for the lunge, but it wasn’t necessary. The guards simply did not see him; they turned towards the mining wing without once pointing an eyeball his way.
I could have murdered them, realized Conor. I was ready to strike.
Even this thought could not delay him for long. Little Saltee guards were not to be seen as normal people. They were cruel gaolers, who would gladly toss him from the highest turret into the maws of the sharks that patrolled the waste pipes.
Conor moved quickly, feeling that his store of good fortune was depleting rapidly, and slipped through the outer doorway as soon as the guards had rounded the corner. He found himself at the foot of a narrow stairway with a rectangular patch of starred night at its end. Twelve steps from open air.
This was the blurred section of his plan. From here to the balloons was unknown territory. He had some memory of his admission to the prison, and Malarkey had educated him in the set-up as much as he could, but prisoners did not climb these stairs, neither did they patrol the wall. He must trust to his wits, and whatever luck was left in the bottom of the barrel.
I will surely fail if I stay here, he thought, mounting the steps two at a time.
Salty air washed over him as he emerged into the darkness, and its tang almost made him cry. Of course there had been air in his cell, but this was pure and fresh, untainted by the smell of offal and sweat.
I had forgotten how sweet the sea air is. Bonvilain took this from me.
He was two steps below ground level now. A low stone wall shielding him from the main courtyard. It seemed smaller than he remembered, barely more than a walled yard. Two aproned butchers worked on a hanging pig carcass on the diagonal corner. They sliced fatty strips of meat from the haunches, rinsing them thoroughly in a water bucket, pushing their thumbs into the folds of flesh, rivulets of blood dripping from their elbows. Conor found himself lost in the image, a sight that he had missed without knowing it. Honest labour. Life and death.
An explosion boomed overhead and swathes of multicoloured sparks rained from the sky. Conor ducked low, then saw that the explosion was of his own design. They were igniting the coronation balloons.
Too early. Too early. It is not yet fully dark.
One of the butchers swore from shock, then caught himself, made a joke of it.
‘Good thing that pig is dead. The fright would have done for him.’
The second, a smaller man, pulled the kerchief from across his nose.
‘To hell with this, Tom. I’m going up on the walls. I don’t care what the warden says.’
The other butcher, Tom, pulled down his own kerchief. ‘You know what? You’re right. The lass is our queen too. Let the warden eat half an hour past due. It’s not as if he hasn’t got enough lard stored away to be getting on with.’
The butchers shared a laugh and hung their aprons on a fence post.
A second balloon exploded, releasing a swarm of dancing golden sparks.
‘Oh, the Saltee Sharpshooters are earning their pay tonight. Look lively now.’
The butchers left their work, skipping sharply up steep stone steps to the crenellated battlements above, leaving the courtyard deserted apart from the prisoner concealing himself in the stairwell. A third balloon exploded, casting stark shadows from the wall, lighting night like a photographer’s phosphorous flash.
Three gone, thought Conor. Three already. Too early.
He scrambled up into the courtyard, improvising a plan as he went. All the months of plotting fell apart in front of his eyes. Timing was everything, and it was all wrong. He skirted the walls, casting furtive glances to the battlements. There were a few soldiers, but most would be on the far side, enjoying the spectacle. And the lee of the wall was made all the darker by the shocks of light from the fireworks. Anyone who had looked directly at them would be without night vision for several moments.
This is all wrong, thought Conor, snatching a butcher’s apron from the fence post. I am supposed to have at least an hour to figure out how the balloons are tied. Billtoe thinks I have bolted up the chimney, so no one will be searching for me out of doors. I should not be harried in this way.
But harried he was, and there was little point wasting seconds rebelling against it. Every second wasted could see another nitroglycerine bullet on the way to its target.
Conor found a bloody kerchief in the apron’s pocket and tied it across his nose, then took another second to thrust his hands and forearms into the pig’s belly, greasing them with blood and gore. A butcher now, to his fingertips.
The nearest stairwell was the one recently mounted by the butchers, so Conor ignored it, boldly crossing to the western wall. He ambled slowly, imitating butcher Tom’s bow-legged gait.
He was not challenged. Nobody saw, or nobody knew. There was a wooden gate at the foot of the stairway, but it was fastened with a simple latch, more to stop it flapping than with a mind for security. Conor pushed through, and up the stairs with him, boots crunching on sand and salt.
A guard stood above, his heels half moons on the top step, rocking gently with the brass music drifting across from Great Saltee. Conor had no choice but to disturb him, edging past with muttered apologies.
‘God, you’re dripping blood, Tom,’ said the guard. ‘This is a coronation not a battlefield. Don’t let the warden smell you on the upper level stinking like that. He has a delicate stomach, though you wouldn’t know it from the size of him.’
Conor faked a convincing enough chuckle, then threaded his way through the throng of guards and staff piled on to the battlements. There were women here too, dressed in coronation finery. All the fashions of the day, Conor supposed, outrageous bodices and leg-of-mutton sleeves.
There are too many people. The warden was throwing a party. Best seats in the islands. This was not a part of my calculations. The wall should be clear for safety reasons. I told Billtoe. I told him.
The Little Saltee parapet walkway was ten feet wide, with a chest-high open gorge wall on the ocean side, and a sheer drop to the main bailey on the other. A rope had been strung along between posts to stop the drunken gentry from stumbling to their deaths. Conor recognized several guards serving drinks, dressed as prisoners in immaculate blue serge overalls. Obviously the warden was hoping to discredit the rumours of unChristian treatment of the inmates. These prisoners were so well treated that they could be trusted to pass out champagne and plates of hors d’oeuvres. There was not a nook or gap without a clay brazier stuck in it, baking skewers of shrimp and lobster for the guests to pluck at. Nowhere for an escaping prisoner to crouch and catch his breath.
Conor wiped the fine mist of salt spray from his face. The mist. He had forgotten that too. How could an islander forget the mist? One more thing on Bonvilain’s account. Worth a few diamonds surely, if Conor had the luck of the devil and managed to cast himself off from this cursed island.
Another balloon exploded, followed a second later by a dozen interlaced swirls of crimson and gold sparks. The Saltee colours. Very amusing for the watching crowd. The sparks flitted to earth in showers casting their light on the waters below, some held their energy until a wave folded over them, like a child catching a star.
A few sparks had the audacity to land on the wall, singeing expensive silk dresses. A great tragedy indeed.
I told him, thought Conor, not unhappy with this development. It is not safe here.
A genteel panic spread through the audience. Champagne glasses were tossed into the sea along with seafood platters, as moneyed folk hurried to the various stairways, preferring not to be set afire by low-flying fireworks.
Pandemonium. Good.
Conor moved against the tide towards the next balloon, reaching for the stout rope fastening it to a brass ring on the battlements. Across the sound Great Saltee was a riot of lights and music. Brass-band tunes thumped across the water, echoing on itself, arriving in waves. There were so many torches and lanterns that the entire island seemed to be ablaze.
His fingers grazed the rope and a second later felt it slacken as the balloon exploded.
Conor swore and quickened his pace. Only six balloons left. He barged through the assembly, caring nothing for angry looks. If any of these gentlemen wished to fight a duel over a rough shouldering, he would have to oblige them another time.
Shouts and protests followed him down the path. He was attracting attention but there was no helping it.
It was a race now. Conor versus the Saltee Sharpshooters. He could only hope that his own father was not holding a rifle as Declan Broekhart rarely missed.
The next balloon detonated, the concussion seeming to shake the very island.
Overloaded that one. Surely.
There were four balloons aloft now and a fifth anchored on the quay wall under a tarpaulin. The moving target. The flying balloons glowed bright like the moons of some distant planet. They bobbed in the wind, difficult shots.
Not difficult enough, two more exploded in quick succession. Conor could hear the applause from Great Saltee. A grand affair indeed.
He made a decision. No time to rein in the flying balloons, he must go for the earthbound. It would be watched by a guard, but that must be risked. It was his last chance in this night of botched plans.
His way was clear now, so Conor ran, butcher’s apron flapping around his legs, the smell of pig blood hot in his nostrils. A guard blocked his way, not intentionally; he was simply there on duty. Conor thought to barge him from the wall, but at the last second changed his mind and ran him into the battlements instead. A sore head was preferable to a crushed skull.
The wall was more or less deserted. High society can move at a pretty pace when their fine garments are under attack. All that stood between Conor and the last balloon was a courtesy rope and another guard who was actually sucking on a lit pipe.
A lit pipe beside a hydrogen balloon.
‘Hello!’ called Conor. ‘You there! Guard.’
The guard stood, eyes round with a natural doziness.
‘Sir. Yessir. What can I… Who do you be?’
Conor leaped the rope with no slowing of his pace. His boots clicked on the uneven cobbles as he hurried towards the guard. The quay wall ran a hundred yards into Saint George’s Channel, acting as a breakwater and a semaphore station.
‘You are smoking, man!’ shouted Conor, in a voice of authority. ‘There is hydrogen in that balloon.’
The guard paled, and then yelped as another balloon burst into multicoloured flames. The rope sagged slowly to earth like a beheaded snake.
‘I… I didn’t know…’ he stammered, tossing his pipe away as though it would bite him. ‘I never thought…’
Conor cuffed the man roughly, knocking off his hat.
‘Idiot. Buffoon. I smell a leak. And you have put sparks on the ground.’
More stammering from the guard, but not one protest that hydrogen was an odourless gas.
‘I must… I must… run away,’ he said, tossing his rifle aside, so that the bayonet raked the cobbles, throwing up more sparks.
‘Dolt,’ said Conor.
‘I didn’t even want the bayonet,’ whined the guard. ‘It’s ceremonial.’
‘We must cut the balloon loose,’ said Conor.
‘You do it. I will commend you for a medal.’
And with that the guard launched himself into space, legs running through the air until they found purchase on a group of rich gawkers in the keep below. The lot of them went down in a pile like skittles.
Conor was alone with the balloon for the moment, but already there were more astute guards mounting the steps, perhaps wondering why a butcher was handing out orders. Conor twisted the bayonet from the rifle, no time to struggle with knots now. He pulled back the greasy tarpaulin to find a glowing balloon encased in a fishing net and tethered to several lobster pots.
Conor held the balloon with his left hand, sawing at the ropes with his right, careful not to puncture the balloon itself.
‘Tom,’ called a voice to his rear. ‘What are you playing at, Tom? That’s the entire show’s climax, that is.’
‘She’s ruptured,’ shouted Conor. ‘And the fuse has caught a spark. I can hear it buzzing. Stand back.’
So, like prudent guards who were paid less than your average street hawker, they stood back for a few moments, but then nothing much happened except a butcher hacking at ropes.
‘Eh, Tom. There’s a two-second fuse on those yokes. You shouldn’t be much more than a smear of butcher-coloured mush on the walls by now.’
‘Oh my God,’ shouted Conor over his shoulder, seeking to spread alarm. ‘God help us all.’
Pike was one of the guards, and he was all too aware that Billtoe would lump him with responsibility for the balloon, and so forged past the others up the steps.
‘Stop what you’re doing, butcher,’ he called, in a voice quavering with fear and forced courage. ‘Cease or I will spill your innards on the stones.’ He hoped the word cease would lend him more authority than he possessed.
The last strand of the last rope pinged and the balloon lurched towards the heavens, almost yanking Conor’s left arm from his socket. He would have let go, had he not tangled the arm in the netting up to the elbow.
‘Help me,’ he shouted, knowing they could never reach him in time. ‘Save me, please.’
Pike thought about shooting the balloon down, but decided against it for two reasons. If his bullet did ignite the fireworks he could kill himself and the several daring minor European royals who had wanted a closer view of the spectacle. Death by whizz-bang was not a pleasant way to go. And even if he survived the fireworks, Billtoe would use his head for a boot polisher.
Better to take a shot and miss completely. He hoisted his rifle, taking careless aim.
‘You’ve had your warning, butcher!’ he yelled, pulling the trigger.
Unfortunately Pike was a terrible shot, and his deliberate miss took the heel from Conor’s boot.
‘Halfwit,’ shouted Conor, then a gust of easterly wind caught the balloon and snatched him away.
The guards watched him go, slack-jawed and befuddled. It was obvious what had happened, but how exactly? And why? Did the man steal the balloon or did the balloon make off with the man?
Pike was struck by the strange beauty of the scene.
‘Look at that,’ he sighed. ‘Just like the fairy wot caught hold of the moon.’
And then, on remembering Billtoe, ‘Stupid butcher.’
Great Saltee

The Saltee islanders were genuinely happy. Now that Good King Nick’s girl had taken her place on the throne, things could go back to the way they had been. Queen Isabella would set matters straight. She was a good girl, a kind girl — had she not demonstrated it a hundred times? Shipping supplies to the Irish poor. Sending the palace masons into town to work on village houses. That girl remembered the name of everyone she met, and would often visit the hospital to welcome new babies to the island.
It was true that Isabella had faded since her father’s assassination. Losing Conor Broekhart had compounded her pain. No father and no shoulder to cry on. But now her grieving was done and Captain Declan Broekhart was by her side, proud as punch, for the entire island to see.
This was a day for celebration, no doubt about it. The only one wearing a sour expression was that old goat Bonvilain, but he hadn’t smiled in public since Chancellor Bismarck tripped over the church steps on a state visit in the late seventies.
Isabella was queen now and Captain Broekhart was himself again. Soon there would be no more taxes, and no more innocents hauled off to Little Saltee on trumped-up charges. No more mercenaries landing on the docks with their rattling haversacks and cruel eyes.
The coronation ceremony had proceeded without a hitch. Isabella’s insistence that the dinner seating be rearranged to accommodate the Broekharts had ruffled a few noble feathers, but the young monarch would not be put off. Declan and Catherine had sat on her left for the entire day, with Queen Victoria on the right. Marshall Bonvilain had been forced to shuffle down two seats at the first table and was not best pleased. Not that he cared a jot where he sat, but Catherine Broekhart had been whispering into Isabella’s ear for the entire day, and he had never liked that woman. Too political for her own good.
Bonvilain sulked through the meal, complaining that the wine was tepid and the soup too salty. The lobster shell, he declared, was far too brittle.
Even Sultan Arif, a Turkish mercenary who had been with Bonvilain for more than fifteen years and risen to the position of captain, raised an eyebrow at this.
‘A Templar concerned for the state of his lobster?’ he said. ‘You have been at court too long, Marshall.’
Bonvilain calmed himself. Sultan was the closest thing he had to a friend, though he would have him murdered without remorse if it ever became necessary. Arif was the only man in the kingdom brave enough to speak plainly.
‘It’s not just the lobster,’ he said, nodding towards Declan Broekhart.
‘Ah, yes. The lapdog remembers that he is actually a guard dog.’
‘Exactly,’ said Bonvilain, happy with Sultan’s imagery.
Sultan tossed a stripped chicken bone on to his plate. ‘In Turkey, if a guard dog turns on its master, then we simply slit the beast’s stomach.’
Bonvilain smiled at the idea. ‘You can always cheer me up, Captain. But this particular dog is very popular, as is his mistress. We must consider this problem carefully.’
Sultan nodded. ‘But don’t rule out my solution.’
Bonvilain stood, as a toast was proposed to the new queen.
‘No,’ he whispered to Sultan Arif. ‘I never rule out stomach slitting.’
Sultan smiled, but his eyes were cold. Every season, he promised himself that he would leave this madman and return to Ushak. In fact, Bonvilain was barely a man any more. He was the devil. And sooner or later the devil destroyed everything in his reach. It was his nature.
After the coronation dinner, the official celebrations began, though for the 3,000 Saltee islanders and more than 6,000 visitors, the celebrations had been in full swing since the moment the papal nuncio laid the ermine-trimmed crown on Isabella’s head.
There was a strong army presence on the street. No one below the rank of lieutenant had been given leave to enjoy the coronation. In fact, Bonvilain had borrowed a company from the English General, Eustace Fitzmorris, stationed in Dublin, and paid handsomely for the privilege. An extra 130 troops with instructions not to tolerate verbal abuse or public drunkenness and to keep a special eye out for Frenchmen acting suspiciously.
There was a carnival atmosphere as Queens Isabella and Victoria mounted the dais outside the palace at Promontory Fort. The citizens congregated in Promontory Square, and listened raptly as the new queen delivered her first royal address.
Bonvilain could not fail to notice that she squeezed Catherine Broekhart’s hand for courage throughout.
Sultan leaned in to comment. ‘A fine speech,’ he said. ‘I especially liked the phrases tax revision and political amnesty.’
Bonvilain made no reply. He was beginning to wonder if he had miscalculated by allowing Isabella to live. He had supposed she would be easily manipulated, and until now she had been. Also, he needed an undisputed heir on the throne. It would be most inconvenient if a dozen or so gold-digging pretenders landed at Saltee Harbour with a family tree rolled up under their arms, and their own agenda for the Saltee diamonds. Great Britain and of course France would be delighted to see political uncertainty in the Saltees — it could be just the excuse they needed to step in and support a new order. This was Bonvilain’s kingdom, but he needed a figurehead to keep him in power.
No, Hugo Bonvilain decided. Isabella needed to live, at least until she provided an heir to rule after her. Then there would be an unfortunate accident. In the royal yacht perhaps.
Sultan spoke again. ‘Ah, you’re smiling. In public too.’
‘Thinking pleasant thoughts,’ said Bonvilain, waving a jolly wave down the line at Declan Broekhart.
Declan Broekhart was on the verge of enjoying himself, though every time a smile tugged at his lips, it was accompanied by a twinge of guilt as he remembered his dead son.
What were you doing in the palace, Conor? How could I have put you in that man’s care?
It was still difficult to believe how easily Victor Vigny had fooled them all. Catherine had refused to believe that Vigny was a spy and assassin, until a search of his quarters revealed a trunk of weapons and poisons, detailed plans of the Saltee defences and a letter from an unnamed author threatening to kill Vigny’s family unless he obeyed his orders.
Catherine saw her husband’s eyes cloud over, and realized she was losing him to memories.
‘Isn’t this fabulous, Declan,’ she said, stroking her husband’s hand. ‘Isabella is queen. A great day for the islands.’
‘Hmm,’ said Declan. ‘Those English soldiers are a disgrace. Ruffians, every last one of them. I wouldn’t be surprised if Fitzmorris cleaned out his prisons. Look at them, unshaven, slouching ne’er-do-wells.’
‘Your sharpshooters look well enough.’
‘Yes, they do,’ said Declan, proud in spite of himself.
A dozen of his men stood on the Great Saltee Wall across the square, level with the top step of the dais. They were buffed, brushed and smart in their dress uniforms, gold epaulettes winking in the lamplight. They seemed almost like identical toy soldiers but for one thing — each carried his own distinctive rifle. Most were Sharps, but there were a couple of Remingtons, an Enfield and even some modified guns. The sharpshooters were the best marksmen on the islands, and it had always been army custom to allow these elite soldiers the weapon of their choice.
One of Isabella’s aides passed a folded note to Declan. He read it quickly, then sighed, relieved that there was no emergency.
‘Queen Victoria is tired,’ he explained to his wife. ‘But she would like to see the balloons before she retires to the royal yacht.’
Catherine smiled. ‘Everyone wants to see these balloons, Declan. Fireworks balloons, what an ingenious idea. Nitroglycerine bullets, I imagine.’
‘You are right, as usual,’ said Declan, thinking, Conor would have adored this. It’s just the kind of harebrained scheme he would have come up with himself. ‘It’s a little early for the full effect. Not yet fully dark.’
Catherine pinched his shoulder. ‘Away with you to your men, husband. This is not a day for disappointing queens.’
‘Or wives for that matter,’ said Declan, with a rare smile.
Declan moved easily across the square. Even the biggest braggarts and drunkards stepped smartly out of his path. It did not do to trifle with an officer of the Wall with a Saltee Sharphooters’ badge on his shoulder. Especially Declan Broekhart, who didn’t have much use for life since a rebel took his son.
His men were waiting on the Wall, faces sweating above stiff collars and below hard hats.
‘Not long to go, boys,’ said Declan, digging deep inside himself to find the spring of camaraderie that once flowed freely. ‘A pint of Guinness for every man who finds the target.’ He peered across the sound at the glowing balloons straining on their leashes, nearly a mile away in half darkness. ‘Make that two pints of Guinness.’
‘Now you’re talking,’ muttered one brave lieutenant, a skinny Kilmore man whose father had served on the Wall before him.
Captain Broekhart grunted. ‘She’s all yours, Bates.’
Bates leaned a modified Winchester on the battlements, flicking up his sights.
‘Your own barrel?’ asked his captain.
‘Yessir,’ said the sharpshooter. ‘Had it bored special, and added three inches to the length. Keeps the bullet on the straight for another hundred yards or so.’
Declan was impressed. ‘A neat trick, Lieutenant. Where did you pick that up?’
‘You, sir,’ said Bates, and pulled the trigger.
It was a long shot. Long enough that they heard the gunshot before the bullet hit its mark. The glowing globe exploded in a riotous ball of Chinese sparks.
‘Two pints to me,’ said Bates, grinning.
Declan groaned ruefully. ‘I shall be a poor man before the night is out.’
He turned to wave across the square at Catherine. She was on her feet applauding, as was everyone on the dais, including the normally stern Queen Victoria. Isabella, who had not yet got the hang of royal decorum, was hooting with delight.
Declan turned to his men.
‘It looks like you boyos are to be the heroes of the night. So, who will be the next to take beer from me?’
A dozen rifles were instantly cocked.
Conor flew up so fast, it felt as though he were falling down. None of his calculations could have prepared him for the sheer chaos of his flight. He’d entertained notions of a brisk elevation, but calm and steady, with time to collect his thoughts and observe his surroundings. In short, master of the situation.
But this was a waking nightmare. Of all the elements in this equation, Conor had least control. There was wind in his face, blasting across his eyeballs, stuffing into his ears. He was deafened and almost blind. His arm was strained to the limits of muscle and bone, and finally with a violent gust of wind, nature casually dislocated Conor’s shoulder. The pain was a white-hot hammer blow that spread across his upper chest.
I have failed. I cannot escape alive. Just let me lose consciousness and wake in Paradise.
This class of fatalistic thought was not normal for Conor, but these were extraordinary circumstances.
It seemed as though his arm would be ripped away utterly, and when this did not happen, his keen senses sliced through the fog of pain and pandemonium which enveloped him.
The balloon was gaining height, but its acceleration had slowed, and the air currents were calmer at this particular altitude. Conor knew he had to make any observations he could during this lull.
Altitude? Perhaps fifteen hundred feet. Drifting towards Great Saltee.
The islands shone below him like diamonds in the foreboding sea. Hundreds of lamps bobbed on the decks of visiting crafts, anchored off Saltee Harbour. Stars above and below.
He must separate from the balloon now. He was lower than he would like, but the wind was taking him out to sea faster than he’d calculated, and with his injured shoulder, Conor would be pressed to keep himself afloat for any length of time.
It was vital that Conor disentangle his arm from the netting, but he found that even a simple act such as finding one hand with the other was almost impossible in this situation. Pain, disorientation and wind shear would make normal motor functions a challenge for a man at peak physical condition, not to mention an injured and exhausted convict.
He had no control over joints or fingers, and the pain now seemed to come from his heart. Conor had dropped the bayonet and was forced to tug at the netting with fumbling fingers. It was impossible. His arm was wrapped up snugger than a turkey in an ice box. Conor Finn was ocean bound. His only hope was that the balloon was badly made and would pop its seams in the next minute.
Below him, the second from last balloon exploded, turning a black sky gold and red for a moment before the darkness reclaimed the night.
Perfect, thought Conor, smiling numbly. It worked perfectly. High-class fireworks. Holding their light for several seconds. What a pity I am not suspended below that balloon, instead of stranded in the night sky.
In his original plan he would be suspended far below one of the balloons when the Sharpshooters shot it down. The balloon would lift him free from the prison, then a bullet would bring him back to earth.
He wondered absently if he was the first person to see fireworks from above. Probably not. No doubt some intrepid aeronaut had sent up a balloon on an anchor.
A thought struck Conor.
I am flying as no man has flown before. No basket, no ballast. Just a man and his balloon.
And, somehow, this thought gave him some comfort in spite of his dire situation. He was alone in the skies, the only man here. Breathing rarefied air, blue-black expanse on all sides. No walls. No prison door.
Where will they find me? Wales? France? Or, if the wind changes, Ireland? What will they make of the device on my chest? My innovations?
Conor felt a measure of triumph too.
I have defeated you, Bonvilain. You will not use me, or torture me at your leisure. I am free.
There was also regret.
Mother. Father. Never an opportunity to explain.
But even in this mortal danger, Conor harboured a touch of bitterness.
How could you believe Bonvilain, Father? Why haven’t you saved me?
The Coronation Balloons were a tremendous success, drawing huge applause with every successful pop. The sharpshooters were putting on a great show, with only Keevers missing his mark, and even then only because his nitroglycerine bullet exploded in the barrel, buckling his weapon like a rye-grass drinking straw.
Those firework boys were clever blighters, Declan had to admit. Each balloon was a bigger bang than the last, all carefully sequenced. The last one had shaken the very Wall itself. If Queen Isabella wasn’t careful she might lose her crown.
Catherine looked beautiful tonight, up there beside her queen. She looked beautiful every night, but he hadn’t noticed for a while. For two years in fact.
Conor would want his mother to be happy, perhaps his father too.
‘Excuse me, sir.’
It was Bates. No doubt looking for his Guinness.
‘A minute, Bates. I’m having a moment here. Thinking about my wife. You should try it instead of harassing a superior officer for beer.’
‘No, sir, it’s not the Guinness, though I haven’t forgotten it.’
‘What then?’ said Declan, trying to hold on to his good mood.
‘The moving target. The big finale, sir. They’ve let ’er up too early. Not my fault is all I’m saying. No one could hit that target. Must be over a mile, and the sea breeze has got her.’
Declan gazed across the square at Catherine. Glowing she was, and he knew why. Maybe her husband was coming home, at last. She needed a sign.
He held out his hand to Bates. ‘Give me your weapon, Sharpshooter.’
As soon as Declan’s fingers wrapped around the stock, he knew he would make the shot. It was fate. Tonight was the night.
‘Is she ready?’
‘Yes sir. One in the saddle, ready for the off. Little jerky on the recoil — hope your shoulder hasn’t gone soft. You being a captain and so forth.’
Declan grunted. Bates had a mouth on him and no denying it. Any other night and the young lieutenant would be slopping out the latrines.
‘Target?’
‘Big glowing ball in the sky, sir.’
‘Your sense of self-preservation should be all a-tingle right now, Bates.’
Bates coughed. ‘Yessir, I mean, target eleven o’clock high and right, sir, Captain, sir.’
Declan caught the balloon in his sights. It was barely more than a speck now. A pale moon in a sea of stars.
Holy God, he thought. I hope this is a straight-shooting rifle.
But he knew Bates, and the only thing sharper than his mouth was his aim.
Declan pulled the rifle’s nose up a few inches to allow for the drop off, then a few to the left to compensate for the cross breeze. Marksmanship could be learned up to a point, but after that it was all natural talent.
Balloons and guns, thought Declan. Just like Paris the day you were born, Conor. But that time you came down with the balloon.
Declan felt his eyes blur and he blinked them clear, this was not the time for tears.
Conor, my son, your mother and brother need me now, but I will never forget you and what you did for the Saltees. Look down and see this as a sign.
Declan took a breath, held it, then caressed the trigger, leaning into his right foot to absorb the recoil. The nitroglycerine bullet sped from the extended barrel towards its target.
That’s for you, Conor, he thought, and the final Coronation Balloon exploded, brightly enough to be visible from heaven.
Behind him, the entire island roared in appreciation, except for Bonvilain, who seemed lost in thought, which was never good for the one being thought of.
Declan tossed the rifle to Bates. ‘Nice weapon you have there, Lieutenant, nearly as dangerous as your mouth.’
Even Bates was awed by this impossible shot. ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. That was a historic hit, Captain. Where do we stand on the beer now?’
But Declan was not listening; he was staring across the square, over the heads of the cheering mob. Catherine met his gaze across the distance. Her hands covered her nose and mouth; all he could see of that beautiful face were her dark eyes. In the orange glow of electric orbs, Declan could see that his wife was crying.
Her husband has come home.
The balloon exploded, flames igniting the fireworks pack before the fuse ever had the chance. The concussion perforated one of Conor’s eardrums and a riot of sparks peppered his skin like a million bee stings. He was engulfed in a cocoon of raging flame which ate his clothing and crisped the hairs on his arms and legs, singeing his beard back to the jawline. As serious as these injuries were, Conor had expected much worse.
Then gravity took hold, yanking him back to earth with invisible threads. Down he went, too shocked to cry out. This had never been the plan. There was supposed to be ten fathoms of rope between him and the balloon, dangerous certainly, but a lot healthier than riding the balloon itself.
There was something he was supposed to do. The plan had a next stage surely.
Of course! The device!
Conor forced his good hand down against the airflow, pulling aside the smouldering remnants of his jacket.
My God! There were sparks on the device.
The device was, of course, a parachute. Aeronauts had been jumping out of balloons for almost a century with varying success. In America, dropping animals from balloons had become popular after the Civil War. But jumps had only been performed as entertainment, in perfect weather conditions. Rarely at night, hardly ever from an altitude under 6,000 feet and positively never with a flaming parachute.
Conor located the release cord and pulled. He’d been forced to pack his chute carefully into a flour bag then strap it across his chest. He could only pray that the lines would come out untangled, or else the parachute would not even open. As it was, at this low altitude it was quite possible that the parachute would not have time to spread at all, and would merely provide him with a shroud for his watery grave.
The release cord was sewn to the tip of a tiny parachute, much like those Victor and Conor had often used to sail wooden mannequins from the palace turrets. In theory, the drag on this parachute would be enough to pull out the larger one. This was one of the many new ideas Conor had scrawled in the mud at the back of his cell. He had hoped, at the time, that all of his inventions would not have to be tested in such outrageous circumstances.
Though Conor did not see it happen, his small parachute performed perfectly, slipping from its niche like a baby marsupial from the pouch. It shivered in the wind for a moment, then popped its mouth open, catching the air. Its fall was instantly slowed, while Conor’s was not. The resulting tension dragged the larger parachute into the night air. The silk rustled past Conor’s face, bouncing the wind in its folds.
No tangled lines. No snagged folds. Please, God.
His prayers were answered, and the white silk of the parachute sprang open to its limits cleanly, with a noise like cannon shot. The severity of the deceleration caused the harness straps to snap hard against Conor’s back, leaving an x-shaped rope burn that he would carry for the rest of his life.
Conor was largely beyond rational thought now and could only wonder why the moon seemed to be following him. Not only that, but it appeared to be on fire. Angry orange sparks chewed away large sections, so that he could see the stars through the holes.
Not the moon. My parachute.
It seemed to Conor then, that he was still in his cell, in the planning stages and his imagination was throwing up possible problems.
If sparks from the balloon catch on the parachute silk, that will indeed be a dire development, because it will mean that someone has shot the balloon, in spite of me loosing it from the wall. If this happens, I can only hope that my velocity has decreased sufficiently to make a water landing survivable.
Conor’s descent was steady enough now that he could distinguish sea from sky. Below him the islands were rushing up fast. He could see Isabella’s palace and of course the Great Saltee Wall, with its rows of electric lamps, that had been described by The New York Times as the First Wonder of the Industrial World.
If I could steer, Conor thought, the lights would guide me in.
The boats spun below him in a maelstrom of light. Quickly the largest of the boats filled his vision and he realized that he would land there. There was no avoiding the craft. It loomed from the black depths like one of Darwin’s bioelectric jellyfish.
Conor felt no particular sadness, more the disappointment of a scientist whose experiment has failed.
Ten feet left and I might have survived, he thought. Science is indeed a slave to nature.
But chance had one more freakish card to play on this night of unlikely extremes. A heartbeat after his parachute dissolved into blackened embers, Conor crashed into the royal yacht Victoria and Albert II at a speed of some forty miles an hour. He hit the third starboard lifeboat, slicing a clean rent in the blue tarpaulin, which would not be noticed for two days. Below the tarpaulin was a bed of cork lifejackets, temporarily stored there until hooks could be hung to hold them.
Two days earlier and the recently requisitioned jackets would not have been on-board, three days later and they would have been distributed about the yacht.
Despite the parachute and tarpaulin, Conor’s bulk and speed drove him through the cork to the deck. His dislocated shoulder punched through to the floorboards, where he bounced once then came to rest.
The bilges must be spotless, he thought dimly. Nothing to smell but wood and paint.
And then: I do believe the impact righted my shoulder. What are the odds? Astronomical.
This was his final thought before oblivion claimed him. Conor Broekhart did not move a muscle for the rest of the night. He dreamed vividly but in two colours only: crimson and gold.