Novel - Airman (30 page)

Conor squatted on the grass, dumbstruck by these tidings. It was the worst possible turn of events.
He plans to mur
der your family.

What can I do? What can be done?

Linus read his mind. “You must forget America now, Conor. It is time for action.”

“I know. Of course. But what must I do?” asked Conor.

“It’s a puzzle,” replied Linus. “Bonvilain knows you are coming. Exactly when and where. They will be watching sea and sky, waiting for the Airman.”

“I could surrender myself,” blurted Conor, desperation large on his features. “Then the marshall would have no need to kill anyone. His secrets would be safe.”

Linus disagreed vehemently. “No! It’s too late for that, Conor. Bonvilain doesn’t know who you have spoken to or what army you may have gathered with your stolen diamonds.”

“But why does he tell me about the dinner? To torment me?”

“To ensnare you,” corrected Linus. “All of his enemies die in one night, and the Airman is their murderer. Blaming you for murder is a tried and trusted method for Hugo Bonvilain.”

Conor sat still as a statue, staring at the stones as though they would yield up the solution to his terrible dilemma. A breeze funneled through his fingers, and sunshine warmed his crown; but what could these normal things mean to him? Would a normal life ever be his?

“Conor?” said Wynter, crawling forward, one hand reaching ahead, patting the air. Conor? Are you all right?”

Conor made no sound but shallow breathing, and Linus realized that he would have to take charge. “We must leave the tower,” he said, attempting to sound brisk and businesslike. “We load what we can onto the cart and leave here tonight. Even if Bonvilain sends soldiers to hunt for you, they may not know to look for Conor Finn.”

There was a rustle of grass and cloth as Conor climbed to his feet. If Linus could have seen his young friend’s eyes, he would have been struck by the sudden determination burning there.

“Conor Finn?” said the Airman. “Conor Finn is dead. My name is Conor Broekhart, and I need to speak to my father.”

CHAPTER 18: HEAVIER THAN AIR

It was clear to Conor that there was only one way to end this nightmare. He must expose the marshall as a murderer. Running away was no longer an option, now that Bonvilain was threatening his loved ones. Confronting the marshall would at least give the Broekharts and the monarchy a fighting chance to survive.

That is how my father would wish it. He may hate me, but surely the truth will change that.
Conor knew now that he should have made himself known that night on Great Saltee when he had seen his young brother; but his parents had seemed so happy without him. So safe. To embrace him as part of the family would have put them all in danger.

False reasoning. Weak logic.

Making contact now would be close to impossible. Bonvilain was expecting him and would have every man on the Wall with orders to shoot on sight, as often as possible. They knew he traveled by glider and boat and so would be expecting those crafts; but there might be a third option.

* * *

Conor purchased a fresh horse in the village for an exorbitant amount and rode it hard back to where he had hastily concealed the laden cart. Not a moment too soon, as there were half a dozen local boys perched atop the tarpaulin, picking at the ropes like curious monkeys. Conor considered hunting the lads off, but decided to employ them instead. Each boy was offered the staggering sum of a rough diamond for his strength and silence. Needless to say, the offers were accepted, as a single stone was worth a year of a grown man’s wages.

Even with the help of his new apprentices, it took sweaty hours of heaves and grunts to free the cart from within the tree trunks, and almost as long to back it onto the road.

“Now, buckos,” Conor said to his troops, once the horse was hitched and ready. “Hot chocolate for all if we make it to St. Patrick’s Bridge before dark.”

The boys put their shoulders to the cart with gusto. Hot chocolate, diamonds, and mysterious cargo! They felt like princes on a quest.

St. Patrick’s Bridge was a long pebbled bar, curving from the mainland toward the Saltees. Legend had it that when Saint Patrick was chasing the devil from Ireland, he finally managed to trap him in the Galtee Mountains. The devil took two huge bites from the slopes to clear himself a path, and off he scarpered into County Wexford with Saint Patrick in hot pursuit, hurling rocks and boulders gathered in the fields.

Old Nick was forced into the water at Kilmore, and swam hard for the open sea, stones peppering the water around him.

These stones were to form St. Patrick’s Bridge. A couple struck the devil on the noggin, knocking the chunks of mountain from his gob and into the ocean. The smaller became Little Saltee, the larger Great Saltee.

Conor had never believed these stories, putting his faith in coastline erosion and ocean currents, but today, glancing out to sea at the dark, jagged islands, it was easy to believe that they were the devil’s work.

Conor and his crew arrived at the field above St. Patrick’s Bridge with an hour of sunlight still left in the day. A winding path led down to the bridge itself, but it was too treacherous to be negotiated by horse and cart. Everything would have to be carried.

Conor stood on the cart and issued instructions like a general commanding his troops.
Carry the lot down. Lay the pieces high on the bridge, above the waterline.
Everything was breakable and secret. So care and silence were the orders of the day.

The moment Conor stripped back the tarpaulin, it became obvious what the secret cargo was. Wings, engine, propeller.

One boy, the leader of the small pack, stepped forward, half terrified, half incredulous. “Sir, would you be the Airman what stuck it to those prison guards?”

Conor noted the gleam in their eyes, the lust for extraordinary adventure. “I am indeed the Airman, and I need your help. What say you, boys?”

The leader mulled it over on behalf of the group. “Well, Mister Airman,” he said. “I have a brother on Little Saltee for life, didn’t do more than rob a few guineas and perhaps break a few bones. So I say let’s get to carrying.” The rest cheered and rushed to the cart, eager to be first down the lane.

I hope their enthusiasm lasts, thought Conor. A long night of work lies ahead.

Boys are fickle creatures, and by midnight three had been distracted by hunger or mischief or parents calling them home. Three stayed, though, and finished the lugging of aeroplane parts down to St. Patrick’s Bridge. Whether they had negotiated with their parents or were there without permission, Conor did not know and had not time to find out.

He sent one with a message for Linus, and a while later the American arrived with food and oil lamps, picking his way down the steep path, seeming uncertain on his own lanky legs, like a beginner on stilts.

The boys gathered firewood and lit fires around the workspace where Conor labored among engine parts, tubs of grease, crank handles, springs, pistons, lengths of unsealed muslin, rolls of wire, pots of glue, stiff brown paper, and a strange, curved propeller. And slowly the aeroplane was assembled.

The boys’ leader, who went by the unlikely name Uncle, displayed a surprising aptitude for mechanics and was invaluable when it came to fetching tools and even predicting which tools were needed.

“I need a wrench, Uncle. The medium.”

“I think prob’ly the small, Airman.”

Of course Uncle was proved correct, and lit himself a celebratory smoke.

Conor took to explaining his innovations, to keep his mind on his work and off his family. “Steam engines are too heavy for aeroplanes. To lift a steam engine, you need a bigger steam engine. So Victor, my teacher, suggested a compressed gas engine, or gasoline, which is better but still too heavy. But then I remembered aluminium.”

“Isn’t that rare? Like gold?”

“It was. Fifty years ago, aluminium was so hard to produce that bars of it were exhibited at fairs. But now the Bayer process makes it, if not plentiful, then at least obtainable. So my crankcase and water jacket are made completely from aluminium. This engine is light enough to lift itself and the aeroplane, and it will give me at least ten horsepower in the air.”

“You hope,” said young Uncle.

“Yes. I really do hope. And, Uncle?”

“Yes, Airman?”

“I hate to say it, but you smell rank. Don’t you wash?”

Uncle stubbed out his cigarette on a boot heel. “No, Airman. I follow the Egyptians on washing. Bad for the soul.”

The sun rose on a new day to find the five workers huddled around a brazier sharing a pot of chocolate. All were exhausted, but none were in a mood to quit. By midmorning, the little band was back to full strength, as the boys who had taken off the night before happily played hooky for a chance to see the Airman fly.

“Pick any large rocks from the bridge and toss them aside. I need a smooth runway.”

This was a simple task, and Uncle set the slower boys to it. “Pointless asking the dullards to help with mechanics,” he explained. “Stone clearing is exactly the work for those ones. All you need are open eyes and a strong back. Every ten minutes or so I assures them of their genius.”

Conor nodded with exaggerated gravity. Uncle was proving invaluable. While the others cleared the sky road, Conor bolted on the wings, which were constructed from steam-curved ash ribs covered with unsealed muslin. The craft’s shape was clear now. Single wing set, thirty feet across. A long, thin body resembling a river punt, with the aluminium four-inch bore engine center mounted behind Conor’s new shaped propeller.

“I ain’t never seen a propeller like that,” commented Uncle, who was apparently an expert on everything. “How’d she go in tests?”

“What tests?” grunted Conor, tightening the last nut on the propeller.

Linus kept the food and drink coming, and when the boys flagged, he pulled a tin whistle from his pocket to play a jig or a reel, and without even realizing it, the boys would pick up their pace again. The labor consumed the better part of the day, but finally the aeroplane was ready, sitting on the spit of shale on three wheels like a great sleeping bird. It was a marvel, and for long minutes the little band was silent, simply gazing at the craft, absorbing its every curve and strut.

There was fear, too; and none of the workers would lay a finger on the material, for fear of waking the bird. Only Linus Wynter was not awestruck. He had Conor lead him to the aeroplane’s propeller, then gave the craft a thorough examination. “Victor would have been proud,” he said.

“I hope so,” said Conor. “The theory is as much his as mine, which is why I did this. . . .”

Conor pulled a strip of paper from the nose and placed Linus’s hand on what lay beneath. The American felt flaky lines of dried paint under his fingers. The paint spelled out two words:
La Brosse.

Wynter smiled sadly. “He would like this, that French peacock. I declare, if my tear ducts were working I would cry.” He wiped his nose and pulled the lapels of his dinner suit together. “I should have written something special. An aria to speed you on your way.”

“There’s still time. I need at least a hundred feet to take off, so I cannot leave until low tide.”

Uncle overheard this comment, mainly because he was standing at Conor’s elbow listening. “Tell me something, Airman. If you need a hundred feet to take off, how many feet do you need to land?”

It was a pertinent question, but not one that Conor seemed inclined to answer. He turned and strode toward the flat rocks, avoiding the inquiring gazes following him. “It’s complicated,” he mumbled. “Technical. I still have some calculations to complete.” And then, as though that were the end of the matter, “Anyway, where are those ash ribs? I have a few repairs to make.”

Uncle lit himself another cigarette. “I know Great Saltee well enough. If Airman needs the same to land as he does to take off, he’s not going to find it on that island. Anything flat on Great Saltee has a house on it. The only place he could possibly land would be outside the Palace Gates in Promontory Square.” Uncle laughed at the lunacy of this notion. “Promontory Square. Imagine. If Marshall Bonvilain were a spider, that would be his web. Which would make Airman . . .”

“The fly,” breathed Linus.

Marshall Hugo Bonvilain was uncommonly excited; after all, this day was to be a momentous day, not just for him but for every Bonvilain who had ever been forced to toady to an idiot king. Today all their sacrifices would be made righteous. It had taken hundreds of years to accomplish the task, but finally the Bonvilains were about to supplant the Trudeaus.

And so when Sultan Arif had arrived in Bonvilain’s office that afternoon, he’d found the marshall almost giddy with anticipation. Bonvilain stood at the office window, clapping his hands rapidly in time to the Strauss waltz being played by a lone violinist in the corner. Sultan cleared his throat for attention.

“Ah, Captain, you’ve come,” said Bonvilain, delighted. “What a day, eh? Historic and all that. I love Strauss, don’t you? People take me for a Wagner man, but I say just because my duties are sometimes gloomy doesn’t mean that I have to be. No, Strauss is the man if you’ve had a trying day. I think I shall have an Austrian orchestra brought over for my swearing-in as prime minister.”

Sultan was surprised by this lack of discretion, and it showed in his face.

“Oh, don’t worry about him,” said Bonvilain, jerking a thumb at the musician. “Poor chap was run over by a horse and carriage a few years ago, left him deaf and blind. He plays from memory. I got him from Kaiser Wilhelm, only arrived this morning. It’s an omen, I said to myself. How can anything go wrong today?”

Sultan began to feel nervous. Things always went wrong around the marshall, usually for other people. “God willing. All will proceed well.”

“How can it not?” asked Bonvilain, stepping in from the balcony. “The queen and her loyal supporters will soon be dead. There are no heirs, and so I will be sworn in as prime minister. This Broekhart boy, this Airman, will no doubt attempt some form of rescue, and then we will have him, too. And even if he does not come, once Isabella is gone he will be nothing more than a disgruntled fugitive.”

The marshall sat at his desk, smoothing the felt surface with one palm. “Now, let us talk about poison.”

Sultan Arif placed a corked ink bottle on the desk. It was half filled with a pale yellow powder. “This is wolfs-bane from the Alps,” he explained. “A thimble of this can be mixed with a glass of wine or sprinkled over food.

Several minutes later the victim will experience a strange tingling in the hands, followed by chest pain, extreme anxiety, accelerated heartbeat, nausea, vomiting, and eventually death due to respiratory arrest.”

“Eventually,” purred Bonvilain. “I like that.” He picked up the bottle, holding it to the light as if its deadly qualities would become more apparent. “Now, Sultan, you know how vital it is that I appear blameless in all of this. I must suffer with the rest, and only my strength shall save me. It cannot be sham. The queen’s own physician must confirm that I am at death’s door.”

“Then you must drink only half of your glass,” said Sultan. “That is half a thimble of wolfsbane. You will suffer as wretchedly as the others, but without the respiratory arrest.”