“Now you sound like your father. You’re becoming him through and through.”
Snow cast his old mentor an angry glance, his narrow jaw clenched, and head cocked at an angle, almost suggested curiosity. His mouth betrayed his mind with the question, “Now what on earth do ye mean by that, ye old conniving bastard?”
Dent chuckled. “It means yer a throwback to the auld man after all.”
“And do ye mean tae suggest that this is a bad thing, Dent?”
Dent pursed his lips and turned to gaze out of the window of the luxuriously appointed offices of Snow and Sons, at the scuffed masts and battered chimney of the aged Red Scout, noting the ragtag band of men scurrying about her, making ready for sea. “Yer father was a successful man, Jack. But he wasnae a very happy man.”
“I’m not sure I care for your line of conversation, Dent.”
“If ye dinna care for the men oan that ship, then I dinna expect ye tae care for the ramblings of old friends. But ramble I will. I’ve lived long enough tae earn the right tae ramble awhile. It always aggrieved your dear mother that she couldnae lift the spirits of old Jock Snow. I want you tae think about that, Jack. Think of how your mother was, and I want you to think to your own household, in future, a family, if ye should see fit.” Dent turned to face his young master once more. “You see, what she found out the hard way was that it is impossible to lift the heart of a man, when that organ is so weighted with regret.”
Snow stood and took position at the window, staring down at the doomed vessel. “You sound like a man tempted to offer his resignation.”
Dent sighed and patted the younger man’s bony shoulder. “I’m with you til I drop, lad. Not because I want to, but because I see in you my destiny.”
“Which is?”
“With what I know, Jack, my resignation letter might as well be a suicide note.”
Snow squeezed his mentor’s fingers with a firm pressure meant only to reassure, not to threaten. “I have seen what I have to become to make way in this world, Dent. If stand idly by, then I get to bear witness to this company, the legacy of my father and his father, waste away. The Burton Company has pecked and nibbled away at us for decades. I can’t let that old bitch take it all away from me now.” His fingers danced across the lip of a hat-sized, ash-filled brazier stood on a steel pedestal to the left of the window.
“This superstitious nonsense will do you no good, either, Jack,” Dent sighed, noting Snow’s preoccupation with the brazier. “What good it does to burn money while you say you are so in need of it, is anyone’s guess.”
As Snow observed the busy London and St Katherine Docks, he considered the Red Scout standing convincingly fast as ominous tendrils of fog probed her starboard side. Laden with the poorest quality coal he could purchase, to then run with the shabbiest sails in his fleet. The battered steamer, and the crew of drunks he had assembled to man her, made for a damned pitiful sight by comparison to the vision of next berth, where the Red Stallion made ready, a sturdy crew cutting about her with rapid, precise movements.
He turned to his selection of whiskies, trying desperately to stifle the gulp he could feel swelling within his throat. He had to conceal this show of concern from Dent.
“Something on your mind, Jack?” Dent was wise enough to turn his gaze back to the bustling docks, rather than maintain his watch over Snow. He knew the younger man would unleash that savage tongue of his, should he realize that his gulp had not gone unnoticed.
Snow did not respond. Not with words, anyway. The heavy bottle of fine Basker’s single malt thumped against the back of Dent’s skull, felling the man with one blow. Dent’s legs gave way, and his forehead struck the glass pane before him.
A crack arced across the blood-smeared glass, and Dent settled in a heap on the floor. Dark blood soon matted the grey waves of hair that met his crisp white shirt collar and leaked from his broken nose.
Snow strode to the office doors, snatching them open. The red-faced Dutchman, Gosseling and one of his foul-smelling ship thugs stood ready. “Take this traitor aboard and make away within the hour. Nobody, nobody is to approach this man until you are ten miles out, do ye hear?”
“Aye, sir!”
"And when ye reach Calcutta, ye are tae drop him there with only the clothes oan his back!"
The doors closed once more, and Snow opened his strongbox. He selected a wedge of twenty valuable pieces of paper—debts he was yet to collect—debts which any of his advisors would instruct him to call in immediately, or sell on to a factor to free up the cash. Instead, he strode to the brazier, stuffed the documents into the aperture and picked at the shilling-sized scab on his left palm. He scratched the raw skin beneath the scab, exciting blood from the wound. A few drops was all he needed and before long, thick dark crimson droplets splattered heavily on the notes. Snow struck a match and coaxed the flame to catch the corner of one of the bills. Within seconds, the paper curled and blackened as the confined fire devoured it.
Snow bowed his head, muttering incantations under his breath, with his eyes shut tight. Beneath, on the docks, Dent’s polished shoes scraped across the wooden planks of the gangway and up onto the deck of the Red Scout.
* * *
The Red Scout lurched over the back of another crushing wave, and Gosseling cursed his orders, cursed that bastard Jack Snow and cursed the treacherous Portuguese coast. He wiped briny spray from his thick eyebrows with the sleeve of his greatcoat and stalked amidships of the beleaguered steamer in his charge. Around him, the crew worked to shut and seal with tarpaulin every hatch and opening they could, fearful that this terrible gale could only get worse before their situation could improve at all.
“Dacre!” he yelled, eyeing the sails as the wild wind threatened to tear them from the ship, masts and all.
“Aye, sir!”
“Where is my steam? Do these men intend to power this ship under the heat of but a single candle?”
“Sir, with God as my judge, the men spend so much coal I fear we won’t make it but ten more miles! It gives off no heat, sir! They would be better suited with a handful of candles, I would swear to it!”
“Reef these sails, damn you!” Gosseling bellowed, then his eyes caught sight of the great grey swell rising before the ship. “Brace!” Gosseling roared in horror as the churning sea reared up before the Scout, tipping the bow skyward. Men staggered even more drunkenly than their usual disorderly gait as they fought against the violent lurch of the boards beneath them.
The wave broke, pouring gallons of frothy brine over the deck. The bowsprit dipped low as the Red Scout surged forth, tipping down at ever such a steep angle that for a moment the captain feared they would sail in a straight line downward, ever downward, fathom by fearful fathom, right to the bottom of the sea.
Wood groaned against the irresistible force of the sea as the beautiful Cherokee girl figurehead vanished beneath the waves, and the bowsprit cracked as the Scout fought to right herself once more, scooping up another treacherous wash of rushing water to flow across the deck.
“Man overboard!” came the cry.
“Dacre, take the name!” Gosseling bellowed as a clutch of crewmen leaned over the port side bulwarks, throwing ropes to their doomed fellow, screaming as the furious waves smashed his head against the waterline, before pressing him into the crushing deep.
That the Red Scout had turned a few degrees was almost imperceptible, but even years of sloth and drink could not dampen Gosseling’s instincts that much—least of all his survival instinct. The captain turned to face the bridge, where the pilot, a weather-beaten fellow Dutchman name Van Semple swayed and clutched the helm as though his life depended upon it. Unfortunately in doing so, he had allowed the ship to veer starboard ever so slightly, revealing more of the port side to the elements.
“Van Semple, you fool! Turn this bitch three degrees to port!” Gosseling had mistaken the shift for an intentional move. He feared the pilot was about to order them men to attempt a starb
oard tack, to work upwind without the benefit of the engines. He knew with such powerful waves the ship could be forced over and capsize, and that they had to sail dead ahead to cleave through the wild sea.
Van Semple responded with a booming, “Aye, Sorr!” But it was too late.
Before the ship could correct its course, another almighty wave carried her aloft, not breaking until she had risen forty feet. “Jesus Christ!” Gosseling bellowed, grasping the starboard bulwark and hanging on with both arms locked in place.
The damaged bowsprit finally gave way, tearing loose as the wave broke over the bow, carrying the timber rod backwards where it lodged against the forecastle, splintering planks of that structure, prevented from flying further back across the deck by the sheer tension of the rigging. The Scout lurched to port with a sudden, jerking violence that cast another three crewmen into the deep.
Gosseling gritted his teeth in anticipation of the righting moment, as Van Semple battled to carry the ship a few degrees to port. He shouted with exertion, and the captain tried to haul himself along the deck, against the downward momentum of the ship as it finally tipped over the back of the wave, trying desperately to get to the pilot to assist him to return the ship to a safe course.
The rigging squealed and snapped at the front of the ship. A capstan broke loose, freeing the fore mast boom, allowing it to swing wildly in the gale. The capstan whipped across the width of the deck. Gosseling yelled a warning, but it was too late. Dacre took the full force of the bulky iron node in his chest, sending him cartwheeling across the ship to land in a bloody heap against the port bulwark.
“Davis! You’re with me!” Gosseling called, beckoning the most capable hand he could see, and the two pushed into the shelter of the cabin, beating a course straight to the engine room where the stokers and greasers swore and damned the poor coal Snow had provided them with. One of the engineers took a long swig from a bottle of cheap gin he had picked up in London.
Gosseling snatched the bottle away and hurled it into the open jaws of the starving firebox. “Drink will do no good, lads! If we can’t get some power into this bitch, we’ll all be on the bottom, now I need your wits about you!”
“Wits? I’ve wit aplenty, but unfortunately wits are as combustible as this fucking coal, Sorr!”
Gosseling should have been shouting to be heard under the normal conditions of a steamer’s engine room, but the engines were so underpowered, and the pistons driven so slowly that the conversation was held at an almost civilized volume. The captain’s ears pricked up as a sound met his ears, one as unwelcome as the lack of sound in the engine room. The sound of laughter. Hysterical, mad laughter.
* * *
Dent lay curled up in a shadowy corner to the stern of the cargo hold, tied to a metal ring fixed in the deck, usually reserved for tying crates down. It was usually an effective way of keeping the ship’s goods in place, but ropes and chains groaned against their burdens as nature’s frenzy tested the Red Scout to the very limits of her design.
Dent’s laughter came in fits and starts and he cowered, averting his eyes, as Gosseling’s bullseye lantern cast light across his face.
“You appear to find humour in the strangest of situations, my friend,” Gosseling growled, steadying himself against a crate.
The hold had begun to carry water, and Davis called the crew to man the pumps. This command brought about the greatest response from the men, either because they knew this meant they could all be about to drown, or because it meant they could work as far from the battered deck as possible.
“Snow has murdered us all. We are to be chalked up along with the goods and chattels lost on this ship, I am afraid.”
“He would never do that, liar!” Gosseling roared.
“You and all the drunken wee miscreants aboard signed a contract to take this ship to hell! Any minute now the hull will begin to fracture; he paid well to have this ship sabotaged.”
“Impossible!”
“Gosseling, you’ve lost your touch, man! You are every bit of you the rum-soaked idiot Snow took you for. Ye set sail and didnae check your ship properly. You were too busy taking your pay for dragging my arse aboard. Well, my friend, here we go, down to the fucking bottom together! Lloyds have Snow well insured for the loss, and as soon as that Lutine bell tolls, he'll be at those underwriters, and a handsome wee profit will be made from our souls!”
“You are a liar and a traitor, Dent!”
“You hesitated, Gosseling. You hear those bilge pumps doing their work and all that clanking is like the cogs in your fucking thick head turning over. If ye dinna believe me, check these boxes. What is it supposed to be, barley, wool, whisky and soap or some such?”
Gosseling firmed his jaw, not wishing to confirm Dent’s assumption, but his eyes averted the old Scotsman’s gaze. He could no longer pretend. “Davis! Open these crates. I want to see what our Mr. Snow has arranged for us to carry.”
“That’s my boy!” Dent encouraged. “Do as he says, Davis. And then ye’ll see. Ye’ll see that this is a ship bound for Hell!”
As Davis pried open the first box, Dent fell back into his maniacal laughter. Worthless rags fell loose from the opening, and Davis reached in deeper, drawing out a clutch of paper. “Sorr! Sorr! It’s money and… I think it's paintings…and chairs!”
“It’s fucking what?” Dent howled, delirious in these, his final moments. “Listen to me, Gosseling. Snow is a desperate man. He has appealed to a force darker than you or I could believe possible. He has struck a bargain, sacrificing his personal wealth, and it is we who are to be forfeit.”
“The Devil? I need no ghost stories here, old man!”
“No’ the Devil, but you’re close. ‘Tis Mammon, the demon of greed! Now, when I heard about this, I thought old Jack had gone mad under the pressure of the Burtons making ready to take his company off him, but your old pilot up there, he’s done nothing to get you out of this fucking tempest has he?”
“The storm came upon us from nowhere!” Gosseling snapped.
“Then a deal indeed was struck. You and your men best be on good terms with God, is all I can say!”
Gosseling ran full pace against the tilting ship, bursting out onto the deck in time to see the fore topgallant mast plummet towards him, harpooning the redundant chimney. Eyes narrowed against the lashing rain, the captain scanned his ship, assessing the despair of his wounded, bleeding crew, the shredded sails, tortured rigging and collapsing masts.
Metal and wood screamed off the port side, and Gosseling dared to peer into the deep, black sea in time to bear witness to the coppered hull splitting apart, opening a vast rent into which hundreds upon hundreds of gallons of water rushed.
The captain tore at his hair, screaming defiance to God, who even in his limitless power could not save them now. Producing a dagger from his belt, Gosseling wept bitter, angry tears as the Red Scout dipped down, the sea seeming to suck away from her, impossibly shallow, and at a terrifying, sharp angle. Before him grew the killing wave, the final stroke. He knew that the ship could never right before the surging tower of water claimed them.
“Snow, you bastard! You are not the only man under the sun who knows the dark old ways! I pledge my soul to vengeance! I pledge the souls of these poor doomed bastards before me! I shall have my revenge on thee!” The captain yelled to any crewman who could hear him above the roaring sea, and the panicked cries of those who knew they had met the end, "Hear me, men! All hands, if ye would visit vengeance upon the whoreson who sent us to die, take any lanyard, chain and scrap of rigging ye can find and lash yourself to this damned vessel!"
Davis heard the maddened captain scream even against the deafening rumble of the impending swell of death and watched as the men scrambled to fasten themselves to the ship in vain hopes of surviving the cataclysmic wave approaching. He bore witness to the captain’s suicide, the plunging of the dagger deep into his own heart. Gosseling turned to him, teeth grinding together in agony, chipping an
d snapping apart under his bite, his eyes bulging in utter insanity as he twisted the dagger, chewing through the cardiac muscle, opening the wound into a gaping, crimson maw. The captain withdrew the dagger once more, drawing with it a fountain of hot blood and gristle, only to plunge the dagger in deeper, this time with such force that the tip of the blade tore through the back of his dirty greatcoat.
Davis fell to his knees as the sky before him became the sea.
* * *
Jack Snow raised the bottle of Basker's to his lips after his left sock was in place. He did so again after the right sock, his shirt, his tie, his trousers and every item of clothing he applied to his person. By the time he strode past his concerned servants and out to the waiting liveried brougham, he was a man halfway to drunkenness even as his untouched breakfast of soft-boiled eggs still steamed in the dining room.
Snow had detected the whispers of shocked conversation over the days spent tearing oil paintings from the walls, freeing them of their frames and hurling all into the mighty bonfire he had set in the ornamental garden. His loyal manservant Ackley had confronted him in horror as Snow tore down the priceless Pond collection and committed to the flames what he had not placed in crates and sent to the docks.
Chanting and dancing around the fire had instilled in his staff the belief that he had completely taken leave of his senses. They saw him burn a fortune in antiques and heirlooms, but could not understand, could never even learn that this was not the random act of a madman, but the mad strategy of a man committed to restoring glory to his family's name. Restoring the glory, and retaining it forever.
The coach bumped and bounded along the route to the Royal Exchange. Dribbles of whisky stained his once-pristine white shirt and soaked into the lapels of his black jacket. He stared out of the coach at clutches of ragged flower and match sellers, the glint of a shilling catching his eye every now and then as a transaction took place in mere seconds.
The coach slowed to a crawl, joining the crush of traders and businessmen eager to learn of their fortunes, and to create new ones, at the Exchange. Snow's hands trembled at the realization he was so close to learning the fate of his dynasty's fortune.
Fearful Fathoms: Collected Tales of Aquatic Terror (Vol. I - Seas & Oceans) Page 21