Kthudagon III

PART III

“Quarrel ain’t just any old captain, mate.” Kensington and St. John-Smith stood at the bow. There was a following wind: strong, salty, and brisk. Kensington seemed completely unaware of it. St. John-Smith, for his part, felt it but could shake it off relatively easily. He had spent most of the last ten years in desolate, isolated places scorched by the sun or burnt by raw winds. Consequently, his skin was almost as weather beaten as those of his captors.
         “No, mate,” ruminated Kensington,” Quarrel’s one of a kind.”   
         “Has he always been a buccaneer?”
         “You mean you don’t know who the Quarrel is?”
         “No,” stated St. John-Smith,” should I?”
         “Where you been the last few years? Livin’ in a cave or somethin’?”
         “Actually, in a way, I have.”
         “Right,” said Kensington after a minute’s reflection,” diggin’ for ole bits of pottery and bones in some far off, God forsaken place.”
         “Well, it wasn’t as bad as all that,” replied St. John-Smith a little testily,” But what about the captain?”
         Kensington did not reply. Instead he handed St. John-Smith a leather flask and the latter took a long pull from it. He had become quite familiar with pirate rum in the last few weeks. It was raw, hard and mean—like the men who drank it. It was imbibed in great quantities on The Kraken and openly consumed at all hours of the day or night. St. John-Smith found it odd that such overt and copious consumption of such a harsh alcohol showed no signs of impairing the workings of the ship or causing, as was its want, violence among those who used it. He could only surmise that fear of their Captain kept them alert and well behaved.
         “Well, for most of his life he was an officer in Her Majesty’s Navy. He was born poor—the son of a Scottish shepherd; pressed into service at age thirteen. By the time he was eighteen they couldn’t deny him rank any more and so he made officer.  He captained his first ship at age twenty.
         “By the time he was thirty there was talk of the Admiralty. By then he was the best officer in the fleet—air or sea. At thirty-one he took the captaincy of the Flagship HMA Foray.”
         St. John-Smith was poorly versed in military jargon but he, nevertheless, understood that HMA was an acronym for Her Majesty’s Airship.
         “How did he go from being considered for the Admiralty to becoming a notorious airship pirate?” St. John-Smith asked, incredulously.
         “I’m getting’ to that, mate.” Kensington took the flask from St. John-Smith and pulled heartily at it,” I’m getting’ there.” Clearly, Kensington relished his roll as storyteller.
         “Anywho, he was captain of the Foray and damned if within a year it wasn’t the fastest, most agile, and dreaded o’ all Her Majesty’s ships. Only ship I ever heard that pirates were scart of.
         “Well, the captain was chasin’ a pirate airship somewhere abouts in the South Seas when somethin’ went awful wrong.
         “One of Her Majesty’s dreadnoughts picked him up a week or so later, alone, in a dinghy from the Foray. He was half dead o’ thirst and starvation, and ranting like a madman.
         “When he gave an accountin’ o’ what happened they arrested him. There was a trial, closed to the press and the public, and he was court- martialed. During the trial the captain pleaded for ‘em all to hear him and for the Crown to do somethin’ about it, but they didn’t listen none.”
         “Do what? Listen to what?”
         “No one rightly knows, mate. That kangaroo court kept everything sealed after the trial and told no one nothing. No one knows what the captain said happened to the Foray and her crew. But I know.”
         “Tell me.”
         Kensington’s eyes had taken on a far away look as he talked, caught up in his own tale. But now he drew back and shook his head, his eyes focusing on St. John-Smith, “I ain’t sayin’ now, mate. That’s for the captain to tell you, if he’s got a mind to.” 
         “Of course,” St. John-Smith was eager for the man to continue his story and he did not wish to jeopardize it,” What became of the captain after his court-martial?”
         “Well, he saw he was betrayed by Her Majesty’s Service and he got the wrath in him. When they took him off to the Selkies—the Royal Navy’s Hell they call a prison isle—he escaped. Kilt four o’ the guards what tried to stop him, too.
         “Got hisself an airship sometime after that and took to pirating. That’s the long and short o’ it, mate.”
         St. John-Smith said nothing. Quarrel was not the blood-thirsty murderer St. John-Smith had first thought him. The man was hard and mean, no doubt, but he was also quite complex. From the first, St. John-Smith had detected something of the gentleman in the captain, but fear for his life had smothered that sense. Now, relatively safe for the time being, he could turn his attention to such things as ruminating over the strange man who ran this collection of mongrels. Something about this crew was off—he couldn’t tell exactly what, but they seemed a strange collection of characters for pirates.
         The next several days were spent over open water, scouting for targets. The crew no longer growled or muttered veiled, disparaging remarks when he passed by. They had accepted his presence as a normal state of affairs on The Kraken. This made St. John-Smith’s life more tolerable and he even found himself enjoying his late afternoon strolls across the deck with the First Mate.
         Kensington had taken a liking to St. John-Smith. True, it was possible—perhaps probable—that Kensington’s attentions were ordered by the captain in order to spy on St. John-Smith, but he cared little—he had nothing to hide. But it seemed to St. John-Smith that Kensington’s liking for him was genuine and the two were now on friendly terms. The First Mate’s mannerisms and phraseology were as cultured as rough seas, to be sure, but St. John-Smith found him quick witted and clever, keen minded and with thoughtful insights on many different points of conversation. Kensington had the habit of intuitively sensing relationships between unlike things. This ability St. John-Smith had previously seen only in profoundly intelligent men of science.
         And, as one would suspect, Kensington was quite knowledgeable concerning the workings of the airship. Over a series of nightly strolls about the deck Kensington instructed him in this manner.
         Many of the British Empire’s passenger and payload airships still used hydrogen for lift. Leisure, racing and navy craft all used helium, which was harder to obtain and more expensive.
         The Kraken was very similar in design to most navy airships. It was non-rigid in structure with an envelope made of a tough, synthetic fabric of which St. John-Smith was ignorant. The envelope was cigar shaped with fore and aft air ballonets situated within its helium filled interior. In order to descend or rise these “airbags” were filled or emptied accordingly. This process was done by simple air pumps which expelled or inhaled air as needed. 
           Flight control surfaces were both as simple and direct as the functions of the envelope and ballonets. Rudders atop and below the astern envelope controlled direction, while elevator flaps on the astern sides controlled the rising and falling of the ship. A heavy nose cone batton kept the ship from following its natural inclination to turn “nose up to the sun”, as Kensington put it.
         Within the top of the envelope was a catenary curtain, from which descended suspension cables that passed through the bottom of the envelope and to the gondola. Fixed on the astern section of the gondola was a steam engine driven prop which provided quick, forward thrusting power.
         These elements were all standard to the typical military aircraft. The Kraken, however, had several modifications that the Captain himself had installed. According to Kensington, it was these modifications that made The Kraken special.
         For one, it had two, lightweight auxiliary engines made largely of something Kensington referred to as aluminum. These engines compressed steam at an astounding rate and, when employed, added sudden and severe thrust to the Kraken. This made it nigh impossible to catch when fleeing and avoid when pursuing. No other airship in the world, swore Kensington, had such ability.
         Yet another innovation was the ship’s ability to quickly empty its envelope of helium without directly venting the valuable element into the surrounding atmosphere. Special aluminum pumps sucked the helium out of the envelope at a fantastic rate. The helium was then compressed and bled into brass holding tanks. The result was a quick and efficient method of concealment of the entire vessel and it worked in the following manner.
         When a suitable site, usually a heavily wooded area with an open field in its midst, was found The Kraken would hover over it and bleed out its helium into its holding tanks. The ship would descend gently and when it touched down the “bleeding out” rate would be greatly increased. As the envelope collapsed the crew would fold it onto the deck. Then, over the entire ship would be thrown a camouflage netting to conceal it from above. This action could be completed in less than two hour’s time.
         St. John-Smith was aware that there were many more things about the functions of the Kraken that Kensington would not mention. But those that he did instilled a new and deep respect for the intelligence and ingenuity of its captain. This conflicted with St. John-Smith’s innate dislike and aversion to piracy, leaving him with confused feelings regarding the captain. He had, however, no confusion regarding his feelings toward the bulk of the Kraken’s crew--they were not to be trusted.




         St. John-Smith’s suspicions of the crew’s bloodthirstiness were heightened as the weeks went by. The skies were empty and the seas plowed only by fishing trollers and longboats; poor fisher folk with nothing worth plundering. Coal reserves were running low and the men were getting ugly.
         St. John-Smith read those signs for what they were worth and took to spending more and more time in his cabin. He ventured forth only in the presence of Kensington. While reasonably sure the crew would not disobey a direct order from the captain, he was also aware that when tempers flared men often committed acts of sheer idiocy, and he had no intentions of bearing the brunt of one of those acts.
         As for the captain, St. John-Smith had seen nothing of him for those two weeks. After the second week Kensington finally broke down and confided to St. John-Smith the reason for the captain’s absence.
         “The captain, well, he’s a man wit a lot on his mind. It’s a heavy burden he’s got, bein’ responsible for this lot and more.”
         “What more?” asked St. John-Smith, seeing an in.
         But Kensington had pulled back again, “Might be I said a bit too much already, mate.”
         St. John-Smith had learned not to push the man, so he let it go at that.
         “On the other hand,” Kensington edged in closer, looking around him slowly, “I feel I can trust you, Arthur.”
         “You can, Lemi,” St. John-Smith reassured his friend, “I will speak of this to no one.”
         “Right, mate,” Kensington had the look of a man ready to unburden himself, “Well, the captain gets into these moods, and he locks himself in his cabin, sometimes for weeks.
         “Now, look here, don’t get me wrong. The captain’s a good man—the best. He treats every one of us like we were his own kin, he does. A loss of one of us cuts him to the Quick; it breaks his heart.
         “He pays us well, too. There ain’t a one of us can complain about not getting’ his fair share. I’d wager there are some of the crew who has more in riches stashed somewhere’s away than the captain hisself. He don’t care much for the booty an’ plunder. He’s got greater things on his mind.”
         St. John-Smith felt they were finally getting somewhere, “And what might that be, Lemi?”
         “The salvation of humanity.”
         “Salvation? Is he a god, then?”
         “Alright, mate. The preservation of humanity, then.”
         “Whatever do you mean?”
         But before Kensington could answer a nearby cry arose. They both sprang to their feet.
         Now, unlike a traditional seagoing vessel the airship did not possess a crow’s nest—for obvious reasons. What it did have was a yard wide tube that ran, vertically, through the envelope. A rope ladder allowed a man to ascend the tube until he reached the top. There, he strapped himself into a harness, donning his goggles against the often icy winds, and manned the lookout.
         And again, unlike a traditional vessel where a sailor could bark out information from the crow’s nest to the deck, the airship’s envelope presented a formidable barrier to such communication. To solve this problem a unique and clever system had been devised. When the lookout needed to communicate with those on deck, he would simply select a number of small, hollow, colored balls from a sack at his waist along with a large wire device not unlike a great safety pin. He would slid the balls onto the pin, in the proper color order for what he needed to communicate, close the pin, then drop it down the tube. The pin and balls would drop into a net suspended at the deck end of the tube. Its arrival was loudly proclaimed by the jingling of bells tied beneath the netting. A man would retrieve the pin and balls and read the message therein.
         Such a message now came through the tube. Kensington snatched the pin and balls from the hand of the pirate that had retrieved it and held it up.
         “Airship off the port bow,” Kensington read aloud,” An old hydrogen freighter.” He turned to St. John-Smith and grinned,” East India Company. The captain’s favorite.”
         Kensington turned from St. John-Smith and bellowed,” Freighter off the port bow—make ready, lads.
         “Mr. Lucic.” A short, thin man with a pointed beard and a pencil thin moustache ran up to him.”
         “Oui, Mr. Kensington?”
         “Inform the captain there’s an Indianer a league off the port bow, flyin’ low and lookin’ heavy.”
         Lucic hesitated, his eyes darting in the direction of the captain’s cabin.
         “Well, what are you waiting for, man. Look lively.”
         “Oui, sir.” And the man hurried off.
         Several minutes passed in which Kensington continued to bark out orders. The captain did not appear. Kensington looked nervous.
Then the doors to the captain’s cabin burst open and Quarrel strode out. His gait was slow and awkward, but he covered the deck between his cabin and the First Mate in what seemed like several huge strides.          
         “Look lively, Lads.” He roared, “We’ve got a fat bellied swine just waiting for us to spill its guts. Hell and Blood but I’m itching for a fight!”
         The crew roared back its approval and bent their backs to their work.
Grappling hooks appeared on the gunwales, cannon rolled out onto the deck, brass monkeys were filled, cutlasses and rayzers donned, and harnesses were doubled checked for frays or loose knots.
         St. John-Smith realized, with much trepidation, that he was to be the witness to another act of air piracy. He felt sorry for the crew of that hydrogen blimp, but, to his chagrin, was secretly glad he was not aboard her, looking over his shoulder at The Kraken.
         The hydrogen airship was in view now and Kensington passed his glass to St. John-Smith, who put it to his eye. The airship was turning slowly away—it had evidently spotted The Kraken. The chase, which could only end one way, was on.
         Within minutes St. John-Smith could clearly see the hydrogen ship without the aid of the glass. Its envelope was much larger than The Kraken’s and its gondola deeper—a sure sign it was no passenger or military craft. But what cargo it held St. John-Smith could not guess.
         At this point the hydrogen ship abruptly turned about and its starboard side came quickly into view. It was more than half a league distant but it had realized, as had The Tern, that it could not outrun its pursuer.
         On seeing this cheers arose from the crew of The Kraken and St. John-Smith’s blood chilled at the sound. He thought for a moment of stealing below deck to his cabin, but willed himself to stay put. He would not risk the brand of coward among this group.
         A cough of surprise issued from Kensington. He lowered his glass and sprinted for the bridge. He yelled over his shoulder for St. John-Smith to follow him.
         “Come on, Arthur, it’s the Bridge for us. The captain must see this.”
         “All is in readiness, Mr. Kensington?” Quarrel stood with his duster swept neatly behind his hip holsters. The holsters held two long-barreled, deadly looking rayzers.
         “Er, not quite, Captain.”
         Quarrel turned toward his First Mate expectantly.
         “That hydri’s luffing something awful and it ain’t due to her coming about sloppy like.”
         Quarrel peered through his glass at the hydrogen airship, and then guffawed loudly, “Take another look, Mr. Kensington and tell me what you see.”
         Kensington did just that, then lowered his glass and shook his head, “I can’t rightly say, Captain, not in the least.”
         “Have the good professor look,” said the captain, acknowledging St. John-Smith’s presence on his bridge for the first time, “Perhaps he can.”
         St. John-Smith gazed through Kensington’s glass, not sure what he was looking for, but after a minute he looked toward the captain, “Her gondola’s hanging lower than it was before.”
         The captain nodded and Kensington took back his glass, “Rightly so, she is. But what can that mean?”
         “Is she losing her gondola?”
         “No, professor, her cables are with block and tackle—she’s lowering on purpose.”
         “But why? For what end?”
         “So she can get better arc from her cannon,” replied the captain.
         “But sir,” protested Kensington, “At her current position a higher arc would put her shot four hundred yards astern—in the sea.”
         “Not for Mastersons.”
         “Blimey!” declared Kensington, “What would an East India freighter be doing with Mastersons?”
         “She’s no freighter, Mr. Kensington. It seems the Admiralty is getting much cleverer. That freighter’s really a man-o-war. No doubt they are swinging those Masterson long-nosers into place as we speak. Another minute and we’ll be in range.”
         “Should we fire the auxiliaries and come about, Captain?” asked Kensington.
         “No doubt there is a full contingency on board, with swords and rayzers. Armed to the teeth, I would say. I wonder who commands Her? Buckner would be my choice.”
         “Captain!”
         “Steady as she goes, Mr. Kensington,” replied the captain, shaken back to reality from his musings, “Inform the lads to expect incoming as of now. Order Mr. Bitterman to have those auxiliaries fully stoked as of five minutes ago. We need to take her in at flank. Those Mastersons are useless inside four hundred yards. Her Majesty wants blood, eh? Well, we will give it to Her.”
         As if in answer to the captain’s challenge a great puff of black smoke appeared on the freighters starboard bow. A roar followed, then a spectacular whistling sound. A dark object sped at them, curving downward as it came until it disappeared below the sight line of The Kraken’s deck.
In response The Kraken lurched suddenly as its steam jet propulsion engines engaged. The pirate airship sped towards its victim turned assailant.
         More smoke appeared on the freighter’s bow. The roaring and whistling was repeated twofold. One ball rocketed over their heads, causing St. John-Smith to duck. The other tore through the port bow of the envelope.
         “We’ve been hit,” yelled St. John-Smith. He fully expected The Kraken to begin a hideous, vertical descent into the sea below.
         “A pinprick to a seamstress, Professor,” Laughed the captain, “She’ll naught mind that sting a bit.”
         The captain, of course, was right. The Kraken continued to gain speed and hold her height as if untouched.
So poor was St. John-Smith’s understanding of the nature of non-rigid airships that he was unaware that the pressure inside The Kraken’s envelope was so low that a tear, even one caused by a cannonball, would take hours or even days to affect the performance of the ship.
“Ready bow cannon, Mr. Kensington,” Quarrel directed.
“Ready bow cannon,” roared Kensington.
A ball shattered the gunwale allee and dug a great groove in the deck before skittering to port quarter.
“Steady now, lads.” yelled the captain.
“Flank, Captain,” yelled back Kensington.
“Wait for my order, Mr. Kensington,” responded the captain.
They were closing fast now. Through the glass St. John-Smith saw the crew of the freighter scrambling to reposition their cannon. It was obvious they had not expected The Kraken to close so quickly.
“Fire!”
A sudden, ungodly boom concussed through St. John-Smith’s ears and chest, followed immediately by another. A great cloud of smoke blew toward them, obscuring his vision and stinging his eyes. Then it blew past and he saw chunks of the freighter falling into the ocean below.
“Prepare to vent ballonets, Mr. Kensington,” said the captain.
St. John-Smith watched, fascinated and perplexed, as Kensington sent men scrambling up both the bow and aft suspension cables. On the captain’s orders they hauled on brass levers and great blasts of air roared out of vents on the underside of the envelope.
The Kraken responded immediately. With a swiftness St. John-Smith thought impossible of an airship it rose and passed above the freighter.
“Ready grapnels,” commanded Quarrel. In a moment’s notice wicked, barbed hooks were mounted on great crossbows; crossbows that were bronze and gleamed in the sunlight. Steam hissed from their sides.
“Take her down. Quarter lee. Quarter ballonets.”
What next ensued was, despite its savagery and criminal nature, a thing of beauty to observe—after its own fashion.
The ballonets were refilled and The Kraken dropped precipitously to the wind sheltered side of the freighter. The great crossbows fired their steam driven bolts into the freighters bulkheads. The devices immediately began winching in the airship. The sailors aboard the freighter scrambled to recover from this sudden and unforeseen assault.
Kensington ordered rayzermen to the gunwales, where they stationed themselves every ten feet. Another order sent men to the gunwale and they stationed themselves between the rayzermen. These men bore crossbows with strange bolts that ended in egg shaped heads. St. John-Smith surmised they held explosives that detonated on contact.
He soon saw how very wrong he was when the men aimed and fired. The bolts sped toward the freighter in great arcs and, as they approached, the heads opened and whip like lines, each ending in metal balls, emerged, twisting and turning in the air. They entangled themselves in the suspension cables of the freighter.
The ballonets were once again vented and The Kraken rose again. Meanwhile, sailors on the freighter were scrambling up the suspension cables with knives in their mouths. The rayzermen fired and the sailors fell lifeless to the freighter’s deck.
A volley of rayzer fire from the freighter hit a few of the pirates but most escaped unharmed as they had backed up and taken themselves out of harm’s way.
The rayzerman leapt back to the gunwale and lay down a series of suppressing volleys, while their mates zipped down the crossbow lines on harnesses.
Their boots hit deck amid a flurry of rayzer fire and screams. Then all Hell broke loose.
The gondolas of both ships slammed together and stuck. The crew of The Kraken swarmed onto the freighter. Hand-to-hand combat ensued, still amid the flurry of gunfire.
St. John-Smith stood on the bridge of The Kraken, unable to move. This was the first airship-to-airship melee he had witnessed and he was stunned. Men hacked at one another with cutlasses; they grappled in hand to hand combat and fired point blank at one another with rayzer pistols.
The carnage was awful. Her Majesty’s men fought hard, valiantly, but were, in the end, overwhelmed. Their captain had been slow to respond to the changing dynamics of the melee and thus the battle had already turned against him by the time he had responded.
The freighter was secured and its commanding officer brought, bound, before Captain Quarrel. St. John-Smith had witnessed this scene before and did not envy the freighter’s captain.
Quarrel sized up his opposite. The man was young for his rank and wore the sky-blue uniform of an HMA officer, still spotless. The man’s face was strained, but he remained outwardly calm.
“They sent a seal pup to ambush me?” growled Quarrel, “Has the Admiralty lost its mind? Sheer folly. What is your name?”
The man did not respond. Quarrel moved in closer and leaned down until his face was but a hand’s length from his opposite’s.
“You know mine, I presume?”
Still, the man did not respond.
“I am Harlan Quarrel, Captain of The Kraken. You do well to fear me.” This last statement was spoken rather more loudly than necessary.
“I fear no brigand or braggart,” said the young commander suddenly, “Especially one as despicable as you. And I will no further speak to one who so willingly betrayed his Queen, his country and his uniform.”
Quarrel’s lip curled up on one side, “Ha! I stained that uniform red with my own blood in honor of Queen and country long before you suckled at your wet nurse’s teat. Do not speak to me of loyalty and honor, you who are not even man enough to speak your given name, let alone your surname.”
The young commander stepped forward, anger flaring in his dark eyes, “I do dare to speak to you of such things, sir. And you could learn something of loyalty and honor from the line of Urlingham.”
“Urlingham,” mused Quarrel, nonplussed by the young commander’s outburst. It was obvious now that he had been baiting the boy, “Clutterbuck! But you are too young to be Gravert. You must be his son then.”
Clutterbuck pursed his lips. His face burned with humiliation and anger at being so easily deceived.
“Mr. Kensington.”
“Aye, Captain?”
“Lower Her Majesty’s Airship into the water, and then burn her envelope. Clean her out, but leave water and rations enough for her remaining men to make it ashore.” Quarrel turned away as if the young commander was no longer of any interest to him.
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
“Oh, and Mr. Kensington,” the captain turned back for a moment.
“Yes, sir?”
“Before you do that, toss Commander Clutterbuck overboard.”
Clutterbuck turned deathly pale but said nothing. Two burly pirates seized him and bore him off the bridge. St. John-Smith did not see the young commander again.
St. John-Smith followed the captain as the man made his way to his cabin.
“A word with you, Captain, if I may.”
The captain stopped, sighed, and turned towards St. John-Smith, “What is it, professor? I am in no mood to debate points of finery. Men have died here today and my mood is not one akin to reveling, so say what you must, but be quick about it.”
“Er, well,” The captain looked like a man heading to the gallows and his tragic expression caused St. John-Smith to pause and reconsider what he wished to say. Then he composed himself and his anger was rekindled, “See here, Captain, you can’t go treating officers of Her Majesty’s Navy in that way, it’s sheer barbarism!”
“That man’s incompetence was the barbarism. The Admiralty’s arrogance is the barbarism. Clutterbuck’s idiocy cost the lives of twenty of his men. He was unqualified for his captaincy and, I have no doubt, obtained it by means of nepotism. That is the way of Her Majesty’s Navy. The lives of Her enlisted men mean little to them.”
“But an officer of Her Majesty’s Navy!”
“Who will no longer cause anymore loss of life. The man was an idiot and a coward. It is through such men as he that barbarisms are executed and justified by your Crown. Morant Bay, Bengal, the Transvaal… need I go on, Professor?”
St. John-Smith was aware of these places, and the things that occurred there. More than one voice had been raised in protest over the reports of atrocities committed there by officers of the Crown.
“The landed nobility are privileged and with such privilege comes a certain amount of responsibility. Neither he nor his father had ever accepted such responsibility.  Thus do the poor and disenfranchised come to suffering.”
“You knew his father, than?”
“The Duke of Urlingham is an Admiral in Her Majesty’s Navy. He was one of the seated seven on the High Court.”
The High Court which tries all cases of sedition and treason, thought St. John-Smith, and which would have tried the captain.
“I see. So it was revenge you were after all along.”
Quarrel’s face grew dark as a gathering Nor’easter and he pulled himself up to his full height.
“Take care, professor,” his voice was tight, “You are but a guest on my ship and not above reproach. You meddle in affairs of which you have no accounting nor understanding. Continue on this course and you risk sharing the fate of the undeserving man you defend.”
The captain turned away without another word and stalked to his cabin. “Mr. Kensington!” he said over his broad shoulder, “I would speak with you, now.”
Kensington shot a glance at St. John-Smith as he closed the captain’s door behind him.
St. John-Smith went to the rail and looked out over the open water. Behind him the smoke from the burning envelope of the freighter curled, black and thick, into the sky. He had over stepped his bounds, risking his life and perhaps severe punishment for his only friend aboard.
“Arthur, you fool. One of these days you must learn to keep your mouth shut or it will be the death of you yet.”