Heroes: A Raconteur House Anthology

by Honor Raconteur

  My lady smiles at both of us. “At any rate, having had a moment to myself to consider the captain's words, I believe a gesture of goodwill may be in order.”

  I agree. “Indeed, provided they do not become greedy and come to expect more.” I draw on what I have learned over the centuries. “We must take care not to appear weak or fearful, but rather, magnanimous.”

  “I have it,” says Prescott. “Tell them that, thanks to their hard work today, you are blessed with far more than you expected to find, and it is the lady's pleasure to share the surplus. It must be a gift and not a bribe. The sum is a trifle as far as the investors are concerned, not even worth a mention, but to these men, it will buy them each a night of drunkenness and debauchery.” He looks at Ceridwen and blushes. “Well, they are sailors, after all.” Then he turns to me. “What do you think, Briton?”

  I am impressed. His judgment as a leader is sound, but bless him, the boy looks to me, the deserter, the fradwr, for approval.

  “Thus may we ensure morale without expectation of continued largesse.” I beam approval at him. “I will arrange it with Hollins.”

  He grins at me with soldierly camaraderie, and I am ashamed at having doubted his honourable intentions with Ceridwen. I cannot help but admire him. Like Admiral Salmon, he is what I can only affect to be. His unabashed admiration brings an unfamiliar pang: I had thought myself immune to guilt. Perhaps this, even more than his familiar manner with Ceridwen, is at the heart of my jealousy.

  I have known such feelings in the past and I have witnessed their destructive power. I turn the envious bitter thoughts away and caution myself not to become Othello, not to let that same imp of the perverse who bade me run from my king's aid now poison me against yet another comrade, much less against my dear wife. The gods will rob me of Ceridwen one day, but not yet, and not like this.

  Behind me, I hear a few mechanical gasps and wheezes, and then the satisfying thunder of the dredger's motor starting up. The men let out quiet exclamations of no doubt blasphemous relief and return to their assigned tasks. Bowen gathers up the tools while Mr. Aaron wipes his oil-blackened hands on a rag. Ceridwen and I set to work, and when next I look up, he is gone.

  The next night, the captain assembles his crew after dinner, all save the two in the pilothouse who stand watch since the boat is at anchor. Nine sullen men of varying shapes and sizes sit in the crew mess looking like errant schoolboys awaiting a paddling from the headmaster, uncertain which of their many offenses has brought them to this pass and afraid to confess the wrong one.

  I approach them just as Prescott suggested, and I watch their sullenness turn to suspicion, then to wary gratitude. I make clear that this bounty of coin comes to them at the gracious hand and pleasure of Lady Adlington, which raises a grateful if obligatory cheer. When I add that we will make port as soon as possible so they can spend their gains, the cheer becomes louder and more boisterous. I watch them, one by one, approach my wife to receive their coins and thank her. Most seem sincere in their gratitude, but Prescott and I, standing to either side of her, make note of the others.

  One chap, a large Irishman with a shock of unruly black hair and a downturned mouth, accepts the money from her but does not look at her. He merely grunts out his thanks and stalks away. I half-expect him to dash the coins to the deck of the ship, but he does not. Prescott glances at me and cocks a brow.

  Higginbottom and Bowen accept their shares with gratitude, and I am pleased with myself for remembering their names. I never did learn the name of the fellow with the long nose, who also collects his share. But I suppose I shall have that honour another day.

  A small man I've not seen before creeps up to my wife. His hair looks like it has been repeatedly torn out in patches from his scabby scalp, and his eyes seem pressed from his head, as if his brain is fitted in too small a skull. He snatches the coins from Ceridwen without touching her hand and scurries away past Prescott, muttering. I cannot make out what he is saying, but the boy's face turns ash white, and his hand goes to his sidearm. The captain sees Prescott's motion and shakes his head. The little rat man is strange but harmless, his gesture says, but Prescott is not convinced. I have come to trust the lieutenant's instincts over the captain's, and I remind myself to ask Prescott what the man said which so alarmed him.

  “My lady.” The ship's engineer, Mr. Aaron, is the last of the crew to receive his portion. He takes her hand and bows over it as if he fancies himself a proper gentleman in spite of his rough clothing. Perhaps he once was.

  “Mr. Aaron, I wanted to thank you in particular,” she begins, but she is cut off.

  “Get away from her!” The shriek comes from the small man with the patchy scalp. “Don't you get near her, don't you touch her! Filthy murderer.” He reaches abortively for Ceridwen, and his voice softens. “She's mine. She came aboard for me, not for you. Mine, I tell you. Mine.” Then he screams. “Get away from her, you horned beast!”

  The older man does not seem at all surprised by the outburst. I almost fancy he expected it or provoked it deliberately. But perhaps not. That's the sort of thing I would do. He smiles and turns to the enraged little man. “Tillsby, calm yourself before you––”

  “Do not speak my name, Jew!” As he shouts, I am reminded of those ridiculous little dogs that jump when they bark. “Do not sully my good and honourable name with your filthy Jew mouth!”

  Behind him, the others watch, and I feel their hostility growing, coalescing into a single animal mind, focused by Tillsby's hate for this man, this Jew. Beware of mobs, my king would say. They magnify the cruelty and ignorance of their basest member and suppress all nobility. We are in the middle of the English Channel, dependent on these men to get us to shore. Violence between them could be disastrous.

  “Hollins!” shouts Prescott, who has already placed himself between Ceridwen and Tillsby and drawn his sidearm, “For the love of God, get control of your men!”

  The captain, struck momentarily speechless by the strange and sudden vitriol, regains himself, and a slow angry rumble builds in his voice. “Now, now, now, see here, we will have none of this! We are one bloody crew on one bloody small boat in the middle of the bloody sea, and we can't be bothered about Jews or Chinamen or Mussulmen or even layabout Irishmen! You're all the same worthless lazy scum to me. Now, mind yourselves, especially you, Tillsby, or you lose your share of Her Ladyship's generous gift and maybe your pay besides. That goes for one and all!”

  I wince. In spite of our best efforts, our gift has now become a bribe for good behavior. With that last threat, he has undone all the good we accomplished. Worse, they may come to expect further bribes.

  But for now, the tension abates, and the immediate danger is past. Under the captain's authority, the mob dissolves into individuals again. Tillsby stalks away to the far side of the deck and glowers, but he does not speak again. Apparently his prize from his lady's hand is more important to him than his irrational hatred for the man who at least shares his god. I cannot imagine how he would react to someone like myself who does not.

  Meanwhile, Mr. Aaron smiles at Ceridwen. “I meant no offense, madam. I merely wished to thank you for your gift. Most generous.”

  She smiles up at him, a bit flustered. “It is the generosity of the water. I am but its vessel.”

  Something about what she said is wrong, but offhand, I cannot say what. Then it occurs to me: her reply to him was in Welsh. Startled, I touch her shoulder. “Darling? Are you all right?”

  “Oh, forgive me,” she says in English with a flustered laugh. “For just a moment...I don't know what came over me. The excitement, I suppose. I meant to say, you are most welcome, Mr. Aaron.”

  He bows. “I am sorry for your discomfort, my lady. I should have realised. It seems wherever I go...” He sighs. “I hardly notice any more, myself. At the risk of causing you further distress, I thank you, and I hope one day that your generosity may be repaid many fold.” He touches his flat cap brim. “Goodnight, madam. Li
eutenant Prescott. Lord Briton.”

  “Now out, out, the lot of you, and I don't want to see your faces until dawn,” the captain bellows at them whilst they scatter to their quarters. “You disgust me! Any more trouble, and I'll replace the lot of you with Frenchmen!”

  “That Mr. Aaron is quite the engineer.” The captain smokes his pipe, a weather-beaten Meerschaum churchwarden which is older than Prescott, and looks out into the cold November night. He has brought the blanket from his bed and wrapped it around his shoulders against the cold.

  After the evening's excitement, I found I could not sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the little rat man leering at my wife or the mob of angry sailors. So I waited until Ceridwen's breathing was even to slip out of our tiny bed and pull my pants and coat over my dressing gown to take some air on the deck. There I found the captain smoking his pipe, also the victim of insomnia, and likely for the same reason.

  “Don't know much about him. He's Welsh.” He gestures towards me with his pipe. “Your wife was right about that, though I've no notion how she guessed. From somewhere around Lampeter.” He shrugs. “No one cares he's Welsh, of course, but being a Jew, he keeps his hat on all the time, so they think he hides horns.” He sighs, and smoke billows into the air. “Otherwise, minds his own business, sees to the boilers and machinery, never seen a problem he can't solve. Does all I ask of him.”

  “Have you known him long?”

  He shakes his head. “Needed a good engineer, especially with all the extra equipment for this run, so I hired him on. Never gave a thought to him being a Jew. Might as well tell me he's a Methodist. Was more bothered that he'd never served on a boat before. But if he can run my engines, it's enough.”

  “That is a relief. That Tillsby worries me more.”

  He sighs. “Ah, Tillsby. Little Jameson Tillsby. The devil's own deckhand. Oh, he yells and he riles the crew saying the damnedest things, but if his heart gets going too fast,” the captain says, tapping his nose, “he falls right over in a dead sleep.”

  “You're joking.”

  He shakes his head and chuckles. “Not at all, and I'm surprised it didn't happen tonight. Got his eye on your wife, that's clear, and I would not leave him alone with her, but as long as there's a man about, he's no threat.”

  “What is he doing on this boat?”

  The captain looks down and sighs, and I can guess the answer before he even speaks.

  “He's my sister Jeanne's only boy,” he says. “Born too early, not quite right. But my sister loved him, doted on him. Turned a blind eye sometimes when...” He draws deep from his pipe. “Well, after she died, the court wanted to put him away for a maniac, said he was a menace. Couldn't bear it, not knowing how much Jeanne loved him. So I offered to take him aboard, teach him the life. Take him out to sea, away from women, away from temptation. The court agreed,” he adds, “provided I keep him aboard ship at all times. Coming on twenty-five years with me now, and no trouble.”

  I say nothing. This was why he'd wanted to put Ceridwen ashore. He had not been trying to protect her as much as he'd been trying to protect his deranged nephew. But perhaps that is uncharitable. Perhaps he saw a way to do both.

  “Your wife, sir, is a strong woman, and older, begging your pardon. Not like the young girls he bothered before. I hoped he'd see her as...”

  “Matronly.”

  He cocks his head. “Maternal, anyway. She bears a passing resemblance to his mum. So I reckoned she'd be safe.”

  I cannot read his expression in the darkness. Is it one of remorse? Contrition? Resignation?

  “But he does not see her this way.”

  He shakes his head. “Clearly not,” he says miserably. “I am dreadfully sorry, my lord.”

  I shrug. “You could not have known, and neither could we. I'm sure the lieutenant and I will prove adequate to protect her.” Barring that, should Tillsby find himself alone with Ceridwen in the wrong mood, he might find himself missing his heart and sacrificed to Llyr, right over the side of the boat.

  “And what of the big Irishman?” I ask.

  “Mr. McNeill?” The captain shrugs. “He's all muscle and no wit. Looks fierce and grunts a bit, but he's the gentle giant, like one of those big dogs with the brandy flasks.”

  “A Saint Bernard?” I laugh. “I would not have thought it.”

  “Indeed. And, not to be indelicate, but I believe you'd find him more interested to court young Prescott than the lady.” The captain smiles. “The sea calls to all manner of men, sir. They do as they're told, they're all the same to me.”

  “You're a good man, Captain.”

  He tells me about the other crewmen, how long they've served with him and the defining points of their lives, but they are no threat, and are thus of little interest to me. At last, the captain empties the ash from his pipe and returns to his quarters, bidding me goodnight.

  Ceridwen does not stir when I slip into bed beside her, for which I am grateful. I am not prepared to share what I have learned with her. I tell myself that I will find a way to broach the topic in the morning, but I know I will not, just as I will not mention the rumours of a dog aboard. I see no reason to make the journey unpleasant for either of us.

  For the next few nights, by unspoken agreement, the captain and I meet again after everyone else has gone to bed. This far out in the channel, out of the shipping lanes, he has started letting the crew go “all night in.” The wisdom of this escapes me, but I say nothing. Not requiring the men to stand night watches strikes me as another concession to morale.

  He tells me that the crew insists that the filth they find on the foredeck comes from a dog, though they no longer complain as much of the howling. They say it has grown quieter and most of them sleep through it. Tillsby seems the most bothered by it, and for this reason, the rest continue to complain.

  Knowing this, each night, I listen to the captain's stories and keep an eye towards the deck in hope of spotting the guilty culprit, but whilst I occasionally catch movement through the corner of my eye, I have yet to spot the villain.

  At last, aggravated by the crew's continued contention that I have stowed a dog away to inconvenience them, I insist that the captain search the entire boat, and if a dog is found, I will apologise for the trouble and double the crew's pay. They toss the boat from one end to the other, and needless to say, they are quite enthusiastic in their search, but they find nothing. The captain apologises, and I hear no more of dogs or howling, though I do still see the crew scraping the deck each morning.

  Thursday, November 18, 1899

  The dredger has proven far more temperamental than I might have anticipated, but Mr. Aaron and his mate, Mr. Bowen, manage to keep it running for us, for which I am grateful. Having lost hours here and there to her lack of reliability, our search becomes much more hurried and less thorough, which vexes me. I do not sleep well, and what dreams I have are full of anxiety, of searching endlessly and always in the wrong place for what is kept just out of reach. At times, what I seek is the carcass of a ship, probably the Aethylfrith, sometimes simply a ship of wood, sometimes made strangely of animal and rotting in the depths like a great dead whale. At times, to my horror, what I seek is my Ceridwen, trapped and drowning just out of reach. No matter what I do, I can never get to her in time. Naturally, I cannot tell her of these dreams. She would interpret them as portents from the gods rather than just the expected result of sleeplessness and anxiety.

  Thus am I half-asleep at the dredger, and thus do I nearly miss a small, strangely curved bit of corroded metal lying in the mesh. I nearly sweep it back into the drink, but that I spy etching on the curve. I wash the mud off of it, and as soon as I recognise it, I signal to the men to stop the conveyor, and I ring the bell which the captain installed for this very purpose. The ship slows, and the captain brings her smartly about to exactly the position where I rang the bell.

  “What did you find?” Ceridwen calls, pulling on her coat to join me at the dredge. Prescott
follows behind her craning his neck to see.

  I hold up my prize. “The rete from an astrolabe, darling. Part of one, at any rate.” I look out over the cold blue sea. “This far from the shipping lanes, it is quite a prize.”

  She takes it from me and studies it. “Metal?” She frowns, disappointed. “Oh, darling, it's far too new.”

  “Too new?” Prescott looks at her quizzically.

  “Yes.” She turns to him and smiles, covering her lapse. “Were you not hoping to find a Viking ship? The Vikings used wooden astrolabes.”

  “Oh, indeed.” He smiles a bit sheepishly.

  “Ah, but it is not too new for a sailing ship,” I chuckle. “My darling, I would not want to congratulate ourselves prematurely, but given the location, I believe we may have confirmed that we are on the right path to find Eurydice.” I run to look through the scope. “Yes, yes. Quite a bit to search here. We will not know for certain until we find some documents or perhaps a part of the ship with her name, but this is most promising.”

  I should have preferred not to find her until after we find the Aethelfrith, but having stumbled across her or some other wreck, I gain not only the salvage but a measure of legitimacy should I need another such venture. So I cannot be displeased.

  For two days, we dredge outward in a spiral from that central point, periodically looking through the scope to guide the dredger, but it seems that our efforts are in vain. At last, while Prescott is once again looking through the scope and suitably distracted, I quietly ask Ceridwen to ask for guidance.

  She dips her finger in the sludge from one of the buckets and paints a perfect circle about the size of a man's head. Then she drips about thirty drops of mud, but the drops do not land at random. They fall more to one side of centre. She meets my eye and holds her muddy hand over the circle. A wet drop falls, and as she and I both know it will, it falls to the same side as the rest.