the importance of being an airship

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The ImportanceOf BeingAn Airship

Kristy Wilcox



The ImportanceOf BeingAn Airship

The Condensed Memoirs

of

Ms Millicent A Livingstone

Independent ExplorerBSc, 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 reader’s

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 badMethodist.

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 vicarsome 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. Myinsistence 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.



France - March 1854

The first commercial airship I ever travelled alone on was called

the Topka. She was of the Mongolfier class, a sturdy ship suspended by

countless hemp ropes beneath a rugby- ball

-shaped balloon. An

efficient, if somewhat basic design. She was old but reliable, the exact

opposite of her dreadful captain. The man didn’t have a scruple in his

curly blond head and I am forever indebted to my uncle for his wise

tutelage in the arts of spotting a con artist from forty paces. Honestly,

Captain Trevelyan reminded me so much of Uncle Horace that it was

laughable. We departed from Bristol Airyards a little after 2 o’clock on a

blustery March day. The weather was almost perfect for flying. Maybethe northeast by east wind could have been a little more northerly for

preference, but we made decent headway once we were out over the

English Channel. Both the Topka and her captain had come highly recommended

to me by a compatriot at IBFaS. I am fairly sure that she must have

been in some way indebted to the man, as I would previously have said

her judgement of character was sound.

The captain was decidedly not sound. We had barely made it tothe middle of the Channel, heading as we were for Paris, when Captain

Trevelyan announced that we were going to have to make an

unscheduled stop at Fécamp due an issue with the condenser.

Now, I do not wish to blow my own trumpet – although I

acknowledge that I am apt to do so on occasion – but I know steam

condensers quite intimately. Therefore, I offered myself and my

technical knowledge at the bridge door forthwith. Trevelyan was somewhat taken aback by my announcement that

I knew a few things and, after sharing a smirk with his fellow crewmembers, thanked me kindly and insincerely, and said he had

telegraphed ahead to ensure there was a decent ground crew waiting for

us at Fécamp, and I wasn’t to worry my pretty head about it all. I knew he was lying immediately. I am not pretty in the

slightest, and I have always known this. I am what is commonly

referred to as handsome, which is a polite way of saying I have a long,

somewhat horsey face with wide apart eyes and a nose that is definitely

more roman than button.But I curtseyed and withdrew. I had already decided, before the



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 didn’t 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 awhile 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 Fécamp, 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 one’s person

in.

All the while, I was wondering why on earth we would be

stopping on the coast, when there weren’t 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 Fécamp 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 loadedinto the rear bay of the Topka, the large printed tags clearly reading

Paris.

It seemed these chests weren’t 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, Iinsisted 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 Fécamp like my fellowtravellers 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 – wereno 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 Fécamp likelost sheep.

There once was a lady from Stratton

Who oft refused to put a hat on

But the day she took flightShe said nowt felt as right

As putting that helmet and goggles on.



Romania - April 1859

The one and only time I was involved in an airship crash was in

the old Kingdom of Romania. The mountains north of Bucuresci, now

Bucharest, run in a sinuous sweep, curving up and east, then sharply back to the north-west. They are rough and beautiful, and I decided, in

my wisdom, that we should fly directly over them on our way to

Austria. I had been the navigator on the Gallipoli-class ship Kokosol

for some eight months, and my captain was a fat and lazy Turk, more

given to lolling in bed with his cook than making decisions on the

bridge. I found myself more captain than navigator by default.

His crew all seemed to like me better as well. Our hours were

better and more peacefully occupied when the Captain wasn’t stormingup and down the corridors, screaming and swearing. Honestly, for a

man who professed to want a quiet life, he sought it at full volume. There are a number of little lakes dotted throughout the Buceji

mountains; small, still oases of calm where the tumbling mountain

rivers pause for breath before continuing their downward journey

through countryside as gloriously wild as any I have seen.

We were travelling up a valley, following one of these

enthusiastic water courses, when we came round a promontory of rockto see a beautiful lake, still as glass, reflecting the blue of the sky back

up at us.

I would dearly liked to have taken a moment to enjoy the

beauty and maybe dig out my sketchbook because I am ever wanting to

improve my skills. It was not to be though, because as we dropped a

little lower to get a good look at the place, there was a great honking

and quacking and squawking, and we were abruptly surrounded by

hundreds and hundreds of birds.

I know now that the lake is used by many waterfowl as a peaceful breeding ground, where they can raise their young away from

the madding crowds of civilisation, but at the time, it was as if we had

flown into some sun-kissed and feathered form of hell. I could barely

see through the main windows for the jumble of wings and beaks and

furious beady eyes.

My first thought was to keep us over the centre of the lake. If

we waited, the birds would all fly off somewhere and the safest place

for us to do that was over the flat, calm, blue waters. I dialled back theairspeed and watched in bemusement as the birds continued to attack us.



Maybe they thought we were a threat to their eggs and chicks, I

do not know. Before I could even give voice to the idea, the Captain

came striding onto the bridge, yelling and waving his hands like he was

attempting to communicate in semaphore.

I tried to explain my rationale behind staying where we were in

the sky, but he would hear nothing of it. I am not sure if he had someirrational dislike of the birds, but he was swearing up a storm and,

pushing the first mate to one side, took over the wheel and threw us into

all ahead.

There was a terrible noise then, as the propellers picked up

speed. I do not wish to think of it, even now, as it makes me nauseous,

but the Kokosol had six powerful props and a highly powered steam

ram engine. She went from three knots to twenty in under a minute and

I cannot bear to dwell on the carnage we caused in that mighty flock of birds.

It wasn’t until we were heading for the narrow head of the

valley that the damage we had sustained became fully clear. The

Captain was yelling for more steam, more heat, more lift, stomping and

swearing around the bridge and I was at the chart table, making careful

notes and trying to ignore his ranting. But when his voice began to

climb and become shrill, I looked up from my pencil and out of the

window.

Where we should have been climbing to clear the head of the

valley and over the lip of the small waterfall which fell into the lake, we

were in fact sinking. The waterfall was dead level with the nose of the

Kokosol and we were approaching it at considerable speed. The Captain just stood there, frozen for what felt like an

eternity. I didn’t wait for him to move. Darting forward, I seized the

wheel and spun it hard to port. We were going too fast for such harsh

manoevering, because the Gallipoli-class ships are notoriously fast but

dreadfully clumsy in the air. You need plenty of clear space around youwhen you open up the valves on a ship like the Kokosol, because she

will go far and fast but heaven help you if you need to change direction

in any distance of less than a mile. She lurched to port, airspeed dropping from over thirty knots to

half that as we turned broadside to the waterfall. The ship swung wildly

beneath the balloon as the propellers which were not jammed up with

bones and feathers did their best to transfer the excessive power from

the engines to forward motion. We were going diagonally, forwardsand sideways and the Captain was now on his knees, praying.



For a man who had always professed to be a secular sort, he

sounded very devout now. The land around the lake was unforgiving, jagged outcrops of

rock and tall spindly trees, but to the west side of the waterfall was a

small grassy slope. It was towards that we were now heading. I hauled

back on the accelerometer until it read full stop and dialled the elevatorsup to give us as much lift as possible.

It wasn’t enough. The Kokosol skimmed over the surface of

the water, her prow sending up a plume of spray that obscured the

bridge windows. I counted down in my head as I braced myself against

the back of the Captain’s chair and closed my eyes scant seconds before

the impact. The world became a whirl of water and broken glass, my ears

filled with screaming and the sounds of twisting metal. I clung onto theCaptain’s chair as the ship listed over, her forward momentum carrying

us up out of the water and sideways across the grass, bumping and

bouncing as we went, the scent of fresh earth and greenery combining

with the water and escaping steam. Finally, just when I thought I

couldn’t hold on for another moment longer, the balloon gave up the

last of its lift and collapsed, entombing us in a shroud of heavy hemp

ropes and grey fabric.

Everything was still. I could hear muffled creaks and the hissof steam escaping from a dozen broken pipes, but not a single human

sound. Shaking, I forced my fingers to uncurl from their hold on the

Captain’s chair, which was the only piece of furniture that hadn’t come

loose from its moorings. I pulled myself up, ignoring the pain in my

side and leg, and looked around. It was total devastation. In the odd, muted light coming through

the grey fabric, I couldn’t see a sign of the Captain or First Mate. The

big front window of the bridge was gone, a gaping hole edged in jagged

bits of glass that had let in the water and the earth. The onlyexplanation was that the Captain must have been thrown clear through

the window on that first, terrible impact with the water. He had been

kneeling directly in front of the central pane.

The floor was tilted at an angle of about forty degrees, so I

dragged myself towards the bridge door. The pain in my leg was

focussing itself in my hip, but after a moment, I deduced that it was

little more than bad bruising, and as nothing had been broken, I made

my way off the bridge and into the corridor.The Kokosol had run with a small crew. Three of us had been



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 didn’t look into

the captain’s 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

Marceau’s shoulders as he cried through his fear and grief and relief.

He wasn’t even a man yet, barely fifteen and no taller than I wasmyself.

My mind was otherwise occupied though, primarily with how

to get us out of that valley. The mountains weren’t 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 can’t walk out

of here because there is no path through the rocks.” I pointed at the

wreckage of the Kokosol. “We’re 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, multi-

layered, 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 itrose, 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 wasn’t 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 bluesuits 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 ofthe 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 penningthese 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 I’d been forced to pull out charts in a hurry.

It was pleasant working in the soft light of the early morningsun. 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 smallvaluable cargo, including correspondence and a limited number of well-



paying passengers in considerable comfort. When I opened the main

door, I had been expecting a messenger with a diplomatic case of papers

or a little bullion. Instead, I was greeted by the sight of the Younger

Prince of Sweden and two of his guards. “Your Highness,” I bowed, totally forgetting to curtsey in my

surprise.“My apologies for disturbing you so early,” he said, his English

perfectly correct and pleasantly accented. “I have need of speaking

with Captain Zimmerman.”

“I am so sorry, your Highness, but the Captain is not on board

at the moment. I believe he has taken a few days to go hunting north of

Järfälla.” “Oh.” The Prince looked so disappointed that I couldn’t allow

him to leave in that state. He was a beautiful young man, maybe a yearor two older than myself, with elegantly pomaded blond hair and the

brightest of blue eyes. “Mayhap I could be of assistance?” I said. “Would you care to

come aboard?”

The Prince agreed at once, and bidding his guards remain at the

door of the Svetlana, followed me into the well-appointed parlour at the

rear of the ship.

“Please, your Highness, take a seat. May I fetch you a drink?”“Just some water, please.”

I busied myself in the galley, drawing two glasses of cold water

from the drinking tap and taking a moment to compose myself. His

Highness’ presence was having a peculiar effect on my natural

equilibrium and, having never before been captivated by any man, I had

little to no idea of how to deal with it. Taking a deep breath, I picked up

the glasses and returned to the parlour. The Prince was standing by the window, looking out over the

Airyard as the normal morning shift began to trickle in. His profile wasaristocratic and perfectly proportioned.

“Do you always start work so early?” he asked, taking the glass.

“My thanks.”

“I find it peaceful when there are few people around, and I can

get a great deal more accomplished without disturbance.”

“My apologies if I disturbed you then.”

“No!” My free hand flew to my cheek which was now

distinctly warm. “No, your Highness, please, I didn’t mean it like that!” But he was laughing, a wide happy smile lifting the intense



seriousness of his expression and I couldn’t help but smile helplessly

back. “Forgive me,” he said, placing his glass on the table. “I

couldn’t help but tease. If you will permit me to introduce myself

properly?”

“With pleasure.” I, too, set my glass down.

“I am Frederick, Grand Duke of Baden and younger brother to

His Highness the Crown Prince.” He swept a deep bow.

“Millicent Livingstone, navigator of the Svetlana and unofficial

First Mate of Captain Zimmerman.” I remembered to curtsey this time,

instead of bowing, although it probably looked ridiculous in breeches

and boots. “I am at your immediate service, your Highness.” “Unofficial First Mate?” he asked, tilting his head to one side.

“Is there no official one?” “No. He jumped ship in Aarhus when we stopped for water on

our way out to Paris last month. I filled in for him, and Captain

Zimmerman decided that we didn’t actually need a First Mate after all.

By the time we got to Paris, he’d realised that the man had just been in

the way and the two of us could work the bridge with more efficiency.”

“I see.” The Prince chewed on his lower lip for a moment in a

move that I should not have found as endearing as it was. “Maybe this

will work out better than I had originally planned.”

When I finally able to persuade him to explain his requirements

to me, it was a simple thing to arrange. The Prince needed to travel

around Europe for a short period of three months, but it was imperative

that he do it quietly and unobtrusively. He’d decided that an airship

was infinitely preferable to a train or boat and had resolved himself to

seek out Captain Zimmerman as a man he knew from many years casual

acquaintance and no small amount of celebrity.

His initial idea had been to simply book passage and remain a

quiet passenger on a small ship. Now, he put forth the idea of him becoming part of the crew, dressing and living as one of us for his time

on board and thus being able to walk freely around the cities we visited

without a second glance. I could see no drawback to his suggestion, and told him I would

send word up to Captain Zimmerman at once. As we were not due to

leave for another four days, the Prince would have plenty of time to put

his affairs in order once we had had word back from the Captain that the

plan was a sound one.

Captain Zimmerman was quite clearly delighted to have the



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 can’t keep calling him your Highness,” the Captain saidto 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 losetheir 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 didn’t 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 can’t hide anything

on a ship that’s barely as wide as three London buses and not quite halfas long again. He never breathed a word of it to me, although



apparently he spoke at length with Oscar. According to Oscar, it was

only concern that I wasn’t expecting more than my dear Prince was

willing to offer, but seeing as how he had already asked me to marry

him, it wasn’t like he wasn’t willing to offer the world. He asked me

twice during the course of that voyage, and I regretfully turned him

down both times.

I suppose that surprises you too, but hopefully not for long once

you think about it. My darling Prince was indeed offering me the

world, but it was his world and I was more than sure I didn’t belong in

it. Balls and events and dresses and keeping up public appearances - it

was all my worst nightmare. If I had married Oscar, I would have

become a princess and I truly wasn’t ready to be grounded like that.

But we connected on a level I had never known before. He was

gentle and funny in public; a generous, passionate man in private, and Igrew to love him dearly. After the first few weeks, he stopped with the

pretence of returning to his cabin each night and we lived together quite

blissfully for the duration of our trip.

The anticipated three months actually morphed into more like

four and a half, but we saw a great deal of the northern part of the

continent as well as all the major capitols, and Oscar was able to return

to Stockholm with all the information that his brother and father could

wish for.I will not dwell on our parting, the first morning we cast off

without him. It was a cold October dawn and the saddest time I can

ever remember living through. I do not wish to relive it. I managed to

get us out of the Airyard and into the southwest stream on a heading for

Amsterdam before I collapsed in a pathetic heap of girlish weeping. Had I not been so bereft, I would have been furious at myself

for sobbing so over a man. Oscar wasn’t just a man though, he was a

Prince, and Captain Zimmerman told me as such, as he helped me into

his chair on the bridge and passed me his hipflask of good brandy.

“It’s not every woman who bags a Prince as their first love,” he

said, his hand firm and grounding on my shoulder. I took a healthy slug

of the brandy and shuddered. Eight o’clock in the morning is no time

for brandy, I thought, but I had another sip, just to make sure.

“I never expected to fall in love,” I admitted. His laugh

surprised me and I looked up at him. A burly man in his late fifties,

Captain Zimmerman had spent more of his life in the air than on the

ground and his warm brown eyes were worldly and amused.

“Love isn’t something you plan for,” he said. “It’s not like the



inevitable parts of your trip through life that you can write a list for and

plot your heading. When love hits you it’s 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. I’m guessing you speak from experience.” “A great deal of experience. I used to fall in love regularly as a

young man. Now, there’s 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 knowthis – 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 fouryears 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 shortlyafter Victoria’s 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



father at her side. How could I refuse her that?

More to the point, how could I refuse her father that? She was

of royal blood. If I had kept her with me, it would have meant a

lifetime in the air, with no roots or long-term friends. Victoria would

have grown up with the wind in her hair and the deck beneath her boots,

and whilst that is an eminently suitable childhood for some, it would notdo for my delicate, blonde little girl. So she became the princess she

was fated to be, and I returned to the air in the autumn of 1863.

FUGIT INREPARABILE TEMPUS



Greenland - August 1865

An airship is a living, breathing creature. She has a heartbeat

and a pulse, that gentle throb of steam engine, boiler and propeller

which keeps her moving in the direction we, her pilots, require. Herfires breathe, steam forces its way through artery-like copper piping,

and the steady boom of the engines reassures one that all is right in the

world. It is possible to diagnose an airship simply by listening to the

hiccup in that pulse, the delay in breathing.

That day, however, there was silence.

I awoke a little after sunrise. Being level with the Arctic Circle,

the sun was rising north of north-east and my cabin was on the forward

starboard side. I lay awake, watching the pink and gold catch sparkleson the brass fittings, and wondered what felt so odd. It took me a

couple of minutes to awaken sufficiently to realise that I couldn’t hear a

thing.

For a moment or two I honestly wondered if half a lifetime

spent subjecting my hearing to the clatter and hiss of steam power had

damaged it beyond repair, but then running footsteps assured me that

my auditory powers were still intact.

A second later, there was a furious hammering on my door.

“What is it?” I asked, jumping up and throwing a robe around

my shoulders. I tugged the door open to find Ulric there, his normally

stoic face wide-eyed and shocked.

“The fires went out overnight, Captain,” he said. “Jones is

nowhere to be found and we’ve drifted so far off course we’ll be over

polar ice come lunchtime if we don’t do something about it.”

“I’ll be down in five minutes,” I promised and he nodded. It was the quickest I have ever dressed, but the beauty of

airships is that I am free to dispense with skirts and petticoats.Breeches, a shirt and a heavy waistcoat, and I was dressed. I tugged on

my boots and was running down the corridor whilst still trying to catch

all my hair back. Ulric was staring into the furnace, looking perplexed.

“It’s hardly warm,” he said, shaking his head. “It must have

gone out around midnight.”

“How?” I moved around the engine room, touching cool pipes

that should have scalded me. I shivered. “Are we out of coal?” “No sir, there’s plenty.”



“Then get a fire going, boyo,” I suggested. “We aren’t going to

get moving by staring at a bare grate.”

“It’s going to take an hour or more to get up to steam!”

Sometimes I despaired of menfolk. “Yes, and the longer you put off lighting the fire, the longer it’s

going to be before that hour can start! Move.”

It was the oddest thing, going around the engine room shutting

down valves and spinning control gears that by rights one should never

touch whilst in the air. But we couldn’t start the furnace with

everything wide open. Once we were fully shut down, Ulric put a flame

to the firebox and I left him there to keep an eye on it.

“Captain on deck,” Jebediah announced as I walked onto the

bridge. Even in a dire a situation as this, that would never not make me

smile, I thought. I nodded at my navigator.“How far off course are we?” I asked.

“That’s not Iceland beneath us,” he said, an unhappy slant to his

mouth. I looked out over the white moonscape that stretched as far as

the eye could see through the early morning mist.

“Greenland?” He nodded.

“Any idea where over Greenland?”

“No.” He slid the pointer across the map. “We’re above thearctic circle already, though, going on the sun. Current airspeed and

direction, we could be anywhere around here.” He drew a big circle on

the map, easily fifty miles in diameter.

“Let us just hope we’re on the southward side of that area then.”

I traced the curve the wind must have pushed us up. “Where is Jones?”

All three men shrugged. Jebediah was a man of few words, so

he wasn’t the kind to speculate. My First Mate, Richardson and Albert

the bo’sun were cut from a different kind of cloth entirely.

“Probably drunk somewhere,” Richardson offered morosely.“He’s like as passed out in a cubby, w’the remains of his bottle.”

“Aye, or he’s dead,” Albert added. “Liver’s gone out on him

and he’s dead in his bunk.”

“And no one has checked to see if he is, indeed, in his cabin?”

The three of them exchanged glances and I sighed. “Albert, you’re bo’sun, you go find him,” I instructed. “Check

all the usual spots and double check the cargo bay because I know he

spotted that crate of Scotch whiskey that’s down there.” I shivered, andautomatically went to spin the dial to get some more heat out of the



vents that lined the edges of the floor.

There was no heat. And that’s when I noticed, up in the corners of the big glass

windows of the bridge, the first tracery of frost sending curling tendrils

of white across the glass.

With no fire, there was no warmth. No warmth, severalhundred feet up above the sheets of glacial ice of Greenland, meant that

if we didn’t fall from the sky, we would freeze to death before we

reached the coast. “Richardson, go rouse everyone else on board,” I said, snapping

him out of his morose mutterings to Jebediah. “I want Aled and Isobel

in the galley and the stoves need firing up, every one of them. Yes,

even the one in my ready room,” I pre-empted his question. There were

three small pot- bellied stoves on board, as well as the big range in the

galley that was used for cooking on.

“But the wood,” Richardson began to protest. “I don’t care about the wood,” I snapped. “Saving fuel is no

use to us if we’re dead of hypothermia, is it?”

They blinked as the realisation sank in that we were not just

adrift, but sat cold and lost in a vast, empty sky.

“Fires, now gentlemen,” I snapped. “And coffee too.”



They finally got moving, leaving me alone on the bridge.

Normally, that would be a taboo – there should always be two on the

bridge of any large airship, but these were extenuating circumstances. I

prodded the map for a moment, thinking, then went up to the big wheel

and swung it hard round to port. I wanted our nose pointing south so

the wind wasn’t driving us aimlessly in whatever direction it saw fit.Trimming the ailerons and elevators back and turning the stationary

propellers to catch and deflect the breeze, I brought the old girl around

so we were, in effect, quartering the wind. To think I’d rolled my eyes when my navigation teacher had

harped on about sailing ships for three lectures in a row.

Checking the wind speed and compasses, I found I’d shifted our

course onto a south-westerly heading. If nothing else, that would bring

us out over the coast where there were some few small villages, clingingto the western edges of Greenland.

I stood staring at the dials for a long minute. With no steam in

the pipes, there was nothing to look at. No pressure gauges to keep in

line, no feeds to propellers to adjust, no temperature dials to monitor.

There was the compass, which held steady at west-southwest and wind

speed vacillating between fourteen and sixteen knots. There was

absolutely nothing for me to do on the bridge.

I went back to my cabin and dug out the thick gansey which had been an impulse purchase on Shetland, for which I was now very

thankful. The dark, dense wool was like a hug and I slipped it on over

my shirt before putting my waistcoat back on. I added a soft lambswool

scarf and jammed my old flying helmet onto my head, trusting the

sheepskin lining to keep my ears warm if nothing else. I probably looked ridiculous, but I didn’t really care at that

point. Back on the bridge, the ice was creeping further across the

windows and I just wished I had a pair of gloves to add to my outfit.

It was the oddest situation I’d ever been in. The sense ofurgency was very real – we needed the furnace because without it, we

were dead in the air. But there was no way of hurrying up a fire. To lay

a good solid base that would generate plenty of steady heat took time. I honestly didn’t know how much time we had.

“Found ‘im!” Albert announced loudly, storming onto the

bridge. “And I was right an’ all.” “He’s dead?” I frowned.

“As a nail,” he said with relish.

“You needn’t look so pleased about it.”



“Oh, no, sorry Cap’n, I didn’t mean to come across as pleased,

an’ all.” He snatched his flat cap off his head and tried, unsuccessfully,

to look contrite. “Only he was flat out on the floor of his cabin, like,

and by the stench in there he’d found the Scotch. It’s not pretty.” Running a hand over my face, I sighed. No, it probably wasn’t

pretty, but it left me short of an engineer.“Okay, fine, deal with it. Find Richardson and send him back

up here and then go see if Ulric needs a hand in the engine room.” I

looked at the frost which was creeping down the pipes which ran around

the top of the window. “And please get Isobel to bring up some

coffee.”

I didn’t want to think about the dead man on my ship at that

moment. I was too afraid that my whole crew would shortly be dead

too. We’d lost altitude as well, the cold air making the gas denser andso less buoyant. I needed heat and soon.

Isobel, bless her heart, appeared a few minutes later bearing a

steaming mug of coffee and plate piled with toast and jam. “That was fast,” I said, taking the mug with a grateful smile.

“The range was still warm.” She balanced the plate of toast on

the edge of the chart table. “Is it true what Albert said about Jones?”

“Afraid so.” Gods, coffee, I thought, my eyes closing for a

brief moment of appreciation. It was sweet and hot and I could feel itdefrosting me from the inside out. “But for now, I need you to get all

the stoves on board fired up. We’ll worry about what to do with Jones

once we’re no longer in danger of freezing to death up here.”

Isobel nodded, big blue eyes wide in her pale face. She was

barely twenty, and I had doubted my wisdom in including her on this

trip. But thus far, she had proved to be a resilient soul.

Looking back now, it comes as somewhat of an anti-climax to

say it was only another half an hour before the furnace was giving out

enough heat to start up a head of steam. But that was the longest thirtyminutes of my entire life. The ice had obscured fully three quarters of

the main windows before the pipes were hot enough to begin melting it.

The relief when the engine restarted was a tangible thing

throughout the whole ship. I had a sudden thought of how it must have

felt for Frankenstein, bringing life to his creation where nothing had

been before, then dismissed the fanciful notion. My airship had merely

been sleeping, not dead, and now her heart was beating again we were

going to turn a sharp forty-five degrees to port and hightail it back to

Iceland.



Africa - April 1878

We were five days out from Cape Town and had joined the

Zambesi River at Mambova. There was something soothing about the

meandering path the river took, a broad grey- blue stripe winding its way

across the green and gold landscape. I had been expecting arid brown

and beige, but we had timed our trip well and the rains had not long

passed. The whole world beneath the Callallo was verdant and bursting

with life, herds of bison and zebra and innumerable antelopes. We were

lulled into serenity by the slow curving sweeps of that mighty river,

which oft times turned brown with silt as the waters mixed with the run

off from the monsoons.

But then we could see a wall of mist before us, reaching up intothe sky like the smoke from a thousand fires. The noise was the most

surprising thing. As we grew closer, it was like a continuous hum. A

distant crowd cheering or the huff of many steam engines building

pressure. Then we were right next to it and the sound was near

deafening. It was as if the earth had opened up and swallowed it whole,

a gaping chasm that stretched across the landscape like a violent gouge.

So much power, was my first thought. That much water, falling

that far must generate the most incredible amount of power. If onlythere were a way to harness and harvest it. Ulric and I spent many hours

talking the idea over. Short of living right next to the falls though, and

building a series of suspended water wheels from the type of steel

girders they’d just used to put that strange tower up in the middle of

Paris with, we couldn’t come up with another way of doing so. No doubt, in a few years, when engineering takes another

quantum leap forward, we will figure it out.



Epilogue - Stockholm, 1895

I have no doubt that my dear daughter will read this memoir

and chastise me for my dramatic turn of phrase. The Princess Victoria

and I often meet for tea these days. She is an elegant woman of thirty-

three, almost the same age as I was when she was born. Except that she

is married with two delightful children who I spoil and threaten to spirit

away on an airship at every opportunity.

One day, I might just do that, if only to see her expression (and

her father’s) when I return with two over -excited children, full of the

joys of wide open skies and the smell of steam on hot metal. What is

the point of having grandchildren if you can’t drop yourself down to

their level once in a while?

Until they are old enough to steal away for a few days, I will

content myself with day to day life, which is far better than I had ever

anticipated. Stockholm is a beautiful city, elegant in a way that London

is not, cleaner than Paris, friendlier than Moscow. Of all the places in

Europe and Africa that I have visited, I have been lucky enough to

touch down in a city that is more than understanding of my little quirks.

Ulric and I rarely even raise an eyebrow in society these days.We still haven’t married, much to Victoria’s indulgent irritation, but I’m

not sure we ever will. Neither of us feel the need for it. We have said

the words we need to say to each other in the privacy of our own home.

He is six years my junior; a short, sturdy Finn with a quick wit and a

propensity to laugh at life’s absurdities. Our first flight together, some

thirty years ago, seems like only yesterday when I think back on it. I

have no idea when he ceased being just my chief engineer and became a

dearly beloved companion, but we like to think it was somewhere over North Africa in the early 1870s. Well, he does, but then he has ever

been an incurable romantic.

Oh, and that murder? I told you not to worry about it.



The future…?



With sincerest thanks to Amy, for her wonderful drawings.

http://amy.pollien.com/



“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 myreaders’ indulgence, in order that I may

foreshorten and condense my adventures into

something a little more palatable to the Western

digestion.”

So begin the abridged adventures of Ms

Millicent A. Livingstone - explorer, engineer,

cartographer (and terribly bad Methodist).

Cogsworth Press

Misson

the importance of being an airship

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