Constantin led the captain to the front of the deckhouse and scanned the deck and above. He spotted three men in the square-rigging and pointed to one, the odd one, halfway up the fore mast. “That's Smirnov,” he said. “A Russian.”
Nikilov followed Constantin's hand aloft to the slightly built man with the outrageous mustache, his feet entwined around a mast spar, his hair tied now in a bright blue bandana. “A man of the sea?” the captain asked. “Seems little to him, save hair.”
Constantin nodded, unable to disagree. “He acts as odd as he looks.” Returning to the deck, he pointed beyond the fore hatch into the bow. The second mate had brought the hour-glass forward (a half-hour glass really; stored at the helm to keep the ship's time) and was showing it to the new boy. No doubt explaining one of his many duties. “The lad with Eltsin is Funar; a Romanian.”
The captain took in the thin blonde in cap, jersey, and boots; all too big for him. “What are you planning to do with him?”
“If he does nothing but swab the deck or hand out the rum, he'll free up an able hand.”
The captain stared hard at his first. “A pipsqueak and a child. I've never seen the like.”
“I have no explanation, sir,” Constantin said. “No one in Varna would sail with us.”
Cognizant he wore his emotions on his sleeve, Nikilov diverted his stare to the sky and held it until his brow unfurled and the fiery feelings ebbed. Only then did he return his gaze to the deck and the new deck boy. He watched the delicate-looking lad take the fragile timepiece in hand (wondering which would break first) and follow the second aft. Nikilov sighed and nodded his assent, if not his approval. “He'll do,” he told the first. “But I am not convinced he's old enough. Leave him off the manifest. We will pretend he is not here.”
“What about customs? If he's not on the manifest…”
“Yes, Mr. Constantin, it is a problem. You brought a child aboard my ship. When the time comes, you will be responsible for hiding him from the Turkish customs officials.”
“Aye, captain.”
“You signed five. Two failed to appear. Two are useless girls. I hold my breath in anticipation of your fifth recruit.”
The mate looked as if he wished he were – anywhere else. Then, aware procrastination would only make matters worse, cleared his throat and began. “Dimitri Andreev fell sick this morning and could not sail.”
“We have no cook?”
“We do. He sent his own replacement. What could I do but sign him?”
“Please, Iancu, tell me he has been to sea before? That he wears a man's boots?”
“He does. He has been wearing a man's boots… for a long time.”
What, Nikilov wondered, did that mean? He met the mate's gaze and decided against asking. It had been a strange morning as it was. But omens, good or bad, were tools of the devil and he would not take the bait. The time to cast off was at hand and, as they could not delay, he would shake off the gloom trying to drown him and go to sea with a positive attitude; thankful for the crew God had provided. For surely a loving God had provided his crew – and his cargo.
Chapter Four
The owners of Demeter had, without the captain's consent, rented his ship under strange conditions. She was to carry no passengers (and, officially, she did not) and no cargo save the boxes already aboard. Of course, the ship could, and normally would, carry a great deal more. The obstacle of lost revenue had been overcome when the client agreed to pay the difference for the weight they might have carried. Which meant Nikilov's hold was filled with tremendously expensive dirt.
The contract also stipulated the ship embark for England that day, no later than noon; which gave them another problem. Sailing off the dock would have been preferred. But they were square-rigged on the fore, necessitating a full and well-trained compliment of hands, a favorable tide, and narrow wind conditions. The Lord may have provided Nikilov with a crew but they were thin. And providence had left the commander empty-handed in regards to the wind and the tide. The gaffe-rigged main and mizzen sails might have done the trick under such conditions but the risk of damage to the ship, the cargo, and the dock made the thought distasteful.
The harbor pilot was consulted as it was his job to guide ships through the dangers of entering and leaving the harbor (the most challenging part of any voyage). And, though Nikilov remained in command, to offer his expert advice regarding the local port.
“We've crew enough to sail,” the captain said. “But, without a wind, not enough to sail her off.”
“We're in no hurry,” the pilot replied, “if you wanted to wait for the tide.”
“The owners say no later than noon, no matter what. Can we warp her out?”
“Aye. I can pull some men off a barque we're loading. But they'll need be paid.”
“So far, money is the only thing about this voyage that is not an obstacle.”
“Right then. We'll kedge you out.”
Orders were passed and soon, with her sails lowered, the pilot's cutter was put into service. Four men, double-banked, rowed the small boat to Demeter's outboard side, while Nikilov's men headed to the schooner's bow. Together, they began laying the kedge.
* * *
In his cabin, Harrington felt the ship move. It was an odd sensation to move while standing still. Followed by the sense he was levitating; for the floor – solid beneath his feet – suddenly felt fluid. There was no doubt, they were off and a flood of relief passed through him. He had escaped Europe with his life.
But the relief was short-lived for the movement of the ship was confusing. On top of the floating sensation, which he felt already was going to take acclimation, their movement seemed to be oddly – lateral. Harrington grabbed the top bunk to steady himself. Yes, he was certain. The ship was going sideways.
* * *
The kedging was in full vigor.
A hawser line had been affixed to a light anchor and handed over into the cutter. The boat crew rowed the anchor as far out as the line allowed, several hundred yards to the seaside, then dropped it to the harbor-bed.
The hawser's loose end had been held aboard Demeter and attached to the bow capstan; the hand-winch that lifted the ship's anchors. Poles, standing-in for the shorter hand spikes, were slid horizontally into the capstan's crown. Nikilov's men, like slaves on a mill wheel, walked the bars around winding in the line. With the anchor set in the harbor-bed, the tightening line pulled the ship from the pier into deeper water.
In short order Demeter drew near the pilot's cutter and, when the line was nearly vertical, the captain hollered, “Mr. Constantin, back the topsail.”
The main gaffe-rigged top sail was pivoted to catch the light breeze, stem their drift, and save the distance they'd gained.
* * *
Leaving aside his crossing the English Channel, Harrington's sea-going experience consisted of sitting in that cabin in that port. There he remained, as it had been made clear the crew didn't need him underfoot. The real reason, of course, was neither he nor the captain could risk his being seen on deck.
He'd even planned to skip the evening meal; not that that was a tremendous sacrifice. He was too on edge. And how could he eat with Ekaterina on his mind? No, he warned himself, don't think about her now! Anyway, with the floor moving, it seemed sensible to wait for sea legs before burdening his stomach. No, he wouldn't be eating. It was best he leave his head, his heart and his stomach to themselves for a time.
Then he was thinking of Ekaterina again. Damn blast it to hell! No one in her family, not her father, the vaunted Lord-high Mayor, nor her muscle-bound, blockheaded brothers, would listen. They were hunting him like dogs mad on the scent and fully intended to murder him. What was the use of thinking about her!
He moved to the cabin's sole porthole, intent on getting his mind off the girl and, while he was at it, solving the mystery of the ship's movement. And, assuming it was desired and not a precursor to their sinking, for a last look at Varna and a farewell to the
turmoil Europe had brought to his once boring life. He peeked out and saw two things immediately. First, the ship was moving – by the head slightly, but mostly to the starboard – sideways, and the dock and everything on it were gradually receding as they inched away. Second, was an explosion of activity on the dock.
Several new wagons, horses, gentlemen, laborers (some flashing rifles) appeared, seemingly from nowhere, moving across the pier in a wave. Behind them, their commanders appeared, authorities in political and para-military uniform. Among them, obviously in charge, was His Honor, the Lord-high Mayor Gabor and his sons. The brothers, shotguns in hand, looked the quay up and down while the mayor stared, scowling, at the departing Demeter.
Harrington ducked. He couldn't have been seen from that distance, but knowing that didn't convince his racing heart. Running for his life may not have been heroic, but it had been the only response available. Escape had never been his intended means of returning home much less by a long sea voyage. They were his only means. Now he could only hope that he had escaped.
* * *
“What does this mean?” one of the seamen grumbled. It was the man who had crossed himself when the dock workers fought. He'd wandered from the capstan to stare at the activity on the quay where more armed men had appeared searching and shouting. Others, their leaders no doubt, stood in confrontation with the gypsies guarding the seaside berth they'd just vacated. The sailor crossed himself again. “There is something wrong here,” he muttered. “Something wrong with this voyage.”
Funar was at his elbow. Fear shown in the boy's eyes; fear and sadness. He gripped the port rail and stared across the widening distance at the chaos. Smirnov joined them as well, ogling the scene.
“Are we going to get away?” Smirnov squeaked.
“I do not know,” Funar replied, all but whispering.
“Get away?” The seaman grumbled, eyeing both with annoyance and suspicion.
“Popescu, get back to your work!” It was the first mate, enraged. “You know better.”
The seaman glared daggers at the two new hands then, grumbling, returned to the capstan.
“Funar! Smirnov!” Constantin barked. He pointed to their untended push-poles between the other slavishly circling crewmen. “You also! Your business is here. If you want to work the dock, jump over and swim back! Or I will gladly throw you!”
Funer reddened and, with a last frightened look at the port, hurried back to his labors. Smirnov glared over his monstrous mustache and strolled back defiantly. The mate filed their responses for future reference.
The kedging anchor had been hauled up, the line rowed out and dropped again by the boat crew. Demeter's hands, including Funar and Smirnov, were again pushing round the capstan, pulling the ship further from the dock and nearer the sea.
In mid-harbor Nikilov found a breeze to bring the fore, square-rigged top sail into use. At the mouth of the harbor he found the wind to sail. At the breakwater lighthouse he ordered one of the ship's anchors dropped and the sails adjusted again. He thanked the pilot, who replied with his wish for the ship's good voyage.
Paid and content, the pilot returned to his cutter. His crew raised their small sails and, tacking back and forth, leisurely worked the harbor's waves back to the dock.
* * *
On the quay, the Lord-high Mayor Gabor had finally (distastefully) accepted the word of the Szgany leader that there were no passengers aboard the schooner just put to sea. “My master has chartered the vessel privately,” the immovable gypsy insisted. “She carries no passengers and no cargo save what we loaded aboard.”
Gabor may as well have taken his word for it. The man, and his armed compatriots, were still aligned along the dock and meant to stay as long as they considered their cargo in jeopardy. The mayor had come to Varna hoping to track a deceitful Englishman, not to engage in armed conflict with a motley group of gypsies and barbarians who had never heard of Trevor Harrington. The cutter returned its master to the quay where the pilot, without taking the side of the Szgany and Slovaks, agreed with their position. He reassured Gabor the departing ship had no passengers. The mayor gave the order and his sons and their hired hunters retreated.
When they were gone, the pilot returned to his shack, and the quay cleared of all threats, the lead Szgany turned and looked out to sea taking in Demeter for the last time as she brought her sails around. He nodded, content they had met their commitment. He told his compatriots as much, thanked them and wished them well on their journey back to Transylvania. Then he stuck the barrel of his rifle into his mouth - and blew the top of his own head off.
The last incident of any consequence to occur that day on the Varna quay was the lifeless body of the Szgany leader toppling off the dock into the harbor with a barely audible splash. There, like the paint scheme on the just-departed schooner, he bled into the sea.
* * *
With her sails unfurled, Captain Nikilov ordered his crew to weigh anchor and at noon, Tuesday, 6 July, 1897, the Russian schooner Demeter – oblivious to both the storm of impotent authority and the bloody suicide that had seen them off – sailed from the port of Varna. Powered by an east wind, they moved safely out around the breakwater into the Black Sea and steered a course S.S.E. down the Bulgarian coastline. As a matter of record, they carried a crew of five hands, a first and a second mate, a ship's cook, and the captain. Unofficially, and therefore not recorded in the manifest, they carried a deck boy and, secreted in his quarters, one English passenger.
Not one of those aboard had any idea that in the dark quiet of the ship's forward hold - they carried something else entirely.
* * *
Dracula awoke, as always, in the dark. But there the centuries-old routine stopped. Usually his timed emergences from hibernation were an awakening in the silence of the tomb. But now a flood of sensory thrills overwhelmed him.
The first was an acute sensation, something he felt rarely; pain. It intrigued him. Despite the cramped quarters of his box, he lifted a hand and dabbed at his forehead. His hands were coarse, broad, with squat fingers. Hairs grew in the centers of his palms and his long, fine nails were cut to a sharp point. They were hardly tools with which to conduct a sensitive investigation in darkness. Yet, they proved to be up to the task. For he immediately located and, with the tip of his index finger, quickly identified the source of his pain. A deep gash marred his high forehead, just right of center, below the hairline. The wound – over two inches in length by the feel – gaped in the middle and was encrusted in dried fluids. Someone had injured him while he slept.
His mind raced quickly over the possibilities; those who in any way might have had the opportunity. The Szgany and the Slovaks, of course, as they had handled his transport. He rejected them. They were loyal – to the death. Theirs.
Then it came to him. Harker! Somehow that damned Englishman had… But no matter. He gave a fleeting thought to his brides, the mistresses of Castle Dracula into whose care Jonathan Harker had been left. They would collect the debt. He would pay for this wound – in kisses.
Satisfied with that thought, he forgot Harker. He concentrated instead on the other sensations; the water rushing by beneath him, the creaking wood all around, the shouts, laughter, even singing, distantly above. He felt the keel roll gently, felt the wind in the sails driving the ship, down at the head then up again, down at the heel then up again, defying the surging waves.
He laid his hands to his sides and closed his eyes. His plan had come to fruition. He was at sea and all was well. The voyage of Dracula had begun. The shores of an unsuspecting England lay ahead.
Chapter Five
Wednesday morning, 7 July, brought sunshine and a stronge wind driving Demeter south through the western Black Sea. It failed, however, to bring an appetite to the ship's only passenger. Neither Harrington's stomach nor his head found a good reason to break his fast and, when the dinner bell rang, he refused again to partake.
The Englishman decided instead to leave his ber
th in search of his sea legs. He wasn't complaining. He had fine accommodation; a bunk-style bed (he preferred the upper and used the lower as a chair), a chair he used as a desk, and a desk he didn't use at all. There was a box for storing his kit, a shelf above each bed (he had more books than clothes) and his own lamp which he'd burned the previous night past the ten o'clock call for lights out without anyone appearing to care. It was comfortable – for a prison. But with land a day behind, Harrington wanted out. For sanity's sake he needed his mind on other things; to meet the crew and shake off Europe and the last year of his life.
Not surprisingly, the men were less than eager to share themselves with a stranger, let alone a foreigner, despite his ability, to varying degrees, to speak their languages. Their moods were uneven. Sometimes they laughed and sang (two played instruments; an accordion and a violin) but the music seemed rushed and the laughter hollow. Often they whispered or were simply silent as they went about their tasks, on edge without seeming to know why. Even learning their names was like pulling teeth, particularly among the Russians; followed by the monumental task of trying to comprehend them.
Take, for example, the ship's captain. His first name, Harrington learned, was Mikhail; a common enough Russian name. (The crewman that divulged it swore, if it got back to the master, he would deny having done so, and added a whispered warning, “God save the soul of the fool who uses it to his face.”) But Russian given names had drastic variations depending upon the user. The formal Mikhail would be used in business relations and on official documents. The shortened Misha by friends and family. The more affectionate Mishenka by parents and grandparents. Or, should someone wish to be rude, the variant Mishka could be employed. The captain's patronymic name, Sergeyevich, was derived via a rule that added either -evich or -ovich to his father's first name, Sergei. This had for most of his life been (as the Anglo's would have it) the captain's last name. The combination, Mikhail Sergeyevich, was used formally with unfamiliar people; other ship's masters, older members of his family, government leaders.
Dracula's Demeter: The Vampire King's Stunning Sea Voyage Page 4