Captains Stupendous Read online

  I proceeded further down the hallway and emerged at the bottom of a rickety staircase. At the top stood a gnarled man with eyes that twinkled noticeably even at that distance, like new stars in a dying constellation. I blinked up at him and he waved a bony hand in a gesture clearly intended to put me at ease. But it didn’t work.

  ‘Is Mr Hugo Bloat at home?’ I asked pointlessly.

  He stiffened slightly. ‘I am he, of course. I never dwell on the ground floor now, because of the damp. It’s bad for my health. The fight between that which exists and that which exists not is eternal: in my case, decay of my surroundings sharpens my mind.’

  ‘And yet you forgot about my arrival,’ I said.

  He smiled thinly, perhaps with resentment, as I mounted the staircase. When I reached the top step, he moved back a few paces. Then he turned and guided me into a sumptuous chamber that was the very antithesis of the abandoned rooms downstairs. I noticed the masks on the walls, all the crystal ornaments, the shrunken skulls.

  ‘It’s like a bizarre museum or exotic bazaar!’

  He nodded and indicated a chair. I sat down. He offered me a glass of cognac and I didn’t refuse. Then he said, ‘I spoke to your editor and asked him to arrange an interview, but I didn’t anticipate it to be so soon. I have made prior arrangements for today.’

  ‘So you are expecting another visitor?’

  He nodded, unable to see that I had already started the interview. It’s a trick journalists use when their subjects try to wriggle out of our snares. I had no intention of leaving without a good story. In one corner a peculiar clock ticked ominously; it was carved in the image of the Grim Reaper, a cunningly-wrought mechanism with a moving scythe blade that indicated the hour. Hugo Bloat glanced at it unhappily as he sipped his own brandy and then rubbed his forehead with his free hand, for the first time raising his arm high enough for me to note a cobweb in his armpit. This was very strange indeed. He answered slowly:

  ‘Yes. It’s a business matter. I have work for him.’

  ‘What are you hiring him for?’

  ‘Well… He’s a sea captain with his own vessel. He has a schooner and it is docked in Bristol. Some of my property … Something I want … In the sea, in the middle of the Atlantic …’

  ‘You want him to recover it for you?’

  Hugo Bloat suddenly narrowed his eyes and clenched his fists. ‘This is a private matter! Why should I tell you anything about it at all? How dare you enter my residence and then—’

  I decided to alter my approach. ‘Why don’t you have any servants, Mr Bloat? The expense is certainly no problem for you. Are you forced to do domestic chores without assistance?’

  ‘That’s none of your … Get out! Get out now!’

  The interview was at an end. I sighed and stood up and left the room. I don’t think he followed me onto the landing; I didn’t bother looking back to check. But as I descended the staircase I passed a man coming up. His face was sunburned and scarred; the knuckles of his hands were callused and his beard bristled. He was a fighter, but he nodded amicably enough and smiled at me. Then he reached the top step and entered the chamber I had just vacated, for I heard Bloat say:

  ‘Tom! At last! Come inside and sit down quickly!’

  I shrugged. It was none of my concern who the eccentric collector and madman invited to his house or what errands he sent sea captains on. Yet I was intrigued against my will. I left the house and reached my motorcar but I didn’t enter and drive away. It occurred to me that I might intercept the newcomer after his business with Hugo Bloat was concluded and find him to be more willing to talk than his employer. I hadn’t yet given up on securing a story for my editor, though it probably wouldn’t be the sort he was hoping for. On the contrary, I had a hunch that Bloat’s reputation was likely to sink lower as a consequence.

  For half an hour I sat in my vehicle. Then I heard the creak of boards and saw the grizzled fellow emerge.

  ‘Tom!’ I called out, and he squinted at me.

  ‘Do I know you?’ he rasped.

  I recognised his accent. He was a Belgian. He undid the buttons of his coat and let it fall open; I saw a holstered pistol beneath. He continued to squint as he walked toward me, gravel crunching beneath his boots. I saw no trace of friendliness in his expression. Was this already the end of my career as a journalist? I trembled.

  The Modern Pirate

  I swallowed my fear and grinned. ‘Mr Bloat asked me to give you a lift in my car. He’s an old friend of mine.’

  Tom fingered the flap of his holster. ‘That withered monkey has never had a single friend in his entire life!’

  ‘I meant the word ironically, of course.’

  The fellow seemed to accept this and his manner softened, though his squint remained. At my further invitation he entered the passenger side of my vehicle and settled himself on the fake leather. I took up my position in the driving seat and started the engine by pressing a button; these latest models don’t need to be cranked by hand. Then I released the handbrake, pressed the accelerator pedal and steered down the rutted road between a towering dune on one side and an impenetrable forest on the other. Tom said nothing as I drove; he was the quiet type and it was up to me to ease him out of his shell with small talk.

  ‘Twenty knots in second gear. Not bad, eh?’

  ‘Aye, she’s a sporty crate.’

  ‘How did you get here?’ I asked him.

  ‘I walked from the train station at Bridgend,’ he said.

  ‘That’s seven miles. I’ll drive you back now, but what time does your train depart? You mustn’t be late!’

  He shook his head and suddenly became more voluble, clearly having decided he could trust me fully. ‘No rush. Any express from Bridgend to Bristol will do. My ship is waiting for me in the docks there.’ He jerked a thumb back over his shoulder, in the direction of Bloat’s mansion. ‘That wealthy old scarecrow has engaged my services for a most unusual job. I think he’s wasting his money, though.’

  ‘Is it a smuggling caper?’ I ventured timidly.

  He smiled. ‘I wish it was! Now that is something I could get my teeth into! No, he wants me to sail in circles looking for a piece of flotsam that he insists is still drifting on the currents. Some sort of refrigeration device apparently! Have you ever heard anything so absurd? He had one captain looking for it recently, a certain Marlow Nullity, but the fellow turned up nothing, so Mr Bloat dismissed him.’

  ‘You are a more reliable mariner, no doubt?’

  ‘Not so. I know Captain Nullity and he’s no amateur. If he didn’t find the object, I doubt I will. But I can’t turn the job down. It would be stupid not to take Mr Bloat’s money. Plus this mission gives me a chance to do a bit of my own business on the side.’

  ‘And what kind of business would that be?’

  Without hesitation, he laughed and cried, ‘Piracy! Yes, I’m a corsair, a freebooter, a sea rover! I suppose you thought the age of pirates was long gone? A common misconception!’

  He went on to give me an outline of his life. While still a young man, fresh from college, he had travelled to Africa, where administrators were in short supply. The personal fiefdom of Leopold II, the Congo Free State turned out to be a hellhole that corrupted everyone who entered it. Tom was no exception. He became a cruel overseer on a rubber plantation and the experience toughened him up considerably but conditions eventually became too dreadful even for him. After three years of lashing famished slaves to death with hippopotamus-hide whips, violating native women and watching his colleagues die of horrid tropical diseases, just to enrich King Leo, he stole a ship and fled.

  ‘And you’ve been a pirate ever since?’

  He nodded. ‘A proud one. Captain Tom ‘Red’ Alaerts, the terror of the high seas. I have competition out there, of course, but … Well, I’m good at what I do. You would see that if—’

  He fell silent and muttered into his beard.

  ‘If what, Mr Alaerts?’ I pressed.

&nb
sp; ‘I’m short of a crewman. I don’t suppose you care to sign up? It’s hard but rewarding work. On the sails.’

  I was about to protest that I had no maritime experience, but suddenly I was overwhelmed with the excitement of the prospect of going to sea as the deckhand on a pirate ship. It occurred to me that my remark about the speed of the motorcar had fooled him into thinking I was a seadog. For a joke I had said ‘knots’ instead of ‘miles per hour’. It was my duty to press home this advantage. ‘Why not?’

  He offered his hand and I shook it awkwardly.

  I was about to ask him if he knew a man named Scipio Faraway, but he spoke over me, ‘Why not drive all the way to Bristol? Better than taking the train! Do you have enough fuel?’

  I checked the gauge and nodded. ‘Yes.’

  My editor would be furious with me. I could imagine the crimson face of Ben Gordon swelling when he learned of what I intended to do. In fact it was such an unappealing vision to hold in my mind’s eye that I quickly dissolved it and decided not to tell him until I came back. The moment he heard my story he would forgive my rashness and impudence. It was still a gamble, of course, but worthwhile.

  We reached Bristol four hours later. On the way to the docks we drove through an industrial zone, skirting the hangars of the Bristol Aeroplane Company. One of the hangars was open and a team of technicians was assembling a large monoplane with very slim wings inside. A dignified man stood and watched them and called out instructions. He glanced up at me as my car clattered past and our eyes locked for a moment. If only I had realised at the time who he was!

  The Oasis

  Scipio Faraway looked up as the rider dismounted. Then he stood and with a smile raised his hand to his heart. ‘Salaam!’ The rider made an identical gesture and uttered the same greeting, his large eyes twinkling; then both men sat together in the shade of a palm tree and Scipio poured mint tea for his guest. ‘What news, Rais Uli?’

  ‘Everything has been done as you asked.’

  Scipio nodded. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I rode on ahead to tell you this. Soon the caravan will arrive and then I will watch you do the impossible.’

  ‘Bismillah.’ Scipio smiled.

  Mulai Ahmed el Rais Uli nodded. ‘The blacksmiths of Chefchaouen laboured for many months to create the object you specified. They had no idea what it was for, but I know.’

  ‘You are a shrewd man, my friend.’

  ‘Tell me, Monsieur Faraway, do you really think it is wise to carry out your plan? Won’t you lose yourself in the bowels of the earth? This oasis is said to be haunted by demons.’

  ‘Do you really believe that, Rais Uli?’

  ‘No, but it’s prudent never to disbelieve anything. For many centuries it has been considered better to avoid the oasis of Ras el Aïn and even the thirstiest of travellers always prefer to push on to Aït Benimathar. There’s surely substance to the legends?’

  Scipio sipped his tea, considered the point. His golden earring glittered in the light that filtered through the fronds of the palms; his red waistcoat was unbuttoned and his coat spread under him. ‘That’s true, and yet there are times when men must persist with a chosen course of action, not only in spite of danger but because of it.’

  Rais Uli laughed. He accepted that the remark applied to both of them, for he himself had embarked on a hazardous path that required courage of unusual proportions, namely open warfare against the French and Spanish colonial masters and the establishment of a Republic of the Tribes of the Rif, the Tagduda n Arif, an independent Berber federation that was free to govern its citizens as it chose. There was a price on Rais Uli’s head and it seemed likely that someone might try to collect it sooner or later. Pulling his beard, he frowned at his friend.

  ‘What gave you the idea for this venture?’

  Scipio Faraway leaned forward.

  ‘On my last trip to Morocco, I found an old map in a book in Ketama. It seemed to show a subterranean river that flowed all the way from this oasis to the ocean. You have told me yourself that sometimes the broken oars of ships surface here, salt-water creatures too. I believe it and see no good reason why the map should lie.’

  ‘But what if the river proves to be unnavigable? What if you get stuck in that iron coffin of yours with its little round windows? Who will come to rescue you then, my brother?’

  Scipio shrugged. ‘No-one. That’s the risk.’

  Rais Uli said, ‘We have different dreams, you and I, but at least we do dream and struggle to turn those dreams real. I want a sovereign state for my people and a place for us on the world stage, but who in Europe will take us seriously? Our blacksmiths give you this gift, but I fear it’s a poor exchange for what you have given us. With that knowledge we may even shock the world into respecting us.’

  ‘Every new country must make its mark.’

  Rais Uli finished his tea. ‘This is a time of new countries; they hatch like the eggs of a cockatrice. In Europe they swell and jostle, twisting the old borders: why should we not have our own state too? Are we not men? The Republic of the Rif will improve living standards for the poor, uproot and destroy the kif fields that rot our minds and replace that devilish weed with healthier crops, provide clean fresh water to every farmer, medicines to every child that needs them. Long ago we were admired; soon we will hold up our heads again with pride.’

  ‘It is a worthy project, Rais Uli.’

  ‘Thank you, Monsieur Faraway, but the European powers won’t like it. We must match them in every aspect and aspiration. That northern nation that won its independence recently—’

  ‘Norway,’ answered Scipio.

  Rais Uli nodded vigorously. ‘Yes, that’s the name. How did it manage to gain the respect of the world? It sent a man to plant a flag at the South Pole! After that, the sneers vanished. We must do something equally wild and heroic. You have helped us.’

  Scipio rubbed his stubbled chin. ‘Take care not to celebrate victory too soon, my friend. What you propose is extremely difficult. To fly over the tallest mountains on the planet!’

  Rais Uli sighed; his eyes glittered.

  ‘No aeroplane in existence can fly so high, but with the design of this new engine in our possession I believe that might soon change. We have superb craftsmen and don’t lack spirit. Ever since I heard about them, I have dreamed of soaring above the Himalayas! Is it strange that a son of the desert should dream of ice?’

  Scipio shook his head. ‘No, it is right.’

  Into The Atlantic

  On the stroke of midnight, Captain Tom Alaerts gave the order to set sail from Bristol harbour into the broad channel that separates England from Wales. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do, so I copied the actions of my shipmates and evidently I aroused no suspicions. I have always been a good actor, very fast at learning new tricks. An able seaman by the name of Mads Pedersen befriended me and we worked together. The schooner made good speed on the calm waters.

  ‘Have you been with this vessel long?’ I asked.

  Pedersen nodded. ‘More than ten years. I escaped from prison and was on the run and was very eager to get out of Denmark. When Captain Tom turned up in a tavern in Copenhagen looking for men, I signed up at once! “Red” Alaerts asks few questions…’

  ‘But you were in jail unjustly, no doubt?’

  Pedersen grinned. ‘I was a bank robber and deserved to be locked up, but I don’t like that sort of hospitality, so I thought it best to strangle my guard, dress in his uniform and stroll casually out of there with my hands in pockets, a tune on my lips. It takes nerve, that kind of deception, but I’m good at it. Mads “Sanity” Pedersen is how I’m known, for my serenity under pressure! What about you?’

  ‘No nickname. I’m plain Lloyd Griffiths.’

  He stroked his chin. ‘We’ll soon change that. Everyone who sails with Captain Tom needs a special name. You smell strongly of fungus; maybe I should call you “Mushroom Pong”…’

  Under the tutelage of this fellow, who
had learned his own shipboard skills on the job after his prison escape, I soon was able to climb rigging with a sure foot, reef a sail in an efficient and orderly manner, tie a wide selection of knots, splice rope and accomplish the other tasks that enable the smooth running of a sailing ship.

  ‘To be honest, though,’ admitted Pedersen as he marked my progress with a critical eye, ‘the schooner is an easy vessel to work on; the larger windjammers are an entirely different proposition. Some of the masts on those behemoths are so high that a monkey or vulture would get dizzy. It wouldn’t be so much fun on those!’

  ‘Then let’s be grateful Captain Alaerts prefers a schooner,’ I said, but Pedersen shook his head solemnly.

  ‘This crate is falling apart at the seams, rending like an old boot, and I suspect that Tom is planning to exchange her for something bigger, better and cosier if he gets the chance …’

  He refused to say more on the topic, but it wasn’t difficult to work out his meaning. Pirates frequently keep the vessels of their victims. It makes good sense to use the best available.

  As for the commission of Hugo Bloat, we covered enormous tracts of empty ocean searching for his precious flotsam. The quest was as futile as Tom had predicted it would be. My contempt for Mr Bloat intensified as the weeks wore on. His wealth had damaged his sense of realism, but that is a common enough danger for the very rich. It’s no less a hazard for the poor! When I thought of Bloat, I still pictured the cobweb in his armpit; I wondered if he had another to match it on the other side? So engaged was I in these thoughts that suddenly—

  I lost my grip on the rigging and fell.

  My foot caught in the ropes lower down and stopped my plummet. But now I hung uselessly, head down. Pedersen warned me not to struggle to pull myself up; it would be fatal.

  ‘Haliad hallt!’ I croaked.

  He was amused. ‘What language is that?’

  ‘Welsh,’ I gasped. ‘I always curse in Welsh, though I hardly speak the language in my everyday life.’