Adamson turns to Jordan.
‘You see his game? An American trying to halt the advance of the British empire. A breeze? The merest zephyr, if that.’
He faces Harry again.
‘I'd actually expected better of you: honest competition rather than desperate delaying tactics. What you should understand, Houdini, is that I had this Wright Brothers machine imported from Europe at considerable personal expense – customs duty alone close to eight-hundred Australian pounds – specifically to fly it here. Why? Because the first certified flight in this burgeoning part of the empire should be made by a British citizen. I still maintain that my man Defries pulled it off in Sydney last December. Only petty technicalities regarding towing prevented due recognition of that feat. Now, no-one – no-one – will doubt what is achieved in the same machine.’
Adamson pauses, as if expecting to hear a chorus of ‘Hear hear!’ But the only immediate response comes from Jordan, who mutters quietly: ‘Eight-hundred quid? Bloody hell!’
‘Well, as I said to Banks, it’s your choice,’ Harry says.
‘So it is,’ Adamson responds. ‘And Banks appears to be ready.’
The pilot is standing in front of his machine, criss-crossing both gloved hands above his head.
‘Come on then,’ says Adamson, striding forward. ‘Let us now see history made.’
ALL except the headmaster help. Cursing and straining, Jordan turns the Wright flier so it is facing towards the paddock’s slight slope. The rest of them take up positions around the machine. Brassac shakes Banks’s gloved right hand and readies himself by the propeller, which towers above his head. Harry stands by the tail section, his hands resting on a wooden strut. Harry has said nothing further to Banks, whose face is expressionless and somewhat pale beneath his new goggles. He clambers into his open-sided seat directly in front of the wing assembly, then buckles a canvas lap-strap.
Adamson positions himself twenty yards away. Harry sees him check his watch once again: he is either impatient or recording the time for posterity. Harry feels surprisingly calm now. There is nothing more he can do and is reassured by Brassac’s apparent lack of concern. He sees Banks fiddle with the throttle and elevator controls and his boots push forward on to a small footrest. Banks reaches behind to turn a switch near the metal fuel tank and gives a thumbs-up signal. The mechanic swings down on the propeller. The engine starts with a raucous clatter. Pungent blue-black smoke surges towards the rear. The machine is alive now, shaking and shuddering and straining to be free. The pitch of the engine-noise rises until Harry can hold the vibrating, bitter-smelling beast no longer.
‘Now!’ he calls out, though he doubts Banks can hear him.
The Wright machine surges forward. Harry takes a few steps to regain his balance, then can only watch the crate rattle and roar into the empty paddock, its wingtips rising and falling with every bump. He sees a cloud of smoke and leaves and dust rise behind it. And he hears the headmaster.
‘Come on, man – take her up!’
Adamson has his hat off and is waving it above his head. His sudden exertion has caused one half of his shirt-front to be tugged clear of his trousers. But Harry is distracted by Adamson only for a moment. His gaze returns to the Wright machine, but he finds it hard to gauge its progress because it is travelling away from him. And the sound of its engine seems to come and go as if caught by a breeze.
‘Regard,’ says Brassac, who has appeared beside him. Once more he directs his attention to those distant trees. There is no denying it: the outer leaves are moving more vigorously than previously.
‘Go!’ The headmaster is cheering as if he were watching a school boat-race. ‘Go, my beauty, go!’ And then: ‘He’s up!’
Banks has his machine off the ground. One set of wings dips, then the other, before Banks steadies the machine, which rises some more.
‘There goes the record!’
Harry says it with a sigh, a slow release of breath. He exhales these words. They are like poison seeping from a sore.
‘Wait,’ says Brassac.
‘Come on!’ yells Adamson, flinging his hat up.
It seems to Harry that Banks has his machine only twelve or fifteen feet off the ground. Harry strains his eyes, trying to see more clearly. Why isn’t Banks getting more elevation? Even as he ponders this the tail dips and the front half rises.
‘Ah!’ Brassac murmurs.
He says it just before it happens. As if certain it will happen.
The flying machine quivers, then falls. It dives, front first, as if eager for the earth’s embrace.
The spectators hear the engine noise, a thud, then nothing other than their own feet running. All apart from Adamson, who is standing like a statue, bareheaded, his right hand still up until it slowly droops.
They run. Ignoring the discomfort he feels, Harry soon passes Jordan, who is holding his cap. Harry is looking ahead, trying to determine if the rising cloud in the paddock ahead is dust or smoke. He has seen no sign of movement at the crash site. Then he makes out a shape unfolding itself from the ground. It seems to Harry he is watching himself emerge from the milk-can after his most dangerous stage routine – rising up and stretching out and turning around to reassure an audience that everything is alright.
But Banks is not alright.
He is bleeding and black, coated in oil and dirt and disappointment, and all this darkness makes the bright red splashes on his forehead, mouth, and chin appear even more startling. He is still wearing his goggles, though they have been shattered and knocked askew. He is fiddling at them with unsteady fingers when Harry reaches him. The first impression he has of this scene of destruction is an eerie silence. The scattered pieces, all the cables and spars and twisted wheels and sections of shredded fabric, have already settled in their newly assigned places.
He stretches out his arms to steady Banks. But the pilot misinterprets the gesture, imagines that Harry wants to shake hands, so they are temporarily entwined like lovers. Then Banks winces and sags. Harry manoeuvres him away from the worst of the wreckage and sits him down on what used to be part of the tail section of his flying machine. He gives Banks his white handkerchief and instructs him to hold it to his chin, where an ugly gash is bleeding freely. The pilot does so, noticing for the first time a rent in the back of his leather glove. He looks up at Harry through useless goggles.
‘Rather a mess, Old Boy,’ he says weakly, slurring the words. He tries to smile, but his mouth and chin are too painful. Yet still he tries to say more. ‘Not sure what happened. Just seemed to lose control fast. Went down.’
‘Easily done,’ Harry tells him, crouching close. ‘I crash-landed in Germany last year; smashed up the propeller. These machines are temperamental things. Too much rudder, a sudden breeze …’
Banks tugs at his goggles, but his gloved left hand is still shaking and he doesn’t object when Harry uses a pen-knife from his pocket to slit the strap. The goggles fall free, revealing one eye, rimmed with purple, that is almost closed. Banks blinks and looks down, as if the sunlight hurts him.
‘The breeze,’ he mumbles. ‘You warned me.’
‘Enough of that,’ says Harry, scanning the debris. The Wright machine has shattered like a toy tossed to the ground by a fractious infant. He recognises the rudder control handle, snapped clean across at its lower end. Then they both turn on hearing an approaching vehicle. Jordan emerges from his Darracq holding a small cloth bag.
‘Never been much good on my feet,’ Jordan explains. ‘Went back to the auto when I saw how far there was to go. Remembered I had a medical kit.’
He produces a rolled-up bandage and a metal flask, which he offers to Banks after removing a cap. The pilot takes a sip, then gags.
‘Thought it was water,’ he splutters.
‘Better than that, mate. Brandy. Just what you need.’
