Dracula's Demeter: The Vampire King's Stunning Sea Voyage

by Doug Lamoreux

  “If you are so contemptuous, why drink it?”

  “When ye bring drink aboard b'hind Nikilov's back, ye smuggle when the smugglin's good. Ye bean't choosey.”

  “I should think, to justify it, the reward should be worth the risk.”

  Swales laughed. “Ahh, shall we talk o' risk? Yers?” The old man stared knowingly. “What put ye aboard this ship, lad? Unless I miss me guess… a wee lass, right?”

  “How do you know?”

  “What could it be – at yer age? An' ye talk to me o' risk! If ye wont nowt but trouble, laddy, grup to anythin' with wheels or teats.”

  “Is that why you're at sea?”

  “I said yer age.” Swales laughed, short and hollow. Then he grew serious. “Old men like masel' go to sea only to keep what they have or 'cause there's nowt left.”

  “And you?”

  “I'm tryin' to keep what I have; a daughter an' a father.”

  “A father, still?”

  “Nearly a hundred, if he's still livin'. Me last letter was a year ago. I want t' see me father ageean `efore he goes. An' me daughter. Ye've no idee how much ye can miss a daughter. No idee how much a heart can hurt.”

  “There, you are wrong.”

  “Oh, aye?”

  Harrington threw back the Mediasch, swallowed hard, took a deep breath and stared into the old man's eyes. “Mr. Swales, are you now or have you ever been related, in business with, or close friends of the Lord-high Mayor of Bukovina?”

  “Bukovina I know. Ne'er heard o' him.”

  “A rather large fish in a very small pond.”

  “Bean't they all? An' he, this mayor so high, has… a daughter?”

  Harrington nodded dismally and tapped the rim of his empty glass. Swales obliged and the Englishman drank. “A lovely little thing… And her father hates me.”

  “All father's hate their daughter's lovers.”

  “He wants me dead.”

  “Most father's want their daughter's lovers dead.”

  “He and his sons tried to kill me.”

  “Thaat's more original.”

  “They shot my hat.” Harrington drained his glass again. “They cursed me; called me a swine.” He took a long, deep breath. “Accused me of making her pregnant.”

  “I'd have shot ye masel' – and no' missed.”

  “But it wasn't true. It isn't true. It can't be.”

  “Oh, aye? Ye look healthy to me.”

  “Yes. But it's not possible.” Harrington shook his head. “I never… we never… ever.”

  “So, it could no' be true from yer side?”

  “Nor hers! She was no liar. She loved me. And wasn't her name Ekaterina? From the Greek Katarios! Does it not mean chaste? If she's with child, who's? If she's not, why were they shooting?”

  “Ye did no' ask?”

  “Herr Gabor was not disposed to discussing it. Instead, they went a-hunting.”

  “So, ye've gone a-sailin'?”

  “I've scarpered,” Harrington confessed.

  * * *

  Harrington sipped and Swales drank until supper time. It wouldn't be much. Swales preferred dinner as the main meal, with the evening repast simple; coffee, tea, bread and butter, a soup. To stifle the grumbling, he added raisins or molasses. Who could complain while eating a sweet?

  As seven o'clock approached, six bells by ship's time, the wine-filled Harrington rose to leave. Wanting nothing to do with food, he thanked Swales and went on deck. There, tippled but trying to look sober, the English passenger wandered forward.

  The old beakheads (or heads) of the grand 17th century sailing ships, the ornate platforms under the figurehead from which sailors worked the bowsprit sails, were long gone. Yet the bow of Demeter retained one of the heads' important features; toilets. These were holes in the deck, on either side of the bowsprit, through which waste could be dropped into the sea.

  Harrington roamed, stiff-legged, to the bow for a breath of air and a peek at the setting sun. What he got was a peek at the startled deck boy in a squat, covering himself, doing his business over the starboard head hole.

  “Oh,” Harrington said dully.

  Funar jerked his head up and stared at the Englishman staring at him. He yanked his cap down to cover his face, and hollered, “Go away!” with the high-pitched shriek only an adolescent could conjure. Harrington, startled and embarrassed, retreated aft, imploring the boy to beg his pardon. In response he got another beleaguered, “Go away!”

  The poor lad, Harrington thought, hurrying aft. Every time he saw Rada Funar, it was in some god-awful embarrassing situation. No wonder the boy never approached him in daylight. At this rate, Funar would hate his guts before they ever officially met.

  * * *

  In secret, Smirnov again slipped into the dark forward hold. He had no business there (and had been told so), but crept in all the same. What his mates didn't know would not hurt them. What Smirnov did not know was that evil incarnate lay in a box not twelve feet away.

  Count Dracula's eyes snapped open. He gasped, clenched his fists, and inhaled. His chest rose nearly to the lid. His mind raced wildly as his senses stretched beyond the molding dirt, the wet wood, the stale air of the makeshift coffin. He smelled something… that pricked him like needles.

  There was someone in the hold nearby.

  But something more disturbed him. He could hear the blood surging through the veins of the crew. He could still smell the blood of the injured man. But, beyond these, he smelled something – unique. Not new, he'd smelled it before in his homeland, but unique. An odor unto itself. He inhaled again deeply. Yes, he'd smelled it before and recognized it. Blood… impure, tainted. He growled under his breath. Then, unable to contain it, hissed outwardly. The Count's eyes gleamed red in the dark. His teeth snapped together in bloodlust. Still he knew he must control it; more he must quell it. He had to reach England. Which meant, no matter what the urge, he had to remain in his box. But the temptation, the intense longing… The bloodlust. He could smell… menstrual blood.

  There was a woman on board the ship.

  Chapter Eight

  The master of Demeter was a creature of order and habit. Weather permitting (a phrase that preceded all shipboard activities), the cook was expected to have his stove fire lit by four bells, six o'clock, each morning. All crew members, save the night watch, not hindered by sickness, were to be up no later than seven. And Saturday was created for cleaning and airing the ship. That Saturday, 10 July, was no exception.

  Most lubbers feared sailing because of the thought of foundering, but the primary cause of shipboard mortality was disease. Even successful voyages often ended with disastrous survival rates. Cholera, typhoid fever, measles, chicken pox and dysentery thrived in the dirty, damp quarters. The only way to avoid their spread was to clean and air the ship. Constantin handed out assignments, ignoring the crew's grumbles until he got to Popescu. The abrasive Romanian made the mistake of growling too loudly and was reassigned to polishing the chamber pots (or shite pots as Swales so gracefully dubbed them).

  Popescu's description has been saved… for he was the last person anyone would want to meet. He grumbled every moment he was not being holier-than and only laughed at other's expense. He had a widow's peak over a heavy brow, mud brown eyes, and a pointed nose that nearly met his pointed chin. He was religious without a hint of spirituality (he crossed himself nearly as much as he swore) and superstitious with no discernable beliefs.

  So the cleaning commenced. Eltsin, on the watch, swept the deck ahead of Petrofsky who swabbed with one hand. Swales, going over the galley, mess, and his quarters, boiled water for Smirnov who'd been ordered to see to the laundry. Amramoff collected carbolic acid from the forward hold (a place he no longer cared to enter for the strange feeling it gave him) to assist Funar in scrubbing the crew's quarters. They would work around Olgaren who, just off the watch, had curled up in a corner on the floor; a snoring mountain. (When an opportunity for sleep arrived, a sailor took i
t.)

  * * *

  Nikilov, below to inform their passenger that he too would need to clean and air his room, was delighted to find the Englishman already carrying his mattress on deck. “I'm impressed, Herr Harrington. Thank you.”

  “Happy to do my part, commander.”

  “I wish all of my crew shared your attitude. Tell me, are you a religious man?”

  “No, captain. I'm not.”

  Nikilov went rigid. “Really,” he said dryly. “You do not believe in God?”

  “I believe in that which I am able to see and touch.”

  “Then I will pray, Herr Harrington, this voyage forces you to touch God.” As he turned for his cabin, the captain added. “By the way, we reach the Bosphorus in the morning; a situation we've discussed. Following that inspection, everyone will be on deck for worship services. On this ship, regardless of your beliefs, you will be expected to keep the Sabbath. Do I make myself clear?”

  Harrrington considered religion a mix of mysticism, fear, and wishful thinking. But, as the captain had made his expectations clear, regardless of his beliefs, there seemed little to be said. So he said nothing. He nodded his understanding and continued top-side with his mattress.

  * * *

  As maniacal about the cleaning as he was his religion, Nikilov personally procured soaps from the great factories in Marseille for the voyages out and those of London's Lever Brothers for the return trips. It was a sack of this special mortar and pestle-ground soap powder that Smirnov toted up now. Creating a base of operation near the fore mast, he collected the items he'd need; a large tub, a ladle borrowed from the kitchen, and a pile of the crew's dirty laundry. He half-filled the tub with the cook's boiling water, cooled it slightly with fresh water, added a liberal dusting of soap, stirred it with the ladle (what Swales did not know would not hurt him) and started scrubbing.

  Lines had been stretched from the main mast to both port and starboard shrouds upon which to hang the laundry and bedding. Sea air took care of the rest.

  “In the old days,” Eltsin told whoever was listening, “they washed and hung their clothing below. Had no idea they were killing themselves. Unhealthy that, steam and moisture below. Nothing dried, made people sick.”

  “L-Like Smirnov's sh-sh-shirt,” Petrofsky said. He turned to the mustachioed launderer. “Makes e-everyo-o-one s-s-sick to sm-smell you.”

  The petite seaman waved the marlinspike away.

  “He's right,” Eltsin said. “You are washing everyone's clothes. Wash your own.”

  “Mine are all right.”

  Eltsin stared. Something about Smirnov, beyond his ludicrous mustache, was not right. The men teased him mercilessly for his frail physique and falsetto voice, his emotional outbursts and, now, for doing women's work. It made one wonder. But it was nonsense. The world featured all manner of people. Still, something about Smirnov, aroused Eltsin's suspicions. One moment the seaman appeared ready to burst, the next he was all but asleep on his feet. His posture, his way of moving… was odd. The fellow was hiding something.

  “L-L-Let's have it,” Petrofsky said, grabbing Smirnov's shirt from behind. The small sailor held the front of his blouse with both hands – screaming.

  “That's enough,” Eltsin said, halting the skirmish. “Petrofsky, unhand him.” When he did, the second turned on the new man. “Mr. Smirnov… I order you to wash your shirt. Take it off… now.”

  * * *

  The day flew for the crew; less so for Harrington. With his bunk long back together, his cabin clean, and bored with reading, the scholar decided to finish his tour of the ship by snooping in the one place he'd yet to go - the holds. He'd never been because he had no business there, but he'd paid his passage, hadn't he? Girded with the idiotic notion he deserved to see everything, he slipped quietly down the scuttle outside his cabin door.

  Harrington was singularly unimpressed as he passed, by matchlight, through the aft (what Swales would call “the aftest abaft”) and midship holds. They contained heavy silver sand for ballast, a handful of the dirt-filled boxes from Transylvania amidships, and little else. Near ready to call the tour ended, he passed quietly through the communicating door into the fore hold.

  Larger than the other compartments, it stretched forty-three feet to the ship's bow and, because the between-decks did not extend forward, was twelve feet high. A six foot stair allowed access through a door from the end of the between-decks, and a twelve foot ladder from the battened hatch in the deck above. From the center of the hold the fore mast rose up and through the deck like a great tree and all around rested the cargo; the bulk of the client's wooden boxes of earth, ballast silver sand, paper boxes of ship's supplies and sawdust, and barrels of illuminating oil (surrounded by leaked halos on the deck) for the ship's kerosene lamps.

  That was all. Two-hundred and fifteen tons of water displacement with a capability for 190 tons of cargo. (He'd asked, of course.) What the hell they were doing carrying nothing more than fifty boxes of dirt… Cor blimey, Harrington had no idea.

  That was it for his tour as well. He'd seen it all… or thought he had. He'd been feeling strange since entering the forward hold; an oppressive something that pricked his nerves, stood the hairs at the back of his neck on end. He felt… a presence. That feeling became something more when he heard a noise in the dark recess of the bow. Harrington struck another match and cautiously ventured forward.

  He slowly halved the distance, his feelings turning from fear to foolishness with each step. He was ready to admit he'd been hearing things, when something took shape. He crouched, illuminating… Smirnov.

  He looked a wreck, his shirt undone, his chest wrapped in a thick bandage, propped against the bulkhead, drinking from a tiny bottle. He raised his head, staring through bleary eyes. Harrington doubted the seaman could actually see him. His head lolled and the seaman went out at the same time as Harrington's match.

  Harrington lit another and examined the label on the now-empty bottle. “Laudanum. Bless me,” the Englishman whispered. Smirnov was not inebriated, he was drugged.

  Harrington knew no details, but he knew he could not leave the man passed-out in the dark. He lifted the seaman onto his shoulder, thankful he was small, and carried him up to the between-decks door. He peered out, saw the newly-awakened Olgaren duck into the mess, and noted that behind the big Russian the companionway was empty. Quickly and quietly, Harrington moved – determined to get the new man abed without being detected.

  So caught up in rescuing Smirnov was he, Harrington failed to notice a figure, behind the door to the midship hold, watching his every move.

  * * *

  With Demeter shipshape again, Swales called the crew, Popescu, Petrofsky, and Eltsin to supper. Olgaren was already there, asking the cook about his whaling days and making short-work of a second cuppa. The watchman (Constantin), the steersman (Amramoff), and the elusive deck boy were absent. The captain, as always, ate in his quarters.

  Harrington, fresh from delivering an unconscious burden to its bunk, arrived late without explanation. On newly acquired sea legs, finally nursing an appetite, he joined the others with relish.

  “Where's Smirnov?” Swales asked.

  “Sleeping,” Harrington put in casually. “Washing must have taken it out of him.”

  “This voyage is taking it out of him,” Eltsin said. “Hear this. He wears a brace for his back. We saw it while he was doing the laundry. Was wearing it when he came aboard; hiding it beneath his shirt.” He pointed at Petrofsky. “Was wearing it when he saved you. He's a silly-looking sort, but he's got guts. Dangling you must have hurt like hell.”

  “I w-won't make f-f-fun any-more,” Petrofsky said.

  “No more picking on Smirnov?” Popescu asked. “That leaves only Harrington.”

  Laughter broke out at the Englishman's expense. The jokes followed, compliments on his healthy look (his trading green skin for dusky pale), and back-slaps suggesting he'd found acceptance. Not one of their own, but one
among them. They were even getting used to his endless questions.

  “Why do they call it a schooner?”

  “It's Scottish,” Swales said ladling soup. “Scon; to skip on the surface o' the water.”

  “She'd better skip on the surface,” Harrington said. “I don't know how to swim.”

  “C-C-Can you fl-float?” Petrofsky asked. The compartment erupted in laughter and the marlinspike waved his bandaged hand, accepting the accolades.

  “Do not worry,” Olgaren said. “We will never be more than two miles from land.”

  “Really?” Harrington asked hopefully.

  “Absolutely,” Olgaren said. He tapped the tabletop, indicating something well below. “Never more than two miles - from the bottom of the sea.”

  The crew burst out laughing. Popescu, with a tear in his eyes, noted Harrington's skin was green again.

  The ship's bell sounded distantly. Constantin followed, calling them from their late supper to an even later rum ration after their day of cleaning. “Up ye go,” Swales said, setting a mug of water before Harrington. “An' fer you.”

  Harrington brightened. “Time for the tot!”

  The others froze, staring. “What is the tot?” Olgaren asked.

  “Mix the grog!” Harrington replied jovially, lifting his mug. “Splice the main brace!” He nodded, trying to egg them on. “You know?”

  “'Course they do,” Swales said. “He means `Tap the Admiral'?”

  They were all snickering again.

  “The Admiral?”

  “An' ye claim ye're a Brit?” Swales feigned horror at Harrington's ignorance. “October, 1805, twenty-seven ships o' the British Royal Navy, led by Admiral Lord Nelson aboard HMS Victory, defeated thirty-three French an' Spanish ships west o' Cape Trafalgar, off the so'west coast o' Spain. The French an' Spanish lost twenty-two ships, the British none. But the cost was high, fer Nelson was killed in battle. The Admiral's body was pur-sarved in a barrel o' rum fer return to England.”

  “Yes. And?”

  “An', upon arrival, the cask was opened an' Nelson was there but the rum was gone.”