The Mariner

The Mariner grabbed the Pope by his robes, but immediately let go. The man seemed to radiate a strange energy that made the Mariner’s muscles spasm when in close proximity. “Who am I? You have to tell me that. I thought I was Arthur Philip, but that’s not true is it? He’s the good one. I’m Traill. Donald Traill.”

The Pope laughed and then seized the Mariner’s arm. The twitching and trembling returned and he felt himself becoming lost in those strange eyes.

“I’ll show you. It’s a simple process, much like a penguin regurgitating a fish. They’re partly digested, but still good to eat. Feast chickling. Feast little monkey. Have your bile back.”

His heart gathered pace, blood rushing through the Mariner’s body as he was held in place, staring into the Pope’s eyes. He could feel it coursing through his veins like race-cars around a track. His head throbbed as if it were about to burst, and suddenly a host of thoughts and feelings popped into his head. Somewhere outside he could still hear the Pope’s voice, but his concern was the images burning into his consciousness.

“Feast now….”

He tumbled. And as he fell, a segment of his life came flooding back.

Port Jackson, 3rd August 1790

Governor Arthur Philip was roused from troubled sleep by a panic stricken Wandsworth. Hairs aloft in huge cow-licks, his tired assistant shook Philip’s shoulders and babbled incoherently, panic and exhaustion making nonsense of his alarm.

“What is it? Damn you! What is it?” Philip snapped, scrambling to put his spectacles on.

“It’s the Neptune sir, she’s back!”

The Neptune? He’d sent the ship away a month ago, along with her tragic cargo, and been glad to see her gone! But now she was back? That bastard Traill should be well on the way to England by now, what was he doing here?

“Have they sent anyone to shore?”

“No, Sir,” Wandsworth blurted, eyes blinking. “But she is flying distressed colours.”

“So they’ve come afoul of their own misdeeds and returned to seek our aid, have they? A strange choice, this is the last place I’d seek refuge.” Philip swung out of bed, rubbing the night from his face whilst Wandsworth gathered his clothes. “Let’s go deal with them. I won’t have that man step one foot on land. If his crew are in peril, they can join our ranks and be charged for their abuses, but if Traill is to remain immune, then to hell with him.”

The two dashed through the small encampment, making their way towards the dock. Wandsworth led a path, holding a lantern before him, drawing a cloud of insects as an escort. Small creatures scuttled in the shadows, avoiding the footfalls of the clumsy men.

Ahead, Philip could make out the outline of the Neptune against the grey moon-lit ocean. The deck was dark, no lights to be seen. For a moment he imagined all the crew dead, killed by plague from the rotting corpses he’d refused to unload, but then dismissed the idea as absurd. There was no way the ship could have returned without a crew. Ships couldn’t sail themselves, could they?

Upon the dock was a small number of men who were, as instructed by Wandsworth, preparing a row-boat to approach the ship. They stood to attention as the governor arrived.

“Listen here,” he said, ignoring formalities. “Find out what the nature of their distress is, but impress upon them they do not have permission to dock. If Traill thinks he can blight my horizon without a bloody decent explanation, he’s profoundly mistaken.”

As the men readied themselves, he continued. “Keep your weapons handy. I don’t like the stench of this. Not one bit.”

Slowly, the row-boat began the long journey away from the shore, out to the Neptune. Soon the crew were cloaked by the night air and all Philip could make out was the small lantern bobbing with the waves.

“Should I awaken the camp, Sir?” Wandsworth seemed to have gathered his wits now that someone else was in charge.

“No, not yet. I don’t want to start a panic. Those that survived their last experience of Traill are apt to go quite mad at the thought he’s returned to finish the job. No, let’s find out what he wants first.”

So they waited in the dark for the row-boat to return, Wandsworth fidgeting nervously, whilst Philip kept his eyes unwavering upon the alien vessel.

“Governor Philip I presume?” The voice called to them from the pitch-black surf.

“Who goes there?” Wandsworth cried, jumping in front of his master with earnest concern. With the reply came the sight of a man, standing waist deep in the ocean, not far from the shore.

“My name is Donald Traill.”

“What are you doing here, Traill?” Philip asked cautiously. “I told you not to return. I made that clear to you and your crew.”

“The crew are dead.”

And in the dim moonlight, Philip knew the man spoke the truth. It was as he’d feared.

“Plague?”

“The corpses did ‘em in, that’s for sure, but not by disease. I watched each one get taken. There’s just me and the ship left now.”

“And yet my word still stands. You’re not welcome.”

“I’m not on the shore,” Traill replied with a dark chuckle. “I’m ten feet from it.”