Untitled (9 page)

   "Via Lisbon, Paris and Vienna," squeaked Anatole. A misty look came onto his face. "Ah, Vienna, where a man could follow his trade. My specialty was the wedding cake."

   "Wedding cake?" said Hartwell dully.

   "Yes. And pastry."

   "A good cook would be useful and welcome," murmured Fitch, looking speculatively at Anatole's broad shoulders and handsome face.

   "Take a seat in the corner, Anatole," said Hartwell with a sigh. "Next man, please. Oh, good grief," he added at seeing the next applicant.

   "Master Richard Keating, reporting for duty, sir," said the girl dressed as a boy. She had done her best by tucking her long, luxuriant hair into a small cap, covering her face with burnt cork to simulate incipient stubble and wearing a pair of trousers and shirt. Unfortunately, her lower figure bulged at the hips in a way that a man's rarely did, while the gap between the end of the trousers and the shoes showed the smooth leg of an undoubted young woman. The breasts swinging loose under the shirt were also something of a giveaway.

   "Experience, Mister Keating?" asked Hartwell, massaging his brow.

   "Cabin boy, Captain," said the girl, before realizing she had forgotten to keep up her gruff, manly voice. "Cabin boy," she repeated in a deeper tone after a fit of false coughing. "Sorry, sir, it's my smoking habit, thirty a day, did I say thirty? More like fifty, makes my voice go funny at times."

   "Really?" said Fitch. "Never mind, have a go with my pipe, it's drawing nicely." He handed the pipe over with an evil grin.

   Keating's face looked shocked, disgusted and horrified before the mask fell back into place. "Wouldn't hear of depriving you of your pipe, sir. Wouldn't be right."

   "I insist," said Fitch. "I hate to see a young lad go without his smoke, it puts hair on your chest."

   "Thank you, Mister Keating, over there with the others," said Hartwell, relieving the girl of her dilemma. She skipped over to the side of the room.

   The interviews went on, with most of the applicants being revealed as murderers, thieves and lunatics. Finally, Madrigal opened the door and announced the last man wishing to volunteer for a life on the ocean wave.

   "Kept the best till last, have you?" asked Fitch sourly.

   "Gentlemen," said Madrigal, ignoring the comment. "Lucky Pete." The figure in the door frame didn't move. Eventually, they saw in the dim light that Lucky Pete was facing the wrong way. Madrigal tapped him on the shoulder. Lucky Pete turned, said "Mernarwn," and limped into the room.

   As he moved to the light, the crew leaned back in consternation. Lucky Pete's face was a patchwork of scars from his neck to his brow. Both his eyes were missing—stretched skin, both marked with X-shaped scars, covered the empty sockets. His ears had gone, too, and most of his nose and half of his lips. As he limped across the room, the rat-tap-tap announced the presence of a wooden stump to replace the missing leg, while one hand was likewise a wooden replacement. His other hand was still attached, but was missing two fingers.

   The figure continued to walk until it crashed into the table seconds before Madrigal could stop him. Despite being blind, Lucky Pete looked around him before saying "Wharnf?" His audience saw in increasing horror that his tongue had also gone.

   "What in the name of God happened to him?" demanded Hartwell.

   "Lucky Pete was on a ship which foundered off the coast of Bajea, the infamous Cannibal Island," said Madrigal. "The crew were brained and eaten. Lucky Pete was kept alive for the sadistic pleasure of the cannibals, who gouged out his eyes, lopped off his ears, took off his nose and mouth, deprived him of his fingers one by one, and then his whole hand and two fingers from the other hand, sliced off his nipples, broke his ribs and then broke and chopped off his leg."

   "Why in the name of sanity is he called
Lucky
Pete?"
asked Hartwell incredulously.

   "He was rescued before the cannibals could make a start at mutilating his… tender areas," said Madrigal.

   Lucky Pete nodded vigorously.

   "And what was your role as a sailor?" asked Hartwell.

   "Euonrol noonies," replied Lucky Pete.

   "Pardon?"

   "He said „general duties'," translated Mechatronic.

   "You can understand the poor devil?" asked Fitch.

   "Of course. Can't you?" asked Mechatronic.

   "Not a word."

   "He still has the root of his tongue, the rest is interpretation and extrapolation," said Mechatronic.

   "I think we are done here," said Hartwell. "Madrigal, did I or did I not ask you to find a crew?"

   "You did, Captain Hartwell."

   "Yet, at best, you seem to have found only parts of a crew."

   "They are all willing."

   "By which I presume you mean they are willing to escape this hellhole, by any means possible?"

   "I'd say
desperate
to escape this hellhole," corrected Madrigal, a look of slight embarrassment on his face.

   "I see. And you think these men and one girl are just right for the job?"

   "Beggars can't be choosers, Captain. In life, you never know what is going to come through the door." As Madrigal spoke, the door burst open and a man appeared, holding Ruby roughly in one hand and pressing a knife to her throat with the other.

   "Captain Hartwell!" spat the man. "I knew you'd come here, so I lay in readiness, waiting to spring the trap. You are under arrest and your next appointment is with the gallows." The figure moved into the room and they saw in the flickering candlelight the weasel features of Fleetwood.

he candlelight glinted off the evil blade pressed to Ruby's throat, as well as the glint of evil in Fleetwood's eyes. It also illuminated the captain's uniform he was wearing, as well as the hefty men clustered behind him at the door. Most were recognisable as being the crew from the Pr
ide
of Plymouth
who had allied themselves with the authority of Johnson rather than the cause of Hartwell.

   "I see you have been promoted, Mister Fleetwood," said Hartwell evenly. "Congratulations. I never knew rats could rise so high."

   "Admiral Johnson appreciates quality and loyalty," snapped Fleetwood.

   "And no doubt he doesn't object to a sycophant agreeing with every word he utters," interrupted Fitch in contempt.

   Fleetwood's lips twisted in hatred. "Our goals are the same," he snarled.

   "The goal of running a private slave trade under the cover of stopping the slave trade? Or do you mean your shared objective is the treacherous hypocrisy inherent in such an enterprise?" asked Hartwell.

   "Oh, you may talk with all your wit and moral superiority, but the truth is that money talks loudest and man was put here to rule or to be ruled and I know on which side I belong."

   "What is this about slavery?" demanded Mechatronic in an aside to Susanna, who quickly explained.

   "And this man Fleetwood?" asked Mechatronic. "He was part of your crew?"

   "Unfortunately," muttered Fitch. "He's clearly seized the chance to further ingratiate himself with Johnson."

   "Disgraceful," snapped Bardon, snapping to attention. "Such behaviour is against all laws of common humanity and decency."

   "Quite agree," squeaked Anatole, glaring at Fleetwood.

   "Slavers?" said Blake, after Keating had repeated the gist of the conversation to him at full volume in his ear. "Scum!"

   "Gerhv fnackern," agreed Lucky Pete.

   Hartwell glanced around him and wasn't surprised to see that Anatole, Bardon, Keating, Blake and Lucky Pete had all allied themselves with him, while the majority of the men, who only moments before had been claiming to be ready to sign up as his new crew, had already melted away through a side door.

   "How did you know we'd come here?" demanded Fitch.

   "Where else would you go?" asked Fleetwood rhetorically. "I begged the Admiral the favour of taking the P
lymouth fro
m the fleet and getting here ahead of you, no hard task given that wreck of a ship you escaped on, and waited for you to appear.

   "The P
lymouth is
hidden on the other side of the island. Once we have dealt with you, we shall scuttle that ship of yours and no one will ever know what happened here. The official record will show that Captain Hartwell mutinied and died a coward's death along with his crew."

   "Your argument is with me, not my crew," said Hartwell. "If you let them go, you can do what you want with me."

   "Don't you dare try and bargain with that rodent for our sakes," interrupted Fitch. "We all joined you for what was right and that hasn't changed. Right is still right."

   "Well said, Mister Fitch," said Susanna, placing her hand on his arm. "Better die in honour than live in shame like Fleetwood."

   "I will enjoy my shame, Miss Hartwell," leered Fleetwood. "And I'll enjoy your deaths so very, very much."

   "You'd better get out," whispered Fitch to Anatole and the others. "This is not your fight."

   "It is," squeaked Anatole. "Though I know not how to fight, I will stand with any who oppose the slave trade."

   "I'd rather meet my end for a good cause than be brutalised by some drunken thug in this place," said Keating with feeling, thus revealing why she was so desperate to escape. From the moment she began to develop physically, the dangers had developed also for the young girl trapped on the island.

   "This is our fight," added Bardon. "This is the fight of every honourable citizen."

   "Slavers," growled Blake simply, his hand on the dagger at his belt.

   "Gurwan im euen omay unand," observed Lucky Pete.

   "What did he say?" asked Susanna of Mechatronic.

   " 'There comes a time when you must make a stand,' " said Mechatronic, a strange emotion on her face, though only Susanna could see it under her hood and only Hartwell could hear it in her voice.

   "Gurwan im euen no nop oong,"

   " 'There comes a time when you must stop running.' "

   "The empty, meaningless words of the losers," screeched Fleetwood. "Have you nothing real to say?"

   "Ouanargh oant!" said Lucky Pete to Fleetwood's face.

   "I think you all got the gist of that one," said Mechatronic. "I am truly sorry, Captain, but I can do little or nothing to help you. I am still too badly damaged from the crash to be of assistance. I believe this is where my journey finally ends. I, at least, have the comfort that I spent my final day with you, your sister and your crew. I experienced something more than a mere continuation of life."

   She gazed at Hartwell's face as she spoke and each saw the same sadness reflected there—a sadness that encompassed not only the impending death of all in the room, but also the fact that she and Hartwell would never get to know each other.