Death Devil's Bridge (14 page)

He held the jar up to Rolls. “Some sort of lubricant for your equipment?”

“Never saw it before,” Rolls said. He wore a strained look. “I say, Sir Charles, have you seen the grapnel?”

Charles dropped the jar into his camera bag and leaned over the edge of the gondola to look. “Our anchor? It's hanging right here, on the outside of—”

But it wasn't. The five-pronged iron grapnel, on which they depended to arrest the balloon at the end of the flight, was gone.

Rolls hit his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Bloody hell!” he cried. “Could that have been the confounded thing Bradford was waving in the air as we ascended?”

“It might've been,” Charles said grimly. If that were the case, then the company on the ground—including Kate—knew of their difficulty. He was sorry for that, because there was nothing anyone down there could do to help them. All Kate could do was worry, and pray. He forced a smile. “I hope at some time or other you've managed a descent without a grapnel.”

“To tell the truth, Sir Charles,” Rolls said lamely, “I ... I have never managed a descent at all. Strictly speaking, that is. In point of truth, I mean, sir.”

“What?” Charles exclaimed, dumbstruck. “But I thought ... I mean, you said...”

“Awf‘ly sorry,” Rolls said sheepishly. “I have a vile habit of pretending to more experience than I actually have. Sometimes it's the only way a chap can get on.” His boyish grin was embarrassed. “The balloon was loaned to me, d'y'see, and Dunstable was terribly anxious for the publicity and the photographs and all. Marsden said you're a cautious man and wouldn't fly with me if you knew that my two previous flights were made as a passenger, not—I must confess—as a pilot in command. But I can bring us down,” he added hastily, “never fear. It is simply a matter of—”

“Only two flights!” Charles cried, indignant. “So you know nothing about ballooning!”

“Oh, I wouldn't say that.” Rolls tried to be reassuring. “I know the important things. I mean, I know them, although I may not have
done
them, yet. But don't worry. We'll get down all right, although,” he added regretfully, “the descent 'ud be a damned sight more agreeable with that grapnel. I wonder—do you have a suggestion?”

Charles set his jaw. An experienced aeronaut might have gotten them out of this fix, but it wasn't likely that a boy could do it—a brash little poppinjay, as Henry Royce had said, with only two flights under his belt. “We ought to bring the balloon down somewhat,” he said, thinking out loud, “and maintain altitude until we get within sight of one of our ground crews. Then we shall have to come down fast. Since we can't anchor, we'll need all the help we can get once we're on the ground.”

“Right-o,” Rolls said. He reached for the ripcord and vented some of the gas. The balloon dropped swiftly, to an altitude that Charles judged to be about two thousand feet. For what seemed an eternity, they rode in silence, scanning the ground beneath them. Charles spotted the gravel track of the Colchester-Harwich road, and the village of Wix, scarcely more than a collection of cottages and a pub. And then the green and gold of meadows and fields gave way to the gray of the Essex marshes, ruled into sections by the long straight lines of the drains. Turning, he brought up his glasses and scanned the road and lanes behind them, but there was not a sign of a motorcar anywhere. For the cars, as well as the balloon, the chase was a doomed adventure.

Rolls broke the silence. “If I am not mistaken, that is the village of Great Oakley ahead.”

“That at least is good news,” Charles said. “Lawrence Quibbley was dispatched to Great Oakley. He is a reliable and innovative chap. I should be especially glad of his help.” He brought up his field glasses. “At this heading, we will pass directly over the village. If Quibbley is watching, he will see us. But past Great Oakley we shall have to descend at once, Rolls. There is only tideland bog and fen ahead, and large stretches of open water—not the sort of place we should like to put down.”

Reaching for the ripcord again, Rolls hesitated. “Bog and fen? Should we go further, then? What is beyond?”

“Beyond?” Charles laughed briefly. “A short way beyond lies the North Sea. Vent the gas and bring us down, Rolls, or you shall find yourself making that crossing you're so keen on.” He began to wrap the end of a long mooring line around the middle of a sandbag, tying it firmly. He was working on the second sandbag when he looked up to find Rolls with his hand on the ripcord, staring upward.

“Come on, man, vent the gas and bring us down!” Charles shouted. “We don't have much time!”

“I can't,” Rolls replied, and yanked frantically on the cord. “The damn thing is jammed!”

Charles was a calm man, but this news shook him. From everything he had read—including reports of disasters—the landing was the most challenging part of the flight. It would have been difficult enough to land the balloon without the grapnel. But with no means of letting out the gas and bringing the balloon down, it was utterly impossible.

A few weeks ago I read a flourishing account in one of the motor journals written by a female novice, who triumphantly recorded how she had thoroughly mastered the first car she had attempted to drive in the short space of a single halfhour . I confess I entertained sentiments of the profoundest admiration for that lady, and looked enviously upon her as a phenomenon. But a word of caution may not be out of place, especially as such enthusiastic testimonials are apt to prove misleading in the extreme to less highly-endowed mortals.... Even when the novice has mastered the steering, and flatters herself she has attained to a wonderful pitch of perfection, she makes a great mistake. She does but stand at the outside portico of motoring knowledge.

-Mrs. EDWARD KENNARD
“Motor Driving For Ladies,” 1902

 

 

 

O
n the east terrace, Kate shaded her eyes, following the balloon as it flew up and up, its gondola dangling under it like a fragile bauble suspended from a chain, and in the gondola the man she loved with all her heart.

“Goodbye, Charles, goodbye,” she cried, waving.

Beside her, Patsy Marsden was still taking photographs. “Oh, how I wish we could have gone with them,” she sighed. “Think of all they shall see from that height! Imagine the photographs I should get!” She frowned. “But what was all that shouting at the last moment?”

“I don't know,” Kate said, turning toward the site of the launch. “I couldn't make out what was going on. It had something to do with that angry group of men who invaded the Park just as—”

“Lady Kathryn! Lady Kathryn!”

Kate turned to see the journalist from Autocar running toward her, his coat flapping open, his black eyes popping with excitement. “The balloon,” he gasped, as he reached her and skidded to a stop. “The balloon! It went up without its—” He was suddenly seized by a fit of wild coughing. “Without, I mean to say, the device that—” He bent over, red-faced, coughing so hard he could not speak.

Patsy's hand went to her mouth. “Oh, dear,” she whispered. “Whatever they've left behind, I hope it's not awf‘ly serious. But p'rhaps,” she added, seeing Kate's face, “it was only the sandwiches.”

Kate did not wait for Sam Holt to recover. Suddenly apprehensive, she picked up her skirts, and forgetting her dignity, ran down the terrace steps, and pushed her way through the crowd of marchers, who seemed to have lost something of their angry energy and were milling about without direction, leaderless.

“Bradford!” she shouted, over the din. “Bradford, where are you?”

“Here, Kate!”

She turned. Bradford and the vicar, grim-faced, were standing at the launch site. With them was Squire Thornton and a thickset man with heavy shoulders, a beetling brow, and stubby red whiskers.

“What's happened?” Kate gasped. “That journalist—he said Charles forgot something.”

“It wasn't forgotten,” Bradford said angrily, brandishing what looked like a bundle of large iron fishing hooks welded together. “It was snatched from its place and dropped on the ground. By this man! Tom Whipple!” And he shoved the grapnel into the red-bearded man's stout stomach. The man doubled over with a loud “Whoomph!” and fell to his knees, grunting, Kate thought, like a stuck pig
^.

“Lord Bradford,” the vicar cried, horrified, seizing his arm and wrestling the hook from him. “Violence will not do. It will not do at all!”

“But his was a violent act!” Bradford exclaimed furiously, pulling away from the vicar. “He has killed two men. Without that grapnel, the balloon—” His eyes went to Kate, and he stopped, biting his lip.

Kate forced herself to speak calmly. “Without it, what?”

The vicar affected a smile. “Without it, the descent will be a bit more difficult, my dear,” he murmured, in a soothing voice. “But there is nothing to worry about, I assure you. Mr. Rolls is an experienced balloon pilot. He can certainly manage—”

Thornton exploded into a laugh. “Experienced? Why, that young idiot is no more a pilot than I am. He's been up a time or two as a passenger, but as far as piloting a balloon, he has no experience at all.” He bent over. “Up, Whipple. Get up, man.”

“I didn't do‘t,” Whipple said thickly. He struggled to his knees, clutching his stomach. “I didn't pull that grapnel down. 'Twas someone else!”

“Don't worry,” the squire said. “It'll be made right.”

Kate only half-heard this exchange, for she had grown icy cold. No pilot? Charles was thousands of feet in the air with a boy who lacked the necessary competence to bring them both down safely?

“Rolls has no experience?” the vicar asked, wide-eyed. “On what do you base that assertion, Squire Thornton? Is this hearsay, or—”

Thornton snorted as he pulled Whipple to his feet and supported him with an arm. “It did not require a Sherlock Holmes to investigate young Rolls's background. Vicar. He is a great conniver, but not particularly clever at covering his tracks.”

“And you, Roger,” Bradford interjected coldly, “were especially moved to uncover them, I suppose. With my sister in mind, eh? I seem to recall that Patsy has preferred Rolls to you of late.”

“Indeed, I have had Miss Marsden's welfare at heart in all I have done,” Thornton replied stiffly. “But perhaps you would care to tell Lady Kathryn how much
you
knew about Rolls's ballooning experience, and whether you shared that knowledge with Sir Charles.”

By this time, there was a considerable crowd gathered around. The lawn was crowded with spectators, and Kate saw Constable Laken elbowing his way through the throng.

The vicar fixed his pale eyes on Bradford. “Is it true that Rolls has no experience, Lord Bradford? And if it is, did you inform Sir Charles about the risk?”

Bradford shifted his feet uncomfortably, avoiding both Kate's and the vicar's eyes. “Well, y‘see... That is, I—” He coughed. “It was to be a short flight, d'y'know. We did not expect to encounter difficulties.” He glared at Whipple. “Or sabotage.”

“I di‘n't,” Whipple whimpered, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “Whoev‘r did it, 'twan't me.”

“Who can say it was sabotage?” Thornton asked. “Perhaps the grapnel was but carelessly attached.”

“Nevertheless,” the vicar said, “it would be better—and safer—for the constable to take the man into custody, while we discuss what to do about the—” His eyes went to Kate.

“I want to know,” Kate said firmly, “exactly how difficult it will be for Sir Charles and Mr. Rolls to land their balloon without the equipment that has been left behind.”

Thornton gave a strangled laugh. “How difficult? In the absence of an experienced pilot, and without that grappling iron to bring themselves down safely, the balloonists are lost.”

Kate's stomach was churning and her knees felt rubbery. But she only lifted her chin and gave the three men her most charming, most confident smile.

“Lost, are they
^?
” she inquired in a pleasant tone. “Well, then, gentlemen, I suppose I shall have to go and find them.” And with that, she turned on her heel and walked swiftly away.

 

Kate had driven a motorcar—Bradford's Daimler—only twice before, with Charles at her elbow, instructing her. If she had paused for a moment to reflect on what she was doing, she would not have imagined doing it herself.

But she did not pause, nor did she reflect. Having learned that Charles was in danger, her first and only thought was to go to him—and the quickest means to that end was a motorcar. Unfortunately, the four racing machines had already disappeared down the lane, or Kate might have commandeered one of them, and the driver. Mr. Rolls's Peugeot stood idling nearby, however, its motor having been started as a demonstration. The car was polished within an inch of its life, its wire-spoke wheels and black leather seat gleaming, and the three and three-quarters horsepower engine chugged smoothly, with only an occasional hiccup.

“Pardon me,” Kate said, pushing aside the shirt-sleeved man who was extolling the motor car's virtues to a crowd of marveling spectators. “Mr. Rolls is in need of his motorcar.”

The man was horrified. “But this machine is the most powerful in England! It is far too dangerous for you to operate. With all due respect, ma'am, you cannot be allowed to—That is to say, I cannot permit—”

“Step aside, sir,” Kate said firmly. Disregarding the man's sputtered protests and the amazed gasps of the crowd, she settled herself on the tufted leather seat, seized the tiller, adjusted the air mixture, and began to ease out the throttle, just as Charles had showed her. She paused, however, when a breathless Patsy Marsden, holding her hat and reticule in one hand and her camera in the other, darted out of the crowd and tumbled onto the seat beside her. She was pursued by an ardent Sam Holt.