On a night like this one, Conor could almost believe that men were not supposed to fly.
He came down at a sharp angle, too fast and too steep.
I will be lucky if my ankles survive this, he thought, gritting his teeth against the impact.
Though his vision was impaired by a cracked lens and whirling elements, Conor saw the skiff on Sebber Bridge, and he also spotted the men lying in wait for him behind the ridge.
Snakes in the grass, he thought without a shred of fear, utterly ready for a fight. He shifted left on the steering bar in order to come down in their midst.
May as well have a soft landing.
Rosy was attempting to run when Conor crashed into him, driving both boots into the man’s shoulders. He heard something snap and the man rolled howling down the rocky slope. The rest jumped to their feet and ranged about him in a ragged circle. None attacked, sizing up their opponent.
These men cannot understand the principles of my rig, thought Conor. Therefore I am a ghost, or a creature. That will not last long. Soon enough they will see for themselves that my wings are fabric and my chest heaves with exertion. Then they will shoot me dead.
Or perhaps not. No guns were drawn yet, though there were plenty of blades.
Of course. There will be no gunplay here. The reports would bring the Wall watch down on us, and these brigands are not here to arrest me.
One of the five remaining men stepped forward a pace, brandishing an ice pick.
‘Gibbus de dymon,’ he said, then removed the dagger from his mouth and spat. ‘I said give us the diamonds, Airman.’
Diamonds. The dropped pouch! He had left a trail.
‘Billtoe,’ growled Conor, his voice coarsened by deep hatred.
The prison guard quailed. ‘Who are you? Why me, personally? I never wronged no parlayvoo.’
Billtoe will be first to fall, thought Conor. At least I will have that.
His hands flashed to twin scabbards at his hips, drawing two battle sabres.
‘En garde,’ he said and lunged forward. A breeze caught the glider, elongating his stride, and Billtoe who had thought himself at a safe distance was suddenly face to face with the Airman.
He tried a move employed in a dozen bar fights – a sly dig with his ice pick – only to find the weapon batted aside.
‘Shame on you, monsieur,’ said the Airman. ‘Bringing a kitchen tool to a sword fight.’
Conor slashed down and out, his blade biting deep into Billtoe’s thigh. The guard squealed and grabbed the wound. He was no longer a threat. Both hands would be employed trying to keep the blood inside his leg.
Even now I do not wish to kill him, Conor realized. There is only one man I could kill.
He heard a rustling behind him as two men advanced.
They are too cautious. The strange uniform scares them.
A fortuitous breeze snapped his wings and Conor added to its force by leaping directly upwards. The two men passed below and the Airman descended on them with boots and blades. Both were soon dispatched. Neither dead, but certainly nursing a reluctance to participate in moonlight ambushes.
Two men left. One was quaking and the other circling warily, biding his time, watching for weakness. It was Pike, and he did not seem inclined to retreat.
‘You go ahead, matey,’ he said, propelling his comrade towards Conor.
The unfortunate man had barely time to squeak before Conor knocked him senseless with a casual blow from the sabre’s guard.
‘Jus’ you and me, Airman,’ said Pike, sporting a careless grin. He studied Conor, took in the stance and the muscle and the weapons dangling from fist and belt.
‘To hell with this,’ he said, reaching for his pistol. ‘I’ll take my chances with the Wall watch.’
Conor drew faster, exchanging the sword in his right hand for a revolver.
‘The guards can hear my shot or none, monsieur. The choice is yours.’
Pike was already committed to his action, so Conor buzzed a shot past his ear to regain his attention. The guard fell, temporarily deafened, to his knees, gun tumbling from his fingers.
‘A warning shot. The next one will put a hole in you.’
It was useless to speak. Pike could not hear and combed the grass with his fingers, till he found his weapon.
‘Drop that pistol,’ said Conor. ‘I have the advantage over you.’
But Pike could not or would not hear and lifted the barrel, his intention clear.
Conor shot him in the shoulder, the copper-jacketed slug bowling the guard diagonally over the ridge, screeching like a barn owl.
Gunshot and screeching, and at night too. Noises certain to attract the attention of the Wall watch. Conor jumped over the ridge, squatting behind it. On the Wall above, three lights were extinguished. This was protocol. At the first sign of disturbance, the guards plunged themselves into darkness to avoid becoming targets. Next half a dozen flares came arcing over the Wall, painting the bay with harsh red light.
It was time to leave. Quickly now, before the flares dipped low enough to light the skiff. Conor collapsed his wings and ran doubled over to the small boat. There was no time for careful folding of the glider, and several of the craft’s ribs snapped as he shoved it under the seat.
No matter. Wooden ribs by the stack in the tower. My own ribs are more difficult to replace should they be splintered by gunshot.
He pushed hard into the gunwale, scraping the keel across the stone and sand until the water took its weight.
Shouts behind him now as guards poured from a fortified gateway, hurrying along the coast path. Some on horseback. The baying of hunting dogs echoed across the flat sea.
Dogs! The watch wasted no time leashing their hounds.
Conor leaped into the skiff, his momentum pushing it to sea and safety. He tugged the mast from its bracket, laying it flat across the planks. Less of a profile from shore. Cold water splashed over the prow, spattering his face and he was glad of it. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears like great hollow drums in the distance.
I wish to be a scientist. Doing injury holds no pleasure for me.
Not even Billtoe? Did you not enjoy that cut?
Conor ignored the question. He would deal with the workings of his mind on another day.
You will be a scientist again. In America. A new life, new inventions, home, friends and perhaps another girl who does not remind you of Isabella.
Conor turned his mind to rowing. He could not even contemplate girls without a vision of Isabella blooming in his mind.
So, the ocean. Conor felt confident that he was safe now. The robust little craft bore him away on the current. The skiff had served him well. Already Great Saltee was little more than a dark wedged hump receding.
Billtoe had called him Airman. That will be a short-lived title.
The glider lay on the planks, its wings folded awkwardly like those of a broken bird.
No matter. It is over now. The mysterious Airman will fly no more.
The Martello tower was visible on the Irish coastline, a lantern burning in an upstairs window. A beacon to guide him home.
Conor smiled.
Linus has forgiven me, he thought.
And then.
I hope there is hot chocolate.
CHAPTER 17: TANGLED WEB
Two hours later, Arthur Billtoe sat on a fruit box in Marshall Bonvilain’s office trying to hold the flaps of his wound together. His trousers were soaked and small gouts of blood pumped between his fingers in time with his heartbeat.