“Go on,” Harrington said in disbelief.
“His pickled body was removed an' an inspection made. T'was discovered the sailors had drilled a hole in the bottom o' the cask. They'd drunk the rum an', with it, the Admiral's blood. Since then rum has been known as Nelson's Blood - an' the daily ration as `Tapping the Admiral'.
The crew howled with laughter. Harrington set down his mug, no longer thirsty. The crew grabbed him and hauled him into the companionway. “Wait! My water!”
Swales laughed, following them out, listening to Harrington's screams as the crew carried him up – without his mug. He started up himself, then thought better of it. He didn't need any rum today. He headed back but, just inside the mess door, halted.
Swales passed his eyes about the mess and into the hot galley. All seemed quiet, but he knew better. It didn't feel quiet. He hobbled to the galley door, leaned against the jamb with folded his arms, and calmly said, “Come out.” There was no response. “I'm old,” he told the air, “but I'm no' daft. An' I'm no' keen to repeat masel'.”
The deck boy rose from hiding behind the counter.
“Now, why is it,” the cook asked, “that ye won't eat w' the crew, but ye're willin' to steal food from me hot galley?” The boy stared, green-eyed innocence. “Tha-at is food isn' it, behind yer back?” Funar brought out his hands; a biscuit in each. “An' in your gob?” Caught, Funar began to chew the fish jammed in his mouth. It looked hard going.
“D' ye know the penalty for theavin' at sea?” Still chewing, Funar examined the bread in his hands then shrugged in resignation. What else could he do? “Forget it,” Swales said, fighting not to laugh. “Nevermind, lass.”
The deck `boy' stopped his chewing, swallowed (nearly choking), coughed, and looked up into the old man's knowing face. Funar's green eyes were no longer innocent. They were wide as saucers.
“Aye, lassie,” Swales said, nodding. “I gawm. You… are a girl.”
Chapter Nine
The deck `boy' stared in terror, desperately shaking his head.
“No?” Swales asked incredulously. “Ye're no' a girl? D' ye think I'm daft? Well, I'm no'. An' ye're n' more a boy than I am a mermaid.” Funar's green eyes narrowed to slits. The `boy' choked down the last of the fish, then moved to speak. “If it's a denial ye're workin' up to, save yer voice. I already told ye, I gawm ye're a wee lass.”
“How…? How… did you…?”
“I've a daughter, masel',” Swales said. He stole a look into the companionway. “An' what chance had she? No mum. Left w' nowt but a poorish excuse for a father, an' her salty granddad to make things worse. Pity her stuck with the likes o' us; a ship's cook an' an old whaler. Cobbled w' one or th' other, while th' other was to sea. How many times I seen her - so much like you – trampin' round in me or me dad's rain gear an' boots. No one on earth, missy, could spot a young lady in sailor's kit like I. Ye're the spittin' image o' me own pretty when she was young. S'why I made such a fool of masel' th' other day. When I came on deck an' saw ye up in the shrouds, me mind took flight. I saw me wee Carrie in her grandpa's gear. An' I got terrible afeared. S'when I shouted, at me girl, an' that poorish soul Petrofsky took a header off the gaff on my account. Now, we two need a heart to heart, lass. An' we'll start with, who are ye?”
“My name is Ekaterina Gabor.”
Recognition dawned, but Swales hid it. “I've heard the name. Russian?”
“Romanian. My father is the Mayor of…”
“Bukovina,” Swales said. “T'was yer father then, joined the dock-side show as we left Varna?”
Ekaterina gaped. “How do you know…? Yes. My father and brothers.”
“So?” She hesitated and Swales nudged, “Oh, come, lass. Yer secret's out an' ye've n' right to an attitude. Ye're stowed away in th' open, feignin' ye're a lad. Ye're chased aboard by armed family members. There's a story there.”
“They weren't chasing me. They don't know I'm here.”
“Ahh!” Swales poured a cup of tea and, with the sugar, placed it on the table. He added a plate for the biscuits in her hands, butter and molasses, and pointed Ekaterina, still in Funar's kit, to the bench. “So they're chasin' young Harrin'ton?”
“How do you know everything?”
“I gawm nowt,” Swales boomed. “But I'm goin' to know! An' I'm goin' to know now. Or we're goin' to see the cap'n, we two.”
It came out in a great flood of words and tears. “I'm in love with Trevor Harrington. I've never been in love before. I met him, he was a student, in the Bukovina library; a proper Englishman. He was traveling Europe studying. He spoke Romanian, and Russian, and German, and… Oh, I fell for him madly. And he for me. He said he loved me.” Her voice trailed off. Swales waited. She sighed and resumed. “He said his time was short, that he might be leaving. I couldn't bear the thought.”
Swales poured himself a cup and sat across from her.
“I did something stupid; horrid.”
“Somethin' brought ye here? What? Why would yer family be chasin' Harrin'ton with arms? What wrong could a father no' forgive, eventually? I'm boggled. Ye need to explain, lass.”
“I told my father I was with child.”
“By Harrin'ton?” Swales feigned rage. “Michty me! That English swine… just left ye so? That's why that little bastard is on the run! I should have known by his first words, with lubbers puke runnin' down his weak chin. I do no' blame yer father fer tryin' to protect ye! For avengin' yer wronged virtue! Were ye my Carrie, I'd ha' rent his limbs! I'd o' killed him! Humiliatin' ye. Destroyin' yer family's honor.” Swales pounded the table, as his arthritis allowed, and Ekaterina jumped. “He's done ye an unpardonable wrong!” He clutched a knife and sneered with all the bitterness the Scots had for the crown. “Fear no', bony lass. I'll stand for yer father and brothers, an' for you!”
“No! You don't understand!” She reached to calm him. “Please, Mr. Swales!”
“Oliver, lass. Just call me Oliver, yer ol' friend.”
“You must hear me, Oliver. Trevor has done nothing! I made a terrible mistake. I've humiliated myself. The whole thing was a lie and I have done him a great injustice.”
Swales halted his bluster and laid the knife down. “What's that?”
“I'm not with child!” Her hand flew to her mouth. Ekaterina looked nervously about; listening. Laughter filtered through the stovepipe as the crew took their rum, but the companionway was quiet.
“It's all right, lass,” Swales said, pointing above. “We're alone.”
“It was all a lie. Trevor did nothing. I've never been with him; never been with anyone. When I told my father I was… I made it up.”
“Why in the name o' Heaven would ye do that?”
“I'm not one of the fine English ladies. Romanian blood burns hot. I did it to keep Trevor from leaving. I thought my father would insist we be married. Instead, he swore to kill him.”
“As I'd a-done. As any father…” Swales shook his head. “An' the Englishman ran out - thinkin' you were with child?”
“No,” she nearly shouted coming to his defense. “He knows I'm not…”
“By him.”
“Of course not. He knows…”
“All he knows is he needs a new hat. The rest he's guessin'.”
“Dear God! If he thinks I am… by someone else… He must think me the lowest creature. He must hate me! And my family tried to kill him! I made a terrible choice for fear of losing him. Now I've not only lost him, but put him in danger. I've made a terrible mess of everything - with a stupid lie.”
“So we gawm why he's here. Why are you here, dressed like that?”
“To make sure he's safe!” She reddened under his stare. “I love him. I cannot make things right and he'll never forgive me… But if I know he is safe, I can take comfort in that. I do not deserve more.”
“Don't be too hard on yerself, lass.”
“He won't be punished because I came aboard falsely?”
“Let's no' get ahead o'
ourselves, lass. I see no reason to rush makin' yer presence known.” He considered the idea for a moment. “Ye an' Harrin'ton are no' the only consideration. Ye're a stowaway, here under false pretenses. How do y' think the cap'n will take thaat? Or the mate? A woman among the crew… who made a fool o' 'em.”
“I've ruined everything!” she cried. “I cannot live with myself!”
“Here now!” Swales rose with a groan and pushed a towel into her hands. “Stop that, lass. We've no time fer it, an' no way to explain tears on a sailor. Wipe yer gob. Yer not the only sinner aboard.” He took in the companionway again. “If a confession makes ye feel better, yer no' the only one here fer false reasons. Truth told, the ailin' cook I replaced wasn't sick at all. I paid him an' took his place. Spent all I had, which wasn't much; still it was all I had. Ye see, I'm pining masel'. Oh, not for a love,” he laughed. “I'm too old fer that. But fer those I love an' fer that I love. I'm homesick; to see me daughter `efore she forgets me, an' me father, if he's yet alive.”
He took the towel and dried a tearful trail she'd missed on her cheek. Her eyes were rimmed in red but there was little he could do for that.
“So, lass, we're both frauds,” he continued. “With secrets to keep. The crew discovers I'm here under false pretenses, they may well throw me o'erboard. An' if they find a woman among the crew, they'll sure throw you o'erboard. Meanin' fer the time bein' we both keep our dis-guises. Now… how do we let yer Trevor know ye're here, an' no' give the game away to aught else?”
“You can't. It would jeopardize his safety.”
“You canno' hide the whole voyage. So you canno' keep it from him.”
“We must. Please! Mr. Swales… Oliver, I swear you to secrecy.”
Chapter Ten
“Herr Harrington, wake up.” It was not yet dawn, Sunday morning, 11 July, and the gravelly Russian voice pulled him from sleep. Then came the grip of a callused hand. “Herr Harrington, rouse yourself. Wake up.”
He made out the commander, hunched over his bunk, a smoking lamp burning his eyes in the close cabin. “What… what is it?”
“We've reached the mouth of the Bosphorus. We're at the Istanbul Strait. I warned you this time would come. Wake up.”
The haze cleared and realization sank in.
The Bosphorus, with her southern sister, the Dardanelles, comprised the Turkish Straits, one of the boundaries separating Europe from Asia and connecting the Black Sea to the Mediterranean. Mythology said the Symplegades floated there by the power of the gods and would crush any ship attempting passage. But, once the legendary Jason and his Argonauts navigated this danger, the clashing rocks became forever fixed and Greek access to the Black Sea was opened. It was vital to the region; with a bloody history.
“Get up,” the captain said. “Get dressed and collect your things.”
* * *
Harrington had no complaint. The captain made it clear in Varna that his ticket to leave came with dictates. Now, as Nikilov led the way into the black forward hold, Harrington followed (with his re-packed kit) ready to fulfill one.
The privately chartered Demeter, with its fifty earth-boxes casting angular shadows by the captain's amber lamp, was forbidden to carrying anything else; cargo or passengers. Breaking the contract violated company policy and the law. A discovery of this indiscretion meant the captain would lose his job and the company, possibly, their ship. So, Harrington had been left off the manifest - and would not be found aboard by customs officials.
“There is no record of your passage.” The captain's voice was as low as the light, as ominous as the shadows. “When we enter the strait, we will be boarded and searched by the Turks. If you are found, you will be arrested. I will say you are a stowaway. If I am not believed, I may be arrested and my ship impounded. You will NOT be found. Is that understood?”
Harrington assured him it was.
The captain lit a second lamp bracketed on the fore mast, but left it muted. “I'll have this extinguished before the inspection,” he said, heading out. “Hide yourself with care.”
Harrington squinted, staring the chamber over. Again that feeling! Perhaps it was the damp, the dark, but the gloom settled as if he were in a tomb. He shook it off – and set about it as instructed. He tried to stash himself between a stack of corrugated boxes and several barrels along the port bulkhead, but gave up with nothing to show for it but an oil stain on one knee. He scanned the depths for a more suitable hole and finally buried himself, uncomfortably, beneath a hard to reach tarped stack of boxes. It took time but, secreted away, it would take an industrious official to find him. There he lay, for ages it seemed, in the dark, in the damp fetid air.
The easy roll of the vessel subsided and a silence took over. Without warning, the starboard anchor was loosed. It barked metal on wood, splashed, and rattled chain to the bottom. There followed a sensation the amateur seaman did not like on this early morning, on an empty stomach; Demeter's movement at anchor. Over four days, he'd gotten used to the ship under way but standing, riding the swell and the wakes of passing vessels like a rolling bottle, with the rudder banging and the ship creaking like a coffin lid… Harrington breathed deeply, grateful for a calm sea.
He lost all sense of time. He may have lain there hours, perhaps merely minutes, but finally the silence in the strangely frightening hold was interrupted by the sound of the door. Harrington assumed the inspectors were descending, but reconsidered when he heard whispers. Carefully, his life in the balance, he drew back the tarp and stole a look.
Two figures of wildly differing sizes stood near the lamp – a blazing light to the scholar's dilated eyes. He blinked and, as they adjusted, made out the second mate and the deck boy. Eltsin ordered the youth to hide amid a stack of barrels beneath the stairs then covered the lot and lashed it up. “Not a sound,” he told the bundle. Eltsin extinguished the lamp, as the captain ordered, and carried his own away. He pulled the door closed and the hold fell into darkness again.
Harrington drew his tarp back into place, hiding. Apparently, his was not the only unauthorized body aboard. He would not have smiled so, had he known how right he was.
* * *
Dawn broke over the Bosphorus.
The Turk's pilot boat drew near. A skiff was lowered, boarded by four officials, three reed-thin men in white and a fat one in blood red, and rowed to the starboard of Nikilov's ship. The boat was made fast, a rope ladder lowered, and the Turks assisted onto the deck. As he stepped over, the customs inspector presented a glorious sight with his knee-length red coat and curved scimitar. He had a sun dried mahogany face, a trimmed gray beard and a shaggy black mustache. An amazing looking fellow.
He spoke jovially, as if he and the captain were old friends (though Nikilov's cautious replies showed they were not). His men held their place while the customs man examined the manifest. He expressed his surprise at the scarcity of cargo then, with the captain, the second, and his men bringing up the rear, began his inspection.
With the absence of passengers, light unstored cargo, and the cleaning the ship had undergone, the group made short work of the deck and between-decks. They poked about the rear holds and, in no time, worked their way forward. Lanterns held high, the customs official studied the fore hold, the barrels of supplies, sacks of ballast, and the consignment – the stacked and tarped boxes.
“Fifty,” the captain said. “Nothing else save sand, saw dust, and lamp oil.”
Their leader issued an order, smiling all the while, and his men set to work. The lines were untied from one stack, a tarp thrown back from another. Within an arm's reach of the barrels wherein Ekaterina (Funar, to Harrington) was hiding, one of the customs men took a pry bar to a box. The wood groaned, the nails shrieked, and the lid came up. He lifted a moist handful, grimaced at the smell of mold, and tossed it back. “Dirt,” he announced to no one's surprise.
“For why?” The leader's question was curiosity rather than official inquiry.
Nikilov glanced over the m
anifest and shrugged. “For scientific experiments, it says.”
The inspector pointed to another some distance away. A man put his bar to work and, again, the nails shrieked… Clammy black dirt; nothing else.
The leader raised a finger, signaling `one more', and pointed indiscriminately.
The third man climbed several boxes, stopping (ignorantly) in front of Harrington's hiding place. He pulled on the tarp, uncovered the Englishman without seeing him, then tossed it back on him again. As he put his bar to use, he stepped on the tarp – and on Harrington's hand.
Harrington clenched his teeth not to scream, fighting every instinct to yank his fingers free! The oblivious customs man, thankfully, went up on his toes to pry on the lid. The scholar pulled his fingers back - and stuck them in his mouth.
Outside of the pain, the Englishman heard the coffin nails shriek.
Inside the casket, the eyes of the recumbent vampire flashed open. The corner of his box lid was lifting and lamplight was stealing in through the crack! The voivode in him, the warrior leader, needed assistance and he thought now of the only troops at his command; the filthy rodents in the hold. Under his breath, Dracula summoned them, barking, “Rats!”
A shrill chorus erupted from the shadows in the bow. The young Turk released the pressure on the bar and turned to the hair-raising sound with eyes wide as saucers. A blur of black, brown, and gray scuttled from the darkness, squealing, claws scratching on wood, snicking on canvas, raced up and over the tarp. Beneath, Harrington heard their skitter, felt their vile wave, bit his tongue, closed his eyes, and prayed for the courage to keep silent as the rodents scurried over him.
The rats leapt from the tarp, onto the box, and at the customs worker in one scuttling horde. The young man screamed, dropping his bar, as he fell backwards off the boxes. The shrieking rats poured over him. He shouted in terror.
There were shouts too from the others in the hold. But, before panic set in, the rodents were gone, disappeared into the shadows on the opposite side. Silence overwhelmed the compartment. A stunned moment followed… then the men began to laugh. Across the hold, the lead inspector and Captain Nikilov roared too. The horrified assistant rose to his feet, fighting for breath.
Dracula's Demeter: The Vampire King's Stunning Sea Voyage Page 8