G. Edmondson - The Ship that Sailed the Time Stream

Howie lay facing his betrothed in the darkness. The strength of God was with him but what was he to do?

There was, he decided, but one thing. Mr. Rate had made it clear: Kill a few Infidels in your own private crusade. How else could he recover his tarnished honor or repair the damage his sinful, wandering hands had done?

Cautiously, he pushed up the floorboard and caught a glimpse of Dr. Krom’s bushy white head on the settee.

Didn’t even throw his body overboard, Howie thought, but then the old oceanographer released a snore and he was forced into another rapid revision of his beliefs.

His betrothed hissed something and pulled the floorboard back down. If this marriage were to be successful, Howie decided, it was time for him to assert his authority. With unbounded confidence. Howie pushed the floorboard up again and climbed out. He motioned Raquel to stay down by the engine but she scrambled out to stand beside him.

They faced each other in the dim nightlight, wondering what next? They couldn’t stand here forever. Howie decided. He tried the door to Mr. Rate’s tiny cubicle, and found it empty. He drew Raquel in and bolted the door before turning on the light. Mr. Rate kept a pistol in here somewhere—the question was where? I’ll start with the top drawer, he decided, and there it was on the first try!

The pistol was loaded. But there were hundreds of Arabs aboard and only six shots. He rummaged through the other drawers but couldn’t find the extra ammunition. He had to act soon, for the strength of God was upon him and Howie had a feeling that if he waited too long it would leave him. Besides, he decided, the pistol was all wrong. The first shot would bring them all upon him. He needed a quieter weapon. “Do you have a knife?” he whispered.

Raquel looked at him blankly.

Howie made a slicing motion across his throat and pointed at her. Light dawned in his betrothed’s eyes.

Her hand went inside her bodice in a lightning gesture and reappeared with a short, double edged blade.

Howie held out his hand but she refused, shaking her head. He realized she was right. If God sees fit to take me I can’t leave her to a fate worse than death. He put a finger to his lips and, after turning out the light, opened the door.

The galley was still quiet. He tiptoed forward to the drawer where Cookie kept a small paring knife, a French chefs knife, a boning knife, and a cleaver. He turned and bumped into Raquel. “I told you to stay in the cabin,” he hissed, but again she refused to understand English.

Howie crept forward into the darkened forecastle and searched for the bunk above his empty rack. Red Schwartz awakened with a startled grunt which Howie stifled with a pillow. His eyes opened and saw Howie offering him the boning knife. Schwartz was instantly awake; he took the knife and swung his bare feet down onto the cabin sole without a word.

Howie held up the remaining knives in mute question. Schwartz put a hand over Arnie Cook’s mouth and shook the gaunt Tennessean gently. Cookie sat upright, cracking his head on the upper bunk. Seeing his French knife and cleaver, he instantly picked the French knife.

“Where’s Mr. Rate?” he whispered, but they didn’t answer.

“What the bastardly—” Gorson erupted when they woke him. He tore hands away from his mouth. Then he saw the cleaver and shut up.

Howie and Schwartz headed for the forward scuttle as Gorson and Cookie tiptoed for the after ladder. Why, Howie wondered, didn’t Satan’s men bother to post a man belowdecks? This carelessness could only mean that God was on Howie’s side. Gorson, pondering the same question, decided the Moors felt contempt for any men who would give up with as little fight as they had.

“—and then in 1571,” Joe continued, “a coalition of Christian states put an end to Moslem expansion at the Battle of Lepanto.” He reached absently for another cigarette and reminded himself that he had less than a pack remaining.

“Yes,” the imam probed, “and was Christendom then unified again?”

But Joe’s sailor half was watching the faint flutter which had developed in the luff of the mains’l. He glanced back just in time to see the Moor steersman go flying overboard. Someone—it looked like little Guilbeau—had the wheel and was already pulling the Alice back on course.

There was no mistaking the meaning of that sight.

Joe’s muscles tensed, but instead of the adrenalin of battle he found guilt and shame coursing through him.

He should have been leading this insurrection himself, instead of discussing history.

He turned, ready to throttle the old man, but the imam had also seen what happened and merely watched with a lively interest in his rheumy eyes. They stared at each other in silent surmise while Joe cursed his indecision. This was the enemy! He should throttle him and then have a go at those bescimitared Negroes who lounged in the waist.

While he fluttered in indecision one of the Negroes glanced aft and saw Guilbeau at the wheel. The Negro shouted a single questioning word and abruptly an ululating fiend charged him. Still staring, Joe realized that it was McGrath. The little god shouter plunged his knife twice into the African’s midriff, then spun to the other who had finally awakened to danger and was swinging his scimitar.

Gorson and Cookie were moving forward now to cover little Howie. In the bow there was shouting and a confused melee as Moors awoke to struggle with the Alice’s men who boiled up out of the forehatch.

Joe and the imam stood side by side watching the fracas. The scimitar was descending and Joe could see that Howie’s brief moment of glory would end in a mercifully quick death before Gorson or Cookie could rescue him. Then the scimitar faltered and its well aimed stroke merely mangled the god shouter’s ear.

Raquel and her knife again!

Clean Turban was amidships now, shouting to rally his men. Few answered. Little Howie had disentangled himself from the Negroes who lay gasping their life out on the Alice’s deck. Shaking his head, he cast a semicircular sprinkle of blood and his wild eye fixed on the imam. “In the name of Our Lord, Jesus Christ!” he screamed, and sprang to kill another Infidel.

Joe fought through layers of paralysis. “No!” he shouted. “No, Howie, not this one!”

But the strength of God was in Howie and he wasn’t listening. Joe pushed the old man behind him and held up his hand. “Halt, damn it!” he said, and realized how ridiculous he must look. Howie’s glazed eyes still fixed on the imam as if he could go through Joe without seeing him. Intensely aware of his own disarmed state, Joe reached for the knife and felt its tip move across his cheek bone. Howie’s hand lifted him clear of the deck without deflecting appreciably from its course toward the imam.

“No!” Joe yelled again. He whacked the heel of his free hand across the back of Howie’s neck. He swung twice more before the little steersman slumped to the deck. The old imam still watched with the same detached interest when a moment later something struck Joe from behind and he followed Howie’s downward course.

When he came to Gorson was bending over him—a grinning Gorson whose ear was nearly as mangled as Howie’s, and who dripped blood from a bash paralleling his collarbone. “What happened?” Joe mumbled; then he remember the imam.

“All our people are alive,” Gorson said.

“And the Moors?”

Raquel crowded through the Alice’s men. “The imam lives,” she said. “He told me he was born Christian.”

“How many others?” he asked.

“Two surrendered.”

Joe wondered if Clean Turban was among them. He caught sight of the imam. “And Sidi Ferroush?” he asked.

The old man shook his head. “The helmsman was his son. He preferred to die fighting.”