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Friday 27 February 2009
Thursday 26 February 2009
The Tramp Steamer
Ok so I'm finally on my first draft... I thought I might try this blogging malarkey so here goes...
This is the prologue to my first novel...
THE TRAMP STEAMER
By Neil Campbell
Prologue
“Hurry man!” Anthony West's voice had a practised impatience the man he addressed was not about to question.
Two more figures emerged behind them from the dense fog straining to pull a cart better designed for oxen.
Ahead of the group the silhouette of a ship conjured itself out of the mist.
A silver flare lit the sky above the port like a comet, and for the briefest second The Northern Star shone like her celestial sister: Her hull, bluer than a late night summer sky, her main deck virginal white. She lay a full four hundred feet from bow to stern and her twin,signal red funnels graced her like cherries on a fine cake.
Anthony West stood on the dock, gazing up at the proud ship until the flare fizzled out and sudden darkness enveloped her once more. A short blast from her steam whistle signalled her readiness to depart. He had maintained a skeleton crew onboard in order to make their final preparations without drawing too much attention from the Port Authorities, and only a few meagre oil lamps burned within her port-holes and under the eaves of the hurricane deck. It seemed to him, and perhaps to the other men gathered on the dock, that the ship was brooding. It was after two in the morning when the four spectres appeared in the mist on the periphery of the dirty port.
The tallest shadow walked with ease and dignity, but his fellow shades struggled behind with their heavy burden. West's men had returned. Their captain winced with every rusty squeak, creak and groan.
The rest of his crew stood on the wharf behind him, wrapped in shadows like fugitives. A few men were casting uneasy glances back at the town, and West followed their gazes to see three silhouettes were appearing out of the mist at the landward end of the dock. The tallest shadow strode with a dignified gate, while his two fellows struggled behind, dragging a hand cart between them.
"They made it," said one of the crew.
"I told you I was lucky," West murmured.
The old cart moaned loudly as the trio hurried it along. West frowned. Hadn't the fools heard of stealth? He could hear their footsteps from here. They were nearly at the steamer's berth when the first bells sounded.
West cursed. “Get this on board and get the steam up," he snapped. "We're leaving immediately. I'll deal with the Port Authorities.” He drew twin etched silver pistols from his long leather coat, then paused long enough to light a wet amber cigarette with a broken match. All the better to let his foes see him. The orange light settled over his greying goatee beard, and the smoke from the match brought water to his cold grey eyes.
As he suspected, the solitary warning chime became a chorus. Deeper bells were booming now and others had taken up their song. A siren wailed over it all. West managed a wicked grin over his weather-etched face. He was handsome still and aging well. He stroked his strong chin with one calloused hand and made a mental log that he would have to shave again soon. The huff from the steamer's funnels began to deepen and quicken, as amber smoke clouds billowed into the darkness. He was so, so very close.
High on the city hill the assembly had already begun. Hundreds had come to see what the fuss was about. Standing by the alarm bell or as near to standing as the old lady could muster was Margaret West. The bells pierced her ears but she was lost to their ring. The gathering crowd descended on the scene like carrion crows and they were all jostling to get a better view of the Islands self appointed matriarch. Mageret West stood by the alarm bell, her tiny figure frail in contrast to her fearsome reputation. Even those in the crowd who openly despised the woman were touched by her sudden and vicious fall from grace. Despite her grief and the look of desperation that had set itself so finally to her normally stoic face. She was as well dressed as always, wearing one of her many furs and a plain but striking gown.
“He's taken everything!” Margaret West sobbed. There were few in the community who had ever seen the formidable old lady flustered, but here in view of everyone she was distraught and openly weeping. The Militia needed no further instruction. They knew exactly to whom she was reffering. The town marshall had already warned her about the true nature of her little prince. He dismissed the thought of reminding her now, allowing her some dignity despite the rebuffs and even anger he'd received for his accusations. While others were still arriving to enjoy the spectacle the Militia were already racing down the High Hill to the docks where Captain West's sleek steamer, The Northern Star sat.
The men were hauling the heavy cart over a makeshift gangplank. Struggling, one of its porters tumbled and a wheel slid off the precarious ramp. The cart shifted uneasily and arm fulls of precious pewter and silver metal ware fell ungracefully to the sea. Anthony's reaction was swift and brutal. His bull whip lashed out an impossible distance and caught one of the two deck hands hard across his back. The vicious strike tore through his cotton shirt and opened an eight inch wound from shoulder to spine.
“The next thing that hits the sea will be your lifeless corpse!” Anthony promised, his words as bitter as his whips stroke. They had righted the cart and it was stable once more. The two men were struggling more now, due to the attack and the added physical stress, but they had also become a good deal more careful.
Captain West's attention returned to the commotion on the docks. He gauged the confusion. The bells could have meant anything, as well he knew. He was trying to estimate how long it would take the militia to link the bells to his villainy. He could already see signs of action from the lower terraces of the high hill,where the fat merchants and traders kept their pretty villas and their prettier wives. They were on to him.
He replaced his pistols. He had no hope of standing against the mob that would be racing to accost him. The cart was finally safely on board. Captain West followed it over the hastily erected gangway. He paused briefly to look down into the cold dark water. How much he had lost thanks to the fumbling deckhand would annoy him endlessly during the coming voyage. He made a mental note to make sure the offending lackey would starve over the coming weeks for his incompetence.
He didn't have to give the orders to release the lines he could tell as he jumped the last few feet to the deck that the ship was already free of its moorings. The sway of the sea was obvious to the seasoned sailor.
“Full steam ahead!” He shouted to the bridge and instantly he could hear the first thrusts of the great blue wheels. In seconds their spokes were a blur and white water churned below them like a spring stream. The ship surged out of the port. She raced into the cloudy night and made for the Western Ocean. There could only be one destination now and everyone aboard and those behind who would surely give chase knew it. The Northern Star was making steam for the Northern Wash, the only safe passage through the tempestuous Western Ocean to the great empire of Mshmere.
“Felicity, bring him home please.” Margaret West had regained a little of her normally impressive composure and was in conference with her two remaining children. Samson West, the second eldest, was short at five foot six and portly like a stout barrel. Margaret West regarded him with her usual contempt. Felicity, the youngest by almost ten years was the first to speak. She resembled her Mother, a fact she secretly hated and she winced every time it was pointed out to her. She too had the piercing blue eyes that were a West family trait. She was taller than Samson by an inch and many considered her beautiful. Her mothers jealousy had all but stripped her own belief in her obvious attractiveness. Years of put downs and jibes had stripped her of any confidence she may have once had. If she was pretty she could not see it.
“We'll catch him mother and we'll bring him back to you. There'll be some explanation for his madness I'm sure of it.” She laid a gentle hand upon her mothers shoulder and the old lady smiled briefly.
“Yes, I'm sure you're right there will be a reason for all this. Thank you Felicity I know you can reach him.” The gesture was kind but Margaret West was desperately trying to disguise her clear doubt in the pair of them. There was no way her plain daughter and her little rotund son could catch The Northern Star . They had their own ships of course, All the West's had it was a family tradition. But neither Felicity's pretty little pleasure cruiser nor Samson's sturdy Steamer had the speed or the grace to catch the legendary ship. She coughed and stood up straight. She had to believe there was a chance they could succeed. Her family name and fortune relied on them.
“I'll catch the bastard mother, you'll see.” Samson did his best to ignore the fact his mother hadn't even included him in her plea for assistance but he could not. She'd wounded him yet again. Samson's hatred for his braggart brother was open and well known. He'd waited for the perfect moment to deliver his pledge and noted with some glee the discomfort his particular turn of phrase caused his mother. The contempt was clear not only in his words but also in his tone. His mother Margaret could not even raise a smile for her second born and merely nodded slightly and then dismissed the pair of them to their preparations.
The Southern Swell was also docked in the tiny capital and most of Felicity's crew had joined the show by the lost rock. The more senior of them had taken their place by her side. Being the more experienced of the captains the crew of Samson's ship The Western Dream were already on board the vessel and making haste for her departure. Samson had long suspected his brother was planning some unthinkable act and had done his best to ensure what ever his intent his ship The Western Dream would be ready to respond. Samson had learned not to wait for his mothers approval which for him at least never seemed to come. He was more aware than most of his brothers drinking and gambling habits. He was the closest sibling to Anthony in age and mindset.. Though truly the only real emotion that bound the brothers was jealously. Samson's envy at the love his mother showered upon her little angelic boy and Tony's resentment over his younger brothers easy way with others. Where Anthony was cautiously respected, Samson was loved.
He raced back to his ship, rage overwhelming him as he ran. He tore down the cobbled road from the High Hill. As he passed the shacks and shanties that clung to the church wall he slowed to a wheezing trot. When he reached the town's gardens he was forced to stop for a moment to catch his breath. The sweet smell of lavender stung his lungs as he started off towards the docks again. He was nearly at the waters edge now. He could see his ship clearly now The Western Dream. She was slighter than her sister ship but she was still a formidable boat. She was a flurry of activity.
Samson eventually arrived at her berth breathless and beaten. It was all he could do to clamber aboard and collapse. His well trained crew needed no further instruction and as soon as his feet hit the deck she was under way. It took him a full five minutes before he stopped hyperventilating and the first officer gave him his report.
“As you instructed we have been primed for departure for the last fortnight. We are already full steam into the pursuit. She has two hours on us at best and we're approaching twenty knots” The first mate seemed pleased but Samson head instinctively fell to his hands. There was no way they would catch The Northern Star even at twenty knots and she had a two hour head start. The first officer continued his report ignoring his captain's concern. “The Southern Swell is approaching fast from the rear. She must be running in the red sir, she's definitely gaining on us.”
“Then we'll have to run the red ourselves. Its the only way we stand half a chance. Have the engineers by the boilers I want even blown rivet re-bolted and any gaps resealed. We'll catch the son of a bitch even if it means tearing ourselves apart” Samson's order was acknowledged and the bosun hollered flank speed into the com pipes. Satisfied Samson made his way to the bridge. He paused briefly to look out over the ships stern and caught sight of his sister's ship. He paused for a second considering her current course then dismissed his thoughts as poppycock, she couldn't be heading west? Every child on the Isles who had just learned to speak their own name knew also that to sail into the West was to sail into death itself. He continued to the Bridge but made a mental note to plot Felicity's heading just in case the crazy witch was contemplating such recklessness. As he arrived on the bridge he took his place at the head of the large oval mahogany table and addressed the senior crew.
“Any sign of her yet?” Samson didn't need an answer he had already known they had no chance of catching even a glimpse of the wayward ship, not yet at least. A room full of down turned faces were his only answer. Not one of his trusted crew had the courage to look him in the eye their shame only confirmed his suspicion.
“She's armed sir, We...” The helmsman looked at his cremates for support as he spoke. “Well, we just wondered if you knew? We haven't any guns as you know sir, just the mortars. If we catch her how will we take her?” The question was fair and in truth Samson hadn't even considered that there would be a fire fight. He had been so intent on the pursuit he hadn't even thought of what would happen if they succeeded.
“We'll have to board her. He's left more than half his crew on Havant. If we can reach her it'll be over swiftly.” In this Samson was correct. Anthony West paranoid and penniless had trusted only a handful of his shipmates with his recent plan. The others had been left behind. Their advance notes now empty promises as useless as the paper on which they'd been scribbled.
“Helmsman, can you plot the current heading of the Southern Swell? I have a feeling my sister maybe planning something rather dangerous.” The man nodded, took out a brass eyeglass and made his way to the port porthole. The task took him a minute or so but when he returned his report was flustered and stammered.
“She's heading West sir, into the breach. She's awash sir and taking on water.” with his words he brought utter silence to the room. Samson leapt into action.
“Stupid bitch! Where did she find that crew? Change course we'll have to stop her.” The helmsman nervously surveyed the bridge searching for someone else to bring reason to his captain. But Samson was well loved and the pilot knew there would be no objections to their planned suicide. Anxiously he swung the great silver wheel and the ship slowly began to veer to the left heading into hell after its sister.
The Southern Swell was in trouble already. All sailors knew about the Northern Wash. The placid canal that ran like a border for a thousand miles between the wild and unpredictable Western Ocean and the Ice flows of the North. It was the only safe passage to the empire from the little Island communities of the Fair Isles. In a bid to head off the faster vessel Felicity was attempting to traverse the Breach. The little ship was an ocean going vessel and could easily have managed the month long trip through the wash. But no ship had ever successfully crossed the breach. The little steamer had over taken The Western Dream and was now a hundred leagues ahead but she was struggling badly in the heavy seas. There was no boundary between the calm waters of the Wash and the white water of the breach just a steadily worsening sea.
Samson's ship had barely shifted course and already she was being forced to cope with twenty foot waves. By comparison however The Southern Swell was riding mountains. Samson stared hard into the night. Rain pelted his ship and visibility was terrible. For a second or two the little white ship would appear ahead cresting a great wave taller then the deck of his own ship and then she would be gone again.
“Sir! I respectfully request we change course we cannot survive these swells.” The helmsman was terrified, his voice barely a whimper. But Samson would not abandon his sister to the sea.
“How far off is she?” He asked.
“Too far sir, she's on her beam ends, see for yourself she's foundering sir. There's nothing can be done.” The helmsman handed Samson the brass eye glass and he looked out over the dark sea. The ship had keeled over and was sliding down a mountain of water on her side like a bucket on a gravel pile.
“How close can we get.” He asked gingerly but the heart was gone from his question. Samson held the telescope aloft again and saw his world end. She was gone.
“How many?” He asked with a voice he'd borrowed for a moment from someone stronger and braver.
“Full compliment sir. Fifty sir maybe more. I'm so sorry.” The Helmsman replied.
“Life rafts!” Samson nearly screamed. “I want every man aboard with a pair of eyes on the port side. Launch the flares dammit! We will not let them all die!” The Captain's orders began as an address to the room but within seconds he'd bellowed them into the compipes and the entire ship heard and obeyed his pleas. By the time he made the outer deck the flares were already reaching their apex. A hundred men clung to the port rail. Frantically scouring the nightmare sea for life.
The minutes that followed were cruelly slow. There was nothing out there in the black night but cold killing sea. The Western Dream rolled and lurched and clung to the surface as long as it was able but the choppy sea was taking its toll.
“We must turn back sir. We're taking on water. The bilge pumps are having no effect. Please sir think of the men.” The first mates voice was a roar yet only just audible over the howl of the gale. Samson could only nod and dismissed his crew mate with a wave.
The pilot swung the great wheel back to starboard and slowly The Western Dream returned to the wash. Samson looked out into the now placid dark water. The cloudy night made the sea the colour of midnight. He looked to the North and saw the Northern Star not his quarry but its bright namesake which even now shone like a beacon through the foggy sky. This would be as close as Samson would ever get to the Empire and the last night he would ever see his brother or sister.
Samson and his crew returned to Havant that night but the shame and grief would never leave them. As they inched their way back to the island, Samson discovered that half the able ships on Havant had joined the chase but one by one they too had abandoned the race. The Western Dream became the flagship of a failed fleet limping sadly back the way she had come with nearly fifty beaten cogs, sloops and clockwork launches crawling behind her each one with its colours flying at half mast.
This is the prologue to my first novel...
THE TRAMP STEAMER
By Neil Campbell
Prologue
“Hurry man!” Anthony West's voice had a practised impatience the man he addressed was not about to question.
Two more figures emerged behind them from the dense fog straining to pull a cart better designed for oxen.
Ahead of the group the silhouette of a ship conjured itself out of the mist.
A silver flare lit the sky above the port like a comet, and for the briefest second The Northern Star shone like her celestial sister: Her hull, bluer than a late night summer sky, her main deck virginal white. She lay a full four hundred feet from bow to stern and her twin,signal red funnels graced her like cherries on a fine cake.
Anthony West stood on the dock, gazing up at the proud ship until the flare fizzled out and sudden darkness enveloped her once more. A short blast from her steam whistle signalled her readiness to depart. He had maintained a skeleton crew onboard in order to make their final preparations without drawing too much attention from the Port Authorities, and only a few meagre oil lamps burned within her port-holes and under the eaves of the hurricane deck. It seemed to him, and perhaps to the other men gathered on the dock, that the ship was brooding. It was after two in the morning when the four spectres appeared in the mist on the periphery of the dirty port.
The tallest shadow walked with ease and dignity, but his fellow shades struggled behind with their heavy burden. West's men had returned. Their captain winced with every rusty squeak, creak and groan.
The rest of his crew stood on the wharf behind him, wrapped in shadows like fugitives. A few men were casting uneasy glances back at the town, and West followed their gazes to see three silhouettes were appearing out of the mist at the landward end of the dock. The tallest shadow strode with a dignified gate, while his two fellows struggled behind, dragging a hand cart between them.
"They made it," said one of the crew.
"I told you I was lucky," West murmured.
The old cart moaned loudly as the trio hurried it along. West frowned. Hadn't the fools heard of stealth? He could hear their footsteps from here. They were nearly at the steamer's berth when the first bells sounded.
West cursed. “Get this on board and get the steam up," he snapped. "We're leaving immediately. I'll deal with the Port Authorities.” He drew twin etched silver pistols from his long leather coat, then paused long enough to light a wet amber cigarette with a broken match. All the better to let his foes see him. The orange light settled over his greying goatee beard, and the smoke from the match brought water to his cold grey eyes.
As he suspected, the solitary warning chime became a chorus. Deeper bells were booming now and others had taken up their song. A siren wailed over it all. West managed a wicked grin over his weather-etched face. He was handsome still and aging well. He stroked his strong chin with one calloused hand and made a mental log that he would have to shave again soon. The huff from the steamer's funnels began to deepen and quicken, as amber smoke clouds billowed into the darkness. He was so, so very close.
High on the city hill the assembly had already begun. Hundreds had come to see what the fuss was about. Standing by the alarm bell or as near to standing as the old lady could muster was Margaret West. The bells pierced her ears but she was lost to their ring. The gathering crowd descended on the scene like carrion crows and they were all jostling to get a better view of the Islands self appointed matriarch. Mageret West stood by the alarm bell, her tiny figure frail in contrast to her fearsome reputation. Even those in the crowd who openly despised the woman were touched by her sudden and vicious fall from grace. Despite her grief and the look of desperation that had set itself so finally to her normally stoic face. She was as well dressed as always, wearing one of her many furs and a plain but striking gown.
“He's taken everything!” Margaret West sobbed. There were few in the community who had ever seen the formidable old lady flustered, but here in view of everyone she was distraught and openly weeping. The Militia needed no further instruction. They knew exactly to whom she was reffering. The town marshall had already warned her about the true nature of her little prince. He dismissed the thought of reminding her now, allowing her some dignity despite the rebuffs and even anger he'd received for his accusations. While others were still arriving to enjoy the spectacle the Militia were already racing down the High Hill to the docks where Captain West's sleek steamer, The Northern Star sat.
The men were hauling the heavy cart over a makeshift gangplank. Struggling, one of its porters tumbled and a wheel slid off the precarious ramp. The cart shifted uneasily and arm fulls of precious pewter and silver metal ware fell ungracefully to the sea. Anthony's reaction was swift and brutal. His bull whip lashed out an impossible distance and caught one of the two deck hands hard across his back. The vicious strike tore through his cotton shirt and opened an eight inch wound from shoulder to spine.
“The next thing that hits the sea will be your lifeless corpse!” Anthony promised, his words as bitter as his whips stroke. They had righted the cart and it was stable once more. The two men were struggling more now, due to the attack and the added physical stress, but they had also become a good deal more careful.
Captain West's attention returned to the commotion on the docks. He gauged the confusion. The bells could have meant anything, as well he knew. He was trying to estimate how long it would take the militia to link the bells to his villainy. He could already see signs of action from the lower terraces of the high hill,where the fat merchants and traders kept their pretty villas and their prettier wives. They were on to him.
He replaced his pistols. He had no hope of standing against the mob that would be racing to accost him. The cart was finally safely on board. Captain West followed it over the hastily erected gangway. He paused briefly to look down into the cold dark water. How much he had lost thanks to the fumbling deckhand would annoy him endlessly during the coming voyage. He made a mental note to make sure the offending lackey would starve over the coming weeks for his incompetence.
He didn't have to give the orders to release the lines he could tell as he jumped the last few feet to the deck that the ship was already free of its moorings. The sway of the sea was obvious to the seasoned sailor.
“Full steam ahead!” He shouted to the bridge and instantly he could hear the first thrusts of the great blue wheels. In seconds their spokes were a blur and white water churned below them like a spring stream. The ship surged out of the port. She raced into the cloudy night and made for the Western Ocean. There could only be one destination now and everyone aboard and those behind who would surely give chase knew it. The Northern Star was making steam for the Northern Wash, the only safe passage through the tempestuous Western Ocean to the great empire of Mshmere.
“Felicity, bring him home please.” Margaret West had regained a little of her normally impressive composure and was in conference with her two remaining children. Samson West, the second eldest, was short at five foot six and portly like a stout barrel. Margaret West regarded him with her usual contempt. Felicity, the youngest by almost ten years was the first to speak. She resembled her Mother, a fact she secretly hated and she winced every time it was pointed out to her. She too had the piercing blue eyes that were a West family trait. She was taller than Samson by an inch and many considered her beautiful. Her mothers jealousy had all but stripped her own belief in her obvious attractiveness. Years of put downs and jibes had stripped her of any confidence she may have once had. If she was pretty she could not see it.
“We'll catch him mother and we'll bring him back to you. There'll be some explanation for his madness I'm sure of it.” She laid a gentle hand upon her mothers shoulder and the old lady smiled briefly.
“Yes, I'm sure you're right there will be a reason for all this. Thank you Felicity I know you can reach him.” The gesture was kind but Margaret West was desperately trying to disguise her clear doubt in the pair of them. There was no way her plain daughter and her little rotund son could catch The Northern Star . They had their own ships of course, All the West's had it was a family tradition. But neither Felicity's pretty little pleasure cruiser nor Samson's sturdy Steamer had the speed or the grace to catch the legendary ship. She coughed and stood up straight. She had to believe there was a chance they could succeed. Her family name and fortune relied on them.
“I'll catch the bastard mother, you'll see.” Samson did his best to ignore the fact his mother hadn't even included him in her plea for assistance but he could not. She'd wounded him yet again. Samson's hatred for his braggart brother was open and well known. He'd waited for the perfect moment to deliver his pledge and noted with some glee the discomfort his particular turn of phrase caused his mother. The contempt was clear not only in his words but also in his tone. His mother Margaret could not even raise a smile for her second born and merely nodded slightly and then dismissed the pair of them to their preparations.
The Southern Swell was also docked in the tiny capital and most of Felicity's crew had joined the show by the lost rock. The more senior of them had taken their place by her side. Being the more experienced of the captains the crew of Samson's ship The Western Dream were already on board the vessel and making haste for her departure. Samson had long suspected his brother was planning some unthinkable act and had done his best to ensure what ever his intent his ship The Western Dream would be ready to respond. Samson had learned not to wait for his mothers approval which for him at least never seemed to come. He was more aware than most of his brothers drinking and gambling habits. He was the closest sibling to Anthony in age and mindset.. Though truly the only real emotion that bound the brothers was jealously. Samson's envy at the love his mother showered upon her little angelic boy and Tony's resentment over his younger brothers easy way with others. Where Anthony was cautiously respected, Samson was loved.
He raced back to his ship, rage overwhelming him as he ran. He tore down the cobbled road from the High Hill. As he passed the shacks and shanties that clung to the church wall he slowed to a wheezing trot. When he reached the town's gardens he was forced to stop for a moment to catch his breath. The sweet smell of lavender stung his lungs as he started off towards the docks again. He was nearly at the waters edge now. He could see his ship clearly now The Western Dream. She was slighter than her sister ship but she was still a formidable boat. She was a flurry of activity.
Samson eventually arrived at her berth breathless and beaten. It was all he could do to clamber aboard and collapse. His well trained crew needed no further instruction and as soon as his feet hit the deck she was under way. It took him a full five minutes before he stopped hyperventilating and the first officer gave him his report.
“As you instructed we have been primed for departure for the last fortnight. We are already full steam into the pursuit. She has two hours on us at best and we're approaching twenty knots” The first mate seemed pleased but Samson head instinctively fell to his hands. There was no way they would catch The Northern Star even at twenty knots and she had a two hour head start. The first officer continued his report ignoring his captain's concern. “The Southern Swell is approaching fast from the rear. She must be running in the red sir, she's definitely gaining on us.”
“Then we'll have to run the red ourselves. Its the only way we stand half a chance. Have the engineers by the boilers I want even blown rivet re-bolted and any gaps resealed. We'll catch the son of a bitch even if it means tearing ourselves apart” Samson's order was acknowledged and the bosun hollered flank speed into the com pipes. Satisfied Samson made his way to the bridge. He paused briefly to look out over the ships stern and caught sight of his sister's ship. He paused for a second considering her current course then dismissed his thoughts as poppycock, she couldn't be heading west? Every child on the Isles who had just learned to speak their own name knew also that to sail into the West was to sail into death itself. He continued to the Bridge but made a mental note to plot Felicity's heading just in case the crazy witch was contemplating such recklessness. As he arrived on the bridge he took his place at the head of the large oval mahogany table and addressed the senior crew.
“Any sign of her yet?” Samson didn't need an answer he had already known they had no chance of catching even a glimpse of the wayward ship, not yet at least. A room full of down turned faces were his only answer. Not one of his trusted crew had the courage to look him in the eye their shame only confirmed his suspicion.
“She's armed sir, We...” The helmsman looked at his cremates for support as he spoke. “Well, we just wondered if you knew? We haven't any guns as you know sir, just the mortars. If we catch her how will we take her?” The question was fair and in truth Samson hadn't even considered that there would be a fire fight. He had been so intent on the pursuit he hadn't even thought of what would happen if they succeeded.
“We'll have to board her. He's left more than half his crew on Havant. If we can reach her it'll be over swiftly.” In this Samson was correct. Anthony West paranoid and penniless had trusted only a handful of his shipmates with his recent plan. The others had been left behind. Their advance notes now empty promises as useless as the paper on which they'd been scribbled.
“Helmsman, can you plot the current heading of the Southern Swell? I have a feeling my sister maybe planning something rather dangerous.” The man nodded, took out a brass eyeglass and made his way to the port porthole. The task took him a minute or so but when he returned his report was flustered and stammered.
“She's heading West sir, into the breach. She's awash sir and taking on water.” with his words he brought utter silence to the room. Samson leapt into action.
“Stupid bitch! Where did she find that crew? Change course we'll have to stop her.” The helmsman nervously surveyed the bridge searching for someone else to bring reason to his captain. But Samson was well loved and the pilot knew there would be no objections to their planned suicide. Anxiously he swung the great silver wheel and the ship slowly began to veer to the left heading into hell after its sister.
The Southern Swell was in trouble already. All sailors knew about the Northern Wash. The placid canal that ran like a border for a thousand miles between the wild and unpredictable Western Ocean and the Ice flows of the North. It was the only safe passage to the empire from the little Island communities of the Fair Isles. In a bid to head off the faster vessel Felicity was attempting to traverse the Breach. The little ship was an ocean going vessel and could easily have managed the month long trip through the wash. But no ship had ever successfully crossed the breach. The little steamer had over taken The Western Dream and was now a hundred leagues ahead but she was struggling badly in the heavy seas. There was no boundary between the calm waters of the Wash and the white water of the breach just a steadily worsening sea.
Samson's ship had barely shifted course and already she was being forced to cope with twenty foot waves. By comparison however The Southern Swell was riding mountains. Samson stared hard into the night. Rain pelted his ship and visibility was terrible. For a second or two the little white ship would appear ahead cresting a great wave taller then the deck of his own ship and then she would be gone again.
“Sir! I respectfully request we change course we cannot survive these swells.” The helmsman was terrified, his voice barely a whimper. But Samson would not abandon his sister to the sea.
“How far off is she?” He asked.
“Too far sir, she's on her beam ends, see for yourself she's foundering sir. There's nothing can be done.” The helmsman handed Samson the brass eye glass and he looked out over the dark sea. The ship had keeled over and was sliding down a mountain of water on her side like a bucket on a gravel pile.
“How close can we get.” He asked gingerly but the heart was gone from his question. Samson held the telescope aloft again and saw his world end. She was gone.
“How many?” He asked with a voice he'd borrowed for a moment from someone stronger and braver.
“Full compliment sir. Fifty sir maybe more. I'm so sorry.” The Helmsman replied.
“Life rafts!” Samson nearly screamed. “I want every man aboard with a pair of eyes on the port side. Launch the flares dammit! We will not let them all die!” The Captain's orders began as an address to the room but within seconds he'd bellowed them into the compipes and the entire ship heard and obeyed his pleas. By the time he made the outer deck the flares were already reaching their apex. A hundred men clung to the port rail. Frantically scouring the nightmare sea for life.
The minutes that followed were cruelly slow. There was nothing out there in the black night but cold killing sea. The Western Dream rolled and lurched and clung to the surface as long as it was able but the choppy sea was taking its toll.
“We must turn back sir. We're taking on water. The bilge pumps are having no effect. Please sir think of the men.” The first mates voice was a roar yet only just audible over the howl of the gale. Samson could only nod and dismissed his crew mate with a wave.
The pilot swung the great wheel back to starboard and slowly The Western Dream returned to the wash. Samson looked out into the now placid dark water. The cloudy night made the sea the colour of midnight. He looked to the North and saw the Northern Star not his quarry but its bright namesake which even now shone like a beacon through the foggy sky. This would be as close as Samson would ever get to the Empire and the last night he would ever see his brother or sister.
Samson and his crew returned to Havant that night but the shame and grief would never leave them. As they inched their way back to the island, Samson discovered that half the able ships on Havant had joined the chase but one by one they too had abandoned the race. The Western Dream became the flagship of a failed fleet limping sadly back the way she had come with nearly fifty beaten cogs, sloops and clockwork launches crawling behind her each one with its colours flying at half mast.
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