Challenge of Antares

Chapter two

Chapter twoI, Dray Prescot, First Lieutenant of his Britannic Majesty’s seventy-four gun ship Rockingham glared with malignant helpless fury upon the destruction of my ship. Rockingham was doomed. Immense seas, darkly green bearded with foam, crashed upon her, all her masts were gone by the board, her hull was breaking up and the scraps of humanity aboard were being tossed about, with the cruel inhumanity of an indifferent fate.

Down off our lee the coast of West Africa waited menacingly.

Sheets of water cascaded inboard, hurling the detritus of battle into the scuppers. The sheer prodigious volume of noise numbed a man’s senses. Up and down we went and around and around, the darkness of hell’s gates gathered above us and the end could not be far off.

The action we had just fought — and won, Demme! won! — had brought ruin on us. The gale was in truth one of the worst I’d experienced in my many wearisome years at sea. Crippled by the Froggy’s shot, blasted by the gale, we were buffeted helplessly.

In these last moments before we struck there was time for me to contemplate my life. Not that there was much of life in it to contemplate and certainly none with relish. Wearisome, yes, that had been my lot. This was the year of Trafalgar and once again I had been disappointed of my step. Captain Anstruther had been washed overboard some time back. I found it very difficult to feel any sorrow for the fellow, for he had led me a miserable dog’s life.

The stern of Rockingham went up and down like a pendulum, the waves towered, immense, awe-inspiring. If we weren’t pooped we’d broach to and then we’d never strike the shore.

The flying wrack prevented me from seeing the stars. I could not even take that strange not-understood comfort from looking at the red spark of fire that was Alpha Scorpii, Antares. Weird how that star had come to dominate my inner thoughts.

Some of the hands were trying to lash themselves to baulks of timber. Others just waited for the inevitable end in a passive, almost stupid state. The master stood grasping the wheel and his face, streaming water, turned upwards with a serene countenance that took the final strength from his unshakeable beliefs.

The surgeon, Doctor Brighton, stood grasping the rail near me. A small snuffy man he surprised me by his complete absence of emotion. He stood with one foot on his medical chest, anchoring it against the maniacal movements of the sea.

“Not long now, Mr Prescot!” His reedy voice reached me through the shriek of the gale.

“Aye.”

“We are all in—” He paused, checked himself, and went on: “We are all in God’s hands now.”

When a surgeon talked of God was the time, in my experience, to worry.

The end came with the startling suddenness of a pistol shot.

We struck the sand shoals at the mouth of one of those vast rivers that empty out of the heart of Africa into the Atlantic and shivered to pieces instantly. I surfaced in that raging sea and caught a baulk of timber and was swept resistlessly on and flung half-drowned upon a shore of coarse yellow-grey sand. I just lay there sodden, abandoned, water dribbling from my mouth.

Why I had been spared from the wreck was past my comprehension. Life held little of joy for me; my promotion, my dreams, had all faded away and were gone with the days that had passed. I was weary of going on and on in a meaningless ritual. I felt my life had been wasted. The struggle to stay alive in that wicked sea had been merely reflex, my habitual answer to opposition and injustice, with no thought to why I should thus bother to save so worthless a life.

The sand scratched wetly at my cheek. I rolled over listlessly and stared up.

Yes, the arrogantly upflung tail of the Scorpion shone down on me. Inevitably my eyes were drawn to the dot of red fire that was Antares. That Scorpion star fascinated and compelled me. I did not know why save for the manner of my father’s death and that my birthday was the fifth of November. I felt awe, and could not explain myself to myself.

What I did know was that I was shipwrecked on the west coast of Africa and for all my emotions like to perish here if I did not start thinking and planning to continue my meaningless life.

The slapping sounds of footsteps on the wet sand snapped me to attention.

“I am overjoyed to see that you have survived, Mr Prescot.”

“Aye, doctor,” I said, and stood up stiffly, dribbling seawater.

He walked up with his odd mincing gait, twisting his head birdlike to peer up at me. “It will be dawn very soon.” He still carried — and I saw this with some surprise — his box under his arm.

“Aye.”

His clothes were wet; but not as wet as mine. He did not appear in the least discomposed. He put the box down and sat on it, very awkwardly, first with his knees up past his chin and then with his skinny shanks outstretched. “I have seen no other survivors.”

I couldn’t say I was surprised but I made some formal noise of sympathy and relapsed into silence. This little fellow and his strange glassy eyes gave me a queasy sensation in the midriff.

“Do you think, Mr Prescot, that there are head-hunters in these parts? Cannibals?” He did not sound disturbed.

“Depends where we are. There will be slave trader stations along the coast, I dare say.”

As the light strengthened and we could see the river streaming out to sea I realized with some concern that there was not a single sign of human habitation. In between the slave factories there might well be the headhunters the surgeon mentioned. I had never touched the disgusting Triangular Trade; and whilst I was well aware that would not stop an incensed native African fellow sticking his spear in me, I had no real belief that he’d pop me in his pot for lunch.

He c****d his narrow head up at me. Then he stood up, picked the box up and tucked it under his arm, and said: “Then, Mr Prescot, it would seem advisable for us to find some shelter.”

That was fair enough, so I nodded and side by side we plodded up the beach towards the tree line. Birds were already out and about flaunting their gaudy colorings. The special and particular aroma of Africa wafted all about us, spicy, rich, exotic.

Just inside the trees Doctor Brighton stopped, put his box down and once more sat upon it.

Despite my feelings of the worthlessness of my life I still had to think of what to do and plan our next steps. We’d have to make our way along the coast until we ran across a factory. If there were people living here who had escaped the slavers chains — or who were the rump of families who had not — they would not look upon us with kindly eyes. No, sir!

The more immediate annoyance — to pitch the discomfort no higher — came from the myriads of creepy-crawlies and flying stinging insects. I was flapping away more or less continuously although I noticed with considerable resentment that the pests attacked Doctor Brighton far less than me. Maybe there was some vinegary substance in his blood that repelled them.

Eventually I found a suitable length of wood which felt hefty enough in my fist. This was not a weapon for the stinging pests. If we did meet up with hostile Africans I’d have to fight until they overcame or killed me. That is, if I couldn’t parley with them first.

There was no question, absolutely no question at all, of a parley. A shining black fellow simply leaped out of a tree full on me.

His spear whistled past my ribs as I swerved, a most ugly sensation. He had a yellow bone through his nose and his hair stuck up ferociously. He was vengefully acting out years of resentment against people who looked like me. I couldn’t blame him. But, being Dray Prescot, I had to stop him from degutting me.

He was active and quick and his spear looked to be damned sharp. We circled and he darted in and I deflected the spear along its haft with my left arm and clouted him over the head with the timber.

He fell flat with a whoofling whoosh of expelled air.

Standing back I saw the surgeon pointing a pistol at the recumbent form. His ferret-like face bore an expression of absolute fury.

So his precious box had not been his medical equipment at all. He shook the pistol and then glared at me. I avoided the gaze of those strange mirror-like eyes with difficulty.

“The powder’s wet,” I said. “No wonder.”

A shout from the direction of the beach swung our instant attention there. A line of warriors, brave with feathers and spears, moved into view, angling along the sand towards the trees.

“We’re in for it now.” I put my foot on the chap I’d downed and rolled him over. He slumbered. It was not in my heart to kill him. “We’d best make ourselves scarce, doctor. If you would kindly lead on I’ll follow.”

“But—” he began. Then: “Yes, very well.”

If we ventured too far into the forest, we’d become lost.

We had to keep in contact with the sea and make tracks as fast as possible. We were, there was no doubt about it, in an extremely parlous position.

A few moment’s thought convinced me I could do more damage with my length of lumber than with the spear, which, although sharp, looked relatively fragile. As we set off I saw with a bemused amusement that the good doctor clutched his box with its brace of pistols as a drowning man clutches at a floating piece of wood.

I had to say: “You might as well leave that, doctor. The pistols are completely useless without powder.”

His reply astounded me.

Speaking very earnestly, he said in a controlled voice: “Then, my dear Mr Prescot, you will have to manufacture some powder.”

There was no rational answer I could give to that right off. So I contented myself with pointing along the fringe of the trees. His face contorted with an anger he could not suppress.

If he thought I could make gunpowder on a deserted African beach he’d have to think again. The idea was ludicrous. Mind you, I suppose if you found some saltpeter and some sulphur you could always make the charcoal from the forest. The inanity of the concept amused me, for I’ve always been a fellow who took amusement from situations perhaps not as salubrious as they might be.

One odd little thing made me grip the length of wood. When I’d grasped it in the first place to hit the chap who’d jumped from the tree I’d had a strange and powerful urge to take it into two fists instead of one. The need to deflect the spear with my arm also came oddly — but later, after it had happened. I felt obscurely that I could have slipped the spear aside with the wood held in my hands and then struck. Odd, as I say, odd.

The warriors moved away out of our sight to the rear. I fancied we’d not seen the last of them.

Doctor Brighton was clearly working himself up to say something. Taking the lead I ignored him and plodded along at the edge of the treeline. The sea roared away beyond the beach and the birds swooped and called and the smells of Africa wafted all about. By this time I was feeling decidedly peckish and began to wonder what the forest might offer in the way of edibles to a desperate and starving man.

There was no wreckage from poor old Rockingham scattered along the beach as one would expect. I found that strange — but, then, there were a lot of odd things going on that I couldn’t figure out.

Midday when the sun took on its African ferocity we could do with our c****d hats. They’d gone with the ruination. Our naval uniforms were not exactly suitable for the climate, either.

The surgeon pattered up alongside. I had to admit that he did not appear at all apprehensive about the presence of hostile men wielding spears.

“Why, Mr Prescot, do you not make some gunpowder?” He sniffed. “We are, after all, are we not, in dire need of some?”

Exasperated with this little pettifogging fellow I said in a rather curt tone: “It’s not that simple.”

He’d had the presence of mind as Rockingham struck to bring pistols along. But then, surely, he knew only too well that they’d never fire once they’d been in the sea until after they’d been thoroughly dried and drawn and reloaded. And where were the charges to come from? Make ’em ourselves!

“What is the problem?” Now his voice took on a sharpness.

I told him that if he knew anything about the arcane art of manufacturing and milling gunpowder he’d know we did not have the wherewithals to hand.

“What do you need?”

This was becoming ridiculous. I sighed. “We could probably make some passable charcoal—”

“Charcoal?”

“But as for the rest of it, Doctor Brighton, I think it highly unlikely. In fact, my dear sir,” I went on, trying to keep the annoyance down, “I think it as likely as seeing the cow jump over the moon.”

The sharpness in his face changed in a subtle way to an expression of mulish obstinacy. The anger suffusing him, although controlled for the moment, put a tiny tic at the corner of his mouth. He mumbled to himself, shaking his head, not looking at me.

Satiated with his nonsense I set off at a smart clip. The way was probably the most difficult part for fallen branches and tangles of creepers. I certainly had no desire to venture further into the forest nor did I wish to reveal ourselves on the beach to the warriors.

Now this fatuous Doctor Brighton wasn’t, I supposed, too imbecilic a fellow. Clearly he knew practically nothing about guns. He’d been trying to help. Relenting a trifle I slowed my pace. He was quite ignorant of my powers of hearing for he muttered on to himself in the way folk do who are wrought up by frustrated fury. I took the distinct impression that his anger was not directed at me; rather he was profoundly annoyed with himself.

His disjointed mumblings contained a recognizable sentence:

“I suppose I’ll have to start again at the beginning.” And another: “Extremely tiring business.”

That was true, trying to walk through the tangle of the forest floor.

My mind caught a fascinating and not altogether impossible idea. The gale might have driven other ships towards the coast. On the thought I scanned out to sea, seeing the horizon rim as a silver bar against the blues above and below. Not a speck of sail could be seen.

The surgeon was continuing to complain away as I searched that empty ocean. Abruptly he let out a sharp cry, which was followed by a heavy crash. I swung about.

He’d caught his foot in a creeper and fallen toe over tip. Now he was struggling away and further entangling himself in the vines. He was cussing a blue streak, too, good round Naval oaths interspersed with odd, barbaric-sounding names I’d never heard of.

Reaching him and concealing my unkind amusement at his plight, I ripped vines away and took him under the armpits and stood him up. As I did so I swiveled around to face the sea.

Holding the surgeon I gaped out across the water like a loon.

Less than a league off from the beach a long line of hills rose from the sea, green hills, with clumps of trees and streams running down in pretty waterfalls.

The familiar distant bar of the horizon so familiar to me from years at sea was gone. Hills!

Hills! Growing out of the Atlantic Ocean!

The sun must have addled my brains. I shook my head, blinked, looked again. The range of hills remained solid and firm rising from the sea — and! And now the rich golden sunlight changed. Distinctly before me on the sand shadows stretched foreshortened, twin shadows, two shadows of me, one tinged a ruddy red the other suffused with green. The hills under that ruby and emerald light curved around north and south to enclose the Atlantic Ocean into the compass of a lake.

Stresses and strains had taken their toll. Perhaps the trick of light was my brain trying to escape from reality, perhaps the sun had done for me, perhaps I was truly going insane.

Doctor Brighton twisted in my grasp and looked out to sea.

“Oh, Dokerty take it!” The sheer fury in him shook his slight frame. He turned his face up to glare on me.

Those strange glassy eyes looked into mine.