With Airship and Submarine: A Tale of Adventure

by Harry Collingwood

Meanwhile, Mildmay, after a single glance over the side, walked aft to the extremity of the promenade deck, whence he levelled a pair of powerful binoculars into the misty distance for a minute or two. Then, apparently satisfied, he closed the glasses, and walked forward to where von Schalckenberg was chatting to the others, and directing their attention to such objects as happened to be in sight. As Mildmay approached, the professor turned to him and said—

“Well, Captain, have you succeeded in identifying our position?”

“Thanks, yes,” answered Mildmay. “The air is not very clear this morning, but I have just managed to make out Spurn Point and the mouth of the Humber in the far distance, astern. I have no doubt, therefore, that your reckoning is absolutely correct. It is just in the single matter of keeping a ‘dead reckoning’ that an ocean ship has the advantage of this craft. In the ocean the currents flow in fairly well-defined courses, and at moderate and pretty well-known rates; it is therefore an easy matter to make proper allowance for them. But up aloft, here, the speed and direction of the air-currents are so uncertain that it is impossible to take them into one’s calculations; hence it becomes necessary to check one’s reckoning by means of frequent observations.”

“Do you think that any of the people in those ships down there will see us?” asked Feodorovna. “We can see them very plainly, and it is only reasonable, therefore, to suppose that they can see us equally plainly. Yet, when I looked at them just now through Sir Reginald’s telescope, I could not detect any indication that we were seen. One would suppose that the sight of such an enormous object as this, floating in the air, would occasion tremendous excitement among the beholders.”

“And no doubt it would; indeed, we have had proof that such is the case whenever we happen to be seen,” replied the professor. “But we have also had the best of reasons for believing that this polished hull of ours, perfectly reflecting, as it does, every hue and tint of the surrounding atmosphere, renders it difficult, if not impossible, to distinguish the ship when she is afloat among the clouds. Nevertheless, you have reminded us that some keen-eyed individual may by chance discover our presence, so, as we are really anxious not to attract attention, we may as well get above the clouds again, when you have all looked your fill.”

This hint proved sufficient, and five minutes later the Flying Fish was once more above the clouds, with the pilot-house door and every scuttle closed, sweeping to the northward and eastward at full speed.

At length, well on in the afternoon, the professor announced that, according to his reckoning, they had reached their destination, and the engines were stopped. It had remained cloudy all day, and after that one brief descent early in the morning, nothing had been seen. Mildmay, after studying the clouds attentively, was of opinion that a breeze had sprung up, and had been blowing for some two or three hours—a circumstance that, if his opinion proved correct, would have an important influence upon their position—and he was anxious to ascertain how far his surmise was verified by facts. A descent was therefore effected until the ship was once more below the cloud curtain, when it was found that, instead of being immediately over the city of Saint Petersburg—as she should have been, according to the professor’s reckoning—the Flying Fish was floating almost exactly over a town of considerable size situate on the northern shore of a lake of somewhat triangular shape, measuring some forty-five miles long by about twenty miles wide. This town the professor, who knew this part of Russia well, at once identified as Novgorod, nearly a hundred miles south of Saint Petersburg. Captain Mildmay’s suspicions were thus confirmed, and a set of observations that were at once taken revealed the fact that the Flying Fish was drifting southward with the wind at the brisk pace of close upon thirty miles an hour. This, however, was a matter of no great consequence, since the travellers had plenty of time in hand. The direction and speed of the wind having been ascertained, due allowance was made for it, the engines were once more sent ahead, the course was altered, and in a trifle over an hour the Flying Fish was within sight of the towers and spires of the Russian capital. The engines were then slowed down again until the ship was just stemming the fresh breeze that was now blowing, and an ascent was made until the cloud canopy had been once more placed between the ship and the earth, thus preventing any possibility of premature discovery.

This altitude was maintained until the sun had set magnificently beneath the cloud horizon, when the four men entered the pilot-house and, the professor taking charge as pilot, the descent to Pargolovo was very leisurely commenced.

The château of Count Vasilovich was situate on the western side of the lake and on the northern slope of the hills that stretch away in the direction of Konnaia, at a point as nearly as possible eight miles from the northern bank of the Neva; and as soon as the Flying Fish emerged from the stratum of cloud that shrouded the landscape, the professor went out on deck with his binoculars to look for the spot at which he had decided that the great ship was to be brought to earth. He soon found it, and shouted his instructions to Mildmay, who was tending the helm and the engines; and twenty minutes later the descent was quietly and safely accomplished, the Flying Fish finding a very easy berth among some trees, within a hundred yards of the road leading from the park entrance to the château, and within a mile of the latter.

It was by this time a quarter to seven, Russian time. The professor, therefore, and Mildmay, who had volunteered to accompany him, quickly made their way down the spiral staircase to the trap-door in the bottom of the ship, and let themselves out, carefully closing the trap behind them.