Turgenev answered, “I understand. Needs must, and all. We’ll be all right. Thank you, Feldwebel.” Then he stomped up the gangway, more properly called the “brow,” to meet the captain.
The ship, the Loredana, was considerably bigger than any of the Russians had expected. Rocking gently at anchor, tied to the wharf by Burgas’s shipping district in the south of the city, she looked to Mokrenko to be about sixty arshini long, or maybe a trifle more. He knew the things sticking up from the deck were called “masts,” that the cross pieces on the masts were “yardarms,” and the white cloth hanging from them sails, but there his nautical knowledge ended.
There was nothing wrong with his arithmetic, though; he counted five sails tied to the yardarms, plus two small triangular ones running from the top of the foremost mast to the wooden pole—he would soon learn it was called a “bowsprit,” sticking out in front. There were also two large triangular sails behind each of the two rearward masts, as well as another being set between the first mast and the middle one.
While Turgenev spoke to the captain, Mokrenko watched the crew setting that between-the-masts sail, as well as the five on the yardarms. He noticed among them a small boy or, perhaps a girl or young woman, dark blond, peeking at the Russians from behind the rearmost mast. The confusion stemmed from the kid being in boy’s clothes. On closer observation, though, Mokrenko decided it must be a girl.
I’ve never in my life been on any boat bigger than a little rowboat. And never on the ocean. Lord, please help me, help all of us, not to get seasick. I wonder who the girl is; captain’s daughter, maybe?
There was a tone and tenor to the conversation between the lieutenant and the ship’s captain that made it more of an argument. Mokrenko picked up bits and pieces of the conversation. “… balance the ship… not going to be separated… want to founder in a storm… still not… move cargo… so move it… you pay… how much? Segarceanu!”
When Turgenev joined Mokrenko, waiting on the wooden wharf, he said, “I trust that bastard even less than I expected to. We’re going to stay two men to a cabin. Fifty percent alert. I’ll pull my watch the same as anyone else.”
“Suggestion, sir?”
“Sure, go ahead.”
“We’d be better off with two armed men fully rested, awake, and alert, outside the cabins, watching all of them, than we would be with four, alone, struggling to stay awake against the darkness. And for meals we send two men together to bring them to us. One man eats; we wait an hour, to see if he gets sick, then the rest of us do.”
The lieutenant considered that, then agreed. Pointing with his chin at one of the crewmen, he said, “That’s apparently Segarceanu. He’s to show us to our cabins. Which are all to be together.”
“Put the rifles where, sir?” asked Mokrenko. The rifles were disassembled, with no bayonets since the M1907 couldn’t mount them, anyway. They sat on the wharf in two cases that looked to be, and ordinarily were, too small each to hold four or five rifles.
“Our cabin.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Loredana, the Russians were somewhat surprised to discover, had a powerful auxiliary engine down below. This served, using a small fraction of its available oomph, to move the ship out from the wharf and on its way to the channel that led to the sea.
“We don’t look like we have the power,” said the greasy, black-haired Captain Vraciu, standing on the bridge with Turgenev. There was a modicum of white mixed in with the black. “No one looks for a smuggler of this size unless they look like they can outrace the patrol vessels. We set the sails so most of the landlubbers don’t notice the engine, which we keep as quiet as possible.
“Fuel’s expensive, too, so we mostly use the sails anyway. But if I see another ship approaching, one I don’t know if I can take or bribe, then we call on the engines.”
Turgenev regarded the skipper. He stinks of old tobacco smoke, and not the good stuff, either. That, and he has liquor on his breath. That would tend to explain the bulbous veined nose and the perpetual five o’clock shadow, too lazy or drunk to shave. He should probably go to see a good dentist, especially given how many teeth are already missing. It would help, too, if he changed those baggy, dirty clothes. He also reeks faintly of shit.
“How many days to Rostov?” Turgenev asked.
“Unless you want to pay extra for the fuel…?”
Being already likely short of cash, what with the addition of the medic, pioneer, and signaler, with no chance to get more, Turgenev said, “No.”
“Five days, then, if the winds stay with us.”
Turgenev read that as, Four days, then we shake you down for money, or it will take more than six, unless, of course, you’ve all gotten sick enough first that we can cut your throats and loot your baggage before then.
The first to succumb was Cossack Lavin. Three hours of travel and less than twenty miles out of port, he felt his gorge rising. A quick race to the rail and his five foot, eight inch frame shook as he projectile vomited into the sea.
Mokrenko and the signaler, Sarnof, each took a side to help Lavin below to his cabin. No sooner had they stood him up than the Cossack convulsed again, bending at the waist and painting Sarnof’s trousers with bile. The signaler got one whiff of the stench, dropped Lavin, and threw himself half over the rail, his chest and abdomen heaving with the effort of expelling everything he’d eaten for what seemed the last month.
Mokrenko instantly stopped breathing, only exhaling slowly through his nose, to try to keep the infectious stench at bay, as he led Lavin back to the rail.
Standing between the two, fingers clenched into the material of their collars, Mokrenko looked out over the nearly glass smooth sea, wondering, What the fuck happens if we hit bad weather?
At that moment the air, which had been almost still, relative to the ship, suddenly picked up a breeze, cold and wet, bearing down from the north. A few minor capillaries appeared on the water, harbingers full of malevolent promise.
“Oh, fuck!”
The beating of rain and waves, the wind ripping through the rigging, and the groaning of the wood of the ship, all combined to create a cacophony that made thinking hard and speech nearly impossible.
Mokrenko held off the heaves by sheer willpower. All the rest, though, succumbed to a greater or lesser degree. The least affected, other than Mokrenko, was Shukhov, the pioneer. For the most part he was all right, with “all right” being occasionally interrupted by a bout of vomiting.
It fell to Mokrenko to fetch the meals, since Shukhov couldn’t be counted on not to puke into the stew. Generally, he was able to load two double loaves of bread, or four pounds of hard tack, into a bag, carrying the stew in a clean bucket. Mostly the food went over the side, as the rest of the section was unable to eat even a bit.
It was when he was bringing food back to the cabins that one of the crewmen, a bearded, greasy sort in a short, black waxed jacket, pushed out a foot, tripping the Cossack and causing him to lose control of the bucket, spilling about half the stew.
There were seven crewmen present, not counting the cook. All laughed heartily. Also all had knives, including the cook. Not a time to fight, thought Mokrenko. Not at these odds. But there will be a reckoning.
“You’ll clean up your mess,” said black jacket.