Serial Sunday: The Renaissance Man and the Strange New World, Part I
- Jun 21
- 5 min read
By Ryan Fleming.
Harry Bell did not care for the night watch. There were precious few jobs he did care for aboard the Brunswick, but the night watch was an especially frustrating one. He was stuck on deck for the entire night, and that far out at sea on that dark a night he was staring into an unending darkness for the full watch. There was only the muffled sound of the engines to keep him company. Very few crewmembers moved about deck at night, and those that did would much rather sneak a quick smoke in some secluded corner than engage Harry. It could have been worse, of course, things always could, as Harry’s mother had often told him. He could have been pulling this duty in the Atlantic, where his ears would be so numb he could not even hear the waves.
Although only eighteen, Harry had been across the Atlantic, Indian, and finally Pacific Oceans. He had learned a lot in his short sailing career. For one, he had learned how, absent of all other sensory input, the sound of the waves changed the closer a ship came to shore. They must have been very close for he could have sworn he was hearing breakers. Something was amiss, since as far as Harry knew they were still several days out from Hawaii, with nothing between there and them but ocean. He drew his glasses to his eyes to survey what lay ahead.
The darkness of the ocean and the darkness of the night offered little, Harry could barely make out the horizon. Yet the sound of those breakers was becoming more distinct. He scanned where he thought the horizon ought to be. Yes, he could barely make it out, but there was something odd. The horizon looked broken, jagged, and still. A momentary flash of white caught his eyes as the ocean turned to foam, breaking against something solid.
Harry rang the alarm, rousing the entire ship. He was met with disbelief, of course, but more experienced seamen decided the least they could do was look themselves.
Eyes that were more accustomed to night watch than Harry’s confirmed the boy’s report. Slow ahead was ordered along with depth readings. The first light of the dawn finally offered them a true glimpse of what lay ahead.
It was indeed land, hundreds of miles from where there should have been any. And it was no rogue rock or small atoll, or even an island paradise. None of the sailors could believe their eyes, most of all one who finally put the sheer size of it into words.
“When did we change course to Australia?”
Whilst sailors and officers debated, Harry continued to stare out at the unexpected coast. He could have sworn a short time later as they drew nearer that he could hear a monstrous roar coming from the strange new world.
***
Checking and rechecking their charts, the Brunswick soon knew this was not any known land. She was soon broadcasting her discovery across the world via radio. Her nearest contacts, other ships at sea, relayed the message back to the nearest landbound stations. Word sped up once it made land, advancing along telegraph lines from isolated stations to villages to towns to cities.
By the time it reached the Brunswick’s last dock, Hong Kong, it had already spiralled out, web-like, north and south along that path. The indigenous peoples of those islands in the Malay Archipelago were not as excited by the appearance of new lands as were the European imperialists who occupied their lands.
It was a new part of the map to plant a flag over, after all.
From Hong Kong the news went north into China and from there to Japan and the Soviets in Siberia. In the south the word reached Australia and then New Zealand. Apart from Japan, the imperial powers in that part of the world had to pass word back to their metropoles. After the initial spurt in all directions, the news turned into a wave that travelled east to west.
The news made its way to the capitals of the European powers. Amsterdam, Berlin, Brussels, Leningrad, London, Paris, Rome, Vienna.
The exception was from the Philippines, where the flag of the United States was flown. The undersea telegraph carried word from Manila to Honolulu in Hawaii to the west coast of the United States in San Francisco. From California it was passed back across the path of that country’s westward expansion to the cities of the east coast.
Almost on the opposite side of the globe from where Harry Bell had spotted the strange new world, word reached New York City west from San Francisco and east from Europe almost simultaneously. The meeting point for the two streams of information repeated, embellished, and subject to rumour and speculation a hundred times from when it was first sent by the Brunswick.
***
The press of New York City, and indeed the press worldwide, were sent into a frenzy at the news. Even the more reputable journals of opinion in the city were carrying stories of Amazonian giants, bloodthirsty cannibals, fire-breathing dragons, mountains of gold, and occasionally something even more outlandish. Tall tales of strange lands beyond the sea had hardly changed one iota since the time of the first sailors.
After the press had run through their initial flurry of rumours, innuendo, and baseless speculation they needed a fresh angle on the story. Their city boasted an almost limitless supply of academics, diplomats, and scientists. The press was not about to consult with any of them. Nameless experts did not sell periodicals.
There was only one man that the people of New York, or the world, would want to read opine on the strange turn of events. It was the same man that had gone into the Arctic and returned with the first live woolly mammoth, since housed in the Bronx Zoological Park. It was the same man that had infiltrated Baron Brunwald’s submarine as it lay beneath New York Harbor, ready to begin shelling the city. It was the same man that had led the rescue of the lost Antarctic expedition, braving the freezing continent to bring them back alive.
It was Charles Chance, the Renaissance Man.
The press awaited him outside the familiar brownstone in Midtown. Dozens of flashbulbs signalled the arrival of the famed six-wheeled silver car into the street. The Renaissance Man was all smiles as he stepped out of the car, still sporting a cap emblazoned with the logo of the New York Cubans from a trip to the Polo Grounds earlier that day.
He deflected all the questions with the ease of someone used to saying absolutely nothing disguised as absolutely everything. The press hung on his every word, and his non-comments would be plastered all over the evening editions.
With a final wave to a barrage of flashbulbs, Chance bade the assembled press of New York City goodbye.
He slumped down against the door after closing it. Closing his eyes, he listened to the retreating chatter and sound of leather on sidewalk.
Upon opening his eyes, there were five others looking at him from the hallway of the brownstone.
“Okay,” he said, relieved. “What’s going on?”
Ryan Fleming is the author of SLP's Reid in Braid and various short stories for the anthologies, as well as editing The Scottish Anthology.
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