Chapter XIV: The Story of the Ships

It is time now to tell the story of the ships, the genealogy of the _Mary Rose_, the secret of Brand's aerial wars, and how the great outlaw gained command of the air.

Down through the ages sweeps that Pageant of the Ships, with oar, sail, steam, electric, etheric power, cleaving the centuries since the world was young.

First come the oared Long Ships, the slave-manned galleys, the argosies of the Phoenicians, the Greeks, of Carthage, Rome, Byzantium, of Barbary, Norway, Venice, Genoa, Spain. They are human-wielded, sea-compelling engines.

Then come the Great Ships, the device of Henry VIII. They shattered the galleons of Spain, they wrecked the Dutch Republic, destroyed the Empire of France, gave Britain the command of the sea. They explored the planet, they created the greater commerce. They come under sail, they need no slave-engines, these white-winged servants of the winds, winged conquerors of all seas.

Then come the iron ships which laid the cables, peopled the lands, and narrowed down the world into a house for man; the steel ships, smoke-maned conquerors of both wind and sea, not man-driven galleys, but steam-driven carriers, racing cities, and cruising fortresses.

They drove the white sails from the face of the sea, drove them to refuge in the skies. And so sweeps the majestic pageant of the ships into the golden age of seamanship. "There shall be no more sea," for man has taken wings to cleave the air. Poised on broad aeroplanes, alive with power flashed to them through space, the aerial battleships have claimed the very pathways of the eagles. Rolling down the cloud-seas come the snow-white, glittering giants of the electric age, England's dread Channel Fleet, surely the last supreme achievement of mankind.

And far aloft, attended by white cirrii, hangs one small star-like speck in the blue zenith, an unarmed private yacht offering to meet the entire navy of Britain and all the fleets of Europe in single combat.

There is a legend of John Brand I., that wandering on the moors by the Lands End, he came upon a dark and silent pool. Being in an idle mood he sat beside the bank throwing pebbles, and watched the little ripples spread away over still water. So the thought came to him of those small innumerable waves which constantly spread away from the earth's centre, the waves of gravitation.

Thinking profoundly he took a pebble in his hand. What mighty chord of the celestial music thrilled in that stone pulling it down to the earth? What was its chord of mass--how many millions of waves to the second? Perhaps a million vibrations.

Suppose then he made an engine which would sound that note exactly. The stone would fall off the planet, be whirled into space!

Could he build a ship to carry such an engine, strike the great chord, and hurl the vessel off among the stars? Could he arrest its flight, create the ship into a planet, free from the earth, and driven at his will within the limits of the atmosphere?

A pebble thrown into still waters, a thought thrown from Heaven into a clear mind, and ripples spreading down through history! We all know how Brand I. built the etheric ship, fighting his way through the long silent years of galling poverty and majestic thought. He was a lad when he threw the pebble, an old man when he set the engines in motion, sounded the chord of mass at last, lifted the ship from the earth--then failed to arrest its motion. In that strange sepulchre his body rests, wandering down the starways, lost in the depths of space, lighted by blazing suns, threading the constellations for ever and ever.

John Brand II., the builder of Lyonesse, was more daring than his father, and always more practical. His etheric ship, _Mars_, was brought under perfect control, and with Lock's propellor developed undreamed-of speed.

The _Mars_ had a quality of attracting dust, drawing raindrops after her, and even small birds. Pebbles thrown from her port-holes would not fall, but followed in the wake as satellites. Her compass needle pointed fore and aft indifferent to the magnetism of the earth. About her hull strange wandering fires flickered and gleamed at night, and in the cloud-fields as she passed above them, dull thunders muttered, with tremulous lightnings.

It was an attempt upon his life by anarchists which drove Mr. Brand II. to the idea of defence. Like the stone spreading ripples on still waters, his engines of the _Mars_ could send out waves into the ether. He surrounded the ship with a small sphere of electric ripples, and high explosives are so sensitive to these vibrations that no shell or torpedo could enter this field of tension without being instantly disturbed. So the _Mars_ was clothed with an electric armour, and the steel planet became invulnerable. And she could attack, projecting her electric waves ten miles through space to explode the cartridges carried by hostile troops, the ammunition of attacking field guns, the magazines of fortresses and ships.

John Brand II. sent out his fleet as he sent out his gold to serve mankind in the quiet channels of commerce. The engineers and captains of Lyonesse grew old in his service, and never knew the secret of the ships, their fearful powers as applied to war. John Brand III. reigned in his father's stead, and still the planets served as merchantmen, and the lightnings slept in their engines. No man had ever seen etheric power in action, no man, save Brand, could wield the destroying flame. And now the Channel Fleet had ordered him to surrender.

His planet of forged steel lay resting. Ice glistened on her flanks from frosty sprays of cirrii streaming past her. Beneath were the labouring battleships, the white seas of cloud, and the newly risen sun blazed red in the east. Above her the stars in millions thronged the black deeps of Heaven.

A message flashed down to the flagship instruments. "Come up and fight me," said the _Mary Rose_.

The flagship answered angrily--"Come down!"

No man on an open deck could breathe the atmosphere up yonder where that steel fleck hung in the blue of Heaven, no aeroplanes could find supporting air, no gun could be discharged, no missile fired--and who could dare the awful cold of Space!

"I will come down," said the _Mary Rose_.

Like a meteor she fell until she touched the surf of the white cloud sea, and there lay gently rolling, half submerged, a spindle-shaped bolt of lustrous pearly grey, almost invisible. Every available weapon in the Fleet was trained upon her broadside. She sent another message by aerial telegraph to the flagship.

"I have led you out over the Channel so that no harm can be done by a rain of shells. To make myself a better target I shall come within point-blank range." The yacht took up a new position. "Fire!"

"I give you a minute to surrender," replied the flagship. "Is there any need for bloodshed? Yield, or I must sink you."

"Thanks. I am in perfect safety. Fire!"

A ten-inch projectile launched from the flagship exploded midway upon its course.

"Try a torpedo," said the yacht.

The weapon which would have destroyed a town flew out from the flagship's bows, and was scarcely clear of the fleet before it was blown to pieces.

Then the whole fleet attacked, and for some minutes the yacht was lost to sight in the red hurricane of bursting shells. When the air cleared, the echoes still thundered among the clouds, and the yacht rolled violently on huge waves of air.

No fortress on earth could have outlived that close bombardment, yet she existed still, and ruthfully the Admiral sent word asking if there were any survivors.

"I am coming," said the yacht, "to take position alongside the flagship. I intend no hostile action, but if a single shot is fired, in self-defence I shall destroy the Fleet."

In bitter humiliation the Admiral waited, standing in the icy wind on the deck of his flagship. Never before had a British Fleet been captured, never one of our admirals humbled to the point of surrender, and death would have been easier to meet.

This steel thunderbolt could outstrip the swiftest cruisers then afloat, could ram the fragile aerial battleships, and was herself impregnable. The Fleet was at her mercy, and the navies of the world were obsolete.

She advanced quite slowly, swung on her own length, lay alongside of the _Devastation_, and flung her gangway on the quarter-deck.

Then came Brand's messenger, a prince of the blood royal, the Duke of Lancaster, clothed in the Queen's armour, bearing her Majesty's signet, claiming no victory, enforcing no indignities, but with a salute to the white ensign, and a salute to the Admiral of the Fleet, paying the honours of war to a fallen power.

At the gangway Brand made the Admiral welcome.

* * * * *

A tremor went through the _Mary Rose_ as on the Admiral's departure the starboard gangway clanged home against her side.

Brand entered the conning tower. "Stand by," he said. "Dead slow--five to starboard--ahead."

"All clear, sir," answered Captain Simpson, his hands on the levers.

"Steady! Rise."

The yacht rose gently, while the Channel Fleet fell away beneath her. Brand sat down in the chair beside the Captain, watching the indicator until the needle gauged thirty thousand feet.

"Way enough," he said. "Quarter speed ahead, west by north, half north."

"West by north, half north."

"Full speed ahead."

"Full speed it is." Captain Simpson leaned back with a sigh of relief, then glanced up sideways at the master's face.

"Light your pipe," said Brand.

"Thank you, sir--Great Death! you thrashed the Fleet!"

"I've done more," the master sighed. "I've broken a man's heart. Poor Rothschild!"

"Was that the Jew admiral?"

"A great gentleman," said Brand. "Are you sure, Simpson, that you can remember that formula for explosives?"

"Yes, sir."

"Tell your ship's company that I don't ask them to face war risks on peace wages. The pay and pension rates are doubled from the first of this month." The captain started to his feet. "There, go away and take an hour's rest."

The captain grabbed Brand's shoulder from behind. "A warning, sir. The Dictator tried to bribe me, and he's bought nearly all your skippers. Don't let them know that new formula."

Brand turned round and shook hands with him.

"Get below," he said, "and, by the way, tell somebody to ask His Royal Highness to join me here."

The captain rolled away down the ladder. "Thrashed the Fleet," he muttered, "thrashed the whole Fleet! Great Death!"

Brand was alone now, and for some minutes paced restlessly the small domed room with its glass vault and walls. The sun was high in the black, star-strewn heavens, the cloud-sea vanished into the heat of the day. Beneath rolled the blue Channel, and on either side the land went up to meet an immense horizon. Broad on the port beam lay the coast of France, beyond on the port bow the wide Atlantic loomed. There on the starboard side was the English land from Beachy Head, faint glimmering in the east, even to the Start in far-off Devonshire. At his very feet lay the green Isle of Wight masking a skein of intricate blue waters. There was Portsmouth, yonder Southampton, and northward Salisbury and Winchester, a score of cities, a thousand villages and farmsteads, where as the green melted away to blue, range beyond range of gently rolling downs, mist upon mist of exquisite rounded hills, up to the very stars of eternal night. And all the land must perish if he failed!

Someone was coming up the ladder, and presently Brand, turning away from the glass, encountered Lancaster.

The Prince saluted him, but Brand came forward, laying both hands upon his shoulders.

"My boy," he said, "where would you like to land?"

"Where you land, sir."

"I'd like to be sure of your safety, Lancaster, and I want to put you ashore."

"I'll see you damned first!"

Brand looked into his keen, fresh, comely face.

"You're most wonderfully like her," he said, absently; "and there's no bending her. I suppose you'll stay whether I like it or not. I've got to recapture Lyonesse."

"I want to see the game."

"Lancaster, you know my three big passenger boats?"

"The _Coronation_, _Grace à Dieu_, and _Gigantic_? Yes, of course. I came from New York in the _Gigantic_ once--did it in sixteen hours. Why, there's room for this yacht in her after-cabin."

"The _Gigantic_ was in dock when Lyonesse was captured; but Admiral Rothschild tells me that she is afloat since yesterday, guarding the town against me. She is in charge of a naval officer, with orders to ram at sight."

"But you thrashed the Imperial Navy!"

"The _Gigantic_ carries no explosives. So far as I see, I can't ram her, I can't blow her up, and she's so swift that I can't even run away. I've decided to set every man ashore who is not absolutely needed. Lancaster, you must go."

"Sir," answered Lancaster, hotly, "I'm here for the Queen, and I refuse to land."

"As you will."

A few minutes later the _Mary Rose_ set all her idlers ashore in Devonshire. When she took flight again Brand and his captain returned to their seats in the conning-tower, and Lancaster stood behind them, with a life line to steady him during the coming fight. Together they watched the narrowing land beneath, as Cornwall tapered westward between the seas.

No clouds sailed in the clear sky to mask an attack.

"Wait for the night, sir," ventured Captain Simpson.

"Until the _Gigantic_ is warned."

"You're right, sir. Could you move down with the sun behind you? The yacht would be difficult to see."

"This cupola would shine against the sun. I wish we could make ourselves invisible."

"I think," he added, "the _Gigantic_ will be lying with her head towards London, and if we keep on this course her look-out can't fail to sight us. That would be awkward, so put her hard a-port, and set her course nor'-west."

The yacht swung rapidly and steadied.

"Nor'-west it is, sir."

"We'll come down from the north," said Brand; "we should sight her broadside at thirty or forty miles."

"Good," cried the captain, "she'll hardly see us at five miles."

Not a word more was spoken until the coast of Ireland loomed ahead.

"Hard a-starboard."

"Aye, aye, sir."

The yacht heeled over as she swung.

"South!"

The yacht came to an even keel, swung a point or two back, and steadied.

"South it is."

Far up against the sun a distant film of land blurred the horizon.

"Starboard a little; a little more; keep her at that."

Brand shipped a powerful telescope on slings and focussed the Lands End. There in a trembling mirage the granite city lay, the long glass roofs of her factories gleaming like silver scales.

"Half speed," he murmured; then, as the vessel steadied: "There's the _Gigantic_--broadside on--starboard a very little--too much--so. Keep her at that. She must be very low down--scarcely a mile above the roofs. She'll see us against the sky, so drop to ten thousand feet, Mr. Simpson."

The _Mary Rose_ fell for a minute or so.

"Ten thousand, sir."

"Drop another mile--there--she's below the horizon now. Full speed ahead."

The sough of the dense air against the yacht's hull rose to a deafening roar. The heat in the cupola became intense, and had to be modified with a spray of liquid air. Brand returned to the telescope.

"There she is," he shouted. "I'll try to ram her propeller--watch my hand and steer as I beckon--she hasn't sighted us--couple on the auxiliary engines--all the speed you've got. Her hull makes such a blinding glare in the sun--I can scarcely see. Rise one hundred feet--ten more feet--stand by to ram--five down--she's moving! Starboard! Starboard! She's turning to ram--starboard more--more--more! Missed, by God!

Brand dashed across to the after windows. "Rise!" he yelled. "Rise, full speed--she's after us--she's charging! Back of all! Guns, Simpson! Guns! The lunatic has guns! Some Navy duffer has mounted heavy artillery. Back full speed, she's on us----"

Brand threw himself across the instrument table, set the formula for explosives, banged down the key, flashed out the electric waves for high explosives. Her red-hot bows cleaving the hurricane, the _Gigantic_ came roaring down full on the broadside, flame streaming from her guns, shells bursting. Her ram was within a hundred yards, within fifty, the yacht, struck by the bow waves, fell reeling over on her beam ends, lost in a cloud of blazing scarlet light, crushed down by enormous jagged wreckage of steel.

Then she righted, rolling violently, alone in heaven, while far down through space fell incandescent fragments of the lost _Gigantic_, destroyed by her own magazines.