Forrest Leo - The Gentleman

‘Don’t think that’s true,’ shouts Paisley. I believe shouting is for him less a choice than a state of being. ‘Look like anarchists to me!’

‘I am compelled to concur with my deep-lunged colleague,’ says Dewhurst. ‘But we were told there were five of you.’

‘Damn that cabman,’ I mutter.

‘Where is the fifth?’ demands Dewhurst.

‘There are only four of us!’ says Lizzie.

‘I heard otherwise.’

‘No, sir,’ says Simmons. ‘There are but four.’

‘’E’s lying!’ cries one of the police. ‘They both are! I seen ’im myself—’e went and got into that airship when we was dug in.’

‘It’s true!’ puts in the fellow Lancaster hit with a rock. His collarbone seems to be broken and his arm is in an improvised sling. ‘I seen ’im, too. There’s five, guv’nor, ain’t no doubt about it.’

I glance over my shoulder. The machine is still on the ground. Lancaster catches my eye and raises an eyebrow. He, too, is baffled. Why has Kensington not taken off? Were our repairs incomplete?

Dewhurst looks at us sharply. ‘Is there a fifth in the airship?’

None of us say anything.*

Dewhurst orders Paisley to take the bulk of the force and advance on the machine. He remains behind with three men to guard us.

‘Why isn’t he taking off?’ hisses Lizzie.

‘I’m not familiar with the Alec Rubeum,’ says Dewhurst, taking out a pencil to go with his notebook. ‘Are you an isolated splinter cell, or part of a larger organisation?’

‘We’re not anarchists, damn you!’ says Lancaster.

I have a perverse impulse to offer no defence. If they want to brand us revolutionaries then let them do as they list. I have had quite enough of the rules of society. I am growing increasingly impatient with conventions which come between me and the reclamation of my wife. We haven’t the time for this. Afterward I’ll write a poem about it all, but at present what’s called for is action.

Paisley’s group closes in on the flying machine. He shouts an order and his men split into two pincers. He seems intent on encircling Kensington. The Cirrus ’s wings are by now beating so quickly they are just a blur, and great quantities of steam pour from the engine — but still the craft sits squarely and firmly on the ground. There is a part of me which does not believe this enormous mass of wood, cloth, brass, and steel can possibly take flight.

‘We’ve got you surrounded!’ bellows Paisley. ‘You have thirty seconds to surrender before we open fire!’

Kensington makes no reply. I have a sudden terror that perhaps one of the reckless shots from earlier struck him. I would be sorry indeed to lose the acquaintance of so poetical a person.

Lancaster appears to share my dark thoughts, for he says to our captors, ‘If that boy’s dead, you’ll have the Devil to pay.’ There’s an alarming steel in his voice — which, taken in conjunction with his size and wild aspect, causes the policemen to take an involuntary step backward.

Only Dewhurst, who seems to suffer from the foolhardy courage peculiar to short men, holds his ground. He says, ‘So you confess to a fifth?’ and makes a note.

Lizzie says, ‘You have no idea the inquest you’re about to face.’

‘You,’ says Dewhurst primly to her, ‘are guilty of lying to an officer of the law. That will be all, miss, if you please.’

‘I don’t please!’ cries Lizzie. ‘This is ridiculous! We’re not anarchists, we’re poets and explorers and artists! Under whose authority do you arrest us? Upon what charges? Seeking adventure? Pushing the limits of invention and ingenuity? Looking skyward when we dream?’

‘No,’ says the prosaic little man, ‘you are arrested upon charges of treason, sedition, and anarchy, in the name of Her Majesty’s government.’

‘Twenty-eight!’ shouts Paisley. ‘Twenty-nine!’

We brace ourselves for the fusillade. But on the count of thirty, two things happen simultaneously — neither one of which has deadly consequences. The press arrives, and the flying machine begins to rise.

At first, the miracle happens almost imperceptibly. Where a moment before it pressed heavily into the damp earth, it now grows visibly lighter. It is as though it is made of paper — what looked heavy now looks nearly weightless. This eerie sight stops the command to fire in Paisley’s throat. With an audible squelch the machine detaches from the earth. For ten seconds it simply hovers a foot off the ground. They are perhaps the best ten seconds of my existence. My entire world expands. It’s as if my whole life I owned only a single volume of the Encyclopaedia Britannica which I believed to be the whole work, and that after twenty-two years of labouring under the impression that everything in the world worth knowing fell between the words ‘Gouda’ and ‘Hippopotamus,’ I am abruptly given the complete set.

This moment, I feel sure, will change the course of human existence.*

The noise of the engine increases in pitch and volume. The beating of the wings makes a sound like a gale in the treetops. Dewhurst’s and Paisley’s hats are blown off at the same moment, and neither man makes a move to reclaim them.

Time, which has stopped, resumes. Slowly at first, then with gathering speed, the craft propels itself skyward.

Behind me I hear the explosion of flash-lamps and the frenzied scribbling of pencils. To my left, Lancaster is staring, agape. On my right, Lizzie is grinning like a madwoman. The police have lowered their rifles and look on in wonder.

The machine is a dozen feet in the air and rising quickly when Kensington comes to the rail. He is smiling impishly. He raises his hand to his head and doffs an invisible hat, then bows to the police. ‘Your pardon, gentlemen!’ he calls. ‘I have an appointment in Heaven!’

To us, he waves and yells, ‘Please don’t think me a deserter! I will see you all soon!’ Then he throws a lever, and the machine shoots forward like a greyhound from its slip, gaining altitude with every moment. We watch dumbfounded as it flies off.

Dewhurst recovers first, but by the time he cries, ‘Fire!’ Kensington has disappeared into the fog. A few rifles crack, but with nothing to shoot at the gunmen soon break off.

When I rip my gaze away from where the airship vanished, I see that we have been joined by twenty or thirty members of the press. There are photographers, journalists, newsboys, sketch artists, and a handful of curious hangers-on. One of them says in a familiar voice, ‘Good God, Savage, what have you done to your clothes?’ and for the first time in my life I am pleased to see Whitley Pendergast. He has found me in a moment of glory, and I believe that my supremacy over him is forever sealed — for I am certain that the man has never in his strangest dreams dreamt of the adventure upon which he now finds me embarked.

‘Pendergast!’ I cry. ‘How lovely to see you! You’re looking unusually fresh this morning. As to the state of my clothes, I’m afraid I ruined them while escaping from a dungeon and building an airship and fighting off the police. You must come round for tea and I’ll tell you all about it, if I’m not locked up in Newgate or off sailing the skies. By the way, you’ve got a bit of sticking plaster just under your nose.’

‘Cut myself shaving, Savage, which is an act civilised men perform every morning — you ought to try it sometime. As for your exploits, I must say I’m impressed. Didn’t think you had it in you, frankly. I’d shake your hand if you weren’t covered in dirt.’

‘And I’d shake yours, if you were any other man upon this earth.’

Before he can think of something witty to reply, a member of the press exclaims, ‘By Jove, is that Ashley Lancaster?’