Preview: The Cargo

 Repubblica Anconitana, Italy.

November 1797

If the ship were a person, she’d have been a pock-marked whore drifting soberly through the streets, ankle-deep in mess and barefoot. She met every judgmental eye with scorn as if to say, ‘That’s not all.’ I felt one with her, standing out in the rows of vessels which, polished with cloud-white sails corseted with fat new rope, looked down on her like the filth she was. Another thing hanging about uninvited, just like myself. She rocked steadily, fastened with a single slack rope to the port, as if she knew her place, and couldn’t dream of drifting off of her own accord. A gentle creature of English make, despite the rough trim of wear around her belly, dressing her in layers of lacy salt petticoats.

She was perfect. Tame, anonymous, and by the look of her, fast.

Her siren figurehead looked away as I trotted across the gangplank with Roderic’s books under my arm, smoothing my nervousness into disinterest. As I approached, I kept my eyes on her crew, a hundred yards off in the Lazzaretto di Ancona, that star-shaped quarantine building that had been my hideout since leaving Rome. I had really been satisfied to remain there for the rest of time, writing in the sunlit courtyard, creeping into the city library in the evenings, and sitting in the shade of the Tempio di San Rocco, that central temple to the Patron Saint of Health. With the blue Adriatic always to my right side, it was as close to Heaven as anyone could get.

It was only that morning that the Lazzaretto became unsafe for me, like the rest of Italy. The French troops, which had circled the Lazzaretto like vultures for the past few days, had taken one look in and cloistered around the tobacco warehouse, trying to break in while the native flies sucked at their skin in spite. I doubted they would take so kindly to my company, and sure I had heard enough of their dreary poetry for a lifetime, it became necessary for me to steal out of the Lazzaretto, and out of Italy. I brushed past the Tempio at a flaneur’s pace, quick enough not to draw attention, but with a lingering glance at the blazing white columns which glimmered in the midday sun. I imagined they were as sad to see me go as I was to leave them.

The vessel was the only one unmarked by any flag, the other merchant vessels having fled the night before the occupation swept in in full swing, whether their business was complete or not. She’d had a name once, now hidden beneath deep cuts bored into her side. She wore them unlike the battle scars that adorned her French counterparts, lining the gaps between the blinking eyes of cannons. They dimpled her hips and rear, speaking of age, not experience, and she had no cannons to speak of. No defences at all, in fact, except perhaps her crew, but I had not planned to be acquainted with them at that point. Though wedged between two of Napoleon’s grandest warships, she didn’t cower. Neither did I as I boarded her, though when I looked up through her sails and caught the speck of a man in the crow’s nest, I froze.

He gazed as far as the horizon and even beyond it. I couldn’t see his eyes or what they clung to, but by his stillness he appeared more as a part of the mast than a person, one vertebra in the immovable spine. He pressed his shoulders into it like a coat, then disappeared in a swathe of golden fog. I let go of my held breath, and moved out of sight.

French warships orbited Ancona’s ports, filling the gaps left behind by the traders from its sister republics. Their drones hung far on flat waters like scattered poppy seeds. Every day more and more arrived to amass a full blockade, and every day the chances of intervention from Rome dwindled. Tension had levelled the waves and tamed the winds; everything suspended in wait of cannon fire.

In my eyes Rome was still the venerable beast it had always been, all appetite and no hunger. I had slipped through its teeth when I arrived in Ancona, only to watch it tuck tail and run at the merest show of force. Had I known it would be so simple, that Rome was not the immovable object it claimed to be, I would have adopted similar tactics when I’d had the chance, and the connections. But it was too late now, and Roderic was dead, and I was again one man with nothing. One disgraced man with a handful of books under my arm, stowing himself on a tramp of a ship, hoping to see England once more. Beyond that, I had no plan.

One last time, I exercised my lifelong talent of sneaking into places I didn’t belong, and noiselessly crossed over the threshold, onto the deck. I carried myself with the air of someone who already belonged here, having learnt recently a man of my stature could get anywhere like this. Beneath my heavy coat, my heart beat frantic against my ribs.

The ship’s interior was unassuming from the scan I made of it, and my unwilling hosts had chosen to travel light. The journey across the Mediterranean would be a swift one, as I’d overheard. The inside was swept and clean, and there was a small cabin above deck for the Captain, and another adjacent to it for the crew, hung with clean new hammocks in buccaneer style. A chair kept the door propped open, standing vigilant as an old nursery maid. The berth was empty, so I secured myself below deck, drawing two chests of provisions together and layering them with spare sail cloth to make a bed high off the ground. Hidden behind a stack of crates, I was as good as invisible, though could still see above deck through a gap in the planks.

I finished arranging my quarters for the journey, discreet as a phantom, and resolved to head above deck for a final look at the sky. Unhappy as it was with its November clouds haunting in the West, I didn’t want to stuff myself down here for weeks without a proper goodbye. My plans were foiled when I heard the telltale thud of boots on the gangplank, and, shot with fear, I retreated into the hold, holding my breath for good measure.

A dozen pairs of feet crossed above my head, each step booming in my ears.

“Half now and half on delivery,” said a grating voice. “Sounds like the old days.”

“Don’t talk like that, Abi,” scolded another. “Help me haul it up.”

A heavy scraping howled across the deck. They rested the load at the base of the mast. It looked like a crate.

“Abi,” said the second man with a friendly, optimistic voice, “go fetch Heath. He’s lost in the clouds again.”

“Aye.”

The impact of Abi climbing up the mast made the whole ship shiver with every lurch. A minute later, two pairs of feet thudded down close to my face.

“Where is he going?” asked the second man. I believed he was the Captain.

“He always takes confession before we sail,” said Abi, as the barrelman dusted himself off and set off towards the port.

“Go with him,” said the Captain.

“Cathedral’s not far off, I can see it from ‘here.”

“Just go, we can’t afford any more delays.” Abi followed the barrelman down the gangplank as the Captain rounded up another pair of hands to heave the crate below deck. The bolts creaked as the crate fell heavily down on the opposite side of the ship.

“Over there,” instructed the Captain. “Argent, help me cover it.”

I lifted the sail cloth that curtained me from the berth and peered through. In the dimness I made out two men, the taller of which appeared to be Argent, approaching the shelf behind which I was stowed. He grabbed a cloth and didn’t see me.

“Captain,” he said, hesitating as he unfolded the cloth. “May I speak freely?”

The Captain nodded. Long hair and a patchy beard obscured his face.

“The General seemed to know you,” said Argent. “But he called you—”

“We knew each other long ago,” interrupted the Captain, laying his hand on the crate to smooth the white cover over it. “Our friendship ended…poorly. We’re lucky that he let us leave in one piece.”

“My God,” Argent exhaled. “Why would he help us now?”

Th crate sat like a quiet child between them, begging for attention with its stillness.

“I don’t know,” replied the Captain after a moment. He began to shove the crate towards me. “But he guaranteed us safe passage, and our first genuine bit of income.”

Argent huffed a nervous laugh.

“We can’t guarantee England receives us with open arms, but at least we’ll get paid. If my old friend is as decent as I remember, he tells the truth.”

“It’s been long enough,” said Argent. “Besides, we are merchant sailors now, are we not?”

“We will be. Whatever contraband the General wants to send to an enemy of his country is no business of mine. I only hope the money is enough for a new ship.” The wood beneath them creaked under the weight of the crate. “Heath hates it.”

“Heath was raised in a cave with pigs,” Argent laughed. “This is a palace to him.”

With that, the crate hit the shelf that separated me and them. I only let myself breathe once they were above deck again. Abi and Heath returned.

“That was a short confession,” Argent joked, but nobody returned his laughter.

Abi scoffed. “Church is closed. Bloody French kicked the bishops out last night.”

“He can confess in England,” offered the Captain, though it didn’t settle the nervous atmosphere above. “Everything will be alright, Heath.”

Heath did not respond.

“He always confesses when we go on land,” Abi emphasised.

“I know,” sighed the Captain, watching Heath climb deftly up the mast and perch in the crow’s nest. It dawned on me that the barrelman was mute, and a diligent confessor at that. I would have to wait to laugh at the absurdity of that when I was sure nobody could hear me. It’d be embarrassing to be caught and killed before the ship even left the port. “The wind’s picking up. Let’s sail before they change their minds.”

In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.

The words came without me calling them to mind. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been three hundred days since my last confession. I opened my eyes. That was the part I struggled with. Keeping count. Roderic always remembered. Three hundred and five. I would hear his voice through the grille. There was little room in my hideaway to make the sign of the cross.

It was a quiet, wakeful night, as we crawled away from Ancona’s shores. The air cooled and darkened until I strained even to see the crate that rested beside me. It groaned when the ship rocked into a wave, shifting with a grunt across the floor, then back in place. Roderic’s books cushioned my head. Reluctantly, I slept, and thought I dreamt of him at his desk, turned away from me and haloed by the late glow of the candle he worked by. But the dream was as shallow as my sleep, and I waked and had seen nothing but the back of his head. Was I forgetting his face already? It couldn’t have been more than a month since I last saw him, alive and livid and beautiful.

“Et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,” I whispered to myself. Before I boarded, I invoked Albinus of Angers to protect me from pirates. Knelt by my window, I’d watched them leave their ship and then began to plan how I would get away. His name had crossed my lips before I knew it, and I could hardly take it back. He loomed over my shoulder ever since.

I could still feel the weight of the rosary beads around my neck. The thirty silver ducats it had won me in L’Aguila were spent securing my escape, and the silence of the strangers who’d taken me in for a night. Whether I could depend on it lasting was no longer my concern. In England I’d be out of reach of Rome’s claws. Anonymity could be my rebirth, and with the threat of France across its shores, I’d fade into obscurity soon enough.

The wind had picked up while I slept, lashing the sides of the ship with mean gusts that rocked the frame in all directions. Above, the crew was roused, and soon the cargo’s scraping wasn’t the only harsh sound. I buckled down. I should have been safe where I was, so long as I kept a grip on my surroundings. The shelves were heavy, boxed in by chests of supplies and the sturdy walls, but still they creaked out threats to topple and land right on my neck. I held my hands out just in case and listened to the havoc above deck.

“Cut it,” someone barked an order. “Cut it now!”

In nomine Patris…Thunder cracked over and around me, the storm’s power shivering through the frame of the ship. The air buzzed with its charge. I shoved Roderic’s books under my back. Et Fillii…The hull heaved starboard, sending me rolling out of my hideout feet-first. Before I could grab on to something it rocked all the way back. I slid back up. My crown hit the sturdy wall. Pain broke across my head and neck. Et Spiritus Sancti—

“Hold!” echoed through the tempest, as the ship rocked sharply, toppling my perch. I fell into the berth, my head slammed against a fallen chest. Water pooled around my knees, sharp and cold. I saw nothing between the lightning flashes, feeling around either side of me to get my bearings. When I caught on to something solid, splinters dug into my palms, then the heaving shape of the crate came into view just as the next wave bowled me over again. The last thing I remember of that night was the sight of the crate sliding through the water towards me as I grappled for purchase on the slippery wall.

When I woke, it was to a profound silence.

“Ave Maria, gratia plena…” My lips were already reciting the prayer, but I made no sound. Sunlight streamed down in a brilliant beam across the floor. It was dry. My eyes flew open, believing I’d been moved, but no, I was still in the hold. Across from where I sat, my hideout had been ransacked. Roderic’s books lay open on a stack of sailcloth. I could make out a print of Saint Sebastian. I’d watched Roderic cut the plates by hand.

“That will have to wait until we reach Cyprus.” The near voice of the first mate made me jump, so the back of my head hit the wall again. I cursed, but still, I could make no sound. I would have begged for water. I tried to move back into the shade, and found my self tied up.

“How long will that be?” another voice asked. I turned towards them, alarmed by how near the two men were. The opposite side of the hold had been cleared out. Sailcloth hung across the walls and ceiling in a tent-like fashion. The men looked in, pondering and quiet.

“A day or two,” said Argent. “We’ll go from there once Captain recovers.” The other man looked up, saying nothing. “Did Abraham mend the box?”

“We’ll have to make a new one,” was the reply. “A lot of the cargo washed away. We recovered all we could, but it won’t fetch even half.”

“It’s better than nothing, Jude,” said Argent. “We can use some of the General’s advance for repairs in Cyprus and see if we can find a surgeon.”

“It’ll be expensive,” Jude exhaled. “I used to watch Damian work before he left us, maybe I can try—”

“We can’t compromise on this. You remember how Captain looked after us, we must return the favour now.” Jude’s hand gravitated to his leg. “We’ll pay whatever cost. Use my share of the plunder if you must.”

I tried to slide out of my restraints, but they held fast. The rope burned at my wrists, and I realised I was tied to something. Hope dwindled as my weak heart beat furiously in my chest. Every time one of the men turned, I was sure my fate was sealed. The ache inside my head half-blinded me. It would have been a mercy to drown. I knew what pirates did to stowaways. That gory stuff of children’s books seemed all too possible with two of them so close by. What was I thinking? Pain whispered in, then shouted. I bit my cheek to keep from groaning.

Ave Maria, I said in my head, exploring the space behind me, searching for anything sharp—a hook, or latch—that I could drag the rope over to sever my bonds. But where would I go then?

Hammering footsteps came down the ramp. I hung my head, feigning sleep. The shadow passed over me.

Argent said, “How is he?”

I opened my eyes just enough to see ‘Abraham’ had joined them.

“Same as.”

Argent grunted and looked back towards the tented space. “You think it’ll do for a chapel?” he asked.

“Heath would be a better judge,” said Abi, “If ’e would come down from ’is nest.”

“He’ll come down once Captain wakes,” said Jude. He and Abi exchanged a look.

“Abi,” said Argent, “did you manage to fix the box?”

“The wood’s shattered. It’s no good for nothing now. We need new—”

Jude chimed in, “The money won’t cover it.”

“Pack it in cloth and use a crate,” said Argent. “The box is not the cargo.”

The other two hesitated. “Do we know what it is?” asked Jude.

Abi shrugged. “Looks like powdered ink to me. One of the lads whiffed it, said it smelled green. Like unripe tomatoes.”

“It could be ink. Or gunpowder.”

“There’s plenty of ink in England, and I know gunpowder when I see it. I bet it’s poison.”

“If that were so,” chimed Jude, directing his voice to me, “then he’d be dead. It’s probably maquillage. English women have strange fashions. Maybe the General has an English lady.”

Argent turned to face me. “Nobody touches it until we’re sure.” His glare was laced with fear and fire in equal measure. “Wake him up.”

Abi moved behind me. He pulled at my ropes, which fell away with little effort. I feigned being jostled from sleep, but no sooner had I opened my eyes, than Abi gripped me by the shoulders. My head still pounded. Seeing Jude with Roderic’s book did not disturb me right away.

Jude’s brow furrowed. He muttered something quick in French to Argent.

“Fine,” Argent conceded. A shiver went down my spine as Jude turned his attention back to me.

“Are you a surgeon?” he asked.

“What?” I asked, the word grating my throat. How much seawater had I drank?

“Medicine—medicine.” Jude snapped his fingers in my face and crouched. “These drawings in your books. They’re anatomy, no?” He opened Roderic’s book, flipping through stained scenes: The arms of Satan outstretched in a bow, Eve’s back turned as she reached for the apple, rebel angels crowding a pale cavern. When I first saw them completed, they’d brought on tears. Now I loathed to look on them.

“They’re illustrations,” I said in a weak voice. “Dante and Milton.”

“Who?”

“Poets—it’s poetry.”

“We have no use for poetry,” said Argent behind me. Jude eyed him, impatience simmering as he found another page. He spread the winged arms of Lucifer, cast in flames either side of the page. I had watched Roderic draw them, making copies upon copies by candlelight. The hand of Lucifer was my own, but once he’d drawn it, it no longer felt so.

“You drew this?”

I shook my head. Jude flipped over and tapped the dissected ribs of Adam, head thrown back in ecstasy. Muscle and bone coloured with pearl and crimson. He stared.

“It’s not mine,” I insisted. “I’m not an artist—or surgeon. I’m taking them to England.”

“You’re a smuggler?”

“No!” I tried to clear my throat. The three men watched me, statuesque. “They were made by a friend. I’m taking them to England to publish.” It was only half a lie. Roderic had confessed his dream of showing his art to the world. If things had gone right that day, my plan was to ask him, just before I left, to come with me.

Abi shoved me. “You thought you’d get a free ferry with us?”

Out of the three, Jude appeared the least affected by my stowing away. Argent had begun to pace, his heavy boots thudding as he came nearer.

“I’m not a surgeon,” I said. “But my father was.” Another half-truth—my father’s company manufactured cloth for bandages. Argent stilled, and Abi loosened his grip. Before I could build up the lie, I was dragged to my feet and towards the light. I didn’t think I’d see the sky so soon again. The sun greeted me with renewed pain as I left the damp berth behind. Were it not for the black clouds still retreating, I would’ve thought the storm passed days ago.

Abi didn’t stop on the sun-warmed deck, instead dragging me over the length of the ship, past sailors who moved about like phantoms. The whole ship had an air of wakefulness, but nothing moved. The sails were loosened, yet empty of wind, and even the lazy rocking had stopped. Nothing seemed alive but me.

Just as I managed to plant my feet underneath me, I was pulled into another cabin. My eyes hadn’t adjusted to the sun, so the darkness was a relief. Until I saw what waited inside. Argent, Jude, and Abi all crowded in behind me, their bodies pushing me into the middle of the room until my knees hit the bedside.

The first thing I thought when I saw the Captain laid out was there had never been a body better suited for death.

It was almost beautiful, like a painting of a martyr, frozen in death yet still blushing. His open lips expressed the relief of his final breath. His skin was pale and seemed to thin the closer I looked at it, and instead of golden hair and blue eyes everything about him was black as tar. Even as the sunlight streamed through the port window a black shade moved underneath his skin, rising up through the layers to consume him from the inside out.

He was dead.

The first mate folded his arms over his chest. “What can you do for him?”

What could anyone do now but cast him to the sea before he started to smell?

“Let me see,” I said, attempting to stall. They had no use for a poet, and now even a surgeon was a waste of money. The injuries to the ship I’d seen were minimal, too. If they could avoid another storm, there would be no need to stop in Malta at all.

I crouched by the bed and peeled back the many blankets layered over the captain. Jude gave a little gasp. I brought the Captain’s hand to my face and pressed my fingers to his wrist. A minute later I still felt nothing. I moved to the head of the bed and lowered my ear to his chest. There was no haggard rattle of a failing heart. I pressed my ear closer, feigning intrigue. The three men stepped forward but I motioned them to back away.

“I need a needle.”

Minutes later, a sailcloth needle was procured. My heart skipped a beat at its size. I went back to the bedside, took the Captain’s hand in mine, and in two smooth motions pricked both palms. A bead of red grew on my palm, but nothing out of the Captain’s. Covertly, I smeared my blood onto him and presented his hand.

“He’s still bleeding,” I said, tightening my fist behind my back.

Hope flourished beneath their stony expressions. I counted on it.

“He will need a proper physician,” I said with haste. “But his chances are slim and getting worse. I can hardly hear his heart beating. How long until we make landfall?”

“Three days,” said Abi.

“Two,” corrected Argent. “We can make it in two.”

I nodded, sage determination masking my face.

The first mate glanced down at the Captain. I hid his hand under the blankets and tucked them around him. Argent opened the door, ushering the others out. “You stay here,” he instructed me. I nodded, grateful to be left alone again.

I couldn’t find it in myself to regret my lie, but something like pity took hold as life sprang back into motion outside. Two days. I could live with this for two days. I wiped my blood on the blanket.

I was only alone for a minute. The Captain’s cabin was modestly furnished. The walls were lined with shelves of books, and free of dust like they had just been re-arranged. Underneath them, a large leather bag was stuffed with more books. Behind the bed, on the far side of the room, was a small writing desk with an inkwell carved into it, like the ones I’d spent so many hours at in private school. This all failed to distract me from the body in the middle.

I was tempted to lift the desk flap and peer inside, when the door opened, and another man walked in. By his silence, I recognised Heath. He slipped in through the narrow gap, glaring at me all the while. Dark eyes cut across the room and into me. I felt myself grow cold.

This is the first segment of an upcoming Nautical Gothic novel set on the Mediterranean Sea during the start of the Napoleonic wars.