Episode 7: An Island Maiden, at Last!
The crest of the hills was behind them. Some distance ahead lay the coast
and the small French settlement where the mysterious German airship was
moored. Everett and his men advanced more cautiously now, for they had
no idea what they'd find when they arrived. France and Germany might be
coexisting on friendly terms back in Europe, but the two nations were still
technically at war, and strange things had been known to happen here in the
Rashid took the lead as they approached the settlement, holding his sling at
ready. This jungle might have been somewhat different from the slopes of the
Zagros Mountains where he'd spent his youth, but he was still the closest
they had to a wilderness scout. As they approaches a bend in the trail, he
raised his hand to call a halt.
"There's someone ahead of us," he whispered.
Moments later, a man came into view: a slender dark-haired figure in a light
tropical suit. He stopped when he saw the party, taking in their English
naval uniforms with an expression of surprise.
"Who are you?" asked Everett.
"I might ask the same," the man replied in a light French accent. "Is eet
common for a party of English airmen to be prowling through the jungles of a
foreign colony? A suspicious person might wonder if you were spies."
Everett studied the stranger. He appeared to be a gentleman of breeding,
with well-groomed hair, an innocent-seeming face, and clothes that seemed
altogether too fine for someone who was sneaking around in the woods.
Perhaps he could trust the fellow, but he wanted more information before he
"We have the advantage of numbers, so I think it only proper if you answer
first. Who are you?"
"Advantage is a relative term," the other replied. "You may have us
outnumbered, but my companion and I have the advantage of surprise. Sarah?"
Leaves rustled, and Everett turned to see a startling apparition emerge from
the jungle. She was short and slender, with a dusky Melanesian complexion on
a face that would not have seemed out of place in a London drawing room. Her
dress was subdued but fashionable, suitable for the finest of finishing
schools. An elegant spear, fitted to a stylish spear-thrower carved with an
interlocking pattern of birds, complemented her outfit. The spear was
pointed at his chest.
Behind him, Davies reached for his Lewis gun. "Steady there, man," said
Everett. "If she wanted to skewer me, she'd have done so already.
"I am Captain Roland P. Everett," he said, turning back to the Frenchman,
"commander of His Majesty's Airship Flying Lady, R-212. Several
days ago, our vessel was destroyed by a foreign cruiser that approached
under false colors and attacked us by surprise. My men and I contrived to
navigate part of the wreck to this island. Now we're conducting a
reconnaissance to see which way the land lies, and to discover why a
German airship is moored at a French colony."
"I have been wondering that myself," said the man. "But allow me to
introduce myself. I am Pierre Vincent, an entrepreneur who was forced to
take an unplanned sabbatical as a result of a minor disagreement with the
"You were sentenced to transportation as a convict?"
"These are such ugly terms. I prefer to think of myself as a tourist, and I
was planning the next stage of my itinerary when you appeared on the scene.
This vessel you noticed caught my eye as well. Its presence here cannot
possibly be legal, and I had contemplated stowing aboard with my companion."
"Who's the girl?" asked Davies.
"She is Sarah, daughter of a local chief who was displaced by the French."
Everett looked at the woman. Now that the confrontation was over, she had
lowered her spear and was examining him with an expression of curiosity. He
wondered how much of his conversation with Pierre she'd understood.
"You savvy mekim toktok English?" he asked cautiously.
"I dare say!" the woman replied. "But my tutor always found fault with my
enunciation. There's no pleasing some people. You practice your exercises,
listen to their examples, and it's still, `Sarah, you're drawing out you're
`A's', or `Sarah, you're speaking like a Frenchwoman'." She thumped her
spear against the ground in frustration.
"I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Sarah," said Everett,
nonplussed. "I believe I've already introduced myself. These are my officers
and men, Lieutenant-Commander MacKiernan, Lieutenant Iverson, Abercrombie,
Davies, Fleming, Jenkins, Rashid, and Wallace."
It seemed like a good time to stop for lunch, so they found a place to sit
while Jenkins produced some of the Waltham Patent Emergency Rations (`Still
guaranteed to sustain airmen in distress') that they'd salvaged from the
ship. The Frenchman examined these skeptically, as well he might, for in
taste and texture, they were indistinguishable from the satchel in which
they'd been carried. His companion nibbled hers with delight, and continued
with her tale while the men gathered around, vying for her attention.
Iverson seemed particularly taken by the girl.
"My father was chief of the Tcho-tcho tribe," she said. My mother was a
Presbyterian missionary from Cincinnati."
"Good Lord!" said Iverson. "Do you mean to say that your father ravished
your mother and carried her off into the brush to live in some grass hut?"
"Oh no. I believe the ravishing was Mother's idea. And we had quite a nice
house, with a library, a parlor, and a fine dining room, with crystal
chandeliers and a row of human skulls along the wall. Father ran a
successful trading post, and he'd begun to diversify into commodities and
manufacture. But Mother insisted on learning all the old recipes for
evenings when we invited competitors over for dinner. She was quite a good
"How did she reconcile eating human flesh with the tenets of her Christian
faith?" asked Abercrombie, appalled.
"Oh, she was Presbyterian," said Sarah with a wave of dismissal. "Their
tenets only apply to other Presbyterians."
Abercrombie scowled. As a Scottish Presbyterian, he had to admit that the
girl's observation contained a grain of truth. "What is your faith, lass?"
"Well, my father's tribe used to worship the Great Old Ones, who filtered
down from the stars in distant eons and now lie dreaming in a great stone
city beneath the waves, waiting until the stars are right for their return.
I remember how Grandma used to sing me to sleep with lullabies about dear
old Dagon his wonderful fishy friends. But Father found Thomas Huxley's
essays more convincing so he converted his people to agnosticism. Mother was
"Where are your people now?" asked Iverson.
"Oh, they got in a row with the French governor, who wanted to force them to
work in the nitrate mines. So he called in his soldiers, rounded them up,
shipped them all off to some prison in France, then brought a load of French
prisoners here to replace them."
"What about you, lass? How do you come to be livin' in the jungle?" asked
"Oh, the Governor wanted me to live with him, but I was suspicious of his
intentions, so I hit him with one of Daddy's war clubs, grabbed some
supplies, and slipped off into the brush. From time to time, I sneak back
into the village to steal more clothes from some of his mistresses. That's
how I met Pierre."
"Indeed," said the Frenchman. "I was examining the architecture of the
Governor's house, admiring the latches on some of the windows, when this
lovely madmoiselle rushed by, pursued by several gendarmes. They seemed like
unsavory creatures, so I seized a handy shovel, clouted them over the head,
and offered to assist her with her luggage."
Next week: The Mysterious Airship...