The Derelict

Flash Fiction

          The crew stares at me, waiting for their orders. I know what I have to say, yet the words are clotted within my throat. At my back, the Montgomery drifts silently, the prize I’d given up for lost weeks ago rendered suddenly, unnervingly compliant. There’s no sign of her crew or captain, but only a single ship’s boat is missing. I pray for God to give me the strength that I lack. They must not see me falter. They must not know that the weakest part of me would rather scuttle the ship entirely than face the tragedy that likely waits for us below.

“Bring her in,” I say, with far more confidence than I truly feel. “Hawkins, Jumah, Smith, prepare to board. The rest of you, stay at your post until further orders.”

Grappling hooks are flung across the chasm, each one landing on the Montgomery’s deck with a dull thud. She’s a Baltimore clipper; small and built for swiftness above all else. American made, but flying the flag of Brazil. Almost certainly a slaver. She has the scent of one. Even at a distance, she reeked of excrement and bodies packed too closely together. And something else as well. A rotting scent that chills me even in the unrelenting tropical heat.

When the ship has been secured, I leap across and wait for the others to follow. They must have drawn the same conclusions as I have; I can see it in their faces. And yet, both of them jump across in turn, too well-disciplined to falter. There is something comforting in that, but such comfort is fleeting. My gaze falls upon the hatch that leads below decks. Several boards have been hastily nailed across it.

—

“It don’t make any sense, Captain,” Hawkins says as he probes at the boards with a crowbar. “Ain’t they chained up already? Won’t keep us out for long either.”

“Maybe they ain’t chained up now,” Smith volunteers.

Or maybe there’s something else in there with them.

It’s an irrational thought, but nothing else about this situation makes sense either. I have learned to expect some combination of resistance, treachery, and deception. False flags, false paperwork, anything to keep their unhappy cargo from being discovered. But to desert a fine, seaworthy ship like this fifty miles off the coast? That doesn’t sit right with me.

“Something’s down there, Captain,” says Jumah, our Krooman translator.

Something, not someone. A troubling distinction. English may not be his first language, but Jumah’s generally very precise. As I pause to listen, I realize that he’s right.

Soft, padding footsteps move directly below us. They stop abruptly with our sudden silence, as if aware that they’ve been heard.

“Is someone there?” I ask.

No reply. Just a ragged sound, like the last breath of a dying man.

I turn back to Jumah.

“Tell them this is Captain Saunders of the HMS Prominence, and that this ship is being searched for slaves.”

Jumah spoke rapidly in his own tongue.

This time there was a long, low growl.

“It’s a damned madman. That’s what it is,” muttered Hawkins.

“Still,” I say, “we must search below decks. Remove the boards. Defend yourselves, but don’t harm him unless you must. He will likely need to be restrained.”

They agree, but their reluctance is clear. I wish I could tell them that I don’t like it either; that some cowardly part of me fears whatever’s prowling below.

Hawkins removes the boards, nail by nail. The creature below is silent. Waiting. I am unpleasantly reminded of a poem I used to read to my girls when they were small. Will you walk into my parlour, said a spider to a fly… 

My hand strays to the sword-hilt at my side as the last board is removed. Let him be docile. Please God, don’t make me have to subdue him by force. With the toe of my boot, I flip one of the doors open. The reek of rotting flesh is so overwhelming that it’s all I can do not to vomit. The darkness below decks is absolute. I close one eye ahead of time to prepare, but there will still be a few dreadful moments of helplessness before I can see properly. It must be me first, of course. My men trust me because I lead them. Now I must trust them too.

The stairs creak underfoot as I carefully make my way down. The darkness seems to stretch on forever, a kingdom of its own. Somewhere beyond comes the clink of metal on metal, a sound of suffering that I know horribly well. I open my eye. For a moment I see nothing. Where is he? Where is he?

A pale shape scuttles forward; human in form, but not movement. The sword is in my hand before I realize I’ve drawn it; all thoughts of mercy displaced by a pure will to survive. It hurls itself toward me. The blade slides easily through its stomach, but the monster keeps coming, oblivious to its wound. I try to pull the blade free but am not fast enough. It hits me like  a sack of rotten fruit. Both of us go sprawling. It lunges at my throat, teeth shining dully in the dark.

—

Hawkins takes one last look before sewing up the shroud. The dead man’s expression is stoic; as if resigned to his fate.

“He was a brave man, that one,” said Jumah.

Hawkins nodded.

“The bravest.”

---

I’ve been wanting to write a story about the Royal Navy’s West Africa Squadron for a while now. There was a ridiculously expensive effort to end the African slave trade in the early to mid 19th century, but few people today have ever heard about it. Even more obscure is the role played by the Kroomen, West African sailors who frequently served aboard these ships.

For those of you who like historical nonfiction, I’d recommend John Broich’s excellent book “Squadron: Ending the African Slave Trade”.

Also, I am far from an expert when it comes to naval history, so my bad if there are any anachronisms or other errors. I’m not a historian. Just a nerd.