“It’s done!” Three flying machines stood in a row before him. He knew the captain constantly monitored his work, but it still felt exhilarating to say it aloud.

Screeching chains vibrated through the walls as men worked overnight to pull the machines up to the deck. From the scratched edge in his blacked-out porthole, Albert knew daylight arrived. Pounding steam engines shut down. The ship stopped moving. A low rumbling engine kept it steady in the rolling ocean.

Food passed through the wall opening but no one came to release him. He angrily paced while they ran trials on his creations.

James, a crew member reported to Albert, “Each one worked perfectly. The three men landed and were able to walk away. Captain Napoleon rubbed his hands with excitement. ‘Kept saying, Albert Timmons, as expected, was brilliant’.”

“Watch out below!” a sailor shouted.

James jerked away and stood at attention.

The platform descended. Men jumped off and unloaded the crates. Next, the flying machines were removed and put aside.

“Timmons, make sure all is prepped and ready for use. Go over them. I want the machines to work as well on their next flight.” The captain’s piped-in commands bounced off the walls.

He tinkered with the machines, checking for loose screws, broken wires, and flying them each for a couple of minutes each day. Time was running out. They must be close to their destination. By the vibrations under their feet, they knew the ship slowed down. Pencils rolled across the table at a sharp course correction.

The next day, he was again denied access to the work area and kept locked in his room. After ‘lights out,’ he used the captain’s private lift down to the work area. Portholes let in the moonlight, and he could see the flying machines sitting on the service platform, ready to be raised. He was right. Tomorrow must be the day.

Each machine had various shapes strapped to them. The one with the tall cylinder was the most intriguing. There was just enough light to reveal a gun barrel. He crept closer and ran his hands down the smooth metal. Not a standard barrel, larger, wider.

“I need a closer look.”

He went to his hidden stash of devices and pulled out his pipe. His fingers deftly twisted off the top of its tobacco bowl. Satisfied the phosphorous light device was intact, he rotated the stem until heat from the friction caused a reaction. A bright glow spread upward.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

Holding its light close to the gun barrel, he examined the device from top to bottom. His eyes opened with surprise at its cluster of 10 barrels. The captain planned to use a rapid-fire weapon. Though, this was different from the standard one. He remembered reading a paper about it a couple of years ago. The gun was lighter than the Gatling, and when turned by a crank, capable of firing sixty rounds a minute per rotation. The cartridge container, set directly above the gun barrel, loaded ammunition by gravity.

Moving his light around to the other flying machines, he discovered the gun’s tripod and boxes of ammunition fastened to them. This was more dangerous than he anticipated. Captain Napoleon was not just going to war, he was planning on complete destruction.

Something must be done.

“Hmm. I wonder what would happen if……” He reached for a screwdriver.

Finished in the workroom, he slipped upstairs to send one last coded message by telegraph. It was finally time to sleep. Too tired to put them up, the belt buckle and his tool were dropped on the side table. He was deep in a dream when the door slammed open.

“So, Timmons, you got curious and wandered around.” The captain’s hand shook him awake.

Albert groaned and rolled over.

“My private lift was on the second floor this morning. Find anything interesting?”

Napoleon snapped his fingers at the two men. Tattoo and Burly came forward and jerked him from the bed.

“How did you get out of the room?” He looked around and spied Albert’s belt buckle and tools. “What have you got here? So, one last device they missed. I’m surrounded by imbeciles.”

Tattoo defended himself, “You said he could have it, sir.”

“But you did not check it out first.” His hand brushed the buckle and tools to the floor.

Tattoo stomped them with his boot. “An’t gonna be any use now.”

“You are redundant. When my plan is completed, the fish will have a feast.”

Burlyman looked confused. “Does that mean he’s shorter?”

“No, that means I don’t need him anymore. Take him back to his cell. We are too close to shore; his body may wash up. Later, when we are out to sea, dump him.”

“At least tell me what it’s all about,” Albert requested.

The captain was walking to the door but stopped and turned. With chest thrust out and shoulders back, he took a stance of authority. “An associate of mine took over the island. He used giant steam rammers to crash the palace walls and then declared himself ‘King’. I’m going there for the celebration.”

Tattoo broke in, “Are we invited? I like parties.”

“It’s not going to be that kind of party,” he growled.

“Oh, what is it then?”

Napoleon ignored the man’s question and continued with his explanation, “The problem is that I want the island for myself. It is strategic for my domination of the seas. So, amid the music and booze, my men are going to land on the roof and give him a little surprise.” He nodded at his two helpers.

“Before locking him up, can we have some fun?” Tattoo shook Albert and grinned.

He raised his head and glared back at the man.

“Doesn’t seem too contrite. Amuse yourselves.”

Tattoo swung his fist and punched Albert in the stomach. Bent over in agony, he could not move fast enough to avoid the heavy fool landing on his bare toes. The next hour or so passed in a haze of pain. When his thumb was twisted backward, he passed out.