He gazed through the coach windows at those perfectly framed portraits of trade. So straightforward, so beautiful in their simplicity. Give me tuppence and I shall give you this thing. The purity of that fundamental idea of trade was long lost to him. Thinking of the dark master he now served, he could only think that the lifeblood of that creature had flowed at one time solely on one man's happiness to trade, and another man's desire to have more.
He allowed himself a wry chuckle as he thought that Mammon could have no better wife than the widow Burton. Every thought in that woman's mind would serve to keep the master alive for a thousand more years.
The coach drew to a halt and the footman opened the door. Snow decided, in something resembling pride, to leave the whisky behind and stepped out into the bustling crowds of the City. A card table showdown thrill rushed through him as he glanced once at the statue of the Duke of Wellington. That grand statue, forged from the canons of his defeated enemies, just as his own throne was to be built of the bones of the Red Scout's crew.
The crew, and Dent, of course. Dent, who would have been there with him on any normal day. Dent, whose wise counsel always seemed to stave off the fear of tangling with these savage creatures who mounted the Royal Exchange steps alongside him.
He had barely set foot in the foyer of this vast center of commerce when he broke step, only for a second. She was already waiting for him.
"My dear, dear Mr. Snow," the widow Burton gushed, hobbling across the checkered floor to meet him face to face. "But I have simply been dying to see you this day." She extended a gloved hand, which Snow received, kissing the black velvet at her knuckles.
"Oh, if only that were true, Mrs. Burton, I should have been sure to wait a wee while longer."
Burton was attended by two young men, both dressed alike in greatcoats, buttoned tight across broad, muscular chests and shoulders, each man sporting a top hat, their faces framed with neatly trimmed mutton-chops. They looked like twins. One of them stepped forward with his fist clenched. "My Lady, would you have me cast this man into the street?"
"Down, boy," the widow growled in a playful tone, with a flirtatious glint in her eye, which excited in Snow a faint sense of nausea. "Mr. Snow here is our friend. I have travelled here with the sole purpose of conversing with him."
"Well, that is rather kind of you, Mrs. Burton, but I must be moving along," Snow insisted, stepping aside with a mind to circumnavigate the group.
"It was lovely to see you, young Mr. Snow. I look forward to meeting with you later as we discuss monies outstanding on Red Stallion."
The insinuation was clear, but Snow feigned ignorance. "I believe you are mistaken, my good lady. You see, the ship you mentioned was constructed by Russell and Aspinall's in Baltimore. It is to them that I owe the belated funds."
"Ah, but I thought that with your business so far indebted, perhaps I should grant you a boon, and so I bought the debt from them to save you having to send that money on its exhausting trip all the way to Baltimore. True, Russell and Aspinall were happy to wait and accrue interest at first, but when my American agents delivered telegrams from your other erstwhile creditors, they were only too keen to take my offer of sixty percent. Does it not make more sense for the consolidation of all of your debts? To have all of your debts held, in fact, by a friend?"
"Were it only that I had a friend in our line of business, Mrs. Burton."
The widow clutched at his hand once more, squeezing with a pressure totally at odds with her fragile, aged form. Closing in for the kill seemed to wipe years away from her, filling her with new vitality. "Oh but you do, Jack Snow. You do have a friend. And like all friends, I will guide you back into honour by ensuring that you repay every single penny owed on Red Stallion by the end of this day. "
"It is a risky business, owning ones ships outright. A lot of capital is shed in the early days as well you might know from your dear departed husband…or, did I not read somewhere that he was a pirate and a thief? Well, who knows, eh? One mustn't believe everything one reads. I bid you good day."
The widow snatched back her hand as though avoiding a venomous snakebite. She muttered curses under her breath. That arrogant bastard had dared to cast aspersions at the memory of her beloved Henry. Even more than before, she relished the moment when she would bring about the end of Snow and Sons.
Notes and calls passed back and forth on the trading floor, and Snow felt the thrill of the action. He could see the lifeblood of Empire coursing about him. He could feel the pull of Mammon's influence. Wealth and gain justified the loss of any lives. So it had always been. So it always shall. In that sense, he could almost admire the ruthlessness of the widow, and the whispered tales of her long-dead husband.
Snow could not help but notice the widow watching him across the trading floor, flanked by her foreboding guards. She sipped at a delicate china teacup and whenever their eyes met, a sly malevolent energy seemed to radiate from her.
One thing was absolutely clear to him: the news she awaited was exactly the same as he. But not with the same motivation.
The resounding chime of the mighty Lutine Bell brought the trading floor to a standstill. The traders held their breath, waiting for the second chime which would indicate the news received was of a late ship now found to be safe. The second chime did not come. It was bad news, and that news spread like a wave throughout the room, filtering its way to Snow.
The widow clapped her hands and tugged at the sleeves of her henchmen, pointing at Snow as he learned that the Red Scout had not arrived to replenish coal reserves at Tripoli as expected. The ship had not been seen by others who had left London shortly after her.
The underwriters scrambled to make their deals, conspiring to make business to offset the anticipated loss of a mighty cargo.
Mrs. Burton could not contain her amusement, but found, to her chagrin, that Snow maintained an impassive look. Through narrowed eyes, she began to wonder why the man, whose last lifeline appeared to have sunk into the briny sea, seemed not to care. She decided that her young rival was in shock. She raised her cup in salutation, mocking her fallen foe.
When he heard murmurs of Red Stallion passing around the floor ten minutes later, he braced himself for a victorious salutation of his own.
The Lutine Bell chimed once more. Snow looked around, wondering which poor bastard was about to receive bad news.
Again the announcement passed around the room and reached his ears. Red Stallion, it seemed, had not collected her coal either. Snow clamped a handkerchief over his lips to catch the acidic whisky and bile mix that scorched his throat and filled his mouth.
Mrs. Burton had the reaction she wanted. Her laughter rose above the hubbub of commerce and tore into his soul.
* * *
Smoke billowed from the chimney of Red Stallion, as good quality Newcastle coal brought life to the vast condenser and pistons driving the screw paddle at her rear, driving her onward, ever onward. Her precious cargo, 200 tons of soap, wool, candles, books, glass and china thundered ever closer to Calcutta.
The Stallion's captain, Charles Hollingworth stood to receive a hefty payment from Jack Snow for his secrecy on this mission, carrying a cargo over-insured and supposed to be carried on the doomed Red Scout. Every ton of opium collected in Calcutta upon the sale of the aforementioned goods would travel to Lintin on the Stallion, there to trade for silver. That silver was destined for Hong Kong where 200 tons of the new tea crop would be loaded and raced back to London. Not a shilling received in London would reach the accounts of Snow and Sons, as none of the trades or cargo would be borne in the company name. All transactions and monies stood for Jack Snow personally. Jack Snow, and of course, those who had assisted him in this daring bit of maritime fraud.
"Sorr! You should see this, Sorr!" came the call from the poop deck. Hollingworth strode across the deck to join a gathering of men staring overboard into the deep. "Do you see it, Sorr?"
"See what, exactly? I see only the gla
re from the sun, you fools."
"That's not the sun, Sorr. That's fire."
Hollingworth wanted to berate the man for his folly, but the more he stared into the deep blue-green of the water, the more he realized the shimmering white-orange glow did look like fire.
As they plowed across the sea, the glow seemed to follow them, as though something deep below kept pace and tracked them.
"Keep watch on this phenomenon, men. But keep it to yourselves." The captain turned to his First Mate and ordered him to send word to the engine room: "Full steam ahead!"
Hollingworth checked his pocketwatch, noting that half an hour had elapsed since the phenomenon was made known to him. He returned to the ship's aft, where a silent vigil was held. The men appeared almost hypnotized.
"What do you think it is, Sorr?"
"If I knew I'd have fucking told you by now, boy!" he barked. It was then that he noticed the activity of the water. Even in the wake of the racing propeller, the sea seemed to be unusually disturbed. Not only had the orange glow of the deep kept pace with them, but it had grown larger. Larger, or closer. Squinting, Hollingworth tried to determine if the vapour he could see rising from the turbulence of the propeller was simply the mist of churned water, or steam.
"Do you see it, Sorr?"
"Be specific, man!"
"Do you see how the sea boils?"
In that moment a muffled horn sounded. Hollingworth looked about the Stallion, expecting to see a distant ship, but he saw nothing. The horn sounded again, closer this time, but still no ship could be seen.
The raging orange glow exploded from the churning surface of the water, and a chimney reached towards them, spewing thick, black fumes. The ghastly, screaming horn blast that emerged with the chimney sent a chill down the captain's spine.
"'Tis the Devil!" came the cry, and in that moment, all was panic, and the chimney was followed by a bowsprit constructed of an array of bones. The figurehead appeared next, in the form of a screaming skull whose arms swung back and forth, seaweed clinging to each vertebrae of the spine.
The demon ship's mighty prow exploded from the sea, reaching almost to the deck of the Stallion, before reaching the tipping point, where it slammed down, shattering the waves.
It was then Hollingworth noted the name of the ship, cut deep and proud either side of the figurehead. "That's no devil ship. It's the Red Scout!"
Hollingworth stood frozen in slack-jawed incredulity at the sight of the ship's crew. Bloated with seawater, and gnawed upon by the denizens of the sea, the roaring crew waved cutlasses and brandished rifles, threatening his crew.
Flames grasped for the sky from the opening of the cavernous chimney as the ship, now fully revealed, bore down upon the Stallion.
Although he knew it was impossible for the gunpowder to be dry, shots roared out from the firearms of these ragtag raiders. A man Hollingworth vaguely recognized as the ship's captain, Gosseling, stepped to the fore of the throng, placing a tattered boot above the bony bowsprit, his chest a slick, cavernous wound and with eyes that glowed as ferociously as the chimney's flames this creature met his gaze and bellowed, "Prepare to be boarded!"
The Stallion lurched as the Scout, at some point beneath the Plimsoll line, made contact with the screw propeller. Metal screamed as the mechanism was forced to a grinding halt. The propeller tore away as ropes and hooks flew up onto the Stallion's deck. In moments, the bilious sailors of the Scout began to clamber along the tethers.
Hollingworth called his crew to arms, but too late, as he turned back to face the enemy as Gosseling's gnarled hands clasped his head. "Your weapons serve you no good, lad! Not against the dead!"
* * *
Jack Snow watched the approaching coaches and wagons, knowing fully well what lay in store for him that afternoon. Red Stallion had gone unseen for days. The news had spread far and wide of the imminent downfall of Snow and Sons. Stockholders harassed the servants at his home and banged on the doors of the warehouse at the London and St Katherine Docks,
At his feet lay the black brazier in which he had burned so much of his money in worship of Mammon. It seemed, as the debt collectors closed in, that his prayers had gone unheard and a plan that at first seemed foolproof had disintegrated into the same ashes as the fortune of his family.
That sixty men were sent to their deaths, knowingly by Snow, barely registered with him. That sixty more, it seemed, died in his service on the second ship, again, mattered not to him. His only thought was that all he owned was either gone, or about to be taken away. He had bet all on a single coin toss, and lost.
The staccato drumming of horse-hooves, and the rumble of trundling wheels ceased, and he dared to look out of his window once more. As he expected, she was there, the widow Burton, a glad spectator in attendance of the death of his business.
The insurance for the loss of Red Scout could cover the money outstanding on Red Stallion, but Burton had called in all of his outstanding debts. His gamble had been on that new tea crop returning in Stallion's hold, in his own name. He could have raised credit against that and kept the old bitch at bay for a time. Now the insurers were certain that Stallion was lost, if he were to reveal that he had knowingly over-insured Scout, and underinsured Stallion, then he would not only lose his company, but he would lose his liberty for the fraud.
He had no choice, and as the collectors broke the warehouse doors in, accompanied by bailiffs and police constables whose job it was to see that the acquisition of the property of Snow and Sons was carried out in line with the law, Jack Snow knew that there was no escape. His fate was sealed.
In a trance, he signed over the warehouse, stock and chattels. He took one last swallow of whisky, fastened his coat and trod the stairs with leaden steps, down into the warehouse and out onto the cobbled dock.
"It is simply devastating to see a fellow giant of maritime trade laid low," goaded Mrs. Burton from her coach.
Snow set his jaw, eyeing the wrinkled, pudgy, white face with sheer hatred. Unable to speak a word, he simply spat on the Burton livery upon the carriage door, to the disgust of those gathered.
"Your father would be ashamed," Mrs. Burton snarled. "Speaking of your father, when I finally take your home from you, when all of our business is settled, there is the matter of the Snow family mausoleum. I believe it to be on the grounds of your home. You must put your mind to it now, young Jack, where those bones shall go when I have my men exhume them."
Jack stared into the swirling greenish-brown Thames water, fancying that to die gulping down such a filthy liquid would be almost the perfect end to this foul ordeal.
Burton's coach made away, and before long, Snow was alone. No more a master, but a simple observer of the shipping trade, watching the ships come to port, watching them slip away into the growing twilight. His shoulders sagged as he wandered the docks, without aim, without purpose. He had no money on his person to buy even a small beer or fare for a ride to his home. It was then that he made out alarmed whistles, bell chimes, and horn blasts to the East, all along the Thames.
The ever-present Thames fog shrouded the ships by the time they reached the end of the dock, and so any ship arriving would be within the berths before he would see them. So it was that Snow heard the approaching vessel long before he saw it. A mournful horn blast filled his heart with dread, and a steam engine surging ever closer, with thunderous pistons hammering so loud that he thought the crew of this ship must be deaf.
An orange glow swelled within the gloaming and within moments, the fog seemed to part as though cowering aside.
Snow's eyes remained fixed on what he knew to be flames, and the ship's chimney came into view first, through the dissipating head of the fog. The maddening hammer of the pistons grew louder and louder with each moment and although he wanted to run, a mad curiosity compelled him to stay. He covered his ears, certain that his eardrums would explode any second.
Dockworkers and sailors stood agape, bearing witness to the spectacle as a
wide-mouthed skull presented its chilling image at the head of this hellish steamer. Another blast of that horn, that chilling, dying animal howl, made Snow tremble, as suddenly the hammering ceased, the flames died down, and the hulking steamer glided into port right before him.
His eyes confirmed what his rational mind could not believe. He saw the name of the ship and fell to his knees. Hollow eyes and cavernous mouths loomed over him from the bulwarks as the gangway clattered into place only feet away from him. The spectral crew spoke no words, they merely hissed through cracked and blackened teeth.
Footsteps on the gangway made Snow's heart tighten. Only when the footsteps approached him on land did he dare to look. He opened his eyes to see Hollingworth glaring at him.
"Jack Snow, you are a disgrace and a murderer!" Hollingworth announced.
"Hollingworth! I thought ye were dead!"
"Well now, Jack, it appears I know a thing or two about death more than you do!"
Snow recognized the voice immediately, as Gosseling's ghastly, cadaverous form lurched into view.
"I sank your Stallion, and with it your fortune, Snow. But I'm no murdering bastard like you! Every man on board the Stallion is here, safe and sound. My men and I may have made for a shabby looking crew to your eyes, but we have some honour, even beyond death!"
Hands caked in salt grabbed Snow's coat, pulling it down over his shoulders and bracing his upper arms. Jack cried out, gagging on the foul death-smell of his captors as they hauled him up the gangway and onto the gently rolling Red Scout.
"A friend wishes to greet you," Gosseling snarled, gripping Snow's hair, dragging him across the deck to the prow.
"Please! Not Dent. Tell me it's not Dent! Don't let me see him like this!"
"Like this? What, like us? No, I'm afraid your old friend was not part of the crew, so be became part of the ship! In fact it is his hatred for you that fuels the fires in that engine to such extremes as the depths of the sea could never extinguish the flames!"
Fearful Fathoms: Collected Tales of Aquatic Terror (Vol. I - Seas & Oceans) Page 22