Michael Kurland: Professor Moriarty Omnibus

"There are two problems," Lieutenant Sefton said. "The first is that, although Turkish is our only common language, my friend here speaks it worse than I do. It seems to be a tradition in the Stamboul docks that all the caiquejeem —oarsmen — are recruited from somewhere in Eastern Europe. The second problem is that they want to return to the dock now. I'm trying to convince him that they were hired to take us to the Osmanieh and that their job isn't done until they find it, wherever it is."

The boss caiquejee said something slowly and distinctly to Barnett, then wiped his mustache carefully with his sleeve and spat into the sea. His companion nodded and spat out the other side of the boat. They both glared at Barnett.

"What's happening now?" Barnett demanded.

"They are not afraid of you," Sefton explained. "They just want you to know that."

"Why," Barnett asked with a sinking feeling in his stomach, "should they be afraid of me?"

"When my friend here suggested that we could swim out to the Osmanieh if we wanted to find it so badly, I told him of your reputation."

The two caiquejeem spat again, almost in unison. "My reputation?" Barnett asked.

"Yes. I told them that you were reputed to have a long knife and a short temper. I told them you were a cowboy from America. They know about cowboys."

"Wonderful," Barnett said. "What's that noise?"

"Noise?" Sefton asked.

The boss caiquejee clapped his hands together. "Mujika!" he yelled, slapping his assistant on the back. He turned to Barnett with a wide, black-toothed grin. "Mujika!" he insisted, holding his fists clenched with the thumbs sticking straight up and wobbling them in front of him.

"Bells," Sefton said. "Ship's bells. It must be the yacht."

The caiquejeem bent to their task with renewed vigor, and soon the sharp lines of the steam-yacht Osmanieh materialized before their eyes through the fog. Two smartly uniformed seamen aboard the yacht lowered a boarding ladder as the caique pulled alongside.

"Aha!" The boss caiquejee said, as Barnett stepped past him to grab the ladder. "Bang, bang!"

Barnett started. "What the hell?" he said.

"Bang, bang!" the caiquejee repeated, shooting his finger at Barnett. "Buffalo Beel. Beely de Keed. Whil'Beel Hitkook. Bang, bang!" He grinned and slapped Barnett on the back. "Cowboy!"

"Yes, yes," Barnett said, smiling back weakly. "That's right."

With this encouragement, the caiquejee broke into an expansive statement, accompanied with chest-thumping and a lot of wiggling of fingers.

"Well," Lieutenant Sefton said, staring back down at them from halfway up the ladder. "I wrought better than I knew. It appears that you have a friend for life, Barnett."

"What's he saying?" Barnett demanded.

"He says that he has a brother in Chicago, so he knows all about cowboys. His brother writes once a month. He, himself, hopes to move to America where all men are soon rich and they wear six-shooters."

"Well, I guess we're all brothers under the skin," Barnett said vaguely, as he climbed up the ladder.

"Bang, bang!" the caiquejee cried. "Steekemoop!"

-

The officer at the head of the ladder checked their papers and passed them on to a midshipman, who took them aft to the main cabin.

There were about twenty other guests in the cabin, mostly from the press and diplomatic corps of European countries. Red-robed servants wearing long, curved-toe slippers walked silently about, passing out cups of coffee and small breakfast cakes. Some minutes later, when the last of the invited guests found their way through the fog, the yacht got underway and the Captain Pasha came down to talk to the group. He spoke of the Osmanli naval tradition, and of Sultan Abd-ul Hamid's desire to live in peace with all his neighbors. He spoke of world trade and water routes, and of the strategic position of the Bosporus. He urged them to eat more of the little cakes, and assured them that they would be impressed with the day's display.

"Awfully confident, don't you think?" Lieutenant Sefton murmured to Barnett. "From my past experience with submersibles, they'll be lucky to get the thing running at all on the first trial. Either it won't start, or it won't sink, or it will sink only bow-first or upside down. Balky little beasts, these things are."

"I thought you were pro-submarine," Barnett said.

"Pro-submarine? Is that an Americanism, or merely journalese? Yes, I am impressed by the potential of the craft. When the designers get all the mechanical problems solved and the beasts become a bit more dependable, they'll be invaluable to the navy."

"How will they be used in warfare?" Barnett asked.

"They will primarily be used for scouting and messenger service, as well as for guarding harbors and fleets at anchor and such duty."

"What about attacking other ships?" Barnett asked. "I kind of picture them sneaking up on battleships and sinking them."

Sefton shook his head. "That's a common misconception — fostered, if I may say so, by the sensational press. You must take into account the limitations inherent in the device. First of all, they can never be used in the open ocean; they are too fragile and their range is too limited. Secondly, a submersible could never go against a modern capital ship. It would have to get too close to launch its torpedo. It would be vulnerable to the ship's gun battery. One shell from even a six-inch gun would sink any submersible, whereas it would take a dozen Whitehead torpedos to do any significant damage to a ship of the line."

"You disappoint me," Barnett said. "I thought the submersible was the weapon of the future. Now I don't know what to tell the readers of the New York World.

"Oh, it is the weapon of the future," Sefton said. "Properly employed by an imaginative commander, submersibles would have a decisive effect on the outcome of any naval battle. They will eventually change the complexion of naval warfare."

"What do you know of the Garrett-Harris?" Barnett asked. "Is it any good?"

"Excellent," Lieutenant Sefton said. "There are said to be some clever innovations on the craft. If what I've heard is true, they have developed a valving mechanism that I would most especially like to get a look at."

"I doubt if you'll get the chance," Barnett said.

"Well, they're certainly not going to trot it out for inspection," Lieutenant Sefton agreed. "We've been invited to watch the boat perform, not to examine its innards. I fear one would have to pay for that privilege."

The fog was clearing now, and the foreign observers were called on deck by a Turkish officer. There, a hundred yards off the port beam, rode the Garrett-Harris submersible boat. It looked like a giant steel cigar, and rode so low on the water that the deck was awash and only the small conning tower was clear of the waves. The craft rocked and rolled alarmingly with every swell that washed over it, but there was something very businesslike in the look of the riveted steel-clad deck, and an ominously efficient look to the streamlined, cigar-shaped hull.

Sultan Abd-ul Hamid came onto the flying bridge of the Osmanieh, causing an instant swell of whispering and murmuring among his foreign guests. It had not been known that he would be present, and the diplomats aboard were trying to decide what his presence signified, so that they could send portentous reports to their governments.

The sultan waved his hand at the two men perched on the wet deck of the submersible, and they popped open a hatch and scrambled below.

"The test commences," announced the Turkish officer.

A spray of foam churned up from the rear of the Garrett-Harris as the four-bladed screw turned over, and the ship moved forward cleanly through the sea.