Days passed. The storm abated. James was stood on deck when the Mystery cleared the last of the clouds. Like a child born in a perilous birth, the mist of cloud parted and the sun shone on his face. The winds were still strong, pushing them out of the storm’s womb and away from the roiling mass. Thunder lingered, bellowing from the beast.

  We made it, he thought. We survived a damned hurricane.

  He surveyed the damage to the ship. The Mystery’s sails had been torn away. Detritus strewn about the deck. Three lines connecting them to the lifeline of the balloon had snapped, hanging like useless vines.

  The Captain appeared from below. He wore only his trousers and a shirt, open almost to his naval. He looked drunk, his face darkened by days of beard growth. James relayed his findings.

  “No sails,” said Dunstable. “We’re just a leaf in the damned winds with nowhere but the ends of the earth to go.”

  “We can make repairs,” James offered.

  “No land. Tell me, Jim, how do you plan to remake the sails with nowhere to set us down?”

  “We can find a way.”

  Dunstable laughed and looked out at the ocean that stretched below. The sunlight glistening from distant waves. “There is no hope for us.” The Captain wandered back towards the stairs and disappeared below.

  James let out a frustrated sigh. We need your leadership, damn it.

  He turned and looked out at the ocean. There was nothing but blue to the horizon in all directions. A desert made of water. No food to eat. Nothing that they could drink. No where to rest.

  Supplies, he thought. We did not provision for a long excursion. He made his way below climbing down into the belly of the ship. He opened the door to the hold and sunk to his knees.

  A single bag of grain. All they had left. The only solace was the barrels of fresh water.

  Days, he thought. We have but days of food and water.

  …

  Humid air, like drowning with every breath. Sweat dripped from James’s brow. He licked at his chapped lips. They were rough with flakes of skin he struggled to stop himself from biting away.

  His stomach turned and gurgled. Hunger. It was all he could think of. His arms and legs shook. He preferred not to move, uncertain on his legs. Instead, he leaned against the gunrail, mesmerised by the endless water.

  Just a hint… and hint of land. Please.

  But his prayers were never answered. He only saw blue. Just a carpet of waves that stretched for as far as he could see.

  The deck hands huddled in the shade of the balloon. Like hungry, weary animals in the desert. Tired. No… dying.

  Three days ago he tasted that wonderful bread. Formed from the last of their grain. Bread. Bread. That beautiful dish. It was like a banquet in his hands.

  James slid to the deck. His breath was shallow. The air thick and suffocating.

  And just as all encompassing as his hunger was the thirst. Two days ago he had sipped the last of his ration of water from the bottom of the cup. The final drop hit his tongue and all he wanted was– more.

  A dishevelled figure climbed the steps, the steps creaking. Boots caught the stairs. A stumble. The man fell. A bottle of rum spun across the deck before rolling to James’s feet. The amber liquid inside called to James.

  He licked his rough lips. No, he thought. It wouldn’t quench my thirst. It won’t give me what I need. I’ll only feel worse.

  The man hauled himself to his feet, using a rail to climb. Standing, James recognised it was the Captain. He had a beard now, touched with grey. His hair was dishevelled, a bee hive of curls.

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  Dunstable stumbled across the deck towards James. He almost fell, but caught himself on the thick gunrail. He laughed.

  Drunk, James realised. He wanted to kick the bottle away, but he lacked the energy. Instead, he could only look at it. The liquid inside. He licked his lips. Maybe a little, just to drink something. Anything.

  Dunstable reached down and picked up the bottle. He took a swig. “You know, Jim. You’re better than me. A better airman. You’ve always read the air better than I.” He laughed, almost a sigh. “Maybe if you had been in command we would not be here now. Lost at the end of the world.” He took another swig, finishing the rum. He tossed the bottle over the side and watched it fall.

  “Life’s a funny thing, Jim,” said Dunstable. He spoke with a strange clarity, as though the rum fuelled stupor had drained from him. “Right when you think you understand it… you wake up one day and forget what it means. Like waking up from a wonderful dream… and having no idea what happened while you slept. The more you try to reach for that memory– the further away it gets.” The Captain sighed. “Good luck, Jim. I’m sorry.”

  Dunstable clambered over the gunrail and jumped.

  “No!” James breathed, clambering to his feet. He reached over the gunrail, but found nothing but air.

  He watched as Dunstable fell. He did not struggle as he had seen men do when going overboard. He seemed… at peace.

  The man he had known since he was an apprentice, a child looking up to the Captain as a father, became nothing more than a dark speck. Until all he could see was the blue of the unending ocean. “No…”

  James fell to the deck, no strength left in his failing body. He cried tears he could not afford to lose. “Why?” he called out. “Why!”

  …

  “Captain,” Harris breathed. He clung to the rail of the bellows. The boiler no longer breathed its fire. No warble reaching up and into the balloon. “I saved this for you.” From behind his back he revealed a waterskin.

  “You should have it,” James replied. His voice was barely audible.

  “No, sir. Someone has to command this airship. There’s no man better than you.”

  “I’m no captain,” James replied. “Share it with the other bellowhands.”

  Harris stepped forward and shoved the waterskin into James’s stomach. “You listen here, sir. These men need you. They need you alive. If we have any hope to make it through this, it’s with a good captain at the helm. Captain Dunstable left his post, he chose the long drop over his duty. Even if your command is short and its to go down with the airship, it’s you we all need to be that man.” Harris stood back, unsteady on his feet. He rubbed at his face. “Forgive my rudeness, sir. I–”

  “No,” said James, cradling the waterskin. “I needed to hear it. You're a good man, Mr Harris.” He opened the waterskin and took several mouthfuls. It felt like the greatest drink he had ever had. Energy flowed through his body. The dizziness that had filled his mind, and the unsteadiness of his legs, faded away. Within moments, he was able to stand taller.

  James handed the waterskin back. “Now, share the rest with the boys. We’re going to need them. We need the boiler lit and the bellows pumping. I won’t hear anything more on this, Mr Harris. Is that understood?”

  “Understood, sir,” replied Harris.

  “We have land to reach – if it be there.”

  Harris smiled. “Aye, sir.”

  James watched as the bellowhands, reinvigorated by mouthfuls of water, went about their work. The fire was stoked and lit. Flames licked from the bowl. A hint of a warble shimmered towards the opening of the balloon. The men worked the bellows. The inward and outward breaths of the mechanism yawned across the deck. The flames burst upwards. The balloon lines creaked and crackled as the balloon strained against them.

  Wind, hot and slick with humidity, blew at James’s back. At least the winds will continue to push us forward. Our only hope now is for us to come across land.

  Doubt stabbed him, like a cold blade from the hand of the Devil. But what if the legends are true? What if only the end of the world awaits us?

  James shook his head, denying the thoughts to linger there for a moment longer. “There has to be land,” he breathed. “I refuse to believe otherwise.”

  He took up his place at the gunrail. Only blue to the horizon. His hand gripped the wooden rail until his knuckles turned white. He poured his faith and determination into the ship, willing the Mystery to find land.

  …

  9th October 1738

  Surely naught but despair and utter ruin now attend us. I hold command of a damned airship, driven inexorably into the depths of the Unknowns, as though the very winds conspired against our salvation. Though we survived passage through the very bowels of the Beast—the accursed Atlantic storm whose fury has claimed so many fine vessels—what reward have we gained for our suffering? No shore presents itself to the eye, nor any token of deliverance. There is only the endless expanse, mute and indifferent to our misery.

  Day by day I am compelled to witness the wasting of my men, faithful souls reduced by thirst and starvation, falling away one by one under my charge. Their hollow gazes accuse me more keenly than any court-martial ever could. Should land yet exist beyond this merciless void, I dread there may be none remaining of the crew of His Majesty’s Airship Mystery to set foot upon it.

  I cannot help but wonder whether the Almighty has turned His countenance from me, or worse, has seen fit to chastise my former ambition. Was my longing for command born of pride rather than duty? Is this ordeal a lesson sent from on high, meant to scour such vanity from my soul? If so, I confess myself unequal to its meaning. The silence of Heaven weighs heavily upon me, and I fear that death itself may prove the kinder fate, rather than enduring to comprehend the full measure of what God would have me learn.

  –PRIVATE JOURNAL OF SIR JAMES F. BATES

  …