Bonvilain’s face was a mask of regret and understanding. ‘You are right, Catherine. I have been shying away from tonight’s raison d’être. Conor. Your son. The hero of the Saltee Islands. I thought we could share our memories of that brave young man, and then perhaps raise a toast. I have been saving a special bottle of wine.’ It was a good performance and the marshall felt that, if needed, he could produce a tear.
‘But why now?’ prodded Catherine. ‘I admit to being a little puzzled, Marshall.’
He was spared the need to answer by the sound of a bugle piping from the Wall.
Declan leaped instantly to his feet.
‘That’s the call to arms!’ King Nicholas had insisted that the Saltee buglers learn US Army signals.
‘No need for panic,’ said Bonvilain, hurrying to the balcony. ‘I was warned he might show up.’
‘Who?’ asked the queen.
‘An enemy of the state, Your Majesty,’ explained Bonvilain, fixing his eye to a brass telescope. ‘This one calls himself the Airman.’
‘Airman,’ said Declan. ‘I’ve heard rumours about him. You mean he’s a real threat?’
‘Real? Yes,’ said Bonvilain, squinting into the eyepiece. ‘A threat? Absolutely not. Simply a Frenchman with a kite. Come and look. The lenses in this thing are quite fabulous.’
Catherine grasped Declan’s arm to stop herself shaking. All this talk of flying and Frenchmen had put Victor Vigny in mind.
‘A Frenchman in a kite?’ she said, voice strained.
‘Oh, dear God, of course,’ said Bonvilain, feigning shock. ‘Exactly like Vigny the murderer. I believe this Airman could be one of his acolytes. A curious hybrid of crazed revolutionary and scientist. I should not have even mentioned him; how insensitive of me. Please remain indoors. The Wall guard will shoot him down.’
Declan took Bonvilain’s arm, leading him to one side. ‘Shoot him down, Marshall? But you said he posed no threat.’
Bonvilain bent his head, spoke in a low voice. ‘Not a realistic one, though my men have found a grenade workshop.’
Declan blanched. ‘Grenades! Marshall, I am Captain of the Wall watch. Why do I not know all of this?’
‘Captain. Declan. My informants on the mainland reported to me barely two hours ago. I fully intended to broach the subject after dinner, but, in all honesty… a Frenchman, in a glider, dropping grenades? It seemed ludicrous. Something from a penny dreadful. At any rate, the wind is towards the mainland tonight, so how could this madman possibly glide here?’
At that moment a clunking mechanical noise echoed across the channel. It thrummed from a low register to a high one, spluttering alarmingly.
‘Perhaps this Airman does not rely on the wind,’ said Declan, snatching the telescope from its stand. ‘Conor always said that one day man would build an engine-powered aeroplane.’
‘Engine-powered,’ said Bonvilain, through gritted teeth. ‘A clever one that Conor, eh?’
Declan glanced down at the Wall. The watch had extinguished their lights and gathered in a cluster at the third tower. Several had climbed the parapet and were pointing skywards. Two held telescopes pointed thirty degrees skywards north-east. Declan raised the marshall’s telescope to his eye and followed their line. For a moment he saw nothing but night sky and stars, but then something flashed across his field. Not a bird. Too big to be a bird.
Declan zigzagged the telescope, trapping the object in his circle of vision. What he saw took his breath away.
It was a flying machine. Conor’s dream come alive in front of his eyes.
The aeroplane could not be called graceful, but it was flying, lurching through the air, trailing billowing streams of smoke. In the moonlight, Declan saw the Airman seated behind the engine, shoulders hunched as he wrestled with the controls, face obscured by goggles and soot, gritted teeth white against the blackness.
‘I see him,’ he gasped. ‘The Airman. He’s flying.’
Catherine rushed to the balcony, leaning over the rail, peering skywards.
‘Oh my goodness. If only Conor could have seen this.’ She turned to her husband. ‘This cannot be coincidence. You need to talk with this sky pilot.’
Behind them a shrill whistle blew twice, and immediately the Wall watch stripped off their cloaks, twirling them like bullfighters. Three Gatling-gun teams hoisted their weapons on to custom wall mounts. Whoever this Airman was, he was headed straight for a hail of fire.
Bonvilain still had the whistle to his lips. ‘The order is given. I had no choice, Catherine. He may be carrying grenades. My first duty is to the queen. Declan, surely you understand?’
Catherine turned to her husband, eyes blazing, fully expecting his support, but it was not forthcoming.
‘The marshall is correct,’ admitted Declan, though it pained him to say it. ‘There is an unidentified craft approaching the island. The pilot may be armed. There is no option but to open fire.’
‘He is flying a motorized kite,’ said Catherine, her eyes stung by Declan’s betrayal. ‘The walls are four feet thick. Had he a brace of cannon on his wings, he could not penetrate the tower.’
Declan would not be swayed from his duty. ‘This man has conquered the skies so perhaps he can conquer our walls too. I hear rumours of grenades filled with poison gas. We must not expose the queen.’ He took Catherine’s hands in his. ‘The queen cannot die, do you understand?’
Catherine searched her husband’s face for a deeper meaning to his words, and she found it.
The queen cannot die because if she does Bonvilain becomes prime minister.
‘Very well, Declan. I understand,’ said Catherine dully. ‘The queen must live, so the Airman must die.’ She dropped her husband’s hand and stepped across the threshold. ‘I have no stomach for this murder. Enjoy your victory, Marshall.’
Absolutely, thought Bonvilain, but aloud he said, ‘One never enjoys the death of another, madam. I have been involved in many battles, but no matter how righteous the cause I have always concluded they could have been avoided. This time, sadly, there is no alternative.’
And with a regretful half-smile on his lips, the marshall raised his whistle and blew one final blast.
Below, on the Great Saltee Wall, the Gatling operators cranked their handles, pouring a thousand rounds a minute into the sky through their revolving barrel system. The bullets sped towards the Airman trailing grey smoke tails.
No one can survive that, thought Declan. No one.
Bonvilain was thinking exactly the same thing.
It was a battle of vectors and gravity. The Gatling cradles would only allow for a certain elevation, and even though they had a level range of 6,000 feet the Airman was as yet too high to be struck. But gravity was his enemy too. His fragile craft could not stay aloft forever, and when it dropped the bullets would shred it to confetti.
The noise and sheer concussion from the guns were shocking. It seemed as though the very island shook. It was easy to imagine the Wall being pounded to dust under repeated recoil. The chambers belched long cylinders of smoke, and steam rose in clouds as the water boys cooled the barrels by dousing them from buckets.
Declan had never seen Gatling guns at work on a battlefield, but he had heard that a single round could tear a man apart. There was enough lead in the air now to defeat an entire army. The sky was thick with their buzzing, like a dense swarm of metal hornets determined to find the same target.
Declan raised the telescope for one last look at the Airman. Even from this distance, it was clear that he was in dire straits. Hot oil bubbled on his face and goggles. Both hands were locked in struggle with a vertical rudder, and strips were coming loose from his wings, flapping behind the aeroplane like May Day ribbons.