“What's the matter?” the inspector demanded. “Never seen stowaways before?”
Thunderous laughter at his expense.
“Open another!” Nikilov said. “Open them all.”
The man gritted his teeth. He scoured the dark floor, located and retrieved his pry bar, then turned back to the box.
“That's enough,” the inspector said. “More than enough. Restore everything.” He nodded to Nikilov and they started up. His assistants, one still badly shaken, and Demeter's second made short work of hammering the containers closed again, then all hurried out of the hold. Slightly shaken himself, Harrington was pleased to note they did so without making any significant discoveries.
Eltsin and the customs men stopped in the galley, where Swales served them a meal. Nikilov and the inspector disappeared into the captain's quarters to end the tour with a toast. The official sold the captain his permit for entering the strait (and pocketed the unspoken, but expected, backsheesh). No one considered it a bribe; merely part of their business.
There was rarely trouble with customs officials. Few and far between, Nikilov had found, were the countries where money did not end an inspection satisfactorily. This time was no exception. But, with good wine and better stories, the after-inspection took longer than Nikilov had planned. It was nearly four in the afternoon when the inspector and his men returned to their vessel.
Demeter's grateful, weary captain issued his brief commands. Eltsin, acting the boatswain, sounded a shrill note on his whistle, and the hands took to the capstan-bars. In no time at all, the anchor was short up and dripping at the bow. The sails filled and the schooner was again under way.
* * *
If the afternoon passed slowly on deck, it stood still in the hold.
In darkness, a stiff and starving Harrington pulled off his cover. He sat up, stifling a groan, paused to catch his breath, wiped the sweat from his lip, and shivered again at the thought of the rats. Still, it seemed they'd made it through.
“Pssst,” Harrington whispered to the barrels where the deck boy was hidden. “I think we survived.”
A white face, a small oval in the dark, appeared from beneath the tarp. Unrecognizable in that light, it disappeared quickly. There followed the rustle of canvas, quick steps on the stairs, a stabbing flash of shadow at the door backed by amber light sneaking in from the companionway. To raise his voice was out of the question as Harrington had no idea where the Turks had gone. Besides, it would have been useless. Funar was out the door and gone.
“Cor,” Harrington whispered. “That boy hates me.”
* * *
With the Turks having overstayed their welcome, Nikilov canceled the planned Sunday service but promised worship would return the following week. In its place, the commander was forced late in the day to see his vessel through the treacherous waterway. The going was, by necessity, slow. The winds were mild for a change but the currents were their usual challenge. Midway, just past the 80 degree turn at Yeniköy, came a severe (45 degree) hook to starboard followed by an immediate and opposite pivot to port between the points of Asiyan and Kandilli, the narrowest section in the strait. From the deckhouse, aft, sailors had always to be mindful of the space above their head. The main and mizzen masts, both gaffe rigged with solid booms, were swung-to and back again for these course changes. History was replete with inattentive sailors having their heads knocked off at that bend, but Nikilov's Demeter accomplished the corners admirably.
Afterward, in celebration of the channel's successful negotiation, and of his stowaways surviving the inspection, the captain ordered a fine supper and joined the men at table. The talk that evening was lively (with Popescu away at the helm), and the lies and laughter plentiful. Even Constantin was in a pleasant mood.
Funar, Harrington noted, was absent again, though this time with reason. He was standing his first watch. Unfortunately, he missed that meal!
Swales served haggis; a Scottish sausage of sheep's pluck (heart, liver and lungs), minced with onion, oatmeal, suet, and spices, simmered with stock in the animal's stomach. The description lacked appeal, but the Englishman had to admit the dish was savory. As tradition dictated, it was served with what Swales called, “neeps and tatties” (turnips and potatoes boiled and mashed separately). Tradition also called for a dram of Scotch whisky, but that wasn't happening on Nikilov's ship.
For afters, in honor of the captain's beloved Sunday, Swales prepared a delicious plum pudding. The question of whether or not the old Scot could cook was laid to rest. But Swales dampened further expectations, insisting it was a one-time in a voyage meal.
Despite several odd near disasters, the Demeter was operating smoothly and the crew, and passenger, were finding their places. Thoughts of accidents, gloom, and curses were laid aside for the night. Who knew… perhaps for good. The voyage, Harrington thought, might end up being more than an escape after all. It might just be a pleasant cruise.
* * *
Later, walking the larboard quarter beneath sails silvered by a brilliant half-moon, Harrington was diverted by a whispered, but unmistakably high-pitched, “Thank you.” He turned to see Smirnov loitering in the shadow of the mast. The great mustache hadn't spoken a word during the captain's supper and, though he looked to have something to say, appeared to be doing so under duress.
“Glad to be of assistance,” Harrington replied, offering him a chance to drop the matter.
“I owe you an explanation.”
“You don't owe me anything.”
“I owe you more. I'm willing to explain.”
Harrington bowed slightly. As Smirnov seemed determined, what could he do but listen.
“I injured my back, ages ago.” Smirnov looked the deck over to ensure they were alone. “The surgeons, one after another, wanted to cut into me, to see what they could do. Being vivisected for their enlightenment did not appeal to me. The only other answer was laudanum for the pain. It was a choice then; it isn't any longer. I used to take it to feel good, now I must have it not to feel bad. Dangling Petrofsky from the shrouds, you might imagine, did not help.”
“No. Of that I'm certain.”
“Will you turn me in to the captain?”
Harrington studied the little man then shook his head. “We all have our problems… and our secrets. Good night, Ippolit.”
Harrington started away. Behind him, in the unique falsetto that only Smirnov could produce, he heard, “Good night, Trevor.”
Chapter Eleven
On Monday, 12 July, Demeter rode the waves between Europe and Asia, tacking southwest through the Sea of Marmara, to the mouth of the Dardanelles.
This second of the Turkish Straits leading to the Aegean, like her sister to the northeast, figured strategically in the region's many wars and in its bloody legends. In 483 BC (150 years before Alexander the Great invaded Persia), Xerxes I ordered two bridges built that his Persian army could invade Greece. The gods intervened and collapsed both in a storm. The bridge builders were beheaded and the strait whipped. Fetters were thrown in, the waters were given three hundred lashes, and the waves were branded with red-hot irons as the soldiers shouted curses.
Demeter passed into the strait and dropped anchor. The captain dropped down to the passenger's cabin and rapped the Englishman awake with an air of excitement. “You need to go below, Herr Harrington. Customs are about to board - and they are accompanied by a squadron.”
Harrington craned his neck at the porthole. Nikilov was right. Beside the customs vessel was a military flagboat. Sailors lined her deck with cannon peeking intermittently from their ranks; a threatening blue wall in the early light. Chilled, Harrington asked, “Have we done something?”
“No. All is well. But you cannot be found. Get below… please.”
* * *
Back in the hold, Harrington saw no need to tamper with success. He quickly found the same stack of boxes and hid (his hands tucked in this time). He was just situated when the door burst open. Eltsin
scrambled down the stairs with the deck boy in tow, whispering, rather hysterically, “Hide! I don't know why the mate foists this off on me. I didn't sign you! Hide!”
The problem, aside from the proximity of the Turks, and their tardiness, was – Harrington later discovered - the boy's hiding place had vanished. The casks, in the midst of which he'd secreted himself on the previous morning, had been untied and one removed. Funar stared from the vacant space to the second in bewilderment.
“I haven't time for this,” Eltsin complained. He waved the boy into the hold. “Find some place. Stay out of sight. And be quiet!”
The moments that followed sounded hilarious, the panicked lad dashing about to Eltsin's disgusted gripes. But it wasn't funny. They could all end up in prison. Out of time and patience, the second left! The abandoned boy, at the last, grabbed the corner of a tarpauline and slid beneath.
The companionway door came open and Captain Nikilov led the inspectors in.
* * *
Twenty feet away from the inspectors, beneath the canvas tarpaulin, the game was almost given away. No sooner had Ekaterina, in her guise as Funar, covered herself than she realized she was not alone. She had slid into hiding next to - another body. For his part, Harrington all but shouted when his tarp was lifted and Funar jumped in beside him. It was dark as pitch. Neither could see the other, yet both knew someone was there.
Afraid of a panic, Harrington slapped his hand over the boy's mouth and ensnared his body so he could not thrash about. He deeply regretted, again, giving the lad reason to hate him, but could not risk an outburst. Ekaterina, man-handled, was frightened and angry, but she quietly kept her wits.
Outside their tarp, the inspection had begun. This inspector, younger than the Bosphorus man, with no beard but a fine brown mustache, in blue short coat, fez, and puffed pantaloons was less friendly, but (happily) also less thorough. His men, each with a hefty mustache of his own, were ordered to be quick. Their supervisor wanted Demeter off soon.
Lashings were thrown off, the scarcity of cargo discussed, cartons moved, barrels rolled, the oddity of the cargo discussed, wood pried away, tarps thrown back. Quite suddenly a portion of tarp was pulled away, exposing Harrington and the boy to the glow of lamp light but, thankfully, not to the sight of the inspectors.
Harrington and Funar, wrapped round one another, shared looks of horror. Harrington's eyes narrowed. He stared at the boy in the poor light, the cramped quarters, for the first time closely, and recognition dawned on the Englishman's face. He slowly released his hand from Funar's mouth and pulled his knit cap off. Harrington's eyes grew wide. The deck `boy' was his hastily abandoned love, Ekaterina. His eyes fell to the cap in his hand, then to her dark sea salt smelling clothes. His lips quivered.
Ekaterina slapped her hand over his mouth.
* * *
In the spill of lamplight, partially hidden by canvas, outside the knowledge of the customs officials, Harrington and Ekaterina discovered each other. The girl took her hand from his mouth and placed a fingertip to her own. Harrington nodded. They held each other, and their breath, between the boxes and the shadowed bulkhead. In the heaven of their bodies touching, knowing what they now knew, and the hell of the same contact, she prayed (and he hoped) they not to be discovered.
The shadows danced around the hold, cast by three customs agents, their chief, Captain Nikilov and, in the only below-deck space where he could stand upright, the big Olgaren. All within a few feet of the hidden lovers.
Thankfully, whether in answer to her prayers or his hopes, the inspector was in a hurry. A box was ordered opened and found to contain dirt as the manifest proclaimed. The cargo was counted, there and amidships, and fifty caskets agreed upon. The Turk was satisfied. He ordered his men up and, as they left the hold, accepted the captain's invitation for a drink (and, of course, backsheesh). The door was secured behind them.
It was dark and quiet in the hold again.
The couple unclinched. Slowly, quietly, Harrington climbed from under the tarp and helped Ekaterina out. He lit and turned down the foremast lamp. They stared, in silence, allowing their eyes to adjust. Then, as if a signal were given, they fell into a deep and passionate kiss.
When the kiss ended, some time later, both began excitedly whispering.
“Ekaterina! I can't believe it's you. It's been you all along. I feel like such a fool. Katya, cor!, what are you doing here?”
“Oh, Trevor,” she cried, accenting the wrong syllable (the way he cherished). “I could not let you go.”
“Sssh. Cor!” he repeated, as if in shock.
“I followed you… from Bukovina. I could not lose you. I did not want you to leave.”
“I had no choice! Your father, your brothers… You should see my hat!”
“Your hat?”
“Never mind, it's nothing. The point is your family…”
“I know. I am so sorry. Please, forgive me!”
“Forgive you?”
“I've ruined everything. It is my fault. I told a lie to keep you - and lost you because of it. My father hates me. My brothers hate me. And I do not care. When I saw them on the dock as we were leaving Varna, I… But no. It does not matter. I could not live knowing you hated me. I had to come; to see you were safe and, if I could find the courage, to beg your forgiveness.”
“The things your father and brothers yelled, the accusations…” Even in the gloom, she could see he was stricken. “You ask me to forgive you. They said you were with child; accused me of… I did not believe them. But now you ask me to forgive you? What are you saying?”
“Of course, I am not pregnant. That was the deception. But not to you. I lied to my father. I lied to be with you. You said you might leave! I could not stand the thought!”
“Leave, yes. I never planned to stay in Bukovina. But I would not have gone without you. I certainly would not have gone without a pledge between us. I love you.”
She dropped her head to his chest, hit by the mistake she'd made. And, to her mind now, all for nothing. “I am a fool!”
He stopped her with a kiss and she returned it.
“The Romanian blood! I thought my father would make us be together. I never imagined he would revenge my honor. I never dreamed he would act like the Elizabethan Englander. Like the dramatist who turns his hot blood on you; on us. Oh, Trevor, what have I done to us?”
“You haven't done anything to us.”
“But – what are we to do?”
Harrington laughed quietly. He grabbed the sides of his head as though he were dizzy. “There's little choice, we're going to England.” He touched her cheeks, looked into her eyes, and laughed again softly, joyously, yet not quite believing. “Just look at you!”
Ekaterina pulled her cap back on to give him a good look.
The between-decks door burst open and the second mate barreled in. Ekaterina and Harrington jumped, startled. “What's going on?” He stared daggers but saw little more than shadowy outlines in the gloom. “The inspectors are gone. Funar, get back on deck! There's work to do.”
Harrington raised a hand. “I was just…”
“I have no interest in you, Mr. Harrington,” Eltsin shouted. “Unless you interfere with the work of the ship. Funar! Let's go!” The eruption ended as quickly as it began and the second was gone; his exit punctuated by the slam of the hold door.
Harrington whistled softly. “Thank goodness you don't have to listen to that any longer.”
“What do you mean?”
“You needn't continue the pretense.” Harrington laughed. “Rada Funar! You fooled everyone. You certainly fooled me! But now you can get rid of this silly costume.”
“I would love to! But, of course, I cannot. It will be a long voyage and I am stuck.”
“But… now I know, surely, you can be Ekaterina again?”
“I cannot. Oliver was quite insistent.”
“Oliver?”
“Oliver Swales, the cook.”
“I know
who he is, but… he knows who you are? I mean, he knows who you are not?”
“Certainly he knows. Everyone treats him like an old man, but I doubt he is often deceived. He will be happy you discovered the subterfuge, but he is insistent no one else must know.”
“But why?”
“Because there is no telling their reaction. The world is not comprised of Libertine scholars. Women are begrudgingly allowed aboard ship as passengers, but certainly not as crew. Oliver says they might throw me overboard if discovered. He said you, a student of history, would understand. How did he say…? Yes, the irony of the Hellespont?”
Harrington considered a moment, then smiled. Of course, the original appellation for the Dardanelles; named for Helle, the daughter of Athamas. “Yes! Helle drowned in these waters during Jason's quest for the Golden Fleece. Ever since women have been bad omens; unwelcome aboard ship. Now here you are, on the Sea of Helle, dressed to avoid drowning by superstitious seamen.”
She shrugged innocently, then kissed him again. “I am dressed to get aboard. And I will remain so because Oliver says I should.”
“He's right. Nikilov would never have sailed, if he'd known. We have no choice. We must keep your secret; and you must be careful. Until we reach Whitby, you are Rada Funar, the deck boy.”
“I'd better get on deck. The second will lose his mind if I take much longer.”
Ekaterina pecked Harrington on the cheek and, as Funar, headed up. On deck, he helped the crew get the ship underway again. The remainder of the day was smooth sailing and, at dark, Demeter passed quietly into the Archipelago (the Aegean Sea).
Chapter Twelve
Tuesday, 13 July, Harrington spent the day avoiding the deck boy. He wanted desperately to be with Ekaterina but knew that was out of the question. The last thing he needed was to react awkwardly to Funar and get them both in hot water. Ekaterina, for her part, was busy as Funar helped Demeter sail around Cape Matapan, south of Greece, leaving the Aegean and entering the Mediterranean Sea. The weather was gorgeous; the sea calm.
Dracula's Demeter: The Vampire King's Stunning Sea Voyage Page 9