The War of the Four Isles

by Andrew McGahan

  ‘Oh, there was . . .’ Boiler stared bitterly out towards the Claw. ‘When the war started, pockets of rebellion sprang up all over New Island. We even helped the Twin Islanders to drive the Ship Kings out. But then they only betrayed and enslaved us, and later when the Ship Kings came back they did even worse, as punishment for rising against them. And so it has been ever since, as each side has come and gone. Almost everyone who took up arms is dead now, except for us.’

  Dow could only stare. All dead!

  ‘There were never enough of us anyway. New Islanders have been a docile people too long. Maybe we could have done it, with the right leaders, at the start . . . but there’s no hope of it now.’

  Dow made a last effort to revive the dying flame. ‘But after the battle, with the Twin Islanders pulling back, and the Ship Kings without Carrasco and Ferdinand, and even the Sea Lord dead; isn’t there a chance . . .?’

  Again, Boiler shook his head, irrefutable. ‘It makes no difference. I thought myself that with the loss of the War Master, perhaps the Twin Islanders would see wisdom and seek to make allies of us, rather than slaves. But no, edicts have already come from the Mistress Superior, who now commands the Twin Islanders, declaring that her armies will hold Port Tyler against the Ship Kings at all costs, and impart death to any New Islander who rises – for she will reconquer here, she promises.

  ‘As for the Ship Kings, they are ruled now, it’s said, by the young lass of a Sea Lord, Henrietta. It seems that she is with child and has claimed the throne with surprising vigour on behalf of her offspring, confounding the heirs of Carrasco and Ferdinand. And she has sworn to drive the Twin Islanders from this land, and then to conquer the Twin Isles themselves.’

  Dow sagged, desolation sapping all his strength. ‘Then the war will just go on . . .’

  ‘Aye,’ nodded Boiler. ‘It’s a strange turn that both empires are now to be ruled by women, but the fact will alter little; the fighting will continue. Each side has gained and lost too much in this war now to quit short of total victory – and yet I doubt total victory will ever come. The fleets will merely dwindle in size as they batter at each other, and in all the lands everything will become more mean and wretched and ruined, and descend into darkness. But an end to it? That will be long in coming, and too late for New Island, or for civilisation.’

  Dow could dispute none of it, and the spark of hope in him perished, leaving him empty. He looked at Boiler in pained query. ‘Then what do you want of me here? Why have you come?’

  ‘To escape with you.’

  ‘Escape? Escape to where?’

  Boiler’s face fell, a slow landslide. ‘You mean you don’t have anywhere to go?’

  Dow shook his head.

  ‘But I thought you must,’ said the innkeeper in shock. ‘I felt sure. In all these famous travels of yours, to the Ice and all the Four Isles and beyond, I thought you must know of a land to which we can flee, and find safety. Are you saying you don’t?’

  ‘There’s nowhere.’

  Boiler stared about at the ruins in dismay. ‘Then what is to become of us?’

  Dow could only silently echo the innkeeper’s anguished question. If there was nothing for them here, then where could they go? Yes, they could flee Stone Port with their lives, and put to sea. But after that, no port in the world would take them in, not a crew of New Islanders, Ship Kings and Twin Islanders combined. Nor could they stay at sea eternally. To sail, one must have a shore to return to. But what shore was there left that wasn’t racked and ruined, and subject to eternal war? No shore in the Four Isles.

  Which left only—

  It was then, finally, amid his ultimate despair, that Dow saw what it was he must do, and where it was that he must lead.

  *

  But he said nothing as yet, only had Boiler call his troops down from the ridge, so that now two hundred New Islanders were added to the rest. All told, the numbers in Stone Port had swollen to close to a thousand men, women and children.

  That same night Dow called a meeting in the Snout’s Great Cabin. Invited were Jake Tooth, Commander Fidel, and Boiler Swan. And of course Nell. It was these four who must decide it.

  Dow addressed them all. ‘So now we’re a threefold people, with two ships between us. But who should be the one that commands? At the moment, all Ship Kings here are by rights under Fidel’s authority. The most senior Twin Islands officer is Jake. And the New Islanders all follow you, Boiler . . .’

  The innkeeper said, ‘But all are here because of you, Dow.’ At which Fidel nodded, and Jake too. ‘Do you seek to deny that responsibility?’

  ‘No,’ said Dow carefully. ‘But nor do I make any assumption of it. Going by age and experience, it shouldn’t be me at all, but Jake or Fidel. I’m too young. I’ve never commanded anything bigger than an attack boat. I can’t plot a course properly, or navigate. I can barely even read or write yet.’

  Fidel said, ‘But it’s not a matter of experience. We have officers enough who know of navigation and the like; that’s not what we expect of you.’

  ‘I know.’

  Jake’s eyes were dangerous, ready to judge. ‘Then what are you saying?’

  ‘I’m not saying anything. I’m asking.’ Dow bowed his head, afraid to go on, but knowing he must. ‘Though I have no claim to it, I’m asking you to give me the captaincy. I’m asking – if I lead, will you three follow me?’

  There was a charged silence in the cabin. Jake, Fidel and Boiler all regarded each other wordlessly. Then they nodded – Boiler first, followed by Fidel, and last, after a pause, even Jake.

  And so it was accomplished. Under no official authority, and with no insignia of rank, and still several months short of his twentieth birthday, Dow Amber, son of a timber cutter, was captain.

  ‘Which is well and good,’ said Jake, in a tone of no great respect. ‘But where will you lead?’

  Dow, however, was not ready to reveal that; not yet. He said only, ‘How soon can we sail?’

  The harpooner considered. ‘Perhaps by tomorrow night, certainly the dawn after. The Snout is all but ready, and there remain only a last few tasks on the Chloe – is that not so, Commander?’

  Fidel nodded, looked at Dow. ‘But you will not say where we are to go?’

  ‘I will,’ promised Dow, knowing that this was the last great hurdle to cross before he truly took command; what he was to ask of them would sound insane. ‘But not now. For now, everyone should just get back to work, and we’ll talk tomorrow.’ He hesitated. ‘No, there is one thing. How many attack boats do we have in the harbour?’

  ‘Sixteen,’ said Jake.

  ‘Then load four onto the Snout and four onto the Chloe. Dismantle the rest and store them away in the holds. We’ll need every one of them.’

  The three men exchanged surmising glances, but nodded, and filed out.

  Nell, however, only shut the door behind them, and turned to Dow, her eyes bright.

  ‘I know what you mean to do!’ she said, and Dow read in her eyes that she did, in every detail.

  ‘Is it madness?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ she insisted, coming to him. ‘It’s the answer. It’s terrifying . . . but it’s right.’

  Dow shook his head. ‘It could be the death of all of us. Even if we get through, there’s no guarantee there’s anything on the other side . . .’ And yet, even as he said it, he remembered a white bird high in the air, a bird that never landed anywhere known.

  ‘It’s hope, Dow,’ she said, close now. ‘Hope when there’s none anywhere else. You’ve found it, the reason we’re here, you and I. It’s to do this.’

  Strangely, her fervour only increased his own doubts. He’d discovered the purpose for which she had been searching so desperately, he knew; but in her excitement, she was not thinking of the cost, any more than he had when he’d gone after Diego.

  ‘Nell,’ he began to say. Beware. . .

  But then she was kissing him, wild in her belief, and the thought fled from h
is mind.

  *

  Even then, Dow wasn’t sure how he would break the news to the others. What if they simply threw up their hands in horror when he unveiled the truth, and refused him? They had agreed to follow him, yes, but to the edge of the world? And then off it? All on no greater evidence than a glimpse of a white bird in the sky?

  But in fact there would be one other sign.

  Early the next morning, as Dow and Nell were breakfasting, a message came from Fidel on the Chloe; could they please come over immediately? Dow and Nell exchanged mystified glances across the table, but rose without delay and within a few moments were being rowed across to the other ship.

  Dow had not set foot on the Chloe since the morning after their arrival. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was just too full of memories of Johannes, and of Captain Vincente. Somehow, it didn’t feel right that he should treat the vessel as his own. But as Jake and Fidel had promised, its repairs were almost complete. The broken mast had been remounted, and new rigging strung, and around the bow the damage from the fire looked to have been made good. Most importantly of all, on the rail of the high deck the words Pride of Valdez were gone, and the ship was officially the Chloe once more.

  The boat pulled alongside and Dow and Nell climbed up to the main deck, where Commander Fidel met them. ‘Welcome aboard,’ he said, with a smile of suppressed excitement. In one hand he clutched a rolled up sheet of paper. ‘If you’ll follow me . . .’

  He led them to the Great Cabin. Boiler Swan and Jake Tooth were already there, and they too seemed brimming with some unspoken knowledge of which only Dow and Nell remained ignorant.

  The cabin itself was a mess. It had been damaged by cannon fire in the battle – and by the deadly melee that had taken place there during the Chloe’s storming – and clearly the carpenters had left its repairs for last, for there were trestles and tools sitting about amid piles of sawdust. But Fidel paid no attention to any of that. He led Dow and Nell to the centre of the room.

  ‘Behold,’ he said, pointing up.

  He was indicating the great wooden beam that ran athwart the ceiling, the main support of the cabin’s roof, and also thus of the high deck above. It was a huge timber of ancient oak; smooth, and dark with age. A stepladder stood there, rising to the forward side of the beam, and on the timber itself was a faded rectangle of paler wood, as if left by something recently removed.

  ‘As you might remember,’ said Fidel, ‘it’s traditional in Ship Kings vessels to install a plaque in the Great Cabin, here on the centre beam, bearing in letters of silver or gold the ship’s name. This morning we finally removed the plaque reading Pride of Valdez, ready to restore the name Chloe here. But I noticed something strange about the space beneath. Do you see it, Dow?’

  Dow stared more attentively. On the paler section of the beam there seemed to be faint lines, like the scorch marks of a long-ago fire, sanded almost entirely away. They hinted at meaning, as if they may have been letters, but nothing could be read there now.

  Fidel said, ‘I was reminded, when I saw these marks, that Chloe is not this ship’s original name either. Captain Vincente only bestowed it when he first took command of the vessel, some sixteen years ago now. Before that it was known as the Vanquish, and it belonged not to the Valignano fleet, but to the fleet of Castille. Indeed, the ship only passed to Vincente because he won it in a duel at sea with a Castille captain.

  ‘That duel itself is a famous tale I must tell you one day. But for now, I began to wonder if these markings were perhaps the remains of the Chloe’s old name, Vanquish, carved into the wood. I could not read the letters, but with paper and charcoal I’ve been able to take a rubbing, just as I do in my studies as historian, when examining old buildings and gravestones in the Kingdoms.’

  Dow was listening to all this in increasing bewilderment. What did such ancient Ship Kings history have to do with him? ‘And?’ he asked.

  Fidel now unrolled the paper he held. ‘I was right in one respect. It is indeed the Chloe’s old name – but it’s not Vanquish. Such was the ship called during its years in the Castille fleet, but even that was not its original name. Its first name, its true name, was given long before then, by the captain who built and launched it, fully a century ago.’ And so saying, his hand trembling slightly, he held out the paper.

  Dow took it and stared at the scrapings of charcoal. He saw the letter G, and then part of an R, the hint of something that might have been an E, and quite clearly a Y. Then, after a space, came an S, an A, and perhaps the upright of an I. The last letter was a mere wisp that could have been anything. But it didn’t matter. The others were enough. More than enough.

  ‘The Chloe’s first and true name,’ said Fidel solemnly, ‘is the Grey Sail.’

  Even now, for a moment Dow’s mind was too blank to register the meaning of this. He could only stare dumbly at the letters.

  ‘The Grey Sail,’ Fidel urged softly, as if Dow just needed reminding. ‘The ship of your ancestor, Admiral Honous Tombs, the greatest captain in New Island history and scourge of my own people in the Great War. This is his vessel, Dow. The very same.’

  Dow lifted his gaze from the paper at last. ‘How can that be? The Grey Sail was sunk.’

  ‘Not sunk,’ corrected Fidel. ‘It was captured, Trust me, I have studied this very subject in years gone by. It was taken intact as a prize in the Great War’s final battle, as the last New Island fleet went down in ruin. Its crew was imprisoned, and Honous Tombs was executed. But as to the fate of the ship – ah, that is where the mystery begins.

  ‘The Sea Lord of the day gave firm orders that it be scuttled. It was considered that if it was left afloat, even in our possession, then it might serve as a rallying cry for New Island resistance. So the kingdom of Castille – whose fleet had captured the Grey Sail – was told to sink the vessel. And they later reported that they had done exactly that. However, there were always rumours otherwise, that in fact Castille had decided to keep the great prize for themselves, and had merely stripped the craft of its old markings, then relaunched it as their own. Many New Island battleships were converted so after the Great War. The Grey Sail, without its famous dark canvas, would’ve look little different from any other.

  ‘And now we know the rumours were true, for here we stand on the very ship! It served all in secret with the Castille fleet for over sixty years, until it passed to Vincente, who captained it for twelve years more without ever learning of its true identity – and me along with him!’

  Dow stared at the paper again, at the impossible, legendary name written there in the ghostly letters. ‘But how could no one even suspect . . .?’

  ‘Why would we? The ship was refurbished several times while in the Castille fleet – and Vincente rebuilt it too, when he took it over. Of the original decking and superstructure, a bare few timbers even survive, other than this centre beam here. Only the hull, preserved in its nicre, is complete as the vessel was first launched, and as your ancestor would have known it. The hull alone – but that’s the essence of any ship.’

  Nell was at Dow’s side, her gaze as fierce again as it had been the night before. ‘Don’t you see what this means? If this was Honous Tombs’ ship then by the rights of blood and inheritance, it’s your ship, and was all along, even when you first set foot on it. And to discover this now – it’s a sign! A sign that what you plan to do is right. You are meant to have this ship, and you are meant to lead us now.’

  Dow could summon no argument. It truly was a sign above all other signs, an omen beyond all other omens; it was fortune speaking to him directly, and he could no longer refuse to hear.

  It was time to tell them. He stared levelly at the three men who were now his senior commanders; Fidel, Jake Tooth and Boiler Swan. And Nell too, waiting expectantly, not an officer, but something more; his partner in fate, one life inextricably bound with the other.

  ‘Very well then,’ he said. ‘We will put to sea as soon as we’re able. Once launched, we’l
l need to start gathering supplies, by theft on shore or piracy at sea if need be. We must fill both ships with food and water enough for the longest voyage possible. But most of all, we will need whale oil. I don’t know where we’ll find it yet, but we’ll need as much as we can load into the ships, if there is to be any hope of ever reaching our destination.’

  ‘And that destination?’ asked Fidel.

  Dow said simply, ‘When all is ready, we’ll attempt to pass through the Barrier Doldrums, and so cross to the other half of the world.’

  The silence with which the three men greeted this announcement was not one of shock or amazement, for in truth they must have guessed in their hearts that this was what Dow had meant to do all along. Rather it was a silence simply of gravity, an acknowledgement that the great task had been spoken aloud. And Dow could see now that he need never have worried they would refuse, for it was in their eyes, a sombre appreciation of the same facts he had considered himself; that if there was nowhere left to go in this broken world, then they must search for a new world.

  Nevertheless, it was the Barrier Doldrums, and he could see too that not one of three men did not quail a little at the mention of the name.

  Dow turned to Nell. She was nodding in proud approval, and he knew what she was thinking; that there could be no question of it now, after this last sign. Somewhere in that southern half of the world a land must wait where they could start again, free from war and old hatreds; that this was the very purpose for which fate had brought them together.

  But Dow had learned enough of fate by now to know that it abhorred nothing so much as being taken for granted; it would always extract a price from those who thought they had it on their side.

  Yet it wasn’t so much himself he feared for. Rather, for the third time since he had first heard them spoken, and more ominously now than ever before, the words of Axay in regard to Nell came back to him . . .

  A true scapegoat you will become.

  And what truer price could a scapegoat pay than to give her life, so that others could sail free?