Avast, Ye Airships Anthology Page 5

“And the sage-and-cow-dung mixture the witch doctor spread about?”

  “Every knee knocker and porthole’s been scrubbed. Smell’s still a bit strong, though, especially near the bridge. Um...”

  “Yes?”

  “A few of the lads—Methodists mostly—have asked to be excused from Mr. Goodbody’s voodoo ritual. They got Religious Views on the subject.”

  “I didn’t hear any complaints about Miss Berkeley’s séance yesterday, and surely Methodists have views about Spiritualism?”

  “Yes, ma’am, but...well, I mean, did you see her, Captain? She could’ve conjured ten devils for all they cared, as long as she smiled them pearly whites and jiggled her, uh...” Barrowman coughed.

  Wexford turned back to the porthole. The Boadicea had moored here after an eight-month underway, awaiting an open berth at the Royal Navy’s Airship Yards, a few miles distant. Rather than fuming at this delay, Wexford had actually looked forward to a few quiet days before the ship became caught up in the clamor and dirt and upheaval of a yard period. Half the crew had been sent on leave as soon as the ship had moored, and she had hoped those still aboard could enjoy a relaxed schedule.

  Another rap sounded on the door, and a slender man with an oversized mustache hovered on the threshold at respectful attention.

  Wexford eyed her executive officer. “Yes, Goss?”

  “The Reverend Addington is in the chapel, ma’am, donning his vestments. Quite a few sailors have showed up for the... event.” Goss’s voice dripped with disapproval. “They should be ready for you shortly.”

  An involuntary smile tugged at Wexford’s mouth. “Commander, an exorcism, while unusual, is a perfectly respectable ritual within the Church of England.”

  “It’s unseemly, ma’am, if you’ll allow me the liberty of saying so. All of this is damned embarrassing, especially the Chervil incident yesterday.” Goss didn’t handle the inexplicable happily.

  “Has anyone come to claim Mr. Chervil’s body?” asked Wexford.

  “His son will be here this evening,” said Goss.

  The late Mr. Chervil had been among the first to answer Wexford’s desperate pleas for spiritual assistance in ridding the ship of the disembodied invaders. And, while his fate had been sad, his last words had provided some insight into the Boadicea’s dilemma before expiring.

  In plunging deep into the churchyard, it seemed, the errant cable had acted as a sort of telegraph wire, providing the departed of St. Michael’s, Little Tingeford, an opportunity to abandon what should have been their final resting places and stampede upward...not to Heaven, alas, but to what they seemed to believe was an even more agreeable outlet: Wexford’s ship.

  Barrowman sighed. “A pleasant man, Mr. Chervil. I thought he was getting somewheres, communing with them crazy voices. Shame his heart took bad like that.”

  Muffled laughter erupted from the phone.

  The voices were now entrenched in their new home. Communication between the ship’s various departments and decks, which hitherto had been swift and simple via the sound-powered phones, was interrupted by voices expressing views that ranged from flowers to fornication.

  The Chief Engineer had reported that one particularly cranky voice continually berated his people about paint and a minor boiler valve repair. Attempts to call up steam using the bridge chadburn were thwarted when that normally reliable piece of equipment abruptly and unaccountably ceased to function, and the phones were taken over by an ongoing, vituperative conversation between three vicars, each of whose interpretation of St. Paul’s epistle to the Hebrews apparently maddened the other two.

  Worse followed.

  Everything else having failed, Wexford finally yielded to pleas from her staff and appealed to religious authorities for a solution. Admitting this move to the Admiralty had ranked as the worst day of her career...until she discovered that, with the mysterious wings embarrassing news seems always to possess, word of Boadicea’s troubles had flown throughout the fleet.

  The airship Excelsior’s commanding officer, whom Boadicea had bested two years running for the Battle Effectiveness pennant, sent the first message: Regret to hear of your spirited problems. Hope you’re not laid out by it all.

  Spooky, wrote the captain of the Princess Royal. He had held a grudge against Wexford since their midshipman days, when a liberty-port incident in Rangoon found him—after a night of revelry—chained to a statue of the Buddha in the Golden Temple, wearing only a feathered boa and a sign that read “Spank Me.” Sins caught up with you at last?

  Barrowman coughed. “Er, any more word from the Admiralty, ma’am?”

  “Admiral Clemens sent a message this morning. I have twenty-four hours to work out the situation or—” Wexford turned back to the viewport, “—I shall be relieved.”

  Barrowman’s jaw dropped. “But...that’s not right, captain! Not right at all!”

  Goss’s face turned pink. “Everyone knows this isn’t your fault, Captain. Those jackasses at the Airship Yard, they’re the ones who fouled up the schedule and forced us to moor here. They’re the ones who ought to be held responsible for siting the blasted mooring mast next to a churchyard. That you should be relieved is outrageous!”

  Wexford shrugged. “It all ends up on my shoulders. You know that. Complaining won’t do us—or me—any good.”

  The sound-powered phone chittered softly.

  “What are they talking about now, do you suppose?” said Wexford.

  “Last I checked,” said Goss, “some old goat was complaining about the valve inspection again. Apparently it’s not up to his standards.”

  “And Mrs. Pendleton-Shirt is being very sharp with some of the lads today,” said Barrowman. “Petty Officer Lappstrop got a bit impatient at not being able to communicate with the bridge and said something a bit, er, strong over the phone. Mrs. P’s threatened to find Lappstrop’s grandmother and tell her what a rascal he is. Gave him quite a turn, as his gran’s buried up Yorkshire way.”

  Wexford rubbed her face with a weary hand. “So, there’s nothing more we can try?”

  Barrowman and Goss exchanged glances.

  “There’s something,” said Barrowman. “The Chief Engineer suggested it this morning.”

  Goss snorted. “Another preposterous idea, Captain, I assure you.”

  “More preposterous than being invaded by the dead?”

  “Very close, ma’am.”

  “Mebbe,” said Barrowman. “But at this point, doing somethin’s better than floppin’ over dead. Right, Cap’n?”

  “You could have found a happier metaphor, Master Chief.” Wexford pushed away from the viewport. “Let’s go see the Chief Engineer.”

  #

  “Young Sherman’s got an idea worth hearing, Captain.” With a grimy handkerchief, the Chief Engineer dabbed ineffectually at smears of grease on his face and hands. “Talented boiler tech, she is. More to the point, she’s from Little Tingeford.”

  He gestured at a slender figure behind him, whose skin and coveralls were so filthy that only the eyes and a glimpse of pearly teeth revealed Sherman wasn’t an animated pillar of grunge.

  A series of wolf whistles emanated from a sound-powered phone dangling on a nearby bulkhead.

  Something inside Wexford snapped. She seized the phone and held the mouthpiece close.

  “GET OUT OF HERE, YOU BASTARDS! Before I dig up your bodies and feed them to the first dogs I can find!”

  A startled silence fell.

  Then, from the phone, several voices snickered.

  “It’s no good, Captain,” said Goss. “It just amuses them.”

  Wexford dropped the phone as if it was a venomous snake. “If the vicar’s exorcism doesn’t work, perhaps we should—”

  “Ma’am?” said a soft voice. “I-I think my granddad might be able to help. He was a...a sort of a sailor.”

  Wexford had forgotten about Sherman.

  “Oh? He knows about phone circuits?”

  “N-no, ma’am.”


  “Does he serve on an airship?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Then what good is he in this circumstance?”

  “He’s dead.”

  Wexford stared.

  “Fifteen years now,” nodded Sherman. She fell in bashful silence.

  The Chief Engineer nudged her. “Out with it, lass. The captain needs to know all.”

  “All what?” Wexford prompted.

  “He’s buried down below,” said the Chief Engineer.

  “You mean he’s...he’s one of them?”

  “Oh, no, ma’am. At least, I’ve not heard his voice. Anyway, I don’t think this lot would’ve invited him along. You see, he’s not exactly in the churchyard because he, um...”

  “Get on with it!”

  “He c-couldn’t be buried there because he was an—” Sherman blushed, “—atheist.” She whispered the last word. “The vicar and the vestry folks, they said he’d foul holy ground.”

  An atheist? Few people cared to admit to that particular religious dissension. The Church of England wielded considerable power in the empire, and a self-proclaimed atheist in a family’s midst constituted a serious social embarrassment.

  But then, even in the finest houses in England there lurked men and women who flouted church and societal conventions. Wexford’s own great-uncle Hartley, a younger son, had taken Holy Orders after attending Oxford and been established in a snug living in Herefordshire. Several years later his portrait was hastily removed from the Yellow Sitting Room and hung in the water closet of the third-best guest bedroom after it was discovered his blessing of the local farm animals involved more personal intimacy than was considered acceptable for an Anglican vicar. In comparison, atheism seemed a minor offense.

  “I see,” said Wexford. “Sent to religious Coventry in death, was he? Was that his only sin?”

  “A bit o’ smuggling, Cap’n, when he were younger. Brandy, mostly. That sort o’ thing.”

  “And just what is it you believe your grandfather can do to help us?”

  “He was a rare one for discipline, ma’am. Mum always said—he were her dad—Granddad was as like to blow the head off’n one of his mates, if they disobeyed his orders, as cover ‘em with gold when they had a successful run. When I were small, he’d knock me and my brothers straight if we sassed Mum or Dad or didn’t do our lessons.” Sherman beamed.

  “Very touching,” said Wexford, “but how does that help us in this situation?”

  Barrowman cleared his throat. “Cap’n, if we was to, uh, facilitate the reanimation of Sherman’s granddad, it’s possible he might be persuaded to help...” His eyes shifted to his boots.

  “Are you mad? You’re suggesting we dig up a body?”

  “I know right where ‘tis, Cap’n,” said Sherman. “We allus’ bring flowers on his birthday.”

  Wexford felt her grip on sanity’s slender thread begin to slip. “Oh? And then what? Hoist the coffin onto the quarterdeck and spread the bits about?”

  Sherman looked doubtful. “Could do that, I s’pose. Might be easier, though, to lower another mooring cable next to his bones and hope he’s as full of vinegar as he used to be.”

  “And you think he might be able instill discipline and obedience into these...these damned voices?” Wexford rubbed the bridge of her nose with a doubtful forefinger.

  All eyes turned to Sherman. She smiled nervously and nodded.

  “He’d do anything to please me when he were alive, ma’am. Plus, I’m thinking he might enjoy gettin’ some of his own back against them as put his grave outside the churchyard. He could hold a powerful grudge.”

  Wexford looked at the others. “What do you all think?”

  “Seems to me,” said Barrowman, “we’ve tried just about everything short of blowin’ up the ship. This might work. O’ course, we could wait for the voodoo bloke. He should be here any minute.” He leaned toward Wexford. “He’s bringin’ a goat.”

  Wexford’s hands curled into fists. Chickens were one thing. Goat guts smeared on the decks of her ship went beyond the bounds of endurance.

  “Dig up your grandfather, Sherman! Master Chief, make it happen.”

  Barrowman and Sherman hustled down the passageway, boots ringing on the steel deck plates.

  “Sherman!” Wexford called.

  The sailor wheeled about.

  “Keep him under control! Or I may conduct the next sacrifice.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Sherman scurried away.

  “I must be mad,” said Wexford, half to herself.

  “I suspect we’re all a bit mad at this point,” said Goss. “It is risky, of course. He might run amok like the others.”

  “I shouldn’t fret about it too much, Captain,” said the Chief Engineer. After all, if it doesn’t work—” He took another swipe at his greasy hands. “—it’s just one more voice. Right?”

  #

  Wexford and Goss gazed over the rail. Far below, Sherman, Barrowman, and three other sailors bustled around a freshly dug hole near the churchyard wall. Within minutes, a long, rectangular box was uncovered, and Sherman jumped into the hole and began prying at the top. It gave way, and she threw herself backward against the earthen wall of the grave. The others took hasty steps away.

  “I hate to think what that smells like,” said Wexford.

  “Indeed,” said Goss, shuddering. “The cable handlers are awaiting your word, ma’am.”

  Four sailors, next to a winch filled with thick metal cable, peered over the rail with fascinated eyes.

  Wexford waved a hand, and Goss barked out an order. The sailors hauled on the winch, and cable snaked ground-ward, gleaming in the setting sun’s rays.

  “God, I hope this works,” muttered Wexford.

  The crew below grabbed the cable and hauled it over to the hole. Sherman waved the others away. Staggering a little under the weight of the cable, Sherman laid the tip, very gently, inside the coffin of the late Edward MacKiddle.

  #

  Wexford halted outside the bridge hatch and leaned against the bulkhead. A storm of butterflies whirled around her stomach, each one a reminder that in just over an hour the Admiralty would lower the boom on her career. Keep calm. Remember when the entire Hottentot fleet surrounded the Boadicea and shot fire-tipped arrows at the balloon? The crew thought the ship was lost, but you got them through it. You can get through this.

  Right. Time for a show of command confidence. Wexford squared her shoulders and stepped through the hatch.

  Several sailors turned to stare at her, their eyes wide. Goss and the Officer of the Deck stared gloomily at the chadburn, and behind them, Barrowman rubbed his bald head with both hands.

  Wexford cleared her throat. “Everything ready to get underway, Commander?”

  Goss turned. His eyes were rimmed in weary red. “I’m afraid things just got worse, Captain.”

  Wexford forced her shoulders to stay erect, even as her butterflies descended into chaos. “I doubt that’s possible. But tell me anyway.”

  “We’ve no control,” said the Officer of the Deck. “All attempts to bring the boilers on line have failed, and when we try to talk with Engineering, those damned voices keep interrupting.”

  “What are they saying now?”

  “All sorts of things, ma’am, some of it quite...quite crude. But the gist seems to be the ship will be going nowhere soon.”

  “Actually,” said Goss, “it’s just one voice now. Care to guess whose?”

  Wexford gave up her pretense of calm.

  “Get Sherman up here,” she snapped at Barrowman. “NOW!”

  #

  Wexford glared at the diminutive figure standing before her.

  “You assured me, Sherman, your grandfather would cooperate in our efforts to regain control of the ship.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” whispered Sherman.

  “That hasn’t happened, has it?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Why is that?”

&nb
sp; Sherman stared at her steel-toed boots.

  “ANSWER ME!”

  Sherman jumped. Her hands shook as they gripped her cap. “Um...well, maybe...maybe he’s revertin’ a bit. To when he were young, and a bit...a bit wild.”

  What had Sherman said earlier about her grandfather? He was a sort of sailor.

  “Sherman, just what exactly did your grandfather do as a sailor?”

  Sherman swallowed audibly. “He were a...a...a pirate.”

  “Good God!” said Goss. His mustache bristled.

  Wexford gripped both hands behind her back to keep them from reaching for Sherman’s neck. She took a long, steadying breath.

  “Tell us the whole story. And don’t leave anything out this time! Understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Sherman’s voice trembled. “He ran away as a lad and joined the Navy, but he...he deserted. Took up with pirates. Edward Red Hands, he were called, ‘cause he was right quick with a knife. Mum said the whole family were that upset with him, but after a few years he won his own ship, which made them all ever so proud.” Blue eyes peeked at Wexford. “He sent home money regular, so we could go to school and better ourselves. Then, when he were old and couldn’t crack heads together anymore, he come back here to retire, respectable-like.”

  Wexford sank into the captain’s chair and put a hand over her eyes. Her career flashed before her...and crashed in flames beside an open grave near the wall of a small country churchyard.

  “In the past two years,” she said, “this crew has successfully repelled three of the Chinese emperor’s best airships, downed four Ottoman Zeppelins, and laid waste to the Black Sea brigand balloons. But now—” She shook her head. “—We’ve been overrun. By a pirate. Who’s dead.”

  “I’m sure he don’t mean no harm, Cap’n,” said Sherman.

  “He’s taken control of the ship, y’daft girl!” said Barrowman. “That’s mutiny!”

  Sherman cringed.

  “Are we lost?” said Wexford. “Should I call the Admiralty now?”

  Goss threw up his hands. Barrowman muttered darkly.

  “Please, Cap’n.” Sherman edged close. “Let me talk with him again. Maybe...maybe he misunderstood.”

  “Nonsense!” said Goss.

  Wexford stared at Sherman. Talking with the dead implied a measure of cooperation, and thus far the Boadicea’s defunct invaders had engaged only in one-way conversations. Their way. What difference could Sherman make? She glanced at the clock that hung above the helm. Less than one hour left.