So choosing the taciturn comfort of shadow over the glaring adjudication of light, they remained below decks nestled together in the company of vermin, eschewed by the light, one with the dark, and, most important, alone with their sins. Together, they bore a transgression of incoherent necessity beyond their control—and that had become their undoing. It all had happened too quickly for their minds to comprehend the full implication of what they had done, but in each of their minds they remembered every agonizing second of the ordeal.
Discovered by a stranger, they might as well have been found dead. To them, this was their grave, the bloated belly of this battered ship. Inside the hull of this floating tomb, formerly known to all as the H.M.S. White Laurel, ghouls collected in the shadows awaiting their fate.
Instead, underfoot, rats scampered about, hoping to share in the feast, drawn out from hiding by the scent of blood permeating the stale atmosphere. Unlike the rats though, the miserable mass was beyond accustomed to the unrelenting reek of death—those that hadn't taken their own life, of course, and succumbed to the cruel fate of the sea.
At first, it sickened them after realizing what the urge had driven them to. Yet, now, the stench was just as much a part of them as any other feature of their bodies, clinging to them, unwilling to loosen its grasp. Their blood-soaked clothes stuck to their sulking forms, dampening their bones. Just as they thought salvation had come for them, in the form of a man, to take them away, they knew not his intentions.
They prayed. Even those who did not supplicate learned and accepted the need to cleanse the soul. From their first step into spiraling insanity, to their ultimate discovery, they knew that nothing could be done now except to pray to a god that would have no alternative but to damn them. They knew nothing could save them now from the course lunacy had charted. No god, in Heaven or Hell, would hear their cries—for the cries of ghouls were as still and silent as the clandestine sea surrounding them.
* * *
"Captain! Sullivan!" Williams shouted as he burst through the hatch like a lunatic. His face, along with the faces of the men that were with him, was ashen—the color of oatmeal. His eyes had become strangely different, cracked mirrors into his freshly tormented soul.
Captain Harkcombe recovered from his fainting spell and was now on his feet moving about, running from the quarterdeck and down a stepladder. There he watched the four men, including his Quartermaster, stumble over each other, fighting to be first to cross back over the wooden plank that led back to the deck of the Galileo—back to safe ground.
Williams, Johnson, Connelly, and Hearn had all ventured below deck of the White Laurel to investigate Captain Harkcombe’s claim of indescribable pandemonium. What they had found proved too much for them to bear.
They had zeroed in on the hatch that led below deck, the foul stink becoming nearly intolerable. The awful darkness, beyond the reaches of the light that shone down from the open hatch, had been thick and foreboding—they almost dared not enter.
With the lantern lit, the pale yellow flame had chased the dark away, but, in return, cast bizarre shadows and dancing apparitions that played with the men's eyes. However, nothing could mistake what they had seen; the blood that somehow splattered and smeared onto the walls, running slick from the wooden frame, pooling onto the floor. Some of the filthy passengers below looked as if they had been rolling around in the crimson mess, sopping it up like gravy.
Compassion and disgust intermingled, entwined within the hearts of the crewmen. It was a thin, yet defined line that had been erased the instant they turned around and caught glimpse of the grisly display behind them—the same display Captain Harkcombe had seen moments earlier.
The horrid sights, the bloody tangle of limbs and gore, hurried the men faster from the ship, however, not before stomachs discharged their vomitous burden adding to the human sewage at their feet. The need to get away, escape with their souls intact, forbade them from thinking with any sort of rationale. Instinct had carried them in their flight to safety, not one of them at all certain as to how to reconcile the landscape from which they had just fled.
They reeked of bile and death. The sour smell mingled with the yellowish glaze and blood mixture that had splashed over them when Connelly and Johnson took an ill-fated fall. "Captain...it is the most vile...thing I have ever seen," Williams stammered between breaths. A tear welled up in the strong man's eye.
"It is the Devil himself," blurted Hearn. "It is most surely his evil work."
"I agree, Captain," offered Connelly.
"What should we do, Captain?" asked Williams before absently wiping his soiled sleeve across his mouth.
Harkcombe stood silent, glancing over at the ship. No one must ever know what secrets it held. In the afternoon light, the figurehead on the prow of the ship held some of its original luster despite the battering it had received during the previous night's storm. From where he stood, he could still make out the gold embossed letters of the ship's name, the gold-leaf filigree work that surrounded it, and the hand carved eagle placard mounted beneath.
Nothing of the ship's outward appearance spoke anything of what it held within its walls. However, Harkcombe knew better. He knew, from his own experience as seen through his own eyes, that somehow, hell had found its way here, and the unholy enemy had taken up residency in the bowels of that beaten ship.
"Williams. Men," the Captain began, his voice pronounced and serious, carrying over the low din of the sea. His gaze fell upon his crewmembers as if to infuse within them his own fear- renewed strength. "We must do what the Lord would want of us. We must burn the evil out of her. We must burn the White Laurel into the sea."
* * *
After what seemed an eternity, daylight stung their eyes. Overhead, the sun ablaze in its high afternoon glory, shined like a spotlight to accentuate their guilt. They had been below deck rabid with fear and near madness for days. Their squinting eyes were opaque and shifty, hooded with suspicion and vulnerable to the glaring sunlight.
Harkcombe had ordered the crew to clean the passengers of the White Laurel the best they could. The frigid sting of the salt water was like a slap to their collective face, completely dousing them. With each dump of the bucket, the thick red stains rinsed off their bodies, the tainted water seeping between the wooden planks into the deck below.
"Captain, they are as clean as they are going to get," reported Sullivan, the ship's Lieutenant. "What shall we do next?"
"This catastrophe has already become the bane of my existence," Harkcombe sighed. "Gather them together," he began. "Take some men and begin bringing them to the ship."
Sullivan, stunned by the orders, paused for a moment. He stared the Captain dead in the eyes. "Then what?"
"Put them below," Harkcombe blurted. "Take whatever necessities we may need out of the cargo hold and pantries. Only the essentials. Then put them there."
Puzzled, Sullivan answered, "Aye, Captain. Right away, Sir."
Sullivan turned to walk away. However, the Captain had one more order he wished his Lieutenant to fulfill. "Give them some food to eat and fresh water to drink. There should be extra loaves of bread we could afford to part with?"
"But, Captain," Sullivan started, his voice lowered so not to be overheard. "That is our food, Sir. What if we run out?"
"We won't run out," Harkcombe rebutted, "We are only a few days from the Massachusetts colonies and we do have reserve rations in case of an emergency."
Sullivan's face flushed unable to comprehend his Captain's orders as he treaded the line between the two of them, closing in on insubordination.
Seeing Sullivan's expression turn sour, Harkcombe raised his voice. "That is an order, Lieutenant."
"Captain, they are bloody cannibals. They murdered their crew and then some...and ate their flesh on top of that, for God's sake. Who knows what other sick deeds they performed on those innocent people? Even if their virtuousness was tarnished, no man deserves a fate such as that and you want to let them
live? Moreover, feed them on top of it all? It's bad enough that their foul carcasses are about to be standing on our decks, but you want to keep them only meters from where we sleep?"
"Do you not have any shred of compassion, Sullivan?" Harkcombe questioned. His eyes glassed over with emotion. "Yes, what they had done is without a doubt unforgivable in the eyes of man. And yes, perhaps it is dangerous to have them aboard this ship since we are unaware of the whole truth of the thing, but are we to be as wicked in our deeds as they? We do not know all the answers. We do not know why they did what they did nor do we know the whole story, the utter truth.
"So, do as I say, please and by whatever means possible we will get through this terrible ordeal. We will survive and it will be by the good graces of our Lord."
The mix of emotions gnawed at Harkcombe's conscience—disgust and loyalty, hatred and fright. He turned away from Sullivan, fighting back a swell of emotions that threatened to rain from his pale and somber eyes. He had to remain strong and vigilant now, showing no more sentiment or perceived weakness.
"I apologize, Captain. Please forgive my disrespect." Sullivan turned and walked away, back to the Galileo.
* * *
Light began to fade.
The sun hung low in the western sky hidden behind clouds during its slow descent. In a careful and controlled manner, the able seamen led the passengers below deck into the cargo hold of the Galileo. The crew had collected and placed all useful supplies in another location—they left everything else alone.
In a sudden flash, brought on in part by lantern oil lacing the White Laurel's wooden deck and a soft easterly wind, they set the vessel aflame. Ignited by the crew, through God's will, flames sputtered high into the air. It snatched the oxygen from the wind to fuel its burning fury. In the swiftly coming twilight, the blaze stood out against the violet horizon as fiery tongues consumed their sacrifice. Watching from the starboard side of their ship, the crew stood transfixed on the spectacle.
The Galileo slowly drifted from the inferno. Even at their increased distance, the heat of the fire still warmed their brooding faces. The crew beheld the burning pyre with detached awe as orange firelight danced in their eyes. This event brought them no joy or feeling of accomplishment. With only half the job done, they realized torching the White Laurel was the easy part.
From deep within the ship, the fire raged. It engulfed everything in its hungry path, feeding with flaming dedication. Wood crackled and popped. Sparks jumped high into the air, casting little streaks behind them until vanishing in the night air. Smoke billowed up from the bowels of the craft, rolling out of every opening.
A deafening crack resounded in the calmness. The weakened deck collapsed upon itself almost folding the ship in half. Flames erupted as the masts snapped and plummeted into the waiting ocean. Right before the crew's eyes, the White Laurel crumbled and burned into nothingness and the smell of burning flesh wafted across the water.
Blazing fragments floated on the ocean's smooth surface, bobbing helplessly to their demise. They watched on as fire consecrated the ashen bodies of the dead to the depths below while hoping the souls of their brothers of the sea climbed from their desecrated husks for the final incline into the everlasting.
Captain Harkcombe and his crew, with knots of anxiety crushing their insides, continued to watch the burning horizon. They bowed their heads and held a prayer in their hearts, begging for forgiveness.
* * *
Before Harkcombe realized it, daybreak had arrived. Having been standing there looking out the porthole all night, he had witnessed dawn. His tired eyes burned from exhaustion; his feet hurt from carrying his burden for hours on end. With so much more to do before they arrived in America, he knew there was no time now for rest; his mind would not let him do so.
The Galileo and its crew were still over a day's journey from land. He opened the door onto the stern castle and the early morning sun scorched his eyes as it hung low in the east. Most of his crew remained on the main deck for the night. Fear and revulsion held them from sleeping in their bunks. Some men still slept, while others sat wide-eyed and wary. Could he blame them? He put a huge burden on their shoulders. Yet, almost to their new home, Harkcombe knew that this would be the last time most, if not all, of his men would ever sail with him again.
Yet, they continued on this course, following this path of lunacy. He wanted more than anything to just apologize to his men, to tell them that they made him proud, but the angry stares kept him silent and the looks of contempt clawed at his spirit. Somewhere along the way, he had failed his men.
As he looked out at the cloudless horizon, a cool morning breeze lifted off the Atlantic. The predicament he now found himself in made the distance left to travel seem arduous—near impossible. Without a doubt, he was scared, scared of what had happened, scared for his crew, scared of what might come to be in the end.
* * *
First mistake had been letting those monsters onboard, Sullivan thought. Without a doubt, that opinion held strong. Still in awe and astounded by the sheer foolhardiness of Captain Harkcombe's orders, the foundation of his loyalty to the man had shifted. Leading this crew, captaining this ship, should be his responsibility to hold now. He knew, as did some of the other men, as well, that Harkcombe was no longer fit to be in charge and that something had to be done.
Second mistake had been raising the sails while a strong breeze blew sufficiently enough to carry the Galileo a little faster. However, when the crew had finished tying the sails into place, the call from the crow's nest came down.
"Storm clouds, dead ahead!"
The looming gray clouds appeared from nowhere; the swirling mist danced above the horizon. Thunder rumbled in the distance as the clouds threatened to capture the floating sun. Soon the storm would cloak everything in dusky gloom. Harkcombe climbed up to the poop deck, barking out commands to the boatswain and making sure Master Reynolds, the navigator, was on point. With their orders, the crew rushed to lower the sails and tie them down into place in preparation for the approaching storm.
A tremendous vein of lightning ripped across the sky. Rain fell from the breach in massive droplets. Instantly, the tempest soaked everything. More thunder interrupted the constant drumming of rain hitting the wooden deck as the sky whirled a dark purple. Wind whipped up in a fury and the ocean's salt stung the crew's skin.
* * *
The rain fell like silver needles piercing the amorphous skin of the sea. Clouds collected in the sky that had lowered itself like a misty canopy over the Atlantic. Frigid wind blew through the frothy crests of the waves as they rose high into the air crashing down upon themselves with mighty slaps. The ocean roiled and the thunder, monotonous in its constant rumbling, rumbled over the howling wind.
The mighty gales bellowed in their fury almost forming coherent words. Lightning streaked across the sky, energized bluish tentacles of light licking the wounded clouds. The wind's deep wails of laughter crashed down on everything while over the sea, the murky sky drooped, hanging low from its weight. Its grayness overshadowed both vessels as the veil of clouds circulated, disrupting the already ever-changing shape of the sky. The storm produced illusions, portrayed abnormal images while the darkened heavens swirled.
In the great awning of the storm, shapes formed in the clouds—indistinct visages with eyes deep and sullen. Shifting faces adorned the sky like a great bas-relief carved in granite, dulled by the grayness, only illuminated by the violent flashes of lightning. And it was from these faces, graced with vague outlines of horns and gapping maws, the wind's mirth seemed to emanate.
* * *
Sullivan's insides twisted with his anger as he listened to Harkcombe shouting orders. He could now see through his captain's mask of competence and knew he was leading the crew to certain death.
And the windborne whispering concurred.
Sullivan stopped everything. He had had enough of the absurdity and refused to take it anymore. He pulled a knife
from his boot and stared at the blade; it glowed from a streak of lightning that lit up the sky. He left his post—his duty—and made his way across the deck toward his captain. Last mistake—following Harkcombe's orders.
Now, he had no more room for mistakes. It had come to this. Delirium swam in Sullivan's eyes, but he never felt so in control in his life. Intent on shifting the balance of power forever, he felt the life in him renewed along with a need that wouldn't subside. Turning back was never an option. Above, the thunderous laughter grew louder.
Harkcombe stood at the helm of the Galileo, clutching the wooden rail, his knuckles white with purpose. The racket of the weeping clouds canceled out every other sound. He could barely hear his own shouted orders as he blinked the rain from his eyes. "Hold your positions, men. Let's see if we can wait her out," he hollered to anyone in earshot. Yet, no sooner did the words leave his lips did he know beyond doubt that he put them on a course of failure.
The last storm paled in comparison. The strength of the waves lifted the mighty galleon out of the water. Sea froth spit onto the deck as the sea tossed the ship about so relentlessly that Harkcombe felt as if she would break apart at any moment, signaling the final voyage of the Galileo and its crew.
The world ignited in a blinding glow blinding Harkcombe. In another thunderous instant, Harkcombe saw a different brilliance dance before his eyes. Searing pain shocked his body and he went numb. He gracelessly spun around only to catch a glimpse of Sullivan and the incoherent rage gleaming in his eye.
"I hate you, sir. I have always hated you," the Lieutenant shouted over the deafening storm. His voice trailed off, combining with the universal clamor.
Harkcombe's lips moved to speak, but they formed no words. Instead, he fell to his knees, gripping the side where Sullivan sunk his knife deep into his abdomen. Fighting for his sight not to fail despite deathly slowly claiming him, Harkcombe still managed to witness Sullivan lift the soiled knife to his lips and lick it clean of the blood clinging to it. He studied his Lieutenant's emotionless face as the edges of his vision blurred. He could find no traces of sanity left, only the swirling pools of radiant madness where the man's eyes once were. Understanding eluded him in his final moments; his struggle to fathom why Sullivan had done this, why none of his men offered him help—fought to save their Captain—evaporated.
Fearful Fathoms: Collected Tales of Aquatic Terror (Vol. I - Seas & Oceans) Page 33