Flashman and the Emperor

by Robert Brightwell

  “Wait,” came a new voice and I saw João rise from the crowd about him. “If it had not been for Señor Flashman, we would not have found the leaks until it was too late. Or the captain could have gone off in the boats with the rich passengers.”

  “I don’t trust him,” snarled the carpenter. “He is not travelling another league in this boat with us.” He pulled out a knife from his belt. “I am going to gut him and throw him over the side.” There was a little cheer from our waterborne mob. This was revolution if ever I saw it. I have learnt from experts like Joseph Fouché, that there is only one way to control it.

  I was fortunate in that the carpenter turned to face João, to threaten him with the same treatment if he objected. That meant that he did not see me pull the pistol out of my pocket. I did not waste time with threats or warnings. One of us was going to die and it was not going to be me. Swift and decisive action was required: I pulled back the hammer, took aim and fired.

  Only one sailor managed to shout a warning, but it was too late. The ball caught the carpenter in the chest. He dropped his knife, took half a step back and tumbled over the side, all without uttering a sound. There was a moment of shocked silence in the boat, interrupted only by me cocking the next chamber in the gun. I only had four shots left and there were thirty people still in the boat. A few were leaning over the side to watch the carpenter’s receding corpse, but most were watching me, a mixture of curiosity and hostility in their eyes. “Right, settle down,” I started, but that was as far as I got before I was interrupted.

  “You murderin’ bastard,” one man roared, standing up in the front of the boat. Those nearer to me could see the revolving barrels in my gun, but this fellow did not notice as he angrily pushed his way towards me. Not one of his comrades called out a warning or said anything at all as he pulled a long blade from a sheath he had strapped to his arm.

  “Keep back or I’ll shoot,” I warned.

  “You’ve already fired that,” he retorted as he stepped over the next row of seats.

  I fired, aiming once more for his chest, but he stumbled as I pulled the trigger. By chance the ball went plumb through the middle of his forehead. He tumbled backwards to sprawl over the men behind.

  I cocked the gun quickly again, watching for further resistance but there was none. “João,” I called. “Get someone to help you throw him overboard.” A moment later there was a splash as another body hit the water. “So,” I continued, “does anyone else want to try their luck with my gun?”

  There was silence for a moment and then a voice called out, “Where are we going? Where are the Cape Verde islands?”

  It was a damn good question and I thought seriously before giving an answer. “I don’t know where they are. We should have passed them but they could be east, west, north or south from here.” I looked the nearest men in the eye as I considered the options myself. “We have a choice. We can either sail around in widening circles searching for them, or we can head east.” I held the map out to the nearest row of men facing me. You can see for yourselves that the African coast is only four hundred miles beyond the islands. That is four days’ sailing with this wind and a whole continent is something that we cannot miss.”

  “But we don’t know that we are near the Cape Verde islands,” protested one crewman.

  “And what happens when we get to Africa?” enquired a second. “We will be eaten by lions.”

  “And we only have—” started a third but I held up my hand for silence.

  “If we had stayed on the Dona Estela we would have drowned. If we keep sailing aimlessly around here we will die. We know the islands must be around here somewhere. It might be five days’ sailing instead of four, but on the other hand we may find the islands to the east tomorrow. As for what happens in Africa, let’s worry about that when we get there. At least we will still be alive and there should be fresh water and food.”

  “But we only have half a barrel of water left,” persisted the man I had interrupted.

  “Then we will have to ration it out over five days,” I told them. “Unless one of you has a better idea to keep us all alive?” I let the question hang in the air and while they stared around at each other, no one said anything.

  The revolution was over and now, with an uncertain Captain Flashy at the helm, we headed east. I won’t tire you with too many details of that terrible voyage, for I have done my best over the intervening years to put them from my mind. Needless to say, we did not find the Cape Verde islands to the east, nor did it take four or five days. It took at least seven, and I cannot be more precise on that, for I was delirious for some of them.

  The first two days were relatively easy going; we had a small cup of water at dawn and at dusk and a biscuit. Not nearly enough, but it kept us alive. Then on the third day we were becalmed again… and the water ran out. One of the sailors was accused of stealing or spilling what was left during the night. Knives flashed out and the alleged thief was left in the bottom of the boat, bleeding from a deep gash. You cannot imagine unless you have suffered it, the frustration of being surrounded by water and yet dying of thirst. None of us was that sorry when the thief died and was tipped over the side. The sharks joined us then, three of them slowly circling the boat. They seemed to sense that more food would follow.

  Men had already started to drink seawater, even though most knew that it would lead to madness. I was better off than most; while I had long since drained the bottle of brandy, I still had the flask of black tea in my sack. I had saved it until the water ran out. My fellow crew were too weak to notice what I was doing when lying curled around my sack in the bottom of the boat. If they had seen it earlier, I would have had to fight for it. But now each night when I was sure no one was watching, I would take a few sips of the precious liquid. It was a lifeline, but a mere tendril that would only last a few days. Others, less fortunate, started to slip away.

  On the morning of the fifth day, as the boat lay still on the glassy sea, one of the men who had been drinking sea water decided to swim to Africa. No one had the energy or inclination to stop him. It just meant an inch or two more room for the rest of us. He flopped over the side and started a slow swimming stroke away. We all just sat and watched him go. Judging from their fins, the sharks watched him too as they circled around, but did not interfere. Then slowly, he stopped swimming and lolled face down in the water. He lay like a little human island, fifty yards from the boat for nearly an hour, before something tugged him down into the deep.

  That afternoon the wind returned, but only half the men had the energy to help me raise the sails. We started to make progress again, a boat full of glassy-eyed men, more dead than alive.

  The next morning, we tipped six corpses into the sea. In the afternoon, we rolled five more bodies over the side. There were others, but we were too tired heave any more into the water. By then there were only four of us still moving. I was joined by João, a young wild-eyed man who I suspected had been drinking seawater, and another older fellow, whose eyes had sunk so far into his head he was little more than a skin-covered skeleton. João and the boy were little better and I could feel that my cheeks were sunken too. The boat resembled a floating graveyard and I thought I too would soon join its silent, still company. The strong dark tea I had been surviving on had finished and it felt like my body was breaking down. The last time I had been able to piss over the side, what I produced had looked much like the tea.

  We were lost in an endless ocean and there seemed little hope to be had. I couldn’t think straight anyway and sat down in the stern of the boat next to a corpse who had died holding the tiller. He was still steering a steady course east, which I remember finding immensely amusing. So I left him ploughing our infinite furrow through the sea. The next thing I remember was lying in the bottom of the boat. It was dark and for a moment I was unsure what had awakened me. Then a droplet of water hit me in the face. It took several more for me to finally comprehend what was happening: it was raining. For a
while, I only had the energy to open my mouth and let the water find me. A few drops turned to a steady stream and then a deluge of water. It was glorious! I started gulping down the precious liquid while my body seemed to soak it up like a sponge. I turned my head and saw pools gathering in the spaces by the ribs of the boat. I was drinking greedily when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  It was João. “Help me with the sail,” he shouted above the noise of the drumming rain. God knows where he found the strength, perhaps he also had his own secret store of water, but already he was at the mast half lowering the sail. I was still feeling feeble-minded and unsure what he was trying to do. It was only when he gave me the yardarm to hold and told me to keep it steady that I understood. He had turned the sail into a gully to trap rainwater. I gripped the wooden boom while he moved the empty water barrel to the bottom edge of the sail. A steady stream of water started to flow. He got the lad to hold the second sail in the same manner, although the boy kept wandering off to rave at the rain. João stood in the middle of the boat, scooping up the rainwater that gathered in the bottom and pouring that in the barrel too. That was how we spent the night, collecting water like our lives depended on it, which they did.

  A gentle breeze picked up before dawn, which made the sails flap, throwing out much of the water. But João reported that the barrel was now more than half full and so we raised the sail and continued our easterly course. I remember looking at our dead helmsman, who still held the rudder in a vice-like grip. It may have been my imagination or the effect of the water on his previously dry skin, but his cheeks seemed to have been drawn back in a grin. His white teeth glistened in a maniacal grimace, while his sightless eyes were fixed on the horizon ahead. It seemed rather apt for this grotesque journey of survival and so I sat down beside him, ready to take the tiller should it break from his grasp.

  There were only three of us left alive in the boat the next morning. The rain had been too late to save the living skeleton that had helped us the day before. João had found some ship’s biscuit that we had stopped eating as we got thirstier. It was now wet and soggy and he said would soon rot. We gorged ourselves with a bowlful each along with all the water we could drink. I felt more human after that and we busied ourselves by collecting the last of the dead and dropping them over the side. One corpse, I noticed, had a lump of flesh cut from his thigh. I wondered if that was how João had kept himself alive, or perhaps it was the boy. Certainly the lad was fourpence short of a shilling, for his wits had been disturbed by his recent suffering. He had taken to talking to God, loudly thanking the Almighty for his deliverance from death. João and I tried to leave him alone, but he would insist on involving us in his impromptu prayer sessions. Once, he leant over the side and started to preach at one of the sharks that shadowed us, waiting for the next corpse to go over the side. I was still raw about throwing overboard the dead helmsman, whose body had been as light as a child’s. I told the boy to be quiet and he stared at me as though seeing me for the first time.

  “I know you,” he announced at last. “You sailed with the Devil.”

  “Well, you will swim with that bloody shark if you do not shut your religious claptrap,” I warned him. He was quiet for a while but then he announced that he was changing his name to Jonah, for he too had been saved by God at sea. It did not seem a great omen with large man-eating fish following the boat, but we let it go. With renewed energy, João and I concentrated on trimming the sails and making the best of the still favourable winds. We were still heading due east and must have made a hundred miles a day in the brisk breeze.

  In between trying to convert sharks to Christianity and chattering to God, Jonah proved himself to be a surprisingly good fisherman. Twice he hauled a good-sized fish into the boat, which kept us going for several days. Recognising how close we had come to death, we now drank whatever we needed determined to go as far as we could to reach land

  To this day, I don’t know how long I spent in that boat since leaving the Dona Estela. It was certainly over a week, probably closer to two. Each evening João and I would sit talking in the stern, while Jonah sat as far away as he could in the bow muttering to himself. I do remember the morning that João woke me up and pointed excitedly up at the sky. There, wheeling above us, was a seagull, our first sign that we were approaching land. We stared at the eastern horizon all day until our eyes ached, but by dusk there was no sign of it. Then finally, at dawn the following day, there was a thin smudge between the eastern sea and sky. The end of our journey was in sight.

  João and I hugged each other with relief, while Jonah started to rave about our redemption and deliverance from evil. The rest of that morning was spent watching the land get steadily closer. I was relieved to see the smudge develop a green hue, as I had feared that we would land in some arid desert. I got out the big telescope and could soon see rolling waves breaking on a sandy beach with a verdant forest and hills beyond.

  “There is a big surf between us and the beach,” I told João. “But there must be people living in that jungle beyond. They can help us get to some white settlement and from there we can catch a ship home.”

  “If wild animals do not kill and eat us first.” João laughed at his own pessimism and added, “But I would rather end up as lion shit than shark shit. Just as long as we get off this damn boat.”

  “Can I see?” Jonah had come up now he had seen us using the telescope. I passed it to him and showed him how to rest it against the mast to steady the view in the swell of the boat. He stared intently through the lens for several seconds and then gave a gasp. “I know this shore,” he declared.

  “What? You have been to Africa?” I asked, surprised.

  “No, that is not Africa. That is the coast of the Algarve in Portugal. Lisbon is less than a hundred miles to the north,” he beamed.

  “Are you sure?” I was astonished. Christ, I knew my navigation was poor, but I did not think it was that bad.

  “The last few days we have been using a northerly wind to push us east,” murmured João. “If anything, it should have taken us further south, not north.”

  “It is the Algarve.” Jonah shouted the words. “I grew up there, do you think I would not know when Our Saviour takes me home?” He stared at us both with wild eyes and then passed me the telescope. “Here, take this. I must go and pray for guidance.” With that he shambled away to the bows of the boat, where he fell on his knees.

  João was shaking his head in disbelief, but I just winked at him to play along and called out to Jonah. “I believe you, it is the coast of the Algarve. I will buy you a cup of fine Portuguese wine at the first tavern we find.” Under my breath, I added for João’s benefit, “But if we find slave traders instead of a tavern, we will sell him to the highest bidder.”

  While Jonah communed with the spirit world, João and I made more mundane preparations for whatever we would find ashore. He filled a couple of bottles with some of our fresh water while I checked the priming on my pistol and ensured that the loads were dry before tucking it into my belt. I thought it paid to be prepared for all eventualities, although, as it turned out, my preparations were nearly my undoing.

  As we came within a mile of land it became obvious that getting ashore would be no easy task. Huge waves were breaking on rocks in the surf, throwing up mountains of spray. Even Jonah had come back to help and was manning the tiller while we looked for a safe channel through.

  “There,” shouted João above the distant rumble of the breakers. “See? We can go through that gap.” I raised the telescope to stare at the spot – it did indeed seem clear of waves. Then I heard a clatter beside me and a moment later something tugged on my belt.

  “What on earth…” I exclaimed as I turned to see what was happening. For a moment it made no sense. João was lying crumpled at my feet and Jonah was sitting back down next to the tiller. Then I saw what the mad bastard had in his hand: it was my Collier pistol.

  “Give me that back,” I demanded. “You don’
t know how to use it.”

  The lad just gave me an angelic grin and pulled back on the hammer, cocking the first chamber. “The Lord guides my hands,” he intoned. Then he gestured to the prone João, “Tie his hands behind his back,” he commanded.

  “You don’t understand,” I pleaded with him. “We are only a minute or two away from hitting those rocks. We all need to work together to survive.” I could still barely comprehend what was happening. All that time lost at sea and now with the shore virtually in touching distance, this bloody fool was putting us all in jeopardy.

  Jonah gave me another of his serene smiles before calmly explaining, “The Lord will decide who is saved, but you will not be among them. He has already told me that you are in league with the Devil. You have sailed in his fleet and now you are in darkness. If you do not tie him up, you will die now.”

  “But Cochrane is not really the Devil!” I exploded. “He is a British seaman, his family come from Scotland. Dammit, man, I have met his wife,” I added lamely as Jonah raised the barrel so that I seemed to be gazing right down it. It was no use and so I stared about me for rope. Jonah reached under his seat where there were coils of the stuff and threw the bundle at me. Loops of rope spilled all over the deck between us. There was a small kedge anchor at one end, near Jonah’s foot, and I wondered if I could use that as a weapon. But when I moved my hand towards it, Jonah stopped me.

  “Use the other end,” he called, still covering me with the gun. “Cut a length off with João’s knife and then throw the blade overboard.” As he spoke a wave lifted the stern of the boat and we shot forward on its crest for several yards. I glanced over the bow; a line of jagged black rocks lay no more than five hundred yards ahead and Jonah was making no effort to avoid them. At the rate we were coming in, we would be on them in a minute or two. There was no choice but to appear to tie João up. The man was out cold with a bleeding cut on his forehead from where Jonah had hit him. I cut a length of rope from the other end of the coils and at Jonah’s menacing reminder, threw the blade over the side. The binding on João’s wrists looked secure, but I had deliberately made it loose. I had thumped and prodded him while I tied him up in the hope that he might revive himself and be of some help, but he remained stubbornly unconscious. When I had finished, I slumped down beside his prone form as Jonah ordered, staring down the barrel of my own gun. Another wave lifted the boat, faster this time, and the rocks drew even closer.