Lessons progressed. Howie became obsessed with the magnificence of his plan: they would take the Alice to Rome and after he’d settled P. Pilate’s hash there would be time to swing around by the Holy Land and give John the Baptist a briefing on his mission in life. Mr. Rate had been a history professor. He would be handy for taking care of details. Mr. Rate would go along with the plan, and the Alice’s men would do whatever Mr. Rate told them. Mr. Rate wouldn’t balk at a chance for Salvation. But some obscure instinct made Howie decide perhaps he’d better get hold of the gun first.
Joe felt neither shock nor amazement as Howie unfolded his magnificent project, only a bored sense of corroboration. It was so magnificently logical. His only wonder was how in hell he was going to get the pistol away from this addled god shouter.
“It’s a big decision,” he finally said. “When it comes to salvation each man should choose for himself. You wouldn’t want me responsible for sending a man’s soul to hell, would you?”
Howie shook his head.
“Well, let’s call them in one at a time and tell them your plan. Those that don’t want to go can stay on the island.”
Howie thought a moment. It sounded fair.
With his eye on the revolver which wobbled in Howie’s sweaty hand, Joe opened the door a crack and called Gorson. The chief crowded into the tiny compartment. “What the hell—?” Abruptly he shut up, wondering if Joe’s kick had shattered his ankle.
“Go ahead Howie; I’m sure the chief s interested.”
Howie told his story more smoothly this time, dwelling long on the glories of Salvation. Gorson listened noncommittally. When Howie was through and his blazing eyes awaited a decision for God or Satan the chief glanced at Joe for a hint. “Well,” Joe said rapidly, “it looks like you have two of us with you. Who should we call next?”
“Cook, by all means,” the chief said.
The pistol had not left McGrath’s hand. They were already jammed in like boots in a chow line. He opened the door a crack and called.
Cookie tried but there wasn’t room in the tiny compartment. He had seen the pistol so Howie could not let him retreat. They faced each other for a tense moment.
“Tell you what,” Joe said. “Howie, why don’t you put the pistol in your pocket and follow us up on deck where we can get a breath of air?”
Howie was uncomfortable by now. He appreciated Mr. Rate’s thoughtfulness. Up on deck they could reach some agreement. He had to be on his way soon. Suddenly he remembered—“Just to show God you’re on his side, we’ll smash the still on the way up.”
Gorson gasped.
“Don’t you want to?”
The bos’n looked imploringly at Joe. “It’s not the booze, Howie,” he finally said. Then he remembered the god shouter had no particular interest in returning to the Twentieth Century. He opened his mouth a couple of times but nothing came out.
“Ain’t another piece of copper tubing like that in the whole world,” Cookie protested.
“We can talk it over later,” Joe suggested. Sooner or later this madman would fall asleep. How much damage would he do beforehand? In the back of Joe’s mind lurked the uncomfortable thought that they might have to kill Howie. “Why do you want to destroy the still?” he temporized.
Howie was shocked. “Why Mr. Rate, you know it’s against regulations. Whiskey is the Devil’s Drink!”
“Well yes,” Joe hedged, “but that still’s made out of government property. You know, I’d be so busy filling out forms and writing reports, I don’t know how I’d ever find time to help you with this Roman business.”
“Sure, kid,” Gorson contributed, “you know how it is with those reports and paperwork. Why, old Commander Cutlott would have a hemorrhage.”
Howie was not buying it. His eyes twitched from Corson to Cookie to Joe. Joe wondered why he had never before noticed how much white they showed. “No,” Howie said firmly. “The still has got to go.”
“But can’t we—?”
“Now!”
Joe opened the door and slowly stepped out. Dr. Krom crowded in front of him and waved test tubes. “Later,” Joe said, and kept walking.
Dr. Krom wouldn’t be brushed off. “Urgent,” he was saying. “Must act immediately.”
“What do you know about urgency?” Joe muttered. Another step and there was Krom again, clutching at his sleeve. The old man was in a real flap; his English had dwindled away into pure Hungarian.
“Nyet, nyista, whatever the hell it is in Magyar—no, damn it!” Joe said. “Later.”
There was a tinkling crash behind them. There goes the still. But all was not yet lost—they’d replaced one broken bell jar. But if that copper coil ever went over the side . . .
Slowly, Joe turned.
The god shouter was backed up against the bulkhead, describing wild wavering arcs with a handful of pistol. “Don’t Howie,” Joe said. “You’re here to save souls, not send them to hell before they can choose.”
“I’ve got to get to Rome.”
“All right, all right. Has anyone said no? Look at all these poor souls seeking the light. Give them your message. I’ll interpret.”
Howie frowned an instant, then began repeating his private evangel. After a moment Joe interrupted. “Está loco,” he said, “Procuren no hacerle daño. Non compos mentis. Non respondit acâts suâs.” He tried again in Greek, urging them not to kill the Salvation-addled Bible belter.
Howie had the heavenly reward bit down pat by now. Oh well, as long as he keeps talking, Joe philosophized. But that thrice accursed pistol still wobbled around, describing in great flamboyant arcs the riches of heaven. Howie raised both hands in a gesture of benediction and the pistol pointed momentarily upward. Joe caught movement from the corner of his eye—a whistling hiss as Raquel’s knife removed the thinnest slice from Howie’s already mangled ear. The pistol went off!
Ma Trimble screamed. Immediately the blondes made it an a capella choir. Howie stared at the pistol, wondering if he had caused all that noise. Something heavy struck him in the forehead. The imam hefted another cup. “Takes one to catch one,” he said with a wolfish grin at Joe.
Fragments of heavy, handleless navy cup lay about the shattered savior. His forehead bulged as if a third eye were ready to open. Raquel stepped over the crushed crusader and retrieved her knife. That’s the second time she’s saved my life, Joe thought.
Schwartz crowded up. “Mr. Rate, what’re we gonna do?”
“Can’t let him run around loose. Get some merthiolate and cotton.”
Dr. Krom crowded up again, waving a test tube and spouting Magyar. “Later,” Joe said, but the excitement had blown a fuse somewhere in the old man. “Cookie, fix him up.”
Cookie nodded and returned a moment later with a half cup of cloudy liquid. Dr. Krom took the cup absently and drank it. He coughed and abruptly spoke English. “Most urgent,” he began. Abruptly, his eyes crossed. He sat heavily on the settee.
“Foreigners just ain’t got no stomach,” Cookie observed.
“Did we leave anything ashore?” Joe asked.
Gorson shook his head. “What’re you gonna do with him?” he asked, pointing at McGrath.
“How should I know?” Joe snapped. He knelt again. McGrath’s pulse was steady and regular. He peeled back eyelids and both pupils were the same size. No blood from nose or ears. “Lapham!” he yelled.
“Sir,” that young man asked, “what did you give Dr. Krom?”
“A drink. Get the hammer, saw, and find some nails.”
“I’ll try, sir.”
The young civilian had suddenly started sirring him.
Why? He caught Cookie’s eye and they bore the young god shouter forward. “Any of your things in the chain locker?” he asked Raquel.
She shook her head.
They made McGrath as comfortable as possible atop die jumble of nylon line. Lapham reappeared with some odds and ends of lumber. “Leave room between these slats so we can feed him,” Joe
said.
Where was Gorson? Joe went on deck and found the chief fumbling in the darkness, trying to shackle the mains’l headboard onto its halliard. “Girls were sewing this afternoon,” he explained. “It’s unbent.”
It was nearly midnight. Working in the dark, they could take all night bending on the mains! and then run the risk of tearing it. In daylight it would only take minutes. “Get some sleep,” Joe said. “We’ll get underway at dawn.” The bos’n nodded and went below.
Joe took a deep breath and reached for a cigarette. When would he remember there weren’t any? He needed a shave too but they’d been out of soap for three weeks and he kept putting off the thought of another scrape with that same old blade.
Were they ready for another try at the Azores? He wandered around the yawl’s deck, testing the standing rigging with his hand. It was stainless so there was no rust problem, but the Alice had taken several hard knocks. Were there any incipient cracks in shackles or turnbuckles? He meandered up into the bows and ran a speculative hand over the forestay. Someone scooted aside to keep from being stepped on. He squinted and saw Raquel. “Sorry about crowding you out of the chain locker,” he said.
“I have not slept there for some time.”
“Oh?” Too hot, he supposed.
“I do not enjoy what goes on in the forecastle.”
“Nor I,” Joe agreed. “Perhaps they’ll settle down when we get to sea.”
“Haven’t we worked hard enough here?”
Joe sighed. He hadn’t realized how weary he was. He sat and leaned against the anchor winch. Ought to go below, he knew, but all that rustling and giggling filtered into his cubicle. It was cooler up here and the moon was just setting beyond the harbor mouth. His head was resting on something soft but he was too tired to see what.
Somewhat later he heard people moving quietly along the deck but again his exhaustion wouldn’t let him care why anyone would be throwing things into the caique he’d salvaged that morning.
He woke to the bleary realization that Raquel had sat all night cradling his head in her lap. She felt him move and dumped him unceremoniously on deck. He scrambled to his feet and started yelling the Alice’s crew awake. He stopped with an “all hands” choked crossways as he saw what Raquel stared at. Less than, twenty feet away a large bireme was moored. At least eighty oars were visible on Joe’s side. Through the oar ports he caught glimpses of rowers. They looked mean.
He dived down the forward scuttle, dragging Raquel after him. “Stay below,” he shouted. “Let’s get the hell out of here!” Hurling blondes like a berserk snowplow, he lifted the floorboard over the engine.
Rose spun valves. He opened fuel cocks, water cocks, and exhaust cocks. The starter began grinding. Nothing happened. Rose gave a disgusted grunt and reached for the ether bottle. He poured a capful into the air intake. The diesel gave a shuddering explosion and roared into life.
“Full ahead!” Joe yelled.
“We’re tied up.”
“It’s light line. Try to break it.”
The Alice trembled and moved a foot or two. Joe stationed himself at a porthole. “Reverse!” he yelled. The Alice took up slack in the bow line which stretched to the midharbor pinnacle. “Now full ahead!”
The yawl lunged forward again. She made all of six feet. Aboard the bireme Romans stared at this ship which roared and moved without oarsmen. Joe wondered if fear of the supernatural would keep them from boarding. Then he remembered the fixed Roman policy of destroying everything they mistrusted or misunderstood.
Cook was edging around the open engine compartment Joe took the cleaver from him. “But Mr. Rate—” He saw Joe’s face and abruptly stopped. Joe eased the hatch open. The line came through an eye in the middle of the stem and ran across the afterdeck to cleat portside of the cockpit He oozed out into the foot-deep cockpit, hoping the Romans couldn’t see him. Abruptly, he burst from the cockpit’s shelter and streaked across the six feet of open deck to whack at the line. He chopped frantically and the line snapped. A javelin thunked into the deck behind him. Joe dived back into the shallow cockpit.
The Alice was moving out now, far faster under power than the bireme. Joe made silent prayer for the helm to be centered. How far would those Roman javelins carry? He had to run forward and cut or take in the bow line before they breasted the midharbor pinnacle.
Spears still thunked into the Alic’es woodwork. A poorly cast pilum clattered slatwise into the cockpit. The Romans would be casting off their own lines soon. Would he ever outrange those damned spears?
Abruptly, the Alice’s diesel strained, gave a tremendous racking sneeze, and stopped. With a sinking feeling Joe realized exactly what had happened. The slack in his own bow line was tangled in a stranglehold around the Alice’s screw. Forgetting the spears, Joe dived for the after scuttle.
“Get the rifle, Cook. You Moors—” He remembered they didn’t understand English. He turned to the imam. “Fight! Tell them fight quick!”
Ma Trimble loomed huge and quivering in his path. “Keep those damned girls out of the way!” He dived into his cubicle, searching for the pistol. Damn it! I knew I’d face spears sooner or later. Why didn’t I have some shields made? The revolver wasn’t under his pillow. Finally he remembered where he’d hidden it after Howie’s crusade.
He scrambled for the after scuttle. The Moors were already on deck; Javelins whizzed past them as they disdained cover to yell insults. A spear struck one in the shoulder. He jerked it out and cast it back before sitting to examine himself.
The korax unhinged from the bireme’s stubby mast and struck the Alice’s deck with a splintering crash. The spike in its tip nailed both ships firmly together. Marines surged across the portable gangway onto the Alice. The second Moor gave a falsetto shriek and charged, trying vainly to force his sword between their immense semicylindrical shields.
Short Roman swords flickered like serpents’ tongues. The Moor was on his knees now. Joe emptied his pistol into Romans who still charged across the gangway. He ducked into the shallow cockpit to reload. A short sword struck the Moor on the back of the neck and in the comer of his mind Joe said a prayer for all men who die not for honor or patriotism, but because some s.o.b. tells them to.
The rifle cracked and another legionary fell off the bridge. Joe began firing again. Roman discipline was beyond belief. The pistol was empty again. He swung it, trying to knock the sword out of the hand which darted from behind that shield. The shield edge came up smartly under his chin—and that was the end of the fight for Joe.
IX
UP TIL now he hadn’t really believed. He had plodded blithely along with some blind, pollyanna-like faith that everything would turn out all right The Moors had been a lackadaisical lot compared with these Romans. He studied them covertly through his eyelashes, pretending he was still unconscious. They had hard, curveless faces—all slabs and angles—with the humorless look of pure fanaticism.
Someone kicked him. He straggled to his feet and immediately a brass-knuckled fist knocked him down again. Romans passed like ants in an endless stream down the after scuttle and up the forward, inspecting and looting.
This is it, Joe thought. These slab and angle faced Romans would not be so easily bamboozled as Vikings and Moors.
A hobnailed boot rolled him over again. “Quf e mdister?” the boot’s owner asked. The scholarly comer of Joe’s mind noted that even this early the Roman lower classes were dropping their s’s and g’s.
“Ego sum,” he answered.
“Not are—were,” the Roman corrected. He led Joe across the korax and Joe glanced briefly at the island. How could it lie there, primitive and peaceful, when his own world had just come crashing to an end? And where, he wondered briefly, was the caique? But the Roman was whacking him across the buttocks with the flat of his sword. Joe stumbled off the end of the korax, onto the catwalk, and made his way aft to the poopdeck.
There, enjoying the bright morning sunlight, sat a man in a fold
ing chair, behind a folding desk, on which lay a great many unfolded papers. The breeze kept fluttering the papers and he had them weighted down with sword, dagger, his gold collar, and his brass knuckles. With his left hand he slid pebbles in the slots of an abacus-like gadget of terra cotta while scribbling sums on a wax tablet with his right. From the look on his face, things weren’t adding up. “Now what?” he growled.
The marine explained.
“Speak Latin?” the man behind the desk asked.
“A little.”
“Where from?”
“America.”
Where’s that?”
“About 4000 Roman miles west of the Pillars of Hercules.”
“I’ll bet,” the Roman grunted. “What’s your name?”
“Josephus Rate.”
“You don’t look like a Jew.”
“I’m not. I’m an American. If it’ll clarify things, my great grandfather was born in Brittania.”
The Roman fixed one unblinking barracuda eye on him. “Others of my line came from Germania and Hibernia.”
“Quite a mongrel, aren’t you?”
“You Romans aren’t exactly pure any more.” From the other’s pained look Joe knew he had struck a nerve.
The Roman gave him a long, hard stare, then barked an order. Joe found himself propelled back amidships. The oarmaster put him at one of the starboard top bank oars. At last he was getting firsthand knowledge of the question which plagued every scholar a century fore and aft of Mahan. His limp right hand was thrust into a manacle. An armorer riveted it shut, missing once with the hammer and skinning Joe’s knuckle. The cuff fastened with a foot of chain to the heavy five-manned oar. Joe was outboard, facing forward next to the oarlock. Who said the Romans never invented anything, he wondered?
Greek and Phoenician penteconters needed skilled oarsmen—and a man couldn’t learn to row in a day. With three men on each lower oar and five on each upper, this quinquereme required only one oarsman to each. The other two or four faced each other and followed his stroke. The stroke man was not chained. Joe wondered if he was a trusted slave or working for wages.
The Ship That Sailed the Time Stream Page 11