by Rhys Hughes
‘Don’t move; I’ll come and get you.’
‘Hurry up. I’m slipping!’
Captain Alaerts appeared on deck from his cabin. ‘Well, my friends, I think we might be in luck today. I’ve just spied a sail on the horizon. Tea clipper from the Orient. Get ready!’
He glanced up at me and nodded, as if it was perfectly acceptable for one of his sailors to be hanging upside down by his left foot. I hissed to Pedersen, ‘What does he mean?’
My shipmate reached my side and restored me to a more dignified and secure position. ‘The howitzer!’
I frowned. ‘He expects us to be gunners?’
‘Of course. I’ll show you.’
Captain Alaerts disappeared back into his cabin and when he emerged next I was amazed; he had shaved off his beard and wore a pair of round spectacles. Now I understood why he often squinted; it had nothing to do with the salt spray or wind. Between his teeth he clenched a cigar. A pair of revolvers dangled from his hands.
Pedersen said, ‘Tom always changes his appearance before a battle. It must be for luck, though I suppose if he loses he can always deny his own identity! It’s worth a try at least!’
I shrugged. The odder and more eccentric the players in the unfolding drama, the better my eventual story would be. The Western Mail was sure to have a scoop that no other newspaper in my country could hope for in the wildest dreams of the most insane editor! When I closed my eyes, the possible headlines scrolled on the inside of my lids. Pedersen nudged me and roared, ‘Daydreaming again.’
I snapped my eyes open. ‘Yes. A bad habit.’
‘It’ll get you killed unless …’
‘Unless what?’ I cried.
He laughed. ‘You die in the battle first!’
Meanwhile In Romania
After Professor Bogdan Velicu had finished experimenting with the globe of ice, it lay forgotten in its refrigerator in a corner of his laboratory. The year 1913 brought more trouble to Romania in the form of a new Balkan war. The previous autumn, approximately six months after the sinking of RMS Titanic, tensions that had been building for centuries erupted with a murderous aftershock. Montenegro declared war on the Ottomans. A week later, as arranged by a network of secret treaties, Serbia, Greece, Bulgaria and Romania entered the fray. The war lasted six weeks and the Turks at last were pushed out of the Balkans.
After the armistice was signed, thousands of men, women and children lay dead and the Ottoman Empire had virtually no territory left in Europe at all. Although Bulgaria had benefited the most from the Turks’ loss and had expanded its borders the furthest, its economy was weak and its army demoralised by the brutality of the recent campaigns. Serbia and Greece began to gaze enviously at its acquisitions in Macedonia and Thrace; and Romania also had designs on the southern Dobrudja region, ostensibly to ensure a stable balance of regional power. The First Balkan War might be over but a second seemed inevitable!
And so it happened. Serbia began preparing to attack the Bulgarians; a maverick Bulgarian commander, General Savov, launched a pre-emptive strike against Serbia. This was a strategic error. Bulgaria appeared as the aggressor; and the other Balkan nations joined the Serbs against Bulgaria. This new war was welcomed and encouraged by the Turks, who hoped to sow discord and disaster among the alliance that had recently humiliated them. The government of Romania wasted little time mobilising its forces and marching south to fight a traditional war, but it also spared no effort in seeking less orthodox advantages.
A government agent with the authority to requisition the equipment of his laboratory visited Professor Velicu. More than that, the newcomer had an interest in Velicu himself; it appeared that the most skilled physicists, chemists, biologists and engineers at the university were now obliged to contribute to the war effort. Normal duties were suspended, all peacetime research projects were put on hold: the development of weapons became the solitary function of every specialist. During the First Balkan War, few innovations had been used by Romania: the regime hadn’t even owned an effective air force. That had to change!
Surprisingly, the government agent who met Velicu wasn’t Romanian himself but a foreign advisor hired because of his reputation as a genius of unconventional warfare. His name was Jukka-Petteri Halme, a Finnish mercenary with cold eyes that belied his jovial smile. A former associate of the notorious arms-dealer Basil Zaharoff, he was wanted as a criminal in a dozen countries. He slapped the professor on the back and laughed in a theatrical manner that was more frightful to the nervous academic than any explicit threat. Jukka paced about the laboratory, picking up items of apparatus and putting them down again.
‘You understand your responsibilities, don’t you? All the force of your great mind must henceforth be harnessed to the single aim of victory. The drama that is unfolding has the potential to be magnificent! Despite what pacifists say, war is the only proper pastime of mankind, both a cleansing ritual and a work of art. Do you agree?’
‘I’ve never thought of it in that way before—’
Jukka curled his lips in a sly grin. ‘Ah! But you will come to share my view, I’m sure. You are a researcher with expertise in the chemical bonds of matter? Primarily an analyst, no?’
‘That’s correct,’ said Velicu, ‘but I don’t—’
‘I imagine there is enormous potential in your chosen field. Have you ever experimented with poison gas?’
‘Chemical warfare!’ stammered Velicu.
Jukka made a casual gesture with one hand; with the other he casually swung an expensive microscope. ‘That was just a suggestion. It seems to me that the development of toxic gas bombs might be a profitable avenue of study for a man in your position.’
The professor turned pale and rasped, ‘I’m not sure I have ideas along those lines. The rules of war insist—’
‘Those rules have been rewritten.’ Jukka picked up a flask, swirled it for a moment, raised it to his nostrils and sniffed gingerly. With a flick of his wrist, he splashed the professor’s face with the contents. ‘And what is this substance exactly? Is it an acid?’
Velicu recoiled and spluttered; then he shook his dripping head, wiped his eyes with a cloth. ‘No, just a mild disinfectant. I’ve been working with grafting tissue cultures onto crystals.’
‘That sounds rather promising! Tell me more.’
‘The project was concerned with amplifying the efficiency and range of radio transmission, but it failed.’
‘Too bad.’ Jukka stifled a yawn.
Velicu began trembling. ‘What am I supposed to do? I know nothing about making weapons! I’m just a—’
‘Come now,’ softy chided Jukka. ‘I’m willing to help you in any way I can. All you need to do is give me the notes of all the projects you have ever worked on. I’ll read them in my spare time and make a list of various possibilities we can explore together. It’s my job to collect notes and read them; already I have sifted through thousands of papers belonging to the School of Artillery, Military and Naval Engineering. Now it’s the turn of your university and this department.’
Velicu cast a sidelong glance at the refrigeration unit in the corner and said, ‘Many of my notes are private—’
Jukka blinked once. Then he covered the distance between himself and the professor with a jump. One hand gripped Velicu around the throat; the other produced a thin serrated knife from a hidden pocket. It all happened so rapidly that the professor saw only a blur. He twisted but the fingers of his attacker tightened like iron talons.
The smile of Jukka was precise and inhuman.
‘Where I come from, a man learns to use a blade when he’s a child. It’s a harsh life and land. I remember breaking an icicle off my roof, long and thick as a lance it was, and going out to hunt wolves. I had to find and kill them before the icicle melted. Big brutes, never afraid of man. One winter it was so cold they came into the centre of Helsinki and ambushed people on the streets. But I flourished there!’
Professor Velicu was turning blue. His
eyes bulged.
Abruptly the pressure eased. As the professor sagged to his knees, the Finn cleaned his fingernails with the point of the knife, his expression and posture blasé. ‘The most crucial lesson to learn is that disobedience is the devourer of life; that and hesitation.’
‘I’ll do anything you say!’ croaked Velicu.
Jukka nodded. ‘I feel confident you will. Yes, my friend, you’ll never want to cause trouble for me. We have an understanding. Be sure to give me your notes now, every last scrap.’
Blood And Fog
Thick mist rose up from the sea and the distant sail of the clipper was lost to sight, but Captain Tom welcomed it. He preferred to prove his nautical skills by fighting in poor weather, he said, but I also suspected he needed the cover to fully exploit the element of surprise. The fog rolled so solidly over the deck that I felt the world had dissolved, become nebulous but too opaque to admit the passage of light and air. A cloying cloud, the cosmos now, and I was lost inside nothingness.
Did Scipio Faraway experience the same sense of dislocation in the fogs he must have encountered in his own life? I found myself comparing my reactions with his at the slightest opportunity; yet this was ludicrous, for I couldn’t possibly know how he dealt with such situations. Clearly he had a strong symbolic value for me: in the brief time I had spoken to him the invisible power of his presence, his aura, had seeped into the fibres of my flesh, into the workings of my soul.
I wanted to be like him, but I didn’t know how!
A command interrupted my reverie. ‘Wake up, Mr Griffiths, or you’ll miss the show!’ This was Captain Tom’s voice. I shook my head clear of futile yearnings and jumped into action.
Pedersen and the other sailors were dragging the howitzer up from the hold and positioning it at the railings. Captain Tom’s normal tactic was to shoot a stream of tracer shells in the general direction of the target ship as a warning. Each charge had been adulterated with strontium nitrate that would colour the fog and smoke crimson; and, because thermite still burns underwater, the boiling of the sea in the vicinity as the flares snaked to the seabed would provide another shock.
‘Psychology! That’s the best way!’ he added.
‘But we can’t see what we’re aiming at. What if the howitzers score a direct hit on the clipper?’ I asked him.
He shrugged and bit his cigar. ‘It sometimes happens. In that case we just wait for the next to come along!’
This seemed an irresponsible way to conduct an act of piracy, but for him it worked; he was successful. So I decided to suppress my objections and concentrate on the task in hand.
We fired three shells in the general direction of the other vessel, each one at a slightly different elevation. I strained my ears to catch the boom, but then recalled that these shells were incendiaries and any impact, even if it were against the hull of the clipper, would be too muffled to hear. For a few minutes we stood motionless.
Captain Tom nodded, removed his round spectacles, wiped them clear of mist and remarked, ‘They must have received that message. Now let’s move in and claim our rightful prize.’
We nosed cautiously through the fog. At last the clipper loomed out of the creamy murk; but there was something odd about it, as if the hull had melted from a direct hit, yet on closer inspection the vessel turned out to be completely undamaged by our assault. It was simply a peculiar design, unlike any other clipper. A long section of the deck extended over the sea and appeared to act as a ramp, but for what purpose none could guess. To my relief, the crew had already escaped in lifeboats, abandoning the ship without a fight. Unlike all the other pirates, I hadn’t looked forward to the consequences of a robust resistance.
Captain Tom was dismayed. ‘I was hoping for action, but the thermite shells certainly do frighten the majority of sailors. No matter! The clipper is ours now. Let’s grapple her closer.’
Mads Pedersen pointed upwards. Through a rent in the fog, an obscure flag fluttered. ‘I don’t recognise it…’
‘Those are the colours of Bessarabia! I didn’t know Bessarabia was a seafaring state! How extraordinary!’
‘I didn’t even realise it was a nation,’ I said.
Captain Tom smirked. ‘Aye, we live in confusing times, sure enough, and borders are more flexible than they’ve ever been. All sorts of places are declaring independence and forming federations that last a few weeks or merging with other countries. I daresay that some rebels in Bessarabia decided to call themselves free, bought this clipper, converted it until the shape was the way they liked best.’
Grappling irons had been thrown across and the clipper was hauled to the decayed side of our own vessel.
The men started jumping over. Once all were aboard, the lines would be cut and the old schooner allowed to drift as a derelict while the pirates enjoyed to the full their new, improved home. I watched as the men leaped with remarkable agility, then I realised I ought to follow quickly. But fog had slicked the deck and I slipped.
I struck my head on a protruding nail…
Blood filled my mouth and an involuntary sleep pressed its thumbs on my eyeballs. I sank into oblivion.
It sounds like a cliché but it wasn’t. I blacked out.
When I awoke, I was alone. I called out but there was no reply. With a pounding skull I lurched to my feet and reached the rail. The clipper had left without me! I had been accidentally marooned on the rotten schooner and I knew my erstwhile comrades wouldn’t come back to save me when they realised I was missing. Pirates do have a code of honour, but in such circumstances it’s every man for himself. I doubted I could steer this ship to any port, even without thick fog.
‘Spwng dorth!’ I cried; another Welsh curse.
I knew I was one hundred leagues east of the Azores, but that was the limit of my navigational insight! I was doomed. A slow death by thirst, starvation and madness awaited me; better to search the hold for a blade with which to end my miserable life.
But I was never given the chance to do this. A shrill whistling assailed my ears, forcing me to cover them with my hands, and there was a purple flash; then a gaping hole appeared in the middle of the deck. I teetered on the edge and peered over. For an instant I saw right through the schooner to the foaming sea beneath! Then the water filled the crater and the vessel went down with astounding rapidity.
I was sucked behind its spiralling descent. I thrashed my arms, kicked my feet, and suddenly broke the surface. A few shattered planks drifted in my vicinity and I clutched one for support. It was obvious that a meteorite had struck the schooner; and the unlikelihood of the event struck me as an excellent joke. I laughed jubilantly, insanely. Nothing could ever match it for originality and unexpectedness!
Or could it? Something bubbled near me.
I continued laughing. I believe I was genuinely mad at that moment. A sea serpent? Was it coming to devour me? Why not! Anything may occur in this life of ours! The black bulk rose malignantly out of the deeps; then I noticed something bizarre about it.
The body of this aquatic monster was riveted!
A hatch opened with a clang.
A man’s head emerged.
Scipio Faraway!
The Iron Coffin
Without even calling out, I flung myself in the sea and swam to him, and he reached down and pulled me up. Then he pushed me through the hatch and I fumbled with the rungs of a ladder into the belly of the beast. Sitting in the middle of the iron floor, I shivered, while Scipio shut and locked the hatch and joined me in the dimness.
‘There’s no electric lighting, I’m afraid,’ he said.
‘Where did you get this— this—’
‘Submarine. Would you believe me if I told you it had been forged by the blacksmiths of a forgotten Jewish town in a part of Morocco that still uses 16th Century Castilian as its primary language? That it was given to me by the last of the Barbary Corsairs, a man who plans to liberate the Rif from foreign control? And that I steered it along an underground river in
pitch darkness from a cursed oasis?’
‘Yes! Yes!’ I almost shouted.
He opened a bottle of brandy and offered it to me. ‘Drink it slowly if you don’t want to make yourself worse. You have been adrift for several days, by the look of you, and so…’
I shook my head. ‘Only a few minutes!’
‘Really! From your ragged appearance I imagined it was much longer, but perhaps you were already ill?’
‘Monsieur Faraway,’ I pleaded, ‘I’m not an adventurer by profession and I suspect that my constitution is weaker than that of most men who survive the wreck of a pirate vessel; I am a journalist, and I doubt you have known a journalist as tough as a sailor.’
Scipio laughed. ‘Well, there was Jack London.’
I gasped, ‘You met him?’
‘Yes, certainly. A personal friend. I told you once that I had distrust for most journalists, and the reason I made that remark is that no-one can ever match Jack for integrity and force of character. Other journalists will always be in his shade. No offence!’
Suddenly my heart felt light, for here was evidence that Scipio Faraway did remember me and that I was more than a lost soul at sea picked up for simple reasons of common humanity.
‘None taken!’ I blurted. ‘None taken at all!’
‘Do you require food, Mr Griffiths? I have some bread, olives, honey, but very little else. There’s a fishing rod over there if you care to test your skills, but nothing to cook with.’
‘No, my stomach is too queasy to accept nourishment. Where are you heading now? To what horizon?’
Scipio tapped a dial with his finger. ‘The power has almost gone. Time to head back to shore. Portugal is the nearest mainland coast; I have many friends there and it will be good to see them again. Have you ever visited the city of Oporto, Mr Griffiths?’
‘No. Is it worth seeing,’ I asked him.
