The Adventures Of Una Perrson

by Michael Moorcock

  They had come aboard at Marseilles and were going all the way to New York. From the ballroom below came the faint strains of a dance band. 'Well, you should have a good time in America.' She was feeling pleasantly melancholic; the grey sky and the broad grey sea always had this effect, particularly if, as now, the wind was gentle and cold.

  'We.' His eyes were intense behind his spectacles. 'We can be married formally in America.'

  She was amused. 'Your principles . . .'

  'I thought you'd be pleased. Women need these evidences of security.'

  'Men don't?'

  She was flattered by the notion but, of course, she had no intention of marrying him. When they reached America, she would tell him. There was no point in spoiling his voyage when he was enjoying himself so much. Also, she could not face a cross-examination. Let her leaving him, in Chicago or San Francisco (she had not quite made up her mind at what stage of his lecture tour she would abandon him) be his first and smallest disappointment. There would be worse to come.

  'I am unworthy of you,' she told him. It is what he would think, in a month or two. He would think the same of the United States for that matter.

  'No. If anyone is unworthy . . .'

  A slim finger on his lips silenced him. He looked sheepish. This expression was so rare these days that she had almost forgotten it. When he had worn it often she had been most in love with him. When he had been a revolutionist without a revolution. Responsibilities ruined an idealist so. Power might make men attractive to some women, but it made rotten lovers of them. She recalled him when he had been hesitant, gentle, when his words had seemed more like poetry than rhetoric, when Utopia would be achieved through good will and self-discipline, when the reins of power would be taken gently but firmly from the hands of the misguided ruling classes. He had seemed impotent then, his dreams so unrealistic as to be no more than fairy tales to which she would listen, dismissing her dim, disturbing memories of the future, of filth, blood and the rationalization of brutality.

  ‘Is it too cold for you out here?' he asked.

  She shook her head. 'Not yet.'

  ‘I was going to make some notes this evening.'

  'You go to the cabin. I'll join you soon.'

  ‘I can't leave you here.'

  'I'm not likely to be washed overboard.' She smiled. 'Make your notes, my dear.'

  'I'll stay.'

  She accepted this, though she knew that he would soon condemn her for keeping him from his work. This knowledge made the melancholia all the sweeter. She felt guilty. 'Well, perhaps I'll come down now.'

  'You're sure? If. . .'

  'It is getting cold,' she agreed. 'Could we possibly have a hot drink brought to the cabin?'

  'Why not? It's all paid for by the Americans.' He grinned, happy that she had decided to go with him, although she knew that once he had begun to write he would be disturbed by the slightest movement she might make, that she would have to find some dreadful novel from the ship's library and pretend to read it. If she did not, he would decide that her restlessness was a sign that she wanted attention from him. She linked her arm in his as they crossed to the companion way. She hoped that he would decide to practise one of his lectures aloud to her; it would be preferable, certainly, to the novels. She signed to herself. In a situation of this kind it was so hard for her not to fall back on easy cynicism. After all, she had agreed cheerfully enough when, in Paris, he had suggested they make the trip together, that his expenses allowed him to bring his wife. It was a way out of the plague ghetto, where she had been working as an auxiliary nurse and where, as a result, she had been confined when the Commune voted to quarantine the area.

  As they entered the warmer air of the corridor she began to cough. An officer saluted them, speaking English. 'Good evening, madam. Evening, sir.' They nodded to acknowledge him. He turned the handle of the cabin door. 'I can never tell if they're using English or German,' he complained. I'm so rusty on languages. I'll have to improve. You must give me lessons, Una.'

  'Your lectures sound all right.'

  ‘The accent is good?' He turned a light switch. The cabin was untidy, scattered with his clothes and papers. Apart from a few cosmetics on the tiny dressing table there was hardly any sign that she also occupied the room.

  'Well, perhaps you could do with a refresher course in pronunciation.'

  'I want them to understand every word.'

  'They will.'

  He was nervous of America. It seemed that he was anxious to win the approval of the workers there, more than anywhere else. He regarded them as more sophisticated, more articulate, more politically educated than workers in any other country. 'To win America,' he murmured to himself. Here was a return to the unrealistic idealism which had first attracted her to him when she had met him at the International before the War, in London. 'They want me. They have sent for me. Oh, I know I am one of the many speakers contracted by the agency, but if they didn't wish to hear me, they wouldn't pay, would they?'

  Una nodded. She peered through the porthole at the ocean; the horizon moved upwards and disappeared. She drew the tiny curtains.

  Una awoke at dawn. She was cold. There was fresh, sharp air in her nostrils and she thought at first that the porthole had come open; then she wondered if the book, crushed between her body and the side of the bunk, had been the cause of her early waking. The book's edges were pressing into her ribs. She moved it, leaning over to place it on the floor. In the opposite bunk he was asleep, half-dressed, one leg hanging free, characteristically. She was about to turn on her side and go back to sleep when she realized that what had actually disturbed her was a series of loud noises, shouts, thumps, possibly gunshots. She rose, went to the porthole and looked out. The sea had vanished. In its place was the side of another vessel, painted a creamy white but covered in large patches of rust where the paint had peeled. Craning her neck she looked up. She could see the ship's rails and parts of her superstructure. She appeared to be a battleship.

  The sea was very calm now. If there had been a storm then it had passed in the night. She went to the wardrobe and took out a slightly crumpled morning frock in green silk. As she dressed she listened, trying to interpret the sounds. It seemed as if the ship was being commandeered, possibly for provisions, as sometimes happened in wartime. She was not aware of any international war taking place at that moment. She had unpacked very few of her clothes, since they had had to appear in public only once or twice on the voyage. Thoughtfully, she put everything into her suitcase. Experience told her that it was as well to be ready for flight in this sort of situation. Another shot: clearly identifiable. It was closer. It had probably come from one of the nearby passages.

  Men in heavy boots could be heard running along companionways towards the cabins. There were more shouts: orders. She heard angry voices, exclamations, banging doors. The passengers. There came a rap on her own door. He stirred in his sleep, feeling for his spectacles even before he awakened. Una lit a cigarette while the knock was repeated. She heard a man say in Spanish: 'Give me the passenger list.' A moment later she heard the same man laugh.

  She opened the door.

  He was swarthy, looking Jewish rather than Spanish, and the barefooted sailors grinning behind him were mainly negroes, some very black, some quite pale. His uniform was of the same cream colour as his ship and the jacket and the left leg of his trousers had large brown blood stains on them, like rust. It was almost as if the similarities between ship and uniform were deliberate. He was very tall, his head almost touching the ceiling. He saluted cheerfully. 'Good morning, Comrade Persson. There was a rumour that you were aboard. And this comrade, also.'

  He was grumbling, sitting on the edge of his bed and rubbing at himself. 'Are we sinking?'

  'Your ship is perfectly seaworthy, if that's what you mean, comrade. If you are speaking symbolically . . .'

  'Get out,' he growled. 'What do you want?'

  'We are requisitioning stores and personnel for the u
se of our navy,' replied the tall man.

  He was buttoning up his shirt. Now he recognized the voice of the newcomer. He looked up. 'Good God! Petroff! I thought you were dead.'

  'I know that my services were no longer useful to your particular struggle, comrade.' Petroff handed him his tie. 'However, I am now employed in another cause and seem to be appreciated better.' He spoke, Una guessed, not without bitterness. Petroff had been regarded as something of an opportunist in Moscow, but she had always thought him nothing more than a well-intentioned realist. She was as surprised as her companion to discover that Petroff was alive.

  'Your own cause, eh, comrade?' Polishing his glasses he glared at the intruder. 'What is it? Simple piracy? How do you dignify it?'

  'I support the principles of World Revolution and I am presently representing the Cuban Revolutionary Council. I am an officer in the CRC Navy. I hold the rank of Commander.'

  'You will hardly get British recognition for your council,' he said, 'by committing acts of piracy against her civilian shipping.'

  'We aren't interested in British recognition,' Petroff told him frankly. 'We want your food and your women.'

  'What?'

  'You're kidnapping the women?' Una felt a stir of interest at last.

  'The young and the beautiful only.' He bowed to her.

  'For ransom?'

  He smiled. 'Certainly not. For pleasure.'

  From over Una's shoulder there came a braying laugh. 'Thieves and rapists! Well, Petroff, you are revealed in your true colours. You are one of those who uses the vocabulary of revolution to justify acts of the grossest criminality . . .'

  Petroff sighed, saluted again, but addressed Una. 'You will come with us willingly, comrade?'

  'You intend to take Mademoiselle Persson? This is ridiculous. She is a comrade. An important and respected worker . . .'

  'She is young and very beautiful.' Petroff drew a long-barrelled Colt revolver from the holster at his belt. 'We have orders to shoot anyone who resists. We have already shot fourteen members of the crew and five passengers.'

  'I am horrified.' Vigorously he knotted his tie. 'We executed men for less during the revolution.'

  'Perhaps that is where you went wrong, comrade. Cuba is primarily a Catholic country. Rather than learn to be puritans, renouncing our humanity, we intend to follow our instincts and achieve, as a result, a healthy and vital revolution. We are seizing only the First Class passengers and taking food intended for the First Class galley.'

  'Your logic is ludicrous. If there is no food for the First Class passengers, the other food will be shared.'

  'Requisitioned from the less fortunate. Exactly. An excellent moral lesson. Thus we sow the seeds of World Revolution.'

  He turned away in disgust.

  'I'll get my bag,' said Una.

  'I'll die before they'll take you!' He moved to put himself between Una and Petroff.

  Una kissed him. 'Your work is too important,' she told him. 'You must go to America. You know what it means to you—what it could mean to the American workers. The revolution is more important than the feelings of a couple of individuals.'

  He hesitated. 'But I love you, Una.'

  'And I love you, Frederik.' She whispered: 'I will find you again, as I have found you before.' She picked up her suitcase.

  This satisfied him. With an expression of contempt, he watched the sailors escort her from the cabin.

  Petroff was the last to leave, casually waving the revolver. 'I suspect, Comrade "Brown", that it was you who signed the order for my liquidation. Happily for you, I am proud of the fact that I am not a vengeful man. Besides, to shoot you would carry no weight. Much better that I should take the only human being for whom you have any natural affection.'

  'Brown' screamed at him. Quickly, Petroff closed the door. He seemed upset.

  Una joined the other women in the line in the corridor. One or two of them were in shock but the others (about ten) appeared to be either amused or angry; most of them were in nightclothes and dressing gowns but a few had managed to do their hair and makeup. Not one resisted as the party was herded on deck, into the mild dawn air. There were only a few bodies in evidence. A crane had been swung out from the pirate battleship and jutted over the liner's bottom deck, where they were now gathered. From the crane ran a heavy chain attached to a makeshift wooden platform which was lowered to the deck as they emerged.

  In pantomine the sailors indicated that the ladies should step onto the platform. Nervously, they complied. Una settled her suitcase on it and turned as she heard a scuffling near the rail. They had the Captain, a small, round-featured Irishman. There was a flesh-wound in his left arm. He had been handcuffed. 'Piracy,' he was saying with an almost romantic relish. 'Nothing but old-fashioned piracy!'

  Petroff approached him and saluted, offering him a piece of paper which he accepted with both hands, wincing at his wound. Petroff explained. It is your receipt, Captain. The cases of food have been itemized. The fourteen passengers have also been itemized. There will, of course, be no compensation.'

  The Captain raised his head to stare at Petroff. 'Hum.'

  'Your company is insured against acts of piracy, presumably,' said Petroff.

  'I don't know . . .'

  'It would be wise of you to remind them, when you get to New York.'

  'Yes.' It was obvious to Una that the Captain was only dimly aware of what was happening. The platform swayed as the crane began to crank it up and swing it over the side. One dark-haired girl of eighteen cried out as her little bag fell off the edge.

  'I think it would be better if we all sat down.' They accepted Una's suggestion and the platform steadied itself. Looking down, Una caught the captain's astonished eye. She waved.

  Una noted that grappling lines had been secured between the ships. Already the pirates were using these to cross back to their own vessel while their comrades, at the battleship's rails, brandished light machine-guns and rifles, covering them. Though all the pirates adopted a style of rakish villainy there was amongst them an almost childish good-humoured ambience, as if they knew they were being bad. Una saw that Petroff remained on the liner's deck, chatting to the captain until the last of his men had returned, then he bolstered his revolver, took hold of a grappling line and clambered, hand over hand, to his ship. As the crane began to lower the women to the battleship's deck the grappling lines were cast off. Petroff jumped from the rail, ran to his bridge and disappeared. A moment later the ironclad's engines began to turn and its big guns moved to menace the passenger vessel. 'Oh, goodness,' breathlessly murmured a young American girl as the liner receded. Shouldering their weapons, the crew gathered round the platform to inspect their prizes.

  Petroff reappeared above. 'Mrs Persson,' he called in English. 'Would you join me, yes?'

  Leaving her luggage on the platform Una stepped off, pushing through the hot bodies to climb up to the bridge. Petroff awaited her. He was pleased with himself. 'Do you really intend to rape us?' she asked.

  He smiled, enjoying the idea for a moment. 'Certainly not. The women may pick anyone they choose to be their husband. I shall marry them myself. We think in the long-term, you see. It is the children we want. Good stock, wouldn't you agree? Some of the finest blood from the Old and New World.'

  'And who am I to marry?'

  'The choice is yours. You are free to decide. We are democrats, of course.' He offered her a cheroot which she accepted.

  As he lit the cheroot for her she said: 'I was just congratulating myself that I'd avoided one suitor with minimum embarrassment to both parties.' The cheroot began to smoulder. He blew out the match. 'Still,' she continued, 'I suppose this is a much healthier situation, though I'd be happier if there was less talk of freedom of choice, comrade.'

  Petroff was amused. 'I take your point. But you are right. We are running a very healthy revolution, as I told "Brown".'

  'How much time are you giving me to decide?' Through her thin dress the morning su
n had begun to warm her skin.

  'As long as you like. In the meantime, I invite you to join us. I can have a uniform modified for you.'

  'You're disappointing me. Now I'm being offered a job.'

  'An enjoyable job. Look how happy we all are! You would also receive a big pistol, like mine.'

  'I have my own weapons, in my luggage.'

  He folded his arms on the rail, sighing with pleasure, looking to starboard where the SS Queen Victoria could still be seen, her four funnels smoking, on the horizon. 'The sooner we return to Havana the better. They will repair their wireless shortly and the American war-fleet will be chasing us. I hope you'll consider me, by the way, Una. We would have beautiful children.' He tilted his cap to shade his eyes.

  'I'm not sure it's possible for me to have children,' she said speculatively. 'It might cause all sorts of trouble. "Browns" are very,' she smiled to herself,' "unstable".'

  That would be a shame.' He had only taken note of the first remark.

  'Yes,' she said. She watched as the women, in their expensive negligees, were taken to their quarters. The men were excessively, if sardonically, polite. She envied the women the simplicity of their situation. It's odd, isn't it? There are so many ways of losing a revolution.'

  EIGHT

  In which Catherine Cornelius takes part in a union of two nations

  They're gonna fink yore th' bleedin' delivery boy!' Mrs Cornelius floundered up from the dip in the iron bed, casting off some half-a-dozen blankets and an emerald-green quilt. The bed shook and creaked. Catherine felt the vibrations on the floor beneath her feet as she stood at the door.' 'And me me 'arscoat, love.'

  Catherine crossed quickly to the chair on which her mother's many garments were piled. She selected the stained and faded woollen man's dressing-gown and the Savage Club tie and passed them over. Mrs Cornelius, in musty liberty bodice and drawers, began to pull the dressing gown around her, securing it with the tie. 'You 'ad such lovely 'air, an' all.'