“Maybe we did not really see it,” Olgaren said.
“You know we did. It's just not here.”
They scanned the deck as if none had ever been there before. The rain had ended but everything within sight remained soaked, heavy, smelling of wet wood. The wind billowed the sails.
“If it did not come on deck, maybe it went below.” Olgaren turned to the others. “Do you want to look in the hold?”
“I'm going to bed,” Popescu said, not even considering the idea.
“You should all go to bed.” The second straightened, tall at the wheel, as he remembered he was in charge. “Whatever you saw is gone. Get some rest while the storms are abated.”
“You do not think we are going to hit more rain, do you, Georgiy?”
“I don't know, Moisey. I don't know anything. Go to bed.”
Popescu and Olgaren headed below in silence. Amramoff remained. He'd been on his way up to relieve Smirnov of the watch when they saw… What they saw. He did so now, asking for a report.
“I have nothing. But you do. Tell me what that was about?”
“I thought I saw something,” Amramoff said. “I don't know.”
Smirnov frowned and turned his questioning look on Eltsin. “Don't ask me,” the second said. “Like I said, I don't know anything.”
“I left my kit in the bow,” Smirnov said, bitter at being left out. He turned on his heels, raised his lantern and headed into the darkness forward.
He reached the bow, set his lamp on the cathead over the starboard anchor, and leaned against the rail. His back ached terribly. His annoyance pricked him as well. Beyond the hearing of the others, the little Russian grumbled, “Everybody sees things; nobody knows anything.” Had he looked over the rail, and down the hull of the schooner, he'd have been in the know.
Dracula was clinging to the side of the vessel. He'd been to the stern, to the covered port of Ekaterina's cabin and had tried to gain access. Again he had been repelled. The porthole, like the inside door, was protected by garlic. Voices at the wheel had prevented his regaining the deck and the Count had been forced to crawl the length of the ship forward. Nearing the anchor, in the quiet of the bow, the still enraged vampire started up to the rail.
Smirnov's annoyance passed quickly. True no one had let him in on the night's events but, he asked himself, did he really care? His back was killing him and his nerves were a-jangle. But his watch had been uneventful and he was relieved to be relieved. It only remained to visit the head and he could call it a day.
He pulled out a small bottle and drank. He sighed, anticipating relief, then reached to undo his belt - when something flashed in his periphery. He snapped his head to the starboard, sending an arc of pain through his back and legs, in time to see a figure, in black with a bone white face, come up and over the bulwark as if out of the sea.
He took in air but there was no time to scream. The dark figure stared, with eyes of fire, looking almost as startled as Smirnov. It lasted less than an instant before he veered at the Russian. He clamped his hand on Smirnov's face, yanked his head hard to the side and, without ceremony, sank his sharp teeth into the flesh of his throat.
The bottle fell from Smirnov's hand and bounced into the shadows on the deck. He flailed his fists, trying to fight, but the blows landed without effect and soon ceased. Dracula pulled back, dripping blood, as Smirnov began to lose consciousness. Limp as a child's rag doll, the sailor felt himself being lifted and was helpless to prevent it. The deck disappeared beneath his feet and he was airborne. Dracula dropped him over the rail at the ship's bow.
Smirnov bounced off the block and tackle, smacked the ship board and anchor, and landed caught on the swaying anchor chain. He was lodged there, feet above the racing sea, fighting to hold on to consciousness – and the chain.
Dracula growled from the rail above; cursed the sailor and whatever malevolent god or grinning devil had intervened. He yanked a handspike from the capstan and returned to the rail with murder in his eyes. He leaned, towering over the gunwhale and the terrified Russian. He brought the weapon down with all his might, smashing the handspike across the sailor's knuckles with a hair-raising crack.
Smirnov's high-pitched scream, like a terrified bird in distress, would have curdled blood had it not been lost beneath the sound of the waves pounding the prow of the ship. He lost his grip on the anchor chain and dropped into the sea. The starboard bow rammed him as the schooner raced past. The seaman bobbed like a cork then vanished into the darkness abaft.
Dracula, staring aft with red glistening eyes capable of seeing in the night, smiled as the speck of a human disappeared beneath the frothy waves.
* * *
Saturday, 24 July, Harrington was up early, wrestling with the notion of stealing a gun from the captain's cabin. Dying for air, he took his worries on deck. The first mate was steering with Amramoff nearby, technically on watch, but practically repairing a scuttle cover broken (the Emperor knew how!) in the night. Harrington acknowledged them, then headed forward to conduct his business.
On his return aft, the Englishman stepped on a small bottle lying on the deck. He held it to the mast light and examined the label, reading: Laudanum. “Smirnov,” he whispered. He whispered the name again in curiosity; and a third time with growing sadness. He looked the deck over, relieved not to find the Russian inebriated. That he'd resumed sedating himself on duty suggested that both the sailor's pain and his addiction were getting the better of him. It was reckless. And discarding the empty on deck was madness. Harrington shook his head and slipped the bottle into his pocket. Wasn't he risking his own neck by helping to hide Smirnov's condition, after all? At the first appropriate moment, he intended to give the seaman hell for his stupidity. Resolved, he started below.
But Smirnov was not in his bunk, nor the mess, nor the hold (where Harrington had memorably found him once). His impromptu search unsuccessful, the Englishman returned to the deck and initiated a new conversation with Constantin and Amramoff; short but not at all sweet. The carpenter denied seeing Smirnov since relieving him the night prior. The first had not seen him since the previous day. The little Russian, and his gargantuan mustache, had vanished from the ship.
Amramoff took the wheel, following the mate's ordered course of N.N.E. (for they were in the midst of rounding the northwest coast of Spain). Constantin left them both to rouse the commander.
* * *
Nikilov stood alone at the wheel, deep in thought, staring into nothingness. Another storm was brewing in the distance. Something equally as dark was brewing here. For the first time he was feeling it too, doom hanging over his ship.
Already a hand short, entering the Bay of Biscay with weather again threatening and now - another man lost. Smirnov, disappeared after his watch, and not seen since. Constantin, Eltsin and Harrington were giving the ship a going over, but he knew in his heart they would find nothing.
Suddenly the first was there, seemingly from nowhere, with consternation in his coal black eyes. “There's trouble brewing,” he said, rubbing his bald pate with angry energy. “The men are below; meeting, grumbling.”
“Seamen always grumble.”
“No.” The mate shook his head. “Sir. This feels… different.”
Nikilov took him in. It was not like Constantin to…
The BANG of the deckhouse door interrupted his thoughts. Olgaren appeared in the doorway. He ducked to avoid hitting his head, stepped out and looked to the helm. He frowned, seeing Constantin with the captain, but did not falter. The moment was too important and not to be postponed. He inhaled, stealing himself, ducked again under the main mast boom, and stepped to them. Olgaren nodded to the mate, then addressed the commander. “Captain. The men… we talked. They asked me… Well, to speak to you… for them.”
“You?” Constantin asked, incredulous, stifling a laugh.
The captain frowned at his mate, though his point was taken. Olgaren did not strike one as a spokesman. As for their grievances
, he'd meant it when he told Constantin sailors always grumbled. That said, the few, Amramoff, Popescu, Swales and Olgaren were all that remained of his crew. Though he would never surrender his vessel to their whims, the situation certainly dictated they be heard. He returned his attention to the nervous seaman. “What is it, Olgaren?”
Without indulging in an outright snub, the big Russian gave the first what shoulder he dared and met the captain's eyes. “Sir, with respect, the men feel there is something wrong on this ship. And especially… there is something wrong in the hold. We, the crew and me, do not think we are going to reach port. Not as things stand. We, the crew and me, we want your permission…”
“My permission for what?”
“To take the boxes from the hold… and heave them into the sea.”
As if on cue, lightning burst across the blackening sky. Thunder cracked and rolled.
Nikilov ignored the dramatic weather. He cocked his head at the seaman, certain he'd misheard. “Did you say… throw our cargo into the sea?”
Olgaren, captivated and terrified by the approaching storm, as if it were an omen he'd long-feared, failed to answer.
“Olgaren,” the first barked. “The master asked you a question.”
“Did I hear you?” the stunned Nikilov repeated. “You want to throw our cargo into the sea?”
Olgaren washed his ham hands in the air, searching for an answer in the boards of the deck. Finally, he managed a nod.
Constantin jumped in, sneering. “Fortunate for you those Slovaks are not here!” He turned to the captain. “The peasants that delivered the boxes the morning we sailed from Varna. They threatened to kill anyone mistreating their cargo.”
“The men are frightened, captain,” Olgaren said.
Constantin refused to be ignored. “This is my countryman, yes?” he angrily demanded. “Popescu, yes? He's the ringleader of the round robin that sent you up here? Like a superstitious old women! He's made you absurd! Go back and tell Popescu, and the rest, they are ridiculous. The cargo is the only reason any of you have work. Without it, you might all jump into the sea!”
“Iancu.” The captain patted the air to tamp the mate's fury. “Mr. Olgaren, I was not always a captain. I understand, and I am not disposed to anger. Tell the crew that. The men are concerned. We are all concerned; for our crew, our ship, and the property for which we have all put hand to paper, in pledge, to see safely to its destination. We shall not shirk our duty.”
The mountainous sailor nodded sullenly. His eyes grew misty and, for a moment, it appeared the man would burst into tears. He did not. Neither did he leave the helm. Olgaren stood his ground.
“Was there something more?”
“Yes, sir. We… the crew… we wondered, sir, if… we might stand a double watch?”
“What in hell for?” the mate barked.
“That will do, Mr. Constantin. Moisey, why are exhausted men asking for extra duty?”
“The men… well, sir,” Olgaren licked his lips, to no avail. “They… they are afraid to be alone.”
“God dammit!” Despite knowing the captain's repulsion to foul language, Constantin could stand no more. He was mate to a bunch of children!
“You may.” Nikilov told Olgaren, ignoring Constantin's outburst.
The first mate's mouth fell open. Nikilov raised a hand and looked his first unflinchingly in the eyes. “Inform the crew they may double the watch. Help them work out a schedule. Help them, Mr. Constantin. After you finish, return here.”
Black eyes blazing, Constantin strode away. Olgaren, ducking the boom again, hurried to catch him. The lightning flashed as they disappeared below.
The captain leaned heavily on the wheel. The men were not alone, his fears too were growing. There would soon be trouble between his volatile mate and his increasingly agitated crew. Their frustrations, their fears, would soon drive them to violence.
* * *
“The blood is the life.”
Lucy Westenra repeated it, in a whisper, and felt evil and awful for having done. It wasn't, after all, her thought; hadn't been meant for her. She'd stolen it, eavesdropped and taken it off of the wind…
It had been intended for the laughing lunatic. (That's how she had come to think of him.) She did not know who he was, where he existed, or even if he existed. He may well have been a creation of her own troubled mind, a character from her recent dreams. She'd spoken of him to no one and never would. But she thought of him, whoever he was, as the laughing lunatic, and she could not help but listen when someone, something, spoke to him on the wind. She'd heard these strange solicitations for some time now; a deep and resonant voice calling to him from the sea. She knew neither the speaker nor from whence he spoke. But she felt his God-like power.
“The blood is the life.”
She listened and she envied the lunatic. Secretly, she hoped what she heard was only a preamble. In her dark thoughts, perhaps the spot wherein her dreams originated, Lucy thrilled to think she too might soon have a role to play - in whatever was to come.
“Lucy! Lucy!”
She stared out to sea from the cemetery on Whitby's eastern cliff. The tombstone against which she leaned was cold beneath her hands; the moon hidden by clouds. The dark frothy sea looked empty but, Lucy knew, that was not the case. Something was out there.
The harbor was quiet below; it too waiting.
“Lucy! Can't you hear me?”
A voice she recognized but, just then, could not place. A sweet voice full of curiosity, confusion, and not a little fear. It was at her side, calming, trying not to frighten or alarm. “Lucy. Dear Lucy…”
Mina, of course. It was Mina Murray, her closest friend. But how did she (Lucy) get to London? How, in the dark of night, had she found Mina? Silly, no! Mina had come to her, in the north, in Whitby… by the train. She and mother had met her at the station that very day; brought her to their rooms at the Crescent.
“Lucy. Come, dear. Let's not wake you. Just let me take your hand. We'll get you home again before you catch your death.”
Mina had come to visit! Or was she part of the dream? If so, why was she here? What part had she to play?
It was not a dream; it couldn't be. Why, if none of it was real, were the cool winds off the North Sea fluttering her nightgown? Hardening her nipples? Turning her skin to goose-flesh? Why was her long dark hair an airborne riot? Why were her naked feet wet with dew and padded with mud? Why was her heart racing; her pulse pounding? Why were her lungs starved for air? How was it she could feel Mina's warm hand guiding her away?
If it was a dream, why was she walking amongst the graves of Whitby in the dead of night?
Chapter Twenty-five
The following morning, Sunday, 25 July, found Lucy again in her cemetery (it was beginning to feel like hers) staring out to sea. The harbor was alive. But the workers seemed unaware they were merely marking time until… what, Lucy wondered? Lately, she'd been feeling so far away and thinking the strangest thoughts.
“Lucy!”
It took a moment to realize the call was coming, not from the sea, but from the curved staircase behind. Lucy turned to see Mina, flushed and breathless, waving a letter, running her way.
“I've been looking all over for you again!” Mina smiled, relieved. “I wanted to show you. This came in the morning post. It's from Mr. Hawkins, Jonathan's employer. He's coming home! Isn't that wonderful, Lucy? A letter from Transylvania, from Castle Dracula. Jonathan's starting for home!”
Mina threw herself at her friend. She hugged Lucy and danced around her in delight. Lucy joined her, laughing and dancing until both needed breath. Renewed, Mina began again, waving the letter, chattering her good fortune. Despite Lucy's wish to share her joy, Mina's words began to fade while Lucy's own attentions were drawn away to the north and east. Mina droned happily.
Lucy stared hopefully out to sea.
* * *
What a marvelous show!
Dracula lay in his box, delight
ed by how deliciously events were coming to fruition. He laughed quietly, cruelly, relishing the moment. He'd felt her presence for some time but, busy with the crew of Demeter and with Renfield, had not pursued the contact. Now, assuredly, he would.
Her name was Lucy. She was easily as sensitive to his thoughts as the lunatic had proven to be. She lived in Whitby, which was paramount to his needs, and she was a close friend of Jonathan Harker's fiancée. Through Lucy, he'd heard all… Mina ecstatic over one of the three letters written by Harker at his insistence (which the Count himself posted). Her joy at Harker's supposed return. There would be none; his wives would long-ago have seen to it that Harker was dead.
Now, here was their beloved Lucy. She would be his first… taste of England. It was all he could do not to roar with laughter at the irony. There was only one word – delicious!
He surrendered the idyllic scene in the cemetery, for the voices around him required attention.
Dracula could hear the frightened whispers of the crew, their terrified mouthings. He relished the fear growing round him like crops. But there was a vexatious undercurrent that concerned him; weeds in his garden. Serious mutterings among some of the whisperers. Their fears were generating a desire to lash out at their unknown enemy. Their panicked activities, searches of the ship, prying eyes gaping into the hold, had been annoyance enough. Now came threats to cast his boxes into the sea. Dracula knew human nature (like no human on earth). Most of the remaining crew would cower in the corner of their floating cage like frightened rabbits, but a few among them were starting to kick in a misguided attempt at self-defense. That could not be allowed; not when he was so near his destination. He had to prevent them – by keeping them in jeopardy.
So it was the vampire, vibrant with Smirnov's blood, again turned the powers of darkness upon the elements. Soon thereafter, Demeter was in the midst of another devastating storm with a wind that buffeted her from ever-changing directions. The sea rose up and pounded the schooner. The waves broke over her bulwarks, washed her decks and set the crew battling for their lives.
Dracula's Demeter: The Vampire King's Stunning Sea Voyage Page 21