Full Fathom Five

by Peter A. Smalley

  “It’s not deserted.”

  Three heads turned and stared at Traveaux. When he had come up on deck none of them could say, but his soft voice was close enough they could make it out easily. Delacroix tried not to let his sudden discomfiture show in his expression. Traveaux was leaned against the foremast, facing toward the port bow where he could stare out toward the island with a fixed expression.

  “Not deserted?” Rakestraw sounded disbelieving. “If there were a civilization here, sir, it would be listed on my charts!”

  Traveaux shrugged fractionally, as if it mattered not at all to him. Delacroix opened his mouth to say something but Dahlgren leaped into the space as if invited. “What makes you think it’s not deserted, Traveaux?”

  The latter gestured with a slight motion of his chin. “That.”

  Three heads turned outwards in sync to stare out into the distance where Traveaux had indicated. There, above the tree line near the horizon on the north end of the island, a thin but unmistakable tendril of smoke rose from the other side of the island.

  *****

  In the end, they could not resist going ashore.

  Their stay was lengthened beyond initial expectations, for it was more than just the hull that was in need of repair. Dahlgren’s ingenuity with the steam pump had inadvertently brought on stress fractures in the Opelousa’s steam engine by running it day and night throughout the storm. True, his inventiveness had kept them afloat, but it would take some creative repairs to make it reliable enough to carry them across the Atlantic. Dahlgren set to the task straightaway, and to his credit he took to it with a will.

  The chance to explore new lands—and to simultaneously escape the overly-conversational Dahlgren—was too great an opportunity to be missed. Delacroix, Rakestraw and the taciturn Traveaux set out in the longboat with four seamen under arms, intent on exploring the island until they found whomever or whatever had made the smoke they had seen on their first evening on the island. They made landfall on a white, sandy beach on the eastern side of the bay, just north of the where the steep cliffs stooped down to the clear blue waters. Leaving two seamen to row the longboat back to the ship, the five castaways set out along the beach and quickly began to climb.

  The hill was heavily overgrown, a vast green swath forming the western flank of the island. They struggled for a time, pushing aside palm trees, vast ferns, and exotic vegetation for which none of them had names. Brightly colored birds screeched and twittered and scolded, and they heard small animals scurrying through the undergrowth at their approach. It was growing hot. Rakestraw’s color was high and he panted none too quietly. The two seamen who accompanied them, Stephan and Bastian, were not much better off. Landsmen held the advantage here, it seemed.

  While they paused for a water break after an hour of climbing, Delacroix surveyed the western reaches of the island and made notes in a small journal he had brought along. With the aid of the red-faced Rakestraw, he made several sketches of the portions of the island visible from the headland they had climbed, making guesses where the land dipped below his view.

  Looking uphill, he quietly observed to Traveaux, “That saddle-point. Up there, to the north.” He nodded his head. “I think that’s about where we saw the smoke rising.”

  The dour Confederate agent nodded agreement. “Just about. It could have been coming from the far coast of the island, however, and that was simply where its ascent rose above the horizon and into our line of sight.”

  “True enough. I say we make for that point and see what we can see from there.” At the other’s nod, Delacroix conveyed the plan to the others and saw relief in Rakestraw’s expression as he realized they would be climbing the shallowest approach to the ridgeline that dominated the island.

  They set out once more. The heat and humidity grew even greater as they climbed, until they felt as though the jungle breathed hot vapor upon them like the vents on a steam engine. Stephan and Bastian began to mutter vile profanities softly under their breaths when they thought they might not be heard. Delacroix ignored them as best he could, for they were sailors and would have their way, instead shading his eyes with one hand while keeping a close eye out for whoever or whatever was the source of the smoke they had seen the night before.

  The five men crested the line of the hill and immediately felt a cool sea-breeze upon their faces. There were murmurs of appreciation all around, and canteens of water were broken out once more. As they drank, Delacroix surveyed the far side of the island and found its coast described a rough concavity opening eastwards, giving it the appearance of a moon in the first quarter phase. Sea birds sported on the breeze, climbing from the azure waves to rise on unseen thermals along the eastern flanks of the verdant ridgeline. He raised his eyes and looked out farther, to where Traveaux gazed in silence. Confounded at what he saw, Delacroix took a few steps closer and pitched his voice low enough the others might not hear.

  “The fog bank…it extends all the way around the island.”

  Traveaux did not bother to disagree or point out how obvious—and worrisome—an observation it was. “Look slowly to your right, up the line of the ridge” he replied softly.

  Unsure why he had to do so slowly, Delacroix did as his fellow agent instructed and beheld a curious sight. Near the apex of the ridge stood a strange edifice resembling an elevated wooden platform upon which rested a large torus: a round-edged circular ring perhaps ten feet in diameter, with a hole about six feet in diameter in its center. It glinted in the tropical sun with a bright metallic luster, ruddy-gold in the late morning light. Delacroix felt his breath catch.

  “You were right.” He breathed the words in soft amazement. “The island cannot be deserted, not with something so clearly constructed by the hands of men. But what the deuce is it?”

  Instead of answering, Traveaux raised his voice. “Captain, I think I’ve seen where the smoke might have come from. Perhaps we will find some shipwrecked sailors there who can tell us their tale. Quickly now, let’s not lose the light.” And with that he set off at a swift pace down the hill, angling off in a northerly direction. Delacroix saw with sudden understanding Traveaux’s path would lead downhill among the taller vegetation, putting the torus at their backs and rapidly occluding it from view among the trees.

  He quickly fell into step with Traveaux and heard the others move to follow, the stalwart Rakestraw willingly enough and the two sailors with muttered curses. Though the breeze on this slope of the island was cooling, Delacroix nevertheless felt sweat springing up on his forehead when he thought of what lay behind them at the apex of the ridge. What simple sailors like Stephan and Bastian would do if they saw what looked like a substantial quantity of gold on this isolated Caribbean isle gave him cause to fear.

  *****

  Their trail struck an obviously manmade path not long after, and the descent grew much easier as they followed the well-trod trail. Rakestraw was full of good cheer at the discovery. Bluff as ever, he heartily imagined aloud what manner of castaways might have made the island their home. Delacroix wondered if the man believed it or if it were simply what Stephan and Bastian needed to hear. Their grips on their pistols had been white-knuckled more than once since leaving the longboat.

  Traveaux had let Delacroix take the lead, apparently preferring to hold up the rear for now, so it was Delacroix who first saw her. The path had taken them around a curving hillside into a narrow, steep-sided valley cutting deep into the side of the island. Along its furthest reaches a stream audibly ran down the ravine, and ahead, the path led to a natural basin of rock in which the water had pooled to a goodly level before continuing its path down the ravine toward the ocean. On the far side of this pool knelt a young woman, fair-featured, with long, dark hair and eyes. She wore a dark blue worsted-wool vest over a high-collared shirt of creamy linen, with tan moleskin trousers and leather boots. She looked up as Delacroix rounded the corner of the path, arrested for a moment in the act of filling a clay jug with water. They stood
that way for a moment before Bastian said something utterly unrepeatable, which made Stephan give a coarse laugh, and Delacroix stepped forward before anything untoward could come of it.

  “Greetings, mademoiselle. I am Julian Delacroix. These are my companions, Mister Alsace Traveaux and Captain Rakestraw of the Opelousa. We OOOF!”

  It was not a word so much as an exclamation as something large and angry collided heavily with Delacroix from out of the vegetation. He was pushed backwards into Rakestraw and fumbled clumsily with his attacker, of whom his only impression was reddish hair and animal ferocity. Bastian and Stephan had drawn their pistols but Traveaux was keeping them under control while Rakestraw helped Delacroix wrestle the strange, savage man off of the latter.

  He was a thoroughly disreputable sight in coarse canvas overalls, a faded and much-mended blue workman’s shirt, and heavy leather boots that had, in days long gone, been black. Delacroix’s original impression proved correct: his mustache, beard and tangled mop of hair were all quite red. To go with these he had a powerful build, stocky and heavily muscled, and his skin was sun-browned. He glared at them with unconcealed anger in his haggard blue eyes.

  “Take yer hands off me, ye great oafs! Who be ye, and what be ye a-doin’ here, any road? Be off wit’ ye or I’ll—”

  “Calhoun!” The sharp, feminine voice cut across the rough man’s blustering like a stinging whip, and he cringed visibly at the sound. Delacroix saw the dark-haired young woman striding confidently toward them, not hesitant or afraid in the slightest that he could tell. She spoke to the red-haired man again, her voice stern.

  “I will not have you treating strangers so, especially gentlemen. You leave those men alone and go back down at once!” She stood with hands on her narrow waist while the red-haired man—Calhoun, if Delacroix had heard correctly—huffed and blew and muttered, and finally leapt off the path and made his way through the underbrush down into the ravine. He vanished almost too quickly for Delacroix to mark his path, though the sound of his passage was clear enough.

  “Gentlemen.” Her voice was clear and sweet, the accent pure Parisienne. “Monsieur Delacroix, it is a pleasure to meet you. I am Asha de Lôme. Welcome to L’île Oubliée.” She curtsied despite her lack of a skirt and favored him with a dimpled smile. “I do apologize for Calhoun’s behavior. It is exceedingly rare for us to have visitors, but he should know better than to treat them so, rough as he is. Father would not have it.”

  She transferred the jug of water to her left hand and extended her right to Delacroix, who took it with some bemusement. “Enchanté,” he managed, bowing over her hand far more smoothly than he inwardly felt. Rakestraw and Traveaux doffed their hats and she greeted them politely in turn.

  “Mademoiselle...” Delacroix found it difficult to phrase the question but stumbled on regardless. “We came here rather by accident. Our ship wants for repairs, and our journey is an urgent one. Nevertheless, if we could do you any service it would be our pleasure.”

  She smiled again. “You are kind to offer. Perhaps it is we who will do you a service, gentlemen. My father will be anxious to meet you. Will you come?” They agreed readily—too readily by half, Delacroix privately thought of Stephan and Bastian—and she led them around the pool and down the path. It wended its way through tall stands of dense vegetation and Delacroix could easily understand how they had failed to notice earlier the vista that presented itself as they reached the shore.

  The curve of the hill gave way to a broad, shallow shelf of land upon which grew sea grasses, low shrubs and scattered trees whose massive trunks had something of the look of cypresses. In the branches of these trees they saw dwellings had been built out of wood, roofed with thick thatch and walled in plaited reeds daubed with mud. Beyond these, a beach of white sand encircled a secluded cove of sapphire water ringed with an emerald necklace of palms and ferns. It seemed a perfect paradise to the weary travelers who stood staring in amazement; even as they gaped, the thin, sweet sound of a violin, expertly played, came to their ears.

  Asha led them across the shaded expanse and smilingly showed Delacroix to a wooden stair. Ascending, the group rapidly found themselves approaching a veritable African hut situated atop a platform built into the very tree-branches. Without hesitation, Asha walked confidently up to the arched doorway, calling “Father! Father, we have visitors.”

  The violin music ceased in mid-note and a hale older man in a neat linen shirt and old-fashioned jabot turned in surprise. He was solidly built, Delacroix saw, with the broad shoulders and muscular arms of a man who had known lifelong physical labor. Despite this, his high forehead and broad-spaced blue eyes bespoke keen intelligence and an open heart. He set down the violin and gestured to them to enter.

  “Monsieurs. Gentlemen,” he said warmly, shaking hands with each as they introduced themselves once more. “It is more strange than you know that you should be here, but you are most welcome in my home. I am Henri de Lôme, and with my daughter Asha and assistant Patrick Calhoun, the only denizens of this little forgotten island.”

  He smiled at their expressions of confusion. “L’île Oubliée we call it, somewhat in jest—the forgotten isle, but perhaps more appropriate the Island of Forgetting. But I have gotten ahead of myself. You will join us for supper, of course.” It did not seem a question, and he nodded to Asha before they could reply. “Fetch the extra settings, if you please? I was just about to prepare a meal, and would find the company most welcome.”

  It was arranged faster than Delacroix would have believed possible. Despite an understandable lack of seating, the seven found themselves supplied with ceramic plates laden with various unfamiliar greens and fruits that, while outside their experience, proved delicious. Too, the poached fish and eggs prepared by de Lôme over a charcoal brazier were delicate and most welcome after days of tinned sardines and hard tack aboard the Opelousa. De Lôme laughed heartily when Rakestraw inquired after his poultry, and Asha smiled. “After our repast, sir,” was all de Lôme would say of it, refilling their glass cups with cool water against the heat of the day.

  Though the meal was passed in pleasant and even convivial conversation, Delacroix noted two things that stood out to him. The first was de Lôme’s avoidance of any discussion regarding how he and his daughter had come to be on the island to begin with. It seemed a curious omission, for what could be more natural a question? The second and more troubling observation was Traveaux. He watched de Lôme with a focus that made Delacroix itch between his shoulder blades. Did the man intend their host some ill? He could not imagine why, but the sense troubled him throughout the meal.

  “Come, gentlemen, come. You have asked many questions about how we survive here and I would show you a little of how we pass our days.” De Lôme gestured to the door and they willingly followed him down to the sandy meadow below. Rakestraw prudently kept close to Stephan and Bastian, both of whom had remained mercifully quiet during supper; yet Delacroix found he mistrusted their sly smiles and unconscious mustache-stroking whenever they laid eyes upon Mademoiselle de Lôme.

  Traveaux kept the rear guard once more.

  De Lôme led the way through the trees and down to the beach. The cove was remarkably calm, Delacroix saw as they came closer, perhaps owing to the narrow inlet protecting it from the open seas. As they gathered on a rocky outcropping, the castaways gazed into the clear blue waters and beheld an astonishing variety of fish of all sizes and colors. Rakestraw gave a startled laugh and de Lôme smiled in pleasure.

  “Here you see, monsieur capitaine, one of our principal sources of sustenance. The sea, she provides an endless bounty!” He chuckled and drew from his pocket a small handful of crumbs from the table. Tossing them into the water provoked an instant surge in activity, with fish of every variety fighting for the scraps. Still smiling, de Lôme took from his waistcoat a short, silvery rod. Delacroix saw Traveaux focus on it as de Lôme calmly extended its telescoping length and delicately placed one end onto the surface of the wate
r as gently as a painter would his brush to the canvas.

  Immediately there was a low humming sound and the smell as if something burning. Stephan and Bastians’ mouths hung open and Delacroix himself felt no less astonishment. Over a dozen fish of goodly size floated motionless on the suddenly calm waters of the cove. De Lôme chuckled at their surprise. “We take only what we need, gentlemen, and with guests to feed we must have ample supply for dinner later on, no?” Asha efficiently gathered the fish in a wicker creel. Delacroix had to admit there seemed almost no sign the schools of fish in the cove had been diminished in number; they still swarmed about at any shadow passing over the water. Still, the display prompted more questions than he knew how to adequately phrase.

  A short distance away, de Lôme showed them where some of the unusual greens they had just consumed came from. A shallow corner of the cove had been given over to an aquatic plant he called sargassum, explaining the fronds of the plant were quite tender and flavorful with the correct preparation. He was beginning to describe the recipe in some detail when Bastian swore. “Look at that!” He pointed, and the others craned their necks to see a large and worrisome underwater bulge approaching them.

  “Ah, Marcel!” De Lôme knelt down next to the water and patted his knee, just as one might call to a favorite pet. In short order an amphibian head emerged from the water and raised itself toward de Lôme, who scratched affectionately at the base of its leathery neck. “Monsieurs, allow me to introduce Marcel. The sea turtles have lived here on the island far longer than we, and are prosperous enough not to mind occasionally allowing access to their eggs.” He gave a wry smile to l’capitaine.

  Rakestraw appeared first baffled, then filled with sudden and not entirely pleasant understanding. “Your chickens are quite, ah, impressive, sir.” He recovered his humor quickly and even joined de Lôme in admiring Marcel more closely. Delacroix felt himself quite close enough to the beast, and kept his eyes on Stephan, who was busily engaged in trading quips with Bastian regarding Rakestraw, no doubt.