by Paul Finch
“That won’t do. It must be ready in days. You’ll work round the clock to make it so.”
“I will, ma-am.”
As Harry re-gathered his spilled tools, his mistress handed him a fragment of grease-paper, neatly folded.
“On my last journey to the City, this was waiting for me,” she said.
Harry opened the paper. It was a letter, addressed to the firm:
My Dear Sirs,
I hope you can forgive the unorthodox method by which I first contacted you. I had only recently come ashore, and at that time was stricken with scurvy and malaria, both of which I am now thankfully recovered from.
However, I am still keen to possess the weapon I instructed you to build. I appreciate that no contracts were signed, and for this I also apologise. All the same, I trust the volley gun is under construction? Please attach no significance to any threats I may have voiced with regard to this item. I was not myself that afternoon, and references to “stopping armies” were meaningless expostulation on my part. My reasons for this purchase are entirely honourable and law-abiding.
Once the gun is complete, I would be pleased if you could deliver it to me here at my quarters in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, London, along with a full case of shot. I have enclosed additional funds to cover the expense of transportation, but should it fall short I am more than happy to make good as soon you arrive.
Your servant,
Joseph Kaplain
“Funds, Ma-am?” Harry asked.
“Two hundred pounds. In twenty-pound notes.”
“Two-hundred!” Such a sum was scarcely estimable to the lad.
“This time we won’t concern ourselves with where it came from, Harry. I want only to conclude this business as soon as possible. So day and night, yes? Until the thing is finished.”
*
For the next few days, all public access to the workshop was denied to prevent distraction, and in less than a week the work was close to completion. By October 1st, a handsome and deadly firing-piece stood on its plinth, its barrels and mechanisms greased and shining, its walnut stock etched with the company emblem. It was untested, but following his employer’s orders, Harry stowed it carefully in the varnished sheath they’d ordered from their leather-ware suppliers, and took the first coach to London. Mrs. Martha’s final words were for him to mind his manners at all times, but also to make haste and return once the item was delivered – and strictly not to involve himself any further in the affairs of Mr. Joseph Kaplain.
It was never a swift journey from the Norfolk coast to London. The highway, more a narrow rutted lane in this part of the country, meandered over a vast, half-drowned landscape, weaving between rippling broads and extensive reed-beds, which even now, in autumn’s misty chill, were noisy with wildfowl. Despite the drainage schemes of former centuries, the fens still covered huge tracts of East Anglia, creating impassable barriers to speedy communication. Though beautiful – in a savage, desolate sort of way – this was still a wilderness, and the aura of solitude, as the coach and four wound ponderously through it, soon became oppressive.
Aside from a portly widow shrouded in black lace, her face hidden behind a veil of mourning, Harry was the only passenger. As the hours dragged by, he gazed from the carriage window, the bleak vistas and immense grey skyline doing little to heighten his gloom. He considered the volley gun, stored with the baggage on the roof, and hoped it would be safe there. The driver, a stout cheery fellow, had checked that every item was secure before whipping the team out from the company yard back in Yarmouth, but to lose the thing would be a disaster. The occasional passing gibbet, most of them empty and derelict, served to remind the boy that Mr. Peel’s much-lauded reforms weren’t always to the good – highwaymen were still a problem in these lonely regions.
Even as Harry pondered this, the coach slowed and there was hurried movement on the roof. He craned his neck to peer out but saw only the twisting ribbon of the road and, to either side of it, the endless marshes. The driver’s whip cracked, and the team began to trot again. Harry sat back and yawned. Travel always made him tired, though on this occasion he was too uncomfortable to sleep. The vapours of the fens pervaded the carriage, making it damp and cold; the roughness of the road jolted him constantly. In addition, and this was the most discomforting thing, the widow-woman had started to take an apparent interest in him. Several minutes had now passed during which she had watched him intently. Embarrassed by this, he peered from the window again, though her attention lingered – he could sense it.
After a few more awkward moments, wearied by this impudence and minded to ask if he could help with anything, he glanced back at her – only to find that her entire posture had transformed from one of stoic dignity to something more rigid, more predatory. She was leaning forward in her seat. Beneath her net veil, the eyes which at first had been barely discernible, gleamed. This close, they were flat, moist, fishlike.
A chill ran down Harry’s spine. There was a sour odour. He’d noticed it before, but had put it down to marsh-gasses – now he knew the true source. Suddenly he was unable to speak, let alone cry out for help. With a creak of fabric, the widow leaned even closer towards him. Beneath her sombre garb he knew there lay a ghastly, misshapen thing, pallid and scaled, warted, whiskered, gilled …
Panic overcoming his terror, the boy threw himself to his feet and unbolted the door. “Driver … stop, please!”
To his astonishment, the driver seemed to increase their speed. Harry heard a ferocious whip-crack, and now the team was racing along at a gallop. The coach-door swung open, but to leap out at this pace would be suicide. As he hesitated there, a hand snatched his collar and hauled him backwards. He swung around and struck at the fish-widow. It was a solid blow with a clenched fist, but it made no impact. The monster flung him down on the carriage floor, and leaped on top of him with all its weight.
“Goooaaalllttthhh!” it gurgled.
“Driver!” the boy screamed, but again all he heard was the crack of the whip.
One of the thing’s black-lace gloves had now been dislodged, and a huge flippered hand, the colour of dough, clamped his nose and mouth. He writhed and kicked, but to no effect. The raddled face leering down at him, a parody of a smile on its broad, fat-lipped mouth, slowly swam out of focus. Harry’s heart was hammering, his lungs bursting for air. He knew that he was fainting. And if he fainted, what then?
*
Harry came up through sluggish, pea-green water, which, when it slipped into his mouth, tasted of putrefaction. He struggled not to inhale, but gagged all the same, the revolting humour gushing into his nostrils and down his throat. Strands of rotting vegetation wove around him, tangling his legs and arms. Frantically, he struggled towards the surface, which sparkled only inches above him but was still out of reach. So close, yet so far. He couldn’t make it; he was going to drown, to choke to death in this foul emerald ichor …
“Jesus!” he shouted, sitting bolt upright on the coach seat.
At first nothing made sense; then it came to him.
He gazed weakly around. The carriage rocked and swayed, now at a gentler pace, but beyond its windows the dreary wetlands drifted past. For a crazy moment Harry thought he had dreamed the whole thing, but then he spied the fish-widow sitting opposite. He drew back sharply, the sweat chilling on his clawed face. The abomination was still clad in its black garb of mourning, but it had removed its hat and veil and had drawn a scarf across its mouth, so that only its slit nostrils and moist eyes were visible.
“Gooaallth,” it said again, holding out its webbed, fin-like hand. The voice wasn’t so much a gurgle this time, as a deep, gelatinous rumble.
“I … I haven’t got the gold,” Harry stammered, unable to keep the terror from his voice.
The thing simply glared. Its extended palm remained in place.
“I understand that you think I have,” he added, “but I haven’t … I swear. I’m just a lackey, a servant. I wouldn’t be trusted with
any gold.”
It spoke again: “Kaaaplaaaiii …”
Seconds seemed to pass before that single, now cursed word died away, but Harry shook his head. “I don’t know where he is either … I don’t. Honest.”
Of course, in this case he was lying, and the monster seemed to sense this. Its hand snapped down and caught him by the ankle.
“Listen to me,” Harry gasped, fresh sweat bursting on his brow, “whatever happened out there at sea … I can’t help you.”
The creature’s grip was crushing. It twisted his leg around. White-hot pain shot up his shin – he imagined the bones in his ankle warping out of shape, ready to snap.
“No, please!” he begged. “Don’t do that … ”
“Goooaaalllththth!”
There’d be no reasoning with it. How did you reason with a fish?
“Ahoy!” came a voice from outside; a resonant, very cheery voice.
The fish-widow froze, the blank eyes blinking twice in rapid succession. It released Harry, and he fell backwards, panting – before throwing himself at the window. Just ahead there was a figure by the muddy roadside, a heap of baggage around him. Though marooned out here, he looked a proper gentleman. His topper and gloves were of grey felt, his boots of stout Hessian. He wore a heavy blue coat with double-folded capes at the back and silver buttons down the front.
“Ahoy!” he cried again, striding into the road. He was handsome, strong featured. A warm grin curved between his rich, golden side-whiskers.
Ahoy? What kind of word was that for a gentleman to use, Harry wondered – just before a crack of gunfire rent the air.
The man’s grin had not faded, but now there was a pistol in his hand, a heavy, antiquated thing with a hooked grip. Smoke curled from its muzzle. Slowly, the hump-backed thing that had replaced the coach-driver keeled leftwards and fell from its bench, landing on the road in a heap of sprawled limbs and black rags.
The man with the pistol laughed. It was a raucous seaman’s laugh. Instantly, the fish-widow flew to the door, yanking Harry out of the way – but Harry, sensing his chance, leaped onto the thing and grappled with it. Normally, it would have shaken him off like a flea, but now it was preoccupied. It forced open the door, flopping down onto the roadside, dragging Harry with it. The boy struck the ground hard, and it drove the wind from him. Gasping, he rolled in mud and water. The next he knew there was a flash of steel; he glanced up and saw that Kaplain – for it was he, without doubt – had ripped a cutlass from under his coat; a typical naval weapon, with a wide, curved blade and shielded hilt.
The monster watched him balefully, crouching toad-like over its slain comrade. But Kaplain was not intimidated.
“All right lad?” he asked, his face still written with hard humour. “If you are, stop the horses and bring me the thing I’ve paid for.”
Harry scrambled up and hurried after the coach and four, which was now pulling away at a slow but steady trot. If the fish-widow thought to intercept him, it made no effort. Instead began to crawl towards Kaplain, its grotesquely aquatic features fully exposed. When it sprang, however, its opponent was ready.
Steel rasped through cloth and flesh, and Harry glanced sharply back. He just had time to see Kaplain stepping nimbly around the monster, which was now hunched on the ground. The cutlass was stained with blood.
“You want more?” Kaplain shouted. “You’ll get more … and worse!”
As Harry climbed to the driver’s bench, he heard Kaplain slash the brute a second time. It gave a shrill, whistling squeal.
“Wooooaaaa!” the boy cried, pulling the team to a halt. When he looked again, the thing had sunk to an abject posture. It hugged itself as though in terrible pain.
Kaplain stalked around it. “You’re strong enough with starved men. But not when the odds are more even.” He glanced towards Harry. “Hurry boy! Bring it here!”
Harry did as he was told, clambering onto the roof and unstrapping the long, leather package. He jogged back along the road, the volley gun under one arm, the case of shot under the other. When he reached Kaplain, the fish-widow glared up at the pair of them, defiant but weakened through blood-loss. One sword-stroke had cloven its face; the other had shorn so deeply into its left shoulder that a ruby lake puddled around its tattered skirts. That particular limb hung loose and dead, like a rotted branch.
“Load it,” the man ordered. “This is as good a time as any to test-fire.”
Harry obeyed. As if sensing its impending demise, the fish-widow hung its head and stared at the ground. So mutilated was its toad-like visage that it was impossible to read any emotion there; the boy shuddered at the sight of it. He snapped the last breech closed and tossed the weapon to Kaplain.
The seaman levelled it on the creature’s back. The monster barely tensed, though doubtless it knew what was happening.
“You’re shark-bait!” Kaplain laughed.
And he fired.
The detonation was like a piece of artillery, the muzzle-flash like a lightening-strike.
Harry covered his eyes as the monstrosity came apart. It literally flew to pieces, arms this way and that, head torn off, torso ripped asunder in a welter of shattered ribs and shredded innards.
When the smoke settled, a thing unrecognisable lay mangled and broken in the blood-sodden folds of its widow’s weeds. The boy could not suppress his nausea. He clapped a hand across his nose and mouth, but vomit spilled through his fingers as he tottered away.
“Quite a gun,” Kaplain chuckled. “I’d order another, but I warrant this’ll do the job.” He glanced at Harry, who was still retching a few feet away. “Gruesome death is difficult to acclimatise to. But, all the same lad … welcome to my world.”
“Wh … who are you?” Harry stammered.
Kaplain smiled. Previously, he’d been gaunt and grizzled, but now his face bore strong lines and his eyes sparkled.
“I am … or was bos’n’s mate on His Majesty’s frigate, Arabesque. You probably guessed I had navy connections?”
Harry nodded.
“It’s a long story,” Kaplain said, wiping his blade on his boot and sliding it under his coat. “Of course, we’ve got a long journey ahead. I can tell you then.” He made for the stationary coach. “Come.”
Harry followed warily. “Where?”
“Back to Yarmouth. Where else?”
“Yarmouth?”
Kaplain climbed to the driver’s bench, and took the reins. “If I’m not mistaken, there’s a person there in dire need of assistance. At least, when darkness falls she will be.”
“Not Mrs. Martha?”
“Know any other pretty women in that town?”
Harry scampered up alongside him. “But why is she in danger?”
Kaplain whipped the team into motion, and turned the vehicle around. “As I say, it’s a long story.”
“We must return quickly!” Harry asserted.
The dead fish-things were already forgotten; that he was party to the theft of a vehicle from the Eastern Mail Co., and could be transported if caught, was irrelevant to him – his beloved mistress was in peril. But at first Kaplain would only drive slowly. The horses had already come forty miles, he said, and there’d be no stopping for rest or water on this return trip. He took a stub of cigar from his breast pocket and lit it as they rode.
“Please,” the boy begged. “Tell me what’s happening.”
Kaplain blew out a stream of fragrant smoke.
“Early summer, it was,” he began. “The year ’14. As I say, we were the Arabesque, a fifty-gunner with a long-serving crew. The tide of war had gone against us. Ten days off the north Cuban coast, we ran into an American flotilla. Three corvettes had evaded the blockade, good-sized men-o-war. It was a bloody battle. Carnage on every deck. We sank one, but in the end we didn’t stand a chance. Two hours later, listing, mizzen shot away, we took to our heels … north by northwest. They didn’t chase us.” He shook his head grimly. “They knew what was out there.”
<
br /> “Out where?” Harry asked.
Kaplain puffed on his cigar. “The Sargasso, lad. You know it?”
Harry shrugged.
“A grim region, if ever there was one,” Kaplain said. “The currents are sluggish enough at the best of times, but then there’s the weed. Great clots of the stuff, the size of continents, come to the surface, choking the water ‘til it barely moves.”
His eyes seemed to glaze as he related his tale.
“Mile upon mile, horizon to horizon … the rankest weed you’ve ever seen lying like some great yellow blanket on the ocean. Decaying, loathsome … the stink of it can turn the strongest stomach. It’s fit to drive you mad. Hey … get up there!”
Kaplain snapped the reins.
“In some places it’s heaped up in hillocks, though the lower portions hang so deep below the surface they can wedge the sleekest hulls, entangle the strongest rudder bars. No wonder they call it the Devil’s Sea. I tell you, lad … vessels from every age are lodged in it. Some have been there centuries. All hung over with fronds and tendrils, furred to the ringbolts with moss, their canvas and rat-lines in moulded shreds. You ever seen a skeleton-ship, boy? A long-dead wreck which can never sink, the bones of its crew still rotting in its cabins and gangways?”
“You sailed into that?” Harry asked.
Kaplain shrugged. “We weren’t novices, and there are navigable lanes all through the Sargasso. The trouble is …” he chuckled wryly, “… they change daily.”
“Were you caught?”
“Aye … five days in. The wind dropped, what little there is out there, and an hour later we’d wedged solid. I’ll remember that moment for the rest of my days … a new low in desolation, it was. Not a sound from beyond our gunwales, scarcely a ripple. To sailors used to the open wave, that’s hard to comprehend. The effect on morale … devastating. And there was no way out that we could see, even from the topgallant yard. Just an endless oozing haze of mist and weed.”