War for the Skies

[MTPersson]

The sun was low over the horizon; the sky a deep, burnt orange. Shadows of tall evergreen trees fell across the side of the mansion and stretched out along the brickwork like long fingers. It was this fast encroaching twilight that Esmée entered into as she began climbing out of the window of her bedchamber.

She had done it many times before, of course, and knew that the safest way to the ground was to shimmy along the ledge until she was able to grab hold of the thick branch of a nearby oak tree; she had learnt it the hard way a few years ago and had been forced to spend a summer locked up in the house as her bones set in casts.

She had been arguing with her father again, about her protesting, and he had locked her in her chambers and posted servants outside her doors to make sure she didn't sneak out. That suited Esmée fine. As long as they confirmed to her father in the morning that she hadn't left the room, and she managed to sneak past the guards in the grounds, she could sneak off into the Belfast night and do whatever she wanted.

Waiting until the tall, wooden doors were shut behind her and she heard the audible click of the key turning in the lock, Esmée had tiptoed her way back to the entrance to her chambers and placed an ear up against the wood. Muffled by the thick door, she could just make out the voice of her father telling the staff to not move from their positions until the morning.

Stepping into the large, ornate room, she reached over to the wardrobe and pulled out her outfit for this evenings journey into the city; a dark blouse and jacket combination and loose fitting pants. She had learnt that baggy garments allowed for wider range of movements and made what she was about to do that little bit easier. Esmée added a warm cap to fight against the winter's cold and bundled her hair up inside of it. Looking in her floor to ceiling mirror, she nodded in approval at her look. No one who knew her would recognise her and that was how she wanted it.

Bracing herself against the window frame, Esmée carefully placed her feet on the small ledge and slowly worked her way along until she came to the oak branch. Reaching out, she grabbed it and agilely swung over to the trunk and hugged it. When she was sure she was secure, Esmée slowly began making her way to the base of the tree where she waited.

A guard walked past and she counted...1...2...3...before breaking from behind the cover of the tree and rushing towards the gate in the outer wall. Instead of pushing the wrought iron gate open, Esmée placed a foot in the ornate, scrolling pattern and began quickly climbing over it. There was no way she wanted to attract her father’s guards attention with the sound of squeaking hinges.

Throwing her legs over the top, Esmée carefully dropped down gene other side and landed on the rough cobbles of the alley outside of the wall. Looking back through the gate, she checked to make sure no one was following her out before disappearing into the darkness of the streets.

*​

The assembly hall was dimly lit and Esmée was having difficulty reading the handwritten notes placed on the lectern in front of her. Asking the owner to bring out more candles seemed like too much to ask after the risk he had already taken by allowing them to meet in his building. This wasn't the first time she had been forced to speak to an audience she could barely see and it probably wouldn't be the last for a very long time.

Her father knew she liked to attend these sorts of rallies and actively tried to stop her but he had no idea that she was one of the leaders and organisers of the movement.

She had long removed her hat, the temperature in the small room was rapidly increasing, and her blonde hair flowed smoothly over one shoulder. A cool breeze blew in from a crack in a window pane off to the side of the room and she let it wash over her face, momentarily refreshing it amongst the heat. The flame in front of her flickered and spluttered before finally blowing out.

Her notes disappeared in front of her and she let out a soft sigh. It didn't matter of course, she knew the speech by heart, but it was nice to have prompts to fall back on. Cautiously moving the spent candle to one side, being careful not to spill any of the hot wax onto her hand or papers, she surveyed the many faces looking up at her on the stage.

Members of the forgotten classes, everyone. The faces of women, runaway slaves and a handful of men.

Esmée savoured the breeze a moment longer before continuing her speech.

"For the state to disqualify women from completing the ballot, the only certain result is the disenfranchisement of one entire half of the people those elected are tasked to govern."

A murmur of approval went around the room.

"Add to that the communities on which this countries empire has been built. Do not the Africans and Orientals living and working here also deserve this ostracisation? Include them in the count and you reach almost a whole three quarters of the people. The government talks of liberty and equality but their rule is not a democracy, not a republic where the voices of the people are heard and acted upon. No, their rule is that of an aristocracy. A fat, wallowing oligarchy filled with the white, middle class man, who sees it as his God given right to govern the poor, the coloured and the women of this world."

With that, the murmuring erupted into a loud cheer and she winced at the sound. If the authorities were passing and heard they would be raided for sure and she would most probably be arrested for inciting disobedience. After all, it had happened before.

Esmée waited for the noise to subside before continuing with her rhetoric.

"Everyday, Donaldson & Hall are shipping in more and more workers from the African continent and putting them straight to work in their airship factories. Who are they to uproot these people from their homes? Who are they to put them to work in their hot, airless factories and pay them pittance? These aren't workers. They are slaves! They live in cramped tenements, twenty to a room, scared and without a voice to stand up for their rights as human beings.

"But we, the unrepresented, the disenfranchised, we outnumber them. We can take to the streets and show them that we won't stand for it anymore. We have just as much right to have a say in how this country is run as the white man!"

Esmée's talk had been going on for most of the night and by the time she had reached her rousing crescendo the darkness from outside had begun to creep into the small hall and encroach upon the pitiful light emanating from the meagre candles in their holders.

“We too have a voice and we need to show them that we know how to use it!"

*​

Stepping down from her small podium at the front of the hall, Esmée slowly made her way through the crowd and headed for the back of the room. Hands clapped her on the back and tried to shake her hand and she tried to oblige them all. Eventually she reached the far wall and found Stephen leaning against the door frame.

“And how are the guards at the Donaldson mansion tonight?” He asked blithely, “I hope they're all conscious this time.”

It was well known amongst those in the room that Stephen Dorians was Esmée’s fellow partner in the movement and that it was together that they organised the time and place of meetings, protests and less savoury activities. Less well known, however, was that they had been lovers and still occasionally slept together when they felt the need to.

“They're fine. Father and I argued and he thinks I'm safely locked up in my chambers.” She leaned in and kissed him lightly on the cheek, “I'll hug him cry into his arms tomorrow morning. Ill say I'm sorry and all will be right in the Donaldson household.”

 

[cgraven]

Freagattan Kapttän Karl Wilhelm Műller of the Imperial German Naval Air Service listened intently to Count Zeppelin as he laid out the plans for the Harland and Wolff shipyards in Belfast.

“This is not only one of Briton’s leading shipyards but also one of the few yards capable of building an airship capable of competing with our own.”

Count Zeppelin raised his cold gray eyes to those of the Freagattan Kapttän Műller to see if the Naval Air Officer truly grasped the significant of what he was saying. Karl met that steady gaze and once more felt ill at ease under the Counts intense gaze. The formal stiff white cellulose collar of his dress uniform suddenly felt unbearably tighter. Karl Műller always felt ill at ease when in the presence of nobility. The strict social structure of Imperial Germany, where most mid range and senior officers were Counts, Viscounts, and Barons only enforced that his family tree left much to be desired. His Father had come from a very old family but had the misfortune to be born the second son to that illustrious house. To compound that misfortune pater had chosen to marry an Irish Girl that only brought her beauty and a small but substantial dowry to the marriage. That series of parental misfortunes is what led Karl Műller to be in Count Zeppelin’s office now, for Műller was seen as not quite a gentleman and he did speak English without a telltale continental accent thanks to his Irish Mother. What both Imperial Germany and Count Zeppelin both needed was a man that was not quite a Gentlemen with a practical knowledge of the complexities of airships and the wits to make him an effective spy, a man not afraid to get his hands dirty.

“We have heard rumors of an Olympic class of airships being built there for Donaldson & Hall with the financial backing of the American J. P. Morgan. If the rumors are true this class of airships could make Briton Masters of the Air as well as the seas. A situation Neither the Kaiser nor I would like to see come to pass Freagattan Kapttän Műller”


That thunderous meeting with Count Zeppelin had been over two months ago. Karl had had some success with penetrating the security of the Harland and Wolff thanks to his Irish connection and the Republicans’ fanatical hatred of the English. He had been encouraged to hear that the Olympic class of airship was still in the planning stages but very close to completion. Yet time was short, the sheds and launching dock plans for their construction had already been drawn. The necessary materials ordered, and from what he had seen of them with his own eyes, Karl Műller knew Germany had nothing to compare with their size and scope of this new class of British Airships.

Műller listened intently to the staccato dits and dashes of the Marconi set quickly coping them down. He acknowledged the receipt with his call sign Zed 69. Műller ran his fingers through his ginger hair as he decoded the message, realizing it was hardly the fashionable close cropped Prussian image so popular in the Fatherland at the moment. Slowly words began to appear……. Esmée ……. Donaldson ………. Capture………and detain…….Will be contacted ……….By………..O’Halerin.”

As he read further he realized that what Imperial Germany desired of him was to compromise Miss Esmée Donaldson. Yet as Műller re-read the decoded message Karl was not sure how kidnapping the daughter of Donaldson would aid in obtain additional information about the new Olympic class of Airships, hardly an assignment for a gentleman, but then after all Freagattan Kapttän Karl Wilhelm Műller was not considered to be a gentleman.

“Helm come left to course 315.”


The bow of Z-69 came smartly about, her sleek sliver gray lines knifing through the darkening skies. The surface of the earth below the Z-69 was already cloaked in darkness and yet at her altitude the fading light of day bathed the Z-69 in a fiery light. Műller could not help but think how much like his own life this moment was, caught between the darkness of his heritage and the Light of what he wished he could become, a man neither of the darkness required of him or the light he desired. This flaw in his character allowed Műller to do what his Master’s required of him.

While Freagattan Kapttän Karl Műller was dealing with his own demons other threads were coming together, dark threads that would bind him to a destiny he could little imagine as he watched the gathering darkness slowly engulf the Z-69

************************************************

“Donaldson”

Major Hall drolly acknowledge the senior partner of Donaldson & Hall, Briton’s largest and most aggressive Airship and Colonization enterprise. Their ruthless tactics went far beyond even those of Rhodes.

“William, something has to be done about Esmée! Her scandalous activities are not only endangering our plans for our Olympic class of airships by the unrest and strikes her disgusting rallies have caused at Harland and Wolff. Her activities are now being taken seriously by those in Parliament that favor Home rule for the Irish, not least among them Randolph Churchill and our African and Asian Enterprises can not bare such scrutiny SIR, if Mr. Churchill should launch an official inquiry.”

Major Hall gazed out the French doors that over looked the south lawns of the estate. He saw the meeting between Esmée and her maid and once again he not help but notice the conspiratorial nature of their meeting or how closely the two young women resembled each other from a distance.

“Sir as to the matter of your daughter. She is a head strong young filly would you not agree? And like all headstrong young fillies she needs to be broken young and learn early to obey and please her Lord and Master.”

“NO Rupert!”

There was more force in Donaldson’s outburst than he intended. This was not the first time that Major Hall and breeched the subject of his daughter and Esmée’s less than lady like activities and yet he knew that other than exiling his wayward daughter to her rooms he would do little more for he neither had the will nor the ruthless drive of Major Hall.


There was a dark look in Major Hall’s cold gray eyes as he slapped his riding crop against his impeccably shined military riding boots. He would take matters into his own hand, and have his own men follow Miss Esmée Donaldson. Esmée, by her out spoken views, and clandestine rallies had become a pawn in a very dangerous and dark game being played between shadow elements His Majesty’s Government, that of the German Kaiser’s and a liability whose activities now posed a threat to Donaldson & Hall interests and profits. This would be a game that would be played out in the shadows. There of course would be no war between the rival nations, it was out of the question as King and Kaiser were cousin. No, the battle to be Master of the Skies would be a war of wits and commerce raiders. A war in which Esmée Donaldson and Freagattan Kapttän Karl Wilhelm Műller would become pawns of their Masters and fate.



With the Mooring of the Z-69 at Belfast the dark shadowy threads of fate began to come together one by one. The Z-69 wearing the guise of a tramp freighter of the Hamburg American Lines, her real identity as a commerce raider hidden in the open. Major Hall’s, of Donaldson & Hall, plan to permanently remove the threat that Esmée Donaldson presented to his schemes. Freagattan Kapttän Karl Műller’s meeting with O’Halerin to become the agent of Major Hall’s extreme solution for Miss Esmée Donaldson. The final thread Esmée Donaldson was added to the weaving of dark destiny as she slipped from her rooms to the clandestine meeting that would change all their lives in the matter of a few hours.



Karl Műller clung to the shadows of the darken room, what he saw and heard was no what he expected.


"For the state to disqualify women from completing the ballot, the only certain result is the disenfranchisement of one entire half of the people those elected are tasked to govern."

The first challenge to his preconceived ideas was Esmée Donaldson herself, the calmly young blonde beauty was hardly the typical frumpish spinster he had expected. A suffragette, yet how did that threaten Major Hall or his business interests to require such a drastic course of action Műller wondered and yet with the next words out of Esmée mouth it all became clear.

"Everyday, Donaldson & Hall are shipping in more and more workers from the African continent and putting them straight to work in their airship factories. Who are they to uproot these people from their homes? Who are they to put them to work in their hot, airless factories and pay them pittance? These aren't workers. They are slaves! They live in cramped tenements, twenty to a room, scared and without a voice to stand up for their rights as human beings. But we, the unrepresented, the disenfranchised, we outnumber them. We can take to the streets and show them that we won't stand for it anymore. We have just as much right to have a say in how this country is run as the white man!"

This was nothing short of advocating revolution and the downfall of her father’s and Hall’s enterprises.

Even as Karl Műller slipped from the hall as Esmée was cheered and applauded by the rabble in attendance at the rally he made his own preparations. The strike would come swiftly out of the darkness a chloroform rag clamped over her nose and mouth, a brief struggle and then to a shanty down by the mooring masts far from any prying eyes and where her muffled screams would arose no interest. He was accompanied by two of the Z-69’s crew to deal with any escort that might accompany Miss Donaldson.

Műller struck as he had planed and he and his accomplices bundled the unconscious young woman off to her fate. To all the world it looked like three drunken airmen being taken back to their ship by one of their officers. When Esmée regained consciousness she would find herself in that small shanty facing her three captors bound to a straight back chair.

“Someone has paid us a considerable amount of money to ensure that you disappear Miss.”


Karl wore an old leather Airmen’s coat and a soiled white turtleneck that was now a dingy gray, and a battered Officer’s cap. He taped a riding crop against his scuffed riding boots.

“So why should we not just slit your pretty little throat and be done with it girl?”

Műller wanted to see if that bold self assured young beauty he had seen speaking at the rally was a sham, nothing more than bravado or was Esmée the dangerous tigress that she had seemed as she spoke.