Lost Republic

by Paul B. Thompson

  Finally Mrs. Ellis, the oldest person on board, made the suggestion no one wanted to hear.

  “Captain, should we abandon ship?”

  Viega stared at her. “Why, madame? To go where?”

  She indicated the mysterious land with a nod of her head.

  “The ship is intact! We will stay on board!”

  “For how long, Captain? All communications are out. We have no power.”

  “We have food and water for weeks!”

  “Food will spoil without refrigeration. And how will we get to the water without pumps?” said the old lady.

  “What is out there?” the captain countered. “Do you know? I have no idea.”

  “It’s dry land. I see trees growing, so there must be water. Maybe there are people out there who can help us.”

  The captain looked ready to weep. “It is impossible! There is no land in the North Atlantic!”

  “Then we must be far off course,” said France. The land they saw must be the south or west coast of Ireland.

  Captain Viega curtly cut off any suggestion of abandoning ship. The Carleton was sound, he said. Depending on the tide, they might yet float free.

  Chapter 7

  There’s no night like night without electric light. Two hundred years of artificial light made people forget how profound darkness can be.

  No sunset warned the Carleton. The peculiar gray-white atmosphere simply lost light. Almost before anyone realized it, shadows had grown so long, it was hard to see. The crew broke out battery-powered lanterns. They worked—for a short time. Within minutes their beams began to go orange, lose power, and fade. All the lanterns had come from recharging wall brackets. There was no reason they should all fail so quickly.

  Captain Viega ordered the use of hurricane lamps. These burned butane. There were only a dozen on board, and most of them went to the bridge and engine room. The passenger lounge got just two. The remaining four were hung on the ship’s bow, stern, and masts, in case another ship came along in the night.

  Something about darkness made people speak in hushed tones. The younger children went to sleep wedged in place on the slanting deck. The stewards distributed what food could be salvaged from the now useless kitchen.

  On the boat deck, France heard a crinkle of paper. He was lying on his back gazing up at the sky. Hearing the crackle, he smelled the soft, buttery aroma of chocolate.

  “Emile?”

  He was standing a meter away, one arm hooked on the rail. Emile unwrapped one of his family’s chocolate bars, brought it to his mouth, but stopped short. He couldn’t eat it. Hungry as he was, he hated chocolate so much, he couldn’t make himself bite the bar.

  “Here,” he said in French, tossing the chocolate at France.

  The hefty bar landed on his chest. France caught it before it slid off.

  “Merci. How many of these do you have?”

  “They’re not mine,” Emile replied. “There are cartons of them in the ship’s store.”

  France took a bite. Crisp without being too hard, it melted like butter on his tongue.

  “Why do you hate your family’s product?” he said to the Belgian boy.

  “The Becquerels are bourgeois exploiters. From the cocoa growers in Africa to the factory workers in Ghent, they exploit them without mercy for the sake of profit.”

  France could not imagine anyone exploiting workers in the European Union in this day and age. In Africa, maybe, but Belgium? The EU Parliament sat in Brussels. Anyone truly exploited could take the train and picket the parliament hall before lunch.

  “Is that why you’re on board alone?” asked France. “Running away from your bourgeois family?”

  “Why are you here, the son of a Société Brise Mondial executive?”

  He knew a lot for a snotty kid in bad clothes. France managed a chuckle and ate more bourgeois chocolate.

  A shout from the deck below made France bolt upright. From what he could gather, a light had been seen onshore. Sure enough, a dim, yellowish dot of light wavered in the distance. It looked like fire—a torch perhaps? Whatever it was, a torch meant a torchbearer.

  France heard Captain Viega on the deck below, his voice hoarse from shouting.

  “It doesn’t mean a thing! It’s just a reflection!”

  “Of what?” a man’s voice challenged. “There’s no moon, and I can’t see any stars!”

  The captain stomped away. The rest, crew and passengers, stood in silence watching the far-off glimmer of light. Was it some fisherman trying his luck in the bay? Or some beachcomber following the line of flotsam left by high tide in hopes of finding some treasure from the sea? The distant flame flickered and shivered. Several times it seemed to go out, only to reappear farther down the black shoreline.

  Linh shuddered. She felt like she was doing something wrong, watching an innocent, vulnerable stranger go about his or her business.

  Julie felt cold. To her the bobbing light was like a ghost—intangible, untouchable, and perhaps a warning. She turned away. A moment later, a murmur went through the Carleton’s people. The light had gone out, and this time did not reappear.

  Most everyone slept on deck that night. The air was mild, and it was stifling below deck without any air-conditioning. Engineer Pascal and his crew abandoned the useless engine room and went outside, too, tying themselves to the rail so they wouldn’t roll overboard.

  Jenny was in the lounge. Sleeping in the open air was an invitation to an upper respiratory infection. That could knock her out of the running even before they got to Canada. She had no doubt they would get there. The weird problems with the ship were a pain, but the Coast Guard or the Royal Navy or somebody would soon find them. Where they were and how they got there were questions she didn’t bother with. Her goal was in Canada, and it was gold.

  With her head resting against the paneled wall, she relived her victory in the 800-meter race in Coventry a month ago, the win that won her a place in the Olympic tryouts. Another win and a few good showings in Montreal and her spot in the games was assured.

  She didn’t win with a fast final kick or anything like that. Jenny closed her eyes and saw her feet pounding on the track as she ran away from the rest. She kicked out front from the start and never lost her lead. The Scottish girl made a move on her in the last two-dozen meters, but Jenny had more than enough to outstretch her. She broke the tape a good three strides ahead of her rival and finished out with a triumphant jog into the sunlit end of the stadium. Sunlight on her face felt so good, she just stood there, soaking it in. The cheers of the crowd filled the rest of her with warmth.

  The cheers melted into individual voices, but the sunlight remained. Jenny opened her eyes. Sunshine was streaming into the slanted lounge. Her fellow passengers were clustered at the doors and windows like they’d never seen daylight before.

  Eleanor, the South African girl whose arm got burned when the ship ran aground, knelt in front of Jenny. Her right arm was bandaged at the wrist in white stretch wrap.

  “Wake up!” she said. “The sun’s out!”

  Jenny worked her sleep-cramped shoulders. “So? The sun’s out. Why all the noise?”

  She understood when she stood up and looked out the lounge window. The beach, which had been a ghostly vision yesterday, now stood out clear as a Your/World video. It was an ordinary white sand beach, flat and without dunes. Behind the wide strip of sand was a line of dark trees, and beyond them, pastel hills in blue and gray. One of the Irishmen said it didn’t look like their coast—not rocky enough.

  Carleton lay stranded about two hundred yards from shore. The water level hadn’t changed. They were just as solidly aground as before. Captain Viega ordered soundings made to find out how deep the water was. Sailors took a bright yellow nylon rope with a lead weight on it and dropped it over the side. On the port, or high, side of the ship, no
bottom could be found. When dropped to starboard, the lead quickly came to rest within plain sight of the surface. Then something strange happened. As the crew and interested passengers looked on, the lead weight slowly sank out of sight.

  Hans Bachmann and the navigator exchanged what-the- hell? looks. Captain Viega was summoned. They hauled the lead up and repeated the procedure. As the larger crowd looked on, the yellow line slowly wound out of view, attached to the sinking weight.

  “It’s not solid at all!” Hans said.

  The captain had seen enough. He simply turned his back and went to argue with Engineer Pascal about how to free the ship. Barely had the captain started talking when a distant booming sound echoed across the water from the land. It wasn’t thunder—the sky was bright and blue—it sounded almost mechanical, like a giant door slamming shut.

  Clouds of dust rose from the hills and hung in the still air.

  The sea around the Carleton rippled like a pool with a pebble dropped in it.

  Wham! The deck heaved up and fell back hard enough to throw everyone off their feet. Windows shattered and portholes cracked. One of the Carleton’s weakened radio masts gave up and came crashing down on the boat deck.

  At once, everyone was talking, yelling, screeching. Leigh Morrison struggled to his feet in time to see a second cloud of dust billowing up from unknown hills. The unseen force flashed over the water. It struck the ship, heeling the Carleton almost upright before letting it crash back at a worse list than before.

  Crew members boiled out on deck, most of them soaked to the skin. Some of the ship’s seams had split open. Water was pouring in belowdecks, into every compartment along the starboard side. Without power for the pumps, there was no way to stop the flooding.

  As one, the terrified people swarmed to the boat deck where the lifeboats were stowed. Captain Viega, Purser Brock, and Signals Officer Señales appeared between them and the starboard-side lifeboats.

  “Where are you going?” Viega demanded.

  “To the boats! The ship is sinking!” several people replied.

  For a moment, the captain stood between the frightened passengers and the lifeboats. He could not speak the words. At last he stood aside, and with a curt wave of his hand allowed the people to abandon his ship.

  Dirty white nylon covers were peeled off the boats. Julie was glad to see they weren’t just empty wooden rowboats. Each lifeboat had a deck, collapsible awnings, engines, emergency rations, and battery-powered satellite phones. There was no power for the electric winches, but enormous steel cranks turned by three or four men, raised the lifeboats from their blocks. With much cursing and many bruised knuckles, the boats were swung out over the side. The list, now close to twenty degrees, made pushing the heavy boats even harder, but at last they had four boats ready to launch.

  Just like in an old movie, Mr. Brock shouted, “Women and children first!” It was still the law of the sea.

  Julie, Linh, and Jenny found themselves shoved into the same boat. Mrs. Ellis was there, too. Two crewmen hoisted her out of her chair and set her in the boat. Her lifter chair went in next. Mothers and kids piled on, most of them crying. When the boat was full, there were thirty-eight people aboard, all children or women.

  “Lower away!”

  Down they went, swaying side to side as they descended. Julie was pale with fear, not so much from the motion as the horrible idea the boat would flip upside down and dump them all into the sea.

  It didn’t happen. The boat squatted heavily in the water. One of the Panamanian crewmen came hand over hand down the ropes to the boat. He cast off and took his place at the engine controls. The electric motor whined, but the sound quickly faded away.

  “The battery, she dead!” called the sailor to the officers above.

  More cursing. The lifeboat batteries were constantly charged by solar panels on the ship’s superstructure. How could they be dead?

  The lifeboat wallowed against the Carleton’s high steel hull. Screams of alarm from the boat were matched by shouted advice from Brock and Engineer Pascal. The sailor left the motor controls and broke out four oars. Jenny and several fit women volunteered to work them. After a few clumsy tries, they got the bobbing boat clear of the ship.

  A third shock wave spread out from the land and hit the Carleton. Fittings broke loose and tumbled down the deck. A sailor who had climbed onto the second lifeboat crane to rig the lines was shaken loose. He plummeted head first into the water, just missing the stern of the launched lifeboat.

  “Ramundo!” his friends cried.

  Three life rings hit the water where Ramundo disappeared. More were on their way when Captain Viega stopped the barrage. The sea was writhing around the ship. The lifeboat full of women and children made an awkward half-circle and came back. Viega and the officers shouted for them to stay clear.

  Everyone waited for Ramundo to surface. He didn’t.

  A fourth shock arrived. There was a heavy thud under the deck. Smoke began to spill out of the ventilators. With a massive groaning of tortured steel, Carleton listed further to starboard. Hans asked Mr. Brock how far the ship could tilt before they couldn’t launch lifeboats.

  “The book says twenty-five degrees on these old davits,” he said. “One way or another, we’ll get them in the water!”

  The women remaining boarded the second lifeboat. The young male passengers were next. Leigh shouted to Julie down in her boat and climbed in. France was in this group, and, reluctantly, Hans. He kept asking if he could bring up the silver or china his parents had sent on board. Brock coldly ordered him into the boat.

  At the last moment, Emile slipped out of line and backed away. Everyone was too focused on getting the boat away to notice his departure. He ran to the door of the lounge, now flapping with every shudder of the ship. Emile ducked inside. Not seeing what he was seeking, he went to the inside stairwell and rattled down to A deck. The air stank of burnt insulation and an oily smell like diesel. He made his way down the tilted hall, calling a name. No one answered.

  It was dark below deck without electric lights. A few battery-powered emergency beams shone in the stairwells and corridor corners. By this weak light Emile read cabin door numbers until he came to one he was seeking. It was open.

  “Eleanor! Eleanor!”

  She was fighting to close a hefty suitcase and failing.

  “Forget it!” Emile said. “It’s time to go! We’re abandoning ship!”

  “I’ve got to get my things and my mother’s!” she protested.

  “It doesn’t matter! The ship may capsize at any time!”

  He tried to drag her away, but she was easily his size and just as strong.

  “Leave me alone, rich boy! You don’t care about your things, but I want mine!”

  He put his face inches from hers. “You’re going to die! What good are ‘things’ to you then?”

  To underline his words, the Carleton gave a savage lurch. The distinct sound of flowing water reached them. Eleanor lost all the color in her face.

  “Oh my god,” she gasped. “We’re sinking!”

  Emile grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her toward the door. At the last instant, Eleanor grabbed a photo from the stubbornly open suitcase. It was an LCD picture of her and her mom, taken outside the Parliament building in London.

  In the corridor, they discovered the water they heard wasn’t the sea filling the ship; it was from the fire extinguisher system overhead. They groped along the crazy, slanted corridor to the steps and started up. In the lounge they ran into Ms. Señales and a pair of worried sailors.

  “What are you doing here? Get to the boats!” she said.

  Emile nodded and kept going, dragging Eleanor by her unburned arm. On deck, Brock berated them both for leaving during an emergency.

  “I went to find Miss Quarrel,” Emile replied. Eleanor had never heard him soun
d so humble. “No one missed her but me.”

  The second lifeboat was in the water. Leigh, Mr. Chen, Kiran Trevedi, and France pulled on the oars. Their technique wasn’t any better than the first boat’s, but by sheer determination they managed to get away from the dying Carleton.

  They put Eleanor and Emile in the third boat first. More passengers filled in behind them. The fourth was hung up on its crane. Crewmen swarmed over it, hammering and tugging to free it.

  There was a lull in the terrible blows striking the ship. Eleanor slumped low in the boat. She didn’t like seeing that they were dangling a dozen meters above the ocean. While there, she cast a secret eye at her rescuer. Emile risked his life to bring her up on deck. He was weird, but maybe he wasn’t so bad.

  The third lifeboat rode the waves at last. Some of the men got them under way. The fourth lifeboat, freed of its snag, came screeching down behind them. It held the last of the passengers.

  The ship’s list was so severe now, the boat cranes wouldn’t work. Carleton’s crew launched an inflatable life raft. Sailors began leaping into the water to swim to the raft until Brock and Captain Viega stopped them. Their comrade Ramundo had gone into the water and never come up. There must be rocks or shoals down there, holding the ship and transmitting the awful shocks from shore. Diving in was a good way to break your neck.

  The first boat, laden with women and kids, crawled to the beach. Fortunately, the surf wasn’t high, and the boat washed up with a gentle bump. Linh and a woman at the bow leaped into the water with lines and dragged the boat higher onto the sand.

  “Everyone out!”

  The boat emptied. The sailor on the rudder and the four rowers remained.

  “Back to the ship?” asked Jenny. The sailor nodded.

  With much grunting and yelling, the women on the beach pushed the boat back into the surf. Getting used to their task, Jenny and the other rowers turned about and slowly paddled back to the Carleton.