Dracula's Demeter: The Vampire King's Stunning Sea Voyage

by Doug Lamoreux

  “Indeed! If you could use a hand, I've read quite a little about medicine.”

  “Come,” Swales said. “If ye wish.” He picked his pail back up, disposed of the scraps and, with Harrington, caught up to the patient. The injured Petrofsky led the way below. The hobbling cook and the scholar trailed dutifully after.

  Concerned, the captain watched the parade. Just who and what had he let aboard his ship?

  * * *

  Neither during his death-defying moment aloft nor after, as they headed between-decks, had Petrofsky uttered a word. (Come to think, Harrington was not certain he'd ever heard the man speak.) Now, in the galley, forced to answer questions, the secret to the marlinspike's silence was revealed. Petrofsky spoke with a stammer. Not that it mattered to Harrington; many did. But a stuttering Russian (with their sharp and exacting diction) was something to hear. And, though none had ever mentioned it, the condition embarrassed Petrofsky enough he chose to keep mum.

  Swallowing his pain was a discipline that might come in handy, Harrington thought, when the cook advised the sailor the wound needed stitches. “We'll play hell fightin' infection w'out,” Swales said, biting his unlit pipe. “An' ye don't want gangrene.” Petrofsky took the news in the same manner he took everything; quietly.

  Permission was received for four rations of rum; three for Petrofsky to imbibe and another to disinfect the wound. The surgery tools were got: soap and fresh water, clean towels and linen, a spool of stout line, one fish hook, and both a file and a pair of pliers borrowed from the ship's carpenter. While Harrington tore the linen and Swales filed the barb off the hook, Petrofsky drank rum. While the scholar cleaned the wound and the cook sterilized the hook and pliers, the sailor drank a second ration. While the Englishman doused the oozing injury and Swales threaded the hook, the Russian downed his third ration and talked his head off, slurring his words, but with no sign of a stammer.

  To skip the sordid details, sewing the wound was bloody, painful, and Petrofsky passed out half-way through. But the surgery was a success. The stitches were doused a final time and bandaged. Then Harrington and the first carried the unconscious marlinspike to his bed where he remained for the rest of that day and night.

  Harrington returned to the galley. They'd performed the surgery on the dinner table and it was only right to help Swales clean it before the next meal. Constantin lagged behind. He'd noticed the door to the forehold untied and, knowing that should not have been, decided to investigate.

  * * *

  The mate reached for the hold door – as it came open. To his surprise and annoyance, Smirnov stepped out. “What are you doing there?” Constantin demanded.

  The wiry Russian looked over his ridiculous mustache with glistening eyes. He wiped his hand down the front of his dirty shirt, cleared his throat and, in that high voice the first was already coming to loathe, chirped, “Nothing.” As an afterthought, he added, “Sir.”

  “You left the deck after the marlinspike was hurt. You came down here? Why?”

  Smirnov stared back dully. “Just… looking about.”

  “What does that mean?” Constantin's beady eyes dissected the new man. A thought occurred, the tension slipped from his hard features, and the first smiled (though it looked like a sneer). “You were bothered by what happened to Petrofsky, I saw. You were sickened by the blood – and ran away, yes? For a moment, yes?”

  Smirnov looked confused, but answered, “Yes, sir,” all the same.

  “Life on the sea can be harsh.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It is thanks to you, you and Funar, that Petrofsky is alive.”

  “Yes, sir,” Smirnov repeated with a shrug.

  “You did well, despite your fear and excitement.”

  The sailor merely shrugged again, seeming not to understand the compliment. Constantin frowned, concerned the man he'd signed was not only odd but an idiot. It mattered not a whit. They were at sea and Smirnov was one of their hands – whatever his short-comings. “Let me tell you about life aboard this ship,” the mate said. “This you will not shrug off. The first rule is: you do not go where you do not belong. Do you understand?”

  Smirnov nodded slowly. “Yes… sir.”

  “You have no business in the hold.”

  The seaman stared with heavy eyelids taking in the hold door as if he'd never seen it before. For an instant Constantin thought the bastard was going to shrug again, but he finally managed a nod and another, “Yes… sir.”

  “Very well. Back to the deck and your duties.”

  Smirnov stroked his mustache and started away with his usual irritating stroll. Constantin watched after him until he was up, filing the myriad questions running through his head, then turned to study the door. He slipped into the forehold.

  All was quiet with just a sliver of lamplight stealing past him down the steps to reveal everything in its place; sacks of sand, boxes of dirt, barrels of oil, nothing more. He considered descending for a thorough look but decided against it. There was nothing that did not belong; nothing but a nagging feeling. Yes (he would admit it). Something felt wrong in the depths of the ship.

  Then came a new feeling; embarrassment. He was being ridiculous!

  Back in the companionway he secured the door. Smirnov had taken to the hold in a moment of cowardice. As long as that moment came after, and not during, the incident, what did it matter to him? The first returned to the deck where the red and orange brilliance of the sunset washed over him and drove away the gloom which had overtaken him in the hold. His lungs filled with fresh sea air and, in spite of himself, Constantin felt an overwhelming sense of relief.

  * * *

  The sun dropped below the horizon; a red ribbon floating on the waves. It sank into a blue evening and disappeared into a black night. In the forward hold, in his box, the nearly translucent lids covering Count Dracula's eyes opened. He gasped as his fitful sleep ended.

  He was listening… more intently than ever to sounds from far away; psychic and sonic waves riding the ether as this vessel rode the sea. Had been listening, for days, to the incessant buzzing of flies, the flapping of their cut-glass wings, the cooing of the lunatic, the whining of the self-important doctor led like a lamb to find the whole affair such a nuisance. Listening to Seward's awe and surprise, when Renfield's sick hobby blossomed. It was amazing how much noise spiders made, skittering, spinning, feeding. Dracula smiled, remembering.

  Soon the psychiatrist, so far away, had forgotten all about the flies. For Renfield's spiders were a growing nuisance. “You must get rid of them!”

  “Ohh, but Dr. Seward…”

  “And you needn't look so very sad. You must get rid of some of them, at all events. Three days! Same as before. Three days to get rid of some of these spiders.”

  Renfield responded, as always, by scribbling in his little notebook; maniacally ciphering, adding, subtracting, multiplying, dividing until the world went away. Not wise that, giving a dangerous lunatic a fountain pen! Then silence – as the scribbling stopped.

  Hadn't the crunch and the squish that followed been entertaining! When a carion-bloated blowfly flew into the room, was snatched in mid-air by the aggravated patient, held up (at Dracula's insistence) to ensure the doctor an eyeful, and popped into Renfield's mouth as if it were a sweetie.

  “Renfield, my heavens! That isn't the thing! Ohh, that isn't the thing, at all.”

  Then, from his cold box of earth, from the sea, Dracula capped the rousing success of the experiment by merely whispering, “It is delicious! It is very good for you.”

  No sooner had the words left his lips than, thousands of miles away in Purfleet, they left Renfield's. “But it's very good, Dr. Seward! Very wholesome. It's life. It's strong life. And, ohh,” the lunatic swooned, “it gives life to me.”

  Many such nights of similar puppet-theater! Back and forth upon the wind. Now again, tonight, over the water, over the miles, Count Dracula heard the voice of he who would serve.

  As
with the flies, Renfield had put his obsession with the spiders behind him. The good doctor insisted. But Dracula was generous and his excellent servant deserved a hobby. Didn't he? Now the vampire listened as the curtain went up and Renfield introduced his east London psychiatrist to his most recent suggestion.

  “It's a common sparrow, Dr. Seward. Nothing wrong with that, is it? Just a sparrow, just a pet.”

  “What of your other, eh, pets?” Came the reedy and superior reply. “Oh, I see. They are… Your spiders and flies… their number seems greatly diminished.”

  “I must tame the sparrow, mustn't I? It's simple really. A spoon of sugar to tempt the flies… a handful of flies to sate the spiders… Spiders to, oh, so simply, tame the sparrow.”

  In repose, Dracula nodded his approval and whispered, “The blood is the life.”

  Over the miles Renfield repeated it, “The blood, Dr. Seward… The blood is the life.”

  In the dark, Dracula listened to the lines straining, the masts creaking, the wind in the canvas. He heard the waves slap the ship, the water rushing by. He felt the keel roll as the bow rocked. The earth bed was cool on his back. The mold stung his nose. Then came another odor – heavy, metallic and, as recognition dawned, unrelenting. The smell of human blood.

  He lifted his hands, felt the confines of his box, and drew a breath. Blood was always in the air, surrounding him as the sea surrounded this ship. But this was different. This was on the air like pollen; not dulled by the usual layers of fat and tissue, not racing under venous and arterial pressure but quiet like the waters of a pond. Blood, in the open. Someone aboard the ship was injured.

  Count Dracula felt the hunger; the burning need for blood.

  He pushed up with his palms and the nails squealed at the corners of the box. But the sound, like a warning whistle, gave him pause. He pulled his hands back, making fists. No!

  No. There was a plan – and it would be carried out. The bloodlust had to be quelled, for the ship needed to reach England. He clenched his teeth, forced his hands to his sides, and closed his eyes. He had to be patient. No matter what – the ship needed to reach England.

  Chapter Seven

  Friday morning, 9 July, a rum-clouded Petrofsky sulked, feeling sorry for himself, over his untouched breakfast. Twenty stitches in a hand that throbbed like burning hell, lost beneath layers of linen bandages, and his first duty that morning would be to climb up and repair the sail he'd damaged yesterday. They'd left port with just enough men to sail. Injury or no, they could not spare him.

  “Coffee or tea?” Old Swales hovered with a kettle in each hand.

  Petrofsky smiled weakly. He appreciated the cook, and the bookworm, tending his hand but why the old bastard had busted on deck hollering, and sending him off his perch, in the first place, he didn't know. “C-c-c-offee.”

  “I thought ye hated me coffee?”

  “I d-d-d-.” Petrofsky gave up and nodded. “The… water is a-a-awful… it renders the… tea in-in-in-sipid. C-c-offee's so bad it h-hides it.”

  “My coffee? Michty me, that's where the lie comes in! Other cooks buy cheap mixes o' spoiled beans, chicory, an' rat shite. Parch it, grind it; is nigh undrinkable. This here's from South America!” Swales grunted his disgust. “Ye'd better eat. There'll be beef for dinner, but dinner is a long way off. An' ye've some healin' to do.”

  Petrofsky, sulking again, considered asking what yesterday's shouting had been about – but let it drop. Swales was too old to sail, was mad as a goddamned hatter and, like as not, had no idea what he'd been about. What difference? His hand still ached and he still had a sail to repair.

  * * *

  In the afternoon, bored and wanting to be out, Harrington decided to give himself a tour of the ship. He reached the deck, as his luck would have it, as the men were called to rum.

  Rum was long-believed good for a seafaring man's health, grand for his attitude and, as on most sailing ships, was rationed to the crew daily at company expense. Demeter's brew lived aft of the deckhouse, under the eyes of the steersman, in two elliptical oak barrels three feet high and two feet front to back. Each banded barrel held half a hogshead; one tapped, the other waiting.

  The men had partaken every day since leaving Varna. Harrington, passing at the right moment, was pulled into line by Swales for his first experience. As usual, the scholar took the opportunity to ask questions. “Why rum? Don't Russians drink vodka?”

  “Jings, lad! It's no' drinkin',” Swales said. “It's the daily ration.”

  “Vodka?” Olgaren butted in. At his size, who would stop him? “When Captain Nikilov went to sea as a youth, every ship carried state-manufactured vodka. He dislikes vodka – intensely.”

  “He does not even like the word,” Amramoff added.

  The men crowded Harrington.

  “The seas abounds with ships' crews drinking rum. Captain Nikilov is as good as any of them.” Olgaren leaned, threatening. “Are you saying he is not?”

  “No!” Harrington shouted.

  Constantin, at the tapper, shot beady looks of annoyance. He was, by seafaring terms, a good mate. He kept to himself or the officers and avoided being free with the crew. He dispensed the ration without caring for the duty and never, under any circumstances, drank with the men before the mast. “Step up,” he ordered the line.

  “The Englishman has something against our captain!” Amramoff said. Then, turning to the passenger, asked, “What have you against our captain?”

  “Nothing,” Harrington said. “I never suggested anything of the sort.”

  Tense silence followed… before the crew burst out laughing. Olgaren slapped Harrington on the shoulder with a meaty hand. The scholar righted himself, then joined them. As the laughter died, Amramoff explained, “He offers rum because the captain is a godly man.”

  They were laughing again. Harrington looked a question at the cook.

  “An' you a scholar!” Swales said, with his familiar derisive grunt. “Do ye not know alcohol evaporates as it ferments? Most lose aboon two percent, no' more. Rum loses, what, eight, ten percent? It's called the angels' share. The captain's rum gives the angels a larger share. Just what ye'd expect from a righteous man.”

  “They are having fun at your expense. It means they like you,” the mate told Harrington. He held out a mug. “They like you.”

  The crew fell about. As the red-faced Harrington accepted his rum, it dawned that if he didn't catch wise it would be a long cruise indeed. The thought reminded him of a question he'd never asked. “Mr. Constantin, how long will the journey take?”

  The first glowered and shrugged his shoulders.

  “I realize you can't know. I'm asking how long the voyage ought to take.”

  The mate examined him as if he were stupid. “It is not up to us. We are subject to wind and weather.” To end the discussion, he growled, “We will get there when we arrive.”

  * * *

  His conversation with the first went so well that, following his ration, Harrington resumed his self-guided tour – out of the ornery gentleman's way. He soon found himself in the crew's quarters.

  The room had one unlit oil lamp, no porthole and, save for a sliver of light stealing in from the companionway, was dark. There were beds to spare with Demeter's shortage of hands; ten permanent bunks, top and bottom, and hooks for hammocks should the need arise. Eight bunks had their heads against the starboard hull and two, for the mates, sat parallel with the inside bulkhead. Above each was a shelf for personal items (books, letters, playing cards, a rosary, trinkets from exotic ports, even a photograph from a family gathering) and, at the foot of the mates' bunks, cupboards for each man's kit. There were two chamber pots… with matching odor.

  The door across the companionway led to the mess. “Come in!” Swales boomed as Harrington tried to pass unseen. Whispering, the cook added, “Have a drink w' me.”

  Harrington could think of nothing he wished to do less. “I was under the impression that, other than the rati
on, the captain disallowed drink?”

  “Aye, he does. So be quiet!”

  Hooking his arm with an arthritic claw, Swales dragged him in.

  The mess featured a table, little else. Beyond was the hot galley where Swales did the cooking. Cups, dishes, tins, and jars filled the shelves. Burnished pans hung shining from the overhead. The main attraction was a sand-filled, metal bin stove, four feet wide, chest high. He built his fires atop the sand, beneath iron frames that supported the kettles. A stovepipe chimney extended from the hood, through the deckhouse roof but, mostly, wind blew the smoke back into the galley. Smoking was forbidden below and galley fires were disallowed in the night, foul weather or rough seas. Beyond the galley was a larder and Swales' bunk.

  “O'er here, lad.” Swales lifted a bottle by the neck.

  “I'm not much of a drinker, actually,” Harrington said, sitting at the long dining table.

  “Excellent!” The old man laughed, stirring the air with the bottle. “ `Cause this is no' much o' a drink. What's the matter, ration no' sittin' well? Take a mug o' water with ye. Mix it; make a grog.”

  He poured and they lifted their glasses. Swales drank deeply then sighed. Harrington sipped, twisted his lips, puckered, then coughed. “What is it?”

  “Golden Mediasch, a wine o' Transylvania.” The cook laughed. “Aye, poorish!”

  “No. It just causes a queer sting on the tongue.”

  “Which is joost how ye gawm it's inferior.” Swales plopped down opposite and poured another glass. “All Transylvanian wine is shite. Their wine makers are dirty, lazy bastards. No discrimination. They mix their grapes, the green, the ripe, the o'er-ripe.” He waved his twisted hand and grunted in disgust. “An' the pressing, my Gog! Near naked men dance barefoot t' bagpipe music, stompin' carelessly picked fruit w' all their force. Feature thaat!” He shivered. “Everythin' aboon it's wrong. An' so does the whole o' the country prepare their wine!”