Harrington shouted up, inquiring if either was an officer, but they paid him no mind. The scholar was at a loss when a third man appeared at the rail, combed his fingers through black bangs clawing at his eyes and, in Russian, asked Harrington what he wanted.
“You are a ship's mate?”
“Second.”
“I'm to hand this to one of the ship's mates,” Harrington said, waving the captain's note. The man just stared, so he added, “It is from your captain.”
Suspicious, the second joined Harrington on the quay. He read the note, eyeing the Englishman warily. “I did not think we were carrying passengers.” He returned the slip. “Did you show this to the first mate? The bald one?” He crooked a thumb at the warehouse.
“He didn't appear in the mood.”
The second laughed. “No, he rarely is.” He started back up. “I will prepare your cabin. Remain here until I call.”
`Here' was beside the ship, in the open; a place Harrington had no desire to be. He chose instead to disappear into the shadows between the warehouse and the harbor pilot's shack, until the second permitted him to board. It was his first lesson in the danger of disobeying orders.
A din erupted. There came the turn of heavy wheels, the crack of whips, the wild cries of panting horses, shouts - and singing. A startled Harrington looked up to see a riot of force and color rounding the warehouse in a blur of insane speed. It was a monstrous ornate wagon that would have been at home in a carnival caravan. It was filled with a cargo of wooden boxes, and (jovially singing!) men, was pulled by four draft horses, and bore down as if Harrington were its target. The driver, a mustachioed gypsy, grew wide-eyed as he spotted the man in their path. He yanked on the reins and shouted. Harrington dove out of the way. The horse team missed him by inches as the wagon ground to a halt, its boxes groaning, its men shouting. But the incident wasn't over. Two other wagons, the ladder-sided leiter-wagons of the country, followed in single file parade; loaded with identical stacked boxes, pulled by eight massive horses each and driven, not by gypsies, but by Slovaks. The driver of the second shouted and reined his horses in just before they collided with the lead wagon. The driver of the third halted his team and only avoided running into the second.
“Cor blimey!” Harrington sputtered. It was a guttural expression he'd picked up in London; hardly gentlemanly but it fit the moment. He jumped up covered in fresh dirt. “What do you think…? You almost killed me!”
The horses stamped and panted.
The first driver, carrying a rifle, left his seat on the Englishman's side. He was a Szgany, a gypsy, one of six climbing down. They were attired in high boots, puffed pants, colorful vests, wearing bandanas or wide-brimmed hats. They were weatherworn, tattooed; several wore neckerchiefs, several ear-rings. The driver, the largest of them, took the lead horse by the bridle to calm him.
The men aboard the other wagons climbed down too. These were Slovaks; glorious looking barbarians with baggy dirty-white trousers tucked into high black boots, puffed linen shirts, and massive leather belts studded with brass nails. Several wore long mustaches and all long hair beneath huge cowboy hats. Most carried rifles.
Why the Slovaks and Szgany were together was anyone's guess. But their number was imposing, their weapons threatening, and their silence frightening. None appeared ready to apologize. In fact they ignored Harrington completely. For his part, the Englishman got a bad feeling. Despite the bright sun, it was as if a gloom had descended over the dock. He quickly decided Falstaff was right, discretion was the better part of valor. He would do without an apology. He brushed himself off and renewed his search for shadow and anonymity.
The bald first mate and his prospective sailors, having witnessed the tumult, funneled back into the warehouse. Harrington, loitering, heard an argument taking shape (in bleats of Romanian and Russian). The mate shouted, “What the hell are you talking about?”
“What I said. I'm not going.”
Another voice added, “Nor I.”
“You signed the book. And you. You both agreed to sail.”
“We changed our minds.”
“In twenty minutes? You were eager to sail twenty minutes since.”
“In five minutes, if you must have it!”
“Something's changed in the last five minutes? What? What's changed!?”
“Do you not feel it?” The anger was gone. The man was afraid. “There is something wrong here. Something is dreadfully wrong. And it was not here, this feeling, five minutes ago. I quit!”
“And me.”
Two seamen, their kits shouldered, walked out and away from the port. No sooner were they gone then, inside, the mate was arguing with another. “What did you say?”
“I said, if this ship is screwy, I want more money.”
Even from outside, Harrington recognized the thud of flesh – and a crash. Someone was struck and had gone down like a ton of bricks. “There's nothing screwy about this ship!” the first yelled. “Those are the wages. Plus all the goddamn grief you can swallow. If you want the work, sign the book and grab your kit. If not, get the hell off the quay!”
Another sailor stormed out. Holding a swelling eye, cursing, he threw his duffle over his shoulder and walked away. Harrington watched him go, then scanned the dock from the schooner to the gypsies and their cargo of boxes, wondering what he'd missed. What had happened in the last few minutes that suddenly nobody wanted any part of this voyage?
Chapter Three
While tensions cooled in the warehouse, they heated up on the dock. The Bulgarian laborers, happy lounging before the gypsies arrived, were impatient to unload the wagons. They were suddenly, strangely nervous and wanted those boxes off their quay.
Their supervisor led three men to the rear of the Szgany wagon and immediately began moving the caskets, seven feet long, two and a half wide, two high, by the rope handles on either side. In their haste, they thumped the first box heavily on the tail of the wagon. The leader, complaining of the weight, dropped his end hard on the dock. His co-worker had no choice but to follow. The Szgany driver clouded. He waved his rifle and shouted for them to watch what they were doing. When the supervisor shouted back, the row was on. Sides were quickly drawn; the port workers behind their leader, the gypsies and gun-toting Slovaks behind their Szgany boss.
Harrington had a front row seat. The mate and his would-be sailors, again, looked on from the warehouse. The second descended Demeter's gangway while several of his hands watched from the deck. The harbor pilot's door flew open and, shouting, two others joined the fray. The first was the surprisingly spry harbor master, who looked sixty, but ran as if he were twenty years younger. Well behind him was a bespectacled, flesh-ball of a man dressed like a toff and waving a handful of papers. The pilot reached them first and, growling, demanded the reason for the conflict.
Chaos ensued as men shouted in Bulgarian, German, Russian, Romanian (and several Romany sub-tongues). The Szgany was livid about the inept handling of the boxes. The Bulgarian resented being told his job. The pilot wanted order in his port. The second wanted his ship loaded (the first agreed, goddammit!). The rotund solicitor, introduced as Herr Leutner, in the interests of the Transylvanian noble that owned the boxes, wanted the wagons inventoried before anything was moved. Leutner wanted that done now so he could sign and go.
The harbor master won and order was restored. The ship's crew returned to stowing sand, the first mate to finding sailors. The men on the dock stood at ease while the pilot, Herr Leutner, the supervisor, the big Szgany, and the ship's second conducted the inventory.
The wagons held fifty boxes, matching the manifest, of common earth for unspecified (and to Harrington quite unimaginable) scientific purposes; to be delivered to the consignee, a solicitor called Billington, of 7, The Crescent, Whitby, England. What the matter was with English soil that it was necessary to ship dirt from Transylvania, the scholar had no idea – and no more interest. The second would soon be free and he would have permissio
n to board.
One further incident, however, occurred before the cargo was safely loaded.
The supervisor and his mate carried a box to the rig lifting its fellows to the schooner's deck. There, as if they hadn't trouble enough, the leader tripped and fell. His end smacked the solid masonry of the quay, the box split at the corner, and dirt spilled out. His partner had no choice but to let his end crash as well.
The Szgany driver leapt from his wagon and stormed them, shouting curses, with blood in his eyes. Both drew back in fear. The gypsy inspected the damage then stood with an enormous sigh of relief. He turned and slapped the Bulgarian supervisor to the ground. While he lay stunned, the gypsy slapped him again. He turned his rage on the second man and only the intervention of the other Szgany prevented his thrashing.
When the harbor master stepped up this time, the Szgany refused to back down. Waving his rifle, he shouted that the boxes had been entrusted to his people and warned everyone within hearing he and his comrades would shoot the next man to mishandle them. The pilot pleaded there be no violence. The solicitor thanked the Szgany leader, saying he appreciated their efforts on behalf of his client. He waved an envelope with a broken red wax seal, correspondence from his client, as proof of authority and added, “The harbor master, I'm sure, will see all is gotten aboard safely.”
The pilot bowed curtly. “It will be done, Herr Leutner.” He admonished the Bulgarian for his stupidity, his laziness, and threatened to fire him and his men on the spot. He ordered them all back to work – and with the utmost care.
The matter was finished. The Szgany and Slovaks, at their leader's insistence, unloaded what remained in the wagons. The Bulgarians saw the boxes aboard and, once there, the ship's crew (the shirt-less one laughing, the massive one shaking his head, and now a third man grumbling and nervously crossing himself) joined in loading them into the hold.
With their wagons empty, the supervisor thanked the big Szgany and bid him and his men good day. He was wasting his breath. The gypsy, still carrying his rifle, moved to the edge of the dock. His men, and the armed Slovaks, followed. Silently, they lined up beside the ship on either side of the gangplank intending, it appeared, to remain until after the schooner's departure.
* * *
The troubles on the quay were echoed inside the warehouse. Another sailor had quit, for no discernable reason, and the first was ready to explode.
Everything about Iancu Constantin, Demeter's mate, was explosive. He not only looked like a hard-boiled egg, he was one; with gray-streaked eyebrows that, depending on the light, looked red, or brown, or black above small, closely-spaced eyes that seemed always to be issuing a threat. His mouth was angled so that, even when he laughed, he seemed to be sneering. He wasn't laughing now.
What a morning it had been! He rubbed his aching dome because it wasn't over yet.
He'd received word their cook, Dimitri Andreev, was sick and could not sail. The same report said the ailing man had done them the favor of finding his own replacement. When the stand-in arrived, the mate nearly had a heart attack. The new cook was ancient as hell, decades beyond useful sea-going years, and a clamorous Scotsman to boot. Constantin rejected him unequivocally. But to the first's surprise, the old boy, called Swales, not only stood his ground but returned fire. He relayed his extensive experience and insisted there was no better ship's cook in Varna, in Bulgaria, or on the Black Sea. Constantin relented. He signed the old man, advised him to make do with their provisions or see to extras on his own, and warned him to be ready on time. Heaven fall or hell freeze, they sailed at noon.
As usual, several hands from their last voyage had disappeared with their pay. Replacing such was rarely a problem but, today, signing those few was proving impossible. Following the excitement on the dock, one seaman after another backed out claiming there was something wrong. It was the damnedest thing Constantin had ever seen.
He still needed crew and was down to his last two applicants. What a pair they were! Constantin turned his book on the table and handed a fountain pen to the first; a wiry sprout, more boy than man, with short blonde hair peeking from beneath a black knit cap. The lad hesitated, pen shaking, staring at the page as if he couldn't remember his…
“Name! What is your name, son?”
“Uh, oh, Funar,” the boy squeaked, all nerves. “Umm, Rada Funar.”
“Write that.” The lad stared at the book. “Do not worry. Many cannot write; just make a mark.”
“Huh?” the boy croaked.
“Make an ex!” he growled impatiently. “Tick the page, for Christ!”
The terrified lad hurriedly forged an X. Shaking his head, Constantin grabbed the pen and pointed through the door to the second atop the gangplank. “That is Mr. Eltsin. Do what he says.”
The lad nodded. He grabbed up his kit bag and hurried out, across the dock, and up the gang.
“Nothing bigger willing to sail with you?”
The question came in a ridiculous falsetto! The mate glared up at the questioner – unable to believe his eyes. He'd just weeded through one unimpressive queue of applicants but this fellow, the last body standing… Bless Nikolay! This one took the cake.
* * *
The damaged box had been hammered back together, the earth replaced, and it and its brothers loaded. Harrington too was safely aboard and in his cabin with no more thought of the incident. Neither he, nor the crew, understood how significant that box might have been.
Had the same error occurred with one of the other caskets, a moment of horror might well have erupted on the quay. And a drawn-out tragedy of terror, that day being set into motion, may well have been avoided. Forty-nine of the wooden boxes contained nothing more than moldy earth, taken from the chapel graveyard of a ruined Transylvanian castle. The fiftieth held… something more.
* * *
The last two hands signed, the pencil-thin deck boy and the odd-looking sailor (with the alarming falsetto and a soiled shirt), stood beside the fore hatch watching the bustle on Demeter's deck. They would have done forever, ignored by the crew, had not the second mate spotted them and barked an order. In response, the mountainous seaman appeared; an intimidating Russian named Olgaren, with a barrel chest, the chin of a bull mastiff and a melon head radiating tufts of untamed red hair. Eltsin, the second, ordered him to escort the hands below to store their gear and to return them top-side double quick. Olgaren tossed a sausage-fingered salute and reached for one of the seaman's two kit rolls.
“No!” the new sailor squeaked, coming unglued. He clutched his bags as if Olgaren were a thief. “I'll take them!”
Olgaren looked a question with dull cow eyes. The new man matched his lady-like voice; petite, with gray-streaked hair draping down his back. Were it not for the monstrous black mustache, waxed at the tips, hiding the lower half of his face… Olgaren shrugged and turned to the other, a snippet of a boy. Funar ogled back in fear and hugged his own small kit to his chest. Out of shrugs, and more than willing to let them carry their kit if that's how they'd have it, Olgaren started away. He led his charges astern, aft of the midship deckhouse, through, and below to the crew's quarters.
From the moment they entered the between-decks, any time he was below, Olgaren's life was a misery. Olgaren was six-two. The overhead of every below deck and between-deck space aboard Demeter, except the forward hold, stood at six feet. Their voyages echoed with sounds of his head thudding the overhead beams, his muttered curses, and the laughter of his mates (heartless bastards all). Between-decks, his bowed back and the top of Olgaren's bright red hair were always on display.
“You are lucky,” Olgaren said, sluggishly. He indicated the empty cots and storage places. “We are short crew. Everyone gets a bunk.” They selected theirs while he warned them not to touch anything they did not own and suggested (without explanation) they not get too comfortable. He finished muttering, “We are needed topside.” Then, hunched, head down, he led them back up.
* * *
Th
e second reported them shipshape. Which, for this voyage, meant the vessel was damned near empty. The stores, water, food, and rum, were on deck, in the galley larder, and in the holds as was convenient to the captain's will and the cook's whim. The client's boxes were in the fore (and a few in the midship) hold. And, because her load was so light, a great deal of sand ballast had been taken on throughout all three holds. “Ready for departure.”
Captain Nikilov returned aft where his first was conversing with the steersman. “Mr. Eltsin reports the ship ready. The crew?”
The mate led the captain from the ears of the steersman, beneath the main boom, to the starboard rail. “I've raised a ship's compliment, captain,” he said. “But they are no compliment to you. We have the bodies to sail but we're damned short of sailors. I apologize, sir.”
“Mr. Constantin, you do yourself an injustice.”
The first shook his head. “No, sir.” He stared over the rail at the harbor, searching for the words, then over the starboard bow to the breakwater, beyond the lighthouse at its southern-most tip, and into the Black Sea brilliant with the high sun. “Four hands disappeared with their pay; leaving us with three. Replacing them has been… difficult. Many applicants; few worth considering.”
“No experienced men?”
“Some… signed. But they walked off. Said there was something wrong with the ship. One of them, I don't know the bastard's name…”
Nikilov frowned. “Mr. Constantin.”
“Your pardon, captain. But he said, within hearing of the rest, this ship was screwy. I almost…” The mate paused.
Nikilov studied his junior, imagining what he'd almost done. Constantin's loyalty and devotion were well known. So was his temper.
“I signed five,” the first said. “Two have not reported. Late as it is, I doubt now they will.”
“Three will do,” the captain said, ignoring his own doubts. “We have nothing for cargo and I expect only summer seas. Where are they?”
Dracula's Demeter: The Vampire King's Stunning Sea Voyage Page 3