The King of Shadows, page 6
My thirst for knowledge grew, Fell had said. Only now it was beyond books. It was the desire for knowledge of how to control people, and thus control my destiny. And all that you see— and all you do not see—was brought about because of the savage murder of my son on a London street, when you would have been but a child.
“You remember,” the professor said, as the lanterns swayed overhead and the sound of the sea along the hull was alternately a snake’s hiss and the boom of a distant drum. “I told you … on Pendulum Island … that I sent Temple off alone … when he had asked me to walk with him.”
“Yes,” Matthew answered.
“I did not say farewell. I said … go along now. Go along, because—” Fell stopped, his mouth half open, his eyes pained beyond any torture the denizens of that damned book could inflict upon him.
“Because,” Matthew supplied, “he was a big boy now.”
Fell’s mouth closed. He blinked slowly and lifted one palsied hand before his gaunt, bone-sharp face, as if regarding an appendage that no longer belonged to him, or might be a trembling thing that had come up in a net from a tidal pond where a man of science used to walk.
“I wish … only to see him,” the professor continued, his voice a mere wisp. “To say a proper farewell. To say … I am sorry. As a good father should. He would have been someone, Matthew. Someone who did great things. Do you understand?”
It took Matthew a while to answer, for he felt the need to choose his words very carefully. “I understand your need to do this, yes. Let me say … to attempt this. But … why would you believe Templeton’s shade can be restored for any amount of time by a creature from that book? Surely you don’t think demons have him, rather than angels!”
“I’ve tried the angels,” Fell said, with a tight and bitter smile. Above the gash of his mouth his eyes were dead. “Again and again, I prayed. They did not answer. And why not? Because my work here, on this earth … is not for their glory. I have no pretense about what I am, Matthew. Oh no … I do the work of those creatures in that book.” He leaned forward slightly, and perhaps deep in the piercing stare there appeared a shard of red like the image of a distant fire. “I am pleased with what I have done. I have taken comfort in the riches and the power … that my name is fearsome across the land … and most specifically, inflicting suffering to the London that laughed and capered as my son was murdered, and lifted not a hand to intercede.” He nodded, as certain of his own motivations as the shark this morning was certain to advance, kill and eat. “And now,” the professor continued, “a citizen of the land of Hell is going to reward me, for what I have done to increase its borders. One minute with my son … that is all I ask. Is it too much, Matthew?”
There could be no possible response. Matthew thought it was a crazed dream, that this guilt had for years eaten away at Professor Fell until he was truly nothing but a husk of a human being. Did he feel the finality of the grave closing around him, and thus he was reaching out for some kind of personal redemption … not from God or the angels but from the demon that was torturing his mind? Had he realized the end of his ambitions, that everything he had built was for naught, and looking back through a faded lamp at the course of his life he had come to the mad conclusion that the only thing of meaning remaining to him was to speak a farewell to a long-dead son?
Matthew knew not what to say. And he was saved from trying to find words that were not there when the ship rolled hard to starboard, he staggered three paces and several small items not properly secured—including The Lesser Key Of Solomon and Fell’s dinner plate—slid from their places and hit the floor at his feet.
“Damn it!” Fell grasped hold of his desk as if to keep from sliding to the floor himself. “What’s going on with that helmsman?”
In the next instant, there came a crash from the ship’s portside that sounded like a cannonball had smashed into the oaks. The Triton shuddered and groaned along its length. One of the lanterns toppled from its hook and came down next to Matthew’s left boot, spilling its burning oil in a dark stain on the carpet to complement the professor’s tea. Matthew began stomping the coil of blue flames out as quickly as he could. “Dawes!” Fell shouted, and when the door opened and the man peered in the next shout was, “What’s happened?”
“I don’t know, sir! Sounded like we hit somethin’!”
“Get up there and find out! Oh my God!” Now the Triton careened to the port side, making Fell grip his desk the harder to keep himself and his chair from going over backwards. Dawes hurried away, and with the flames out and a patch on the carpet simply smoldering, Matthew turned his back on the professor and went the way he’d come up to the deck to see for himself.
The brigantine was rolling back and forth as if the wheel was at the hands of one of Fell’s White Velvet victims. Matthew heard shouts along the deck, and then as he steadied himself on the unsteady timbers he saw what was happening and indeed why Captain Poe at the wheel was frantically directing the ship with such violent maneuvers.
All around the Essex Triton, fountains spewed into the night sky. The ship’s lamps threw light upon the huge glistening forms that crowded in on port and starboard. As Matthew rushed to the portside railing one of the whales struck the starboard side and Poe spun the wheel so hard to port Matthew had to grab a hanging rope to keep from going over and into the drink. Other members of the crew were gawking at the giant aquatists as they too hung onto lines to hold themselves on the deck. Water rushed through the scuppers and across the boards, adding to the slippery perils. Whale spume shot up into the turbulent air and down upon the sailors, drenching one and all. Matthew thought they must be in the center of a pod of maybe thirty or more whales, and whether the creatures considered the ship a threat to their calves or they were simply at play, it was still a most deadly dance.
The things rose up on both sides of the vessel, their gray and blue hides cankered with mollusks like the surfaces of rock-stubbled islands. Spray shot up nearly as high as the main mast and fell as a hard-pelting rain. Flukes smashed down, sending white-foamed waves streaked with green over the deck. Captain Poe fought the rudder back and forth, his face a tight grim mask, as one whale after another grazed their mighty flesh and bones along the hull.
Hanging onto his rope, Matthew realized with a start of horror that these creatures could stave in the timbers … and down below, the handpumps were already fighting the threat of rising water.
Perhaps fifteen seconds after he registered this particular item of terror, Matthew heard the sharp crack of a gunshot from nearer the bow.
“What’s that?” Poe bellowed, a shout to scorch the ears powered from such a narrow chest. “Who the hell’s shooting?”
Matthew saw the next white flash of gunfire. He made his way forward, grasping from line to line. In another moment he made out Fell’s men Sanderson and Kirby at the portside rail and realized they were firing pistol shots into the body of any whale that rubbed up too close. In fact they were whooping and hollering with apparent glee at this opportunity for target practice, and as Matthew reached them the big-boned and husky Sanderson let go another ball from his gun into a massive shape in the churning foam, while the pistol of the small-framed and rather dull-witted Kirby misfired with a burst of sparks and a hiss in the salt-sprayed atmosphere.
“You two!” One of the Triton’s crew shouted, coming along the deck with a lantern lifted high. “Stop that!” Before he got to the scene, the next hard turn of the wheel wrenched the ship to starboard, the man lost his footing and down he went.
Sanderson already had his pistol reloaded. Before Matthew could say or do anything—as if he could say or do anything that made a difference—the gun was fired into a dark form alongside and both men howled with laughter even as the deck pitched and rolled beneath their boots. In the salty air Matthew smelled rot-gut rum and realized these two had broken into the chest where the daily ration was kept, their patience at getting a small sip after supper come to a pistol-blasting finale.
The next moment was all wild chaos but in truth also unfolded like a slow-motion nightmare.
Kirby was reloading his weapon when a fluke the size of a giant’s fist came up from the waves and slammed down upon the port railing, crushing a section of it to kindling. Kirby’s recalcitrant pistol chose that instant to go off, sending the ball through his right boot and into the foot. Thus as Kirby screamed and hopped around, Sanderson and Matthew both stared with awe at the huge side of the whale as it grew truly monstrous … and then the beast slammed into the ship with full and perhaps angered vigor, the Triton heeled over with a violent motion to port, and just that fast the injured and doomed Kirby staggered through the broken railing and into the sea that surged between ship’s hull and whale’s hide.
“Man overboard!” Sanderson yelled toward the stern. “Man over—”
He was interrupted by another crash of whale against hull, which knocked both him and Matthew off their feet and sent them skidding through the deck’s foam toward the very fate that had just taken Fell’s other man. They were saved from a crushing death by Captain Poe’s next hard turn of the wheel to starboard, which took Matthew and Sanderson sliding across the deck in the opposite direction. The whale’s fluke smacked water, sending a geyser high and raining more sea upon the timbers, and then it submerged into the maelstrom.
Matthew got to his feet. Sanderson grabbed at him in order to pull himself up and both again toppled as the Triton veered back and forth in the midst of giant forms breaking the surface and sliding along the ship’s hull on both sides. “Mercy! Mercy!” Sanderson shouted, perhaps begging peace from Poseidon, but it was not yet to be. Another beast crashed into the starboard side up near the bow, making the timbers shriek and every tight line vibrate with humming noises in a dozen keys. Again Captain Poe spun the wheel to port, the Triton’s rudder responded, and Matthew and Sanderson were sent on their own deadly course across the deck toward the gap in the smashed rail. Sanderson caught at an upraised edge of wood and for the moment delayed his appointment with Davy Jones. Matthew slid away toward a foamy grave, his own hands scrabbling to find a purchase somewhere, and was near going over the side when someone gripped him by the back of his shirt and hauled him to safety, though when the ship made its next roll to starboard both Matthew and his savior staggered like sodden drunks toward another dangerous destination.
A hanging line was grasped, not by Matthew but by whoever had hold of him, and thus was the route to ruin averted. Matthew turned his head, thinking it must be Greathouse, but instead found himself in the grip of the sinewy and lantern-jawed Hugh Guinnessey, who fortunately shared not only the Great One’s initials but also at least enough of his arm strength to save a sardine’s skin.
“Get below! Get below!” Captain Poe was shouting, as he continued to maneuver the ship through the pod of whales with desperate turns of the wheel. Other members of the crew were at the railings shouting at the beasts to try to keep them clear, and Carlyle the cook had taken to slamming two iron pots together to make a further disagreeable bangaclang. All in all, Matthew was more than glad to be shoved along by Guinnessey to an open hatch and down a ladder to a passageway that was slopping with seawater from the events above. Guinnessey closed the hatch over their heads and now the corridor was lit only by a fitful lamp hanging from a bulkhead hook. They had advanced perhaps ten more feet in the direction of the hammock chamber when another hatch came open nearly under their feet, abruptly halting their progress. With lantern in hand Hudson Greathouse emerged up the ladder from the depths of the hull, his beard shot through with gray, his dark and gray-streaked hair a dirty mess, his face drawn and mouth tight, his stockings and trousers drenched.
“What in the name of God is hitting us?” he asked Matthew, his voice as tight as his mouth.
It took Matthew an effort to answer, for his lungs seemed diminished by his topside travails. “Whales. All around us.”
“Beatin’ us to death, almost!” said Guinnessey.
“Beating us to death, for certain,” Greathouse answered. “Gentlemen, we’re sinking.”
Six
“Balderdash. This ship was built to withstand ten times that much battering!” was Captain Poe’s first response to the sorry and alarming news from both Greathouse and the Triton’s crewman Symon, who’d been working the pumps when the assault had begun.
The captain changed his tune when he went down into the hull to see for himself after the pod of whales had thankfully moved off to the southeast with a last few disdainful fountains of spume. Poe came up the ladder ashen-faced and wet to the waist. Thus went into action, along with renewed focus on the pumps, the pots of caulk and pine tar in an attempt to seal up the spaces where timbers had been further disjointed and the Mediterranean was streaming in with fearsome speed. Unfortunately, as Hudson told Matthew away from the earshot of others, there were in his estimation too many disjointings. The hungry sea, he said, was going to consume the Essex Triton within a few hours. The pumps just could not keep pace, no matter how much muscle was applied, and to repair this damage would take a specialized team of workmen, which this crew was certainly not.
During all this, Matthew saw Professor Fell emerge from his cabin to confer briefly with Captain Poe, and then once more the professor retired to his lair. Just after midnight Poe ordered the mainsail lowered and the anchor dragged. Two men were assigned to climb up into the tops to turn the ship’s ensign upside-down, the universal signal for distress, and then a pair of red-lensed lamps were hung from the stern. A watchman was assigned to observe through his spyglass the distant lights of the white brigantine following behind, in hopes that the Triton’s red lamps would signify the serious need for aid.
“Are we all gonna drown?” Guinnessey asked Hudson as Matthew stood alongside on the deck. Matthew, too, was watching the brigantine’s lights draw nearer, perhaps now only four or five nautical miles behind, and he—along with everyone else on board—was aware of the perceptible tilt of the deck toward the port side. At any other time he might have lounged out here enjoying the night with its sky beautifully ablaze with stars and a light breeze blowing, but to go along with the problem of the sinking ship he felt as if every bone in his body—even his teeth—ached from his tumble back and forth across the deck.
“Drownin’,” Guinnessey pressed when Hudson didn’t reply. “Are we gonna?”
“Of course not!” came the answer. “Maybe the ship’ll go under, but we won’t. There’s the lifeboat.” Hudson motioned toward the skiff lashed down amidships, which any simpleton could see was probably only large enough for eight men. “And also … that brig out there … the watch has likely marked our lamps and they’re coming to help. So don’t worry yourself.”
“I was born worryin’,” said Guinnessey. He ran a hand through his thatch of gray hair. “Damn me for gettin’ involved with any of this! Should’ve been a schoolteacher like my mam wanted!”
“We’ll make it through this, Hugh. Anyway, I owe you too much money for you to let me drown.” Spoken because Hudson, Guinnessey and several of the crew had spent as many hours throwing dice and playing cards as Matthew had spent attending to his reading.
All aboard but the professor stood on deck watching the white ship approach. Within an hour it had gotten near enough to make out crewmen standing ready to assist. A call came over a speaking-horn: “Ahoy there! What’s the trouble?” And from Captain Poe at his own horn: “This is the Essex Triton bound from England to Venice! We’re taking on water and our pumps can’t hold! Can you give aid?”
“Certainly we can,” came the answer. “Prepare to take on lines!”
“What ship is that?” Poe called.
There was no reply, but the captain didn’t wish to spend any more precious time. He ordered his crew to ready themselves to secure the lines and throw their own. As the white brigantine lowered its sails and came up alongside, Matthew stood with Hudson and Guinnessey watching the procedure, with Sanderson and Dawes standing nearby.
“I don’t know how they can help,” Hudson said under his breath. “Unless they’re carrying a spare hull.”
“What ship?” Poe called once more, as the ropes were being thrown back and forth.
“The Nemesis,” was the reply through a horn. “Also bound from England to Venice. I am Captain Evan Brand. We’ll secure a plank across and board, with your permission.”
“Yes! Please, come aboard!”
All Matthew could do was stay out of the way as the crew moved about, accepting by rope and pulley a railed gangplank that was set between the two ships and further secured in place. This vessel being so close behind was surely a stroke of good fortune, and in addition Matthew didn’t think he’d ever seen as beautiful a ship as this one was, not only for its timely arrival but also for its clean lines and its stately and obviously impeccably kept condition. Whoever owned such a craft must be a dignitary of the highest order, possibly on a diplomatic journey. The only break in the line of the hull on this side was comprised of three portholes toward the stern, all illuminated by the golden cast of internal lamplight. He imagined it must be the captain’s cabin, or the dignitary en route to—
“What ship is this?”
Matthew’s thoughts were interrupted by Professor Fell’s voice. He realized Fell had quietly emerged from his cabin and was standing just behind Matthew, Hudson and Guinnessey. There was something—a tension, an edge, something strained—in the man’s question that instantly put Matthew’s senses on alert.
