I'd like to add that my use of the word "Negro" is simply to be historically accurate, and no offense is intended to anyone.
*
*
Captain Sanderson looked out over the deck, out over his pride and joy.
His ship was one of the best in the sky, he thought. True, his Jenny was old, but then so was he. They had aged together, and like a fine wine, they only got better with age. Stepping down from the quarterdeck his hand moved along the wooden rail. The wood have been smoothed and buffed by the same motion made a million times.
“Speed?” he called out.
“Speed?” he called out.
“Sixty knots, sir!” his first mate called out. Melissa Strong lived up to her namesake, being one of the strongest people he knew. She was not beautiful, yet had a husband in every major port in the States.
“We need more speed. Signal the engine room, I want more power.”
“Yes, Captain,” Strong replied.
Sixty knots was good for a ship his age. She had come out of the dockyard a pure sailing ship, and only a few years later he had put in the boiler and steam engine. It had cost him a pretty penny, but was worth every cent. She deserved only the best.
He loved her, the ship, as much as a man could love anything.
His wives, neither of them, had ever understood. Perhaps it was impossible for anyone to understand who hadn't lived on one ship for twenty-five years. He loved every ship he ever served on, ocean or sky-ship, and remembered them all. At only 15 he had signed on his first voyage. It just came naturally to him, sailing, seeing as how he had grown up in New Orleans.
Then, when he was only 17, the buoyant gas, cavorine, had been discovered. Quickly it had been harnessed for flying ships.
As soon as he could he had joined a sky ship. The sky appealed to him even more than the sea, and once he had gone on one flight he knew his true calling.
After that he would only serve on a sky ship, forsaking the ocean, and saved and scrimped carefully. He was invariably made an officer; everyone recognized in him honesty, competence, and thrift. His honesty was famous, and something he took pride in.
Then he had bought her, his precious Jenny. On her he lived, and on her he would die, for the day he was no longer able to be a sky man was the day he would die.
It was hard for a private captain to make it in this world, and he often lived on the edge of a knife. Yet now he was blessed by this current strange undertaking he was on. It had come like a bolt from the blue one day when a man had simply approached him at the dock.
*
“I've been told that if it was essential for something to reach its location, you would be the man to speak to,” the man had said to him by way of introduction.. He was dressed dapper enough, the rich clothes fitting him easily. Just one look at him told Sanderson that he was the real deal. Not just someone impersonating a rich man to impress.
He had declined to say who he was, stating he was merely a collector of antiquities, and impressing upon the Captain the need for discretion.
Yet, knowingly or not, the man gave him information merely by speaking. His accent was Southern, but not Deep South. That, and his mannerisms were clearly of one of the aristocratic families.
If anything, Sanderson imagined that the man was a former Plantation owner, which piqued his curiosity. Most of the slave-owning Plantation owners of the Antebellum had lost everything in the aftermath of the War of the Rebellion.
This man was clearly quite well off, however. Reconstruction had done him no harm.
“Are you the man who can take my cargo safely across the continent?”
“That I am,” Sanderson had replied with no arrogance. It was just a simple fact that he was one of the best sky captains. Word had filtered to him that someone was asking for the best captain and ship to transport something precious in safety. Where, or what, they had not said.
That rich man had been directed to see him. Not only was he one of the best, but he was also one of the most honest. He never cheated his customers.
Well, when he could help it.
“I have some cargo I need taken west. I need it to arrive safely with no hazards.” His imperious tone annoyed Sanderson, but one had to put up with it in order to get a steady pay. Like any rich man Sanderson had known, this one had unrealistic expectations, that reality would bend over backwards to fit their desires.
“There are always hazards, Sir. In the end, even the best ship and captain are at the mercy of the Sky and fortune.” He added the respectful 'sir', mindful of social standards. Yet in his rough sky man voice it almost sounded mocking.
The rich man's face betrayed his disappointment. “If you are not confident, then I don't think we can do business.”
It was meant as a threat, and he clearly expected Sanderson to beg for the right to carry his cargo. It amused him. “Anyone who says differently is a liar. All that money can do for you, Sir, is improve your odds. With my ship, in her hold, you have the best odds of any ship in the sky.”
The rich man hesitated, and Sanderson pressed the advantage.
“If I take your cargo it will not be lost to accident, nor touched by my crew. It will almost certainly not be lost in the sky. I make no promises, but I know when to land, when to press ahead, and when to turn back.”
“What about pirates?” the rich man asked. It was obvious that this was his greatest concern. The dreaded Sky Pirates, like Grim Jack and Sarsfield and Reddin. Their names could bring fear to a sky man and especially a ship owner back East.
“Pirates,” Sanderson laughed. “I've been boarded by pirates twice in my career. Only once on this ship, and that was when we were pinned at dock. In the sky I cannot be caught, Sir.”
“Why is that?”
“You see my ship has these great smoke stacks? She has no sail, because I don't trust the wind. I only trust what I can control, and I can control boilers. She runs on pure steam power. The wave of the future, it is,” he said confidently, nodding at his own wisdom.
“Steam. It seems outlandish,” the rich man said, but obviously impressed.
“Perhaps. But no pirate can catch me because I can run straight against the wind and no sail ship can do that. I can move as I please, whenever I please.”
The rich man smiled. “I can see how such freedom as that can be valuable to a sky man”
Perhaps he was sharper than he let on. “Might I inquire what your cargo is?”
“It is, sadly, of a personal nature, family heirlooms, which I do not wish to discuss. It will be crated and is of great value to me. Your services in this will be greatly compensated.”
The secret nature of all this seemed very fishy to Sanderson. “Answer me this, then. Is it dangerous to me or my crew?”
This prompted a laugh. “Not in the slightest! Do not be afraid. It is simply of a personal nature. Nothing illegal or dangerous about it.”
Sanderson nodded. “Then I believe we can do business, Sir.”
*
At the time he had chalked it up to the idle rich and overestimation of their importance.
Yet now Sanderson almost wished he'd followed his gut instinct and turned down this cargo.
His deck was busier than normal as twenty extra men crowded it. Men in uniforms, private guards. Pinkertons.
And therein lay the problem for him.
“Pinkerton guards?” he has said incredulously when his employer told him.
“Yes. I must be certain my cargo will arrive intact. They will be no burden for you, Captain Sanderson. I will pay for their provisions and services.”
It seemed almost like an insult, but even more than that, he did not like Pinkertons. Who would like men who were paid to spy?
“Your compensation will be quite sufficient for the inconvenience,” he was promised.
That only made him more uncomfortable. The man paid extremely generously. Though he was honest, he had already been planning to charge this man far more than normal for being such a pain and keeping so many secrets. Yet the amount the man willingly offered was more than that.
So far it was all going well. The head of the Pinkerton guards, a Mr. Thornby, had proven polite and willing to obey his commands within reason.
But the man knew far more about him than he was comfortable with. From the very first moment they had met Thornby had noted his accent.
“So it's true,” the Pinkerton had noted with interest. “You sound like you're from Brooklyn, not New Orleans.”
“That's a wide misconception, Sir,” Sanderson had told him, fighting off annoyance. “The area I hail from is all Irish, and we created our own accent.”
“Yes, yes,” Thornby declared dismissively. He had known it all.
The cargo had turned out to be on the other side of the country and his mysterious employer actually wanted it brought to him, and quickly.
At a steady sixty knots an hour they had crossed the States quickly. In San Francisco they had been loaded with these mysterious crates, fifty in all, and now they were bringing them back. His hold was so full that one could barely walk through it.
A few of the crates had the word “Bibles” stenciled on it crudely. He did not believe for a moment they actually contained Bibles, because for one it did not match the story his employer had told him.
The fact that they had the slight smell of oil did nothing to dispel his unease.
Then there was how the ease at which the first leg had been completed. Like an actor, a perfect rehearsal - in this case the first leg of the journey - seemed to bode ill for the main act.
Melissa Strong kept telling him he was getting worried over nothing.
“This is the easiest money we've ever made,” she said with a laugh. “Cheer up, Captain! When we get back I'll buy the drinks! With my shares I could buy drinks for the whole crew for a month.”
“Yes, that's what bothers me. This is easy. Any ship and captain could have done this. Why does he need us? Why pay so much, and why the security? It makes me uneasy.”
“He's a damn landy. They don't understand this, and it works out well for us, Captain.”
As much as he liked Strong, he did not find her reassurances very comforting. Things just seemed off.
She was a great first mate, and he knew she liked him, too. Some captains stuck to the superstitions of the sea and did not welcome women aboard unless they had to.
In the sky, he had felt it was different than the sea, and in its way it called for different superstitions. The sky was fickle in her own way, she hadn't the deadly temper of the sea. Not the jealous type, and while a woman could be distracting to some men, they did not stay in the sky for months at a time without making port, which diminished the problems caused by mixed crews.
Besides, he didn't think anyone found themselves distracted by Melissa Strong. It was a dangerous prospect to look at her too much, for she tended to knock down anyone who she thought did not have enough respect for her.
“Captain,” Strong's voice interrupted his reverie. “I see a raven.”
Raven was sky term for a suspicious ship that seemed to be tailing your ship. He immediately turned to her. “Where?”
The Pinkerton, Thornby, noticed the shift and moved closer. For now he would ignore him, no need to get him upset if it was just another innocent ship.
“Here, sir,” the first mate said, giving him her spy-glass.
The other ship was dead aft. Even through the spy-glass she wasn't big, but in the sky distance could be closed quickly.
“What do you think of her?” he asked.
“I think she's a vulture, Captain.” While a raven was suspicious, a vulture was a pirate, come to kill and plunder. And even if they didn't kill or torture the crew, to be taken by a pirate could destroy a Captain's reputation or damage his ship irreparably.
The worst, the Redeemer Pirates, would no doubt take the ears of anyone they suspected of being a Northerner. Which would surely include him, despite his roots, for he didn't sound like them.
He grimly nodded. “I think you're right.”
“She's still far away. Sloppy of them to be seen this soon.”
“The wind is with them and we're not moving all that fast. As far as they know there's no reason for subtlety. Keep an eye on them for now, and if they get much closer then we'll change direction, run against the wind.”
The ship continued to follow them for the next hour, growing steadily closer. She was a sloop-of-war, and her cannon could be seen openly. She flew only an American ensign as identification, but he knew that once they got closer it would come down and be replaced with a Jolly Roger.
“We have maybe a half of an hour before they're in firing range. We should change direction, Captain.”
“I agree,” Sanderson said. “Give the order.”
The order was relayed and the steam engine belched out more smoke as it chugged to greater life, turning the ship.
“They should be realizing that we're going to run against the wind. If they have a steam engine as well they'll be turning it on anytime.”
“They can't catch us, though. Ours is faster than anything in the sky,” Strong said confidently.
Sanderson smiled. “I hope so, I paid enough for it!”
“Who do you reckon she is, Captain? One of the Blood Eagles? Sarsfield's gang? Or a Redeemer?”
The Blood Eagles were the pirate band led by the most powerful pirate in the sky, Grim Jack. He was, some said, the Pirate Governor and all of the other pirates in this hemisphere paid homage to him.
“If she were a Blood Eagle she'd not be alone, and Sarsfield doesn't work this territory. No, it's probably Ellington or a Redeemer.”
For a moment Melissa did not reply. Then, slowly, she said; “It could be Reddin.”
“No,” Sanderson replied quickly. “His ship is much larger.” No, not Reddin. He would be the worst possible pirate to have on their tails.
“She isn't as big as his Bold Deceiver, but she would fit the Jayhawk's description, wouldn't she?”
“Don't even suggest it's Gordon!”
“But-”
“No,” he interrupted. Even saying the name of that pirate was bad luck. “It's not Captain Gordon. If it was, we'd be followed all the way back to New York!” Once you were in Captain Gordon's sights you were marked. One way or another, eventually you would be caught.
“It looks like whoever it is doesn't have a steam engine.” They were changing course to follow them, but there had been no cloud of smoke to indicate the start of a steam engine to follow them. With pure sail they would have to tack into the wind and so go slower and take a slightly different angle until they could cut across another direction, which would make them have to travel farther and slow them further.
While he could go the same speed in any direction.
“Is there something going on that I should be aware of?” a voice asked dryly. It was Inspector Thornby.
“Nothing that is a concern,” Sanderson replied. “That ship over yonder is a sky pirate.”
The Pinkerton's indignation could be felt physically. “And why was I not notified?” Thornby demanded.
“Because there's no danger. We're moving in such a way that they cannot follow. Soon we will leave them behind.”
“I still think I should have been informed on the off-chance that-”
“God in heaven!” Strong cried out. Her arm went up to point. “Dead ahead, another ship!”
Thornby started to turn to look, but stumbled as Sanderson shoved him out of the way to get a better look.
“Hard turn a'port!” he yelled. They were going to collide if they didn't change course, the ship was so close. It had just appeared like a ghost from the clouds.
The ship was huge; it was much larger than his and was heavily armed. It flew a pirate flag of a phoenix, and the name on the side read Bold Deceiver.
He grabbed for the gunwale as the ship turned sharply. The Pinkerton guards yelled in surprise and some fell, others grabbed whatever was nearby for support.
Sanderon's eyes were simply glued to the Bold Deceiver, though. It was the name of Reddin's ship, and he knew it must be him. True, anyone could paint a name on a hull, and pirates were liable to do that.
But the phoenix standard was Reddin's alone, and the ship . . . Only Reddin's ship was so great.
She had more guns than he had seen on anything but a Federal warship.
“To arms!” Thornby cried. His men paused, looking at the great pirate ship that they were narrowly avoiding. It seems a fool's hope that they could fight that.
“You!” Thornby said to Captain Sanderson. “Get this ship out of here!”
A moment later they were deafened as a warning shot from the Bold Deceiver flew over their bow. It went between the ship and her balloons, and spoke to the great skill of the pirate gunners. They could have killed any particular man or woman on the deck with ease.
If they fought, Sanderson could just imagine those cannons firing grape or cannister shot into his balloons, shredding them and sending the entire ship plummeting to the ground two thousand feet below.
“Halt all engines!” he called.
“How dare you! Countermand that order, full speed I say!”
“I am the Captain here, and we are surrendering,” Sanderson yelled over Thornby's protests. “If we fight they can kill us like an ant under their boot. Turn off the engines!”
In a heartbeat Thornby had a revolver in his hand pointed straight at Sanderon's heart. “Belay that order. We are running because I say we are.”
“You're a damned fool and you're going to get people killed,” the Captain said. Thornby cocked the hammer on his revolver. Sanderson grit his teeth. “Belay that order. Full power. We'll escape or die trying.”
If he had a gun on him he would have shot the man, even if it got him killed. It would be worth it.
“Battle stations!” Thornby yelled. His men had their rifles and pistols and started to fire at the pirate ship. It seemed a pathetic and stupid gesture. A single broadside would wipe his deck clean.
Pirates appeared at the gunwales of their great ship and poured fire down. Their fire was not just withering; not only many, but accurate. Half of the Pinkertons were hit and went down, others abandoning their posts and fleeing away from the gunfire.
Sanderson saw one of his crew struck; the man had not been armed, but in a battle even the innocent could be killed. He threw himself behind one of the smokestacks on his beloved Jenny, stroking the metal almost lovingly.
“Old girl, this might be our last day together,” he said to her.
*
TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 2
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