Edward Lane's Argosy Ch. 06

"The General has an excellent memory," Gideon agreed. "And it is a pure honor to bear you aloft. I only wish old Wolf Rider was accompanying me -- I'll have to make do with a fellow he recommended for the post, Captain Ned Wauhillau, late of your service."

"I knew his father, Lord Ned Christie," the old Indian grunted. "Good warrior. He stood alone against fifty Atlans with only his rifle, pistol and sword for almost a year at Wauhillau, in the old days, until he was relieved. If his son is half as good a warrior, you will be well served."

"I certainly hope so. If your men will ascend to the gondola, we've made temporary quarters available to them. As far as your baggage . . ." he said, nodding towards a large pile of rucksacks that had been unloaded concurrently with the arrival of the soldiers.

"My men will each take one and carry it themselves," the General said, dismounting his horse like he was a teenager and handing it off to a subordinate. "They are . . . secret weapons."

"No doubt," Gideon nodded, suddenly wondering what that amount of explosives could do to his ship if they were ignited. "Then please use the utmost care in their stowage."

"As you wish," the old soldier grunted, then ordered his men to begin the long climb up to the gondola.

"I believe there was to be one other passenger," Gideon said, biting his lip as he peered into the gloom past the soldiers. "If he does not move with more expediency, however, I fear he will be scalped by noon."

"F_________," the General said, rolling his eyes with disgust. He added a word in a language that Gideon didn't know, but sounded vile, and spat on the ground.

"Was that the name? An older gentleman, an Englishman—"

"I heard of Mushulatubbee's shame," Goyahkla spat again, this time in honor of his countrymen. "They are both old fools. F________ for dishonoring his host, Mushulatubbee for not keeping his woman in line."

"Well, if the old bugger doesn't arrive, and soon, he can face the consequences with Mushulatubbee," Gideon pronounced. "Oh, this must be him," he added, as he heard the clatter of wooden rickshaw wheels and the panting of the youth that pulled it. Soon the imposing figure of his passenger was standing proudly before him, a tall Englishman wearing a well-tailored suit of dark blue.

Gideon was not impressed. His passenger's mustache was long and luxurious, but white with age -- clearly the man had to be almost seventy. Gideon discovered by observation that he seemed to possess the same officiousness he despised in his father. Even more annoying he affected an air of superiority that clearly he had yet to earn in the Prarie Kingdom.

"Ready to board, Captain!" he said in a booming voice, throwing a perfect and perfectly inappropriate British military salute.

"Yes, well, up to the gondola and see the steward, Mr.—"

"You may call me Mr. Jones, for the duration of the voyage," the old man said, glancing around at the many natives in the yard suspiciously. "Indeed, I would prefer that you remember that I am a simple representative of Bauer & Schmit, in the German Empire, and forget that I am English at all, if you'd be so kind."

"Certainly . . . Mr. Jones. As I was saying, if you would be so good as to check in with my steward-- he's the Negro in the billed cap -- about your assigned quarters, he will have a porter load your baggage. We will lift as soon as you are aboard."

"Might I ask, Captain, whereto we are bound?"

"Petite Roche, to begin with. After that, perhaps New Orleans, perhaps up the Mississippi to the Golden Halo, or out across the Atlantic towards Africa. I have yet to decide. Ultimately, however, we go to Paris."

"Depend on Fortune, and you will always come out ahead," the old man said, sagely. "Up we go then!" The smell of gin on the old passenger was daunting as he passed by, two large portmanteaus borne by his native rickshaw driver. As the sky lightened in the East, Gideon took one last look around the yard that had been his home for most of the last year, and then ascended himself.

"Ready to depart, Cap'n?" Black Tom asked, putting his ubiquitous notebook under his left arm. He seemed no worse for wear having dealt with "Mr. Jones", but then Tom always seemed to keep cool under pressure.

Tom was a civilian, a clerk Gideon had rescued from debtor's prison in New Orleans six months previously when he had made an escort run and was forced by weather to linger in the decadent capitol a few days. The Negro's family had held lands on the northern frontier of Louisiana, but had lost their holdings during the second war between the Republic and the Empire as they tried yet again to establish a border in the Mississippi valley. Since the Americans had paid a bounty on any Negro bearing arms in the war, and took a dim view of even unarmed Negro peasants, he and his family had departed St. Louis for a more civilized life in the south, and Tom had found a home in service of the Louisianan great houses throughout most of his youth.

Though he lacked formal education, Tom spoke and wrote in fluent French, English, Spanish, Dutch, German, Moriscan, and a smattering of Indian tongues, and had been well-trained for service amongst the nobles of New Orleans. But a love of gambling and a streak of poor fortune had landed him in near-slavery. He had jumped at the opportunity to sign on with the Victrix as porter and ship's accountant, and after three months Gideon had promoted him to steward.

Now he ran the administrative affairs of the crew with an attention to detail that often astonished Gideon. He had been well-worth the small sum he'd paid to repair the debt and have the man released into his service. His real name was Thomas Million John Turpin, but the English and the Oklahomans alike aboard the Victrix had taken to calling him Black Tom, and he had many admirers in both parties. Even Tayanita's Germans were fond of him -- he was as massive as any Saxon brute, and the way he played on the tiny pianette in the gondola's tiny salon was almost magical. Gideon had come to depend upon the Louisianan for the smooth operation of his ship, and that trust had yet to be betrayed.

"All are aboard," Gideon agreed. "Sound the ascension horn and the departure bell, Tom, I'll have the pilot take us alfot momentarily." The Negro nodded curtly and calmly went about his duties as Gideon found his way into the control room. The horn and bell sounded, the ship gave a gentle lurch as the mooring lines were loosed, and the engines began humming as the blades of the propellers that sent the ship through the air found their full steam.

Watching dawn break over Oklahoma from such a serene height was spectacular, even if he had to hold that position in a small lazy circle about the town until the locomotive below was finally ready. Then he ordered George to begin the lazy circles over the train that would provide cover against banditry. His only real duty discharged, he repaired to the observation lounge and had Tom bring him breakfast.

It was nearly noon by the time the train and airship were approaching the designated spot the Foreign Minister had indicated. Gideon, curious about the Oklahomans' mysterious weaponry, made a point of joining Duke Goyahkla and his men at the main hatch. Each of them seemed prepared for a boarding mission, with thick leather helmets and brass goggles, and each bore one of the mysterious packs, but Gideon had gleaned no more comprehension about their purpose or utility. The men seemed unconcerned with sudden movements or jostling, as one would expect if they were carrying explosives. It was a testament to their professionalism, and the leadership of their General, that they prepared for battle in relative silence.

The same could not be said for "Mr. Jones", who seemed as curious as Gideon about the sortie. He stood at the periphery and told long, rambling stories about his own military service, including several improbable posts and exaggerated missions, but even his boorishness was quieted by the stoic nature of the Indians.

Duke Goyahkla inspected each man's equipment and rigging, spoke a few words of encouragement, and chuckled good-naturedly with his soldiers as they approached their point of departure.

"You Grace," Gideon finally managed, when the General had completed his inspection, "I was told that we would not be descending for a rough grounding, or even low enough to utilize the boarding gondola -- I cannot but help be curious as to your intended means of departure."

"I suppose we're safely out of earshot of spies," the Duke conceded, though he glanced at Mr. Jones pointedly. "And it will not matter much longer, after today. We will leave your ship by the most expedient route possible, Captain: we will jump."

"Have Red Indians gone and sprouted angel wings, then?"

"No, Captain. The French have. Well, a young American in Louisiana, that is. These are known as 'Baldwin Bags'," the General said, indicating the packs he and his men wore. "Within is a meticulously folded contraption of silk and string, which will deploy as soon as we leap. When it naturally expands due to the force of the wind, it will slow our descent enough to allow us a gentle landing . . . in a region where we are not supposed to be."

"Parachutes!" Gideon cried, his eyes blazing. "I've seen the like, though nothing this small and compact. Do they actually work, then?"

"This will be my third foray," the wizened General nodded. "We tested them in the Northern fields, out over the Ocean of Grass. Only two of my men were injured."

"And you will be able to land your entire platoon without alerting your foe . . . brilliant!" Gideon said, smiling broadly at the idea. He was an airman, himself, but he'd spent time as an infantry officer before he'd acquired his ship; he fully appreciated the tactical advantage of such a deployment.

"That is the theory," the Duke said, grimly. "We will plummet safely and rendezvous in force, before we attack. There are three observation posts along yonder ridge that the Beanies use to spy on our movements -- such as the departure of the train, below. It is my mission to strike them, leaving none alive. The sortie is designed to strike fear into the soldiers of the Beanie army and make them more cautious in regards to our frontier. That, and those shiny new airships we paid so dearly for, should settle this war . . . for a while, I believe."

"So you just . . . jump out, then?"

"Yes," the General confirmed, pulling his brass goggles over his wise old eyes. "As their leader, I shall make the first departure." He made a final check of his straps and his weaponry, before sliding the wicker door open to reveal the sprawling land below.

"Then good hunting, Your Excellency!" Gideon said, enthusiastically. "No doubt by nightfall the name of Duke Goyakhlah shall once again strike terror in the craven Beanie heart!"

"Actually," the old indian said, with a sly smirk, "the Beanies do not oft use my proper name. I picked up a nomme d’guerre in my youth, when I battled the despicable Spanish mercenaries the Atlans sent to conquer my people."

"Really?" Gideon asked, surprised. This was a tale of the war he'd not heard. And he was particularly intrigued by war-names, now that he and his fellows were known as the Sky Panthers. "What do they call you, then? Something awful, I imagine."

"The Spanish mercenaries were drunken brutes, hired from South America by the Atlans for their dirty work in the desert when we proved too strong for their own people. Catholics, of course," he explained, as he approached the door. "So when they were at need, they called upon St. Jerome. My band and I ensured that they had ample cause to do so, I assure you. So when we made our forays against them in the dark of night, all their comrades could hear were their cries to the saint, as we slew them. In time, as I became more and more associated with those raids, they began using the term to refer to me, specifically, until it became my war-name amongst them."

"So . . . what do they call you?" Gideon asked, expectantly, as the General prepared to jump.

"Geronimo!" the Duke cried, as he leapt out of the airship and into the fickle winds of fate.

Gideon held his breath as he watched the man plummet, and was ready to begin a prayer for his soul when he saw the parachute emit from the Baldwin Bag, catch the air, and slow the old warrior's descent to a less-deadly velocity. The next soldier leapt immediately afterwards, grinning foolishly at Gideon as he leapt, and he, too, repeated the General's name. Indeed, each of the braves did so as they leapt, almost as an invocation of the living legend they followed into battle so avidly.

"I wonder if that will catch on?" Gideon asked himself, as he closed the hatch and dogged it securely.
"It's ingenious," the faux Mr. Jones said, nodding, his face reflecting a kind of awe at the display. "This could very well change warfare. Imagine: whole armies born aloft and inserted precisely where they are needed, behind enemy lines. It will cast the science of war into a proper tizzy!"

"Perhaps," Gideon shrugged. "But I endeavor to change the science of war altogether, myself. Someday, Mr. Jones, the world will see the launch of the greatest airship in history, and the most terrible, under my command."

"You have ambitions, then, Captain?" Jones chuckled as he followed Gideon up the narrow stairway to the salon. "I thought you were in exile?"

"Which is why I travel to Paris, not London," Gideon agreed, grimly. "Until Pater decides to live up to his responsibilities in regards to Tayanita, I shall not serve him, nor the British Empire, save only as a mercenary -- if then."

"You would make war on your mother country, then?" Jones frowned.

"Not war -- but not love, either. I might die a begger in exile, but I will have my honor. My father, my brother and their cronies have lost any idea of what that might be, but if I alone of the Beckers yet know the meaning of the word, I shall redeem the blemish my father casts upon it by his rejection of his daughter."

"You live a complicated life, Captain Becker," Jones said, shaking his head. "Mark my words: a military career is a grand one, as long as one can avoid battle and live to bed the wench at the end of the day."

"This from the last survivor of Piper's Fort? I expected more valor," Gideon chided, mindful he did so of an elder -- which pleased his rebellious pride.

"So you heard about that, eh?" Jones said, shaking his head. "Candidly, it’s all lies. Well, true enough in fact, but the story is untruthful about the event. It usually is, in my experience. They found me with an empty pistol in my hand, surrounded by my dead comrades, the Union Jack clutched in my fingers. They said I was trying to protect the flag from the Afghan invaders, but the truth was I was looking for the chief of the Afghans to surrender to. I was near insensible, at the time, and if I fired a shot in defense of the Empire the memory escapes me."

"So your entire military and diplomatic career . . ."

"Is built on a lie? Perhaps," the old man shrugged. "But an instructive lie. Keep that in mind as you bravely challenge the world, Captain. Often it is the perception, not the truth, that lingers on far after memory itself has faded. What people believe of you is often far more important than what you have actually done. But you must weigh that against your own sense of honor, and act accordingly. Now, on to cheerier things: who was that delightful morsel of dusky womanhood I saw lurking around when I came aboard? She may have been dressed as a boy, but there is no disguising those curves."

It was Gideon's turn to chuckle. "That is my half-sister, Tayanita. She's also my Engineer, and while I could add she is under my protection, I think you'll find that forcing yourself on her unwilling would produce an abrupt and inglorious end to your career, regardless of how it began. She is very independent-minded -- which I encourage. And an adept shot," he added.

"Remarkable," Mr. Jones sighed, nodding. "I suppose there will be whores enough in Petite Roche -- and certainly in New Orleans."

Gideon left the man to breakfast in the salon. He made his way back to the humming Engine Room, where Sissy and a brace of her men were keeping the steam engine that powered the propellors and the pumps whirring along. The room was moist and overly warm, as usual, and the smell of burning alcohol and stale steam haunted the air. Sissy herself was tapping the altimeter she'd insisted on installing down here and frowning.

"If I didn't know better," she said, absently, "I'd say we just dropped a dozen rockets! Did something fall?"

"In a manner of speaking," Gideon grinned. He explained the method of egress his secret guests had used, and made Tayanita jealous that she hadn't been there to witness the event.

"But you must procure me some o' those Baldwin Bags when we get to Na'orleans," she insisted. "We could do so much with those!"

"It is already on my agenda," he assured her. "So, do we have everything we need, then, to begin construction of the Argo?"

"What? Of course not!" she scoffed. "Not by half. Oh, we got the gas, now, and the keel is alread laid if that firm we hired knows their business. But there are still thousands o' things we'll need before she takes air, much less goes to battle!"

"Such as?" Gideon asked, his heart sinking. He thought they had acquired enough of a fortune to build their dream ship twice over.

"Such as about forty thousand gallons o' latex," Tayanita began listing, "about ninety miles o' hemp rope, four tonnes o' steel cable -- that ain't cheap -- two brand new custom engines from Germany, and, and . . ."

"I understand," Gideon sighed. "I suppose we'll be hiring our swords out for a while, yet."

"Oh, I think we can take a respite from battle . . . for a while. But Gid, even if we paid pure gold, the Argo will take years to build. At least two. And there are hundreds o' miscellaneous parts that we'll have to special order, or fabricate. That costs, too. More than we have. But we have enough to start, and if Fortune smiles, we'll have the rest afore long," she assured.

"So, to New Orleans, then to Paris," he nodded.

"Uh, Gid? Any way we could do a little . . . fishin' along the way?"

"What do you mean?" he asked, aware that the girl was prone to metaphor far more than an English girl would be.

"I mean, that there are plenty o' Spanish ships comin' back from their colonies in the South, and latex is one of their major spoils. The Moriscan pirates take latex ships all the time. If we could contrive to capture a few o' these, maybe, we could cut down the price significantly. Time, too."

"Air piracy?" Gideon asked, a little startled..

"Well, if you wanna go and get all technical," the Indian maid scowled. "Yes, piracy it would be. I know that might go against your idea of honor—"

"Actually, I find the idea rather appealing," he chuckled. "I was dreading a prolonged stay in Paris. Too easy to be lured into indolence by its many charms. A little casual piracy might be just the thing I need to keep me sharp, until the Argo is complete."

"That's ideal!" she smiled, relieved. "Way I figure, we hole up in Paris while I supervise construction, then maybe go out every couple o' months to go . . . shopping," she said, wryly. "I mean, as long as we stay on the right side of the Frogs, and not hit anything too important, we should be able to linger there until it's complete without having the air navy of every Empire under Heaven chasing us."

"Still, it's unlikely that Emperor Napolean will appreciate a brazen outlaw using his fair city as a hideout. Paris isn't an ideal base for piracy," Gideon pointed out, "although the amenities are, indeed, delightful."