‘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 twelveshot 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. Bed sheets 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 fact 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 spectre, there were still over two miles of ocean between him and the Irish village of Kilmore Quay.
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 Saint 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 air holes 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 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 above ground 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 night-time 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 towards 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 pack of fireworks and a short fuse. All the marksman had to do was nail the centre of the glowing balloon with a nitroglycerine bullet, and the hydrogen would ignite, setting off the fuse to the fireworks’ pack.
For Queen Victoria’s entertainment, 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.