by Peter Greene
“It is too dark!” called Nicolas from the top of what remained of the mainmast.
The Navarkhia was gaining quickly now. Jonathan watched as she fired a round from her bow, the glowing shot visible as it sailed through the night air. It fell into the sea less than ten yards from the Echo’s rudder, sending up a harmless splash of water.
“Again!” cried Kharitonov. “We will be in range in another few moments!”
His men laughed as they reloaded the chaser.
“We will catch them regardless,” said the Russian commodore. “But now, we will toy with them!”
“Garvey!” called Jonathan. “What do you see?”
“She is hoisting a flag!” Garvey replied. “Hard to see at night!”
“Whose flag is it?” called Jonathan.
“It’s…it’s…” stammered Garvey. The flag, now at the top of the small mainmast, began to flutter in the wind. As it gained strength, the banner rose and shone in the moonlight. “Well, it’s not a flag, sir!”
Jonathan was perplexed. Probably some Turk, trying to confuse other ships. The devil has gotten his due, thought Jonathan. His luck had run out.
Jonathan heard a laugh. At this strange time, in the last moments of his desperate plan, he heard the joyous laugh of the men at the bow. They are mad, he thought. Insane with grief.
“It is not a flag, sir,” cried Garvey. “They are bloomers! Bloomers, Captain Moore! Bloomers!”
Aboard the Frog, Welty tied off the rope that held the bloomers, actually canvas cut into the unmistakable shape of a woman’s undergarment, to the top piece of the mainmast.
“The Echo! Does she see it, sir?” asked Sean.
“I am not sure,” said Welty. “But I can see that blasted thirty-six chasing her down. Echo just fired a round. Whoever is on her is English, and he’s no friend of the Russians.”
“Jonathan?” asked Sean.
“We will know in a moment,” said Harrison. “Hudson! Is the raft ready?”
“Already overboard and tethered, sir!”
“Sean, how is your latest bomb?” asked Harrison.
“Two full kegs tied to the bowsprit, with the wonderful fuse I made. ’Bout twenty feet long it is! I laced it with powder, so it will burn fast! One foot per second, I’d reckon.”
“I will do the math in my head,” said Harrison
“A flag is being raised on the Echo, sir!” called Welty.
“Bloomers?” asked Harrison.
“Well, something that looks like ’em,” Welty responded.
Harrison could barely make out the shape as he headed swiftly at the coming ship. Yes, it looked like a hastily cut-out cloth in the more-or-less pantslike shape of a woman’s undergarments.
“Close enough for me! All crew abandon ship! Sean, hand me the torch,” he said. “I will light it at the last moment. You, bomb maker, get aboard that raft.”
“No, sir!” said Sean. “I’m lighting it!”
“Hicks!” called Harrison as he quickly snatched the torch from Sean.
“Yes, sir,” the marine answered, approaching the wheel as the rest of the crew ran to the stern.
“Take Private Flagon to the stern, toss him over, and then assist him onto the raft!”
“Oy!” said Sean. “Not fair!”
“This is the British Navy, Flagon,” said Harrison, smiling. “It’s never fair!”
“But it is plain ol’ excitin’!” added Hicks as he swept up his friend and ran aft. “Over the side we go!”
“But where is Stewie?” asked Sean.
“’E’s in me jacket!” said Hicks. Stewie peaked out just above the marine’s collar. Though he scratched and complained, Hicks withstood the torture. With a fast prayer, all three went over the side. Hudson and the rest of the crew followed. Within moments they were on the hastily built raft and had severed the rope tethering them to the Kérata. They drifted away as the yacht sped ahead.
Harrison remained aboard, now almost even with the Echo. He waved as he passed, the larger ship sailing by on his starboard side.
“Jonathan!” he called. “Jonathan Moore!”
“Commander Harrison!” Jonathan called with joy. “Thomas!”
“Pick up the raft—and the little rats that left me alone! I will sink that garbage scow and the grobian that sails her!”
“How?” called Jonathan. However, he had gone past the small yacht and could hear no more. His heart soared as he called for his men to reduce all sail and look ahead for a raft and survivors.
“Who in the name of the Devil is this?” asked Kharitonov as he gazed through his telescope. “And what in the hell is that atop the mainmast?”
“He’s heading straight at us!” yelled Morozov.
“Ha!” laughed Kharitonov. “The little fly wants to play? Well, we will cut him in half!”
Harrison knew that someday his ability to gauge the speed of a sailing ship with almost magical accuracy would come in handy—for more than just winning a few wagers with his shipmates. He could apply that ability to the question of when to light the fuse. He could tell that the Frog was moving at four knots, and he assumed that the heavier cruiser, with more sail than he had, was moving about the same speed. Burning at one foot per second, it would take just twenty-two seconds to ignite the powder. And that would take one hundred fifty feet of sailing at four knots. The combined speed of both ships, eight knots, meant that he would light the fuse when they were three hundred feet apart.
Harrison watched as the ships continued toward each other in a straight path. Four hundred feet. Three hundred fifty feet. Three hundred.
He lit the fuse.
“Enjoy the ride, you—” Harrison released a long string of interesting and heartfelt profanities, obscenities, vulgar invectives, and uncomfortable expletives as he leapt over the rail.
Kharitonov could barely see the form of a man leaping over the side of the approaching ship. In a moment, he lost view of the oncoming vessel, as his bow, sitting much higher than the smaller craft, blocked it from view. He did see, however, the white-hot flash and felt the subsequent thunderous explosion burst from what appeared to be right below his bow rail. A wall of flame shot upward in an instant, and as Kharitonov blinked, the force of the blast reached the foresail, engulfing it in flame. Within seconds, the mainsail also caught fire. Within another moment, the aftsails had ignited, and all above the commodore burned with an intensity of the noon sun. The air, the sails, the entire world was on fire.
Harrison, treading water, watched the explosion from his position in the Black Sea. He had a front-row seat, certainly the only one, to the entire performance. The Navarkhia was literally a shining lantern as the sails continued to burn. Men tried to address the flames, but it was all a loss. Soon the masts were consumed, and the Navarkhia sailed past him, thirty yards away, glowing like a specter, aflame.
“Ha!” laughed Harrison. “Ha ha! A fast fuse indeed!”
Aboard the Echo, Jonathan sent men to attend the damaged mainmast and reduce its sail. The Echo needed little speed now; the Navarkhia was aflame, and a stupendous sight it was. The glowing light helped the crew easily find the raft, and then, after securing the men aboard, all cheered and danced in joy.
The ending to the battle was accentuated by the detonation of the magazine on the Navarkhia as it caught fire and exploded in a deafening roar. The Echoes felt as if all the lightning in a great storm were released at once and concentrated in the small space that at one time had been occupied by the great cruiser.
A certain marine met Jonathan on the deck, hobbling toward him, and then smiling, cheering, and laughing as they embraced.
“Sean! Sean Flagon! You came for us!” said Jonathan.
“Of course! What would ya expect? And we need to get Captain Harrison! He jumped off the Frog right before she rammed that cruiser!”
“The Frog?” asked Jonathan.
“Yes, yes,” said Sean. “We will all tell tales, as usual, once we retrieve th
e captain!”
With that, the last remaining boat of the Echo, a small dinghy piloted by Jonathan Moore, went in search of Commander Harrison.
The remaining fragments of the Navarkhia crackled with flame, and through their faint light, Jonathan could make out his friend, laughing as he floated on his back in the water. He turned to look at the approaching rescuers.
“Did you see that?” the commander cried from the water. “Did you see it?”
“I did, Harrison, I did!” said Jonathan.
“Flagon may be the king’s bomb maker,” called Harrison, “however, he knows no restraint! There was enough powder to sink a line of first rates! Though I am not complaining!”
Jonathan ordered the men to toss several lines to Harrison, who gladly accepted them and was somewhat unceremoniously hauled aboard the dinghy and delivered to the Echo.
“Well, Captain Moore,” Harrison said with a laugh, accepting the blankets offered and a cup of hot coffee, “I assume now we retrieve the Paladin!”
Jonathan swallowed hard. Amid this joyous occasion, this reunion of friends, the terrible news had to be delivered.
32
Justice and Reward
Just past midnight on the twenty-ninth of April, the crew of the Echo, now enhanced by the members of the Kérata, sailed southwest in silence through the Strait of Bosphorus under the English flag, the Cross of Saint George.
Jonathan and Sean remained below as the ship was rightly turned over to Commander Harrison. They had agreed to find a safe harbor, for then all tales and fates would be told. By the avoidance of any information being offered about the whereabouts of the Paladin, Harrison knew something was amiss, and he stood at the wheel, alone in his thoughts. He feared the worst.
In the Sea of Marmara, just a few miles southwest of the opening to the strait, lay the island of Kinaliada. Harrison had decided it would be an adequate spot to anchor, being such a remote isle, quiet and unassuming, allowing them all to take a long-needed breath.
The moon set as Kinaliada came into view. Jonathan and Sean appeared on deck and stood next to Harrison. Upon seeing his friend, his commander and mentor, standing proud and strong, Jonathan felt pity and shame, and he suddenly become overwhelmed with grief. How could he tell Harrison of the loss of the Paladin, and, most horrifically, the loss due to his own plan? Completely overcome, Jonathan wrapped his arms about his friend and shook with regret.
“Jonathan?” asked Harrison, still holding the wheel. “Whatever is the matter?”
“Let’s drop anchor,” suggested Sean, who had been told some of the tale. “Maybe take a boat to the beach. I could use to get some hard ground under my feet for a change. It would do us all some good.”
The Echo sailed to the leeward side of the island where the sea had calmed to glassy perfection reflecting the stars above. Harrison ordered the makeshift anchor the crew had fashioned from twisted iron bands and shot to be tossed overboard. All sail was furled, and the Echo came to a silent rest.
Jonathan, Sean, and Harrison had boarded the dinghy along with Hudson and Hicks, who were rowing. The beach at Kinaliada was reached easily.
Dark, yet under a starlit sky, they built a small fire near the shingle of the beach. The mound protected the flames from the slight wind, and the fire gave some sense of place across the vastness of the long, sandy coast. At the moment, the only sound was the gentle hiss of the waves against the sandy shore and the occasional cry of some lonesome bird.
Only Jonathan sat by the fire, silent, deep in his thoughts. The others busied themselves looking for additional dry wood to use as fuel, searching for anything that could make their stay more comfortable; but mostly, they kept a casual eye on Jonathan. The events of the past days since Zadar weighed upon him, and his friends knew by looking at his form that he was greatly troubled and concerned about all that had transpired. Could it be the death of Jenkins that Garvey had told them of? Was that the final blow to him? Did he feel responsible?
Jonathan sat staring into the fire, the flames giving him no comfort. He felt lost, confused; yet he knew that it was all his own doing. Could someone complete noble and honorable actions, yet still be wrong? he asked himself. He had been a pawn in the schemes of Spears and Wilder and then a slave to Aggar and Kharitonov. He had witnessed the passing of Patrick Jenkins, the value of that friendship now defined in the most holy manner—forged in the heat of battle, and ending in the cold loss of death. Only his memory remained—and his kindness.
Right or wrong to some, destroying the Paladin was the only course of action that would ensure his crew’s survival and freedom. If he was to be hanged for it, then that would be his fate. He hoped that those who loved him and mattered to him most would understand his decision.
He stood after a moment and smiled to no one but the sea. “You give me hope,” he said to the waves, “and you take from me as well.”
As the sun began to rise, so did his spirit, and he was at peace with his past and his future. He turned away from the water and saw his friends standing respectfully in the distance, looking at him with kind eyes.
“Well? What are ya? Daft?” he called. “Come to the fire! It is time for you to hear the tale. And, my friends, it is an amazing one at that!”
The Echo set sail the next morning for the village of Gallipoli, on the northern shore of the Dardanelles Strait between the Sea of Marmara and the Aegean. The crew hoped to reach the port on the thirtieth, an easy goal. There, they would acquire needed fresh water and other supplies and then continue to the British naval base at Malta some eight hundred miles away, or three days’ sail.
Jonathan had been correct in his assumptions pertaining to the loss of the Paladin. As he recounted the trials under Aggar and Kharitonov—and the desperate plan to save his men—he was relieved. As shocked as Harrison was at the death of Jenkins, the loss of the Paladin, and that the ship’s end came from the guns of the Echo and Jonathan’s hand, he understood.
“I would have done the same, Jonathan. I would have done the same,” he said, and he shook the hand of his friend.
And though Harrison took his own time to stand alone on the beach at Kinaliada, he soon turned back to his friends and congratulated Jonathan, assuring him that he was a hero, just as Jenkins had said, and that the Admiralty would never hang a hero.
On the sixth of May, the Echo sailed from Malta, in the center of the Mediterranean, with fresh supplies, and after some repair to her sails, masts, and rigging, she picked up a few packets for delivery to Gibraltar and London.
A brief stop in Gibraltar and a report to Admiral Crampton eased the minds of many. Here was the Echo, missing now for some time, with a new commander and an amazing tale. The loss of the Paladin was also reported, and the hearts of those who heard the tale sank deeply.
One Englishman, going by the name of Marine Lieutenant Slater, had been granted a private interview with Harrison and Jonathan after their report to Crampton. Once revealed as a member of Marine Captain Gorman’s network, he was told as many of the details as they could remember, without Harrison’s usual embellishments. Knowing that Gray was still missing, they feared the worst. Slater decide to request a ship to return to Telašćica, and whished Harrison and crew safe passage home.
Harrison and Jonathan, along with Sergeant Hudson, had also taken the time to document their doings in the ships’ logs. With the assistance of Sean, Garvey, Graham, and the others, the retellings and embellishments of each became almost comical. Eventually, it was Harrison and Jonathan, alone on deck one night, who completed the ships’ logs of the Echo, the Kérata, and the Paladin.
“One thing about these superstitions,” said Jonathan, seemingly choosing the subject out of the blue.
“Yes?” asked Harrison as he closed the logs.
“I witnessed the beheading of the Paladin’s rider and the Echo’s beauty. I saw them discarded into the sea unceremoniously. And I thought of all the ridiculous things Jenkins said about superstitions…”
“And?” asked Harrison. “Do not tell me you believe that rot?”
“Fawcett said that if ever the Paladin’s rider was to be changed or damaged, that would be the end of her. He was right.”
Harrison nodded his head in agreement—but only slightly.
“Well, this beautiful lady here, Little Miss Echo, I will call her, has no head either, and she just saved scores of men and a cat and will return to fight another day, so I guess that superstition proves nothing.”
Jonathan smiled.
“I’ll rely on good old-fashioned drive and determination over a bunch of cocky,” said Harrison. “Yet, they also say that ships that end in the letter A are unlucky. So the Kérata, even though we called her the Frog, is now at the bottom of the sea. Or in a million pieces, floating on top! And what was the name of that Russian cruiser?”
Jonathan began to laugh.
“Navarkhia!”
“It must all be true then! I am now convinced!” Harrison said, laughing.
* * * * *
Just one week after the sailing of HMS Echo from the Royal Navy port of Malta, a lone felucca carrying six men and a boy docked at one of the smaller piers of the same port. As a flag, the three-sailed craft flew a Royal Navy commander’s jacket above the mainmast. This was enough to allow them permission to dock.
The men were recognized as British sailors, and though dehydrated and famished, they were able to tell their story to a nearby lieutenant. The seriousness of their tale, as fantastic as it sounded, certainly explained a few rumors the officer had heard about missing ships in the area, and he immediately brought the men before Admiral Troubridge.
After the men devoured a brief meal and obtained new clothes, Commander Gray and his lieutenant were quickly shown into the office of the admiral to give their accounting of the happenings over the past months—and of the loss of HMS Echo.