‘Now you’re talking,’ muttered one brave lieutenant, a skinny Kilmore man whose father had served on the Wall before him.
Captain Broekhart grunted. ‘She’s all yours, Bates.’
Bates leaned a modified Winchester on the battlements, flicking up his sights.
‘Your own barrel?’ asked his captain.
‘Yessir,’ said the sharpshooter. ‘Had it bored special, and added three inches to the length. Keeps the bullet on the straight for another hundred yards or so.’
Declan was impressed. ‘A neat trick, Lieutenant. Where did you pick that up?’
‘You, sir,’ said Bates, and pulled the trigger.
It was a long shot. Long enough that they heard the gunshot before the bullet hit its mark. The glowing globe exploded in a riotous ball of Chinese sparks.
‘Two pints to me,’ said Bates, grinning.
Declan groaned ruefully. ‘I shall be a poor man before the night is out.’
He turned to wave across the square at Catherine. She was on her feet applauding, as was everyone on the dais, including the normally stern Queen Victoria. Isabella, who had not yet got the hang of royal decorum, was hooting with delight.
Declan turned to his men.
‘It looks like you boyos are to be the heroes of the night. So, who will be the next to take beer from me?’
A dozen rifles were instantly cocked.
Conor flew up so fast, it felt as though he were falling down. None of his calculations could have prepared him for the sheer chaos of his flight. He’d entertained notions of a brisk elevation, but calm and steady, with time to collect his thoughts and observe his surroundings. In short, master of the situation.
But this was a waking nightmare. Of all the elements in this equation, Conor had least control. There was wind in his face, blasting across his eyeballs, stuffing into his ears. He was deafened and almost blind. His arm was strained to the limits of muscle and bone, and finally with a violent gust of wind, nature casually dislocated Conor’s shoulder. The pain was a white-hot hammer blow that spread across his upper chest.
I have failed. I cannot escape alive. Just let me lose consciousness and wake in Paradise.
This class of fatalistic thought was not normal for Conor, but these were extraordinary circumstances.
It seemed as though his arm would be ripped away utterly, and when this did not happen, his keen senses sliced through the fog of pain and pandemonium which enveloped him.
The balloon was gaining height, but its acceleration had slowed, and the air currents were calmer at this particular altitude. Conor knew he had to make any observations he could during this lull.
Altitude? Perhaps fifteen hundred feet. Drifting towards Great Saltee.
The islands shone below him like diamonds in the foreboding sea. Hundreds of lamps bobbed on the decks of visiting crafts, anchored off Saltee Harbour. Stars above and below.
He must separate from the balloon now. He was lower than he would like, but the wind was taking him out to sea faster than he’d calculated, and with his injured shoulder, Conor would be pressed to keep himself afloat for any length of time.
It was vital that Conor disentangle his arm from the netting, but he found that even a simple act such as finding one hand with the other was almost impossible in this situation. Pain, disorientation and wind shear would make normal motor functions a challenge for a man at peak physical condition, not to mention an injured and exhausted convict.
He had no control over joints or fingers, and the pain now seemed to come from his heart. Conor had dropped the bayonet and was forced to tug at the netting with fumbling fingers. It was impossible. His arm was wrapped up snugger than a turkey in an ice box. Conor Finn was ocean bound. His only hope was that the balloon was badly made and would pop its seams in the next minute.
Below him, the second from last balloon exploded, turning a black sky gold and red for a moment before the darkness reclaimed the night.
Perfect, thought Conor, smiling numbly. It worked perfectly. High-class fireworks. Holding their light for several seconds. What a pity I am not suspended below that balloon, instead of stranded in the night sky.
In his original plan he would be suspended far below one of the balloons when the Sharpshooters shot it down. The balloon would lift him free from the prison, then a bullet would bring him back to earth.
He wondered absently if he was the first person to see fireworks from above. Probably not. No doubt some intrepid aeronaut had sent up a balloon on an anchor.
A thought struck Conor.
I am flying as no man has flown before. No basket, no ballast. Just a man and his balloon.
And, somehow, this thought gave him some comfort in spite of his dire situation. He was alone in the skies, the only man here. Breathing rarefied air, blue-black expanse on all sides. No walls. No prison door.
Where will they find me? Wales? France? Or, if the wind changes, Ireland? What will they make of the device on my chest? My innovations?
Conor felt a measure of triumph too.
I have defeated you, Bonvilain. You will not use me, or torture me at your leisure. I am free.
There was also regret.
Mother. Father. Never an opportunity to explain.
But even in this mortal danger, Conor harboured a touch of bitterness.
How could you believe Bonvilain, Father? Why haven’t you saved me?
The Coronation Balloons were a tremendous success, drawing huge applause with every successful pop. The sharpshooters were putting on a great show, with only Keevers missing his mark, and even then only because his nitroglycerine bullet exploded in the barrel, buckling his weapon like a rye-grass drinking straw.
Those firework boys were clever blighters, Declan had to admit. Each balloon was a bigger bang than the last, all carefully sequenced. The last one had shaken the very Wall itself. If Queen Isabella wasn’t careful she might lose her crown.
Catherine looked beautiful tonight, up there beside her queen. She looked beautiful every night, but he hadn’t noticed for a while. For two years in fact.
Conor would want his mother to be happy, perhaps his father too.
‘Excuse me, sir.’
It was Bates. No doubt looking for his Guinness.
‘A minute, Bates. I’m having a moment here. Thinking about my wife. You should try it instead of harassing a superior officer for beer.’
‘No, sir, it’s not the Guinness, though I haven’t forgotten it.’
‘What then?’ said Declan, trying to hold on to his good mood.
‘The moving target. The big finale, sir. They’ve let ’er up too early. Not my fault is all I’m saying. No one could hit that target. Must be over a mile, and the sea breeze has got her.’
Declan gazed across the square at Catherine. Glowing she was, and he knew why. Maybe her husband was coming home, at last. She needed a sign.
He held out his hand to Bates. ‘Give me your weapon, Sharpshooter.’
As soon as Declan’s fingers wrapped around the stock, he knew he would make the shot. It was fate. Tonight was the night.
‘Is she ready?’
‘Yes sir. One in the saddle, ready for the off. Little jerky on the recoil – hope your shoulder hasn’t gone soft. You being a captain and so forth.’
Declan grunted. Bates had a mouth on him and no denying it. Any other night and the young lieutenant would be slopping out the latrines.
‘Target?’
‘Big glowing ball in the sky, sir.’
‘Your sense of self-preservation should be all a-tingle right now, Bates.’
Bates coughed. ‘Yessir, I mean, target eleven o’clock high and right, sir, Captain, sir.’
Declan caught the balloon in his sights. It was barely more than a speck now. A pale moon in a sea of stars.