A Children's Tale by C B Ash

with a spanner wrench, a man in black cotton trousers, leather boots and a worn leather coat leaned into an open side panel that exposed the steam engine to the air. The man tugged furiously at the spanner wrench to tighten, or attempt to tighten, one of the pipe fittings collars that had been flush against the engine itself. Recently the pipe fitting had been doing its job well, until it had been struck by a bullet and belt oddly out of shape. Another sharp tug and the fitting moved just a fraction of an inch before the pipe itself ruptured. Steam exploded out of the engine compartment, knocking the pilot across the snow. He landed with a dull thump in the snowdrift, then groaned in pain. Slowly he reached under his coat to clutch at a bloody bandage-covered bullet wound in his shoulder.
    Fifteen feet behind the wounded pilot, Tonks peered over the edge of some rocks until only the top of his head could be seen. He watched while the wounded pilot struggled painfully to his feet to slowly walk back towards the steam biplane. Quietly, Tonks slipped over the top of the rocks and walked silently across the snow. Just out of arm's reach, he cleared his throat with a smirk. 
    "Afternoon, Sirrah."
    The pilot spun, a clockwork-needler pistol in hand. He was surprised to find himself staring into the barrel of Tonks' own revolver. 
    "Ah now, none a' that." Tonks said reproachfully.
    "Who're ya, eh?" The man demanded in a mild Irish accent.  
    "The one who your goin' to be tellin' about why you're here, what all you're up to, and why the Marie Celeste is so all important to Archie RiBeld."
    "Get bent!" He replied and raised his needler for a better aim.
    "I wouldn't if I were you. I might miss. You probably won't with that needle-slinger of yours. But once you've done me in, what'll you do about the rest?"
    "Rest a' who?"
    A rough voice, touched with a hint of amusement, was heard from the other side of the steambat biplane. "Us."
    Krumer walked into view, long barreled Colt pistol in one hand and cutlass in the other. He was dressed as he usually was - short boots, trousers and shirt - but over that he had wrapped himself in a white leather, fur trimmed cloak. On either side of him six more of the Brass Griffin 's crew, dressed in similar fashion to Krumer, rose from the snow itself near the edge of the clearing.
     "Dahm' yer eyes, ya stinkin' glocky mutcher!" The man swore while he relaxed the grip on his weapon.
    "Such language. An here I thought I was bein' hospitable. Well, maybe you'll learn a bit o' manners once we have ourselves a chat, eh?" Tonks stepped forward and took the pistol from the man.  
    Tonks nudged the wounded pilot towards the east, away from the clearing and towards where the Griffin 's longskiff lay hidden beyond the trees. Behind them, Krumer and two of the Griffin 's crew set to work pulling the blocks from the biplane to move it under cover nearby.
    A short ride on the longskiff took Tonks, the Irishman and the rest of the landing crew back to the Griffin . Behind them, the steambat was neatly concealed beneath the thickest section of trees along the edge of the clearing. Once aboard, they secured the wounded pilot in a storage closet located in the forward hold - used most often to securely transport coal or other minerals. Despite his arguments to treat the man in his own hospice, Thorias nonetheless took his usual care in tending the Irishman's shoulder wound.
    Two hours later, Thorias scaled the ladder from below. On deck he took a deep breath and adjusted his shoulder bag of medical supplies. Arcady flew up into view then circled the doctor in a lazy spin. Over near the main mast, Tonks noticed the pair and nodded a silent greeting. Thorias and Arcady walked over to Tonks while the pilot finished coiling some of the extra lengths of rope for rigging.
    "How's Irish doing, Doc? His shoulder wound was bleedin' pretty good on the trip back."
    "Natural to expect it, when one doesn't rest from a bullet