In Good Company

by Mika Paananen

IN GOOD COMPANY

  by

  Mika Paananen

  Copyright 2012 Mika Paananen

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  ****

  This small literary piece is pure fiction and for the benefit of traditional gothic horror friends, following the original style of the era. Some expressions may look odd to the casual reader but author could not be happier if that leads into some research. Baroque style music is strongly recommended to accompany and perfect the reading experience.

  ****

  About Author

  IN GOOD COMPANY

  Or Three Tales in A Fourth

  Mark my words, there is no better moment for tales than during a stormy autumn evening in 'Joseph&Quill', a little known inn a few miles north of coastal Dutreath and west of Borough of Helleston; closer to the coast where less known Dutreath mercifully conveys those maritime travelers, who did not take refuge of Penzance or Porthleven, from the malevolent breakers exploding against Cornish cliffs. Yet the inn resides in its solitude within boundary of greenish pastoral inland. Though, should you take lodging from inn’s upstairs, you could have a narrow glimpse of exposed and rocky coast, ravaged by sea and furious winds. Most of the travelers arrive at dark and thus do not pay attention to inn’s surroundings; they may pay attention to its Jacobean architecture. Yet it could be reminiscent of Elizabethan times, a century before coach lanes were created to occupy these places with travelers. Only those who take their leave during daylight will notice it’s heavily weathered and half-timbered walls with white nogging, or perhaps even wattle and daub; steeply pitched gables and large chimney against the dark grey clouds running background, creating the essence of the premises even more gloomy; and if the sun ever blesses this place with divine beams, I dare say the eyes of any beholder would still exclude 'Joseph&Quill' from the otherwise beautiful scenery. But travelers are nevertheless grateful as they spring from their coach through usually dark, windy and damp weather towards the door, around which the inviting and warm light is flickering through the mullioned windows. Enter the visitor and he will find the hearth performing its duty as the fire echoes crackling it's warm; fortuitous ones will enter into savour of fresh stew. Several parties occupy tables: Travelers having a meal or a just tankard or snifter to warm up and encourage any subjects; everyday gossiping, taxation, war, hunting, weather and foreign lands. The deepening cold and darkness is well kept outside, except when some hapless traveller opens the door, entering the refuge or leaving it, surrendering himself to the mercy of incoming winter. Sitting here in warm and totally isolated from cold and dark, I now shall grant you the world of some of these good people who occupy the tavern part of this inn. I am watching and listening to them with great care. Reader has no reason to get appalled due my eavesdropping, for it is commenced for the noblest purpose; and these great people do not find me nor my presence offending. In the window side corner, almost opposite to me on the other wall, is chattering a very colorful party. A keen beholder may quickly note the spokesman being a mariner; and should my memory not fail, his blue and white clothing is one of a boatswain rank on shore leave. He starts with his pipe but fails with his wick, takes a quick swig from his tankard and then bends again over the table in a manner of one pushing his tales forward. His audience looks both baffled and amused; a small gentleman who has tell-tale garments and cut-away coat of a lesser trader; and a tall one whom I suspect as a yeoman with forester's rank as he looks more than weathered, yet his ochre coat is not quite ragged. Amidst these beginnings boatswain exclaims:

  ”Aww, me tankard's almost empty, I won't finish my story with a dry throat! 'ere my good keeper, fill this one!”

  The inn-keeper does as he is expected to; it is quite clear that where mariners are a great nuisance once they have reached solid ground beneath, they also represent a good part of the profit when not demolishing places. My quill took advantage of this procedure and had a swig from ink bottle. The boatswain's talk flows into my quill as it starts scratching the parchment in front of me.

  ~~~~

  ”I tell ye, one afternoon watch I was running these falters sluicing the decks on Alcyone when the lookout alarmed of a ship and first mate pulled the spyglass. Then he took a run towards aft, to the captain. Aye, enter the captain, red-nosed as ever but he was at spyglass as well, now they were both watching our protector, she would be now sailing a hundred yards off starboard and gathering wind. Aye, what ye ask? But our escort, His Majesty's Hellena she was! She would run around us poor overloaded pigs like a shepherd. A swig now! Aye, that did good. Aw, but she was the most lovely brig at Antilles, beautiful from bluff to topgallant and aft and ye could not get any Portsmouth lady dancing like she could. But she was running up the signal flags and our master turned his spyglass into aft. Then I saw them also, the great sails in blue horizon, coming all too swiftly. I tell ye, I got shivers; we were but a few merchant brigs and brigantines and 'ere comes the Frenchie! That's what I said to lads and they would have their eyes like 'alf-cups. Our Hellena was now running full to the ships front of ours, then she would turn and settle to close haul; I tell ya, her master knew how to stay out of irons by just a few points. But what's happening then? She flagged new signals and I overheard the first mate exclaiming:

  'She's leaving us!' but the master pulled a belaying pin and swung it close to first mate's head and laughed:

  'Shut up with ye! She'll just earn her pay! She's running up the colors and I'd wager they're beating to quarters!'

  Then he examined our pursuer with spyglass–-she was now closer in our wake–-and said to first mate:

  'She's running colors now, hold... She's a bloody Frenchie! A bloody privateer and a big one if ye ask me! A frigate she is, God bless the Hellena now, we cannot help.'

  Our master went clenching his fists. I tell ye, all we could do was to steer into harder running and fully rigged, but we hardly went any faster. Our Alcyone, she was now almost passing a slower brigantine whose hands now looked upon us as they saw they would be the first meal for the Frenchie. No hand was looking to Hellena to be our saviour, she'd be no class to Frenchies, she'd be just slowing them a bit. Nay, the Hellena did not flag us to scatter and our convoy was pulling more together; we had but a few guns on board all ships and maybe Frenchie would be a wee bit careful how to catch us. But a swig now!”

  And to my quill also.

  ”Ye know what? Our master had passed a drunken tale about Hellena, just before our run in Antilles; I heard it from first mate: Hands aboard her were no everyday sailors, they would say. Her souls were not pressed aboard by gangs, they'd be volunteering from most embittered men available: Victims of crimes and tragedies; men lost their loves and all their earthly belongings, and old prisoners; all able seamen. They were so grievous that us poor merchant mariners said: 'Witchcraft aboard that ship, there be witches, no ordinary soul can be that poisoned!' Her hands would not allow anyone near while in port. The poor soul would be beaten to near death or just thrown away, a wine trader or our costly port love. Nothin' cheerful among 'em. Not one had ever caught any of them smiling. Now, I tell ye, first I thought this tale was to raise our spirits, to make us think our protectors were foul enough to beat the Devil 'imself! And Devil's this business was, I tell ye!”

  ~~~~

  Now the small trader takes a start to interrupt the boatswain:

  ”Ha! This
I knew, our friend will be telling me those very tales I must have had stung into my poor ears in every inn close enough to a port! But once more, pray continue; though I take my privilege to suspect your nose is coloring the rest of the tale!”

  The tall yeoman hushes trader:

  ”Quiet, ye costly traveler! My trade is holding the ground against poachers inland and I do not meet the sea like you do, so I want to hear this to the end!”

  The boatswain now looks sulky for a moment but then rises his voice and shouts:

  ”Keeper, my next tankard is on our ungrateful trader here!”

  Trader accepts his fate just by swinging his cane a bit. The boatswain lits his pipe. I take a swig from my snifter and there goes the quill again.

  ~~~~

  ”Pff! Pff! The best tobacco from overseas, I say. But...Pff! Aye, the Frenchie turned a bit; her master must have taken a note of our Hellena. She was not escaping but making a wide turn into broad reach again and she was almost running to cut the Frenchie off. Now ye wonder; how can such an eighteen-gun brig cut off a tall third-line frigate? It is simple, my friends. I have seen well-built seamen getting ill by insects smaller that my nail here. They're ill, they may die or survive; but only with time and pain. That's what the Frenchie's master knew; his ship could take some damage and 'e wished to reach us while intact. He had to slam this fly, Hellena, from his arm, before he would be collecting his treasures. Maybe he had seen Hellena sailing that swift way she does. But Frenchie turned to meet her. And we got away.”

  ~~~~

  Now the audience is protesting audibly; as do I, though my protest is only a light sigh for realizing all my writing was from an insignificant yarn. But boatswain was far from concluding it:

  ~~~~

  ”If ye would just sit still, I'll take my swig 'ere! Ah. So we got away, because Frenchie had to deal with Hellena. We heard and saw the beginning of it, we heard the racket and clamor beginning. I saw Hellena's topgallant coming crashing down, it must've been when she rammed the Frenchie. Then the first devilish thing happened; enter this fog and cover both ships. Now, everythin' at sea happens quickly; the storms, winds, fogs, smoke. This I knew already when I was but a sniveling cabin boy. But this one, one moment it just was there, let me tell ye! First I said myself 'twas the smoke, and 'twas thick. But horizon went all white and there it stopped. We heard a few shots along the wind and then nothing. Puffs of black smoke just appeared where the battle was. We were affright all right, all hands in all ships; waiting for the bloodied Frenchie's sails to appear again. But, I tell ye, they never appeared again! We knew, if the weather would stay, we would raise the islands and the port at morning bells. A swig! Aw, empty! Trader, ye pull yer cheap purse! Keeper!”

  ~~~~

  The trader is generous enough to offer one also to the yeoman for he finally seems to be seduced by the tale:

  ”All the same, I want to hear this now and shall everyone be cheerful, then the tale shall be told!”

  I cannot but agree. Boatswain lets out a tall audible expression of well poured ale from the bottom of his throat, then resumes his tale:

  ~~~~

  ”Then came the night. I was in my hammock but ye can guess we didn't sleep too well. The Frenchie was still too much in our damned heads if not out there seeking for our sorry afts. I can say I heard at least three bells, before the watch got us all to fall from hammocks and jumping to the deck. I thought we were for Hell, every soul went dead cold for the shout was short and clear:

  'Fireship Ahoy!'

  And, lads, I tell ye: If the lookout didn't get every heart halted dead, then the next sight could have done it! What was there was the dark and the fog at first. I couldn't see other ships. Waters serene, the sails took a blow now and then. We had been running lanterns doused and I thought we were lost, for I had no sight of our convoy. Once my eyes got used to darkness, I started to see this flickering light through the fog, port aft. 'twas red and yellow and 'twas growing like coming straight at us.

  'Frenchie!' I heard shouting around.

  All hands were on deck beholding the fire, waiting to see the poor ship; could it's fiery hand reach us? Our master commanded new steering to avoid it but fireship was too fast. Aye but let me take a good swig!”

  At this point boatswain's audience is bowing their ears closer while my quill takes a swift taste of more ink.

  ”Thar she ran, out of the fog on port side beam. Not ramming but she would pass us. First I saw the bluff, clear from flames, then came the rest of ship. That's when some lads dropped to their knees and started to pray. She was straight from Hell, let me tell ya! Flames were eating her, her lines burned black, flames were eating mainmast and deck, foremast was gone down to the third, and there was not a single yardarm left for sails. I saw the first sign of life, if I dare to call it with the word. Hands aboard were waving at us at the rails. I cannot adjure my beholdings as the truth; but I saw tall gaps on her starboard side and through them I saw more of her hands waving at us and I would adjure before the God that the sea level should have flooded to lower decks but did not; like there was some invisible wall. She was raising a mighty wake but over that noise I heard the fire crackling and over that I heard their... Their shouting, or... Let me have swig... Aw, no. It was part raven's croaking, part shouting. First mate would start commanding our hands to assist poor hands but then he dropped silent, took his hat off and kneeled. I couldn't but pray my eyes wide open when I saw that I was beholding a charred seaman, his other arm hanging just by shreds, waving to me and grinning with a torn face almost a skull's one. Nay, I was sober and I was awake, God forbid! They were all just shot or charred or torn to shreds; all of them. I swear I saw one of them hanging a head by its hair and laughing. That's when I--notice this, lads-- I looked again her bluff before she passed us, now afterwards, every night before I fall asleep, I ask the God and the Devil both with the word 'How?'. For she was His Majesty's Hellena, shot to pieces and burning with her souls, now running past our ships with no rigging, no sails but with some wind or force which we didn’t have; the sea was almost calm. Her wake made our heavy ship sway on the waves; this I remember for I had to grab the rail I was clinging to, fingers all white.”

  ~~~~

  The boatswain takes a breath as do I, this was more than I could have expected. His listeners are also now breathing heavily, eyes wide. The might of a well yarned tale in good company never fails.

  ~~~~

  ”I saw our captain taking his hat off when the flaming aft of Hellena passed where he was standing. I saw it also: Hellena's mad master was standing next to helm and, let me tell ye! He was looking back our captain with a bloody half-face for the other half was like shot up bloody mess; he raised the Frenchie's colors in his hand, aye! A bloody tall flag, partly burned and in shreds and 'e would hold it high and bang his bloody chest and shout something I did not get at all. Then in an instant she would be well past us and lost into the fog, only the flickering and some jetsam was to behold until it all vanished. And the silence; I never wish that silence again! Dead silent; until I looked at captain, our master was on his knees and, aye, 'e was weepin'. First mate took captain to his feet and herded him into his cabin, like a sheep he went. The sea started some living again, I could hear our sails; and the fog was gone. Someone asked 'Which bells?' but none answered.

  Let me tell ye, when we reached the port, almost everyone ran to church; while the rest raided the tavern to seek quick help from Dionysus. Me, I went to church; but I did not pray; my small head was swollen with recalling the dead hands; nay, ye could not call 'em souls anymore. I tell ye, they were just dead corpses and the whole ship from Hell or Davy Jones' pocket; and I don't know what came out of the Frenchie. All of us saw her taking on the Hellena. No soul has seen her since then. And I know, before that no living soul had seen the Hellena's hands smiling before. That's it, take my word lads; then pour me another!”~

  ~~~~

  The boatswain slams his tankard into table
with such a force that his audience jumps from their chairs, for they have been quite entranced by his tale. Maybe the trader is playing a bit to hide his attitude when he laughs nervously:

  ”A tall tale! You, my friend have truly been on high seas, such a tall tale!”

  The yeoman nods his head:

  ”Great yarn, I say. Perhaps they shall meet some poachers down there, where I have sent 'em. It reminds me of my youth when my father--may his soul rest in peace--was preparing me for never ending duties of foresting my master's lands. You see, we had a phantom that moved away with the forest.”

  Boatswain laughs but the trader shakes his head:

  ”I have but a brief time left sitting here, I must be off to write down profits; now you are into another devilish tale?”

  Yeoman lets out a snappy reply:

  ”You are a free man, it is all up to you; a tale and tankard against your hasty purse; hark! Or leave.”

  Impatient boatswain declares:

  ”Enough prattling! Pray continue, I want to hear a landlubber tale of devils!”

  The trader submits and yeoman begins.

  ~~~~

  ”Like I said, I was but three-and-twenty; my father was advising me the secrets of mastering the lands. He told me there was nothing for a forester to refrain from; dry weather or rain pouring, day or darkness, wolves or pigeons, path or bog; you knew exactly how you were to handle all this during all good and all perils. My father was very good in this; but he was growing old already; for he caught some pneumonia in his youth and it left a mark in his figure. It was almost the end of my training when he took me to the one of the farthest corners of master's lands. I was a wee puzzled for I did not remember seeing that part, and I had been jumping around those forests and moors since I got on my feet.