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Of Being
An Airship
Kristy Wilcox
The Importance
Of Being
An Airship
The Condensed Memoirs
of
Ms Millicent A Livingstone
Independent Explorer
BSc, MIBFaS, STCW
~or~
An Abridged Atlas of a Life Well Spent
Kristy Wilcox
Illustrations by Amy Pollien
Prologue
This may well be the last thing I ever write, so I do believe it is
time for the whole truth to come out. To write it out in full, however,
would take me another lifetime, so I respectfully request my readers
indulgence, in order that I may foreshorten and condense my adventures
into something a little more palatable to the Western digestion.
Having considered the above statement, I have come to the
conclusion that it is a little melodramatic, and if I do indeed tell the
truth, I may well be excommunicated from civilised society. However,
as our dearly beloved, black-clad matriarch's definition of civilised is
somewhat at odds with my own, I have decided that maybe this would
not be such a terribly bad thing after all. So first, to the introductions.
My name is Millicent Alice Livingstone (no relation, more's the
pity. I would probably be taken a great deal more seriously were I
actually of the Livingstone bloodline. Which, in itself, speaks volumes
about society. But I digress.)
I am an educated, unmarried, English woman of middle years.
I am an explorer, an engineer, a cartographer and a terribly bad
Methodist.
I have three tribal tattoos upon my person and a number of
bodily piercings that are NOT in my ears.
I have a child with a man I am not married to, who is a prince.
The father, not the child, because she is a princess.
Need smelling salts yet? Jolly good.
Oh, and I am also wanted for murder.
Shall we start at the beginning? It would probably clear up a
great number of things. First, about that murder, because it'll probably
play on your mind a terrible amount. I wouldn't worry too much, to be
honest. It's all been sorted out. Mostly. And my travel plans won't take
me through that country again anyway. I can pretty much guarantee
that.
England
I was born in Stratton, in Gloucestershire, on a balmy spring
morning in early May, 1828. My mother insisted that it was the 3rd,
my father the 4th, and as he registered my birth with the local vicar
some week or so later, May the fourth it was. To be completely honest,
I am not bothered either way. Age is just numbers. There is a tribe in
central Malawi that count age by accomplishments. There are children
who are of crawling age, walking age, weaning age - right the way up
to adults, who are then of hunting, marrying or resting age. No one is
looked down upon if they are too old or infirm to work, because then
they become the advisors to the tribe, fonts of knowledge that are so
vital in civilisations that do not possess a written language.
Sometimes I think that being able to pass on information in the
written form is the reason our society values youth over experience.
What is the point in being old and knowing everything if you cannot
actually do it, say the young. With books, they can know everything
without first having to experience it. Which is always going to end well
for everyone, is it not?
But I digress.
So, Gloucestershire. Pretty, civilised, safe - and boring. My
insistence from an early age that I be permitted to go away to
University perplexed both my parents considerably, but I persisted and
eventually my uncle paved the way for me to attend Bath. It had only
been a scant few years that women had been permitted to dwell within
the hallowed halls of English Universities when I first began my
studies, and I was frequently looked upon as a novelty of sorts at Bath.
From there, though, it was only a few years before I was able to make
the leap to London, the Natural History Museum and the Institute of
Buoyant Flight and Steam (which I shall henceforth write as IBFaS
because that is such a chore to write that whole thing out. Not least
because to this day, I still write bouyant on occasion). Those
marvellously advanced creatures therein make no difference whatsoever
between male and female students.
My mother blames everything on the Institute. I credit
everything to it. Horses for courses as my grandpa used to say, before
they stopped visiting him in the asylum.
bridge door had even closed, that I would prepare my belongings for a
somewhat rapid departure from the Topka because I had noticed three
things during our short conversation.
First, Trevelyan didnt have a telegraphic transmitter for
sending and receiving messages. These devices emit a steady stream of
rhythmic ticks, which are almost unnoticeable once you have spent a
while around them. This indicates they are ready to burst forth into
action once a message is received or needs to be sent. There was
nothing ticking on the bridge, save for the usual pinking of steam
glasses and hot copper pipes.
Second, there was a map on the chart table, the positioning of
the plotter showing clearly that their destination was Fcamp, not Paris,
and that it had been so all along.
Thirdly, Trevelyan had been wearing a revolver at his hip.
I made my way back to my cabin, packed all my money into the
small padded belt which I wore under my corset and put what valuables
I had brought with me into the modest bustle which I only ever wore
when I was travelling. Bustles are the very devil incarnate as a fashion
item, but they are phenomenally useful to hide things upon ones person
in.
All the while, I was wondering why on earth we would be
stopping on the coast, when there werent really many of us on board,
and certainly no one with sufficient wealth or status to brand themselves
a target for pirates, thieves or brigands.
It was only as we were coming in to land at Fcamp that I
realised that it was not the passengers which Trevelyan was going to
make his money from, but the cargo. The porthole in my cabin was
tiny, but considering the space itself was little wider than the narrow
bunk that sat against the wall, it sufficed. I could see a number of heavy
horses waiting patiently on the airfield, hitched to sturdy drays. When
we were boarding in Bristol, I had noticed a set of chests being loaded
into the rear bay of the Topka, the large printed tags clearly reading
Paris.
It seemed these chests werent going to be making it to the
capitol. Shortly after landing, the passengers were all ushered into the
nearest hangar, for tea as Trevelyan put it, whilst the ground crew
fixed whichever imaginary problem the condenser was supposedly
afflicted with.
The chests were not all that went missing. Fortunately, I
insisted that I needed my carpet bag with me due to it containing my
medication (oh, how that word makes men squirm! Truly, if you wish
to bring an abrupt end to a conversation with a man, mention the fact
that you must just pop and take your scheduled medication and you can
pretty much guarantee that he will not be there when you return. If,
indeed, you do ever bother to return). If I had not done so, I would have
been left stranded in the grim fishing town of Fcamp like my fellow
travellers were. Whilst we were in the draughty hangar, the scoundrel
of a captain unloaded the chests onto the drays, which left the airfield
before we had even finished our first cup of singularly inferior French
tea, and then promptly cast off all lines and drifted silently up into the
sky, letting the breeze carry him off into the distance.
It was only when the portly banker who had been in the cabin
next to mine commented upon the fact that it all seemed very quiet that
we realised Trevelyan and the Topka and her remaining cargo were
no longer with us.
I always travel light, not least because of this. As I had made
sure to pack everything into my carpet bag, at least I retained my
passport, money and personal items of clothing. The small trunk which
was in the hold was a sad loss, but at least it only contained a number of
dresses and finicky fashionable items. I was able to purchase a train
ticket to Paris and continue my journey that way, leaving the other
passengers of the Topka milling around in the hangar at Fcamp like
lost sheep.
on the bridge during the crash, and so I was looking for the other four.
The cook, cabin boy, engineer and fireman needed to be found.
I searched the ship from stem to stern, and the only living
person I found was the cabin boy, Marceau. He was curled up under the
great table in the dining room, clinging to one of the legs with his eyes
screwed tight shut.
Carefully, I got him out of there, ensuring he didnt look into
the captains cabin where the cook was lying. The fireman and engineer
were also dead, crushed and scalded as the auxiliary steam tank had
ruptured upon impact.
So that was us, two lone survivors, high in the Buceji
mountains. We sat together on the grass for a while, my arm around
Marceaus shoulders as he cried through his fear and grief and relief.
He wasnt even a man yet, barely fifteen and no taller than I was
myself.
My mind was otherwise occupied though, primarily with how
to get us out of that valley. The mountains werent desolate, by any
means, and I knew there were other airships around, especially at this
point in the spring where the trade routes open up again.
We need to attract attention, I told him. We cant walk out
of here because there is no path through the rocks. I pointed at the
wreckage of the Kokosol. Were going to have a bit of a fire.
Between us, we hacked through all the ropes holding the now
gas-less bag in place and used sharpened carving knives to slice it up
into big squares. The fabric was oiled cotton and waxed hemp, multilayered, wind and waterproof, and it would burn beautifully when lit
from the inside. I fetched coals from the still-hot furnace and we set the
first square of fabric ablaze as close to the side of the waterfall as we
could get it.
The column of blue-black smoke wavered and coughed for a
few minutes, until an updraft from the waterfall caught it, and then it
rose, straight and thick and beautiful, into the afternoon sky. We kept it
lit, day and night, as we pulled what salvage we could from the
wreckage to make ourselves comfortable.
On the second day, I could barely move with the pain and
bruising of my leg so Marceau bade me sit quietly as he fetched what
food he could find that wasnt water damaged or smashed beyond
recognition.
It was he who suggested we use our signal fire as a funeral
pyre.
On the fourth day, when we were down to our last three squares
of fabric, a small narrow ship glided over the head of the valley and
stopped, turning and setting down at the southern-most edge of the
grassy slope.
The propellers slowed to a bare tick-over, and as we watched,
the side door opened and two men jumped out, dressed in the navy blue
suits of the Italian carabinieri.
We were saved.
Sweden - 1860-1863
For all my affinity with languages (which I attribute largely to
my Welsh grandmother, because if you can learn Welsh, you can learn
any blasted language you care to), I have always been drawn to those of
the Fennoscandia. There is something musical and engaging about the
way the people of these lands speak, and the many dialects are easy on
the ear. Their alphabet and spelling is straightforward, especially when
one compares it to English, and there is a touch of exotic Slavic about
some words.
It might go some way to explaining why I spent so many years
of my life in and around that part of the world and, indeed, it is
definitely why I am here now, approaching my dotage and penning
these words under the warm Stockholm sun.
But I digress. Yet again.
In the spring of 1860 I gained employment with a firm that
travelled regularly to the capitals of northern Europe. My ability as a
navigator had not only been recognised, it was now being rewarded.
We travelled extensively, but time and again we would come back to
Stockholm. My Captain had a soft spot for the city, and so usually
scheduled our downtime for when we were on Swedish soil.
I became at home on the streets and islands of this lovely city.
My obvious willingness to learn the native language was welcomed
with open arms and I found myself making friends both on and off the
Airyards. One bright June morning, I was taking advantage of the quiet
on board our latest vessel, the Svetlana, by pulling out and re-indexing
all of my maps and charts. Whilst a methodical worker most of the
time, we had just returned on a particularly taxing voyage back from
Constantinople and Id been forced to pull out charts in a hurry.
It was pleasant working in the soft light of the early morning
sun. I had removed my leather waistcoat and rolled up the sleeves of
the pale yellow linen shirt I wore. No one was there to see, and if there
was, I reasoned, they would already know me and my peculiarities of
dress. Heavy canvas breeches and long boots completed my outfit.
Which was why, when there came a quiet knock on the main
door of the ship, I thought nothing of going to answer it dressed as I
was.
The Svetlana was a compact craft designed to carry small
valuable cargo, including correspondence and a limited number of well-
Prince on board. He cut his hunting trip short and hurried back to
Stockholm, where I was treated to the sight of two grown men hugging
each other like enthusiastic children. The Prince was duly assigned a
cabin opposite mine and the Captain and I spent a productive afternoon
teaching him how to be a First Mate.
You cant keep calling him your Highness, the Captain said
to me as we were readying the ship to leave Stockholm. I blinked in
surprise and looked towards the Prince
I suppose not, I agreed reluctantly. Especially if the idea is
to be incognito.
The Prince laughed and patted Captain Zimmerman on the
back.
Then you will all call me Oscar, which is my middle name and
considerably less recognisable than Frederick.
And that is how Oscar became part of the crew of the Svetlana.
Some few weeks later, he also became my first lover.
Does that shock you? I hope so, because it shocked me
dreadfully.
I had sworn my entire life that I was never going to get caught
up in any silly love affair. I value my brain and my body as tools for
me and me alone to use. There was no way I would ever consider tying
them in matrimony to a man. Who in their right mind wants to lose
their identity, possessions and autonomy to a mere male? Marriage had
never been on the cards.
A physical love affair, however, turned out to be something
entirely different. I had reached the grand old age of thirty-three,
which, in English society, branded me an old maid. A spinster, well
past the age of any hope of a decent marriage.
It seemed that Oscar didnt care about my age, or my dislike for
skirts and bustles, or even my predisposition to wear breeches and
swear like a pirate at the Svetlana when she was being an awkward cow.
What he did care about, apparently, was my strength and
stamina for hard physical work, my amber coloured eyes and dark
chestnut hair, my ability to read the air like currents in water, and how
Captain Zimmerman would quite happily leave me in full charge on the
bridge. Oscar, it appeared, was enormously enamoured of competent
women, or so he said, and it seemed that I was all that and more.
The Captain knew, of course, because you cant hide anything
on a ship thats barely as wide as three London buses and not quite half
as long again. He never breathed a word of it to me, although
inevitable parts of your trip through life that you can write a list for and
plot your heading. When love hits you its like a tornado coming out of
a blue sky, like catching the updraft when a dormant volcano suddenly
erupts. Love comes along and smacks you upside the head and there is
not a damn thing in this wide blue sky that you can do to avoid it.
I sniffed and he passed me his handkerchief.
Thank you. Im guessing you speak from experience.
A great deal of experience. I used to fall in love regularly as a
young man. Now, theres only one lady for me. And he patted the
wheel of the Svetlana, drawing a laugh from me.
Our trip was uneventful after that, even if it did take me a few
nights to remember how to sleep alone.
It was Christmas before I realised I was with child.
I will not bore you with details of that revelation. Only know
this Captain Zimmerman literally saved my life. He kept me on the
Svetlana (and out of the public eye) until the last possible moment, and
then he took me to a family he knew in Uppsala. The woman was a
skilled midwife, the husband a capable outdoorsman, and between them
they helped me bring my daughter into the world. Without the midwife,
I am convinced I would not be here today because that child did not
want to be born. When she eventually emerged, purple and furious at
the world in general, it was the last day of May 1862. I was thirty four
years old, and a mother for the first and only time.
I remained in Uppsala until I was fully recovered from the
experience. My daughter, Victoria Alice, was nearly five months old
when we returned to Stockholm. Captain Zimmerman had secured me a
set of rooms in an elegant neighbourhood and a maid who came in four
times a week to help out.
Only once I was settled did Oscar come to visit. Modesty and
discretion dictate that, even now, I keep the content of our varied
conversations under wraps. The upshot of it all though is that shortly
after Victorias first birthday, she went to live with her father.
I understand that many of you will not be able to accept this
decision. How can a mother walk away from her child, you ask. How
can she allow someone else to raise her own flesh and blood? The
answer, oddly enough, is easily, when you know that the small creature
at the centre of your world is going to have the most wonderful
childhood that could ever be wished upon one. I knew she would be
furnished with pretty dresses and ponies; the best of educations and
playmates; and she would have the constant, steady presence of her
Oh, and that murder? I told you not to worry about it.
The future?
Cogsworth Press
Misson
www.kristywilcox.co.uk
2.75