Getting up the pace, we could perhaps gain fifteen minutes on the horde, which would presumably continue to swarm past the inn. We could only hope that Hutton and those fine men could either break out or hold up.
In the distance we could see the light haze and loose silhouette of a balloon shape, good old Hutton! Trotting up the footpath to the premises that housed the flying machine, panting from the quick rate we had kept up, we could see the silhouette of a man sitting casually in one of the rooms of the house before us. Holmes beat enthusiastically on the door, and yet, the man not shocked or startled, took a final sip from his cup before casually strolling to the door.
The shabby and rough old door swayed open and before us stood a distinguished and yet roughly clothed man, but clearly a well educated one.
“Mr Fogg?” Holmes blurted out, not giving the gentleman time to enquire about our presence. “At your service gentleman, why would you trouble me at these hours and with such armaments?” The man responded in a plucky and well spoken voice.
Holmes, as he had with Hutton, explained as quickly as he possibly could, tagging Hutton’s name and order on to the end of his words.
“I have travelled the world and seen plenty, this story seems farfetched to say the least my man, but that does not change the responsibility I owe Hutton and now to you.”
Holmes informed him in no uncertain terms that we had to head for Switzerland without delay.
“That does not change the fact my fine men that until my man returns with further supplies of coal, we will not get further than the coastline.”
“Damn it man, have you no way to get this balloon in the air sooner?” snapped Holmes in a rather ungentle and rude fashion, of which I quite understood considering the
impending situation, but was not endearing us to the man nonetheless.
“I will have you know sir that this is no balloon, this is a dirigible, and we will leave the moment we have coal. Now, calm yourself and let us enjoy a pleasant cup of tea before taking to the air.”
We were both unsure as to whether this odd gentleman understood the severity of the situation, but despite that, a cup of tea was music to our ears after the events of the
last day. Tea was a comforting beverage at any time, and always gave such a feeling of home and sense of norm, no matter the chaos around oneself. As Mr Fogg settled down in his rocking chair and we planted ourselves nearby, Holmes piped up in a rather abrupt fashion, though not startling the gent.
“Do you have any weapons about the premises?” “My valet has a coaching gun kept in the outhouse, but nothing else,” Mr Fogg replied.
“Then I rather suggest you place your hands on it and have it duly prepared with as much urgency as the coal for your dirigible,” Holmes explained.
The rather odd old gentleman rocked forward on his chair and rose from it, clearly now understanding that grave deeds were afoot and our haste and concern was not a small matter. With a straightening of his back he set out of the room with purpose. For all his oddities, this was clearly a sensible and quick thinking man, and Holmes
evidently saw through to that conclusion quickly. Mr. Fogg strolled back into the room clutching a blunderbuss, handing it to me with a powder flask and case of shot, looking at me rather sheepishly.
“Well I don’t know what to do with it!” he proclaimed. I took the gun in hand, it was old, I hadn’t handled a gun like this since my school days, it was clearly at least
several decades old. Despite this, it was a well made and an exquisite piece with a brass barrel, octagonal for the first half. This was well looked after and treasured, the
percussion mechanism had clearly been converted from the earlier flintlock design that the gun had fitted when new. Its stock was well oiled regularly and a folding bayonet ran along the top of the fourteen inch fluted barrel, retained by a tan leather strap with brass buckle. This was owned and kept by a man with respect and knowledge of arms, a man that we could only hope would arrive in time to provide our escape route.
Holmes nodded to me, clearly showing he wanted to speak with Mr. Fogg privately whilst I prepared the blunderbuss. Holmes took Fogg’s arm and walked out of
the room, I knew he was rooting for more information whilst ensuring our safe journey in as pleasant words as possible.
I had never personally had need to use a weapon such as this, but it was essentially identical to the earlier muzzle loading Enfield’s I had experienced, before the days of the
breech loading mechanisms, only requiring a proportional increase in all consumable components. I poured powder from the flask in quantities which would be obscene for
any other weapon that didn’t require a carriage. I had shot, but no wadding, I suppose cartridges were not considered necessary for this weapon, as rate of fire was of no
concern. I reached for Mr. Fogg’s newspaper, a terrible thing to do to a gentleman, but I knew we would not be in England long enough for him to know. Tearing the paper
I stuffed it down the barrel, and using the ramrod, drove it home, quickly followed by shot and more wadding. With a new cap fitted, this cannon was ready to go, a one shot
wonder, but well worth its weight in gold at a time in need. I had never travelled in a balloon, or dirigible as Mr. Fogg lovingly referred to it, and in all honesty I had no
faith in such devices. It was simply not natural for men to be travelling like the birds. Travel by sea would always be natural to men, for we naturally float and swim, and many materials we work with have natural buoyancy, but no man or solid material naturally rises into the air.
These balloons had existed for some time, but I had read of a number of accidents, which did not endear me to what I already had a dislike of. Sadly, despite all of my opinions and fears, we now had no alternative route, whilst an army was bearing down upon us. Mr. Fogg had travelled the world in such a device, and we therefore had
to trust his knowledge and skills.A clattering sound appeared in the distance that was getting quickly louder, the sound of wheels and horses became clearer as Fogg’s valet roared towards the house, all three of us rushing to greet him. I wondered if he would ever appear, as these beasts appeared to be attacking all manner of locations. The valet was clearly a practical man, a little quirky certainly, but more in tune with the sane people among us than Mr. Fogg.
“Passepartout, these gentleman will be joining us, load the coal speedily as we take to the air in just a few moments.”
I rushed to the cart and began to lift sacks off to help the valet, to my surprise so did Holmes, who would never normally stoop to such acts of physical labour. ‘Thank you, sirs,” the plucky valet responded. “You will shortly realise that you are the saviour of the evening sir, thank you,” Holmes responded.
“My pleasure sir,” said Passepartout.
Taking two sacks from the cart we followed Fogg to his wondrous flying machine and loaded them onto the basket whilst Mr. Fogg made the final preparations. We made a second trip but on our third trip to the cart we came to a quick halt, as we saw the glimmer of just fifty yards away, a mass of movement. All of us remained frozen, desperately trying to make out the reason for the movement, Holmes and I fearing the worst, as the valet was clearly surprised to see anyone at this time and place. The enemy was upon us, casually stumbling along, with the moaning sound which can only be comparable to a field hospital after a battle, a most uncomfortable ambience. “Fogg! Get us in the air!” barked Holmes. Lugging a sack of coal over our shoulders we ran through the front door, snapping up my rifle and Holmes’ shotgun whilst barely stopping and immediately out the back door towards the flying machine. Mr. Fogg was frantically untying the ropes and throwing off the sandbags which kept the device on the ground.