by Jon Mayhew
Oginski glanced at it, snorted and threw it to the floor. He turned and strode into the study, slamming the door behind him before Dakkar could see the man inside.
Dakkar grabbed the card. ‘Commander Blizzard,’ he read aloud. ‘His Majesty’s Navy.’
He dashed back outside and crept close to the study window, peering in.
Oginski sat at his desk, his broad shoulders and thick arms making the furniture look like flimsy toys. His square face was stern. His deep brow cast shadows over his eyes as he sat opposite a young gentleman dressed in black – black jacket, black breeches and stockings. His hair shone golden at the top of this dark garb, giving him a pale and sickly appearance. A thin scar trickled down his left cheek from the corner of his eye to his chin, making one half of his face sad and mournful. A naval man, Dakkar thought. That might explain the scar but he doesn’t look like any kind of sailor I know.
Ignoring the cold, Dakkar pressed his ear to the thin glass and listened.
‘Let’s cut the pleasantries. When Commander Blizzard knocks at your door,’ Oginski said, his face flat and unsmiling, ‘he has either come to arrest you or to ask for a favour. And as I’ve committed no crime . . .’
‘No?’ Blizzard smiled, raising his eyebrows.
‘No,’ Oginski growled back, holding Blizzard’s gaze.
Dakkar frowned. Is Blizzard going to arrest him?
‘There are rumours surrounding this castle, Count Oginski,’ Blizzard said, a chill smile set on his face. ‘Strange noises in the night. Lights visible from the sea. Unusual deliveries . . .’
‘Idle gossip,’ Oginski snorted, waving a dismissive hand. ‘The local fisherfolk are always looking for a tale to tell in the local tavern.’
‘That may be but often rumours have a basis in truth. I’ll cut to the chase, sir,’ Blizzard said, breaking eye contact with Oginski. ‘The Americans have built a weapon. We want you to join us in a mission to destroy it.’
‘You refer, of course, to Fulton’s Floating Steam Battery,’ Oginski said, giving a fleeting smirk at the pale gentleman’s consternation. He rose from his seat and poured two glasses of port from a decanter on his desk.
‘How on earth do you know about that?’ Blizzard gasped, taking the glass in a limp hand.
‘Do you really think the construction of a steam-powered ship capable of carrying sixteen thirty-two-pound guns would escape my notice?’ Oginski sneered. ‘I am a man of science, Blizzard, and an engineer.’
‘The best in the world, some say.’ Blizzard nodded. ‘Although you’ve never made such a ship for us.’
A steam warship, Dakkar thought, clenching his fists with excitement. How I’d love to see that!
‘Why are you so worried?’ Oginski continued, ignoring Blizzard’s comment. ‘The thing isn’t fit for the high seas. At best, it’s suitable for defending shipyards and bays. It’s not as if the Americans are going to sail up the Thames in it.’
‘Not yet,’ Blizzard muttered, and seemed to go a shade paler – if that were possible. ‘But once they perfect the hull Britain’s mastery of the seas may be a thing of the past.’
Dakkar noticed Oginski grimace and incline his head. ‘Would that be a bad thing?’
‘Of course,’ Blizzard hissed. His blue eyes were icy. ‘It puzzles me, sir, that, despite your immense talent and intellect, you’ve never invented any weapon that we could use in this great nation’s defence. If I doubted your loyalty to the government that shelters you . . .’
‘My loyalty is not in doubt, sir,’ Oginski said, shaking his head. ‘It’s just that I see no need for me to accompany you to America. Why can’t you destroy this vessel yourselves?’
‘We aren’t entirely sure of its capabilities,’ Blizzard replied. ‘Your knowledge of engineering and design would prove invaluable.’
‘The answer is still no,’ Oginski said.
‘Is it your friendship with Robert Fulton, the designer of the ship, that stops you?’ the commander asked stiffly.
Now it was Oginski’s turn to look shocked. He recovered himself quickly. ‘Of course not!’ he said, giving a brittle laugh. ‘I haven’t seen Fulton for many years and I’m even less likely to now that America and Britain are at war!’
‘Indeed, we are at war, sir,’ Blizzard said. ‘And if I thought you were in any way colluding with the Americans . . .’
‘The very suggestion is insulting, sir,’ Oginski said, his voice so low that Dakkar could barely hear it through the glass. ‘I have nothing to hide.’
‘Good,’ Blizzard said, placing the port glass on Oginski’s desk. ‘Then either you agree to help me or I’ll search this tower from top to bottom and report anything suspicious.’
‘You can do what you like,’ Oginski spat.
‘Yes,’ Blizzard said, a grin twisting his pale face. ‘I can.’ He paused at the door. ‘My ship is in Fullacombe Harbour if you change your mind. Tomorrow evening we sail for America with or without you. A troop of my marines will visit you shortly before we leave. Be ready.’
Dakkar crouched down below the window and watched as Blizzard strode out of the house. The pale man paused before climbing into his carriage and looked straight at Dakkar, who was still wrapped in the blanket.
‘Your highness,’ Blizzard said, raising his hat and giving another grin.
The carriage clattered away from the house, leaving Dakkar staring after it.
Chapter Two
The Stranger in the Tavern
Oginski charged across the castle hall, papers clutched in his fist. He stopped and grabbed Dakkar by his lapels.
‘He called you “your highness?” ’ Oginski said, staring deep into Dakkar’s eyes. ‘You’re certain?’
‘Yes, Oginski,’ Dakkar replied. ‘Why are you so worried?’
‘I’ve told you before. Your father has many enemies,’ Oginski said, stuffing the papers into a leather bag. ‘He specifically requested that your location and identity be kept secret.’
‘So you say,’ Dakkar muttered.
Oginski stopped wrestling with the bag and looked at Dakkar. ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ he demanded.
‘If my father has so many enemies,’ Dakkar said, not meeting Oginski’s eye, ‘how will I fight them? I’m not learning the art of war here. Strategy, commanding troops – these are the things I need to learn. Yet you teach me how to swim, to build canals, to design machines.’
‘A great leader doesn’t just fight for his people – he cares for his people,’ Oginski sighed. ‘Do your people love your father or fear him? Do they have irrigation for their crops? Do they have steam engines to pump flood water out of their mines, to pull their loads?’
‘No, Oginski, but –’
‘I teach you the skills you need to build a modern, enlightened country,’ Oginski snapped, pulling his bag shut. ‘If you want to learn how to fight, then join the army. Afterwards, if you don’t die in one of Europe’s insane wars, you’ll be able to go home and die fighting there.’
‘I only meant –’
‘I don’t have time for this argument, Dakkar,’ Oginski said, striding for the door. ‘I’m going to Fullacombe to hear what rumours are circulating. I’ll be back this evening. In the meantime, stay inside. Don’t swim and don’t talk to anyone except the staff.’
Before Dakkar could reply, Oginski banged the door shut behind him.
Dakkar scowled at the door, arms folded tight against his chest. Mrs Evans laid a hand on his arm.
‘Come on now, Dakkar, dear,’ she whispered. ‘Come and have a piece of cake and some tea. You’ll feel better then.’
Dakkar allowed himself to be led away to the kitchen, where Mrs Evans sat him down at the scrubbed table.
‘It’s not fair, Mrs Evans,’ Dakkar said, sniffing. ‘I’m a young man now and yet Oginski treats me like a child!’
‘The count has always been a secretive man,’ Mrs Evans said, cutting into the thick fruit cake. ‘He’s the same with everyone.
Folk around here don’t have much time for him. He never gives a “good mornin’ ” or a smile to strangers. He’s been worse lately, spending even more time down in his cellar.’
Dakkar nodded. Oginski had been spending so long down there recently that Dakkar had wondered what he was up to. Usually Oginski shared his projects and presented them to Dakkar as learning opportunities – together they’d built a pump for the local mine and fixed the clock in the church tower.
‘He’s always so nervous and agitated,’ Dakkar mumbled through a mouthful of sweet crumbs. ‘Like when I first met him.’
‘You led him a merry dance then,’ Mrs Evans chuckled. ‘Pardon me for saying so, Dakkar, but you were a little monster. You ran away five times, no less, clamberin’ out of windows, hiding in the coal shed . . .’
A grin spread across Dakkar’s face. ‘I wasn’t that bad, was I?’
‘We weren’t expectin’ you, see?’ Mrs Evans laughed. ‘When the count first brought you home, we thought he’d found a faery changeling on the road!’
‘But the way he changed this morning when he –’ Dakkar dropped his cake slice on to the table and jumped to his feet. ‘The squid, in the water. I forgot!’
‘What are you on about, lad?’ Mrs Evans said as Dakkar hurried out of the kitchen. ‘Here, come back! Where are you going? Count Oginski said you weren’t to leave the castle!’
Dakkar rushed into the hall and through the front door. Out across the flat cliff path he ran, muttering and cursing as he did. The grey, rain-filled clouds hadn’t broken and Dakkar could see the little village huddled around the river outlet where the cliffs sloped down to the sea. The stones crunched under his feet and the nettles that fringed the path whipped at his hands and legs, but he didn’t slow.
I’ve got to warn them about the thing in the sea, he thought. If someone died, I’d never forgive myself.
Soon the low cottages came into view and Dakkar was in the heart of the village. He hurried to the tavern and crashed against the door, tumbling inside. The hard tiles stung his knees and the smell of beer and tobacco smoke tickled his nose. A fire crackled in the hearth and scrubbed wooden tables and chairs filled the small room. A couple of toothless old men with leather-brown skin and matted white beards sat in the corner by the fire.
The taverner’s wife gave a squeal and slopped beer from the mugs she held.
‘What on earth are you playin’ at?’ she screeched, slamming the drinks down on the table.
‘I’m sorry,’ Dakkar panted, scrambling to his feet. ‘But I had to warn you.’
‘Warn? What about?’ one of the old men piped up in the corner.
‘I saw something,’ Dakkar gasped, slowly getting his breath back. ‘It was in the sea this morning.’
‘You’re the boy from the castle, ain’t you?’ the taverner’s wife said, narrowing her eyes.
‘Yes. My name is Dakkar,’ he said, rubbing his forehead. ‘You must listen.’
A chair leg scraped along the tiled floor and Dakkar turned at the sound, peering into the shadows.
A squat, hunchbacked man, with small, glittering eyes stood leering at him. One hand rested on the table, supporting him as he leaned forward. Dakkar could see that his middle and index fingers were missing. His wide mouth split into a grin that was too full of brown tombstone teeth.
Dakkar gave a gasp, trying not to stare at the man’s blistered, scarred skin and mutilated hands.
‘Well, Dakkar, you ain’t welcome here,’ the taverner’s wife said, wiping her hands on her apron and glancing at the man in the shadows. ‘Go on, get back home!’
‘But there’s something out there in the sea!’ Dakkar persisted. ‘It could be dangerous.’
The squat man shuffled forward and gave a sniff, and his grin widened.
‘Lots of fish, I shouldn’t doubt,’ one of the old men cackled.
‘Go on, shoo!’ the taverner’s wife snapped, and she bundled Dakkar out through the door.
Dakkar didn’t resist – the strange man disturbed him. It wasn’t so much his appearance as the look he had given Dakkar. Full of menace. Glancing back, he saw the man peering at him through the tavern’s small leaded window.
At least he’d warned the villagers. He couldn’t do any more. Dakkar ran back towards the castle, the wind battering him. Dakkar couldn’t help checking behind him. Stupid! As if the man would follow me! Still, all the way home, he couldn’t shake the feeling he was being watched.
At last he reached the castle and slammed the heavy door behind him. Silence hung over the hallway as Dakkar scanned the oak panels, the suits of armour standing to attention, the stairs spiralling up to the next floor. He was just opening his mouth to shout for Mrs Evans when something caught his attention.
The cellar door was ajar. Located just under the staircase, it normally stood locked and flush to the varnished panels, almost invisible. Now Dakkar could see the edge of the door and the lock. Oginski must have left it open in his hurry.
Holding his breath, Dakkar tiptoed over to the door and peered down the short flight of steps. An oil lamp glowed dimly but there was no sound of movement. Slowly, he crept down, pressing himself against the wall.
The steps opened into a small room with a workbench, a number of cupboards and some tools scattered on the surfaces. A bookcase filled one wall. Dakkar sneaked up to the workbench and picked up a hammer that lay there. It felt heavy in his hand. He glanced up and what he saw made him gasp.
Pinned to the wall was a drawing of a boat. It was a strange boat, with a covered top and a wheel at the stern, rather like a paddle steamer. Written in neat copperplate above it were the words Oginski’s Patent Undersea Submersible.
An underwater boat! Dakkar thought, running his fingers over the lines on the plan.
He read the legend under the diagram: Ballast tanks within hull for submerging . . .
For some time, Dakkar stood, lost in the design of the craft. So this is what Oginski has been so secretive about! But he couldn’t have spent all this time just drawing up this plan – maybe he’s actually making it!
Looking about, Dakkar could see a riveted metal door in the wall opposite. He pulled it open, wincing as it squealed on its hinges. This entrance opened on to a long flight of shallow steps. Through it Dakkar could smell the sea and hear the distant waves rolling against the cliffs. Pulling the door closed behind him, he took the first step and immediately slipped on the slimy green seaweed that coated everything. Dakkar’s backside went numb as he bumped down every step. He could feel the damp from the steps soaking through his trousers. Finally, he reached the last step and staggered to his feet, groaning and rubbing his aching bottom.
He looked up at the huge sea cavern in which he stood, his eyes widening in amazement. It towered above him, echoing with the roar of the tide. High above his head, daylight streamed through a hole punched in the ceiling. He stood on a platform of rock that rose above a natural pool. Somewhere below, he supposed, the sea had bored its way in through a seam of softer rock, making a tunnel.
But what really caught Dakkar’s attention was the strange craft that bobbed in the centre of the pool, tied in place by strong ropes. It reminded him of a cocoon. The deck was flat at the back and held what looked like a wheel from a watermill or a paddle from a miniature paddle steamer. Portholes lined the sides of the ‘lid’ and the hull of the boat.
‘The submersible,’ Dakkar whispered.
A plank bridged the gap from the rocky plateau to the craft. Dakkar tiptoed along it and, leaning forward, he pressed his palms on the polished wooden hull. As he did so, his knuckles grazed a brass lever. Without thinking, he pulled at it and scrambled back as the lid lifted with a hiss.
The submersible was open.
Two cushioned seats occupied the front of the craft. Dakkar could see the captain’s seat, inviting him to climb in. What harm would it do just to sit inside? He stretched a leg into the craft.
Chapter Three
The Makara
Dakkar sat in the boat and ran his hands over the wheel in front of him. He poked the black substance that ran along the edge of the lid.
‘Rubber from the Americas,’ he muttered to himself. ‘It must form a waterproof seal when the top is shut.’
A memory of Oginski melting rubber in a pan in the kitchen came to mind. Mrs Evans had gone mad and the smell had made Dakkar sick to his stomach.
‘This could be the best waterproofing for ships ever,’ Oginski had said.
‘It’ll be the death of me, Count Oginski,’ Mrs Evans had snapped back, pushing him out of her kitchen, shaking her head at her ruined pots and pans.
Dakkar looked behind him at the engine that filled half the craft. A central wheel with thick teeth sat in the midst of a mass of cogs and springs. Wires and tubes spiralled off around the inside of the craft, disappearing into parts of the hull and the control panel at the front. In the middle of this sat a box with a crank handle sticking out of it.
‘Surely it isn’t clockwork!’ Dakkar said, climbing out of his seat.
He heaved at the crank handle. It clicked noisily. Dakkar was panting by the time he felt he could wind no more.
‘It’s amazing,’ he whispered, staring at the complex mass of cogs and springs. It must have some incredible gear system to generate enough power to move. I wonder how often it needs to be wound.
Steadying himself as the craft rocked on the water, Dakkar eased himself back into his seat and gripped the small ship’s wheel that poked out in front of him. Several levers and taps dotted the smooth wooden panel behind the wheel.
Dakkar closed his eyes and thought of the plan he’d seen in the cellar. The boat’s hull had two layers and a compartment between them could fill with water and submerge the craft. He reached for the lid, then stopped and bit his lip. He wanted to plunge underwater to see how deep the boat could go. But Oginski will go berserk if he finds out! If he finds out! Dakkar thought. But he doesn’t have to. He has his secrets, so I’ll have mine!
