Soon we'll cross the harbor mouth, thought Edward. The point of no return.
A hand fell onto his shoulder and Edward, startled, turned to see Harcourt Fielding smiling at him.
“Well, the old man likes you,” said the officer. “Despite your admiration for that murderous scoundrel, Abe Lincoln.”
Edward felt a huge sense of relief.
“I'm glad to hear it,” he began, “because the voyage might have been unbearable if I were–”
A stabbing pain stopped Edward in mid-sentence. Gasping, he almost bent double. The sensation was agonizing. But then it was gone as quickly as it had arrived.
“Seasick, old chap?” asked Fielding, his face showing concern mixed with amusement. “Here's a tip, my friend, you should go to the other side and heave, rather than throw up into the wind. That will just blow it back at you!”
“No, no, I'm all right now,” replied Edward, trying to smile. “It must have been something I ate.”
He noticed that they had just left the mouth of the River Weyr and were entering the open sea. The tug had turned back, dropping the tow line. Surging forward under her own power, the Charlotte Clore began to rise and fall more violently as she breasted ocean waves.
“You know,” Edward mused. “This is the first time I've ever left my home town.”
Fielding looked astonished.
“What, you've never left that place? Not even for a day trip, or on business?”
Edward shook his head.
“For some reason the matter never arose before. I can't think why. It's as if events had been contrived to keep me here.”
“And now you're on your way to America!” Fielding exclaimed. “Quite an adventure for such a timid fellow.”
Fielding laughed amiably.
“Come on Ed, let me show you over the ship. You might as well know how things work.”
“Yes,” said Edward, thoughtfully. “Yes, that would be advantageous.”
The next half hour was spent in a daze of nautical terminology, most of which Edward forgot as soon as Fielding moved on to the next baffling item. He tried to ask sensible questions, but ended up sounding foolish.
“The main thing,” said Fielding, “is that this is a fine ship, performing splendidly on her maiden voyage. Puts paid to all that nonsense about the Curse of Weyrmouth, doesn't it?”
“Does it?” asked Edward. “How so?”
“Why, when Mister Nichols proposed this blockade-running venture to Clore, many of his people were skeptical,” explained Fielding. “No, they said, anything so ambitious would fall foul of the curse. Such a big, fine ship would never be launched from Weyrmouth. And yet here we are, heading westward.”
“Indeed,” said Edward.
But perhaps, he thought, the curse is willing to bide its time.
***
The morning when they were due to make landfall, Edward was awoken by a loud commotion. Orders were being barked, sailors were running to and fro, and the sound of the ship's engines had risen to a disturbing crescendo. He dressed hastily and went up on deck, trying to avoid getting in the way as the crew-members busied themselves about tasks Edward understood vaguely, if at all.
Fielding was on deck, and took pity on his passenger's obvious confusion.
“We're running the Union blockade,” said the first officer.
Edward peered out at the sea but saw no sign of any threat.
“There she is, a Yankee frigate,” said Fielding, pointing off to the right. Edward strained his eyes and could just make out a white blur that must have been a ship's sails. A small puff of gray smoke appeared as he watched. A few seconds later, he heard a muffled bang.
“Firing is highly speculative at such long range,” said Fielding.
“Firing?” said Edward.
It took him a second to realize that someone was trying to kill him. A moment after that, a column of water shot up about fifty yards from the Charlotte Clore. Captain Garrett began barking orders and the sound of the ship's steam engines increased, gaining an even more urgent beat. The vessel picked up speed as another cannon shot flew past and missed, but landed closer than the first.
“We are too fast for them,” said Fielding matter-of-factly. “It would be more fitting to fight, of course. But needs must when the Devil drives!”
The phrase struck Edward as ominous. However, the pursuing warship soon vanished from sight. Then the coast of South Carolina appeared ahead of the Charlotte Clore, and the crew prepared to unload rifles, heavy guns, and other military material.
And I, thought Edward, am to await Mister Nichols' agent.
The ship made landfall without further incident. While others went ashore as soon as the gangplank was down, Edward went down to his cabin and opened the mysterious envelope. He had hoped to find some clue as to his real mission. In fact, what the single sheet of paper contained was a further mystery. He stared at two strange, utterly unfamiliar words.
LAPSIT EXILLIS
He struggled to pronounce the bizarre phrase.
Might be Latin, he thought. If only I had had a genteel education.
Edward was superfluous when it came to handling the cargo. Everything proceeded efficiently and soon the shipment for the Confederate army was unloaded. Then loading began, as bales of cotton were heaved onto the deck, awaiting stowage below.
“A profitable venture,” remarked Fielding, as he and Edward looked on. “The blockade is biting deep, I'm told. Mill owners will pay a small fortune for cotton.”
Edward nodded.
“It's an ill wind that blows nobody any good,” he said.
“A nice nautical term – well done!” exclaimed Fielding, slapping him on the back. “But why wait on deck, here? You could go ashore, see a little of the city?”
“I'm waiting for someone,” said Edward. “A special – item.”
Fielding looked puzzled.
“News to me,” he said. “What is this item?”
Edward smiled in confusion.
“I've no idea,” he admitted.
“Well,” Fielding pointed out, “who's bringing it? A regular shipping agent, a private individual?”
Again, Edward admitted that he did not know. Fielding as he put it, 'some fun with the Charleston gals'. Edward, finding himself in the way as usual, went ashore and found a dockside tavern. He was in the corner nursing a small measure of local whiskey when someone leaned over the back of his chair.
“What are the two words?”
Startled, Edward looked round to see a tall, spare man looming over him. The stranger's face was shadowed by a broad-brimmed hat.
“What are the two words?” hissed the tall man. “Quickly now!”
“I've no idea–” began Edward, then realized that the question had only one plausible answer.
“Er, sorry, I meant to say, Lapsit Exillis,” he stammered out.
The stranger nodded, and jerked his head to indicate that the Englishman should follow him. Outside, the tall man led Edward into a shadowed alleyway between two warehouses, well out of the sight of the people on the dock.
“Here,” said the stranger, opening his coat to reveal an object wrapped in old newspapers and tied up with string. It looked unremarkable and was just small enough to fit into the man's hand. Edward had expected something far more impressive. But when he took the parcel, he almost dropped it in surprise. It was so heavy he felt sure it must be made from some dense substance, possibly gold.
“Don't open it,” grunted the tall man. “Never touch it.”
Without another word, he turned and strode away before Edward could ask anything.
***
The Charlotte Clore left Charleston the following day. As he had done once before, Edward stood on deck watching the port fall behind the ship. Fielding joined him.
“Did you get that precious item, then?” asked the officer, the Englishman a slap on the back.
Edward nodded, and unconsciously his hand moved toward the breast
of his coat.
“Keeping it with you, eh?” said Fielding, lowering his voice a little. “Probably a good idea. It may come as a shock, but some sailors are dishonest men.”
The American laughed at his weak quip, but Edward looked around anxiously to see if any of the crew were listening. So far as he could see, they were all busy with their tasks. But later he found that someone had, indeed, overheard Fielding. That night as he lay in his bunk, he was awoken by the sound of stealthy movement.
“What is it?” he said sleepily.
The response was a punch in the eye that knocked him senseless for a moment. When he came round and lit the lantern he saw that his coat – which had been hung on the back of the door – was lying on the cabin floor. The mysterious parcel was gone. Edward rushed on deck calling for help and the duty officer roused Captain Garrett, who was sympathetic but not hopeful.
“There are a hundred places in a ship this size to hide a small object, lad,” explained the captain. “Oh, we can search the men as they go ashore when we make port. But there are ways to get round that, I'm afraid.”
Edward protested, but after a while, Garrett simply dismissed his complaints. Edward began to wonder what Nichols would say when he learned that his precious property had been stolen.
The next morning, Edward arrived in the ship's saloon for breakfast only to find the captain and Harcourt Fielding standing over a sailor who appeared, at first glance, to be drunk. The man was slumped against a bulkhead, smiling inanely up at Garrett, seemingly crooning a little song to himself.
“They found him like this?” the captain asked Fielding.
“Yes,” replied the first officer, “lying on his bunk, his mind gone.”
“Hmm,” said Garrett, leaning closer to the sailor. “No smell of liquor. No sign of a head injury. Is he prone to fits?”
“No sir,” Fielding answered. “A regular deckhand, if a bit shifty. Has a reputation for petty theft, cheating at cards, that sort of thing.”
A thought struck Edward and he looked more closely at the sailor. One of the man's hands was clutching something. He pointed this out to Garrett.
“Yes,” said the captain dismissively. “We can't get Drummond to let go of it.”
Garrett and Fielding withdrew a few paces to confer about whether Drummond needed to be confined. Edward crouched by the man to try and hear what he was singing. It was a childish song that made little sense.
“They're all in the stone together,” sang Drummond, smiling at Edward. “All in the stone together.”
“What is that in your hand?” asked Edward gently. “Is it something you took from my cabin?”
“Took?” said Drummond, looking puzzled. Then he seemed to remember. “Ah, yes, I took it! Unwrapped it, wanted to see it, thought it might be precious; a jewel. But when I touched it, they all started talking in my head at once.”
The sailor looked down, opened his hand. In his palm lay a smooth, greenish-gray stone. It was roughly oval, about the size of a small cake of soap. Edward reached out, and gently brushed the stone with the tip of one finger. Instantly, a sensation of cold shot through him, and he heard a chorus of whispering voices. There seemed to be thousands of speakers, all talking in a strange language. Their words were incomprehensible but the feelings behind them were clear.
Frustration, anger, despair. Misery.
Prisoners, he thought. A terrible captivity.
Edward jerked his hand back and took out his pocket handkerchief. Then he gently took the stone from Drummond and left without a word. Later in his cabin, he laid the stone on the small table and examined it under lamplight. But there was nothing in its appearance to even hint at its strange properties. He wrapped it up again in several layers of cloth, including a small Confederate flag Fielding had given him as a souvenir of his voyage. Then he put the strange stone in the bottom of an old cigar box, underneath his precious sketch-book.
He tried not to think about the stone during the fortnight it took to reach England. But sometimes, at night, he thought he heard despairing voices, whispering.
***
“We'll lie off the coast until high tide first thing this morning,” explained Fielding. “It is unheard of to try to enter harbor by night.”
The ship was anchored just a few miles up the coast from Weyrmouth. Edward was eager to complete the voyage and rid himself of the strange stone. But he also had doubts about the wisdom of handing it over to Nichols. There was something evil about the object, he felt. And there was the warning in the mystery woman's portrait. He had tried to rationalize the words, tell himself he had somehow written them in his sleep. But, despite all this commonsense, Edward had the growing conviction that Nichols was indeed not a human being.
All the more reason not to cross him, then, he thought. But that is a cowardly impulse. There is great powerful and great evil confined within that stone. Would a good man want it?
He was still musing on this as a storm came out of nowhere. One minute the entire horizon was clear and the sky a great dome of blue. The next, a wall of dark clouds had appeared to the north and was bearing down on the Charlotte Clore. Edward had learned enough about seamanship by now to know that a vessel always headed out to sea in a storm. Sure enough, the ship weighed anchor turned to face the oncoming tempest. But the maneuver was too slow and the blast struck the vessel broadside on.
“We're being driven inshore, onto the rocks!” a sailor shouted, eyes wide with panic.
Edward, clinging to the rigging, struggled to stay upright as waves broke over the ship and left him drenched and battered. Sure enough, he saw the rocky shore get closer, the small lighthouse on the headland just visible through driving rain. The roar of the tempest almost blotted out his thoughts.
I'm going to die. I'll never marry Molly, never have a life, never know happiness.
Then a voice spoke inside his head.
“Edward!”
It was Nichols' voice, as clear as if they had been standing by one another in a quiet room. The storm receded as the voice continued.
“Get the stone, Edward. Get the stone, and bring it ashore. You are the only passenger, they will send you first. Save yourself! Save the stone! Do this for me, my child.”
The voice was hypnotic, intensely persuasive. After waiting for a gap between gusts, Edward let go of the rigging and rushed for a hatchway. Despite the battering he endured due to the rolling of the ship, he managed to reach his cabin and grab the cigar box. By the time he scrambled back on deck the crew were trying to launch the lifeboats. But even as Edward watched, one boat was smashed against the side of the ship and totally destroyed. Then came a louder crash, and a juddering shock ran through the deck. The funnel collapsed in a jangle of mangled iron, followed by the mainmast.
“She's aground!” came the cry.
“Look!” shouted Fielding, pointing at the headland.
A red spark appeared, hurtled through the cloud-blackened sky. Like a shooting star, the rocket arced overhead, then fell into the raging water. A white line fell onto the deck. Garrett bellowed orders but men were already heaving at the light line, pulling a sturdier rope towards the ship.
Fielding appeared suddenly, grabbed Edward. He gestured to where crewmen were securing the rope around the mainmast's stump.
“Captain says you're to go first. We'll hitch you up, they'll pull you ashore.”
Another huge wave broke over the ship and Edward almost lost the cigar box.
“You can't take–” Fielding began, then looked at Edward's face. “Oh, all right. But hold on tight.”
Soon Fielding and two sailors had tied Edward to the rope in an improvised harness. Then Fielding waved a white handkerchief above his head, a signal to the men on shore to begin hauling. The rope jerked, then began to move smoothly, carrying Edward over the wave-beaten rocks. The storm seemed to grow even more intense, the wind howling like some great beast.
Anger, he thought. Nature's rage? God's fury? The curse of
Weyrmouth? Am I the unwitting cause of this?
Looking back at the ship, Edward saw a vast wave emerging from the storm-spray. It broke over the ship and the stern broke off, disintegrating as men were hurled into the sea. Edward heard cries of fear and panic, but these were cut short as the sailors were flung onto the black rocks.
Oh God, he thought. Have I brought death to those men?
After what seemed like an eternity, Edward reached the shore and was manhandled out of his harness. As his feet touched the shingle he felt the rope go slack, and looked around. The Charlotte Clore was just visible for a moment, a black oblong object amid gray breakers. Then she was gone. Around Edward, men and women cried, raged, tried to comfort one another.
All the sailors are dead, he thought. And most of them local men.
“Excuse me, sir,” said a boy, doffing his cap. “Gentleman waiting up on the road there, would like a word. Gave me sixpence to tell you to come up.”
Edward looked to where the man was pointing and saw a two-horse carriage. He thanked the messenger and trudged the dozen or so yards up the shingle towards the road, ignoring offers of warm rum or a blanket. It was, as he had guessed, Nichols. As soon as Edward stepped onto the roadway, Nichols held out his hand.
“Well done!” he shouted. “My property, if you please.”
Edward opened the box and took out the wrapped stone. But instead of handing it over, he looked up at Nichols. What had been the face of a handsome young man was now something very different. All vestiges of humanity had vanished from it, so that the face now seemed like a fleshy mask worn by some unimaginable entity.
Not human, he thought. No, not remotely.
“Hand it over, man!” snarled Nichols. “Quickly, now! I have waited so long!”
Edward unwrapped the stone and held it in the palm of his hand. He vaguely heard Nichols' voice shouting warnings, threats, but the voices from inside the stone were much, much more insistent. They demanded their liberty, and he felt their inhuman lust for freedom, and sensed the destruction they would revel in if ever they gained it.
Blood of Angels (Curse of Weyrmouth Series Book 2) Page 12
