Year of our Lord 1887
John MacLachlan kicked the body of the cat, turning it over.
It bore thick black fur with white stripes, much like a tiger. And he had seen tiger's before, in his service with the Imperial Exploration Company. But this creature was no tiger. It had a thicker coat to stave off the cold, and yet was also much leaner underneath. Perhaps one would think that the cat would be easy to spot in the white landscape with its black fur, but the stripes allowed it an admirable degree of camouflage.
"Seen anything like it, John?" Luvenia Holmes asked.
"No," he furrowed his brows, "Must be a regional species of mountain cat."
"Stripes work best in grass and vegetation," Bishop commented, "It can't be that a mountain cat have stripes."
"Well," John heaved as he stood up, "Did anyone see it when the cat decided to help itself to our food?"
He gestured to the sled that held all their supplies - or in this, what was left of them. Their cans had been ripped apart, spilling grub and beans all over the snow, and dried meat completely missing - likely in the belly of the beast.
The cat was so bloody quiet about it that it was only in the morning they found it investigating one of their men's tents. It was a real fright, when they were woken by Alvin Cochran loading the beast full of shot. Thankfully, there weren't any deaths - but there might be soon, if they don't return to New London quickly enough.
If they could return to New London, that is.
John MacLachlan took a gander at the path they had come from - a valley south of the Pit, leading into the larger landway the natives knew as Skirling Pass. It had been a downhill journey the entire way, saving them the effort, but now… Not to mention, the angle was terrible. Bankes had his engineers retrofit the Beacon, making it more resistant to the elements and thus able to fly higher, but these bloody mountains were in the way.
There was no contacting New London here.
"Do we turn back, then?" Luvenia brushed a gloved hand through her hair, sighing, "It's a real shame. We only have a mile to Skirling Pass."
"We can't," Irene King interrupted, scowling, "We don't have the supplies. It's a few leagues back north, and we'll bloody starve to death in these heights. Our best chance to continue going south, where more vegetation can grow."
John glanced at the mountaintops again, tiptoeing and craning his head as if it would allow him to peek over the snowcaps and find the Beacon's glow. There was nothing but more stone and sky.
"Aye," he decided, "We continue south. With a little luck, we'll find a break in the mountains and confirm the Beacon. Then, we can signal New London for a rescue team."
"Well, it's not all bad," Bishop decided, "At least we weren't mauled in our sleep. Blood good shot, by the way Alvin, got the beastie right in the jugular."
That's right, the cat was in Alvin's tent.
"You alright, Cochran?" John swivelled around to find him sitting in the snow, "Must've been quite the fright."
"My God, sir," Alvin looked up, face all serious, "I've lost my leg."
Alvin Cochran made a show of holding up his broken prosthesis - clearly made a mess of by the cat's terrific claws - and jabbing it into his knee, showing how it wasn't staying put. Lubrication oil was splattered all over the snow, like a mockery of blood.
"My God, man," John replied, "So you have."
Between the four of them - Alvin spent that time unpacking his spare prosthesis, the lazy git - they spent just over an hour carving up the beast and loading it on their supply sled before setting off once more, eager to make the most of daylight. The cat shouldn't be half bad, considering how mountain lions taste, and the cold should prolong it nonetheless.
They made haste through the valley, painfully aware of how the mountain walls continued to widen ever so slightly, long and v-shaped, as if taunting them that they were nearly out of the thick of it. John huffed, breath steaming, as he lugged his sled along. It was almost midday by the time they reached the Skirling Pass - and they knew so because the landway was aptly named.
The winds wailed in their ears as it swirled through the pass, like the sound of an opera singer holding a high note for far too long.
A stone archway marked their exit, a natural bridge spanning the Skirling Pass manyscore feet up in the air. The drop down was treacherous, but nothing foreign to them. Already, Bishop Whitlock was rummaging through their packs of grapples and rope. John marched up to the bridge, testing it with a cautious foot. It seemed sturdy enough, though he failed to understand how the landform was created considering the solid grey stone the Frostfangs were made from.
The windswept pass was just as desolate as the highlands behind them, barren save for some hardy weeds sticking out of the snow and lichen crawling across the stone flanks.
But there must be something to eat, here. There were mountain cats in these heights, after all. Perhaps goat, perhaps hare.
"John," Luvenia clasped his shoulder, "O'er there. A fire."
John let her finger guide his gaze, and indeed, there was a wisp of smoke snaking from a stone formation on the valley floor.
"Natives?" Bishop as he rigged a daisy chain around a stone outcrop, "The Capt'n ordered us not to get close, aye?"
"We don't have a choice, this time," John said grimly, "If they are still there, that is. It's midday, for all we know they could've just stayed there for the night, using the stone as cover."
They lowered their sleds first before descending themselves, leaving Alvin Cochran at the top of the cliff to take care of the hitch as well as to act as their lookout. The last John saw of him as he lowered himself was the man making himself comfortable against the snow, rifle at the ready.
They approached the rock formation cautiously, rifles resting in their hands. John loaded a shot into the breech, before closing the block. They circled around the snow-swallowed boulders, half-expecting some savage wildling to pop out and maul them.
It was a sleeping family. A man, a woman, and a little girl, huddled together against the face of the rock.
John had been correct; they were using the outcrop as cover against the worst of the winds. However, the fire was going out, and there was no sign of any of them waking.
Luvenia Holmes approached them, kneeling down and peeling off a frosted glove to touch their faces. Her expression bittered.
"They're freezing," she said, "Might not wake at all."
She shot him a look.
"Who do you think I am?" said John MacLachlan, "We're not leaving them to die, of course. Restart the fire, and swaddle the child in the mountain cat pelt. Wake them up as well. If the man proves hostile, shoot him."
"Aye, sir…" Bishop trailed off, "We can see the Beacon from here."
"What?"
Snow crunched beneath his boot as John swivelled around, eyes frantically raking the crowns of the mountains for the telltale glow of their way back home. And then he saw it - a little round star bobbing in the air just hovering above the peaks.
"Irene," he ordered, "Assemble our heliograph on top of the boulders."
"Aye," Irene nodded, "Bishop, help me unpack it."
She heaved herself onto the outcrop, reaching down to take the heliograph case from Bishop's outstretched hands. John decided to help Luvenia while they were doing that, unfastening his glowworm and cranking up the heat before shoving it into the free folk woman's arms. With a huff, he grabbed their freezing legs and began dragging them out into the sunlight while Luvenia wrapped the girl - no older than twelve - in the cat skin they had acquired earlier.
CLANG
All four of them froze. John slowly looked up at Irene, who had just stomped the rock to find a good spot to put down the heliograph. Only, that wasn't the sound a rock made.
Irene pulled off a glove and knelt down, brushing away the snow layered up top. She knocked it with a fist.
"...This is metal," disbelief coloured her voice, "What on God's green Earth?"
John dropped the woman she was dragging and dashed to the outcrop, brushing away the snow and revealing black steel underneath. He circled around the half-buried thing, running a hand along its length and tracing all the bolts and welds in the steel until he had reached the rear.
A gold glint caught his eye.
With a tentative hand, John MacLachlan scraped off all the snow and frost stuck to it. He stepped back.
"Well fuck me sideways," he breathed.
It read; H.M.S. BELLEROPHON
"Get Alvin down here!" he shouted, "We're staying put, damn it all! Irene, get New London's attention. We've found the bloody Billy Ruffian!"
29th day of November, Year of our Lord 1887.
Wind NEbE, veering and strengthening. Course due north with the wind on the starboard bow. 10 knots.
Middle watch. Escorted the Lost Daydream to Nansen's Storm Watch successfully. They dropped off the Second Scouts there to tidy the place up. Visibility poor, could not find Beacon. Apparently they brought an American engineer team to build a 'radio mast' for better communication in these accursed mountains. Some Yankee invention, no doubt. Hopefully, it would not blow up in their - and our - faces like at TC. The Daydream turned back to New London with no trouble.
Forenoon watch. We continued along the east face of the mountain ridge like that. The eastern winds would deflect against the slant-face and would create this terrible updraft was absolute Hell to work with. The quartermistress fears that our coal stores are running low, and we would not have enough for the return leg, especially with the wind against us. The issue was dismissed - we will not return until we find something.
30th day of November, Year of our Lord 1887.
Wind SEbE, fresh and steady. Course due north with the wind on the starboard aft. 20 knots.
Afternoon watch. This blasted place is utterly worthless. All stone and snow, God damn it all. The ridge seems to go on endlessly, and I think we are pulling along the spine of the range. There's nothing for it here, and the crew noticed our coal shortage. We will reach one of the ribs soon, and the wind'll double back there. We'll turn with it and let it carry us back to New London.
Caught a mountain goat. Fantastic with a good drink. Even the stuffy old bitch allowed herself a swig.
Doubling back by the first dog-watch…
"Captain!" Michael shouted over the wind, making her flinch and scatter an ink trail on the page.
Elizabeth spat out some rather improbable things about his parentage before slamming her logbook shut and stuffing it in her coat. The boy was leaning over the railing, waving for her attention.
"What is it?" she demanded, stepping down onto the weatherdeck.
"On the mountainside, ma'am!"
Elizabeth frowned as she pulled out a spyglass and put it to her eye, scanning the mountainside for anything of interest. Then she saw it - a rocky promontory hanging off the mountain, like a natural veranda that stood out to the tumultuous gales below as if it were the sea. Below it was another step, running alongside the range before twisting downwards in a natural slope.
There was a huddle of buildings towards the promontory's southern end, though it was hard to make out from all the snow. To the northern end was what seemed to be a collapsed cave mouth.
In any case, Elizabeth was simply glad their quaint expedition wasn't to be wasted.
"Strike the sails!" she called, "Richard, bring us round! Nor'west by west! Keep that hand steady, we don't want the winds stealing us away now do we!?"
"Nor'west by west, aye ma'am!"
"Hand by the windlass, Lydia! Ready to drop anchor!" Elizabeth shouted, "Arnold, finger to the wind! Watch it! Steward, get those ballonets filled! Start giving pressure!"
The Bitter Countess swerved hard to larboard, steadily losing altitude as the steam whined out from the envelopes. Just as the airship was at the crest of its doubling, Lydia freed the tiller-lock with a heavy thunk, and the screech of the anchor chain scraping along the cathole. With a puff of powder, the heavy hunk of metal slammed into the ground and jerked the Countess downwards dangerously.
They paused for a while, waiting for the envelopes to give enough pressure so that when they cranked the windlass they'll pull the ship down, instead of pulling the anchor up. The Dragonfly's crew were infamous for their skill in releasing pressure forward enough that when they dropped anchor, they didn't have to wait to descend. Elizabeth still didn't know how they did it, to her chagrin.
"Alright!" the quartermistress shouted, "Start pulling us down!"
Lydia, Allie, and Michael hopped to the windlass and began cranking, and the Bitter Countess descended.
"Fire up the boilers," Elizabeth patted Arnold's shoulder, "We don't want to make crumpets of ourselves, do we?"
Soon the Bitter Countess was just floating a few feet off the ground, the envelopes having expanded enough to reach equilibrium with the air. Elizabeth vaulted over the railing and hit the snow, the powdery substance reaching up to her thighs. Behind her, a rope ladder was thrown overboard and the rest of her crew followed her.
Elizabeth stretched out an arm and caught a thrown rifle.
"Steward, Allie, Richard, investigate those buildings o'er there," she commanded, "Michael, Lydia, you're with me. Arnold, Hugh, keep an eye out for us onboard."
They parted ways, Elizabeth leading her squad north to the cave entrance, trudging through the heavy snows. Despite the obvious signs of settlement, it was just as obvious there hadn't been anyone here in an age. A wet creak was suddenly heard from beneath her feet, and she looked down to see a waterlogged wooden street, squashed by the weight on it. Elizabeth sniffed, brushing her nose before continuing on, pressing down her soles to confirm she was still following the path.
She was all too aware of the dangers of deep snow - hidden wells, to speak of few.
As they approached the cave, it became evident that it wasn't natural. Crates and boxes laid half buried by snow around the entrance, which itself was framed by heavy steel trusses. The snow began to thin as they came closer, due to the cover the mountainside provided - and the wooden walkway beneath her feet proved to be the sleepers of a railway.
Elizabeth fiddled with her glowworm, forcing it to give more light and heat. It wouldn't last long, however.
"Captain!" Lydia called, "There's coal in these boxes!"
She breathed out, "Alright, keep searching! Use your worm to flash the Countess! Get them to set up a heliograph and signal New London!"
"Ma'am!" Michael waved at her, breathless, "Y-You need to take a look at this!"
Elizabeth cursed, before wading back through the snow to his side. He gestured to a crate he had pried open, and she glanced inside to see rifles and ammunition, stacked almost to the brim. There were helmets and uniforms in another, and military rations after that.
"These rails, ma'am," Michael huffed, "Don't you think they must lead somewhere?"
She glanced at him, eyes wide, "...Oh fuck me. What is this place?"
Elizabeth threw herself off the boxes and all but ran to the cave mouth, catching herself off a steel beam to catch her breath. It wasn't so cold inside, but she pulled her turtleneck over her nose and mouth just in case there were any harmful gases. A vain effort, she knew, but it made her feel safer. Wandering deeper into the cave, she found a disused elevator shaft - a massive one, able to fit an entire elephant on it.
She peered over the edge, sweating as the swirling depths below consumed her vision.
"Well," she muttered to herself, "This ain't the work of the natives."
There was an elevator plaque, which she struggled to read, ruined and half-rusted as it was.
British Army / Military Ordnance Corps / Est. Sept. 20. 1885 / 6300kg
A rivulet of sweat ran down her cheek.