by Mark Hodder
“I can’t ask any more of you, old chap. Get back to Yorkshire. I’m going to be here for a day or two, I suspect.”
Lawless saluted. “Very well. As always, glad to have been of service.”
Burton, Trounce, Levi, Swinburne, and Bram left the Orpheus, watched as it rose up and shrank rapidly eastward, then walked toward the coast. They breasted a shallow hill and were suddenly confronted by a scene of such turmoil that their hearts missed a beat.
“God in heaven!” Trounce cried out.
Below them, half a mile away, the people of Moelfre were milling about on a flat shelf of limestone, against the seaward edge of which waves of enormous size were crashing, sending white spray high into the air. Behind the crowd, a great many corpses had been laid out—Burton estimated at least three hundred—and, heedless of the risk to their own lives, the villagers were pulling more from the violent waters. Screams and shouts carried up to the onlookers.
But even such human drama and tragedy could not long distract from the spectacle being enacted a quarter of a mile out to sea where, against a bank of upthrusting stone fangs, a large steam clipper was being relentlessly smashed to pieces. Mastless and broken almost in two, it was pitching and rolling, falling apart as the sea pounded savagely against it. Even from this distance, Burton and his companions could hear the loud booms and cracks of the vessel’s destruction.
“The Royal Charter,” the explorer whispered.
Swinburne suddenly sprang forward, pulling his jacket off and flinging it aside as he bounded down the slope. “There’s someone still aboard!” he shrieked.
Burton and Trounce set off after him, with Levi and Bram at their heels.
The poet yanked off his shirt.
“Collect his clothes, Bram,” Burton shouted, then, “Algy! Don’t be a bloody fool! You’ll be killed!”
Swinburne ignored the warning, leaped onto the shelf, kicked off his shoes, ducked through the crowd, and before anyone could stop him, plunged into the sea.
“Bismillah!” Burton gasped as the raging waters engulfed the little poet. He dropped onto the wide ledge and joined the villagers, who were yelling, “Dere nôl! Dere nôl!” which he correctly supposed was Welsh for, “Come back!”
“There! Regardez!” Levi hollered, levelling a finger toward the pilothouse near the stern of the clipper’s splintering deck. The structure had been almost entirely torn away and a figure was plainly visible within, propped upright against the ship’s wheel.
One of the villagers, a churchman, shouted something to Burton, who—Welsh being one of the few languages he didn’t speak—snapped, “In English, Father?”
The rector called to a young constable, who came over, listened to him, then said to Burton, “That man on the wreck, sir. It’s the captain. Determined to go down with his ship, he is. As if we don’t have sufficient deaths on our hands.”
Burton anxiously scanned the turbulent waters. He saw a flash of red. He could barely believe it. Algernon Swinburne, who looked so weak and delicate, was swimming like a seal and was already halfway to the Royal Charter.
“How many survivors?” Burton asked, distractedly.
“Just one, may the devil take him.”
Seeing Burton’s shocked reaction, the policeman went on, “A member of the crew managed to swim ashore. Another followed him—a regular giant of a man, he was—and the moment he set foot on land, he took hold of his crewmate’s head, broke his neck, and ran off.”
Trounce said, “Constable, I’m Detective Inspector Trounce of Scotland Yard. When was this?”
“About two in the morning, sir. Half an hour after the ship ran aground. The lads from all the stations on Anglesey are searching the area. I hope they’re travelling in pairs. That fellow could snap a person in half.”
A cheer went up. Incredibly, Swinburne had reached the jagged rocks and was clambering up them in an astounding display of agility.
“Is he really a poet, Mr. Fogg?” Bram Stoker asked. Trounce nodded.
Burton was unable to tear his eyes from the scene. He had a lump in his throat. The red-headed figure sprang across a gap and caught at the shattered planks of the clipper’s hull just as the vessel floundered laterally until its side was almost horizontal. Swinburne rose to his feet, ran forward, then dropped and clung on tightly as the ship sank down again. A horrible grinding sounded as wood fragmented.
“He’s made it,” Trounce gasped as Swinburne vaulted over a brass rail onto the sloping deck. “By Jove! I’ve never seen anything like it!”
The crowd yelled their encouragement as the poet raced toward the stern, then screamed in alarm as he was swamped by a monumental hump of water. The wave buried the ship and exploded onto the rocks, sending spray so high the wind caused it to rain over the onlookers, drenching them. For a terrible moment, the Royal Charter was completely lost from view, but then it reared up again and, with a shattering crash, broke completely in half. The prow swung skyward before ploughing into the ragged stone teeth. Its entire mass crumpled and flew into pieces.
At Burton’s side, the village rector wailed and began to sob.
Trounce clutched Burton’s arm, his fingers digging in, and the scarcely healed bone flared with pain. The explorer didn’t register the shock of it at all, but his vision suddenly clarified, and every tiny detail of the destruction he was witnessing took on equal weight and significance. His knees gave way and Trounce caught him and held him upright, but the explorer was oblivious. All he knew was that, in the sternmost remains of the clipper, which was now swivelling its broken end to face shoreward, there was a figure slumped loosely against the wheel, and beside it, Algernon Swinburne.
The wreck lurched. The poet fell. He slithered across the deck and shot into the sea.
The last part of the vessel rolled over, was driven into the rocks, and fragmented.
“Je ne peux pas le voir!” Levi said. “I can’t see him!”
“For the love of God, Trounce,” Burton croaked, “let go of my arm!”
He straightened and cradled his forearm against his body.
The village constable looked around as a man approached and addressed him. He answered and, after the other had departed, said to Burton, “That was Bob Anwyl of the coastguard station. He says the tide is on the turn. There’ll likely be no more bodies washed ashore. We’re going to take these—” he gestured toward the many dead, “—up to Moelfre Church’s hall. The county coroner is on his way. I’m sorry about your friend. He was very brave.”
“And very alive!” Trounce yelled. “By God, will you look at that!”
Sure enough, Swinburne, bedraggled, exhausted, and with a package held tightly under his right arm, was climbing back onto the limestone shelf. Villagers hurried forward to help him, while others enthusiastically cheered his bravery. Burton and Trounce pushed through them. The explorer took off his coat and threw it across the poet’s shoulders.
“He was dead,” Swinburne panted, “and tied to the ship’s wheel. Let me sit down. I’m fagged!” He collapsed to the ground. “This was in his pocket.” He passed the packet up to Burton.
“I should take that, gents,” the constable objected.
“I outrank you, young man,” Trounce said. He indicated Burton. “And he outranks me.”
The parcel was about the size of a book and was very tightly wrapped in sealskin and secured with waxed twine. Burton handed it to Trounce. “We’ll examine it later. Let’s get Algy dry first.”
The constable whistled to a portly gentleman, who waddled over and was introduced as Bevan Llewelyn, proprietor of the Rhoslligwyspite Inn. The name might have been unpronounceable, but the prospect of ale, warmth, and comfort was enough to propel Swinburne back to his feet with a cry of, “Lead on, dear fellow! A tipple will do me a world of good!”
“You didn’t swallow enough of the Irish Sea?” Trounce enquired.
Bram passed over the poet’s clothes and a minute later Swinburne was hastening toward Moelfre with t
he rest of them trying to keep up.
“Is this him fagged?” Trounce wondered. “By Jove, Burton, but you keep some strange company!”
Bram piped up, “He’s like one of ’em froons what captured ye in Greece, is that not the case, Mr. Fogg?”
“You probably mean fauns,” Burton put in. “And whatever you’re referring to was just a story, lad.”
“To be sure, sir! The Baker Street Detective, issue nine hundred and eight, if I be rememberin’ rightly. The Case of the Greek Interloper.”
“I’m not Macallister Fogg,” Trounce protested.
Bram grinned and gave him an exaggerated wink. “Don’t you be a-worrying, sir. Me lips are sealed, so they are.”
When they reached the outskirts of the village, Burton looked back and saw a long line of people, all in pairs, slowly carrying the drowned toward the little settlement. He shook his head sadly. He was no stranger to death, but had never witnessed such a terrible toll.
The Rhoslligwyspite Inn—or “Rosie with Spite,” as Swinburne rechristened it, before then mutating it into “The Spiteful Rosie”—was a small but comfortable pub. It had two upstairs rooms available for guests, both of which Burton paid for. He, Levi, and Swinburne changed into dry clothes. Neither Trounce nor Stoker had brought any, so they requested that the fire be lit in one of the chambers, then stood in front of it and steamed.
They all rested. Llewelyn delivered well-filled bowls of beef stew and bottles of ale, all “on the house” due to Swinburne being regarded as a hero. Slowly, the bar downstairs filled, though its conversations were subdued. The villagers had been up all the previous night and through the day, so didn’t remain for long. By eleven o’clock, silence reigned, and even the wind had worn itself out and could only manage a few pitiful whimpers.
Burton and his colleagues—minus Bram, who’d fallen asleep—gathered in the downstairs lounge, pulling armchairs around a coffee table by the fireplace. Llewelyn told them they could help themselves to beer, then locked up and went to bed.
“Damned calamity,” Trounce muttered. “Worst wreck in living memory. I shall never get the image of all those corpses out of my head.”
“Il était terrible,” Levi agreed.
Burton adjusted the wick of the nearest lamp and, by its increased light, started to unwrap the package Swinburne had recovered.
“I meant to ask, Trounce—how did you know?”
“About the ship? The lifeguard station here telegraphed the Admiralty as soon as the clipper was grounded. In such cases, because a police presence is often required shoreside, the Force is always alerted. I was just finishing my shift when I happened to overhear a conversation about it. You’d already shown me the telegraph message received on the Orpheus during the aurora phenomenon,” he tapped his head, “and things clicked, so I jumped into a steam sphere and drove all night through the storm. Thus the bags under my eyes.”
“Good man,” Burton said. “By James, this package is tightly swaddled!”
He unfolded the sealskin only to find a second layer beneath. This, too, was removed.
Swinburne leaned forward. “What is it?”
“The ship’s log.” Burton opened the book. “Somewhat damp and some of the ink has run, but the wrapping did a good job. It’s readable.” He spent a few minutes examining it page by page. “The captain was Thomas Taylor.”
“Lashed himself to the wheel,” Swinburne murmured.
“He do it himself?” Levi exclaimed.
“Yes. I could tell by the manner in which he was bound.”
Burton read from the log. “Departed Melbourne on the first of August, bound for Liverpool. Three hundred and seventy-five passengers. A hundred and twelve crew. Carrying a large consignment of gold.”
He turned one page after the other. “She was making good headway.” He moved a few pages on, stopped, frowned, and flicked backward to an earlier point. “Strange. Algy, would you mind reading to us? Are you up to it?”
Trounce moved to object—surely the poet was exhausted!—but before he could utter a sound, Burton’s eyes flashed a warning. The detective froze, then leaned back in his chair and said nothing.
“I most certainly am,” Swinburne cried out. “Hand it over.”
Burton passed the logbook to Swinburne, open at the page he’d selected. The poet curled his left foot up onto the chair and began to read. His voice took on the unique quality Burton had noticed at Wallington Hall, and within moments the explorer, occultist, and Scotland Yard man were entirely immersed in the account.
LIVERPOOL & AUSTRALIAN NAVIGATION COMPANY
STEAM FROM AUSTRALIA TO LIVERPOOL
UNDER 60 DAYS
THE MAGNIFICENT STEAM CLIPPER
“ROYAL CHARTER”
Thursday. 1st day of September 1859.
8.00 a.m.
In Doldrums off West Africa. Unable to establish exact position. Compass spinning. At midnight, the Northern Lights appeared (this far south? I’ve never heard of such a thing). As bright as day. No stars visible for the remainder of the night. No breath of wind. A curious atmospheric effect: all flames have died, and no match will strike. We can’t fire-up the engines. I’ve traversed the tropics hundreds of times and have never before seen combustion suppressed this way. The men are mad with the loss of their pipes and cigars.
3.00 p.m.
A slight current has got up. Drifting eastward, albeit slowly. Crew short-tempered. How we all depend on our tobacco!
10.00 p.m.
Another night with light from horizon to horizon. The sea is like glass and so reflective we appear to be floating through clouds of shifting colours. A marvellous but very unnerving effect.
Friday. 2nd day of September 1859.
8.00 a.m.
Still becalmed. No wind. No fire. Compass useless. Humidity tremendous, making sleep almost impossible. Second Officer Cowie reports the passengers are increasingly restless and quarrelsome. He broke up two disputes last night.
Noon
Indications that we’re still moved by a current in a generally easterly (perhaps NE) direction.
11.00 p.m.
No change. Again, the Northern Lights. Passengers rowdy. More fighting. A man named Samuel Grenfell (gold miner) stabbed another, William James Ferris (storekeeper) in the arm. Has been locked in his cabin.
Saturday. 3rd day of September 1859.
2.00 a.m.
Seaman William Draper reports he can “smell land.”
11.00 a.m.
Lack of sleep overtaking all. Thank God passengers too tired for troublemaking.
Midnight
The aurora has partially cleared, now being confined to a portion of sky to the east of us, and has taken on a most curious aspect, funnelling downward onto a mountainous island just visible on the horizon. We’re at 3°10′N 8°42′E. According to my charts, the island is Fernando Po. The current is pushing us toward it. Still no fire.
Sunday. 4th day of September 1859.
7.00 p.m.
No change in our circumstance. A deep lassitude creeping over all.
Monday. 5th day of September 1859.
Noon
Drawing close to Fernando Po. The island is dominated by a huge conical peak, clothed in tropical forest. We’re drifting toward a cove, Clarence Bay, by the charts. If we make land, we can at least lay up until the weather changes.
10.00 p.m.
Ashore. At 4.40 p.m., the Royal Charter touched ground just off a narrow beach, backed by steep banks of yellow clay. I led a landing party and a small crowd of people greeted us. We followed them up ladders and, beyond the top of the banks, discovered a row of buildings, newly erected by recently arrived Spanish colonists and christened Santa Isabel. Already, the dwellings are rotten and infested with vermin and their inhabitants are languid to the point of semi-consciousness, gripped by deadly ennui and disease.
After leaving the ship, we discovered that our matches were strike-able once more and we took to our tobacco
with much enthusiasm, yet as soon as we stepped back aboard, no combustion was possible. Whatever the atmospheric disturbance is, it’s somehow clinging to the vessel, so other than a rotating watch of seven men, the crew and passengers have abandoned her and are all put up in filthy lodgings. I fear for the women and children. This is no kind of place for them.
Tuesday. 6th day of September 1859.
2.00 a.m.
Can’t sleep. There are drums thundering from somewhere inland. They’ve not let up for a single moment since the sun set.
11.30 a.m.
Humidity, sandflies, mosquitoes, prickly heat. This place is unbearable. The vegetation hangs limply beneath the blinding sky. Everything’s still, as in death.
Wednesday. 7th day of September 1859.
9.00 p.m.
The governor of Santa Isabel, a man named de Ruvigas, has advised us to move inland to a town called Santa Cecilia, which is some 1,300 feet above sea level and less dangerous to health. Tomorrow we’ll do so, remaining there until the weather improves, or until we can fire-up the ship’s engines.
Thursday. 8th day of September 1859.
2.00 a.m.
The drums. On and on. I feel I might lose my mind.
6.00 p.m.
Leaving the watch aboard ship, I today led the crew and passengers inland along a steeply ascending jungle trail until we arrived, exhausted, at Santa Cecilia. The village is little more than a huddle of shacks, all raised up on poles in the centre of a wide clearing, but the inhabitants willingly made room for us in return for gifts of alcohol, tobacco, pocket watches, rings, belts, and whatever else we could afford to give them. The female passengers have set about cleaning the place up.
Midnight
The air is fresher here. The mosquitoes less numerous. But the drums are just as insistent.
Saturday. 10th day of September 1859.
3.00 p.m.
I’m remiss in my log-keeping. The days are endless, the nights worse.
Monday. 12th day of September 1859.
8.00 p.m.
We feel we are being watched. The women grip each other, their faces taut with fear. The men have become strangely quiet. I find myself checking my pistol again and again.