Eoin Colfer - Airman

Copyright © Eoin Colfer, 2008

Conor Broekhart was born to fly, or more accurately he was born flying. Though Broekhart’s legend is littered with fantastical stories, the tale of his first flight in the summer of 1878 would be the most difficult to believe, had there not been thousands of witnesses. In fact, an account of his birth in a hot-air balloon can be read in the archives of the French newspaper, Le Petit Journal , available to all for a small fee at the Librairie Nationale.

Above the article, there is a faded black-and-white photograph. It is remarkably sharp for the period, and was taken by a newspaperman who happened to be in the Trocadéro gardens at the time with his camera.

Captain Declan Broekhart is easily recognizable in the picture, as is his wife, Catherine. He, handsome in his crimson-and-gold Saltee Island Sharpshooters uniform, she shaken but smiling. And there, protected in the crook of his father’s elbow, lies baby Conor. Already with a head of blond Broekhart hair and his mother’s wide, intelligent brow. No more than ten minutes old and through some trick of the light or photographic mishap, it seems as though Conor’s eyes are focused. Impossible of course. But imagine if somehow they had been, then baby Conor’s first sight would have been a cloudless French sky flashing by. Little wonder he became what he became.

The World Fair was to be the most spectacular ever seen, with over 1,000 exhibitors from every corner of the world.

Captain Declan Broekhart had travelled to France from the Saltee Islands at his king’s insistence. Catherine had accompanied him at her own request, as she was the scientist in the family and longed to see for herself the much heralded Galerie des Machines, which showcased inventions promising to make the future a better one. King Nicholas had sent them to Paris, to investigate the possibility of a balloon division for the Saltee Wall.

On the third day of their trip, the pair took a buggy along the Avenue de l’Opéra, to observe the Aeronautical Department’s balloon demonstration in the Trocadéro gardens.

‘Do you feel that?’ asked Catherine. She took her husband’s hand, and placed it on her stomach. ‘Our son is kicking to be free. He longs to witness these miracles for himself.’

Declan laughed. ‘He or she will have to wait. The world will still be here in six weeks.’

When the Broekharts arrived at the Trocadéro gardens, they found the Aeronautical Squadron in the shadow of the Statue of Liberty, or rather that of her head. The statue would be presented to the United States when completed, but for now Lady Liberty’s head alone was being showcased. The copper structure dwarfed most of the fair’s other exhibits and it was amazing to imagine how colossal the assembled statue would be when it finally stood guard over New York City’s harbour.

The Aeronautical Squadron had inflated a dirigible balloon on a patch of lawn, and was politely holding the crowd back with a velvet rope. Declan Broekhart approached the soldier on sentry duty and handed him his sealed letter of introduction from the French ambassador to the Saltee Islands. Within minutes they were joined by the squadron’s captain, Victor Vigny.

Vigny was lithe and tanned with a crooked nose and a crown of jet-black hair that stood erect on his scalp like the head of a yard brush.

‘ Bonjour , Captain Broekhart,’ he said, removing one white glove and shaking the Saltee Island officer’s hand warmly. ‘We have been expecting you.’ The Frenchman bowed deeply. ‘And this must be Madame Broekhart.’ Vigny checked the letter in mock confusion. ‘But, madame , nowhere here does it say how beautiful you are.’

The Frenchman’s smile was so charming that the Broekharts could not take offence.

‘Well, Captain,’ said Vigny, sweeping back his arm dramatically to introduce his balloon. ‘I give you Le Soleil , the Sun. What do you think of her?’

The dirigible was undeniably magnificent. An elongated golden envelope swaying gently over its leather-bound basket. But Declan Broekhart was not interested in decoration, he was interested in specification.

‘A bit more pointed than others l’ve seen,’ he noted.

‘ Aérodynamiqué ,’ corrected Vigny. ‘She glides across the sky like her namesake.’

Catherine unhooked herself from her husband’s arm.

‘A cotton-silk blend,’ she said, craning her head back to squint at the balloon. ‘And twin screws on the basket. A neat piece of work. How fast does she travel?’

Vigny was surprised to hear such technical observations from a female, but he disguised his shock with a few rapid blinks, then smoothly delivered his answer.

‘Ten miles an hour. With the help of God and a fair wind.’

Catherine peeled back a corner of leather, revealing the woven basket underneath.

‘Wicker and willow,’ she said. ‘Makes a nice cushion.’

Vigny was enchanted. ‘Yes. Absolument. This basket will last for five hundred hours in the sky. French baskets are the best in the world.’

‘ Très bien ,’ said Catherine.

She hoisted her petticoats and climbed the wooden steps to the basket, displaying remarkable agility for a woman eight months’ pregnant. Both men stepped forward to object, but Catherine did not give them time to speak.

‘I dare say I know more about the science of aeronautics than both of you. And I really don’t think I have crossed the Celtic Sea to stand in a glorified field while my husband experiences one of the wonders of the world.’

Catherine was perfectly calm as she made this statement, but only a dullard could have missed the steel in her voice.

Declan sighed. ‘Very well, Catherine. If Captain Vigny permits it.’

Vigny’s only answer was a Gallic shrug that said, Permit it? I pity the man who tries to stand in this woman’s way.

Catherine smiled.

‘Very well, it is settled. Shall we cast off?’

Le Soleil loosed its anchors shortly before three that afternoon, quickly climbing to a height of a few hundred feet.

‘We are in heaven,’ sighed Catherine, clutching her husband’s hand tightly.

The young couple looked upwards into the belly of the balloon itself. The silk was set shimmering by the breeze and sparkling by the sun. Golden waves billowed across its surface, rumbling like distant thunder.

Below them the Trocadéro gardens were emerald lakes, with Lady Liberty’s head breaching the surface like a Titan of legend.

Vigny fed a small steam engine, sending power to the twin propellers. Fortunately, the prevailing wind snatched the smoke away from the basket.

‘Impressive, non ?’ shouted the Frenchman above the engine’s racket. ‘How many are you thinking of ordering?’

Declan pretended not to be impressed. ‘Perhaps none. I don’t know if those little propellers would have any effect against an ocean wind.’

Vigny was about to argue the merits of his steam-powered dirigible when a sharp flat crack echoed across the skies. It was a noise familiar to both soldiers.

‘Gunshot,’ said Vigny, peering towards the ground.

‘Rifle,’ said Declan Broekhart grimly. As captain of the Saltee Sharpshooters he knew the sound well. ‘Long range. Maybe a Sharps. See, there.’

A plume of grey-blue smoke rose into the sky from the western border of the gardens.