Authors: Kin Law
“All I can tell you is, your Captain Sam is connected to a laboratory explosion in Oxford. The building was destroyed by a contraption producing great heat and thunderous clamor. This weapon, we believe, was also used to steal the Houses of Parliament not too long ago.”
Clemens whistled.
“Captain Clemens is also connected to an item of import, though I am unsure how or if it relates,” I finished. This last I had garnered through sources at the Jilted Merman, many unreliable. The sky was practically abuzz with the news.
“Something of great value,” said the Thief of Tibet. My, the man had a lot of aliases.
“Indubitably. You can rest assured, the bounty was not offered by any of Her Majesty’s agencies, at least with her knowledge. I am the primary venue of investigation, and as such, I doubt the Queen is deploying any stratagem against my interests.”
“Save me the power play. What is the name of the item?” Clemens demanded.
“I believe you may have heard of it-”
“If I have, I wouldn’t need you-”
“-on a bit in the Jilted Merman-”
“-stalling, take me for a fool-”
“-have the nerve!”
“-that dress!”
“T
he Laputian Leviathan.”
“Ah,” Albion Clemens murmured, leaning back in his chair. “You’re barmy. The Leviathan is a myth.”
“Do I look like I’m mad? Would the Queen send-”
“An Inspector fresh from her first collar, into the breach with naught but two peashooters and a bit of British pluck? Someone who would is expected to be outlandish, by her chauvinistic colleagues? I believe so,” Clemens pointed out. “Nobody would miss her.”
“Why you scruffy, no-good highwayman! Let me out this instant!”
“Maybe when you learn to swear a little better,” he concluded, getting up to leave. “I think I’ll tap into my contacts a little, see if there’s any truth to your case. I’ll let you know what I find. Maybe someone is hiding something clever behind the Leviathan name. Could just be the item you’re looking for, but you’ve thought of that.”
“Harumph,” I said, spinning to leave first- only, of course, my cell was a bit impregnable at the moment.
“By the way,” Captain Albion called from the door, “Only the Yard teaches your gun forms. It works in the tightness of London’s streets, good for clearing corners, especially if you have a partner crouching under you. Most loners or pirates, they’ll stand with their side forward for a smaller target. It’s how I knew you were a copper.”
With a slam of the door, I was left to stew in my own self-pity, wondering how in the hell I managed to cock this mission up.
4.2: To Not Getting Hanged {Blair}
The air pirate emerged on deck approximately an hour after we docked the longboat with his airship.
My fingers itched to photogram the beautiful grand dam, voluptuous and streamlined, her bow hovering gently over the quiet Atlantic. No balloon flew above, but I wasn’t informed as to how this could be- perhaps a gas envelope inside the vessel?
I was, however, given her name: the
Huckleberry
, a name prairie-blown with the flavor of the West, entirely unbefitting this very Eastern fellow.
Captain Albion Clemens, for this was how he introduced himself as he collared the wriggling barmaid with her inefficient firearm, seemed none too worried about keeping an Inspector for Scotland Yard imprisoned within his ship. I had seen one other member of the crew, a large, middle-aged fellow with considerably more belly than verbosity. He hoisted the bundle of Inspector as easily as one might a sack of potatoes. Afterward, I had been left on deck while the Captain dealt with the Inspector. I did my best to look harmless.
“All right there, Master Blair?” Clemens said now, striding on deck in a cloud of buccaneer coat. Dark goggles now protected his eyes from the crisp Atlantic wind. With those on, he seemed much more the role of Captain. Clemens came to stand near me, peering at the starlight, though dawn lined the horizon silver. The light particularly picked out his waist, where hung a large, dinted cutlass.
“You were welcome to come inside,” Clemens extended in friendship.
“Ah,” I said. My voice was steady, but my hands longed to document everything. I did not know quite how to ask a notorious pirate if I would be keelhauled for it.
What were the pirate conventions? Did they even have any? How would one be keelhauled through thin air?
For the matter, I did not know if I would be perfectly safe otherwise, nor how long such conditions would last. I would hate to attempt the swim back to England, invisible below a veil of mist. Would I even survive the fall?
“Do you need anything? Refreshment? Surely a Briton wouldn’t deny a spot of tea,” Clemens offered instead, extending a hand to a stair leading into the bowels of the dirigible. I nodded, having had enough of the chill deck.
“Am I to understand you are extending me the hospitality of your ship?” I asked. I did not know much, but I knew a Captain’s word was worth something even in the swashbuckling skies.
“Have you been talking to Inspector Hargreaves? She does have a low opinion of us. Rest assured I extend you the safety and hospitality of the
Huckleberry
.”
“Is that her name then?” I said nervously.
“I’m sorry, I should have invited you with me,” he said, looking like he had intended nothing of the sort. “You will see Vanessa Hargreaves is very well treated, if you care to look.”
“In your brig? I’m afraid I’ll have to pass.” We both laughed at this, and I was glad some of our earlier camaraderie remained. Shaw or Clemens, Captain’s vestments or no, this was very much the straight shooter from the pub I had met earlier.
While we spoke, Clemens led me through a rather narrow passage.
Though I had seen only very few dirigibles, the
Huckleberry
seemed tighter, more packed together, with shut wooden portals every few feet along the paneled walls.
The oddest things were the ceilings and floors; they
were strung with piping, all along behind thin wire grilles, and some lines had been hung with the oddest objects. I attempted to follow one such copper tube, remarking a sackcloth doll, a paper windmill, and what seemed like a string of teeth, before Clemens led me to a larger door.
“Come, this is Auntie’s galley,” he said, showing me through to a wider room with curving, spacious bulkheads. At a glance, I knew where I must be- at the bow of the ship, in a long mess where benches had been nailed to the floor before some dining tables.
Tchotchkes and knickknacks covered every other surface, lit with generous gas lamps. On the whole, everything seemed slapdash and crowded, yet possessing of the odd quality of organization only known to the well-loved village sandwich shop.
“Did you get many photograms?” Clemens asked from a low counter. He disappeared behind it while I peered at a stack of yellowed recipes pinned to the wall with a snake-like dagger. Beside it, a feather boa curled round a bust of Shakespeare. Behind the counter, the pirate was doing something strange to a pair of large chrome pots. He seemed to be pouring a liquid quite a lot like tea through the air from one to another, with a lot of steaming and sloshing. The aroma was heavenly.
“Ah, not really,” I answered.
My photogrammer still sat in my pocket. I hadn’t taken off my coat, though the chamber seemed pleasantly humid and well heated, like a maiden aunt’s comfortable parlor. “I wasn’t sure it was proper.”
“Afraid I’d keelhaul you?
Can’t be done. Best you’d do is hang, sort of… no ocean to drown in, or barnacles to break stuff like arms on.” There, one question grimly answered.
“The sentiment isn’t particularly comforting,” I managed without looking too pale.
Certainly this man had nothing to fear from robbing me blind and casting my corpse overboard, to fall head-over-heels into an Atlantic filled with hungry sharks.
My one hope was the pirate yet wished to profit from completing my request. Just as I was figuring how many crew he had aboard, the likelihood of stealing a longboat and if I could learn to type and replace ink ribbons with my toes should I fail, Albion Clemens reappeared with two large mugs of absolutely divine, milky amber fluid.
“You have my solemn word, I will not harm you so long as you reside aboard my airship,” Clemens reminded me pleasantly. Of course, the compact of hospitality- like parley, there were rules cutthroats held more sacred than others.
“Thank you,” I said cautiously. Just as carefully, I took a sip of the drink set before me. Mischievous Hermes, god of pens! The stuff was marvelous! I took a deeper gulp, unsure of the smoothness flowing down my throat, warming my core. Tea? This stuff brought me back to the first time I had tea, at my mum’s kne
e in our rundown flat in Brixton.
“Good, isn’t it?”
“Seven hells it’s good! What is it?”
“Hong Kong milk tea. The smoothness comes from pouring it back and forth, I’m sure you saw. It mellows the tanins,” Clemens said, doing smackings of the tongue to indicate th
ze back of the palate.
“I’m afraid I rather had a mistaken idea of you, Captain,” I said, my breath steaming up everything in front of me. “Evil would immolate at the very first scent of this holy beverage.”
“You’ve a way with words, that’s good,” Clemens said amiably. “I may have a use for your talents soon.”
“Mmm?” I answered, busy draining my mug.
“You are, of course, free to leave the Huckleberry whenever you want,” he said.
“
My hospitality extends to any port of your choice. My advice would be to find the nearest, which would be either Brighton or Le Havre, depending on your preference. Or, you can stay, help, and likely find a story or two aboard.”
“Hold on,” I said, getting my bearings in the aftermath of the wanton beverage. “You mean to say we’re over the
Channel? Still within English jurisdiction?”
“Yes,” Clemens said calmly.
“But you’re a wanted criminal! No offense,” I protested, peering about quite foolishly. Of course, the bulkheads showed no sign of the Navy or the Royal Air Service ships in pursuit.
The large galley windows offered a splendid view of the sunrise, doubtless a service granted by her mysterious helmsman. From the way Clemens laid his mug atop the sill, I suspected the handsome pose of the ship’s captain was not cut for my benefit, but something he enjoyed freely.
His mahogany eyes peered calmly into mine under leather goggle lenses, with no fear of any dirigible appearing behind him.
“All right,” I submitted. “You’re obviously a dab hand at this business, as you’ve no rope on your shoulders. What could I possibly offer you?”
Captain Clemens wasted no time.
“It relates to my conversation with Inspector Hargreaves. She’s offered me some insight into my business in Portsmouth. I suppose we should start with this.” He briskly produced a photogram from his pocket. I perused it thoughtfully- a white-haired, American gentleman, from the frontier West, no less, in a rather sharp suit.
“His face is unknown to me,” I said finally. “But my paper contacts may offer some insight.”
“Bollocks,” Clemens cursed. “I was betting you might have seen this face before.”
“I take it this man might be responsible for something particularly infamous? Captain Clemens, sketches of many men cross our presses, and I am simply one journalist.”
“No Captain, please. Albion will do,” Clemens protested enigmatically. He explained. “This man is the real Manchu Marauder, in a way,” he continued, “and the real owner of this ship. I am currently on a quest to recover him. His name is Captain Samuel J. Clemens, and this is his pressed-helium steam dirigible, the pirate ship
Huckleberry
.”
I may have imagined it, but the ship seemed to dip in acknowledgment, giving a slight shudder all about us.
“The names are unfamiliar. I know of you, and your ship, naturally by the mouths of airmen, but as your description fit the general pirate accounts, this is the first I’ve known of the actual names of her Captain,” I said. All the while, I was thinking: Now he has got no use for me, I shall be run off the plank for sure. Somehow, the notion bore no fear, rather, craftiness I hadn’t felt since...
“But I have contacts on the ground who might be of use!” I continued hastily.
Clemens perused me thoughtfully.
“Are you quite sure? You would be aiding and abetting pirate activities. They might hang you.”