Sagas & Snippets

The Isle of Kola Tui

An Abelard Grey story.

This is the journal of Abelard C. Grey, born and raised in the village of Maulden in the year 1842 and formerly, a crewman in Her Britannic Majesty’s Airship Corps. Whilst the tales told within this journal seem somewhat fanciful and from the realms of fantasy, they are – and I humbly swear upon my mother’s life – that they are true. If anything, as I am writing these some years after the events occurred, my memories of them may have dulled overtime and reality was even more bizarre than my recollections. I start with a tale that concerns the beginning of my time as, though I should say career, rather than time, as I have made a tidy sum of the occupation, an adventurer.

It was the summer of 1862. I was in my twentieth year and was no longer taking the Queen’s Shilling, having left the employ of Her Majesty some months earlier. I was now serving under a Privateer, a Captain Edward Harriman on the air-brig Hyperion. 

Having spent a few years in the HBMAC on the modern airships such as HMA Dreadnaught and HMA Furious, the Hyperion was a hybrid of technologies, both of yesteryear and the present. Built originally as a seagoing brig of the HMS Cruizer class, she had found herself obsolete before her time with the advent of airpower. As the navies of the world had sought to unburden themselves from the ties of nautical only ships, Hyperion and her sisters and cousins found themselves facing the breakers’ yards. A lifeline was thrown to them due to the end of the War in the Crimea.  When hostilities had ceased, sailors and airmen alike were decommissioned, and used their compensatory payments to buy these once majestic denizens of the sea. Some returned to the waves, their new owners unwilling to take to the skies. Many were converted to airships, and Hyperion was one of these. 

Where acres of sail once hung was now home to a semi rigid lighter-than-air balloon, in the style of those produced by Professor von Zeppelin, a cylindrical gasbag that tapered to points at the bow and stern. Four tail fins projected from the stern of the gasbag like points of a compass. Slung below the greying fabric of the Zeppelin was a suspended walkway consisting of steel grill flooring that circumnavigated the outline of the main deck below. Where once sailors on board the deck below were open to the elements, both cruel and benevolent, now protection was offered in the form of glass walls fitted within immensely ornate steel frames that reached from gunwales to the zeppelin above. The main deck now had a climate akin to that of one of the greenhouses of the new industrialised farms that ran the breadth of the Old World. Indeed, Harriman’s crew had taken advantage of this and several plants grew in the warm eco-system (as Mr Darwin refers to it). 

The Hyperion was powered by steam, a great furnace burnt away on the orlop deck below, with a small team of stokers continually shoveling coal into its fiery maw. The smokestack reached high, higher than the original main mast and penetrated the gasbag above, vomiting its foul, black smoke thankfully out of sight. This massive furnace powered a large propeller at the stern of Hyperion and helped propel the airship forward with the power of, or so I was told, several hundred horses. Two smaller steam engines were situated in small outriggers that hung in gondolas at the end of girders 10 yards long sited roughly amidships and slightly above the level of the main deck. These gondolas both had smaller propellers at their bows and a smokestack that angled slightly away from the ship in so much that the black smoke would drift harmlessly past Hyperion. Unfortunately, they failed miserably at this simple task. 

Captain Edward Harriman was an unsavoury character, much more handsome in appearance than in attitude and personality. He could be cruel and heartless, but always wanted to do well for his crew. Ah, the crew. Yours truly aside, never has a more ragged bunch of individuals been seen. A complete hodge-podge of nationalities and languages. Only one step stood between the Hyperion and her crew and those that sailed under the mark of the Jolly Roger. Captain Harriman carried a letter of marque, a letter of authority issued by Her Britannic Majesty’s Government to carry out acts of armed aggression against its enemies. Harriman was also happy to transgress from the rules should circumstance bless him and his crew with the opportunity to fill their pockets with extra gold. I have no doubt, if it wasn’t for that short, handwritten letter, its script so beautifully written upon the heavy, buff paper, with its thick red wax seal, then Harriman and his crew would have danced the pirate jig from the yardarm of one of Her Majesty’s Airships. 

It was one of these such circumstances that this journal entry is about. The crew of the Hyperion had exhausted its supply of goodwill among the denizens of Port Stuart, a small town on the north coast of Australia. Harriman was looking to leave at dawn the next day with a view to patrol the islands in and around the Bismarck and Solomon Seas to the northeast. I was in the process of finishing repairs to the port outrigger when I heard the Bosun, Frank Bobo, and the Captain in conversation on the main deck. Due to the heat, the glass panes that protected the deck were raised to allow airflow to the parched deck. I was sure that both officers were unaware that their voices were carrying to me in the gondola. 

 Their conversation seemed to be regarding a cargo, one that had yet to be loaded. As I explained earlier in the journal, I am writing these accounts several years after their occurrence, so my recollection as to the exacts words spoken that night may be amiss, but their sentiments and meaning remain the same.

‘What says Iron Turner? Is it ready to move?’ Harriman asked. Iron Turner was the name of a local sorter, a man who world arrange things for you – if someone wanted something found or sourced, a sorter would be the best place to start, especially if the route to such an item was on the wrong side of the law. He could arrange to grace palms with money (your money, obviously) to ensure that your desired outcome would occur. And if one should want something nefarious to happen to a business competitor, a rival suitor or a spurned lover, then a man such as Iron Turner would be your first port of call.

‘He reckons midnight would be as good a time to pick it up as any, Cap’n.’

‘And the cargo, he had it there? You saw it when you spoke. Harriman asked the question of his bosun. The big man chuckled when he replied. 

‘Aye, Cap’n, and she is mighty fine.’

‘My orders, Bobo, were to refer to her as “the cargo”, and nothing else. Did I not make myself clear?’

‘Of course, Cap’n. My mistake and it won’t happen again.’ Even his bosun seemed as scared of Harriman’s temper.

‘Well, we’ll see about relaxing those terms when we’ve set sail.’ The captain sneered. Nautical terms were still used by many airshipmen despite their ships never touching the waves.

‘Now then,’ he continued. ‘Take five men ashore with you. Choose wisely from the Circle. I would say Martensen the Dane, Corben and Jones to be amongst them.’ This piqued my interest as I had been aware for some time that certain members of the crew were part of a cabal, a cadre who obtained special privileges from Harriman. It may have only been being chosen for watch during better weather, or less labourious tasks whilst in dock, but there was a certain hierarchy within the crew. Not that it was written, nor spoken about, but to the inquisitive eye, it was as apparent as the almost imperceptible tip of a snowdrop breaking the frozen earth in January. 

‘Armed and ready for danger, Bobo. This cargo is the key to a treasure the size and value of which we can only dream of.’ With those words, Harriman waved his Bosun away and stood staring from the deck, away to the northeast and to the open sea.

The six men returned just after Four Bells in the Middle Watch. For those unlearned in naval terminology this would be 2.00am, an ungodly hour for all sane people. Between four of them, suspended from two poles held tight upon their shoulders, was what appeared to be a crate, obscured as it was by a piece of sail canvas. The Bosun walked behind, a blunderbuss clutched to his chest. Martensen, the huge Dane led, an imposing figure at the best of times, but even more so with a brace of pistols thrust through his belt and a huge boarding axe in his hands. Harriman was there to see their arrival.

I had maintained my position in the gondola, having completed my repairs some time earlier. My stomach rumbled ominously to remind me of the fact that I had missed evening supper due to my vigil. I was determined to see what Harriman’s secret cargo was, and why knowledge of it was excluded from all but his inner cartel. As well as placing more of his trusted men on guard duty, the Captain had also allowed an extra rum ration which, though not unheard of, was against his very nature.

From my vantage point I could gain little benefit in discerning the nature of the cargo, mainly due to the covering canvas. My fellow crew members seemed to be under no discomfort whilst bearing the load, even after the two miles from Iron Turner’s manor, so the weight of the cargo and chest combined would be less than half a dozen hundredweight. The chest itself, from what I could discern from how the canvas hung, seemed to be about five-foot-long and possibly two foot wide and deep. I was reminded of the dimensions of a coffin, albeit slightly shorter.

Harriman directed the maneuvering of the cargo into his cabin. The crewmen left, the Dane clutching a bottle of rum in his oversized hands as they went, leaving the Captain and the Bosun alone. I decided I could discover no more tonight and silently made the crossing between the gondola and the main hull by way of the walkway on top of the covered coal conveyor. I returned to my hammock, loudly complaining of my need to visit the head due to the extra grog, and hopefully sounding as rumdum as I could.

I awoke next morning to the sensation that Hyperion was underway. Upon enquiring the time from my companion next to me I was pleased to find I had slept to the end of Morning Watch. I spent most of the working day at my station with my thoughts wandering to what was in that chest in Harriman’s cabin. 

Our course took us to the northeast, as was the original intention of the Captain when we had arrived at Port Stuart. If we steered clear of the eastern most tip of Nueva Guinea, which by all accounts would be a blessing and a wise move as the ungodly heathens there were headhunters, then our next sight of land would be the archipelago known as the Solomon Islands. A collection of islands, isles, and atolls covering a vast area, the archipelago numbered a thousand or more islands. Many were uncharted and even more untrodden by civilised man.

As I worked, I listened to the rest of the crew, anxious to hear if any others suspected anything amiss. In particular, I paid attention to Harriman’s circle. It was to my frustration that I heard not one word about the cargo, nor any contradiction to the original mission of patrolling the Solomon Islands and the Bismarck Sea. There was only one course of action left to me. I would have to spy within Captain Harriman’s cabin. 

During the evening meal I lit the touch paper on my plan. On a regular navy ship, either a traditional sea-going ship or an airship, the stokers would be a separate division, working their own watches with little interaction with the workload in other parts of the ships. Here on the Hyperion, with the slightly reduced and stretched crew of a privateer, there were no stokers. Each watch provided men to do the labourious task of shoveling the coal from the bunkers deep in the hull either into the main furnace which drove the main propellor, or onto the conveyors which transported the coal along the chutes to the outrigger engines. The task was backbreaking and seemingly Sisyphean. No matter how fast or hard one shoveled, the bunkers never seemed to empty. 

As terrible a task as that was, and at the tropics the heat and climate made the task even more herculean. Stokers had been known to expire from exhaustion, dropping dead mid shovel. It was one of the most dangerous tasks in an airship, made even more horrifying when the ship was under attack. Despite the danger, it was not the most uncomfortable task on Hyperion. That position was the aft lookout. 

The lookout positions are akin to the crow’s nest of old but enclosed in a semi-rigid cupola on top of the outer envelope. The Hyperion has two of these position, fore and aft. Due to the catenary curve of the gas bag, the fore station only gives a view of the course ahead and to either side. The aft station is the opposite, whereas it only gives a view of the course from whence Hyperion had travelled.

One would assume that a watch spent as a lookout would be an easy task, but then one would be mistaken. The cupolas were small and cramped, with not enough room to lay down straight. They were reached by a ladder that squeezed between two of the internal gas bags and were entered by way of a trapdoor. The aft station was above one of the hot air bags, (Hyperion being a composite machine, consisting of alternating hydrogen and hot air bags, held within the main envelope.) which made the station more bearable whilst within the polar circles, but unbearable whilst in the tropics. The only ventilation was in the form of two small windows that opened to either side, however the smoke from the smoke-stack often drifted across the cupola, which gave the unlucky incumbent a choice between choking on thick, black smoke or roasting in the insufferable heat. 

It was at evening meal, when Bobo came to apportion out the duties for the First Watch, which runs from 8.00pm to midnight, that my plan started to be put into action.

‘Frenchie, take the fore station lookout, Collins aft station.’ The small man groaned, his shoulders sinking, almost taking him to the deck. The Bosun ignored him and continued.

‘Big John, Anders, and Grey. Stoking.’

I groaned, almost as loud as the diminutive Collins. Bobo looked at me, he had a habit of piercing your very soul with his glare.

‘It’s me back, sir. It’s been aching for a good while. Stoking will do me. Is there anything lighter.’ Bobo was about to dress me down when Collins broke in.

‘You can take my watch at aft, Grey. You’re welcome to it!’ I screwed my face up in disgust.

‘You don’t have to take it, Grey. Enjoy your shoveling.’ 

I threw my arms up and suddenly grimaced in what I hoped was a good impersonation of a man with back ache and reached quickly for the small of my back.

‘I’ll take your watch, Collins.’ I looked across to the Bosun. ‘If you have no objections, sir?’ The big man grunted and turned away.

And so, I found myself crouched in the aft lookout station as the sun disappeared over the horizon, plunging the sky into darkness. With my heart in my mouth, I pushed open one of the small vents. For once the smoke drifted harmlessly away and I breathed in a mouthful of clean, fresh air. Steeling myself, I pushed first one arm, then my head through the opening. It was tight but I managed to squeeze through, holding precariously with one hand to one of the several heavy catenary ropes that helped secure the envelope. And then I slithered over the curve of the envelope, hand over hand on the rope, thankful that it was mostly dark so that I could not see the depths of the fall below me. As I slipped over the side of the world, I realised that this was the most insane and lunatic thing that I had attempted. 

Thankfully the course of the Hyperion stayed true and the wind was only a light breeze. I made better progress when the rope finally came away from the side of the envelope and gas bags and I quickly made my way down until I stood on the rail that surrounded the poop deck. Underneath my feet was Captain Harriman’s cabin. There was, perhaps four or five feet between the deck roof and the lowest point of the hydrogen and air-filled envelope. Because of this, I believe that I was possibly the first person to stand upon the poop deck for several years. And, having been present in the Captain’s cabin on but two occasions, I knew that the glass skylight was still present. I slithered on my belly like a serpent until I could peer through the glass into the cabin below.

Harriman sat at his desk, poring over charts with a goblet of red wine in his hand. He was stripped to his shirt and breeches and his long dark hair was pulled back and secured in a queue. I hardly dared breathe as my eyes roamed around the room. What I had done, leaving my station, was at best a flogging offence. Espying on the Captain, could in some courts, be tantamount to mutiny, which could be punished by hanging or walking the plank. The chest that had contained his cargo was uncovered, revealing its true form. It was built in the style of a cage, with a solid floor and steel barred walls and lid. The lid was open.

My heart skipped a beat as I saw the creature that had once been caged within. Seated upon a stool in front of the Captain’s desk was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen. And in that list, I include my very own Clara, waiting somewhere back in Bedfordshire. Whilst I remained true to Clara throughout my adventures, her true beauty came from inside, her softness, her willingness to please and help, and her naivety all combined with her feminine charms to make her Beauty personified. The siren who perched on the wooden stool inside the Captain’s cabin was something else.

It was as if Spring and Summer, along with Aphrodite and Gaia had breathed life into the Venus de Milo. Any man would have laid siege to the very walls of Troy itself to watch over her beauty. My words, as much as I can try, do not do justice to her. Should I write from now until the Day of Judgement, I could not fully describe her beauty. 

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