At the Midway

by J. Clayton Rogers

  "Captain...."

  "Yeah... I see...." Chandry was following the outstretched arm of one of the Portuguese. The head that was unveiled under the ribs was attached to something outside the whale's body. With a start, he noticed the huge brown outline at a right angle to the ship. The seamen in the water were no longer trying to get on board, but cutting waves as fast as they could to get away from the thing. Chandry took a stab at estimating its size, and failed. Must be the aguardiente, he thought secretly. He found himself blocking off stretches of ocean in his mind. What he was seeing could not be that big. Each time he did so, however, his eyes blurred and he had to readjust his perspective. Finally, he fixed in his mind the largest living creature he'd ever seen, a blue whale, and matched it against the outline.

  Again, his gauge was inadequate. This monster was bigger than a blue... holy Mother. He turned to his first mate.

  "What do you make of her?"

  The mate's eyes were stark with disbelief. "It's a serpent...."

  "I can see that, fool!"

  To either side of the outline water splashed loudly. The beast backed out of the whale, ripping off a chunk of meat as it raised a flipper and initiated a massive turn around the ship.

  Chandry stood back and nudged the clump that had been the lookout with his toe. "Ain't much left of him, is there? Damn thing near hulled us." Unsteadily, he marched aft, following the progression of the monster as it described a slow, lazy circle around the Lydia Bailey. "A serpent! We have a serpent! A kraken! A dragon! A hippogriff! A big fat eel! How many barrels are in her, you think?" Chandry asked, dragging the first mate with him. "How many you think, mate?"

  A blue whale could yield upwards to two hundred and fifty barrels of oil. This creature must hold at least that much. Naturally, the way it ate through the carcass, it would have nothing in the way of baleen. This was a flat-out flesh eater, probably with long sharp teeth--ranks of them, if its mouth was like a shark's. But the oil would be enough, even if its long neck held not an ounce. At a stroke the cruise would be saved. Chandry would pass through Golden Gate with heavy holds and purses unclasped.

  "How many barrels, mate? How many, you think?" He tripped over coils, fallen tackles, spar rings and his own feet as he circled the ship to keep the thing in sight.

  "He's not going after it?" William asked pensively.

  "Why not?" Lead Foot said, his eyes locked to the whale carcass. He was watching two new monsters, both smaller than the first yet still immense. They were nibbling the meat off the whale's ribs. One of them had a pair of faint olive streaks running back over its knobby brow. Lead Foot could not know he was looking at the young female Tu-nel, or that the markings on her head would vanish when she reached adulthood.

  The mother returned to starboard and snapped at the young male, driving him away a short distance. She bit off another chunk of whale meat, then began orbiting the Lydia Bailey again.

  "How many barrels...." Chandry's voice became hoarse with hope. He watched the young male shoot back to the sperm to resume feeding next to the young female. "I count three, mate. It'll take us half a week just to boil down the big one. Come up to the bow with me."

  When he heard this William's heart squeezed tight. How did they know the beast had any oil in it, at least any of value? There was no sense to it. Chandry might as well be killing it for the sake of the difference. Newspapers would banner his name. The first man in modern times to slay a true sea serpent. Three, if his luck had changed drastically.

  Few seamen felt squeamish about taking life, least of all whalers. The trawling fleets they sometimes passed dragged life from the sea by the ton, with no consideration that some of those netted fish might hold thoughts in their tiny brains. On the other hand, whalers never considered their prey stupid. Stories abounded of whale intelligence and cunning, as attested by a long roster of dead whalers. Yet the rights, the sperms, the rorquals, the narwhals, and the smaller pilots, walruses, sea lions and seals were mere tonnage to most of the men who hunted them. More formidable than tuna, but briny and alien. Some of them, like Lead Foot, dwelled on animal intelligence. But that did not stop him from earning his keep as a killer.

  Pegg was vaguely dismayed by the greed in Lead Foot's eyes as he watched Chandry and the first mate swivel the muzzle-loading harpoon cannon around. Didn't he see that for all the millions of unique things in the world, this was something far different? The serpents were not only unique. They were not of this realm.

  The two starboard whaleboats were still afloat. Cautiously, they began fishing men out of the water. It was a frightful task. Every time the biggest serpent returned leeward the swimmers shouted their dismay as the boat officers timidly back-oared. They were pushed away even further whenever the serpent's trunk rode up. It glided so smoothly its back did not break the surface, but lifted a seamless hill of water that progressed with less effort than a fat man turning under a blanket.

  They cheered when they saw the captain and first mate readying the cannon and redoubled their efforts to save the swimmers. Once the serpent was struck, its flurry might prove lethal to anyone unprotected in the water. One of the boats was bumped by the moving hill and nearly capsized.

  "We'll need the foreganger," the first mate said.

  "No time, mate," the captain patted him.

  "One shot won't do it," the first insisted.

  "It might. It will."

  The foreganger was a series of irons attached by a sliding ring to the lead harpoon. Even if the first shot failed to mortally wound the serpent, the others would follow in quick succession and finish the job with a barrage of whale bombs.

  Chandry was counting on the six feet of Swedish steel he and the first were lifting into the three-inch bore to do the job. The harpoon weighed over a hundred pounds, not including the foot-long conical bomb at its tip. The fuse of the bomb was cut to explode three seconds after impact. This would give the harpoon time to dig into the serpent's body and plant its four prongs at opposing forty-five-degree angles. Since the gun was charged with fourteen ounces of powder, a deep penetration was all but guaranteed. With the dart secure, the bomb would go off--and liquefy the serpent's heart.

  The men in the waist drifted forward, shuffling uneasily past the lookout's body. They avoided looking into his open, staring eyes--as if they were afraid he might wink at them.

  "Tie on the bells, lads," the captain chuckled. "We'll be sailin' home rich. Those swelled heads at Harvard'll pay enough just for the bones." Again, he patted the first mate gently on the shoulder. "Next time around, take a shot a few feet under its neck. My guess, that's where the bloody heart is."

  "You got a way to make it lift its head, Captain?" the first mate said nervously. "Take a glom on that hide."

  "Just steady... stay steady. It's coming up larboard. Don't even think about its head. Looks tougher than Ironsides. Dart the body. No animal born has a heart too tough for a whale bomb. All right... she's all yours, mate." Chandry hushed the crew, unnecessarily, and tiptoed backwards a few feet, like an acolyte making room for a priest.

  The first mate checked out to starboard. The swimmers had been pulled from the sea and the whaleboats were retreating out of range. Hunkering over the gunsight, he tried to fix on the serpent as it turned in front of the Lydia Bailey, but it was so large he had to draw away some to get his reference. Every dozen yards or so the serpent raised its nostrils a few inches above the surface to breathe and he noted ripples where it exhaled. Almost imperceptibly, it clocked its neck gently back and forth as it sculled in front of the steamer. The first mate leaned down again and took aim.

  Someone dug an elbow deeply into William's ribs as he looked on. Balling his fist, he whirled.

  "Breathe!" Lead Foot commanded.

  There was a loud report--then a high, rough whine as the five-inch thick Italian whale line shot out of the forefoot, chasing the dart.

  A flat, slapping "crack!" signaled a strike precisely at the spot Chandry wanted. A minute tra
ce of blood showed as the point scored the skin--then ricocheted high into the air, extending the full twenty-five yards of its range before the line went taut and the dart yanked up short. A second later the bomb that was to have wreaked havoc with the serpent's innards exploded harmlessly.

  A sigh of incredulity rippled through the crew. The first mate leaned over the cannon a moment, thinking he'd missed a clean shot, but then he saw the others' expressions and knew he had been dead on.

  "A scratch!" Chandry roared. Noting the bemused, frightened faces around him, he took out his flask and took a swig. "A tough nut, that's all. We'll find a way--"

  A shudder ran through the Lydia Bailey.

  "Lead Foot..." William began breathlessly.

  Something long and dark rose above the bow rail. The first mate, back to the ocean, did not see the creature as it came down on him. His body disappeared into the mouth down to his legs and the jaws snapped shut. There was a loud crack as one of the man's thigh bones was caught precisely and broken. Blood spilled across the deck. They heard a muffled scream. As the great neck arched upwards, the muscles of the first mate's broken limb were severed and the leg thudded on the planking.

  The beast dropped under the rail. Man and monster were gone.

  It took the crew several moments to break free of their paralysis. Half of them dashed for the rear of the ship and William went sprawling. He did not flinch when he discovered he'd fallen over the dead lookout, but jumped and ran some more.

  Until he and the others were hit by the ludicrousness of their reaction. The boy was amazed how sheer terror could make them forget they were on a ship in the middle of the Pacific. If they wanted to keep running, they'd have to run in circles.

  Chandry was worrying a key ring from under his belt. Finding the key he wanted, he rushed to the gun locker. William realized he was crying. He stepped close to see the tears more clearly.

  "Bastard fish... kill my first!" He took out an armful of guns and began handing them to the men nearest him. The boy stared at the rifle thrust into his hands. The metal was rusty. The barrel wobbled in the grip. Pegg had no doubt it would blow up in his face if he fired it.

  There was a rattling of gunbolts and a volley of curses as frightened hands fumbled bullets into rifle chambers. Loose ammunition bobbed and weaved across the deck like mice trying to jump ship.

  Something thumped the hull low down.

  "Just the cutting stage," Chandry hissed. "It's hitting the keel."

  "Look!"

  They raised their eyes. The clouds were pinwheeling around the mainmast. Tentatively, Lead Foot approached the starboard rail and studied the motion of the water to leeward. Then he scurried back to the knot of armed men.

  "It's pushing us at the stern."

  For a few minutes they remained still as death as the Lydia Bailey moved smoothly in a circle. One of the deckhands noticed the steam winch racing. It was building up to an explosion now that it had no weight on it. He ran to it and cut the power.

  "It's stopped."

  "I turned it off."

  "No... the turning."

  Why didn't they build up steam and escape? William wondered. Was Chandry so much more afraid of the ship's owners than of this beast? The evidence was mounting that the whalers were no longer the hunters, but Chandry clung to his prayer. They would kill this thing and meet the world with gold-lined pockets.

  With a brief, whispering swish of water, a giant brow rose above the rail as high as the bowsprit, then eased down until the head was even with the weather deck. There was a harsh thump as the serpent braced its chest against the side of the ship, then it stiffly angled its head downward... and stared at them.

  The cluster of terrified humans cringed amidships. Some whimpered. A few sat hard on the deck and either buried their heads in their hands or looked up from their low position--as if some perverse instinct in them needed to make the impossibly big impossibly bigger.

  The serpent emitted a low, grumbling belch, then a moist sucking sound.

  And then the beast roared.

  It was a ripping of air like none other. The seamen nearly drowned in the noise. It was a cliff falling, an avalanche on the deep decibel of hell--the hatred and loathing and struggling and indifference of all time.

  The men could not know, of course, that the creature was throwing back at Man all of man's noise, all the rackety screws, whining steam, hissing tubes, shrill whistles, clanking chains, splashing anchors and gushing refuse. It had been hard for the Tu‑nel, approaching the clamorous Lydia Bailey. The mother could feel the noise as a bad taste. But the smell of whale blood had been irresistible.

  The noise of water‑going humankind, so concisely represented by Captain Chandry's ship, had made it enormously difficult for the Tu‑nel to echo‑locate whale packs and other prey. They were going hungry. It had been half a year since their last substantial feast.

  Abruptly, the roaring stopped. Some of the men wept. But no one could hear them. Their ears were still ringing.

  They barely heard Chandry when he began to scream. It was not a scream of fear, but of protest and hate--a malevolent power train directed in the face of the beast, which had resumed staring at them. He waved and blustered, heaved his chest forward and verbally fucked the beast to the ends of the earth. Then he raised his rifle and took aim at one of the gleaming, billiard-black eyes.

  The creature shifted. Only a bit, but enough to send a shudder through the ship and throw the captain's aim. William felt a concussive punch on his deadened eardrums. Gunsmoke billowed around the beast's head. To William, it seemed it was trying to push its way into a box of cotton.

  The dark head burst through the smoke. Apparently, the creature was not capable of flexing its neck to any great degree, but Chandry was in no shape to run or dodge. As he stumbled backwards, the huge teeth caught him at ear level. He shrieked as they clamped down and pierced his braincase--then went limp abruptly. He was dragged over the rail and out of sight.

  "Ah!"

  Several men rushed to the side and fired down as the serpent dove under the keel. Then they ran to the rail overlooking the cutting stage and shot at the two smaller beasts. Once or twice the creatures flinched as the bullets hit them. Otherwise, they continued feeding on the whale carcass. The one with green stripes gnawed on one of the tail flukes. It almost looked cute, like a sea otter worrying at a clam.

  When the futility of what they were doing hit them, the crewmen drifted back from the rail in a mild stupor. One of them voiced what had to be voiced:

  "He's gone, now. Let's steam-up and get the hell out of here."

  They glanced at each other. Was escape feasible? The deadly gleam had left Lead Foot's eyes. The Winchester he held looked like a toy in his hands. Yet when the purser sobbingly suggested they make a run for it, the old man lifted his gun defiantly.

  "Run like whipped dogs? We're not helpless. We can kill these things, if we use the foreganger." He paced the deck. With his faint cetacean cosmetic, he looked like a sweaty Indian. The smell of whale shit clung to him, as it did to William. Combined with the odor of fear, it was the most horrible scent William had ever encountered. He wanted to cover his face to block out sight, sound and stench, but the sight of a latent admiral bursting like a ripe pod from Lead Foot was too stunning to miss. The gray hair that had seemed fetchingly sad in the forecastle now stood like the cloud over Moses.

  Studying the other men's faces, it dawned on him how another kind of terror was locking them in place. Chandry was far out of reach of his earthly creditors now, but what would happen when the crew sailed into San Francisco without a captain or a first mate? The maritime board would laugh their story of a deadly encounter with a serpent out of court and onto the gallows.

  Only when they heard the screams were they reminded….

  The whaleboats!

  The two crowded boats had maintained a prudent distance between themselves and the Lydia Bailey after observing the first mate's ineffectual harp
oon shot. They were too far away to witness the fates of Chandry and the First. As far as they knew, the captain was busy planning another attack.

  The creature came up under the first starboard boat like a hell-besotted demon. The boat tipped over and the creature scooped the men into its jaws as if they were scum on a pond. In the second boat the men listened to the horrible cries of their mates... and wondered at their own fate. There was no way they could outrace the swift monster if it turned on them, too, so they prepared for combat.

  Silence came over the swells around the wreck of the first boat. The monster turned casually, confidently towards the second, its neck stretched high over the ocean. The men on the Lydia Bailey watched breathlessly as the fight began.

  In addition to harpoons and harpoon bombs, each boat was equipped with a rifle and a dozen or so grenades, used in finishing off wounded whales. All the rifle ammunition was used when the bowman fired shot after futile shot into the beast as it attacked the first boat. Handing out grenades all around, the officer of the boat had the men count off two volleys. Then he waited until the creature was but a dozen yards away.

  On command, half the bombs were thrown.

  Two of them turned out to be squibs. The other four went off around the creature's neck.

  Stopping it cold.

  It paddled slowly in place, looking to the left and the right, as if wondering where the explosions had come from. This was a sitting target the whalers could not resist. They lobbed their remaining grenades. All six exploded at the neck. Then the boatsteerer and officer of the boat took up their explosive-tipped harpoons and stood ready.

  The creature swooped to the right and splashed its flippers in a dance of confusion. Before the harpoonists could take advantage of its exposed flank, it sounded.

  Silence fell on them like sudden darkness. They'd seen the way the creature stove in the first boat, coming from beneath. They were helpless against that kind of attack.

  "Row!" the officer yelled.

  They would present a moving target. The men rowed madly, with the officer the maddest of the lot as he twisted the steering oars this way and that to create an eccentric path.