“We don’t have to be factually accurate…do we?” the director asked.
The days passed, and the Venture steamed on, blessed with blue skies and calm seas rarely marred by a passing rain. Despite the hurriedness of their departure and the overcrowding on shipboard, Ben Hayes had never been on a voyage that had begun so well.
He didn’t like it one bit.
Hayes was superstitious and suspicious by nature, a man who was used to having to bring order to chaos. So much so that it made him nervous when there was no chaos to make orderly. As first mate of the Venture, he demanded perfection from the crew, and more often than not, they delivered.
The military had drummed that into him. He’d once overheard a sailor who’d had too much to drink telling another crewman that he thought “the war made Mr. Hayes mean and he got all his anger bottled up.”
The unwashed, grizzled seaman had been correct, to a point. But it wasn’t his military service that had fueled Ben Hayes’s anger. No, it was what had come after, and he was just furious at himself for hoping that there was justice in the world. From all he’d learned from his father and grandfather, Hayes had come to believe that the Great War would be like all those before it. In each war, his elders had told him, black men had fought alongside white men, and the trials they faced together had slowly eroded some of the hate and fear between races. In each war, black men had gained ground.
Not so in this war. Ben Hayes’s war. The Great War had been a step back. And when he’d come home, expecting to feel some of that change that his father had promised, it had been in the wrong direction. The white men in his community had gone out of their way to remind him what he wasn’t, to grind the pride he felt at having served into the dirt, along with his face.
One man in particular…well, if Ben Hayes hadn’t taken to the sea, he was sure he would have had blood on his hands. He would have turned himself into a murderer, and would’ve ended up on the end of a hangman’s noose for his crimes.
The only option he could see at the time was escaping, leaving America entirely. He set foot on American soil only when he was forced to by necessity, go gather supplies for a new voyage and load them. His family had tried to tell him that he had to keep fighting, but he had been in a real war, and understood when it was time to lay down his arms. He’d left them behind. Left it all behind.
And never looked back.
Hayes now put all of his energy into his duties on board the Venture. He was at his best when things were at their worst, which was why the calm seas and perfect days had troubled him. Even today, the ship steamed through placid waters, everything quiet enough that he’d seen men napping on the deck when not on duty.
He’d known it was all too good to be true.
When Hayes reached Captain Englehorn’s cabin, he found the man relaxing, a piece of German music playing on the grammophone. Hayes strode into the room, charts in his hands and laid them out in front of him—he’d just come from the wheelhouse, and didn’t like what he’d found. Englehorn was immediately at full attention.
“This heading puts us southeast of Sumatra,” Hayes said, not bothering to hide the accusation in his tone.
“It’s a new course, Mr. Hayes.”
“It takes us outside the shipping lanes.”
“What of it?”
Hayes stared at Englehorn, but the captain levelly met his gaze. There was no escaping the obvious—the further from traditional shipping lanes they strayed, the more difficult it would be to find help if they ran into trouble with weather or the engines.
The captain was smarter than that. Which begged certain questions.
“Captain, seven vessels have been lost in those waters.”
“Lost in what?” Englehorn scoffed. “A bank of fog? A sea mist? I don’t believe in fairy stories.”
Hayes threw the chart on the table, trying to hold his anger in check. “How much did he pay you?”
A cloud passed over Englehorn’s face. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. “That’s enough, Ben.”
Hayes grabbed him by the arm. “How much to compromise the safety of your ship and crew?”
Englehorn’s eyes were like ice. “There are dangers in any job. More so for those who go to sea. That’s how it is.”
Hayes stared at him for a long moment, and then released him in disgust.
“Whatever you got,” the first mate said, “I hope it was worth it.”
For the first time that he could remember, Ben Hayes turned his back on his captain. He strode from the cabin without looking back, trying to remember his duty and why he had left America. He still believed Englehorn was a man of honor, but even such men could make mistakes.
He stormed down the gangway and out onto the deck. Fuming, he stopped at the railing and tried to let the sea calm him. As he stood, trying to regain his composure, Jimmy walked by him, carrying some thick ropes. He thought it was possible that the boy picked up his pace a little, not wanting Hayes to engage him. Normally, Jimmy wanted nothing more than to talk to the first mate, so Hayes wondered what the hurry was.
Then he remembered.
“Jimmy!” he called. “You got something for me?”
The boy froze, hesitated a moment, then reluctantly fished a battered school exercise book out of his back pants pocket. Hayes took it from him and flipped through the pages, noting that Jimmy’s childlike scrawl had actually improved somewhat. In addition to what he’d written, the kid had pasted some pictures ripped out of magazines into his report.
“What do I always tell you?” Hayes demanded, looking him over.
“Do your best,” Jimmy practically mumbled.
“And this is your best?”
“It is,” the kid said, lifting his chin in defiance.
“So you’ve been practicing?”
“Yes, Mr. Hayes,” he said, and then glanced away. The boy was lying, and it was clear he had just realized he’d been caught at it.
“Then where’s the poem I set you to learn?”
Jimmy tried to weasel out of it. “What poem would that be?”
“The poem by Rupert Brooke. You were supposed to copy it out.”
The kid had mutiny in his eyes. “What’s the point? It’s just a bunch of flowery words. It doesn’t mean nothin’!”
Furious, Hayes cuffed him on the side of the head. “Brooke died a soldier, boy! Show him some respect!” he barked. And then he saw the hurt in the kid’s eyes, and softened a bit. “Look, you don’t want to be on this ship for the rest of your life.”
Jimmy stared at him. “I do.”
“No, you don’t, Jimmy. You want to get yourself educated, give yourself some options. You’ve got to take this serious.”
“I do, Mr. Hayes! I do! I been readin’.”
Jimmy pulled a battered book out of his coat pocket. Hayes frowned and took it from him. There was a painting on the cover of a tramp steamer, along with the title and the author. Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad.
Hayes felt his chest tighten. “Where did you get this?”
“I borrowed it.”
Hayes flipped the book open and saw a stamp on the interior of the cover. “Property of the New York Public Library.”
“On long-term loan,” Jimmy went on, carefully. “Have you read it, Mr. Hayes?”
“Yeah,” Hayes said, chilled. “I’ve read it.”
Jimmy pointed to a line printed on the back of the book. “ ‘Adventures on a Tramp Steamer,’ see? Just like us.”
Hayes handed the book back. “No, Jimmy,” he said quietly. “Not like us.”
He sure as hell hoped not.
7
CARL DENHAM WAS IN his glory. He stood on the deck of the Venture and watched another world come to life in front of him. The ocean was so calm it was like sailing across glass, the sky perfectly blue and the sunlight at just the right angle to give his actors the glow of ruddy health without washing them out on the black-and-white film.
Herb was the camera man,
but often enough Denham took over the duty. At the moment he was behind the camera, with Herb on one side of him and Mike on the other, recording the sound track. Preston and Jack were around somewhere nearby, but Denham had nearly forgotten they existed. The only thing that mattered now was what was happening in front of the camera.
He marveled at the quiet on the deck. There were sailors gathered at a safe distance, observing the proceedings, but they were being remarkably silent. It pleased him profoundly. They all felt it—the magic of filmmaking.
In the frame, Ann leaned against the rail and gazed longingly out to sea. In full makeup and with her hair done, she looked absolutely, staggeringly beautiful. Even without all of the fuss, she was stunning, but that was the thing that made Ann Darrow the perfect subject for his camera: despite her breathtaking natural beauty, she had no idea how gorgeous she was. That lack of awareness gave her face a life and truth all its own.
On cue, Bruce sauntered up to her, every inch the matinee idol he had become.
“I think this is awfully exciting,” Ann said. “I’ve never been on a ship before.”
Denham silently cheered her. That’s it, kid, prove Jack Driscoll wrong.
“I’ve never been on one with a woman before,” Bruce replied.
Denham frowned. That wasn’t the line. He imagined Jack wincing.
“I guess you don’t think much of women on ships, do you?” Ann asked.
“No, they’re a nuisance.”
Bruce shook his head, breaking out of character. “That was applesauce. That last line…it ain’t working.” He looked at the director. “Denham, I got an idea. Let’s go again.”
Denham glanced over at Jack and saw the pained expression on the writer’s face. Jack would hate it—the writers always did—but he needed to get through the scene, and if that meant letting Bruce switch some words around, he’d give it a try.
“All right, everyone,” Denham said, “from the top.”
“I think this is awfully exciting,” Ann said, beginning the scene again. “I’ve never been on a ship before.”
“It’s a dangerous thing, having girls on ships,” Bruce said, in character. “They’re messy and they’re unreliable.”
Denham could practically hear Jack sigh, but he kept the camera rolling.
“Well, I’ll try not to be,” Ann replied, going with the line Jack had scripted for her.
“Just being around is trouble,” Bruce said.
Ann flinched. “Well! Is that a nice thing to say!” Her tone changed, then, to a sweetness that had claws. “Why, I simply oughta knock your teeth down your gullet and learn you some real manners.”
“Oh, you’re all right,” Bruce continued improvising, “but women, they just can’t help being a bother. Made that way, I guess.”
“Cut!” Denham called. He wasn’t sure who was more likely to give Bruce a rap in the jaw, Ann or Jack, but if he let this go on much longer, they’d have to stand in line behind him.
“Great!” he said. “Wonderful work. Ann, stay right where you are. We’ll move on to your close-up. Preston, get the filter box from my cabin. Bruce, my friend…you can take a break.”
“What do you think, Driscoll?” the actor asked, sauntering over to Jack. “The dialogue’s got some flow now, huh?”
“It was pure affluence,” Jack said dryly.
“I beefed up the banter,” Bruce replied.
Jack gave him a blank look. “Try to resist that impulse.”
Denham wondered if he would have to step in. Bruce puffed up a bit.
“Just a little humor, bud,” the actor said. “What are you, Bolshevik or something?”
When Bruce turned and walked off, Denham breathed a sigh of relief.
Jack shot him a look of utter frustration. “Actors! They travel the world but all they ever see is a mirror!”
Just a few feet away, Ann had been checking her makeup in a compact mirror. Jack clearly hadn’t intended the comment for her, but she snapped the mirror shut and marched off, obviously offended. The two men watched her go. Denham knew he had to call her back. They had work to do. But he figured they’d all be better off with a few minutes to cool down.
Lumpy and Choy stood together beside the funnel, looking down on the proceedings on the deck. For a working-class dog like Lumpy, it was a strange sight indeed. He liked the movies well enough, he supposed, but to see it all happening in front of him…well, it looked an awful lot like just playing around. It wasn’t real work, was it? No, not at all.
Still, there was something entrancing about it. And not just Miss Ann Darrow, either, though she was enough of an enchantment. Lumpy envied that Bruce Baxter. He figured it was probably Baxter’s work in Tribal Brides of the Amazon that had gotten him this part, but what did Lumpy know? He had to admit, though, that Baxter seemed pretty good at his job. According to Judah and Toad, the guy knew how to tie a mean knot as well, so they had to respect him for that.
“What do I need to do to become a matinee idol?” he whispered.
Choy looked at him with grave sincerity. “Develop your chest an’ you get body to be proud of. You get prettiest girl.”
Bewildered, Lumpy looked at him. Choy grinned and pulled a battered Charles Atlas bodybuilding pamphlet from his pocket.
“Big muscle development. All over the beach,” Choy assured him.
Lumpy shook his head. He never failed to be amazed by how enthusiastic Choy was about everything. Peeling potatoes and cleaning toilets were thrilling work, as far as Choy was concerned. His friend didn’t like to talk about it, but Lumpy figured it went back to Choy’s childhood in Northern China, when the warlords in that part of the country were under constant attack, slaughtering each other and being massacred by the armies of the southern government almost every day. Horrific stuff, but Choy was always in such a sunny mood. Lumpy had decided it was because compared to the things he had seen growing up, anything else was paradise—Choy had once said that he knew he was lucky, that he should have been dead, and anything was better than where he had come from.
“Choy,” Lumpy said, “you are not and never will be Charles Atlas.”
“This only day three!” Choy explained. “On day seven, I am a man!”
Lumpy could only grin.
Jack had watched the scene with trepidation, and now he was torn. Ann had cleverly surprised him—she had a lot of natural talent, and seemed to know just how far to push it for the camera. Baxter, on the other hand…now that was an ego to deal with there.
Ann had already returned, fully composed, ready for work. Denham was busy setting up for her close-up.
“Where do you want me?” she asked Denham, moving to a mark on the deck. “Here?”
Denham had the camera again and was peering through the viewfinder. “A little more to the left.”
Jack had to move out of the way as Ann took up her new mark. He stepped back to give her room but she didn’t so much as glance at him.
“That’s good, Ann. Hold it there,” Denham instructed.
“I have a question about the script, Mr. Denham,” she said, ignoring Jack completely, despite the subject of her question. “If this is the beginning of a love story—”
Jack frowned. “Hold on a second. It’s not a love story.”
Ann raised an eyebrow but continued to ignore him.
“Jack doesn’t do love stories,” Denham told her. “He writes serious drama.”
“That’s not true. I can do love. I’ve done love. I’ve painted the stage with love!” Jack felt foolish the moment the words were out of his mouth, but there was no taking them back.
What was it about Ann Darrow that made him feel it was so important to say the right thing? She’d been insulting since the moment they’d met—though accidentally and charmingly so—and in the days since, they’d barely seen one another. He hadn’t gone out of his way to be in her company, but when he had been there was a strange tension between them. He felt like there was something he needed t
o say to her. Could even feel his lips start to form words…but for once he had no idea what those words ought to be.
The strangest part was that whenever he saw her, he could swear she was feeling the same thing. It was frustrating, and it made being around her a test of aggravation.
Ann raised her chin, still focusing on Carl. “My point is, Mr. Denham, if he’s so interested in her, why doesn’t he want her around?”
“That’s the thing,” Carl explained. “He’s attracted to her, but he doesn’t want to show it.”
Jack shook his head. “That’s not the thing. That’s not the thing at all!”
For the first time, Ann turned to look at him. “He’s not attracted to her?”
“No,” he said quickly. Then he gave a small nod. “Well, yes. He is. She’s very…she’s beautiful.”
Her eyes were locked on his. Jack felt himself flush.
“And that’s all she has to offer?” Ann asked. “I thought there was more to her than that, but perhaps I’ve read it wrong.”
“No,” Jack said quietly, almost mesmerized. “I think I wrote it wrong.”
Preston rushed along the gangway to Denham’s cabin, flung the door open, and hurried to a large trunk that stood against one wall. The director was caught up in the creative energy of making the film—the very intensity that had drawn Preston to want to work for him in the first place—but he couldn’t find the filter box that he needed for the camera.
One day, hopefully soon, there’d be someone else working with them, some young guy with stars in his eyes, eager to run and get coffee, or filter boxes, just to have a chance to work in the pictures. When the time came, Preston hoped to be a more active part of the process, maybe shooting some of the footage himself, and actually working with the actors. But for now, he was Denham’s personal assistant, and that meant doing whatever was necessary to help Carl get the job done.
He opened the trunk and started rapidly digging through it. Old scripts, outdated copies of Variety, story boards, empty whiskey bottles, reels of film, head shots of actors…
Preston frowned and stopped rummaging. There was something odd in the trunk, rough folded parchment paper that seemed like it would fall to pieces if he wasn’t careful. He pulled the battered paper out.
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