Sea Of Ghosts Part 23

The deads.h.i.+p struck them on the starboard side with enough force to send Maskelyne staggering sideways. He lost his grip on the wheel. A terrible metal groaning reverberated through the Mistress Mistress's bulkheads as the ironclad's reinforced prow crushed a deep trench in the dredging s.h.i.+p's hull. The Mistress Mistress lurched sickeningly, her deck cranes tilting closer to the roiling red-brown waters as the crew hung on for their lives. The bathysphere clanked against its mountings, then broke free and smashed against the port bulwark. lurched sickeningly, her deck cranes tilting closer to the roiling red-brown waters as the crew hung on for their lives. The bathysphere clanked against its mountings, then broke free and smashed against the port bulwark.

Ianthe cried out in alarm.

The grinding and moaning of stressed metals continued for a tortuously long time, before finally subsiding. Maskelyne gazed down at the wreckage in disbelief and horror. The bow of the Unmer s.h.i.+p remained embedded in one side of his own vessel. That heavy iron prow had crumpled the Mistress Mistress's hull like paper. Had it holed them? He couldn't see how it could possibly not not have holed them. have holed them.

He flung open the wheelhouse door and called down. 'Mellor! Have someone fetch my family. Round up everyone but the repair teams. I want them top deck, now. And I want a time-frame here.'

'Aye, Captain.' The first officer relayed Maskelyne's orders to several crewmen, who took off at a run.

'Are we going to sink?' Ianthe asked.

'Very likely,' Maskelyne replied. 'Come with me.' Without looking back to see if she was following, he climbed down the wheelhouse ladder and hurried along the deck to the point of impact.

Most of the crew from the lower decks had already appeared, and their gem lanterns moved about in the gloom around Maskelyne as they began to a.s.semble into ranks. Someone was taking a head count, calling out names. The deads.h.i.+p's figurehead leaned over the starboard bulwark amidst a mess of twisted metal, and it seemed to Maskelyne that that maiden's grimace evinced a hint of cruel satisfaction. He could smell burned iron, rust and ash, and the bitter salts of the ocean, but something else . . .

Fuel oil. The dredger's whale-oil tanks had been ruptured.

Maskelyne leaned over the side and peered down at his stricken hull. The s.h.i.+p's skin had been crumpled almost to the waterline and ruptured in at least four places. Clear fluid was seeping from the fore rents, leaving the surrounding brine with a nacreous sheen.

Mellor arrived at his side. 'We're pumping out all the ballast tanks,' he said. 'Those that haven't been damaged, anyway. Two mids.h.i.+ps pumps were shorn from their outlets, and we can't get to the fore ones. Abernathy will try to keep us afloat a while longer, but he's not confident. Secondary repair crew can't get access to the engine room. Flooding sounds like it's above the hatches.'

'What about the men already in there?' Maskelyne asked.

'Not a sound from them, Captain.'

'Cut down through the crew quarters.'

'That'll shorten the time we have, sir.'

'Do it.'

'Aye, sir.' He turned to go.

Maskelyne stopped him. 'Where are my wife and son, Mr Mellor?'

His question was answered by a different voice. 'Ethan!' Lucille was with Ianthe, and now ran over, carrying Jontney in one arm and Maskelyne's blunderbuss in the other. She had already fitted a frozen void-fly cartridge to the stock. She gazed up in wonder and horror at the dark hulk of the Unmer s.h.i.+p, before evidently remembering the gun.

'I thought you could use this,' she said, handing the weapon to him.

He took the gun and examined the mechanism. 'Where did you learn how to load it?'

'It's not that difficult, Ethan.'

He arched his eyebrows. 'I suppose you're right.' Then he reached over and fussed with Jontney's hair. The boy looked up at him and smiled the sort of open, trouble-free smile that Maskelyne hadn't seen in the child for a long time. 'Keep him safe,' he said to his wife. 'Mellor will look after you both. Do whatever he says.'

'What are you going to do?'

'I'm going to board that s.h.i.+p,' Maskelyne replied. 'It looks like it's our only way out of here.'

Granger tried the engine-room hatch, but found it to be locked from the inside. He placed the powder cartridges on the floor against the hatch and took out his knife, flint and fuse. But he stopped. The metal hatch opened towards him, its rim resting against the metal bulkhead. He wasn't sure the explosives he'd brought were enough for the job. He stood there for a moment longer, while his mind ran through the naval ballistic tables for this thickness and grade of steel as it compared it to the sort of brisance he could expect from high-grade cannon-powder. It couldn't be done without shaping the charge, and he had no time for that.

He hammered his fist upon the hatch.

After a moment, a voice came from the other side. 'Who's there?'

'Who am I speaking to?' Granger demanded.

'Able Seaman Fletcher, sir.'

'Don't open this hatch to anyone, Able Seaman,' Granger said. 'That's an order. Not to me, not to anyone. And do not do not under any circ.u.mstances take orders from the bridge. Do you understand?' under any circ.u.mstances take orders from the bridge. Do you understand?'

'Yes, sir. What's going on?'

'Revolutionary militia have taken control of the Excelsior Excelsior. They're holding the first officer hostage on the bridge.'

'Revolutionaries?' Granger then heard a second voice behind the hatch, conversing with Fletcher, but he couldn't make out what was said between them. Fletcher said, 'We can shut the engines down from here, sir.'

'You'll do no such thing,' Granger replied. 'Let them burn through the reserves. That'll give us some time to get the emperor's Samarol aboard. Do you have pistols with you?'

'No, sir.'

'Swords?'

'No, sir.'

'How the h.e.l.l do you expect to protect the engines without arms?' Granger yelled. 'You can have my own pistol for the time being. Open up a minute.'

He heard the locking lever clunk back, and the hatch opened.

Granger still clutching his knife in one fist stepped through.

Maskelyne climbed across a boarding plank onto the Unmer dead-s.h.i.+p, closely followed by two of his most stolid crewmen. Kitchener was an old soldier who had watched Maskelyne's back during the Poppy Wars a good man to have at your side whenever swords were drawn. Roberts was younger, but sharp and quick-witted and less superst.i.tious than most. A good head on his shoulders A good head on his shoulders. The rest of the crew held back to make whatever repairs they could, and to try to cut down to the men trapped in the Mistress Mistress's flooded engine room. Many of them had baulked at the very idea of setting foot aboard the Unmer vessel. Maskelyne did not take this to be a good sign.

b.l.o.o.d.y vapours drifted through tangled cables. A layer of ash covered the warped iron deck, filling the air with an odour like that of an old, damp fire-pit. Booming sounds came from the metal under their boots as the three men approached the s.h.i.+p's huge electrical tower.

'You hear that?' Roberts asked.

'Hear what?' Kitchener said.

'That whine.' He pointed up at the toroid atop the tower. 'It's coming from that thing.'

'It's still receiving power from somewhere,' Maskelyne said.

The men fell silent. Maskelyne placed his hand against the tower's lattice of struts, and felt a slight vibration. His skin tingled as the invisible electrical fluid pa.s.sed into him, and it seemed to him that the whining sound intensified. He could feel it in his teeth. He withdrew his hand quickly. Tiny pink aether flames danced across his fingertips for a moment and then disappeared. Still operational after three hundred years? Where is the power coming from? Still operational after three hundred years? Where is the power coming from?

He walked over to examine one of the queer guns bolted to the deck. The cone of circular plates over its barrel prevented any type of shot from pa.s.sing through the weapon. Perhaps it had also once utilized electrical fluids? It seemed unlikely that he could repair the device, for it looked utterly destroyed. Its metal surfaces had been heated to the point where they had actually flowed downwards, leaving tallow-like trails of iron. Maskelyne leaned closer and smelled burned copper. Nothing salvageable.

The three men made their way across groaning deck towards the sterncastle.

'Look at this,' Kitchener said. He indicated an area of deck where a black scorch mark formed the shape of a sprawled human body. It looked as if the corpse had been removed, leaving a perfect shadow behind.

'There's more over here,' Roberts said. 'Four, five of them.'

Maskelyne gazed down at the twisted shapes. 'The remains of the crew,' he said. 'They were sorcerers, all of them.' And not as much as a fragment of their bone left behind. And not as much as a fragment of their bone left behind. Dragonfire had consumed them utterly. Maskelyne bent down to examine the shadow more closely- Dragonfire had consumed them utterly. Maskelyne bent down to examine the shadow more closely- -and abruptly recoiled. For an instant he'd felt searing heat, and it had seemed that he himself himself was lying there amidst the smoke and flames, with the stink of burning flesh in his nostrils and the cries of the dying all around. was lying there amidst the smoke and flames, with the stink of burning flesh in his nostrils and the cries of the dying all around. Burned alive. They were burned alive almost three hundred years ago. Burned alive. They were burned alive almost three hundred years ago. The sensation left him shaking, and it took a moment to clear the echoes of that terrible screaming from his head. Had the s.h.i.+p itself absorbed the essence of the men who'd died here? All Unmer creations contained a spark of the infinite. Was it possible that the crew had somehow contrived to find refuge there? The sensation left him shaking, and it took a moment to clear the echoes of that terrible screaming from his head. Had the s.h.i.+p itself absorbed the essence of the men who'd died here? All Unmer creations contained a spark of the infinite. Was it possible that the crew had somehow contrived to find refuge there?

'Let's not linger,' he said.

They found the door to the captain's quarters in the sterncastle.

There was little evidence of fire damage inside. A short wood-panelled corridor opened into a small, sour-smelling wash room on the left. It contained a beaten copper sink and a wooden commode, a stack of rotten books on the floor. Roberts gagged and turned away at the stink, but Maskelyne pushed past him and picked up one of the books. It was a volume on surgical sorcery written in Unmer and packed with ill.u.s.trations of opened human cadavers beside wire-wound rods and spheres. He translated the t.i.tle as Venal Tissues of Man Venal Tissues of Man.

To the right an open doorway led to a larger dressing room wherein the remains of the captain's clothes still hung in musty wardrobes. The garments were covered in tiny spiders. Webs coc.o.o.ned them completely, and yet not one strand of silk reached beyond the wardrobe itself. On the dressing table lay a copper egg and a small flute carved from a human finger. Maskelyne picked up the egg, but sensed nothing unusual about it.

At the end of the corridor a third door gave them access to the captain's cabin.

Here Maskelyne stopped and stared in astonishment. Every corner of the cabin was filled with Unmer treasure. An entire rack of brightly lacquered swords, surgical swords, knives, daggers and stilettos hung upon the wall beside the bed, their steel blades agleam. A gla.s.s cabinet held chronographs, s.e.xtants, anemometers, compa.s.ses and astrolabes, all exquisitely wrought from a strange green alloy. There were shelves upon shelves of scientific instruments and small, boxed machines whose purpose could only be guessed at. An open chest at the foot of the bed contained a glittering h.o.a.rd of gold coins. Maskelyne retrieved a coin with the intention of examining it, but it made him feel suddenly nauseous, and he dropped it back among the others. His skin p.r.i.c.kled for a moment afterwards, and his hand began to tremble uncontrollably.

'Captain?' Roberts said.

Maskelyne ignore him. His attention had already turned to a wide workbench under the stern windows, where a s.h.i.+ning gem lantern stood amidst what appeared to be a number of optical and magnetic experiments.

Kitchener whistled through his teeth. 'Never seen the like,' he said.

'Fair bit of money here, Captain.' Roberts added.

Maskelyne turned his blunderbuss over and pressed two fingers against the gla.s.s void-fly phial. It still felt ice cold. He leaned the weapon against the table and then let his gaze travel across the room. Several of the experiments looked familiar. A sealed bell jar contained a tiny copper vane, like a miniature version of the anemometers in the cabinet. Each of the vane's four thin, square fins had been painted black on one side and polished on the other. They were turning slowly, even in the sealed environment within the jar. Beside this mechanism a brilliant white gem lantern illuminated a diffraction box, wherein the rays of light pa.s.sed through a pair of closely s.p.a.ced vertical slits in the centre of the container and made patterns of interference across a rear screen. In addition to these finds he noted a large array of kaleidoscopes, reflecting telescopes, boxes of magnets, wires and prisms, and even a pair of Unmer spectacles. Runic inscriptions covered the silver frames, the decorations whirling around a tiny wheel fixed to one side of the rightmost lens. A triangle had been impressed into the wheel, within which was etched several digits, almost too small to see. Maskelyne picked up the spectacles and squinted at them. The number in the triangle was 1.618 1.618.

The golden ratio.

'Looks like our captain was an amateur opticist,' Maskelyne said. 'Spectacles like this were once worn by archivists, but I've not seen a pair quite so fine before.'

'Nothing amateur about anything the Unmer do,' Kitchener growled. 'And nothing normal about it either. There's a reason this s.h.i.+p came after us. Mark my words, sir. There's an evil will behind this. Someone wanted us aboard this vessel.'

Maskelyne examined the table. 'The captain was studying the properties of light,' he remarked. 'The diffraction box ill.u.s.trates that light exhibits the properties of waves, while this vane suggests that it is actually composed of particles. And yet if light travels in a straight line through a vacuum, can a single ray still be a wave?' He found himself musing about each speck of starlight oscillating at a particular frequency. Had our brains developed to interpret those frequencies? How did light particles interact? There had be some a.s.sociation a.s.sociation between them perhaps a.n.a.logous to the a.s.sociation that existed between the fragments of mankind? Looking at the experiments, Maskelyne suddenly felt that he was on the verge of finding something important, a key to the mystery behind all Unmer artefacts. between them perhaps a.n.a.logous to the a.s.sociation that existed between the fragments of mankind? Looking at the experiments, Maskelyne suddenly felt that he was on the verge of finding something important, a key to the mystery behind all Unmer artefacts.

He picked up the spectacles and studied them closely. They were more intricate than any he'd seen before. The lenses were not solid, but actually composed of a number of incredibly thin optical elements sandwiched together. When he turned the tiny wheel fixed to the frame, these inner circles of gla.s.s rotated around each other, but not in any commonsensical alignment. He could perceive nothing strange or magical about the set-up.

He put the spectacles on.

The cabin looked normal.

He turned the wheel beside his right eye and heard the almost imperceptible murmur of the gla.s.s discs revolving inside the lenses. This sound was followed by a sudden crackling buzz. The legs of the silver frame felt warm against his head.

And something odd happened. The cabin now appeared to be much darker than before, and yet everything around him was awash with a low, flickering silver luminance, as if each object the bed, the cabinets, the artefacts possessed a strange and intermittent aura. The workbench experiments shuddered in the dim light. He watched ghostlike wisps of light tremble across the diffraction box, the kaleidoscopes and the telescopes. It looked like some sort of interference pattern. No doubt the artefact was broken, and had been brought here to be repaired. The spectral radiance, however, did not extend beyond the cabin, for the mists beyond the window now appeared as black as night. White dots s.h.i.+fted in the gloom outside like stars. Kitchener and Roberts emitted no discernible luminance at all . . .

Indeed, both crewmen were now missing from the scene entirely.

Maskelyne removed the spectacles. Kitchener and Roberts reappeared, standing there regarding him as if nothing had happened. He put the spectacles back on. The two men simply vanished before his eyes, leaving the surroundings intact, but stammering in that darkly uncertain light. Suddenly he thought he detected movement at the corner of his vision, and turned abruptly. But there was nothing there, just the cabin walls and the door.

Had that door just closed?

Remarkable. Was he witnessing some previously hidden property inherent in the objects themselves? The very essence of sorcery? Could that explain both the consistency of the cabin and the sudden disappearance of his two crewmen? The s.h.i.+p was sorcerous, but his comrades were not? Was it possible that these spectacles could perceive one and not the other? Maskelyne could not imagine another solution. He wondered if he could tune the spectacles to eliminate the interference and produce a clearer picture. Was he witnessing some previously hidden property inherent in the objects themselves? The very essence of sorcery? Could that explain both the consistency of the cabin and the sudden disappearance of his two crewmen? The s.h.i.+p was sorcerous, but his comrades were not? Was it possible that these spectacles could perceive one and not the other? Maskelyne could not imagine another solution. He wondered if he could tune the spectacles to eliminate the interference and produce a clearer picture.

He turned the wheel back to its original position.

This time a searing white light blinded him, as if a magnesium powder flash had been set off directly in front of his eyes. Images crashed into his retina: the cabin, a s.h.i.+p, the sky, cabin, s.h.i.+p, sky, all accompanied by a terrible stuttering roar. Maskelyne tore the spectacles from his face, overcome with agony, and pinched his eyes.

'Captain?' Kitchener said.

After-images remained burned into Maskelyne's retinas. He'd glimpsed something he recognized . . . But what was it? Now he couldn't see a thing. 'I'm blinded,' he cried, and realized that he couldn't even hear his own words. The roaring sound still drummed in his ears. Yet even as he spoke, he realized that this sensory storm was already beginning to fade. Slowly, his vision began to return to normal. He heard himself breathing once more.

'Some water,' Kitchener said to Roberts. 'Fetch clean water.'

'No,' Maskelyne replied. 'I'm all right. I can see again. I can hear.' He set down the strange spectacles and then took a deep breath. His nerves felt utterly shredded. He was shaking. What was it he'd glimpsed during that terrible glare? A face? The more he thought about it, the more he felt sure that was it. A hideous iron visage, scorched and blackened by fire. A hideous iron visage, scorched and blackened by fire. 'Blame my own foolishness,' he said at last. 'I should have known better than to make a.s.sumptions. You are quite right, Kitchener. Normalcy is not a quality one should ever a.s.sociate with the Unmer.' He shook his head clear of the last vestiges of the vision. 'Start bringing the crew over now. Leave the trove, but bring the gas welders and grab as much water, food, rope, tools and sailcloth as you can carry.' 'Blame my own foolishness,' he said at last. 'I should have known better than to make a.s.sumptions. You are quite right, Kitchener. Normalcy is not a quality one should ever a.s.sociate with the Unmer.' He shook his head clear of the last vestiges of the vision. 'Start bringing the crew over now. Leave the trove, but bring the gas welders and grab as much water, food, rope, tools and sailcloth as you can carry.'

'Sailcloth, captain?' Kitchener inquired.

'I want to put a spinnaker up on that tower,' Maskelyne replied. 'If there is a will at work here, we ought to give ourselves the opportunity to thwart it.'

Ianthe retreated into the darkness of her own mind. She found that she was breathing rapidly. What had happened? She'd been looking out at the cabin through Maskelyne's eyes. She saw the optical experiments and watched her host pick up the spectacles. She had looked out of his eyes in awe at the change in luminance when Maskelyne had first turned the wheel and then gasped at the abrupt disappearance of the two crewmen. And then . . .

Suddenly Ianthe had no longer been able to perceive the cabin at all. She had been standing right here, on the deck of Maske-lyne's dredger, gazing up at the figurehead upon the Unmer s.h.i.+p. She had been looking at the scene through her own eyes through her own eyes.

When the Excelsior Excelsior began to shudder violently, Granger knew he'd been away from the wheel too long. He vaulted up the final few steps and burst into the bridge to see the westernmost edge of the Glot Madera looming large to port. One side of the emperor's dragon-hunter was sc.r.a.ping along the prison facades, gouging deep scars into the stonework. began to shudder violently, Granger knew he'd been away from the wheel too long. He vaulted up the final few steps and burst into the bridge to see the westernmost edge of the Glot Madera looming large to port. One side of the emperor's dragon-hunter was sc.r.a.ping along the prison facades, gouging deep scars into the stonework.

He swung the wheel hard to starboard and reversed the engine throttle, hoping to turn out the Excelsior Excelsior's bow, but the yacht's momentum continued to carry her along on her destructive path. Rubble crumbled and pattered across the deck. Metal groaned and shrieked as the s.h.i.+p's port bulwark crumpled. Granger cursed and slammed the throttle forward again. He didn't have time to worry about the hull.

The s.h.i.+p turned slowly. With a final screech of metal, she broke away from the bank and began steaming out into the centre of the ca.n.a.l. Golden sunlight reflected off the s.h.i.+p's copper-plated hull, illuminating the prison facades on either side of the channel as if by the radiance of some great golden lantern. Ahead of him, Granger could see the seaward opening of the Glot Madera with nothing beyond but the distant s.h.i.+mmering horizon.

CHAPTER 12.

A VOICE FROM THE ASHES.

18th Hu-Rain, 145724 degrees 16 minutes north5 degrees 43 minutes westAboard the deads.h.i.+p for two days now. Fog lifted yesterday morning, and yet its bitter gloom remains in the hearts of all aboard. This ironclad vessel seems determined to confound our attempts to return to Scythe Island. Her engines sputter to a halt whenever we deviate from a narrow range between 342 and 354, as though the supply of electrical fluid to the tower is suddenly quenched. We are being interfered with from afar.But by whom? And where are they trying to take us?Heading west nor'-west would bring us into the Haurstaf-controlled waters around Awl and the Irillian Islands, leaving us at the mercy of the Guild. The northern fringes of the empire lie due east of here, from where we could easily secure pa.s.sage to Losoto. This margin between 342 and 354 leads nowhere but the frozen wastes of Pertica, where we would surely perish among the poisonous ice fields. In an attempt to regain some control, we have raised a makes.h.i.+ft spinnaker on the s.h.i.+p's tower, yet it can barely hold enough wind to maintain our current position against these southerlies. It is as if nature herself is conspiring against us. Abernathy removed the engine housing, but we have been unable to understand its workings. Amidst the myriad cables and gla.s.s lozenges he discovered a woman's pelvis.These events and others have led the crew to believe that this is a haunted vessel. But how can that be? Can any consciousness survive death? If an answer to this question exists, then it must surely lie in Unmer lore, being so interwoven with infinity itself. An object viewed outside of Time must encompa.s.s every one of its states of being, from the nothingness before creation to the nothingness afterwards. And yet what if that object a s.h.i.+p, for example encompa.s.ses the essence of something that is larger than the physical universe, larger even than Time itself?Is infinity woven into the fabric of this miserable s.h.i.+p?Might it not then continue to act as a vessel for its dead crew?Whatever the cause or the crucible turns out to be, there seems little doubt that a malign will is at work here. The chronographs and compa.s.ses we salvaged from the Mistress Mistress refuse to work here, and yet many of the Unmer trove artefacts we carried over have suddenly sprung to life, each glowing, chattering, or screeching as its dormant electrical fluids are reanimated. Most of the fresh produce we managed in our great haste to bring aboard has already rotted. It is as if the deads.h.i.+p's own corruption has flowed from its pores. Lucille suggested I delay the rot by freezing the stores in crespic salts, but I required every ounce of those chemicals to keep my last phial of void flies from thawing. refuse to work here, and yet many of the Unmer trove artefacts we carried over have suddenly sprung to life, each glowing, chattering, or screeching as its dormant electrical fluids are reanimated. Most of the fresh produce we managed in our great haste to bring aboard has already rotted. It is as if the deads.h.i.+p's own corruption has flowed from its pores. Lucille suggested I delay the rot by freezing the stores in crespic salts, but I required every ounce of those chemicals to keep my last phial of void flies from thawing.Everyone aboard has been troubled by nightmares.I myself am haunted by visions of the Mistress's demise. Her loss has affected me deeply. She remained afloat for nearly two hours before the sea finally swallowed her. We stood upon the ironclad's deck and watched her disappear into the red-green brine. Mellor's second repair team had by then succeeded in cutting through into the engine room but, alas, we could do nothing for the men trapped in that flooded compartment. The seawater had altered them beyond all hope of recovery. demise. Her loss has affected me deeply. She remained afloat for nearly two hours before the sea finally swallowed her. We stood upon the ironclad's deck and watched her disappear into the red-green brine. Mellor's second repair team had by then succeeded in cutting through into the engine room but, alas, we could do nothing for the men trapped in that flooded compartment. The seawater had altered them beyond all hope of recovery.Lucille has nightmares in which our son is dying, although these are undoubtedly caused by her fears over his persistently strange behaviour. Last night she awoke to discover that Jontney was missing from his cot, although our cabin door had been bolted. After a frantic search we found him crawling across the top deck towards the open sea. Lucille has now sworn to remain awake until we are safely home, but her exhaustion is evident.The men avoid my gaze and say little to each other. Morale is fading, with anger swelling to fill the s.p.a.ces. It is only a matter of time before violence breaks out. I must find a way to channel it before then. I fear someone will have to be sacrificed to save the others.Objects have gone missing from my cabin, including two cans of water, a gem lantern, some coins and the Unmer spectacles. We have a thief aboard, a thief who seems intent on endangering the life of my son. Who here has the motive to do such a thing?

Someone knocked on the door. Maskelyne set down his pen and got up from the workbench. He opened the door to find Kitchener standing in the pa.s.sageway. The sailor was standing over an open crate.

'We found these in a hidden compartment under the hold,' he said. 'We were about to throw them overboard, but I thought I'd better check with you first.'

Maskelyne looked down at the open box. It was almost completely full of dust, but he could see the edges of artefacts partially buried in there: heavy iron rings, wrapped with wires. He brushed away the dust and picked one up. The windings felt hot to the touch. A foul, burned metal odour came from them. 'How many are there altogether?' he asked.

'Twelve in each crate,' Kitchener said. 'And we pulled five crates out of the compartment. We stored our supplies down there first, but they rotted so fast you wouldn't believe. I had a few of the men start carrying what was left up into one of the bow cabins, while Roberts and me went looking for the source of the problem. We found the compartment quickly enough.' He hesitated. 'It wasn't just the rot, you see? The supplies had been moving about too.'