“Be ready.”
CHAPTER TEN
THE FOG OF WAR
Ghost slammed from his cabin so violently that the door cracked from its hinges, splintering against the bulkhead and scattering along the gangway. Jack pulled back into the shadowed corner of the galley, Sabine close beside him, and held his breath. This is when everything begins to change, he thought, and it was a strange idea. Change had been evident day to day, hour to hour, since Ghost had thrown him from the deck of the Umatilla. But this moment felt like the line between life and death, however thin or ambiguous that line might be.
On the deck above them, footsteps pounded and voices shouted for the captain—the crew calling for the man they had started to hate.
Ghost walked past the galley doorway, kicking the remains of his cabin door ahead of him, his breath a constant, rumbling growl, and he looked larger than he ever had before. He was a force of nature, channeled by these wooden walls and floors and ceiling but never contained, never tamed. His shadow passed through the galley and it seemed to abrade every surface it touched. Then he stopped, turned, and stared in at Jack and Sabine.
Jack thought he would comment on them hiding away in there, huddled against the wall like frightened rats. He thought the captain would pour scorn upon such fear and tell them both that they were less than people, and barely equal to animals. But Ghost only glared at them, reserving his longest, coldest stare for Sabine. And Jack knew what was to come. She didn’t tell him about Death, he thought, and Ghost’s expression held a promise of something more than mere retribution. She had challenged his intellect and betrayed his trust.
Ghost backed into the mess and did not turn away until he was out of sight. Jack heard him climbing to the deck, and then the level of panic up there seemed to lessen, Ghost’s voice transmitted down through the floor as wordless growl.
The air seemed lighter with Ghost gone. Sabine slumped against Jack and sighed.
“They’ll head for the fogbank,” Jack said, because that was what he would do.
Sabine seemed surprised, and then annoyed.
“What is it?” Jack asked.
“Nothing.” She waved away his concern. “It’s just that…” She trailed off, then pushed past Jack and crossed to the galley door. She stood there with her back to him, secrets in her strained stance.
“Mr. London!” Ghost’s voice roared. It shook the ship’s boards and loosened the fill between them, and for an instant Jack believed that Ghost was scared. But that was not fear in the captain’s voice; it was rage.
“I should go,” Jack said to Sabine. “Remember the food. When our time comes, it will be brief, and we won’t have long. Mere moments. But if we take that chance, then we can be away from here.” He waved a hand at the skillet in which he’d been considering cooking dead people’s flesh to feed this ship’s monsters. “Away from them.”
“I dream of nothing more,” she said. Her voice was soft, and Jack grabbed her shoulder and turned her to face him. There was not an ounce of confidence in her eyes.
“What is it?”
“What you said. He will race for the fogbank. And if he loses Death in there…”
“Then he will have time for you.” Voicing his fear made it worse.
“I betrayed him,” Sabine said.
“We’re not destined to die here,” Jack said, pulling her close. But Sabine laughed, a short, bitter sound that scared him.
“Destiny?” Her laughter faded, and a tear appeared. “It’s my fault you’re here.”
“No, Sabine,” Jack said. “With you is the only place I want to be.”
“Mr. London!” Ghost called again, and Jack kissed Sabine on the cheek and rushed through the mess, leaving too many things unsaid, knowing he had no time to say them. There would be time, he was certain. He would make sure of that.
As he hurried on deck, tension hung heavy in the air. To the west, directly ahead of them, the fogbank seemed no closer, yet their sails were full, booms swung to catch the last breath. Ghost barked orders and the crew obeyed, trimming by inches, enslaving the wind. When they had done all they could, the pirates looked to the north at the vessel revealed there. It rode the horizon and left a smear of smoke in the air, and from this distance Jack could make out little. But it was a steamer; that would make it faster and more maneuverable than the Larsen in these conditions.
“There stands my brother,” Ghost said quietly, staring at the distant steamer as if into the eyes of his brother, who stared back across miles of churning sea—the murdered and the murderer, one seeking revenge, the other completion.
“Death comes,” Maurilio said from where he stood at the railing.
“Five miles out,” Vukovich said from his station at the wheel.
“Four,” Ghost said. He glanced ahead, at the wall of fog laid across the sea like a blanket. “And two to the fog. It’ll be a close race.”
Jack looked at the small skiffs fixed to the Larsen’s deck. He had already inspected the fixtures of the front-most portside boat’s fixtures, and had loosened one enough to be able to kick the bolt away with his toe. It would take a minute to hunker down and release the other bolt, and another thirty seconds to winch the craft up a few inches and swing it over the side. He’d have to drop it then. There would be no time to lower it properly—if it capsized and floated hull up, he and Sabine would have to jump in and attempt to right it without swamping it and sending it to the bottom. If it splashed down as he wished, they would still have to jump.
As an escape plan, it left a lot to be desired. But right now it was all he had. It was an escape that relied on chaos. Looking north, sensing the subdued panic exuding from the Larsen’s crew right now, it seemed that chaos might descend within the hour.
“Mr. London!” Ghost roared. Jack blinked, coming to his senses just as the big hand clamped his jacket and he was lifted from his feet. Ghost slammed him against the bulkhead, leaned in close so they were almost nose to nose. The animal stink of him had never been stronger. “Don’t you think that the first mate should be making himself useful in such a situation?”
“Wh … what’s the situation?”
Ghost grinned. “Family’s coming to visit,” he said. “Yonder steamer is the Charon, Death’s ship. Sad to say, my brother doesn’t share my sweet and gentle disposition.”
Ghost dropped Jack and strode forward, standing at the bow as if to reach out and haul them into the fog. But he kept glancing north at the ship rapidly closing on them. The Larsen ran straight for the fogbank, and now Death’s ship had angled toward it on an intercept course. As the moments ticked by, Jack realized what a dreadful risk Sabine had taken. When these two ships met, the savagery would be more than either of them had ever seen.
“Er…,” Jack said, glancing back at Vukovich. “All speed for the fog.”
“Of course,” Vukovich said.
“Let’s drag every breath of wind from the air!” Jack called, voice loud but unsure. Nobody moved, because the crew was already doing everything that needed doing. He heard a snigger but was not sure of its source. He looked around, caught Louis’s eye across the deck. He raised an eyebrow at Jack, offered a slight shrug.
The pursuit was not about orders but time. If the wind held and the fog did not shift, they might just reach the fogbank before the Charon bore down upon them.
Just.
At the bow, Ghost seemed to shake with anger and the promise of violence, sending vibrations rattling through the ship. Either that, or their speed caused the timbers of the hull to shiver.
Jack walked the deck, knowing that he had nothing to say to these half-men, because they all knew what was required of them. But he did discover something during that endless hour: Werewolves could feel fear. It was never overt, and never revealed in anything they said, but he could sense it in them—the way they glanced toward Death’s ship as it closed on them, the uncomfortable silences where two men worked together, their determination to win the race, tweaking every ounce of spe
ed from the sails, ensuring that the rigging held taut and flowed smoothly.
If Death caught them, they would know pain.
Now’s the time, Jack thought. He moved for the skiff, trying to place each member of the crew to see who might spot him, who might interfere. He would prepare to move, then dash below to fetch Sabine and their stashed supplies. And then—
If the Larsen reached the fog first, and Ghost managed to escape his brother, he would come looking for any alternative target.
“Mr. London!”
Damn it, Jack thought. Damn it! What little plan he had was barely a plan at all.
“Mr. London, as soon as we enter the fog, heave to.”
“What?” someone said. Jack didn’t see who. His eyes were on Ghost, the monstrous man standing there like some deformed figurehead. The captain’s eyes did not even flicker from Jack’s as he answered the dissent.
“Heave to.”
“Yes, sir,” Jack said, and he ran the length of the ship, relaying the orders as he went. Two men scrambled aloft, ready to drop sail the moment the call came, and Vukovich nodded even before Jack reached him. He had heard. He did not need the human telling him what to do.
“His own cleverness might be his undoing,” Louis said.
“I don’t understand,” Jack said, pleased to hear, if not a friendly voice, then at least one willing to converse with him.
“He’s trying to second-guess his brother. Any ordinary pursuit would continue into the fog, so Ghost won’t do that. If we reach the fog in time, what then? Turn north, right across the Charon’s bow? It might work, but there’s a chance Death will see us, or that we’ll collide. We could run south, skimming the edges of the fogbank, try to put so much distance between the two ships that there’s no hope of them regaining our trail. But perhaps Death would anticipate such a step, and if he guesses correctly and quickly, they could overtake us.”
“So stop altogether?” Jack asked.
“Why not?” Louis asked. “At least it’s not running anymore.”
“But if Death guesses that as well?”
“Maybe he will, maybe not.” Louis’s smile was empty, almost distant, as he stared across the gently rolling sea at the approaching vessel.
Jack could see a lot more of the Charon now, and at last he could understand the Larsen crew’s barely veiled concern. The Charon was at least twice as large as the Larsen, a black behemoth with five boats to each side, a single busy funnel, and what looked like a small deck gun mounted close to its bow. There was lots of activity around the gun, and Jack guessed that they would be in range in moments.
Ghost looked from the Charon to the fogbank, then along the ship to Jack. He nodded. They were going to make it….
The deck gun on the Charon puffed smoke, and the thunder of its report came just as a hole was punched in one of the Larsen’s sails. An awful stillness descended upon Jack. The Charon had a working turret gun, firing projectiles that had to weigh over a hundred pounds each. It would be muzzle-loading, which meant a lag after each shot, but if they managed to get one or two right on target, the Larsen might be done for.
“Now, that’s not fair,” Louis said.
Tree and Demetrius crouched at the railing and started firing rifles, but the enemy was far out of range, and Jack shouted at them to hold fire. The sea wolves glared at him with undisguised hostility. Ghost nodded at him once again and then left his position at the bow and walked the length of the ship.
On the Charon, Jack saw, was a shape doing the same. The silhouette was of a big man, walking at the same pace as Ghost, bearing the same air of power and dominance, even though from this distance it was impossible to make out his features. It was something about the way he walked that echoed Ghost’s disregard for anyone but himself—confidence and arrogance and a sense of complete entitlement; each believed he alone owned the ocean.
In Ghost’s eyes as he passed, Jack saw an acknowledgment of his brother’s presence.
“As soon as we’re sheltered by the fog,” Ghost said. “But make the order a quiet one. They’re already in earshot.”
And then our time will come, Jack thought.
Ghost reached the steps leading down and paused before descending. His men looked at him in disbelief. He stared around at them, then across at the Charon, closing on them. The gun coughed again, and Jack heard the shot before the round impacted close to the bow, shattering a length of railing and splintering a swath of deck where Ghost had been standing seconds before.
“You have your orders, Mr. London,” Ghost said. “I’m not to be disturbed unless the plan goes awry. I have a sea witch to put on trial.” His grin as he turned and descended into the shadows made Jack sick to his stomach.
Sabine! Jack thought, and his already precarious plan was in tatters.
From the rigging, Kelly called down, “First whiff of fog.”
Moments later they entered the fogbank and, without Jack even opening his mouth to issue the order, the Larsen proceeded to heave to. Death’s deck gun barked again, and the shot whistled thorough the rigging, flapping Kelly’s loose trouser leg where he worked on the crosstrees. He paused, surprised, and then proceeded with his tasks.
The ship acted as if it wanted to sail on—straining against the wind, creaking heavily as it pitched against a swell, sails billowing in complaint as they were lowered and the booms swung and tied. Cut the noise! Jack wanted to shout, but his voice would have been more noise for their enemy to hear, and—
The Charon passed ahead of them, visible as little more than a shadow against the rolling fog. Jack might have taken it as an apparition if he hadn’t known for sure the ship was there. Ghost’s crew grew still and silent as they watched the shadow powering past, driven by humming engines, its passage marked by the angry swirl of water against its metal hull. Jack could almost feel everyone’s held breath in his own lungs, and as the fog swallowed the Charon, they all began to breathe again.
“Orders, sir?” someone said, and Jack glanced around for Ghost. But Vukovich had been addressing him. His animal voice found sarcasm an easy tone to carry.
“We drift until I say otherwise,” Jack said, brain working frantically. What could he salvage from this? How could he make the plan work, when Ghost always seemed to be there to haunt any chance they had at escape?
“And then?” Vukovich asked.
“And then… I’ll tell you.” Jack and the pirate stared at each other, but he could never intimidate such a creature. He paced the deck instead, grabbing hold of something as each swell knocked against the drifting ship’s hull and rocked the boat as if it rode a great storm. He paused by the skiff he had chosen, conscious of its slight movements each time the Larsen rolled—it ought to have been strapped down tightly, but he had loosened its restraints. With the ship drifting, it would be even easier to launch, and the temptation to do so then was great. The fog was so thick that from the Larsen’s stern, the bow would be a nebulous place.
The Charon passed ahead of them, visible as little more than a shadow against the rolling fog.
But what of Sabine?
Jack wanted nothing more than to venture belowdecks to see what was happening. There had been no sound since Ghost’s descent—no cries or screams, which was good. But Ghost had deemed going below more important than remaining on deck to oversee their flight from his predatory brother. Sabine was the only reason. I have a sea witch to put on trial, he’d said. Jack could not believe that any trial conducted by Ghost would be fair, and Sabine’s guilt was already without doubt. Death had almost rammed them into the depths, and she had not whispered a word of warning about his arrival.
“I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him this furious,” Louis said. He had come to stand beside Jack without making a sound, and now they both held on to the skiff’s gunwale as the Larsen drifted side-on to the waves.
“He didn’t look furious,” Jack said.
“That’s what I mean. He’s holding it all in, like a hurricane con
tained. And Ghost is not a man to hold back his rage.”
“That’s no concern of mine.”
“Really?” Louis asked. “Sabine is a concern, non? Because it’s she who will be suffering. She had to know the Charon was nearby. We might have given Death Nilsson the slip for now, but there’s blame to lay, and where there’s blame there will be consequences.”
“What consequences?” Jack asked, blood flowing cold. But Louis moved away, fading like a wraith into the thickening fog.
He had to go below. Prepared or not—and he knew that he would never be ready to face Ghost one-on-one—he could not remain on deck while Ghost was below with Sabine. It was not only the information she had withheld; there was that look in the captain’s eyes when he had seen her and Jack on the same cot. Whether he loved her or merely lusted for her, the result was the same. He coveted her body and soul, and now he would punish her for the yearning she inspired within him just as much as for her sins against him.
Jack made for the covered stairwell, but just as he reached it, he heard the thump of booted feet from below. Ghost emerged, an enraged man being born from darkness into a world he could only hate. His teeth were gritted, eyes watering, hands fisted, and he brought with him a miasma of fury that seemed to scar the air around him.
Jack stepped back as Ghost lashed out, but he could not avoid the blow. The captain’s huge fist caught him across the shoulder as he retreated, and he spun and fell, crawling quickly across the deck in a vain attempt to avoid the next attack. A dreadful realization hit Jack then, and filled him with a terrible hopelessness: He’ll kill me now, because he’s mad at Sabine but cannot afford to kill her.
But as Jack scurried away, he realized that Ghost had not followed him. Instead the captain strode the length of the ship, each footfall an impact as shattering as a giant wave, each gasped breath the whip of a hurricane. Tree stood before him, the mountainous man’s black skin stark against the canvas of fog around the ship. Ghost batted him aside. Tree flew across the deck and struck the mainmast, the grunt as he hit not masking the sound of wood cracking.
The Secret Journeys of Jack London, Book Two: The Sea Wolves Page 17
