Tales from the Grey Void

The captain’s quarters were lavishly decorated in red oak and mock-silver—electroplated brass, if my memory of the Catuvellauni’s draft served. Harvey Cruikshank was a particular man and the benefactors of his past voyages—six of which I had served on personally, operating as a consultant on a further three—were wont to indulge his peculiar taste in furnishings. Now that he was financing his own expeditions, the man had seemingly lost his senses. Great scarlet velvet drapes, encrusted in silvered brocade, hung across the portholes at the rear of the room like waterfalls of fast-congealing blood, a variety of lamps, of the standing and desk variety—all in the new style, with sweeping organic lines that suggested the naturalistic forms of plants, or fungi—seemed to have taken up guard-posts at random positions around the room, and the silverware of his service glittered from the mahogany desk, and from the glass-fronted sideboard, filling the room with a thousand coruscating reflections, as if the sea from which the Catuvellauni’s gondola might well have been lifted—had it belonged to a long past age—had taken up residence within his quarters.

“So, you’re Bartleby’s latest catch, are you?” said Cruikshank, leaning over the vast desk, hands planted on the red baize of its blotter like mangroves planted in a blood-swamp. “Ever hunted tubs before?”

“No, monsieur,” said Claude.

“Sink-fisher, eh?” said Cruikshank. “No matter—if you’re as good as Bart says you are, we’ll soon have you up to scratch. Now, a couple of things before I make you. One; you do what I say, when I say, no questions. Two; you give one-hundred percent, one-hundred percent of the time, no shirking, no dawdling, no lollygagging. Three; I do not tolerate fuck-ups—I’ll cut you some slack while you’re learning the ropes, but after that, you’re on your own, comprends?”

“Oui, monsieur,” Claude replied, nodding enthusiastically.

“Good lad,” said Cruikshank. “Now, the matter of your rank…”

Cruikshank drew out a sheaf of paper from a desk drawer and laid it on the baize blotter. A fountain pen was retrieved from a nest of its peers—presently occupying an engraved pewter tankard—its cap removed and its nib aimed, like the point of a dart, at the middle of the page.

“Our mutual friend here seems to think you’re worthy of third mate,” Cruikshank continued, a sly grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“I do,” I said. “What’s more, I think you’d be a fool not to give it to him.”

The grin faltered, mutated into a grimace.

“I can’t give him third mate,” said Cruikshank. “Reinhardt’s third mate. She’d be insulted if I gave it to a sink-fisher.”

“Let her be insulted,” I said.

“I can’t—I owe her mother a favour.”

“You owe me more than one.”

“Owed, Bart, owed,” said Cruikshank. “Whatever favours you have left are being collected now, by virtue of me taking this greenhorn and giving him rank. He’s fourth mate and that’s the end of it.”

“You’re making a big mistake,” I said.

“Dammit, Bartleby!” Cruikshank barked, his fist thudding on the desk. “I like you, but I will not be questioned on this—I’ve given you my reasons. The lad’s fourth mate and he should be grateful for it.”

“I am, captain, I am,” said Claude. “I would be grateful for any position you chose fit—I would be happy scrubbing the decks if it meant joining this voyage.”

Cruikshank’s expression lightened a little, though the dark clouds of his tempestuous anger were retained in the furrows of his brow, ready to strike out once more at the slightest provocation.

“Then it’s settled,” he said, leaning over the paper to scrawl Claude’s name next to field marked ‘Mate Fourth Class’. “Sign here, lad—don’t want you missing out on your share, do we?”

Claude took the pen proffered by Cruikshank and leant forwards over the desk to append his signature. Before he did so, however, he paused, glancing sidelong at me. I knew the reason for his hesitation, of course—doubtless he had spotted my name, the rank I held and the portion I would be entitled to on completion of the voyage. I confess, I took no small pleasure in this wrong-footing—not because I enjoyed deception for deception’s sake, but because it meant I had successfully flown beneath the radar of this ambitious young man.

“First mate…” Claude mouthed.

I smiled, nodded and placed a hand on his shoulder—nothing needed to be said.

It is true, I might have informed him of this on the occasion of our first meeting, but I have never been one to court undue attention—the profession was already so full of flamboyant heroes and heroines, like Paisley Fossington-Smyth, Arnold Richter and Harvey Cruikshank himself, that it always felt like overkill to try and add my name to this list of celebrated individuals. Those that knew the profession, that were immersed in its culture at the highest level, that lived and breathed the linseed scented air of the sky-docks, knew my name and what I was capable of, and that was enough for me.

“What are you waiting for, lad?” said Cruikshank, not unkindly. “We’re due to leave port in three hours and I’ve still got a lot to do, so if you wouldn’t mind?”

Claude blushed at the reprimand, despite the humour with which it was delivered.

“Of course, mon capitaine,” he said, hastily scrawling his signature beside his name.

“Good lad,” said Cruikshank, offering his hand across the desk. “Welcome aboard.”

Claude took Cruikshank’s hand in his own and shook it, before turning to me.

“Monsieur, I must apologise.”

“Whatever for?” I said.

“For not recognising your name when our mutual friend, Wenceslaus, told me of you.”

Cruikshank let out a bark of laughter at this and hobbled around the desk to join us, his bionic leg—a tapered length of scaled metal, fashioned in both function and resemblance to mimic an octopus’ tentacle—whirring as he went.

“Bart doesn’t much care for attention, do you, Bart?” he said. “Gets in the way of his other projects.”

Claude narrowed his eyes at this, but made no comment.

“Now, get along to your quarters—my first mate and I have matters to discuss in private,” said Cruikshank. “I’ll expect you on-deck when we weigh anchor.”

Claude nodded politely and exited the room.

With Claude gone, Cruikshank seemed to relax a little. Hobbling to the sideboard, he pulled out two glass tumblers and a decanter. Returning to his desk, he poured a measure into each of the glasses and handed one to me before sitting.

“Don’t worry, it’s not poison,” he said, watching me sniff at the liquid in my glass—a deep reddish brown, like shellac. “If I wanted to kill you, Bart, I’d simply throw you overboard.”

“Ogden’s Blackstrap is poison, as far as I’m concerned, Harvey,” I said, taking a sip of the syrupy spirit.

Cruikshank cocked his head, conceding the point graciously.

“So, what is this matter you need to discuss with me?” I continued.

“Oh,” said Cruikshank, waving a hand dismissively. “I just said that to get rid of the sprog. What do you mean by bringing me a green-hand like him anyway?”

“He’s talented,” I said. “An excellent sink-fisher—the best I’ve seen, in fact. You know how much the sinks supplement our income—he’ll be a real asset.”

“Bah,” said Cruikshank. “That’s the purser in you talking. I mean, third mate, Bartleby? Really?”

I shrugged and took another sip of rum.

“A commission is a commission,” I said. “And third mate pays far more than fourth.”

Cruikshank shook his head.

“For a man as outwardly sensible as you, it is a constant source of amazement to me how fast money slips through your fingers,” he said.

“And for a man as pragmatic as you, it is a constant source of amazement to me how determined you are to throw away your life on petty revenge,” I retorted.

“Careful, Bartleby,” said Cruikshank, glaring at me over his glass. “I may just rethink my decision regarding your young friend. What is the going commission on a green-hand anyway?”

“You deny you still intend to go after it, then?” I said.

“I don’t deny it,” said Cruikshank, resting his bionic leg on the edge of the desk, as if this were explanation enough. “I’ll find the bastard, I swear it, Bart—I swear it on this damned appendage,” and he rapped the tentacle with his knuckle.

“You won’t reconsider? Nothing I say can dissuade you from your course?”

Cruikshank’s face darkened—the gathering storm that had temporarily drifted from its original path, had changed tack once more and come howling over horizon towards me.

“You know there isn’t, Bart,” he replied.

I sighed deeply and looked away.

“I know,” I said. “I know. But it’s a shame—I have a strange feeling you’re going to get that young man killed.”

“Then why bring him, damn you!” cried Cruikshank. “Why bring him if you knew what I intended?”

“What’s our first port of call?” I said, hoping to deflect Cruikshank’s anger, if only temporarily.

“Amsterdam, where else?” he replied brusquely. “Now—”

“I’ll see to it that Claude knows his business by the time we dock,” I said.

“That won’t change anything.”

“It’ll give him a fighting chance.”

Three hours later, the crew were arrayed on deck, the idle hands ready at the capstan, the mates arranged by rank on the quarterdeck, the captain before the helm.

In the interim between my argument with Harvey and his ceremonial address to the crew, I had wandered the gondola, meeting as many of my new cohorts as I could, making introductions where necessary—for the majority had sailed with Cruikshank before and knew me already. I familiarised myself with the ship—the Catuvellauni was a recent acquisition and though I’d heard tell of it from my contacts in the industry, I’d not had a chance to explore for myself, beyond poring over the drafts sent to me by Cruikshank—his idea of luring me onto the voyage as his first mate.

As I stood at the head of our assembly, a little behind Cruikshank, parallel to the guard-rail, I could not help wondering what exactly had swayed me to his cause. The Catuvellauni, though undoubtedly impressive and possibly the finest of its species I’d yet clapped eyes upon, was not bait enough for my particular tastes. In general, I preferred cash—and in this, Cruikshank had been cruelly accurate in his assessment of my predicament—and yet I knew my promised portion, scrawled as a fraction beside my name on the register in Cruikshank’s quarters, may as well have been a fraction of nothing, for this was no mere commercial voyage. I would have said it more closely resembled the domestic operations of people like Claude and Hailey Reinhardt, but this would not be strictly accurate—there was more heart in a domestic operation, to be sure, but the goal was the same as any commercial voyage; that of making money. Here, the goal differed dramatically—here, the goal was personal. So, I stood to gain little financially, my ties to Cruikshank were easily overstated—I liked the man and he needed my expertise, but in truth, we were not what you would call gremial friends; instead, ours was a friendship of convenience and enterprise, nothing more—and I cared little for the mechanics of the new ship. So why on earth had I agreed to join up?

Before I could begin formulating an answer, Cruikshank stepped forwards, all but hugging the helm, his bionic leg coiling lithely around its pedestal like the tail of a marmoset coiling around a tree branch, and began to speak.

“Friends,” he called in his best high-airs voice. “Many of you have sailed with me before, many more know me by reputation. Today, we set sail for the upper altitudes in search of the rarest of amenities known to man. Today, we set sail for adventure.”