The Eye of Neptune

by Jon Mayhew

  Another boom and a crash vibrated through the water, alerting Dakkar that the iron door had given way. There was no time to worry about the size of the entrance or the speed he was going. Dakkar sent the Makara full ahead, and the fronds of false seaweed smacked the portholes and brushed along the top of the boat. Then she stopped dead, sending him hurtling against the wheel. Pain lanced through his cheek and chin, and the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.

  Dakkar sat back, wincing as he touched his split lip. The Makara was still moving forward! The hum of the engine inside had stopped though, and now Dakkar could hear the clank of ratchets on the outside. The boat shook as it was dragged along some kind of track fixed to either side of the cavern wall.

  A clanging noise came from behind the boat and Dakkar watched through the portholes as the water level fell. The Makara juddered some way along the track and then came to a halt. Dakkar stared out on to another huge cavern, lit from above by a shaft of daylight. He frowned and pressed his bruised face to the porthole glass. The Makara rested on a rounded wooden platform.

  Another mechanical clunk made Dakkar start. The Makara began to sink into the platform. Dakkar tried to pop the lid but the lever held fast. He looked out again as the sinking stopped with another loud thud.

  His fingers sweaty and slippery, Dakkar heaved at the lever to open the lid. He scanned the roof and sides of the boat for any clue as to what was happening. Would he be trapped in here, left to slowly suffocate or starve?

  He frowned. Flush to the floor of the Makara, behind the seats, lay a brass hatch lid. Two handles fitted snugly into recesses cut into the lid. Dakkar pulled them up and turned the lid clockwise. With a hiss, the lid came up and Dakkar stared down in amazement.

  Beneath him, a ladder ran down into a room very much like the inside of the Makara. It was like being inside a giant barrel that lay on its side. Brass bands held polished wooden planks in place. Everything fitted together so closely that Dakkar saw it was all watertight. A chair and a small bed stood in one corner next to a table and a map cupboard. Crates of supplies and skins of water hung from the curved walls of the room. It seemed that the Makara had been lowered into a bigger version of herself.

  Dakkar slid down the ladder and ran to the huge portholes at the front of the larger craft. The sea sloshed against the larger Makara, waves breaking over a pointed nose encased in metal. It was facing towards an opening in the cavern wall across a lagoon of water.

  Turning round, Dakkar noticed a large crank handle in the centre of the back wall of this larger vessel. He estimated that this lower room only took up two thirds of the craft. The rest must be the engine, he thought. He ran across and tried to turn the handle. It didn’t move. It was wound tight and ready to go.

  ‘I wonder,’ Dakkar said aloud, and climbed back up into the smaller craft. ‘The two Makaras must fit together, the small one controlling the larger one.’ Dakkar tried to imagine the gears and cogs turning in the back of the larger craft but his head still throbbed from banging it before.

  Settling into the seat, he pushed the lever to Full Ahead. Behind him, the engine began to whirr and click. Below, a clanking sound grew into a deafening rattle and then a hum as the Makara surged forward.

  Dakkar had never moved so fast. The cavern walls, stalagmites and white foam flashed by. Then clear daylight streamed in through the portholes, dazzling Dakkar for a moment. He spun the submerging wheel and gave a yell of joy as the Makara plunged into the waves of the open sea in a confusion of spray and bubbles.

  For a moment, he forgot the horrific events of that morning: Oginski’s cries, poor Mrs Evans, the crab and the strange fish-men. Only the foam and the water rushing past existed, the silver shoals of fish swirling out of the way. Dakkar stared, amazed, as a whole world flew by. Dolphins raced alongside, their bodies undulating as they struggled to keep pace with the Makara. Dakkar laughed aloud.

  A terrible thought broke through his exhilaration, and he slammed the boat to a halt and surfaced. Only the small section of the Makara broke the surface; the vast bulk remained below.

  In the distance, on the cliff, the castle burned.

  Mrs Evans was dead, murdered by the hideous man in the hall. Oginski had been taken. A tight band of guilt closed round Dakkar’s chest. Tears scalded his cheeks as image after image of the deadly encounter in the castle forced its way into his mind.

  Why did this happen? What can I do? The questions rolled over and over in Dakkar’s mind, like the waves that lapped against the sides of the Makara.

  Dakkar knew. ‘Blizzard,’ he said, staring at his reflection in the porthole. His dark hair was matted with sweat and tears stained his cheeks, but his eyes blazed with fury. ‘Blizzard is to blame. Whoever that man was in the hall, he worked for Blizzard, I’m certain. Blizzard said he would return.’

  A cold numbness enveloped Dakkar. He steered for the castle and waited just beneath the surface.

  The afternoon passed slowly. Oginski had told him to flee to his father, but first he would make Blizzard pay.

  Blizzard had said that his ship was moored in Fullacombe Harbour. By Dakkar’s reckoning, it wouldn’t have passed the castle yet. The day was dying rapidly – the fire on the cliffs burned more brightly, reflecting the fire in Dakkar’s heart.

  Soon the darkness out to sea seemed so complete, so full, absorbing everything. In the large lower cabin, Dakkar found a hatch up to the front of the Makara. He popped his head out and squinted into the blackness, listening hard above the roar of the waves and the slap of water against the side of the boat.

  A feeble bell rang the hour. Dakkar caught his breath. A ship’s bell! In the darkness a deeper shadow drifted by, her sails ghostly white in the moonlight. With her rows of cannon along her side, she was unmistakably a warship. It has to be Blizzard’s ship!

  Dakkar climbed back into the Makara and pushed the power lever to Full Ahead. ‘Now I’ll send Blizzard and all his men to their deaths, and serve them right!’

  Chapter Six

  Collision Course

  Dakkar gritted his teeth and set the Makara on a collision course with the warship. In his mind’s eye, he saw the submersible ramming into its side, the sharp metal-encased nose of the Makara splintering the planks. Men falling into the sea. Rigging collapsing to the deck. Fires raging in the hold.

  He pushed at the lever. Blizzard would pay.

  A memory of Oginski sprang into his mind, from soon after his arrival at the castle. He and his mentor were sitting on a rough outcrop of rock high up on the cliffs, their feet dangling over the waves that battered at the rocks way below. Dakkar felt small but anger blazed in the pit of his stomach.

  ‘You ran away again!’ Oginski said, his voice low. ‘That’s twice in two weeks.’

  ‘But you teach me nothing,’ Dakkar snapped. ‘I do nothing but swim in this freezing sea all the time. I hate swimming. I hate the sea! What use is that to me?’

  ‘Why did your father send you to me?’ Oginski asked.

  ‘To learn how to drive out those who would interfere with our country,’ Dakkar said. ‘To take revenge on those who try to crush our people!’

  ‘He who takes revenge often sacrifices himself,’ Oginski murmured. ‘Does a great leader trade blow for blow? Or does he become wiser, more powerful than his enemies?’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Dakkar snarled, but Oginski’s face remained stern.

  ‘Men can become so consumed by revenge that they become monsters,’ Oginski whispered, holding Dakkar’s gaze.

  The whine of the engine brought Dakkar back from his memories. The Makara ploughed the surface, sending fountains of spray hammering against the portholes. Dakkar could see the planks of the ship, the gun ports. He could see men moving around on the decks and in the rigging. In a few seconds it would all be over.

  ‘Are you a monster?’ Oginski’s voice echoed in his mind.

  Alarm bells rang out on the ship.

  Dakkar slammed t
he lever to Stop and whisked the ballast wheel clockwise. Slowly the Makara sank beneath the waves.

  He couldn’t sink Blizzard’s ship.

  Besides, Oginski is on board, Dakkar thought. If I sink the ship he might drown.

  Dakkar stared out of the porthole as, slowly, the black shadow of the ship’s hull passed over his head and the Makara drifted down to the depths.

  ‘I’ll have to be more devious,’ he muttered to himself.

  He could follow them. Watch the guard and the routines of the ship. Choose his moment and slip in to rescue Oginski.

  Dakkar’s stomach gave a loud grumble and he suddenly felt hungry. He realised that he hadn’t eaten since yesterday. He gave a groan. Here he was in a strange vessel, expecting to follow a ship some three thousand miles across the sea. He would need food.

  It occurred to Dakkar that if he surfaced near the ship during the day, Blizzard’s crew would easily spot him. Following the ship wasn’t going to be easy. He’d have to sleep of course, but the ship would sail on through the night. He rubbed his tired eyes at the thought of staying awake and peered up at the black bulk of the ship above him. If I can follow beneath the ship, they may not notice me, he thought. Then perhaps I can fall back out of sight in the morning and go up top for air.

  He looked down at himself. He was still wearing his grubby, stained nightshirt. Nothing else. How can I do anything in this?

  Dakkar stopped the Makara and clambered down into the lower cabin, searching for anything that might prove useful. A ship’s trunk contained some jars of pickled herring, some hard biscuits, a length of fishing line and hooks, netting, and various brass rings and bolts. A compass sat amid the closely packed equipment. At the bottom, a pair of trousers and a flannel shirt lay neatly folded. Holding them up, Dakkar could see they were much too big but he shrugged and pulled them on anyway, tying a length of rope round his waist for a belt.

  Oginski really did think of everything. He grinned, opened a jar of herrings and bit into the vinegary fish. His eyes watered and the vinegar burned his throat but it tasted so good. Behind the passenger seat, Dakkar took a skin of water from the wall. The water was a little brackish and had obviously been there for some time. Better than dying of thirst, Dakkar thought, sipping carefully.

  For a while, Dakkar felt refreshed by the food. He restarted the Makara and was amazed at how quickly he caught up with Blizzard’s ship. He followed beneath the ship, keeping an eye on its huge silhouette against the moonlit surface of the sea and mulling over the events of the day. Dakkar shuddered at the memory of the strange fish-men in the cavern, their lifeless eyes and scaly skin. Why does Blizzard have such strange henchmen?

  Dakkar changed his line of thought. He didn’t want to think of the fish-men. Thoughts of them swimming alongside the Makara, slamming their webbed fingers against the portholes, made him peer nervously out into the gloom of the sea.

  So what is Blizzard’s plan? Does he think Oginski will change his mind just because he kidnapped him?

  Blizzard’s ship ploughed on through the waves and Dakkar steered the Makara underneath. The whine of the engine and the gentle rocking of the craft began to soothe Dakkar’s tormented mind. His eyes drooped and his head nodded, bringing him back to startled wakefulness. Mustn’t fall asleep, he told himself. But gradually his head sank to his chest and the exhaustion of the day overtook him.

  Dakkar woke with a start. Something bumped and banged about his head but he couldn’t quite work out where he was. Then, with a lurch, he realised.

  ‘No, no, no, no,’ he hissed through gritted teeth, peering out of the porthole.

  Daylight shone through the sea’s surface. Dakkar marvelled that he’d stayed with Blizzard’s ship even in his sleep – but the Makara had risen to the level of the ship’s hull. A grinding sound vibrated through the Makara as it bounced along the keel.

  With a curse, Dakkar twisted the wheel, sending the craft back down. He pulled the drive lever to Stop and watched as the warship pulled away. Dakkar’s head thumped and the air tasted thick and stale. I could’ve suffocated, he thought. But even more urgent matters pressed as Dakkar realised his bladder was fit to burst.

  He let the ship go ahead of him and then surfaced. Opening the hatch at the front of the craft, Dakkar popped his head out and then climbed on to the deck. He’d been on sailing ships before and had rowed in the sea but he’d never felt as small and insignificant as he did now. The ocean stretched out, grey and rolling, all around him. In the distance, Dakkar could see the top of the ship’s mast. The Makara rose and fell on the great blue-and-white hills that rolled across the surface of the sea. She pitched and tossed dangerously, threatening to tip Dakkar into the water, especially when he tried relieving himself over the side. He half crouched, half stood, swaying and correcting his balance as he went. Dakkar took a few deep breaths, enjoying the chill salt breeze on his face, then slipped down below.

  As he walked through the lower cabin, he noticed the cupboard by the table and pulled the door open. Rolled-up charts were piled on top of each other but beneath them one lay flat. Dakkar dragged it out. It was another plan like the one he’d seen in the castle cellar, but this plan showed how the two boats fitted together. He noticed labels detailing different features of the Makara: a snorkel in the roof that poked above sea level and fed air into the cabin, an auger that could drill into the hulls of enemy ships. But not all of the handwriting was Oginski’s. Another hand had added labels. Dakkar shifted the plans on to the table and a sheaf of letters fell to the floor. He picked one up. Dakkar caught a glimpse of a name, written in fine spidery writing: Your Servant, Robert Fulton.

  Dakkar opened the letter and smoothed it out. The date stood out at the top, 20th July 1813.

  Has Oginski been writing to Fulton? Dakkar thought, frowning. He read on:

  My Dearest Oginski,

  I feel you may be nearer the prize than I. Your description of the miniature pump system to make more room for the ballast is genius and is sure to solve the problem . . .

  Dakkar leafed through the pile of papers. There were documents, more plans and diagrams with scribbled notes in Fulton’s handwriting. As he read, Dakkar saw how the Makara had grown and developed. Oginski would pose a problem to Fulton, or Fulton would anticipate a difficulty, and they would discuss it at length in their correspondence.

  ‘Fulton was helping Oginski to build the Makara!’ Dakkar whispered.

  If Blizzard finds these, Oginski would be hanged as a traitor or a spy, he thought, the papers shaking in his hand.

  Dakkar stared down at the letters. He didn’t have time to read all of them now – Blizzard’s ship had disappeared over the horizon and, although Oginski had taught him about plotting a course and navigating with a map, compass and stars, Dakkar felt more confident keeping Blizzard in sight. But the plans gave Dakkar a greater idea of what the Makara was capable of.

  He stowed the papers away securely and clambered up into his seat. Pushing the lever to full power, he grinned, waiting for the now familiar whirr and click of the engine. Nothing happened. With a hiss, Dakkar jumped back down to the crank handle in the lower cabin – it needed winding up.

  Dakkar turned the handle, quickly and easily at first. His shoulders began to burn as he spun the crank round. He paused, panting. After what seemed like an age, the crank became harder to turn. Dakkar’s arms felt like putty as he turned and turned. With a final gasp, he pushed the handle one last time and stumbled back, sweat trickling down his back.

  I might be halfway to New York by now! he thought, dragging himself up into the captain’s seat. He slammed the lever and the Makara lurched forward.

  Spray rattled at the window as the Makara sliced through the waves. Dakkar fumbled above his head for the snorkel handle he’d seen on the plan. A few turns of a wheel found him basking in a flow of cool sea air that blew in from the tube overhead.

  But Dakkar felt the heaviness of dread in his stomach. The horizon looked flat an
d empty. Where had the ship gone? A black speck became a mast which then became . . .

  ‘Two masts?’ Dakkar said aloud, his jaw dropping.

  Tiny wisps of smoke billowed up from each ship. Splashes of white foam plumed into the air around both of them where the cannonballs hit the water. The ships grew in size and Dakkar could see tongues of flame spitting from the gun ports, wreaths of black smoke choking the decks. The Union Jack fluttered from the stern of Blizzard’s ship. A black flag hung from the other.

  ‘Pirates!’ Dakkar gasped. ‘And if Blizzard’s ship goes down Oginski goes down with it!’

  Chapter Seven

  Disaster

  The sounds of battle grew louder as the Makara surged towards the ships. Dakkar flinched at the sound of cannon fire and even more at the sound of shot punching the water. If one of those cannonballs hits the Makara, I’m doomed!

  To make matters worse, one of the pirate ship’s masts had been blown apart, leaving rigging and loose spars of wood fouling the water. And, just below the surface, with blood seeping from their wounds, the dead floated, their clothes billowing in the currents created by the ships. Dakkar shuddered.

  He peered up at the pirate ship’s hull. He thought of what he might have done in his rage when he first encountered Blizzard’s ship. A head-on impact with the ship’s thick planks would have sunk her, but he had no doubt that the Makara would have been destroyed too. No, he had to be cunning.

  Steering the Makara under Blizzard’s vessel, Dakkar described a wide circle and headed back for the pirate ship. At the stern, he could see the rudder and the chains that pulled it left and right. It was a solid piece of wood but not as thick as the hull itself. That’s her weak point. His mind was made up.

  The side of the pirate ship loomed over Dakkar, getting closer by the second. Dakkar’s heart thumped against his ribs; he held his breath. He could see the nails hammered into the planks, barnacles clinging to the side, and then the Makara shuddered as her metal beak tore into the rudder. Dakkar flew off his seat from the impact and fell down into the lower cabin. The sound of rending metal and wood deafened him. The Makara slowed, something thudding against her, then she shot clear.