G. Edmondson - The Ship that Sailed the Time Stream

“Dunno,” Gorson said, “but I doubt it.” He gestured astern.

They weren’t Vikings. The towering sails had a faint Arabic look. One thing Joe was sure of: he’d know more soon. Even as he looked the strange fleet gained on the Alice.

He tried to stand up. Panic flashed through him as muscles refused to obey; the lower half of his body felt asleep. Cold sweat gushed and ran in little trickles inside his oilskins. He took a deep breath and strained again. He felt nothing. Then he saw his foot move and knew he was not permanently damaged. Little by little, he felt control and feeling return. “Better let us take you below,” Gorson was saying.

“Below, hell!” Joe snapped. “I’m still captain of this ship. I want to know what the lightning’s done to her this time.”

The standing rigging still good. Cookie appeared from nowhere. “Nothing happened to the still,” he said. Joe tried again and found he could sit up. His legs itched horribly and he fought the impulse to scratch.

Dr. Krom swam into his narrowed vision. “Are they friendly?” the old man asked, glancing back at the ships.

How should I know? But captains and gods were expected to know all things. “Judging from this century’s past performance, I’d say we didn’t have a friend in the world,” he said.

Raquel was crowding up. She’s worried about me, Joe thought. Why should she worry over an invincible god? The look of tender concern she wore made him almost forget what she had done to the Norse women.

She studied the fleet which pursued them. “Do you recognise them?” Joe asked.

“Moors,” she said.

He wondered what Moors were doing this far north—but the real question, he realized, was just how far north they were. The cross staff had conned him into believing he was off Portugal, but if it were spring instead of late summer, with days getting longer instead of shorter, he could be wrong—wrong enough to tangle with a fleet coming back from the Slave Coast.

They were driving east, probably into the Mediterranean. Moors were supposed to be more sophisticated than their Christian neighbors but Joe doubted if their civilization had progressed to the point of respecting an unknown flag. The high lateen rigs bore an amazing resemblance to ships he had seen in Indian Ocean travelogues and would, he suspected, beat very handily to windward. Anyhow, they were too well spread out for the Alice to pull something fancy like circling behind them to gain the weather gage.

Schwartz and Villegas were already hoisting the spinnaker up on deck. If they could gain headway the Alice might slant off and try to lose them. Maybe the Arabs wouldn’t search too hard for one small and not very profitable looking ship.

Under all sail, they skated on halfmile sleighrides down following seas. Stays thrummed and all hands watched nervously, wondering how soon the spinnaker would blow out.

Two hours passed and it was still in its boltropes. The Moors should have been well behind by now—instead, they were gaining. Joe studied the leading ship in his binoculars. Swarthy, ragheaded men with satanic beards stared back with equal interest. He thought wistfully of the engine but the Alice was already over her natural speed. The engine would slow her down.

Raquel appeared beside him. “What do you know about them?” Joe asked. Her tirade was too fast for him to follow but the meaning was clear. They held half of Spain in the Tenth Century. “Do you speak their language?” Raquel shook her head. “Perhaps they’ll understand yours?” Clearly, she was not interested.

“Why do you wait?” she asked.

Joe gave her a look of bleak inquiry.

“When will you call down lightning?”

Gorson joined them in the stern. “What’s she saying?” he asked. Joe translated, wondering if all gods were troubled thus with unreasonable demands from their worshippers. There was a moment of silence as Gorson picked his teeth. “I don’t think it’ll work,” he finally said.

“Nor do I,” Joe agreed, “but we can give it the old college try. How many flares are left?”

“I’ll go see.”

“Are they real Arabs?” McGrath asked.

Joe was about to explain that they were Moors when he realized the god shouter wouldn’t know the difference. “Here’s your chance to kill a few Infidels and rescue the Holy Sepulchre,” he said.

McGrath stared at him.

“Either we win our own little crusade or we’re liable to be converted.”

“Converted?”

“Would you rather be a live Moslem or a dead Christian?”

“What’s a Moslem?”

“A Mohammedan,” Joe explained.

Gorson came back. “Eleven flares,” he said.

Cook appeared with the rifle. “Ninety-one rounds,” he reported, “but I think we gonna need more’n that.”

Joe had nearly a box of pistol ammo. Kill a man with each shot and we’ll take care of two ships, he thought.

Just find a way to clobber the other twelve and we’ve got it made.

Dr. Krom and his seasick assistant appeared. “Do you think they’ll attack?” Lapham asked.

“Of course not,” Gorson growled. “As soon’s they see our papers they’ll apologize for bothering us.”

The effects of the lightning were nearly worn off and Joe was thinking in high gear again. “Get Rose,” he said. Lapham went below and returned in a moment with the engineman. “How long would it take to string some bare wire around the gunwale?” Joe asked.

“Well bless my bacon, cried the rabbi.”

Joe stared at the usually dour engineman.

“My uncle’s a Zionist,” Rose laughed. “He’d get as big a charge as they’re going to if he knew I was about to fry some Ayrabs.”

“How big will it be?”

“Two kilowatts ought to take the curl out of their whiskers.”

Joe remembered their last brush with the Norse off Ireland. “Will we be having any last minute engine failures?”

“If we do I’ll cut my throat,” Rose promised.

And ours too, Joe thought.

“What will you use for wire?” Dr. Krom asked.

“The input transformer from your Christmas tree.”

“No!” the old man screamed. “Half of my appropriation went into that—” Abruptly, he remembered where he was. “I’ll show them how to get it apart,” he said quietly.

Gorson and Cookie were already lashing sticks of firewood to the Alice’s stanchions. Not bad, as long as they stayed dry. If green water came over the rail something would blow up anyway. If it worked they could dream up something permanent. The Moors gained another quarter mile while Joe was thinking. Not the slightest chance of holding out until dark now. To hell with all this running, Joe thought. He was ready to meet the Tenth Century on its own terms.

Wires were soon strung and there was time to bring the dinghy aft. With it lashed to the boom crutch the steersman’s back was protected from arrows or whatever the Moors would throw. Joe studied the arrangement and had mattresses lashed to the dinghy’s sides.

The leading Moor was only a mile away. Joe counted a fifteenth sail just coming over the horizon. “We’re ready, for once,” he said. “When they come in range we’ll try a couple of flares to put the fear of Allah in them. Maybe we can set fire to their sails. When they come close I want everybody below. I’ll be protected at the wheel and I don’t want any sightseers getting hurt. They may have slingers aboard, so keep the portholes shut.”

The leading ship was two hundred yards away, coming up slowly on the portside. “Another fifty yards and they’ll start throwing things,” Gorson muttered.

Joe rested the gun on the taffrail and took careful aim a hundred feet above the towering lateen sail.

There was a pop and hissing roar as the flare curved in an arc which seemed sure to connect. The sail was white—linen or possibly cotton. Joe hoped it would burn. But the parachute opened too soon.