Serial Sunday: The Renaissance Man and the Strange New World, Part VIII
- 2 days ago
- 7 min read
By Ryan Fleming.
Harry Bell had not slept in days. He was the sole survivor of the Brunswick, whose discovery of an unidentified continent in the South Pacific had meant quick (Harry hoped) death for all his shipmates, whether they had remained aboard or been in the first party ashore. Harry had survived, and he intended to keep it that way.
It was that intent that kept him from sleeping. He had seen enough from what lurked on the island to never let his guard down. One member of the landing party dragged into a bog by some writhing mass of tentacles. The rest of them dragged into darkness by monstrous, man-shaped creatures. Then the ship itself, crushed and dragged beneath the waves by more tentacles, whose size and strength Harry could scarcely believe.
He had watched the destruction of the ship from behind a rock, every few seconds glancing behind him to make sure none of the bipedal monsters were approaching him from behind. The largest tentacles, each of which must have been as thick of the trunk of an oak tree, coiled around midship like gargantuan snakes. The smaller tentacles, themselves as thick as elms, probed fore and aft, occasionally dragging a screaming sailor into the air and then beneath the waves. As the thicker tentacles coiled tighter, the ship began to buckle from the force. Those that remained took this as the final sign to abandon ship, either by trying to release the surviving lifeboats or jumping straight into the water.
Harry ran back down to the black beach, where their launch lay exactly as they left it, and waited for his shipmates to land or wash ashore.
They never did.
No lifeboats, no swimmers, not even a corpse washed up in the surf.
The launch was too big for Harry to handle on his own, but he would rather take his chances on the open sea than on that accursed land. He slept the first night on the launch under a blanket, intending to set out at first light. He awoke and saw the stars moving above him. Before long, the sound of the surf hitting the launch told him that it was he, not the stars, that were moving.
Bolting up, Harry saw that the launch was being dragged into the sea by the same elm-thick tentacles that had attacked the Brunswick. He snatched up what supplies he could and leapt from the boat, sprinting as fast as he could up the beach lest one of the tentacles make a grab for him.
He was trapped. No escape. Nowhere safe.
He had not slept since. He would hunker down for a few hours until he heard or saw something moving, whether plant or animal, then he’d crawl or walk slowly somewhere else and repeat the process. It could not last forever, already his supplies were dwindling despite his rationing. Harry considered returning back to where the rest of the landing party had been taken and scavenging for lost canteens or rations.
The thought gave him chills.
Word had gone out from the Brunswick on their discovery. Their exact position had been given in these communications. Their discovery would attract attention, Harry knew it. Other ships had to be on their way.
Harry just had to survive long enough to see them.
***
One such ship was making its way across the pacific to that position. It had sped down the Eastern Seaboard of the United States at top speed, called once briefly at Havana and then on to Nicaragua and through the famed Canal that split the continent. It sailed at the behest of no nation nor corporation, but of one man: The Renaissance Man.
At least, that was the plan.
Captain Ferdinand Curtis had set aside the finest cabins, a relative term, aside for the Renaissance Man, Charles Chance, and those that the world knew as his entourage. Alastair Eliott, his ward; Annie Thomas, his secretary; Benjamin Williams, his right-hand man; and Eileen Wong, his mechanic. There were one missing on this particular journey. Reginald Cullen, the man the world knew as the Renaissance Man’s loyal butler, remained back in New York in a hospital bed, the bullet of a would-be assassin in his shoulder.
The Renaissance, as they preferred to think of themselves, found that when the finest cabins aboard the Visigoth had been set aside for them that these were the only parts of the ship to which they had unfettered access.
Williams and Eileen found themselves escorted everywhere in the cargo holds whenever they wanted to make a check or test of the equipment and vehicles they had loaded for their expedition. Annie, Alastair and even Chance himself were unwelcome visitors to the bridge or the communications room of the ship.
It had been done progressively. They were allowed to roam the deck and most areas of the ship unfettered as they made their way from New York to Havana. After Havana entire holds had been sealed off to them and guarded. Annie wondered if they had taken on more cargo there whilst the Renaissance were off ship to allow Chance to shake hands and greet well-wishers in his halting Spanish.
It had worsened as they sailed across Lake Nicaragua and thence into the Pacific. They were not precisely confined to quarters, but their quarters were the only part of the ship in which they were unconfined.
Even Chance found himself under escort as he and Williams made their way to the Captain’s quarters accompanied by first mate Frank Slate.
“Mr. Chance,” Curtis greeted him warmly. “Williams.”
His greeting of the latter dropped a few degrees in warmth.
“Captain.”
Chance’s voice was firm as he began.
“We find ourselves restricted from accessing our own cargo, unable to send or receive communiques, and as of today even prevented from going up on deck. These were not the terms on which we chartered you to take us to the Pacific.”
Curtis held up his hand and closed his eyes to stop Chance, but the Renaissance Man kept going.
“Either restore our access to the rest of the ship or face forfeiture of your fee.”
Curtis opened his eyes, seemingly stunned by the threat. His face then broke into a smile.
“My fee? A generous one, to be sure, but what is it to be in the grand scheme of things?”
Chance raised an eyebrow at this question, whilst Williams continued to study Curtis’ eyes – along with the occasional sideways glance at Slate.
“One thing we’ve learned since the War is that millions today can be worth nothing tomorrow. A hundred years ago, aluminium used to be worth more than gold. Then they found a way to manufacture it.”
His smile had broadened.
“Only one thing that the truly ambitious know is worth the value we place on it. Only problem with this finite resource was that it had all been gobbled up by kings and countries. Until recently.”
Chance and Williams exchanged a glance.
“I’ll take you to the new world, Chance, but I didn’t agree to this contract for the fee. I took it for the opportunity.”
Curtis stood from his desk.
“I’ll ensure you have access to your cargo, but I’m afraid our radio is out of order until further notice. Good day, gentlemen.”
***
“No one goes anywhere unarmed.”
That was how Williams opened the gathering of the Renaissance in the small galley after he and Chance had been escorted back to their quarters by Slate.
“Meeting went well?” Eileen asked.
“The captain imagines he’s a conquistador,” Williams continued.
Looks were exchanged between the assembled members.
“Does anyone have any idea how far we might be from the new continent?” Eileen asked the room, immediately wanting to have plans in place to escape their predicament.
“Before the chart room and bridge were blocked off to us it looked like we were making enough headway to be there in 48 hours," said Annie. “That was yesterday morning and we haven’t let up speed since then. If anything, we’ve gained speed.”
All Annie had to do was glance at their current position and speed to know when they might arrive, whilst the navigation officer of the Visigoth scribbled figures and played with a slide rule.
“So, we might reach there by tomorrow morning or even first light?”
“That’s right, Chuck.”
They all considered, but it was Chance that spoke first.
“We need to secure the launch and get our cargo up there. Hopefully by the time they realise what we’re doing the boat will already be in the water. How much equipment can we bring up in one trip?”
“Not one trip,” Eileen smiled.
“Benny and I have been bringing up a few essential items each time we went down since they started giving us the cold shoulder after Havana.”
Everyone smiled and nodded. Chance clapped a hand on Williams’ shoulders.
“Who goes for what?” Annie asked.
“Think two can manage the equipment down here,” Williams began. “It’ll take three to get what we still need form the hold.”
“I’ll go for the hold,” Chance offered, cracking his knuckles. “Probably more of them down here than up there this time of night.”
“The ones up there might be more willing to fall for the charms of the Renaissance Man.”
Annie offered her own plan.
“Eileen and Benny will know exactly what we need, so they should go to the hold. That just leaves Alastair and I.”
“I’ll take the hold,” Alastair immediately said.
Annie looked unsure.
Williams nodded, and Alastair smiled at his approval.
The approval was not an acknowledgement of the young man’s bravery, though Williams had no doubts about that. Williams had a feeling that it might just be one of them carrying equipment topside whilst he and Eileen exchanged gunfire with the crew.
Alastair could carry more than Annie.
***
Shortly thereafter, Chance and Annie emerged on deck. They each carried two crates. Chance carried his one-handed, not out of bravado but to leave one hand free to go for the pistol he wore on his belt. They also had the personal bags of themselves, and their friends slung over their shoulders.
There was plenty of light on deck, but even the night sky offered plenty of illumination. Light from the stars, light from the gibbous moon, and light from the strange phosphorescence the ship was heading toward.
“Aurora?”
“We’re too far north for the aurora australis,” Annie answered.
Leaving the strange light as a question for another time, they continued on to the launch where they began quietly loading their equipment and bags.
“A little late to take your secretary on a walk round the decks!”
The voice called out loudly from behind them. Its source was Frank Slate, who approached them from the bow with a pistol trained on them.
“Mr. Slate,” Chance began. “Can I ask what exactly you think you’re doing?”
“I have my instructions,” Slate sneered. “I was to take you and your party into custody as soon as we spotted land.”
Annie considered his words more than his pistol.
“Then…”
Before she could finish, Slate shouted at the top of his voice.
“Land ahoy!”
He kept his gun trained on Chance and Annie as his smile widened.
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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