by Peter Greene
“Marine Private Flagon reporting for duty, sir.”
The men erupted in cheers: “Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!”
In turn, each member of the crew gave Sean a slap on the back, offered him some small tidbit to eat, and adjusted the box, brought a blanket, propped up the leg, and generally fawned over the blond-haired favorite.
“If I would have known I’d get this kind of treatment, I’d have jumped in front of a few more rounds on our last voyage!”
The men erupted in laughter.
“It is good to have you back and in spirits, Private Flagon,” said a smiling Captain Harrison.
“And now our marine rank returns to full strength!” added Hudson.
“I’m not so sure about full strength,” said Sean, “but I do feel a lot better than I did at the pier in Zadar. Captain, where are we now?”
“We are in the Sea of Marmara, and, as far as I can tell, about forty miles south of the city of Istanbul,” said Harrison. “It lies at the mouth of the Strait of Bosphorus.”
“Has there been any sign of the Paladin?” Sean asked.
“Not yet,” answered Harrison. “However, I would assume they would not stop sailing or even attempt to do battle until they entered more friendly waters, and that means the Black Sea.”
“The Black Sea?” said Sean as he accepted a fresh roll from Marshall and a cup of coffee from Welty. “Is it really black?”
“Yes,” said Harrison with a laugh, “Though only at night!”
The men laughed.
“Actually, in ancient Turkey, color was used to describe direction. Black was north, so since it is north of many of the Turkish lands of the Ottoman Empire, it was called the North—or Black—Sea.”
“Hmm,” said Sean as he bit into his soft tack. “Mildly interesting, Captain Harrison.”
Harrison laughed.
“I am pleased I can entertain your senses, Flagon.”
“I would be more entertained, sir, if I could become privy to the plan.”
Harrison explained what he had discussed with Hudson, and how they needed to not only locate the Paladin, signal Jonathan and the others, and incite them to take over their ships, but also to watch out for the cruiser.
Sean seemed angry, his face turning slightly red as he thought more and more about what had happened. He kept scratching his head, listening to the details, and now and again, shaking his head in anger.
“If we only had a ship with some firepower!” Sean said. “We could take out that dirty cruiser, I just know it! But all we have is this silly…pleasure boat! We might as well have a target raft for all the good it will do us against thirty-six guns!”
“We don’t even ’ave a gun to shoot at a target raft,” said Hicks.
“All we could do is, well, ram into it!” said Sean, laughing. “But it would do no good. Not against that big garbage scow!”
The crew chuckled, agreeing, and offering other colorful and disparaging words to describe the ship they had all seen.
Harrison, however, was staring straight ahead, and in deep contemplation. A plan seemed to be warming in his mind. Sean had just said “ram into it,” and that sparked a memory. He thought and thought, and soon a smile appeared on his face.
“It could work,” he said aloud.
The crew stopped their joking and turned to look at their captain.
“What would work, sir?” asked Hudson.
“Do any of you know the story of the Eagle and the Turtle?”
“A nursery rhyme, Captain?” asked Bowman.
“No,” said Harrison. “HMS Eagle and the American ship—well, not a ship—a device made by our continental cousins called the Turtle.”
“During the American War?” asked Hudson.
“Yes,” said Harrison. “The Eagle was Lord Admiral Howe’s flagship. It was anchored in New York Harbor one evening in the fall of ’76. A rowboat of sorts was seen approaching the Eagle, and a marine spotted it. They called out. The boat rowed back the way it came; however, not before it had released a small submersible craft they had brought with them.”
“Sub-merciful?” asked Sean.
“Sub-mer-si-ble,” corrected Harrison, “meaning under the water.”
The men gasped.
“Like a large keg, with tubes and passageways built into the top that allowed a man inside to breathe. There were small oars also, enabling it to move slowly under the water. The Turtle, it was called, and it had attached to it a charge of powder that was to be screwed into the hull of the Eagle, then somehow set off.”
“Did the Turtle destroy the Eagle?” asked Hicks.
“No!” exclaimed Harrison. “The Eagle still sails, however, the Turtle released the charge, which detonated when it struck something in the water many yards away. The explosion was quite large. Later, the inventor of the doomed craft was said to have called it a torpedo.”
“Tor-pee-do,” said the men.
“Yes,” said Harrison, falling back into his thoughts.
Sean thought of the story, and though it was interesting and very entertaining, he knew there was a reason Harrison told the tale. Then it hit him.
“If, Captain Harrison, you could get me a few barrels of powder,” suggested Sean, “I think we could take care of the cruiser if we had to, eh?”
“Yes,” said Harrison. “If it interferes with our recapture of the Paladin and Echo, we will replace the Turtle with the Frog.”
“The Frog?” asked Hudson.
“The Kérata Vátrachos. It is Greek for horned frog.”
“Kérata ends in an a, sir, and all ships that end in a are doomed!” added Bowman. “It’s the oldest saying in the navy.”
“It’s a superstition,” said Harrison. “However, in this case, we will not tempt fate, if you believe in it or not. Let us from this moment forward refer to our Turtle only as the Frog.”
Within two hours, the Frog sailed with a slight breeze at her back through calm waters of the Sea of Marmara, and by sunset they had reached the great city of Istanbul. Now controlled by the Ottoman Empire, the city was divided into three regions by the Strait of Bosphorus and the passage that continued northwest into the European continent’s interior, called the Golden Horn. To the east, on the Asian continent, referred to as the Anatolian Shore, was Skutari. To the west was Istanbul proper, the large Turkish metropolis that in previous centuries had been called Constantinople by the British. It was the northern area that Harrison desired to see, specifically Port Kirej. He had heard Captain Walker speak of it in earlier days, referring to it as the Lime Gate, and how there, for a price, almost anything could be bought.
The Frog continued on carefully toward Kirej, all lanterns extinguished, under only her mizzen sail, and silently maneuvered into position amid a group of small caïques and fishing skiffs. There, she was anchored.
Gathering the small crew, Harrison addressed them, having changed from his uniform into some simple clothing: a pair of black breeches and a dark cloak found below in the small storage hold.
“Men,” he said softly, “I am not sure what the political or military situation is in Istanbul, though I aim to find out.”
“Sir,” said Hudson. “Who will you ask? It’s not as if the Ottoman people here respect the king of England, or speak his tongue, if you catch my meaning.”
“I do catch it,” said Harrison. “And I also know that inland, just a mile or so, is the Church of Saint Benoit, now managed by Christian French Lazarists, I believe.”
“Lazarists?” asked Sean with a tremble in his voice. “Dear me!”
“They are not as terrifying as the name sounds,” said Harrison with a smile. “Priests, we would call them, allowed by the ambassador from France, of all people, to persist here as a diplomatic favor.”
“What will you do with them?” asked Sean.
“I will ask the brothers for information on any sightings of that Turk cruiser,” replied Harrison. “If she is Turkish, someone will have seen her about. I
will also try to purchase, or borrow, a keg or two of gunpowder for our plans. Stay quiet and out of sight. If anything unfortunate should delay my return, either temporarily or permanently, and I don’t return by sun up, sail to the deeps and come back tomorrow after the moon has set. I will take the small dinghy, by myself, and see what can be done.”
The men protested respectfully, suggesting that Harrison take at least a marine with him, but he refused.
“If I do not appear, you are to return to London—”
“But what of Jonathan?” protested Sean.
“My duty is to all of you,” Harrison said somberly. “Please, follow my orders.”
The boat was made ready, and shortly, Commander Harrison was lowered into the bay, and he rowed himself to the darkening shore of Kirej.
28
The Black Sea
As Harrison made his way to the shore of Kirej, Jonathan stood on the stern deck of the Paladin, now entering the Black Sea, watching the hands aboard the captured merchant Umutlu. Aggar had set some of the original crew adrift on planks; they were not far from shore, and the men would be on dry land soon. Others had been moved to the Echo. Jonathan could see Lieutenant Starikov and three Russian sailors managing the handful of Turkish hands that remained aboard the Umutlu. They were to follow the Navarkhia and leave the Paladin and Echo to hunt on their own.
Aggar did keep a small prize from the battle: one of the merchant ship’s small boats, a twenty-six-foot lateen skiff. Towed behind the Paladin, it had a single mast and a long, angled yard forming a triangular rig to hold a large triangular sail rigged fore and aft. For now, the sail was furled. The name on the stern read Alexandria.
The sun was setting, his eyes were heavy, his heart heavier. So many friends had died, and his most dear were miles away. They probably think I am dead, he thought. Even if our plan works, can I ever get home again? There are many perils between here and London.
He could not stop thinking that maybe all the cursed happenings—the ringing bell, Sean’s earring, the last-minute changes to orders—all these things spelled trouble. And now, as the Echo and Paladin sailed with no figureheads at all, what else could befall them?
What was worse was the fact that since the lone galliot the Paladin and Echo captured earlier, there hadn’t been a single sail seen by either crow’s nest. Jonathan grew edgy and nervous. He realized that if they reached some port city or if Kharitonov returned, the Englishmen might be split up or moved into a labor camp inland or some worse fate, before they even saw a chance to execute the plan.
He had been lucky up to this point in his life, to say the least, and had seen more of the world than many men three times his age. It was a long way from the streets of London to where he stood tonight. Some of his travels had been enjoyable, many not so, but all with his friends. If it weren’t for Jenkins, Garvey, and the others, he would simply dive into the water and accept the fate that the sea offered. He thought that there could still be a remote chance he would see Delain again, and fingering the silver compass star about his neck, he decided to continue on, and he fought back a wave of sadness.
“Southcott,” came a voice. It was Aggar. “Anything of interest in this twilight?”
“N-no, sir,” said Jonathan, affecting his stutter.
The Paladin slipped through the placid sea effortlessly, barely a sound of the water splashing alongside could be heard above the strengthening wind. Aggar joined Jonathan at the stern rail.
“Now that we have snuck past the Turks watching the Bosphorus Strait, we will enjoy smooth sailing for a few days. Here in the wide-open Black Sea, we are safe.”
“With the fastest ship in the world, yes,” added Jonathan.
“Ha! It is good and true!” Aggar said with a laugh. He noticed the boy looking astern, staring blankly at the darkness in the waves and the night sky; the horizon where they met was almost indistinguishable, lost. His countenance was not one of fear or anger but of complete acceptance of his fate, and only sadness could be discerned. At once, Aggar saw his own son, his son who would have been, had situations turned out only a little differently.
“Southcott, may I ask you a question?”
“Y-you are the c-captain,” answered Jonathan flatly.
“Your age?”
Jonathan was taken aback. He expected some other question, possibly about the ship’s performance or the stores in the hold. Not knowing where this line of questioning might go, he realized that telling the truth might help him. How could his situation grow any worse? he thought.
“I am just now fourteen.”
Aggar stood tall, away from the rail slightly. He nodded. Fourteen. The age his son would have been today.
“A fine lad, tall and strong. They must feed you well in England.”
“N-not always, but r-recently, y-yes,” offered Jonathan.
“How is that?” asked Aggar.
Jonathan looked ahead, remembering a past long ago and a faraway place of comfort.
“Until recently, I was a citizen of the streets. ‘Homeless,’ some call it. I was reunited with my f-father only l-last year.”
Aggar thought of this. As hard as Jonathan’s story must be, he too had a hard life, and all one could do was make the best of it.
“Maybe you will see him again, someday,” said Aggar. “Sailors and soldiers we are, and our lot in life is not dictated by our own desire. Servants of others. All of us serve another, eh?”
“Y-you are the c-captain. I believe your p-position will have more to do with our f-fates than any other,” said Jonathan in a slightly angry tone. A moment passed before either man spoke.
“Across these waters, dead ahead, lies the Sea of Azof,” said Aggar softly, “and then the Russian port cities just south of Dimitria. Eventually, we will sail upriver and take in supplies there.”
“Is that your home?” asked Jonathan. “It must be n-nice to go home.”
“No, Southcott, that is not my home. I grew up due north of here, in a small fishing village named Kylia, right by the river Danube.”
Jonathan remembered his history and study of maps. The mouths of the Danube, the river that flowed almost two thousand miles from the mountains in Germany to the Black Sea, were located not in Russia but Romania.
“Yes, I am Romanian,” said Aggar, as if reading Jonathan’s mind. “I lived in a small house by the sea, and since I was a young boy, I built ships with my father. I learned the trade. We made small craft for the local fishermen, effected repairs, and had a simple, enjoyable life. I married a young girl I had known since I was three, Daria Makarenko. We had three children. But, my friend, things do not always work out as we plan them.”
“How did you become a Russian Navy captain, then?” asked Jonathan, forgetting his stutter completely.
“Ha!” laughed Aggar. “You call me captain, but I am not officially in the Russian Navy. We are a ship with a letter of marque. I am indebted to a Russian commodore…Kharitonov! It is he whom I serve.”
Jonathan noticed that when Aggar said the name Kharitonov, his face contorted into a grimace, and he looked as if he were about to spit.
“How is that?” asked Jonathan.
Aggar’s face turned red. He held his breath as he regained his composure.
“My father was conscripted into the service of the Russian Navy. Against his will, I will add. I was away, visiting a mill to obtain lumber for our business. When I returned and found my father gone, I was outraged! So, young and foolish man that I was at the age of twenty-eight, I went to save him. I was…unsuccessful. In my attempt, I was brought before Kharitonov. To make sure that I would submit to his will, he killed my father. And my son. My son, Dimitri, would have been fourteen this very day. Kharitonov! He threatened to kill my wife and two daughters unless I sailed with him. That was…seven years ago.”
Jonathan was speechless. As horrible as his circumstance was, it paled in comparison to the tale he had just heard. The look on Aggar’s face was complete sadn
ess. He had to be telling the truth.
“Why don’t you just sail away? Take the Paladin back to Kylia, and see your wife and children?”
“They are not there, Southcott. I have checked. Kharitonov has hidden them from me. So, I do his bidding, as horrible as it is. It is all I can do, my little friend. My midshipman.”
Jonathan was suddenly shocked and numb.
“Yes, I know you are no powder monkey. I saw you assume command during the battle,” said Aggar. “And I saw Jenkins taking orders from you.”
Jonathan realized that he now had let down his guard, and would soon feel the wrath of Aggar, a man with a reason to live, even if it meant killing another.
“If it matters at all,” said Jonathan, “I am truly sorry about that scar—”
Aggar laughed aloud, heartily, and clapped the young man on the back. “I took your ship and changed your future; you gave me a charming scar. Never mind that. Just tell me one thing, and we will be even! I would like to know your real name.”
Jonathan stood erect, faced Aggar, and saluted.
“I am Midshipman Jonathan Moore of HMS Paladin, at your service, sir!”
Aggar returned the salute.
“Ah, well and good, Mister Moore! It seems we have both lost our families, and wish to return to them someday. I will make a deal with you, eh? If we make it to the Sea of Azof, and Kharitonov—”
A shout from the tops interrupted the deal.
“Sails ahead, Captain! Four of them.”
Aggar and Jonathan ran to the bow. Immediately, Aggar raised his telescope. He adjusted the lens as he searched straight ahead. After a moment, he found them. He offered the glass to Jonathan.
“Yes,” he said to Jonathan, “four small galliots, possibly of the Ottoman Navy, and that means they may have guns—however, only a few. They will not be as easy to subdue as the Umutlu. Rusescu! Get the men to their guns! Gregoran! Send men to the tops! Be ready to reduce sail! Mister Moore, attend to the powder! These little chickens will put us in favor of Kharitonov and buy us some peace and quiet!”
The light continued to fade as the unbelievable speed of the Paladin and the Echo were unleashed. Leaving the Umutlu behind, they rushed upon the wind toward their quarry like beautiful yet deadly raptors. The decks on both ships were alive with activity, though soon, when all were in position, the noise and bustle calmed. The once-small ship forms ahead grew larger in their sight. Yes, they were fleeing, but they were also arming their guns. Jonathan could tell that these galliots were of at least six guns apiece, and this battle would be more evenly matched than the last.