They were lost, and it was O’Gilroy’s fault. He had made the mistake, which could be fatal, of warping what he saw to fit what he wanted to see: a distinctive bend and island in the Adige river followed soon by a railway crossing a smaller river. Oh, he had seen them all right – but the Adige had many bends and islands, and the country below was veined with small rivers and canals, half of them not on the map. If he’d been right, they would now be slap over the middle of Padua, and there was no sign of the place.
Moreover, the haze was thickening from a whitish blur that made the sky overlap the landscape to a grey-brown stain that subtly distorted what it didn’t hide.
He yelled his confession to Andrew, who nodded philosophically and called back: “Wind’s probably changed, we’re getting towards the coast. We know that much. D’you think we’re north or south?”
“Jest don’t know,” O’Gilroy had to admit.
“Don’t worry, we’ve got plenty of gas. But best to know . . . There’s a railway line: I’ll do a bit of Bradshawing.” And he tipped the Oriole into a gentle spiralling descent.
To ‘Bradshaw’, from the name of the British railway timetable, simply meant going down to read the name off a railway station. Hardly scientific, but very precise.
Andrew headed north along the line, down-sun where the visibility was better, then swerved and banked around a small village.
“Did you get it?” he shouted, curling away.
“No!” They’d banked towards Andrew’s side.
“Damned oil on the goggles.” Andrew pushed them up onto his forehead and wheeled the Oriole round and down for a second look.
O’Gilroy tensed: hadn’t he been told that if you frightened up birds on the first swoop, you might hit them on a second pass? But it was his fault they were having to do this anyway. He kept quiet as they straightened and flattened close to the ground – then black shapes flickered for an instant, there was a thump and bang and Andrew screamed.
He must instinctively have jerked on the stick, because the aeroplane leapt upwards. Then he hunched forward, blood masking his face. “Take it! Take it!” And O’Gilroy reached around him to seize the stick, suddenly conscious of a new wind in his face, a wind that was slackening . . .
He pushed the rocking, swaying aeroplane forward, down away from a near-stall, looking ahead and trying to position himself in the sky. Horizon level – blast it! there was almost no horizon in that haze – just as level as possible . . . can’t reach the engine controls; doesn’t matter, the engine’s running, God bless it; what had caused the thump, then? The windscreen’s gone . . . They’d hit a bird and Andrew had got a face full of broken glass.
He was making grunting, gasping noises, pawing at his face with now-bloodied hands.
“Best leave it alone!” O’Gilroy shouted. “I’ve got her safe!” But he wasn’t at all sure of that. They were crawling and rocking up in a wide and unintentional circle, because Andrew’s feet were still on the rudder bar. “Push right rudder!” O’Gilroy ordered.
Andrew heard and pushed.
“A bit less . . . fine. Hold that.”
“Can’t see a damned thing!”
“Then leave it, ye’ll make it worse. I think we hit a bird.”
“Damn. Stupid of me.” Andrew was leaning back as far as a big man could in that cockpit, speaking in gasps against the blasting wind. “Damn, damn, damn. How’s it look?”
O’Gilroy snatched a look at his face. It was streaked with blood like crazy warpaint, but barely flowing. “Not much blood. Keep yer eyes shut. Ye’ll be fine.” Certainly the bleeding wouldn’t kill Andrew; he himself might.
Suddenly that made him angry. So they expected him, the new boy, the bog-Irish amateur, to make a balls of it, did they? So he’d bloody well show them. Just knowing that he couldn’t do worse than expected buoyed him up. He began a cautious, gradual turn towards the east again.
“Are you landing?” Andrew croaked.
“Not yet.”
Perhaps he should, though. The land below was flat enough, the fields big enough – for an experienced pilot. But how near was any hospital?
Yet would he recognise the proper landing-field when he saw it? Andrew had had the instructions, he himself had concentrated on the navigation. Hadn’t someone said there was an aerodrome at Venice itself? At an aerodrome they were used to injuries, and in getting there he might learn to fly this thing.
He took a deep oil-laden breath. All the precision, the time-keeping, were gone. Now it was step by simple step, and the first step was to reach the coast. If they really were north of Padua, he should aim south of east. He tried another turn. The Oriole was both more sensitive than the Boxkite and yet, he began to feel, more predictable. And he skidded outwards on the turn, but they’d taught him to do that rather than risk a spin by over-ruddering (though Andrew had kept his turns perfectly balanced). When – judging more by the sun than the lazily-spinning compass – he reckoned he was on course, he flattened out of the turn. Then, leaning against Andrew’s shoulder to get a glimpse of the airspeed indicator and reaching left-handed across Andrew’s thigh to clutch the stick, he tried simply to fly straight.
Instead, the Oriole gradually developed a rocking, switchback movement. It was taking over. Maybe that bird had done more damage, maybe half the tail was fluttering loose – he daren’t look round – but then he realised he was over-controlling. He clamped the stick still and let the aeroplane sort itself out – in a slight downward turn – then corrected that. Moment by moment, it got easier.
“Not far now,” he said aloud. But perhaps he was talking to himself.
28
Time in the dungeon was very exact, no “abouts” or “nearlys”; there was nothing else to do but note exactly when anything happened. Fifty-three minutes after Ranklin had been locked up, a guard came in with a metal jug of water and a worn but clean towel. Pero thoughtfully gestured for Ranklin to have first go, then muddied the towel without making too much difference to his face and hands.
One hour and seven minutes later, the door opened and Captain Novak came in. “I must apologise for the overcrowding, but this is the high season,” he smirked in German. Then he reached behind him and effortlessly hauled the Conte di Chioggia past. “Auf wiedersehn.”
As the heavy wooden door slammed shut, the Count got his breath back, and spent nearly two minutes being outraged in alternate Italian and German. He promised to report everybody concerned to the Comandante (when he returned), the Chief of Police, and the Governor of Trieste. He was starting to list his connections in Vienna when a guard came back and shoved an armful of bedding at him. The Count dropped it, kicked it, but then seemed exhausted; he glared around.
“James Spencer,” Ranklin said. “We met – briefly – in the Cafe San Marco.”
“Ah? Then you know who I am. My humblest apologies for not recognising you immediately, but I had not expected . . . And our friend here?”
“His name’s Pero. He seems to speak only Slovenian.”
“My God! This is the final insult!” He swung round to tell the door, in German: “Police Captain Novak will be walking a beat in the sewers next week!”
Pero had been gazing at the Count with a loose smile. Now he got off the bed and stuck out a welcoming hand, along with a quick burst of Slovenian. The Count stared at the hand as he would at a plague rat, spat some insult that rocked Pero back on his heels, and sat firmly on a chair.
Then all the firmness vanished, and he was suddenly old and frail. Ranklin sat up, expecting him to slide to the floor, but the Count raised a thin, trembling hand. “Please, I am just a little tired. Do you have a cigarette? Ah, thank you, thank you . . .” Ranklin lit it for him. Now he had only five left. He mentally shrugged and took one for himself.