Fortuna and the Scapegrace Page 3

  “WAKE UP, SUGAR LOAF.”

  The lilting voice descended from the swirling surface of my cognizance.

  “Darlin’?”

  My head seemed stuffed with beetle bugs.

  “Darlin’, can you hear me?”

  I felt wet fingers tapping my cheeks and a whelming throb flooding my overall physical personage. My belly burned and gurgled. My heart ached, and a drowsy numbness pained my sense as though of a big bucket full of hemlock I had drunk. If not for the sweet and kindly voice urging me to the waking world, I would have greatly preferred to remain in my senseless black state of oblivion.

  “Honey pot, you need to wake up now.”

  A vision of fondling bosoms bounced across my mind.

  I flicked open my eyes.

  Focused.

  And gasped – “Wha!”

  Had I been able to move, I most certainly would have leapt away. But my muscles and my brain – so recently parted by the influence of drug-tainted brandy – had not yet become reacquainted. All I could do was squirm like an infant and stare up at the unearthly face floating over me.

  Where I had anticipated the smile of an angel, I found, instead, the grin of an ogre. Oh, Lord! This time, it appeared, my dalliance with a liquor-bearing temptress had bypassed any chance of redemption and had, instead, delivered me directly to the pit-door of purgatory. For surely the lumpy lap in which my head now rested belonged to some hermaphroditic demon.

  “That’s right,” it said. “Welcome back.”

  Although its voice was feminine, nothing else about the physical appearance of the hominid betrayed any inkling of the wombed sex. And yet, there was something womanish about this character petting me up like a lap dog. The toothless black gums of its smile opened up into an unsavory hole amidst the wispy snarl of its beard. Water dripped from its earlobes and nose. Its gaze went two different directions at once, like that of a lizard. Could it be that the beguiling soothsayer had transmogrified into this hideous beast? It seemed a disturbing possibility.

  Everything pitched and groaned.

  I heard slapping waves.

  I heard a driving rain.

  I stifled a nearly un-suppressible urge to heave up the meconium percolating in my entrails.

  And then someone blew a shrill whistle.

  My coddler urged me to action. “Oop! You better get up, darlin’. The Captain’s about to give his talk.”

  The shaggy epicene wriggled and yanked and wrestled me to my feet, propping me up like a rag doll by holding me from behind in a bear hug. Its gossamer face hairs tickled like flies on the back of my neck. My arms were trapped at my sides. I stared helplessly down at my bare feet; I could not feel them. I gazed around and discovered where I was.

  “Oh.”

  The deck of a ship.

  Adrift on water.

  Away from the shore.

  A drizzly image of San Francisco loomed in the distance over an expanse of restless, rain-pocked ocean.

  All around me were men. I noticed straight away that these fellows came in two variations. First, there were the many seamen who worked the ship. They were distinguishable by their impressive sense of balance and muscular forearms, and their deliberate movements among the ship’s lines and tackle. They all seemed to be performing one task or another. And then there were the rest of us—about six or ten haggard lads like myself, all in a group, more or less slack-jawed and swaying like drunkards. Most of this latter group seemed to believe they had awakened in a wrongful dream. They wore baffled expressions suggesting they felt themselves victims of a terrible blunder. One man nearby displayed a wounded demeanor.

  “Rose,” he murmured mournfully. “Oh, Rose, what have you done to me?”

  The whistle blew again, and then the sailors all stopped what they were doing and came to attention, facing the high bridge toward the ship’s stern. The rest of us followed suit. Two men in uniform materialized out of the rain and stepped close to the railing, looking down on us. My androgynous helpmate stepped away from me, leaving me with the challenge of standing on my own. The two men on high nodded and pointed into our group, muttering betwixt themselves, as if sizing up cattle.

  Yet another man stood behind the men in uniform. He was a curious image to behold, somewhat out of place amidst the salt-cured populace of the ship’s crew. He wore a milk-white suit and trousers that hung limp on his gaunt frame. His overall demeanor was of a hangdog librarian, or scarecrow. He was visibly shivering. He held a black book in the shelter of his body, protecting it from the rain. I took the book to be a Bible, and the soggy white scarecrow to be some sort of ship’s mascot, or a clergyman.

  The more authoritative looking of the two uniformed men began to speak –

  “Greetings,” he said. “Greetings, my friends, and congratulations.”

  He opened his arms to our group.

  “I am Archibald Nilsson, captain of the commercial ship Cloud, upon which you men are now lucky enough to find yourselves.” He turned to the man in uniform beside him. “And this is first mate Biner Starkey. Through the discriminating selection process of our on-shore recruitment agents, you have been conscripted into the service of this ship and its firm – the Orient Pacific Transport Company.”

  At this, the men around me became somewhat agitated. “Oh, Rose!” exclaimed the man made so forlorn, one guessed, by some woman named Rose. But largely we were too stunned and still suffering too much from our lingering inebriation to forcefully voice any objection to our situation. The other men just moaned and swayed ineffectually.

  “I know,” said the captain. “I understand how you might be feeling an injustice has been dealt you. But before you get too riled, I would hope you will each do me a favor. Would you ask yourself, in all honesty, if what you had lined up to do this morning was so much better than what you are being asked to do for us now? Was your lot in life a good one? Were you rolling in wealth and comfort? Did you have a prospect that beats the one we are offering?”

  He paused as we silently asked ourselves this series of soul-searching questions put before us.

  “Cloud is the finest vessel to travel the ocean, and virtually unsinkable. She does not plow the sea so much as fly along its surface. She is a modern-day clipper ship, rigged, if you will take a moment to notice, with any number of sails.”

  He paused again, this time so we could admire the trinity of raked masts standing in the rain down the center of the boat. The sails were mostly furled and dripping on their yards, but one could see that – yes – there was indeed an impressive number of them.

  “These canvases are what make our ship so swift, able to deliver goods at a speed twice that of old-style craft. Unfortunately, more sails require more crew. That is where you come into our employment.” The Captain took off his hat and wiped the rain from his face. Then he put it back on his head. “You will be paid for your services. You will be fed and given a place to sleep. Besides that, you will get a chance to see a watery bit of the world.” He nodded. “It is, all around, a good arrangement for everyone involved.

  “But…” he continued. “We are equitable masters.” He turned to his first mate and winked. “If any of you feels you have been chosen for this privileged opportunity through error… If any of you feels like you would prefer to turn your back on good fortune and return to your previous station in life, then, by all means, feel free to leave.” He raised his arm toward the side of the ship and pointed through the raindrops toward the distant city. “We will not stand in your way.”

  Of course, one could not help but suspect this was an unserious offer. The regular seamen could be heard sniggering in amusement. The ship was at least a mile off shore, and the brooding seas between were, to my eye at least, intimidating. Nevertheless, we all turned and looked, and there was an air hanging over the decks of wet men weighing in their minds the foolish notion of duck-paddling all the way back to terra firma.

  We had all more or less dismissed the idea when the most
dejected man in our midst burst forth from the group and ran to the ship’s side rail. “Rose!” he whooped. And then he sprang over the side.

  A moment passed – and then sploosh!

  The sailors hurried to peer down the wall of the ship to where the man had hit the water. They hooted and jeered as the man gathered his directions, and then began his long swim back to shore.

  Captain Nilsson appeared at first astonished by the man’s exit, and then greatly amused. “Well,” he called. “May our fellow live a long and prosperous life! And may God grant him safe return to his beloved Rose – most likely just some big-tittied whore.”

  The sailors laughed and returned their attention to their captain. He appeared to be well thought of by his crew.

  “It is a new beginning, gentlemen.” Captain Nilsson wore a big smile. “Every day is another opportunity.” He turned to the scarecrow half-hunkered behind him and gestured for him to step forward. “Now, normally Cloud would sail straight on to Shanghai, but for this voyage we have been commissioned by Brother Linklater’s church – the Church of Holy Sh…” He turned to the parson. “What was it again?”

  Scarecrow leaned forward and muttered to the Captain.

  “That’s it – God’s Holy Church of the Shining Redemption. We have been commissioned to haul goods to Brother Linklater’s mission at New Eden in the southern seas, after which we will continue on our way to the Oriental ports. I have requested that Brother Linklater now ask blessing on our voyage and say a few words from the Good Book to speed us on our way.”

  Captain Nilsson placed his hand on the parson’s shoulder and urged him to the rail. The Captain and First Mate Starkey stepped back and stood with their arms at their sides.

  This man Linklater appeared ill at ease. He looked through the rain at the expectant gathering. “Good day,” he said softly. “I’ll begin with a prayer.”

  “Louder!” shouted a man in the back.

  The other sailors laughed.

  Pastor Linklater nodded nervously and cleared his throat. “I would like to begin with a brief prayer.” He nodded again, and then bowed his head, gesturing awkwardly with his arm that we should all do the same.

  “Dear God,” he began. “We ask you to grant us safe passage over the deep ocean. Guide us in our souls and protect us in our vulnerable bodies. Preserve us that we might do the good work you have put us here to do. Deliver us… Deliver us to our destiny as you would see fit.” He turned his face to the sky. “You hold us in your hand.”

  “Amen,” said the Captain.

  Everyone else mumbled amen too.

  Linklater opened up his Bible. His hands trembled, as much from a nervous condition, it appeared, as from the cold. He thumbed back and forth through the damp pages, and then began to read. “In the beginning…” He bobbed his head, and then spoke louder. “In the beginning God created the Heaven and Earth. And the Earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep.” He closed his Bible and looked at us. “And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.”

  Then he peered out over the port side of the ship.

  The rest of us did the same.

  The swimming man had not gotten far, and yet he appeared startlingly small in the rolling swells. He was performing a stroke that made his arms appear like the paddles of a windmill turning in a lazy wind. One suspected he was already growing weary. As if sensing we were watching him, the man stopped swimming, treaded water, and turned to face the ship. His dark form lifted and sank on the swelling sea. He resembled a piece of driftwood carved in the shape of a man’s head and shoulders. He looked to be reconsidering his impetuous decision. Finally, he raised an arm and waved. A few of the men on the ship returned the gesture. For a lingering moment, there was an uncanny feeling of reverence in the air, a sense of men plunged into deep ponderance of their place in the cosmos. And then all at once it became apparent that the man in the water was not waving but drowning.

  He exhibited a horrible panic; both arms began thrashing in the air above his head.

  He bobbed under…surfaced…bobbed…bobbed again…as if something had him by the ankles. And then he went down out of sight.

  We all watched in stupefied silence.

  What else could we do?

  San Francisco disappeared behind a vaporous veil.

  The rain fell down cold on our heads.

  There was nothing in any direction but the heaving gray bosom of the sea.

  A BELL CLANGED, AND someone barked, “Drop sail and he-ho the lanyards!”

  The regular crew snapped to action. They scrambled up the shrouds like squirrels and scurried out onto the rigging, setting loose the draw ties.

  Sails began dropping from the yardarms with all the drama of theater curtains.

  The sheets snapped like wet laundry, rippled, and then puffed tight with the invisible breeze.

  All about the decks, men heaved on ropes, working them through spools and pulleys before tying them off on their cleats and stanchions. The lines stretched snug as harp strings; they fairly hummed with tension. It was a most impressive display of Chaos meeting Order with the purpose of harnessing the wind for man’s industrious intentions.

  At last, Cloud lurched.

  The crew cheered.

  “Set for south by southwest!”

  The ship shuddered and heeled beneath our feet, and then, just like that, we were on our way.

  *****

  I was still rather dazed and nauseous. My fellow recruits gave off the same impression. They were green of gill, glassy of eye, and appeared largely irked at contemplation of their collective plight. One man dropped to his hands and knees.

  “Goddamn!” he cursed, and then retched up.

  The sight of him purging inspired two others nearby to do the same.

  I turned away.

  “Over here, men,” called a bandy homunculus posing as the ship’s purser. He wore the wire spectacles of a clerk and snuggled a ledger under one arm. Like hapless sheep being led to the knife, we all followed the diminutive man out of the rain to a table in an open-walled room with a shed roof. The room was packed with stacks of canvas and great spools of twine, but we managed to crowd in out of the drizzle. He plopped the ledger onto the table and opened it up.

  I found myself first in line.

  He laid a crooked finger on the page. “Sign here.”

  “What is this?”

  “Your contract with the Orient Pacific.”

  The paper was ruled with columns of black vertical lines that brought to mind the bars of a jailhouse.

  “And what if I refuse to comply?”

  He peered up at me through his rain-smeared lenses. “Then you’ll be tossed to the sharks,” he grinned. “Without pay.”

  I smiled and shrugged. “I was only considering my options.”

  “Well, you don’t really have none.”

  I saw that what he said was true, so I took up the pen, dipped it in ink, and then held it poised over the paper.

  It occurred to me, in that hanging instant, that I did not have a name. My old moniker had been buried in a grave some months before as bedfellow to the corpse of my old persona, and having met with no need to do so in the interim, I had neglected to choose a replacement.

  “Forget who you are?” asked the purser.

  I looked at him. “No!” I laughed. “Of course not.”

  “Well sign your scrawny ass up and move it along.”

  My intelligence was not running at full steam right then, and I would have greatly preferred some leisure to come up with an eloquent appellation befitting my new course in life. One should not take such decisive occasions lightly. But no shaft of brilliance shined on me, and, as I was under pressure, I wrote the first name that came to my opiated mind.

  I straightened up and squinted down at the words I had so extemporaneously scratched on the parchment. “There!” I said and poked the pen back into the ink well. I nodded with resolve and procla
imed my new label to the world.

  The purser chuckled in amusement.

  And I had to agree. Upon hearing it said aloud, I cringed with remorse. It sounded like the name of a buffoon in some cheap stage comedy. I greatly hoped that I would have occasion to change it at some time in the future. But for now at least, it was who I was.

  The other men signed in behind me. Half of them, it turned out, were named Smith, the other half Jones. Had the crimps swarmed a family picnic in search of their conscripts? Upon quick appraisal of the criminal horde around me, I deduced that, no, except that they all shared signs of inbreeding, they did not look to be related. More likely, the agents had raided a prison, or possibly an asylum.

  One of these Smith fellows caught me regarding his coarse appearance. He wore a full-length scar across his face, from one ear and over his lips to his chin. One suspected this mishap had not come from a simple slip while shaving. His rheumy eyes narrowed as they met mine, and then he growled, showing me his green-colored teeth. I smiled in friendly fashion but was compelled to turn away. He did not seem like a character who appreciated being looked at, and a convivial attempt at conversation seemed unwise.

  The others were more or less cut from the same cloth. Thugs. Toughs. Ill-tempered miscreants. How had I, a gentle, if failed, poet, ever become mixed up with such a menagerie of rough and tumble derelicts? Surely, some mistake had been made.

  Be I wronged or not, an inner sense told me that I was in a predicament, and that treading lightly around these brutes was going to be essential to my wellbeing. Oh, how vividly I recalled my boyhood, and being hounded by comparable bullyboys eager to take advantage of my gentle nature! Many a humiliation and physical torture punctuated the sentence of my past imperfect youth, and I did not favor resuming that trend now in adulthood. I needed to find a survival tactic, and quick.

  I gawked around. “God help me,” I whispered, on the off chance that any of the gods might be listening.

  As if in answer to my plea, my eye was drawn to the lone figure in white standing at the side rail peering down into the black water. Hmmm. Could the scarecrow offer me salvation? It seemed worth a try.