Eoin Colfer - Airman

Even with the help of his new apprentices, it took sweaty hours of heaves and grunts to free the cart from within the tree trunks, and almost as long to back it on to the road.

‘Now, buckos,’ Conor said to his troops, once the horse was hitched and ready. ‘Hot chocolate for all if we make it to Saint Patrick’s Bridge before dark.’

The boys put their shoulders to the cart with gusto. Hot chocolate, diamonds and mysterious cargo! They felt like princes on a quest.

Saint Patrick’s Bridge was a long shingled bar, curving from the mainland towards the Saltees. Legend had it that when Saint Patrick was chasing the devil from Ireland, he finally managed to trap him in the Galtee Mountains. The devil took two huge bites from the slopes to clear himself a path, and off he scarpered into County Wexford with Saint Patrick in hot pursuit, hurling rocks and boulders gathered in the fields.

Old Nick was forced into the water at Kilmore, and swam hard for the open sea, stones peppering the water around him. These stones were to form Saint Patrick’s Bridge. A couple struck the devil on the noggin, knocking the chunks of mountain from his gob and into the ocean. The smaller became Little Saltee, the larger Great Saltee.

Conor had never believed these stories, putting his faith in coastline erosion and ocean currents, but today, glancing out to sea at the dark, jagged islands, it was easy to believe that they were the devil’s work.

Conor and his crew arrived at the field above Saint Patrick’s Bridge with an hour of sunlight still left in the day. A winding path led down to the bridge itself, but it was too treacherous to be negotiated by horse and cart. Everything would have to be carried.

Conor stood on the cart and issued instructions like a general commanding his troops.

Carry the lot down. Lay the pieces high on the bridge, above the waterline . Everything was breakable and secret. So care and silence were the orders of the day.

The moment Conor stripped back the tarpaulin it became obvious what the secret cargo was. Wings, engine, propeller.

One boy, the leader of the small pack, stepped forward, half-terrified, half-incredulous.

‘Sir, would you be the Airman what stuck it to those prison guards?’

Conor noted the gleam in their eyes, the lust for extraordinary adventure. ‘I am indeed the Airman, and I need your help. What say you, boys?’

The leader mulled it over on behalf of the group.

‘Well, Mister Airman,’ he said, ‘I have a brother on Little Saltee for life, didn’t do more than rob a few guineas and perhaps break a few bones. So I say, let’s get to carrying.’

The rest cheered and rushed to the cart, eager to be first down the lane.

I hope their enthusiasm lasts , thought Conor. A long night of work lies ahead .

Boys are fickle creatures, and by midnight three had been distracted by hunger or mischief or parents calling them home. Three stayed, though, and finished the lugging of aeroplane parts down to Saint Patrick’s Bridge. Whether they negotiated with their parents or were there without permission, Conor did not know and had not time to find out.

He sent one with a message for Linus, and a while later the American arrived with food and oil lamps, picking his way down the steep path. Seeming uncertain on his own lanky legs, like a beginner on stilts.

The boys gathered firewood and they lit fires around the workspace where Conor laboured among engine parts, tubs of grease, crank handles, springs, pistons, lengths of unsealed muslin, rolls of wire, pots of glue, stiff brown paper, a strange curved propeller. And slowly the aeroplane was assembled.

The boys’ leader, who went by the unlikely name Uncle , displayed a surprising aptitude for mechanics and was invaluable when it came to fetching tools, and even predicting which tools were needed.

‘I need a wrench, Uncle. The medium.’

‘I think prob’ly the small, Airman.’

Of course Uncle was proved correct, and lit himself a celebratory smoke.

Conor took to explaining his innovations to keep his mind on his work and off his family.

‘Steam engines are too heavy for aeroplanes. To lift a steam engine you need a bigger steam engine. So, Victor, my teacher, suggested a compressed gas engine, or gasoline, which is better but still too heavy. But then I remembered aluminium.’

‘Isn’t that rare? Like gold.’

‘It was. Fifty years ago, aluminium was so hard to produce that bars of it were exhibited at fairs. But now the Bayer Process makes it and, if not plentiful, then it is at least obtainable. So my crankcase and water jacket are made completely from aluminium. This engine is light enough to lift itself and the aeroplane, and it will give me at least ten horsepower in the air.’

‘You hope,’ said young Uncle.

‘Yes. I really do hope. And Uncle?’

‘Yes, Airman?’

‘I hate to say it, but you smell rank. Don’t you wash?’

Uncle stubbed out his cigarette on a boot heel. ‘No, Airman. I follow the Egyptians on washing. Bad for the soul.’

The sun rose on a new day, to find the five workers huddled around a brazier sharing a pot of chocolate. All were exhausted, but none were in a mood to quit. By mid-morning, the little band was back to full strength, as the boys who had taken off the night before happily played hookey for a chance to see the Airman fly.

‘Pick any large rocks from the bridge and toss them aside. I need a smooth runway.’

This was a simple task, and Uncle set the slower boys to it.

‘Pointless asking the dullards to help with mechanics,’ he explained. ‘Stone clearing is exactly the work for those ones. All you need are open eyes and a strong back. Every ten minutes or so, I assures them of their genius.’

Conor nodded with exaggerated gravity. Uncle was proving invaluable.

While the others cleared the sky road, Conor bolted on the wings, which were constructed from steam-curved ash ribs covered with unsealed muslin.

The craft’s shape was clear now. Single wing set, thirty feet across. A long thin body resembling a river punt, with the aluminium four-inch-bore engine centre mounted behind Conor’s new-shaped propeller.

‘I ain’t never seen a propeller like that,’ commented Uncle, who was apparently an expert on everything. ‘How’d she go in tests?’

‘What tests?’ grunted Conor, tightening the last nut on the propeller.

Linus kept the food and drink coming and when the boys flagged he pulled a tin whistle from his pocket, playing a jig or a reel, and without knowing it the boys would pick up their pace again.

The labour consumed the better part of the day, but finally the aeroplane was ready, sitting on the spit of shale on three wheels like a great sleeping bird. It was a marvel, and for long minutes the little band was silent, simply gazing at the craft, absorbing its every curve and strut.

There was fear too and none of the workers would lay a finger on the material for fear of waking the bird. Only Linus Wynter was not awestruck. He had Conor lead him to the aeroplane’s propeller, then gave the craft a thorough examination.

‘Victor would have been proud,’ he said.

‘I hope so,’ said Conor. ‘The theory is as much his as mine, which is why I did this…’

Conor pulled a strip of paper from the nose and laid Linus’s hand on what lay beneath. The American felt flaky lines of dried paint under his fingers. The paint spelled out two words.

La Brosse.

Wynter smiled sadly. ‘He would like this, that French peacock. I declare, if my tear ducts were working I would cry.’ He wiped his nose, and pulled the lapels of his dinner suit together. ‘I should have written something special. An aria to speed you on your way.’