The Urn

by G. Wells Taylor

  A tall mast towered ahead and behind the upper structures, and would be employed for hanging sails. Duvall had explained that ships like the Westerner exploited this dual-purpose propulsion to make them formidable challengers in the competitive trade business, since they could quickly adapt to the various types of weather and seas that bedeviled ocean traffic. Ships like the Westerner could rely on her engines to travel in calm water or even upriver as long as the depth held.

  I was taken aback when I first saw the ship’s curious silhouette, and briefly considered finding some other mode of transportation. The Westerner’s dark outline and iron hull looked very heavy, and I did not understand how it could float.

  I had seen steam trains while on errands as far west of my master’s castle as Bistritz. Their bulky shapes and ugly contours when matched with the noisy screaming that came from them had bordered on the demonic to my memory. But, I had marveled at the unimaginable power of the engines pulling so many cars full of cargo, and I had to relent that such strength might be a great asset if we were to survive the coming voyage in the perilous Atlantic.

  The Westerner’s Captain Banks met me at the dock and brought me aboard. He was a man of mixed race as the caramel color of his skin and set of his handsome features suggested, and I hoped he was sympathetic to me for that reason. Especially, when overhearing his crew’s grumbling about my Gypsy heritage as I boarded. One of them even made the sign that would protect him from the evil eye. Pah!

  I had changed into my new travel clothes before leaving the Allison Jane, but my beard and face remained the same. I can only imagine my Szgany blood was betrayed by the curved Cossack sword I had chosen for protection and which still hung from my shoulder with my possessions as I boarded.

  It was possible that some crewmen had been to the mountains north of Varna, and had guessed my true race, or they’d tried the curse out on me and I had confirmed their suspicions with a furious facial expression as I crossed the gangplank. It is not like my people to let such an insult go unanswered, but I was not coming aboard for the Gypsy Horvat or his pride, and my mission would not survive any lapse of self-control.

  Captain Banks told me he had filled the ship’s four passenger berths with a collection of foreigners, the majority of whom I was told had stayed in their rooms for most of the voyage from England, and kept well clear of the operating deck, only coming forth for fresh air or to attend supper. Banks showed me that the dining room or “mess,” as he called it, was just ahead of the passenger compartments with the galley on the other side.

  He led me down a short metal stair and along a narrow corridor that ran between two large cargo holds and finally to a small cabin opposite the crew quarters near the engine room. The air below deck was smoky and smelled of oil, but I had to remember my master’s desire that we go anonymously on our journey. The hazy atmosphere was certainly conducive to that goal.

  The captain left me there after saying that the Westerner was behind schedule, and would set out in two hours, and that I should make myself comfortable in the meantime.

  Once, while arranging my possessions, I heard what I thought was the high-pitched bleat of a goat or other animal followed by the low clucking sound of contented chickens. I stood frozen listening, but the noise did not recur, so I could not be certain of what I had heard.

  I could only hope that such creatures were aboard for where there was life there was blood.

  I was in my room when the ship left port. It began with a sudden startling peal of a loud horn or whistle. Its deafening pitch set my teeth on edge, but it also drew my attention to the loud shouting of men in the engine room—and that noise was disrupted by the urgent ringing of bells.

  The steam engine came to life as a vibration at first, shuddering up through the deck itself, and shaking the bed on which I sat. This agitation increased until the power manifested as a throbbing noise that soon became deafening to my inexperienced ears.

  After my recent travel in the silent wilderness and the thrumming calm of life aboard the wind-borne schooner, this disruptive pounding destroyed all memory of wind in trees, of wave and foam, of sails thumping and decks creaking.

  A rattling, steel knocking was at the core of this racket that increased in volume until it pounded inside my head, my very bones seeming to echo along with every ringing iron beam or rivet in the ship. The drilling din was disturbed at intervals by the clanging of harsh bells while overhead a loud horn or whistle alternately blatted or shrieked at varying times and pitches.

  I could barely think as a faster metallic punctuation to this rhythmic percussion was added, corrupting all my senses until I doubted I would survive aboard the Westerner. I wrenched the felt brim of my new hat down over my ears and curled up on the bed where I moaned and muttered curses against Captain Duvall for finding this nightmarish transport for me.

  I lay there groaning for a time in dismay and fury until the noise slipped away from my perceptions altogether. Magically, the repetitive knocking diminished, and could only be detected if I focused my senses full upon it and I wondered if the seas around the ship absorbed the worst of this infernal clamor.

  As time progressed, the horns, whistles and bells abated, and no longer reminded me that I had lost the Westerner’s engine altogether, its voice hidden to me behind the deck plating, or somehow buried in the constantly throbbing of my heart.

  I would never have thought such a thing possible and was finally surprised, when my curiosity drove me from my bed to the porthole where I gasped. We were far from the docks. The ship’s action had been so smooth that I had had to peer out to confirm that we were moving.

  This fact softened my regard toward the steamship, and I considered my initial unpleasant reaction had been caused by unfamiliarity and nothing more. What an amazing vessel the Westerner was!

  I was tempted to keep my own secrets and stay to my room, but I quickly feared such isolation after those mean-spirited sailors had identified my race and made an open show of their contempt for it. While their threatening manner compelled me to hide from their advances, I thought it would be wiser to be seen about the ship by the other passengers, and by Captain Banks.

  I wanted him to remember that I was aboard, and keeping myself in his thoughts meant I was less likely to suffer at the hands of his crew. With my fellow passengers representing the outer world, I knew the captain would be reluctant to allow such bullying to go unchecked.

  Reminding him that I had a room below decks might ensure that I would not be found murdered in it.

  I am in luck!

  Since I had been unable to visit any Moroccan butchers during my time secreted below deck when the Allison Jane was docked at Casablanca, I doubted my remaining bottle of pig’s blood would suffice to keep the urn’s contents “wet” for the journey ahead.

  But now it seems there is a source of fresh blood on the Westerner. Those sounds I had heard upon first arrival had turned out to be creatures laid in for inclusion on the menu for the captain, crew and passengers.

  A short walk below decks toward the forward part of the ship had put me by a locked door from which emanated the smell of manure and other animal aromas. The existence of live beasts was then confirmed when I heard the bleating of a goat or sheep—followed quickly by the cooing of a pigeon.

  I would only need to find some means of procuring a supply of that which ran in the veins of those dinner items, but which might be considered a useless byproduct of the butchering process.

  In fact, I knew I would resolve that issue rapidly, for if I did not find a fresh source of the precious fluid, I’d have to replace the pig’s blood with my own and that notion terrified me.

  I could not expect to continue such a relationship for long, and provide guardianship to the master’s urn in the depleted state to which it would reduce me.

  So, I would inquire about the ship to see what sort of foods had been laid in, using some pretext that I had foreign tastes or religious restrictions regarding the k
ind of flesh and recipes that might cross my palate.

  This query would benefit me twofold: it would gain me access to the live animals, and would further my desire to be known about the ship, and keep me safely in the captain’s sight.

  Unfortunately, I did not consider who might also be aboard, and quickly came to regret my decision to mix with the other passengers.

  A bell clanged very late in the afternoon that I had been told would signify the time for dining. The captain had previously introduced me to the room set aside for this function. It was little more than a narrow hallway on the main deck that was crammed with a long table and chairs.

  An iron stove sat at one end and would heat the space if the weather demanded it. Currently, the warming African sun was tempered by a cool breeze as we traveled south, and I knew that heating would not be a consideration for some time to come.

  The passengers had been summoned to eat together, and would at times share the space with the crew. On this occasion, the first, I was relieved to find no sailors in attendance, as their behavior toward me had already precluded any good company.

  I hesitated in the doorway before the “mess” or dining room wondering why the Westerner’s sailors did not sing as those did upon the Allison Jane. Was that a side effect of their work around the heavy steam engine, because its clamorous voice when raised would brook no accompaniment, or was it simply the sailors themselves, and did the darkness that I had seen in their gazes also shroud their hearts?

  Regardless, I was pleased that none were in attendance. I entered the room and tried to get a sense of the other seated guests to know where I might best place myself at the table.

  Four men sat around the farthest end by the stove where I thought the captain might sit had he been there. An old man with a long white beard who wore a woolen suit was seated closer to me; and beside him was an old woman in a blue, satin dress with a broad lace collar, wearing a white shawl around her shoulders. Across from them sat a young girl in a lacy white dress and red coat, and a boy in black jacket, short pants and knee high socks.

  The four men at the table’s end had fallen silent when I entered before taking up their discussion again.

  Three of these men were hale and hearty: two of older middle age and two of 20 years or so. One of the younger was pale, and of their group he sat closest to me with head hanging. Still he must have sensed my entry for he glanced up and said with a scowl, “What are you looking at you dirty gyp?”

  His companions broke from their talk to laugh, and then raised their glasses in celebration of his spirit before drinking.

  The sick young man just winced from the effort of voicing the insult and looked back at the floor, folding his hands across his stomach and groaning.

  These men were British it seemed to me by their accents, and they came dressed in well-designed but coarse clothing: canvas jackets and leather riding pants, high boots and gloves.

  All of them were red faced with drink, and the healthiest of the younger men seemed to be having some fun with his friends because he had added a shiny black top hat to his rough ensemble. The men smoked fat cigars and the air in the narrow compartment was blue and rank with it.

  The old woman and the girl across from her dabbed at their noses with scented handkerchiefs.

  There were two half-empty bottles of brown liquor set out on the table, and the men poured liberally from both. A teapot sat by them, but cups and saucers had been distributed among the old couple and the children.

  The two older British men were in their late 40s, and one of them kept giving shepherding glances to the younger men, especially the sick one, and I saw a distinct resemblance in his concerned features.

  As I studied them with sidelong glances, I noticed the eldest of the middle-aged men looked quite different from his companions, and bore a dark, brown skin that had to come from living and working out of doors.

  The whisky he consumed, for I had identified its pungent aroma despite their cigars, seemed to be stoking some inner fire. A dangerous gleam was beginning to form in the remarkable eyes that darted about from under graying brows. His middle-aged companion and the younger men, I imagined being some wealthy man and his sons on an expedition that would make men of the younger.

  I kept my glances brief and face lowered as I hovered over the farthest chair, though I did catch a slight, apologetic look from the white-bearded man and old woman. The children across from them both kept their heads down, with their attention on their folded hands.

  The man with the dangerous eyes scowled as I took my seat.

  The old man reached out to pat his female companion’s hand before stroking his long white whiskers and saying, “Please, continue Lord William.”

  “Yes, yes, it’s the damn heathens that cause the trouble,” the middle aged man said, glaring at his sick son and then the other. Lord William had a huge set of mutton chop whiskers that he tugged at with his free hand. “Since the end of the slave trade what’s to do with them, eh Frank?”

  “Germany’s up to something, you can bet she covets all of Europe and there’s more trouble brewing with the Boers...” the man with the dangerous eyes grated, seemingly off topic as he stared into Lord William’s face. “That bunch of farmers are little better than the darkies or kaffirs as they call them.”

  “But what has that to do with Europe?” the old man asked, sipping from his china cup. His accent shared British and French inflections.

  “There are insults to the British crown that have never been answered, and so long as we’ve got foreign kings, kaisers and presidents we’ll have war,” Lord William warned. “I’ve many friends in Europe say Germany will have to be dealt with sooner or later. Who can do business with a bully?” The man lowered his eyes. “And if we’re not careful when our backs are turned, the damn African savages will inherit Europe by slipping in while we’re at war.” He shook his head. “Cursed irony. We do the fighting and those lazy blighters reap the profits.”

  “Oh, they’ll earn their keep,” Frank the dark man said, before downing his drink. “We can’t have them lagging in coconut groves while the rest of the civilized world fights for God and country. No! All the colonies will contribute to any wars that are to come, and the kaffirs won’t be exempt.”

  Lord William pointed at me. “These Gypsies are no better than the savages that infest Africa. Leftovers from heathen days preceding our own Christian civilization of Europe. Another time, another cooking pot. Perhaps the spices would be different than those used by a black chef.”

  Face warming at this insult, I peered up from under the broad brim of my hat and could see him staring at me.

  He goaded: “Isn’t that right, Gypsy?”

  His sick son coughed and then held up the two-fingered sign used to ward off the devil, and his companions laughed as they refreshed their drinks.

  The old woman blushed and said: “Please Lord William, I know you speak in jest.”

  “Half in jest...and don’t worry about the Gypsy. They love a good joke!” Lord William wiped at whisky that dripped from his mutton chops. “My lady, the truth cannot be contradicted. The civilized world tries to help them but it’s in their nature to resist maturity, hard work and loyalty to the crown. The entire continent of Africa is either wasted in the hands of its simple converted children, or it’s overrun with savages, and wild spaces. No, you give Britain time and we shall save these tribes from themselves. Knock down their accursed jungles and put up a school and playground.”

  “School—and you’ve made no mention of churches,” the old man sputtered. “Of course, where would you fit them amongst your rubber plantations and factories?”

  “Did I say school?” Lord William drawled, lips cracking in a sarcastic smile. “I suppose the children will need some training—”

  “—for when they join their parents at the work houses!” Frank barked. “To earn their keep.”

  The healthy young man said: “And what of the lions and apes, Father?
Surely, you don’t think them fitting playthings for English schoolchildren.”

  “That’s why we’ve come to hunt them, Nicholas!” Lord William said, rolling his glass between his hands. “Everyone needs a hat, and lion skin would keep them as warm in winter as beaver.” He flicked a finger at his son’s top hat before puffing his cigar until the ember flared.

  “And more hats to the hide,” Frank rasped. “That’ll knock the price down.”

  “Here’s a pleasant fantasy. School uniforms cut from zebra skin!” Lord William roared with laughter, and the hunters refilled their drinks before lifting them at his jest.

  I sat quietly, ears burning, with my right hand under the table wrapped around the hilt of my churi. The small cutting knife was the only weapon I had brought with me, and yet I longed to answer their insults with it.

  “You...” the sick man groaned along the table, and then he banged his hand upon it until I looked up. “Take your hat off, there’s a lady present!”

  The rest of the gathering fell silent, all of them with a shared look of expectation, as I reached up to remove the hat.

  “Oh Christ, Harry are you sure?” Lord William sneered. “We can see that much more of his face, now!”

  “I don’t like him, Father,” the sick man said, setting his forehead against the table.

  “Neither does your dad, Harry,” Frank said. “Just drink up that whisky and your guts will calm soon enough.”

  “It don’t stay down, Colonel Frank,” Harry answered, moving his lips thickly.

  “Then up she comes,” Frank said. “Sooner or later your guts will get tired of it, and then you’ll steady in with the ship.”

  “Forgive my son,” Lord William said to the old couple who were looking more and more uncomfortable. “He’s not been to sea before, and he’s yet to find his legs.”

  “And where are you going, Lord William?” the old woman asked to change the subject.