Novel - Airman (16 page)

The guard relieved Conor and Malarkey of their diamond nets, ushering them toward the ladder. He thrust his fingers among the dozen or so wet stones in each net. The rough diamonds were like glazed eyes, slipping and clanking. Billtoe could tell it was mostly dross. The best was in his sleeve.

“Traps shut now, both of you. Climb on out and thank God that I didn’t decide to shoot you for no good reason. You are alive today because of Billtoe, never forget that.”

Malarkey rolled his eyes. “Yes, Mister Billtoe. We thank God for it.” They climbed from the pit and into the pantry. The entire room was in constant vibration from tidal shock, and scores of water jets spurted and drooped with each pulse of water. Every day for the past two years, it had seemed to Conor as though the subterranean mine must surely collapse. Every day he had longed to work above sea level with the so-called normal inmates, but his requests were refused.

Orders from the palace
, Billtoe had told him.
If Bonvilain wants you underground, then that’s where you stay.

In all his time on the island, Conor had only been allowed outside once, to supervise the planting of the salsa garden. On that day, the salt-blasted surface of Little Saltee had seemed like a paradise.

Conor winked a farewell to Otto Malarkey as Pike led the Battering Ram to his cell. Billtoe led him away from the main building to the mad wing’s main door. As with all the wings, there were no keys to this door, just a heavy vertical bolt that was winched from the next floor up. Billtoe rang the bell, then doffed his hat and showed his face to the guard above.

“The right place for you, Billtoe,” called the guard through the spy hole, then hoisted the bolt.

“Every day,” muttered Billtoe, flinging the door wide. “Every blooming day, the same comment.”

Conor waited until they were deep into the mad wing’s slowly collapsing corridor before speaking. His arrangements with Billtoe must be kept secret.

“Have my sheets arrived?”

This cheered Billtoe immediately. He had forgotten the sheets. “Ah, yes. His Majesty’s extra sheets. Today or tomorrow, I am not sure. What’s your hurry?”

Conor strove to look shamefaced. “I cannot sleep, Mister Billtoe. My mind has convinced my body that if I had sheets, as though I were a boy in my mother’s house, then maybe a day’s rest would be mine.”

Billtoe nodded at one of the chimney flues dotting the wall. “Maybe we should stuff you up the chimney. The ghosts could sing you a lullaby.” The flues ran in complicated routes behind the prison walls, once a network of hot air, now sealed tight by stone and mortar, but still Salts scrambled up, given the chance, only to lose themselves in the twists and turns, one stone corner looking much like another.

“Anyway, sheets is against regulations,” Billtoe said, holding out his empty hand, though he had already been paid.

Conor clasped the hand, passing on the rough diamond he had been keeping for himself. “I know, Mister Billtoe. You’re a saint. With a few hours’ sleep behind me, I will work doubly hard for you.”

Billtoe squinted craftily. “More than double. Treble.”

Conor bowed his head. “Treble, then.”

“And I need more ideas,” pressed Billtoe. “Like the salsa and the balloons.”

“I will set my brain on it. With some sleep, I feel certain the blood will flow more freely. I have a notion for a twelve-shot revolver.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Billtoe, frowning. “It’s one thing to allow prisoners to dig in a garden or draw a balloon, but playacting with firearms . . .”

Conor shrugged. “Think on it, Mister Billtoe. There’s a lot of coin in arms. We could be partners upon my release.”

Greed shone in Billtoe’s eyes like yellow fever. Partners?

Not likely. If Finn’s twelve-shot revolver worked, then it would be Arthur Billtoe’s notion. Bedsheets were a small price to pay.

“Partners it is. I’ll get those sheets down to you next shift.”

“Silk,” Conor reminded him. “They must be silk. I had silk as a child.”

Billtoe balked, then checked himself. A twelve-shot revolver. His name would go down in history with Colt and Remington. “Very well, Finn. But I warn you, these balloons of yours better work on the day. If they do not, you will suffer.”

If my balloons don’t work, I will do more than suffer, thought Conor. I will die.

During his internment on Little Saltee, Conor had managed to barter for a few basic comforts. A bucket of mortar sat on a stone and was used to patch the weeping walls. A sewing kit to repair his worn uniform was wrapped in leather and hung from a peg. He had even managed to secure a straw mattress for his bed. Linus Wynter’s cot had been converted to a table, where he could study the few texts that Billtoe had deemed harmless and work on the plans for his approved schemes, such as the salsa garden and the coronation balloons.

In fact the salsa garden had not been Conor’s idea. Victor had talked of it during one of their horticultural lessons. The Parisian had even written to King Nicholas about introducing the vegetable to the Saltees. The advantages of such a plot were threefold, he explained. It would allow the prisoners outdoors for some exercise, it would teach them a valuable skill, and the salsa itself would add a much needed vegetable to prison meals.

It was a harmless idea, presented by Conor to gain Billtoe’s trust. There were no disadvantages and no possibility of escape or injury. No one had ever died from vegetable assault. Coronation balloons were Conor’s next suggestion. Billtoe had seized eagerly on the idea, puffed with the success of the salsa garden. In Billtoe’s mind, the coronation balloons were his ticket to promotion; in actuality they were Conor Finn’s ticket to freedom.

There were several major obstacles standing between Conor and escape to the mainland. There were locks, of course, and the doors around them, and the walls in which the doors were embedded, and the guards on duty outside these walls. But the main difficulty was the island itself. Even if an inmate could pass through the prison walls like a specter, there were still over two miles of ocean between him and the Irish village of Kilmore.

This particular stretch of ocean was notoriously unsafe, with riptides and currents that lurked beneath the surface like malignant agents of Poseidon. So many vessels had been lost in this patch of St. George’s Channel that the British navy painted it red on their charts. And even if the seas did not do for an escapee, the famous Saltee Sharpshooters would put a few airholes in the back of his head. So swimming for the shore was not a realistic option. No, the only way to escape Little Saltee was to fly, and that was where Conor’s coronation balloons came in.

It would be a spectacular addition to the coronation celebrations,
he had told Billtoe one night on their walk to the Pipe,
if the Saltee Sharpshooters could pick hot air balloons from the night sky. What a display of marksmanship.

Billtoe was not convinced.
Shooting balloons,
he sniffed.
A child’s trick.

Conor was expecting this response.
But what if the balloons were loaded with Chinese fireworks?
he said.
And when struck, would light up the night sky with a string of spectacular explosions?

Billtoe stopped sniffing.
Spectacular explosions, eh?

This is a brand new invention
, Conor continued.
This has never been seen before. Marshall Bonvilain would be extremely impressed.

Impressing the marshall is a good thing,
mused Billtoe.

Billtoe’s Balloons, people will call them. By next year they will be launching them in London, Paris, the next World’s Fair.

The guard’s eyes glazed over, lost in dreams of his own fame and fortune. Then he snapped back.
It would never be allowed. Prisoners working with gunpowder. Impossible.

I don’t need to work with gunpowder,
said Conor soothingly.
All I need is paper and ink to design the balloons. Have them made up on Great Saltee if you like, but make sure they are tied to our walls for an impressive shot.

Billtoe nodded slowly.
All you need is paper and ink?

And perhaps a day aboveground as a reward. One day a week, that’s all I ask.

Now Billtoe felt as though the upper hand was his.
Ah, so that’s it. You would have me defy Marshall Bonvilain himself.

One day. A nighttime stroll, even. I need to breathe the air, Mister Billtoe. These balloons could make you rich. You will be famous.

Billtoe tucked a chew of tobacco under his lip, taking several moments to mull it over.

I will give you the paper and ink, and I will have a single balloon manufactured on Great Saltee, at my expense. If a test is successful, then you shall have your day outside after the coronation. If not, then I will strip your cell of anything resembling a comfort, and the next time sunlight falls on your eyes, you will be too dead to appreciate it.

The test had been successful, spectacularly so, and Bonvilain immediately approved the manufacture of several fireworks balloons in a small workshop on Great Saltee. The marshall was always eager to demonstrate the island’s sophistication to visiting dignitaries, and fireworks balloons would serve both as a delightful show of innovation and a chilling reminder of the Sharpshooters’ prowess.

The marshall jovially assured Guard Billtoe that the balloons would indeed bear his name, if they exploded successfully on the night; not only that, but he would receive a commendation and a generous pension for his efforts. In truth, Billtoe had never seen the marshall so happy. He even hinted that Billtoe could well be sent to various foreign capitals for balloon demonstrations. Billtoe came away from this audience glowing, and well disposed toward Conor Finn.

The exploding balloons were clever contraptions, and Bonvilain did not believe for a second that the idea was Billtoe’s; but the test was such a dazzling success that he did not care who his guard had cut the notion from. It worked, and neither the British nor the French had it. Each pyrotechnical balloon was a simple sealed hydrogen balloon coated with phosphorous paint. Inside the balloon there was a fireworks pack and a short fuse. All the marksman had to do was nail the center of the glowing balloon with a nitroglycerin bullet, and the hydrogen would ignite, setting off the fuse to the fireworks pack.

For Queen Victoria’s entertainment and edification, Bonvilain’s sharpshooters would pop these balloons from a distance of almost a mile. It would be a spectacular finale to the coronation celebrations.

Conor had not shared this idea with Billtoe out of a patriotic desire to excite the coronation audience. If everything proceeded according to his plan, then one of the balloons would bear an extra cargo. A human cargo.

But now, because of Queen Victoria’s superstition, the coronation was being moved forward, and he was not ready. The vital silk sheets were still in a linen closet on Great Saltee. His plans were incomplete. To be thwarted now, having plotted for months, would be a cruel blow.

Conor crawled to the niche behind what he still thought of as Wynter’s bed, popping out the false brick. Crimson sun rays flooded the space, sinking into the coral, which drank the light in and converted it to green energy. He had long ago traded his day job for the night shift, to allow him more daylight for his plans.

In less than a minute, the entire cell glowed with a thousand calculations, schematics, and blueprints. A treasure trove of science brought to life by nature. The walls bore dozens of sketches of balloons, gliders, and heavier-than-air flying machines. These scratched pictures represented two years of obsessive study. All previous diaries had been written over, except the final four bars of Linus Wynter’s opera, and the word
Fin
.

For the first few months, dreams of the machines themselves had been enough to fuel Conor through the long, lonely hours; but a man cannot stay in the air forever, even in his dreams. And so a purpose for his flying machines was needed. A place to land.

Conor
Broekhart
would have flown to his parents, to Isabella, but in two years they hadn’t once questioned Bonvilain’s version of events. If they had, surely he would have received a visit or a message. Isabella could have saved him. She could have waved a royal finger and had him pardoned or banished if their young love had meant a thing to her. Obviously it had not. He was deserted and despised. Young Conor felt these things as certainly as he felt the cold rock under his feet. And so his heart hardened and selflessness was suborned by selfishness.

Conor Finn took over, and Conor Broekhart was displaced. And where Broekhart had nobility, Finn had self-interest. He would make himself rich by stealing from the people who had stolen his life. The Saltee Islands would pay for the past two years. A diamond per day. And once he had money enough, he would buy passage to America and begin his life anew. This was his plan, and it kept him alive just as surely as his heartbeat.

And so, how to escape. By land, sea, or air? There was no land; the sea was treacherous; so that left the air. He must fly out of here, or if not fly, then at least fall slowly. An idea was born, but one that was to take more than a year of planning and manipulation. Suddenly the coronation had been shifted and his schemes shattered like broken mirrors, and there were only days to put the pieces together.

Conor lay on the uneven ground, salt water darkening his clothes, studying his plans. He must memorize the designs now, and then destroy them. These plans would be valuable to any army in the world, but especially to Bonvilain. And the greatest torment that Conor could ever endure was the notion that he had somehow aided Marshall Hugo Bonvilain.

He traced each line with his forefinger: every plane, every twist of propeller, each line and rudder, the arrows that denoted airflow, even the fanciful clouds that his artistic side had almost unconsciously etched. As soon as a glider, balloon, or aeroplane was committed to memory, he smeared mud across the design, patting it into every groove.

By sunset, these amazing plans existed only inside the head of Conor Finn.