Ladies and gentlemen elbowed each other shamelessly, longing for a glimpse of his cherubic face. Look, the eyes are open. His hair is almost white. Perhaps the altitude?
Someone popped the cork on a bottle of Champagne, and an Italian count passed around Cuban cigars. It was as if the entire assembly were celebrating the baby’s survival. Vigny snagged the bottle, quaffing deeply. “Perfect,” he sighed, passing the bottle to Declan Broekhart. “He is a charmed boy. What will you call him?”
Broekhart grinned, deliriously happy. “I thought perhaps Engel. He came from the skies, after all. And our family name is Flemish.”
“No, Declan,” said Catherine, stroking her son’s white-blond hair. “Though he is an angel, he has my father’s brow. Conor is his name.”
“Conor?” said Declan, in mock protest. “Irish from your family. Flemish from mine. The boy is a mongrel.”
Vigny lit two cigars, passing one to the proud father. “Now is not the time to argue, mon ami.”
Declan nodded. “It never is. Conor he shall be called. A strong name.”
Vigny bonged a knuckle on Lady Liberty’s chin. “Whatever he is called, this boy is indebted to Liberty.”
This was the second omen of the day. Conor Broekhart would eventually pay his debt to liberty. The first omen was, of course, the airborne birth. Perhaps he would have been a sky pilot even without Le Soleil, or perhaps something was awakened in him that day. An obsession with the sky that would consume Conor Broekhart’s life, and the lives of everyone around him.
And so a few days after Conor’s famous birth, Captain Declan Broekhart and his family sailed from France back to the tiny sovereign state of the Saltee Islands, off the Irish coast.
The Saltee Islands had been ruled by the Trudeau family since 1171 when England’s King Henry II had given them to Raymond Trudeau, a powerful and ambitious knight. It was a cruel joke, as the Saltee Islands were little more than gull-infested rocks. By placing Trudeau in charge of the Saltee Islands, Henry fulfilled his contract of granting his knight an Irish estate, but also made clear what happened to overly ambitious knights.
When Raymond Trudeau objected to the king’s grant, Henry delivered the often quoted Trudeau Admonishment.
“You disagree with an appointee of God Himself,” Henry is recorded as saying. “Perhaps Monsieur Trudeau considers himself above his king. Perhaps Monsieur Trudeau considers himself fit for royal office. So be it. You shall take the Saltee Islands with my blessing, but not as baron. You are their king, King Raymond the First. I will demand neither tithe nor tribute from you or your descendants in perpetuity, and as an added reward, you may wear your crown to my court. Whatever you may find on those most bountiful isles is yours to keep.”
Trudeau could do nothing but bow and stammer his thanks, bitter though the words were. This was a terrible insult, as there was nothing to be found on the Saltee Islands but seabirds and their droppings, and little grew there thanks to the showers of sea spray that coated both islands during rough tides, giving nothing to the Saltees but their name.
But Raymond Trudeau’s fortune was not as bleak as it seemed. Following his effective banishment to the Saltee Islands, a strange glowing cave was discovered by one of his men, who was burning gulls from their perches. The cave was a glacial deposit of diamonds: the largest mine ever discovered, and the only mine in Europe. Henry had crowned Raymond Trudeau king of the most valuable estate in the world.
Seven hundred years later, the Trudeau family was still in power in spite of over a dozen invasion attempts from English, Irish, and even pirate armies. The famous Saltee Wall held fast against cannon, shot, and ram, and the celebrated Saltee Sharpshooters were trained to shave the whiskers off a pirate a mile away. There were only two industries on the Saltees: diamonds and defense.
The Saltee prison was packed to bursting with the foulest dregs of murdering humanity that Ireland and Great Britain had to offer. They worked the diamond mine until they had served their time or died. Most died. A sentence on Little Saltee was a death sentence. Nobody really cared. The Saltees had been making many people rich for centuries, and none of those many people wanted the status quo to change.
Nevertheless, change was afoot. Now there was a new king on the throne, an American, King Nicholas the First, or Good King Nick, as he was known in an increasing number of households. Barely six months in power, already King Nicholas had drastically improved the quality of life for his three thousand subjects, abolishing taxes and building a modern drainage system, running through the town of Promontory Fort on Great Saltee’s northern tip.
When the royal yacht, Razorbill, pulled into Saltee Harbour at dawn after a three-day voyage from France, King Nicholas himself was there to meet her. Truth be told, he did not much look like the other kings of the day, a youthful thirty-seven, dressed in stout hunting leathers and a flat cap. His sideburns were trimmed back, and his hair cut military style, close to the skull. His face was tanned, with a tic-tac-toe pattern of faded scars on his forehead from a close call with a land mine. A stranger might assume Nicholas to be the king’s gamekeeper, but never the king. There was no pomp or circumstance about the man, and he lived as plainly as one could in a stately palace. Nicholas had served as a skirmisher and a balloonist during the American Civil War, and it was said that he slept on the window seat in his royal chamber because the bed was too soft.
Nicholas was a new breed of European king. One who was determined to use whatever power he had to improve the quality of life for as many people as possible. Good King Nick. Declan Broekhart loved him like a brother.
Declan hitched the yacht’s bow line, then leaped onto the jetty to greet his monarch.
“Your Majesty,” he said, bowing slightly.
King Nicholas returned the bow, then punched his friend on the shoulder.
“Declan! What kept you? I read about your miraculous airborne baby before I see him. I can only pray that he has inherited his mother’s features.”
While the men shared a chuckle, Catherine stepped onto the gangplank, holding her precious bundle wrapped in a blanket.
“Catherine,” said Nicholas, taking her arm. “Shouldn’t you be resting?”
“I had my fill of rest on board.” Catherine pulled little Conor’s blanket down past his chin. “Now, your newest subject would like to meet his king.”
Nicholas peered into the swaddling, finding a baby’s face in the shadows. He was a little disconcerted to find the child’s eyes focused and seemingly taking his measure.
“Ah,” he said, rearing back slightly. “So . . . alert.”
“Yes,” said Catherine proudly. “He has his father’s sharpshooter eyes.”
But King Nicholas saw more. “Perhaps. But he has the Broekhart chin, too. Stubborn to a fault. Your brow, though, Catherine. A scientist perhaps, like his mother.” He tickled baby Conor’s chin. “We need scientists. There’s a new world coming our way from America, and Europe too. The Saltees won’t stay independent unless we have something to offer the world, and the diamond mine on Little Saltee won’t last forever. Scientists, that’s what we need here.” King Nicholas tugged on his riding gloves. “Teach him well, Catherine.”
“I will, Your Majesty.”