The ship was going down. There was no way it wouldn’t. Worse, the life boats had been stored right where the explosion had happened, which meant there was no way off the ship that wouldn’t end in disaster for whoever hadn’t been injured in the blast.
Émile checked back over his shoulder to Halifax, to the setting sun casting the city into darkness, and knew they’d never send a rescue ship out for them. Not like this. Not now.
Marie was trembling all over again, waiting for him to tell her what to do, to show her where to go, how to survive. The trouble was…he didn’t know.
Men shouted for help from below-deck. Some in panic, some in pain.
He slapped the railing next to them, showed her how he was wrapping his arms around it to hold tight, and she mimicked him without hesitation. The more the ship tipped, the harder it would be to hold on…but it was the best idea he had. He put a hand to her cheek, made sure she saw him, and said: “I’ll be right back.”
She cried out as he left, dashing down the sloping deck to the ramp, where his feet slipped on the slick, wet wood and he tumbled head-first into the void. He hit something, hard, and his vision spotted, but he knew he didn’t have time to rest. He pushed himself back to his feet as the room turned all around him.
Down the corridor, a pair of sailors were helping their mate. He had bits of wooden shrapnel jutting from his thigh, and seemed to be fading in and out of consciousness. Émile pointed back up above-deck. “The life boats are gone,” he said. “Find debris and get clear before she sinks.”
“Aye, captain,” nodded the sailors, and hurried on their way.
Water was starting to fill the hallway, which was harder and harder to navigate as the ship went under. A door to his right opened and a pair of sailors stumbled out, one bleeding from the head, but seemingly alright. They seemed shocked to see Émile.
“Get clear,” Émile said. “Every man for himself.”
The two of them exchanged looks, then said: “Where do you need us, sir?”
Émile wasted no time on relief. He pointed down toward the aft of the ship. “Blockade the galley doors,” he said. “If we stem the flood, the ship won’t go down so fast, and we might buy enough time to get all hands to safety before—”
The ship rumbled, creaking ominously all around them. It was bending, being pulled apart by its own weight. The sailors knew it, too, but didn’t show an ounce of fear. “Aye, sir. We’ll get it done.”
They hurried off as Émile kept moving, checking door after door for anyone left behind. But then, down a little further, he saw something that made his breath catch in his throat: O’Malley, crawling his way through the deepening water, the right side of his body burnt and bleeding.
Émile raced to help, pulling O’Malley to his knees to keep him from drowning. The blast had done so much damage, it was hard to imagine how he’d survived at all, but when he recognized who he was facing, he gave a little nod and said: “Ship’s sinking, captain. We oughta get out of here.”
Émile looked down the hall, trying to see or hear if there was anyone else left. Anyone left to save, or to save him. The ship creaked even louder.
“Good idea,” he said, and lifted O’Malley up, arm wrapped around his shoulder, and dragged them both toward the ramp again.
“Mr Crosby had a gun,” said O’Malley, head lolling between ragged breaths. “I think he—”
That doesn’t matter now,” said Émile. “That’s for later.”
O’Malley coughed up blood. “Don’t think there is a later, sir,” he wheezed, and his legs gave out beneath him. The sudden change in weight threw Émile off-balance, and the toppled down together, cracking into the wall as the ship started to turn on its way to down.
“O’Malley!” Émile said, slapping the younger man’s good cheek. “O’Malley, listen to me! You have to wake up, or—”
The whole place went boom as something far below them broke, and suddenly what had been an angled corridor became a pit straight down to a black and roiling watery grave. O’Malley slipped out of Émile’s hands, tumbling down and disappearing with a splash—Émile only avoided the same fate by instinctively grabbing onto a railing, which he dangled from, watching his closest ally fade away, and—
“Marie!” he gasped, and started climbing back up to the surface.
The two sailors at the galley must have failed, because the ship was going down faster than ever. It was all Émile could do to stay ahead of the rising water. He could see the red sky above, taunting him with freedom, but it was just so far to—
Another boom, and this time the ship lurched a different way, slamming Émile back onto the hallway floor. He kept his grip, but only barely, as water rushed away, only to come flooding back again. The ship must have cracked in two, and not his part, the bow, was sinking anew.
He only had a few seconds to escape, so he wasted no time: he got to his feet and sprinted up the hallway, straight up the ramp and onto the deck to see the Archimedes Fish in the final stages of its death throes. Sailors were breaking off railings and throwing them overboard to use as makeshift lifeboats, the mast was broken, half-submerged into the sea, the sails billowing in the wind and afire, spraying embers across the survivors trying to paddle to safety.
Émile turned ‘round again and saw, up at the tip of the boat, Marie was still clinging to the railing like he’d shown her. She was panicked, terrified, but the second their eyes met, she smiled, and it gave him strength. For a little while longer, he had strength.
They needed something that floated, to hold onto until they could be rescued, or get to shore. The water would be punishing and cold, so the less time she spent submerged, the better. He just had to find something sturdy enough to—
The wind picked up and took hold of what remained of the sails, throwing them sideways…and wrenching the mast around until it hit the water. Men screamed as the massive wooden beam swept through, but what happened next was even worse: the mast was so heavy, it began to sink…and pulled the rest of the ship down with it.
Émile turned to Marie and tried to shout, but it all happened so fast: the boat flipped upside-down, smashing into the water so hard it felt like he’d fallen off a cliff. He scrambled to get his bearings, trying to see through the bubbles and the chaos all around him, but then the ship careened past, clipping his head on something hard, and he realized he was going to drown…he was going to drown if he didn’t get out.
But Marie!
The bow was going down first, disappearing into the darkness below so rapidly, there was no way he could reach it and survive.
And survive.
He kicked off, pushing himself down, chasing a thing he knew he couldn’t reach, a goal he couldn’t win. He swam so hard, his legs burned and his lungs twisted themselves raw in panic and fury, but he refused to give up. He saw the place she’d been standing, the place he’d hold her to hold on to, and he refused to let go.
But then the darkness wrapped around him, and the world felt so cold…and then everything was done.
The world was rocking back and forth. He heard the sound of oars in the water, the sound of chattering teeth, the smell of fish on the wind. He opened his eyes, fighting the blurriness to see a night sky above him, and one of his sailors looking down with concern.
“You’re alright now, captain,” he said. “You’re going to be alright.”
The navy officer pushed the cup a little closer, across the desk. “It’ll help with the cold,” he said, as Émile shivered beneath a pair of heavy blankets. He was long since dry now, but still felt like he was halfway to the bottom of the sea.
He looked at the whisky in the cup, but didn’t drink. He felt too sick for that.
The officer noticed something behind Émile and nodded, taking up his hat and hurrying past without so much as a good-bye. The night had been a lot of that, so far. One official or another asking questions, then punting him off to the next fool, who’d ask all the same questions, all over again. The room was packed with fools, all busying themselves with the events of the day like it was the highlight of their year. And it was, probably.
Émile’s throat was sore from the cold and the salt and the talking, but he repeated himself anyway. Anything to keep him from dwelling on the images in his mind.
A man took the officer’s seat and lit a pipe, and it wasn’t until he smelled the sweetness of the tobacco that Émile looked up, eyes wide.
“Jeffries,” he gasped, checking around and realizing that the whole room was now empty, with only him and this older man still present. Jeffries had gray hair and a sizable beard, his belly jutting out in that way distinguished gentlemen do when they’ve given up pretending to be fit. He watched Émile with a bemused grin.
“Come up for air, have you, Deschênes?” he asked, in a crisp English accent.
“No, sir,” said Émile, eyes downcast again.
“Well, in the air you are, all the same. Thought we’d lost you, but now—”
“Sir, I’m not—”
“—now here you are, back on—”
“I’m not—”
“Stop interrupting me, Lieutenant!” snapped Jeffries, and Émile obeyed, as always. The older man straightened himself out, cricking his neck like it would relieve the strain of their conversation. “Now then, concerning your time away.”
Émile looked up in terror, but said nothing.
“I’m willing to treat this as personal leave,” said Jeffries. “An extended absence, to better yourself. But it’s over now.”
“Sir, with all due respect—”
“Any other man, Deschênes…any other man, and I’d have you court-martialed and hanged for desertion.” He pushed the cup of whisky over. “But I need you out there, more than I need vengeance.”
Émile turned to face the windows, looking out over Halifax harbour. The lighthouse flashed, flashed, flashed into the distance, warning ships of the dangers ahead. The dangers he was in.
Jeffries set a medallion on the desk between them, but kept his fingers pressed down on it. Émile knew what it was anyway, without seeing.
“You’re to report to Captain Wilson at dawn,” he said. “He will get you sorted, put back together, and caught up to speed.”
“Sir, I swear—”
“I don’t want to know why, son. I don’t want to know where you were, or what you did. We all have moments of weakness, where we put ourselves before our duty. Before the oaths we swore to protect King and country. But as important as those distractions seem, Deschênes, they are simply that: distractions.”
He looked out at the harbour, eyes narrowing. “Whatever life it was that left you drowning outside the wreck of a mutinied ship in the dying light…that life is over now. You belong to me now. The next time I pull this medallion from the ashes, I expect them to be yours.”
He stood, straightening his coat, and put a firm hand down on Émile’s shoulder and squeezing. “Good to have you back, son.”
Émile looked at the medallion as the door closed behind Jeffries. The golden features caught the flickering candlelight, making strange patterns in his vision, as he struggled not to cry.
He sat by the water’s edge, listening to the waves lap against the rocks down below. Halifax was still sleeping, and he had a few hours left of freedom…but he didn’t know what to do with them anymore.
He wanted to find that place where the freed slaves went, go to them and tell them about Marie. About what they’d lost. What they’d never get to know. He wanted to grieve with them, but he knew it made no sense, because she was just another soul lost in the waves. Someone no one remembered but him. The last fragments of a dream he’d tried to live without permission. She would never get to be free in Halifax, safe from the horrors of the world.
Gregory. Gregory’s shipment was lost, sunk to the bottom of the ocean. His investment gone, his assets lost…would he recover? Would he ever know Émile had survived? Would he curse his name to the ends of the earth, telling anyone who’d listen what a scoundrel he was?
Or would he be sad his friend had died in the wreck, and mourn all their losses like the mountains of losses they’d endured under Jeffries.
Report to Captain Wilson at dawn. Another go at the death machine. Another chance to serve the public good, so long as the public had titles or land or cash on hand.
Another round of being anyone but who he was, and ignoring the cries for help as he chased the next mission, whatever it was.
He watched the waves come in, and wished he’d just drowned. One of those sailors—Hamlin’s sailors—had pulled him from extinction, and cursed him to a life of treachery. The victim of their good intentions.
He heard quiet muttering, and then the light of a lantern illuminated his hiding space. Two men were trudging along the shore, eyes locked downward until one of them noticed Émile. They stopped short, defensive and ready to fight, if need be. Émile wished they would, and kill him…but from the look of them, that wasn’t too likely.
“You find anythin’?” asked the left one.
Émile frowned, shook his head.
“Ship went down, out yonder,” said the other. “Merchant ship, packed with goods.”
“Goods and trinkets,” said the first.
“Trinkets are good, ye daft bastard.”
“Ah, right,” nodded the first. “So…trinkets and goods and exotic fruits.” He showed Émile a perfect orange which seemed to glow in the candlelight. “I found me three of these!”
Émile smiled, then stood and tipped the cap he didn’t have to them, and started back into town.
“They’re not exotic, though, are they?” asked the second scavenger. “Comes from from nearby, don’t they?”
“Nuh-uh,” said the other, offended at the suggestion. “They come from far away! Why else’d there be that little Black lad with ‘em!”
Émile froze, turned on his heel, eyes wide. “What did you say?”