Airman

Chapter 2:

LA BROSSE

Conor Broekhart was quite the hero for a time. It seemed as though everyone on the island visited him at the castle infirmary to listen to the tale of his improvised glider, and to knock for luck on the gypsum cast on his broken leg.
Isabella came every day, and often brought her father, King Nicholas. On one of these visits he brought his sword.
‘I didn’t want to jump off the tower,’ Conor objected. ‘I couldn’t think of another way.’
‘No, no,’ said Nicholas. ‘This is the Trudeau ceremonial sword. I am making you a peer.’
‘You are making me appear?’ said Conor doubtfully. ‘Is this a magical trick?’
Nicholas smiled. ‘In a way. One touch of this sword and you become Sir Conor Broekhart. Your father then becomes Lord Broekhart; of course your mother will become Lady Broekhart.’
Conor was still a little worried about the crusader’s blade five inches from his nose.
‘I don’t have to kiss that, do I?’
‘No, just touch the blade. Even one finger will do. We will have a proper ceremony when you are well.’
Conor ran a finger along the shining blade. It sang under his touch.
Nicholas put the sword aside. ‘Arise, Sir Conor. Not straight away, of course. Take your time. When you are well, I have a new teacher for you. A very special man who worked with me when I flew balloons. I think that you, of all people, will really like him.’
Balloons!
As far as Conor was concerned the king could keep his peerage, so long as he could fly balloons.
‘I am feeling much better, Your Majesty. Perhaps I could meet this man today.’
‘Steady on, Sir Conor,’ laughed the king. ‘I will ask him to drop by tomorrow. He has a few drawings you might like to look at. Something about heavier-than-air flying machines.’
‘Thank you, Your Majesty. I look forward to it.’
The king chuckled, ruffling Conor’s hair.
‘You saved my daughter, Conor. You saved her from my carelessness and her own tinkering fingers. I will never forget that. Never.’ He winked. ‘And neither will she.’
The king left, leaving his daughter behind. She had not spoken for the entire meeting, indeed she had not said much to Conor since the accident. But today some of the old light was back in her brown eyes.
‘Sirrrrr Conor,’ she said rolling the title around in her mouth like a hard sweet. ‘It’s going to be more difficult to have you hanged now.’
‘Thank you, Isabella.’
The princess leaned in to knock on his cast.
‘No, Sir Conor Broekhart. Thank you.’
?

Someone else came to see Conor that day, late in the evening when the nurse had shooed his mother home. The infirmary was deserted save for the night nurse who sat at her station at the end of the corridor. She drew a curtain round Conor’s bed and left a light on so that he could read his book.
Conor leafed through George Cayley’s On Ariel Navigation, which theorized that a fixed-wing aircraft with some form of engine and a ruddered tail could possibly carry a man through the air.
Heavy reading for a nine-year-old. In truth Conor skipped more words than he knew, but with each pass he understood more.
Engine and tail, he thought. Better than a flying flag at any rate. And fell asleep dreaming of a shining sword wrapped in a flag, sinking in Saint George’s Channel.
He awoke to the sound of a boot heel scraping on stone, and the heavy sigh of a large man. A sigh so guttural that it was almost a growl. This was a sound to make a boy decide to pretend that he was still asleep. Conor opened his eyes the merest slit, careful to keep his breathing deep and regular.
There was a man in his bedside chair, his massive frame swathed in shadows. By the red cross on his breast he saw it was one of the Holy Cross Guard. Marshall Bonvilain himself.
Conor’s breath hitched, and he covered it with a small moan, as though plagued by night terrors.
What could Bonvilain want here? At this hour?
Sir Hugo was the direct descendant of Percy Bonvilain who had served under the first Trudeau king seven centuries before. Historically the Bonvilain’s were high commanders of the Saltee Army and were also given leave to assemble their own Holy Cross Guard, which at one time was used to conduct raids to the mainland or hired out to European kings as professional soldiers. The current Bonvilain was the last in the line and the most powerful. In fact, Sir Hugo would have been declared prime minister some years earlier when King Hector died, had not a genealogist discovered Nicholas Trudeau eking out a living as an aeronaut in the United States.
Sir Hugo was an unusual combination of warrior and wit. He had the bulk of a lifelong soldier, but also the ability to present devastating argument in a surprisingly mellow voice.
If that Saltee fellow don’t cut you one way, he does it t’other, Benjamin Disraeli reportedly said of the marshall.
Conor had once heard his father say that Bonvilain’s only weakness was his burning distrust of other nations, especially France. The marshall had once heard a rumour of the existence of a French army of spies, La Légion Noire, whose mission was to gather intelligence on Saltee defences. Bonvilain spent thousands of guineas hunting members of the fictitious group.
Bonvilain’s breath was deep and regular as though he were resting; only a gloved finger tapping his knee betrayed that he was awake.
‘Asleep, boy?’ he said suddenly, his voice all honey and menace. ‘Or maybe awake, feigning sleep.’
Conor held his silence, shutting his eyes tight — suddenly, without reason, terrified.
Bonvilain hunched forward on his chair. ‘I never really took notice of you before now, little Broekhart. The first time, you were a baby. But this time, this time it could fairly be said that you… saved someone who should be dead. Broekharts. Always Broekharts.’
Conor heard leather stretch and creak, as Hugo Bonvilain clenched a gloved fist.
‘So I wanted to see you. I like to know the faces of my… of my king’s friends.’
Conor could smell the marshall’s cologne, feel his breath.
‘But I have said too much already, boy. You need peace and quiet to recuperate from your miraculous escape. Truly miraculous. But remember that I am watching you, very closely. The knights are watching you.’
Bonvilain stood in a rustle of the Holy Cross sheath he wore over his suit.
‘Very well, young Broekhart, time for me to go. Perhaps I was never here. Perhaps you are dreaming. It might be better for you if you were.’
The curtain round his bed swished as the marshall took his leave.
Conor dared to open his eyes after a moment to find Bonvilain’s face an inch from his own.
‘Ah, awake after all. Capital. I forgot to knock the cast. I could certainly benefit from some of your luck.’
Conor lay rigid and silent as the marshall hoisted his broken leg uncomfortably high, then administered two sharp raps on the gypsum cast.
‘Let us hope you don’t give away all of that wondrous luck, young Broekhart. You might be needing it.’
Bonvilain winked, and was gone, the curtain rippling behind him like a ghost.
Perhaps it was a dream after all. Just a nightmare.
But the dull pain from Bonvilain’s hoisting still throbbed in his leg. Conor Broekhart slept little for the rest of the night.
Of the billion and a half of people on Earth, there were perhaps five hundred that could have helped Conor achieve his potential as a pilot of the skies. One of these was King Nicholas Trudeau and another was Victor Vigny. That these three should be brought together at such a time of industrious invention was little short of miraculous.
The race for flight is littered with such fortuitous groupings. William Samuel Henson and John Stringfellow, Joseph Louis Gay-Lussac and Jean Baptiste Biot, and of course Charles Green and the astronomer Spencer Rush. The Wright brothers can hardly be included in this category, as it was almost inevitable that they would meet, sleeping as they did in the same bed chamber.
Conor had long known of King Nicholas’s interest in ballooning, after all it had been his livelihood for many years. Conor and Isabella had spent many nights by the fireside in Nicholas’s apartment enthralled by the king’s dramatic tellings of his airborne adventures. Victor Vigny was a familiar figure in these stories. He was generally presented as small in stature, broad of accent, timid and inevitably in need of rescue by King Nicholas.
The Victor Vigny that Conor met on his first day of instruction did not tally with King Nicholas’s description. He was neither tiny nor timid, and according to castle talk, it was Victor Vigny who had rescued the king.
The day after his release from the infirmary, Conor limped into Victor’s quarters on the second storey of the main building. This particular apartment had always been set aside for visiting royalty, but now the Parisian seemed firmly ensconced. The walls were covered with charts, and celestial models hung from the ceiling. A skeleton in the corner wore a scorched feathered cap and a scimitar was clutched in his bony grip. There were more swords in a rack, arranged from light to heavy. Foil, sabre, broadsword.
The man himself was on the balcony, stripped to the waist, performing some kind of exercise. He was a tall muscled man, and seemed by his movements not in the least timid.
Conor thought he would watch a while before interrupting. The Parisian’s movements were slow and precise. Fluid and controlled. Conor had the impression that this particular discipline was more difficult than it looked.
‘It’s not polite to spy,’ said Victor, without turning, his accent not so broad but definitely French. ‘You are not a spy, are you?’
‘I am not spying,’ said Conor. ‘I am learning.’
Vigny straightened, then adopted a new position, knees bent, arms stretched to the side.
‘That is a very good answer,’ he said, grinning. ‘Come out here.’
Conor limped to the balcony.
‘This is called t’ai chi. Practised since the fourteenth century in China. I learned it from a juggler on the fair circuit. That man claimed to be a hundred and twenty years old. A regimen for mind and body. It will be our first lesson every day. Followed by Okinawan Karate and then fencing. After breakfast we open the books. Science, mathematics, history and fiction. Mostly in the area of aeronautics, which happens to be my passion, jeune homme. Yours too, I’ll wager, judging by your kite-flying exploits.’
Karate and aeronautics. These did not sound like traditional occupations for a princess.
‘Will Isabella be coming?’
‘Not until eleven. She has needlepoint, etiquette and heraldry until then, though she may occasionally join us for fencing. So, for four hours every day, we can learn how to fight and how to fly.’
Conor smiled. Fighting and flying. His last teacher had started the day with Latin and poetry. Sometimes Latin poetry. Fighting and flying sounded much more enjoyable.
‘Now, how does the leg feel?’ asked Victor, pulling on a shirt.
‘Broken,’ said Conor.
‘Ah, not only a flyer but a joker. No doubt you’ll be spouting witticisms as your glider plunges into the side of a mountain.’
Glider? thought Conor. I am to have a glider. And something about a mountain?
Victor took a step back, folded his arms and took measure of his pupil. ‘You have potential,’ he said at last. ‘A slim build. The best for an airman. Most people don’t realize that flying a balloon takes a degree of athleticism, quick reactions and so forth. I imagine piloting an engine-driven heavier-than-air flying machine will take much more.’
Conor’s heart thumped in his chest.
A flying machine?
‘And you have brains. Your tower rescue proved that. More brains than that king of yours. Stocking a laboratory with explosives. He’s been doing that for years you know; it was only a matter of time. As for your personality, Princess Isabella says that you are not the most odious person in the castle, and coming from a female that is high praise indeed, Sir Conor.’
Conor winced. His title still sounded outrageous to him. If it were never used again, he would be happier. Though he had noticed today that cook gave him a toffee apple for no particular reason. And curtsied too. Curtsied? This was the same cook who had battered his backside with a floury rolling pin not two weeks before.
‘So, are you ready to learn, lad?’
Conor nodded. ‘Yes, sir. More than ready, eager.’
‘Good,’ said Victor. ‘Excellent. Now, hobble this way. I have some unguents that should help that leg of yours on its way to soundness. And exercises too, for the toes.’
All of this sounded far-fetched, but no more so than an engine-driven, heavier-than-air flying machine. It was the age of discovery and Conor was prepared to believe anything.
Victor pulled a ceramic jar from a high shelf. The lid was waxed canvas, tied on with reeds. When the cover came off, the smell was like nothing or nowhere Conor had ever smelled or been.
‘An African man from the Sahara — had a camel act — taught me how to make this.’ He took a dollop on two fingers and smeared it where the cast met Conor’s leg, below the knee. ‘Let it seep down under the cast. Smells like Beelzebub’s backside, but, when the gypsum comes off, the bad leg will be better than the good one.’
The unguent sent Conor’s skin tingling. Hot and cold at the same time.
‘If we are scientists,’ he said, keeping his tone respectful, ‘why do we need to fight?’
Victor Vigny sealed the pot, thinking about his answer. ‘I fully expect, Conor Broekhart, that between the two of us, we will learn to fly, and when that day comes, when we reveal our wondrous machine, someone will come to steal it from us. It has happened to me before. I built a glider from willow and silk: beautiful. She made the air sing when she passed. I flew a monkey over a hundred feet. For six weeks I was the toast of the fair. Tent full every night.’
Conor could see the glider in his mind. A monkey. Fabulous.
‘What happened?’
‘There was a Russian knife thrower. He came around to my wagon one night, with half a dozen friends. They burned my glider to ashes, and gave me a few licks to send me on my way. Threatened, you see, by progress. When the choices are a flying monkey or a knife thrower, who would pick the knife thrower?’
‘The knife thrower’s mother perhaps.’
Victor ran his fingers through his black hair to ensure it was appropriately erect. ‘Maybe, funny jeune homme. But then again, the females love a nice monkey. Many’s the mother would ignore her own kin for the chance to gawk at an airborne simian. The point being that, when the knife throwers come, you must be prepared.’
Conor thought about Marshall Bonvilain’s visit.
Let us hope you don’t give away all of that wondrous luck, young Broekhart. You might be needing it.
‘Where do we start?’ he asked.
Victor plucked a slim blade from the rack. ‘We start at the heart of swordplay,’ he said, slicing the air till it whistled. ‘With the foil.’
And so work began.
In later, darker times, when Conor Broekhart, alone and disheartened, remembered the life that was his, the handful of years with Victor Vigny always stood out as the happiest.
They studied martial arts, pugilism and weapons.
‘The first true fencing master to leave us an actual method of arms was Achille Marozzo,’ Victor told his pupil. ‘His Opera Nova is now your bible. Read it until it becomes a part of you. When that one is ragged, then we move back in time to Filippo Vadi.’
They spent hours on training mats putting the masters’ theories into practice.
‘First you learn to hold a sword. Think of it as a conductor’s baton. Used properly, there is not an untrained man in the world who can stand against you.’
With buttoned swords, Conor learned to thrust, parry, feint, double and riposte. He lost pints of liquid each morning in sweat, then replaced them with a jug of Victor’s foul-tasting Oriental tea.
His first weapon was a short foil, but as his wrists grew stronger he progressed to épée, sabre and rapier. Victor sawed the cast off Conor’s leg a month early, but forced him to wear a soaked bandage instead that turned his leg yellow, along with all his bed linen.
‘More circus tricks?’ Conor had asked.
‘No,’ replied the Frenchman. ‘An American friend of mine is a miracle worker with poultices and pots. Actually Nick has sent for him. I will tell you more when he has finished his work.’ And would say no more on the subject.
Victor had little time for anything heavier than a cutlass.
‘No broadsword, unless you plan to go on a crusade, and even then look what happened to the crusaders. While they were hefting their broadswords, Saladin was sticking his scimitar into their armpits.’
The Frenchman introduced Conor to escapology.
‘Scientists are the enemies of tradition,’ he said, dumping a box of assorted handcuffs on the table. ‘And tradition owns all the prisons.’
And so, more hours were spent picking locks and chewing knots. Conor found the t’ai chi most valuable when he was tied to a chair with a tantalizing apple shining at him from the table. He was now able to reach parts of his own body that previously he could not have located with a backscratcher and mirror.
Victor was a great believer in the right man for the job.
‘You need to talk to your father about guns,’ he told Conor. ‘Nick tells me that Declan Broekhart is the finest shot he has ever seen, and we spent a summer with Wild Bill Hickok in Abilene, so that’s high praise.’
Declan was delighted to help with his son’s education, and began taking Conor on Wall patrol, and down to the shooting range with a duffel bag of arms. He shot Colts, Remingtons, Vetterli-Vitalis, Spencers, Winchesters and a dozen other models. Conor was a quick study, and a natural marksman.
‘For your fourteenth birthday you shall have your own Sharps,’ his father promised him. ‘By then we should know what would suit your shoulder. I would give you one for your next, but your mother says ten is too young.’
The only weapon Victor did give Conor a few pointers on was his prized Colt Peacemaker, which Wild Bill himself had given him.
‘He invited me to come to Deadwood with him,’ he told Conor. ‘But it was not the right career choice for an aeronaut. Prospectors tend to shoot down balloons. Also I am too handsome for a prospecting town.’
All of these physical lessons were fine, but what Conor really yearned for was a mental challenge. Victor had promised him that they would build a flying machine, and the Frenchman did not disappoint. The ability to defend oneself was a necessity, but the race for flight was an obsession.
‘And it is a race, jeune homme,’ he told Conor, one morning as they stretched silk over a balsa wing frame. The wood had been part of a special shipment from Peru. ‘Many of the world’s greatest inventors and adventurers have turned their attention to this problem. Man will fly; it is inevitable. More than twenty years ago, Cayley’s triplane glider carried a passenger. Wenham and Browning have built a wind tunnel to study drag. Alphonse Pénaud was so certain of his designs that he drew up plans for retractable landing gear. Retractable! The race is on, Conor, make no mistake, and we must be first past the finishing line. Fortunately, the king supports our efforts, so we will not want for funds. Nicholas knows what the power of flight would mean to the Saltees. The islands would no longer be cut off from the world. Diamonds could be transported without threat from bandits. Medicines could be flown in from Europe. Flown in, Conor.’
Conor did think about this. He thought of nothing else. Any free minutes he had were taken up with sketching plans or building models. He forgot all about pirate games and insect eating.
Sometimes his father despaired. ‘Wouldn’t you like to make a friend? Perhaps play in the mud, get yourself dirty?’
But Conor’s mother was delighted that their son had inherited her own love of science. ‘Our boy is a scientist, Declan,’ she would say as she helped him to cover a wing, or carve a propeller. ‘The race for flight will hardly be won in the mud.’
Conor made a lampshade for the light in his room. A paper screen painstakingly decorated with depictions of da Vinci’s flapping-wing device, a Montgolfier balloon and Kaufman’s theoretical flying steam engine. Heat from the bulb rotated the shade at night, and Conor would lie in bed watching projections of these fabulous machines drift across his ceiling.
One day, he would think dreamily. One day.