G. Edmondson - The Ship that Sailed the Time Stream

The flare floated gently into the water a few feet behind the speeding felucca. Impressive as it might have been in northern twilight, the blazing pinpoint was considerably less than lightning-size in bright afternoon.

“Another good idea shot to hell,” Gorson mumbled.

Joe handed him the flare pistol. “Go below,” he said.

“Things may get a little hairy now.” He wasn’t really worried though. He hadn’t expected much of the flares.

Thank Neptune the electric fence was ready. As he took the wheel he heard the generator start turning.

There was a twanging thunk as a catapult unwound on the Moor’s foredeck. Something the size and shape of a garbage can sailed in a high trajectory toward the Alice and Joe knew with a sick certainty that if a stone of this size struck squarely it would go nonstop through deck and keel.

The missile struck amidships, shattering a portside stanchion. As fragments crunched across the deck Joe saw it had been a large clay pot. The hot wire from the broken stanchion was dangling overboard. Overloaded generators screamed and a smell of burning insulation came from belowdecks. And that, Joe knew, was the end of his electric fence.

The broken pot was sending up blue flames and clouds of stinking, sulphurous smoke.

Great Mahan’s ghost! The slightest whiff of flame will melt that nylon spinnaker sheet in less than— Fluttering slowly like a manta ray, the spinnaker rolled forward and wrapped itself over the bow. Joe struggled to keep the yawl on course as she lost speed.

Gorson had a bucket and was sloshing water at the firepot. There was a warning creak and the mainsheet started running through its blocks. Joe threw the wheel hard aport, hoping he could spill wind before the boom came around and wiped out the standing rigging. Men came boiling out of the scuttle to fight the fire. Smoke blew aft as the yawl slowly turned. There must be unslaked lime mixed with it, joe decided, for even under water the firepot burned.

From the corner of his eye Joe saw the Moor was also turning. Wind spilled from the huge lateen and both ships lost way. The felucca drifted down toward them. They had the fire nearly out before a grapnel, whizzed and thunked into the Alice’s cabintop. A moment later ragheaded men with Mephistophelean beards swarmed over the yawl’s decks.

And the most amazing part of it was that nobody-was hurt. An immense Negro with pointed teeth was tickling Joe with the tip of a yataghan before he had time to remember his pistol. Joe’s happiness at being alive was tempered by the knowledge that he was cast in a mold of less than John Paul Jones’ proportions.

They counted on me to see them through. What must they think of their captain now? The Alice’s men were lined up on deck, stunned and unbelieving. What will happen to Raquel? Joe wondered.

With the deck secured, several ragheads ventured below. Minutes of tense silence passed, then a Moor stuck his head out of the forward scuttle and shouted.

A moment later someone in a more elegant burnoose and a turban several shades whiter leapt the breach between the felucca and the Alice.

Clean Turban had a widow’s peak showing under his turban. His beard shone black and curly; it was trimmed very short and came to a neat point. Just like a Nineteenth Century portrait of Satan, Joe thought.

The Moor looked at the Alice’s men contemptuously and asked something in raucous Arabic. When no one answered he tried another language.

“I’m captain,” Joe said in English. The Moor didn’t understand but it got his attention. It occurred to Joe that Arabs of this period studied Aristotle. He tried to remember some Greek. “Ego imi keleustes.” No, damn it!—that meant oarsmaster. What did he want to say?

“Navarchos.” But there was no sign of understanding.

“Magister,” Joe essayed. Maybe this joker knew Latin.

Again it was no soap. He tried Raquel’s Tenth Century Spanish and light dawned in the Moor’s eyes. “Christiano?” he asked. The Moor pronounced it with a kh sound like the Greek Chi.

“Some of us are.”

“What land?”

“America.”

The Moor frowned. “Almeria?” he asked.

Joe shook his head. “It lies west of here.”

“I have heard of this land,” the Moor said thoughtfully. “But the people are savage with hair like a black horse’s tail. What do you here?”

“Blown off course. Our food is nearly gone.” Might as well get in a line about how little loot we have to offer.

“Why did you throw fire at us?”

“Isn’t that obvious?”

The Moor shrugged.

“Where are you heading?” Joe asked.

“Malaga. Our cargo sells at Granada.”

“Black men?”

The Moor nodded.

“You’ve taken care not to kill us. What will you do with us?”

The slave trader shrugged again. “Isn’t that obvious?

Your ship is strange,” he reflected. “Still, it’ll bring more money than the lot of you.” He frowned at the Alice’s crew. “How many did you lose?”

Joe puzzled for a moment, then saw what the Moor was driving at. “I lost no men.”

“It would take twenty hands to hoist the mains’l alone.” the Moor said contemptuously, “and Allah only knows how many to set that which blew away.”

“Of your men, yes,” Joe agreed. “But we have—” He was about to say magic when he realized that an Allah fearing Moslem might decide magicians were better off dead. “We’re skilled sailors,” Joe amended. “Our ways are different.”

Clean Turban stroked the underside of his beard.

Joe tried to guess what was on his mind. The Moor couldn’t understand how the yawl sailed. His felucca was a mankiller with no winches and only primitive blocks in her rigging. She’d probably lost a few men on the run up from the Slave Coast. With a load of unbroken Negroes, Clean Turban needed every man for safety. Other ships were drawing up now but he had no intention of sharing his prize. He waved them angrily on. “What weapons have you?” he asked.

“None,” Joe lied. He was acutely aware of the pistol in his belt. Thank Neptune he hadn’t used it or they might all be dead. Why hadn’t he been searched? Perhaps because no one aboard the Alice wore a sword or dagger and pockets hadn’t been invented yet. He glanced at the crew and counted his meager blessings.

The Moor was going to wonder about the pistol soon unless Joe drew his attention elsewhere. He took the binoculars from around his neck.

“What is that?” Clean Turban demanded.

“A gift with which Allah has favored us. I must invoke the Hundredth Name and then you shall see.”

Holding the binoculars before him like a chalice, Joe bowed and chanted:

“Amen,” Clean Turban responded.

“Amen,” Cook and Guilbeau chorused.

“If you are among the blessed you will see. But there is danger here. Do you face Mecca five times daily?”

Clean Turban nodded.

“Do you fast on the appointed days?”

“Certainly.”

“Have you eaten the flesh of unclean animals?”

Clean Turban shook his head.

“Have you lusted after pagan women?”

The Moor hesitated a moment before answering.

“You may catch a glimpse of the Prophet’s throne in Paradise. But if there is falsehood and evil in your heart—” Joe paused dramatically. “—Then Allah will strike you blind.” He fiddled surreptitiously until the binoculars were out of focus and handed them over.

Clean Turban put them clumsily to his eyes. “I see nothing,” he said.

“You are not looking toward Heaven,” Joe explained.

He pointed up and the Moor turned. Eventually, with Joe’s help, he lined up on the sun and dropped the glasses with an ululating howl. Joe caught the strap and swung them back over his own neck. “See,” he said comfortingly, “you are not such an evil man after all.