“No,” answered Mokrenko, fingering his sword, “I won’t.”
The worst was Corporal Koslov, “Goat.” By the time Mokrenko got back with the food, Goat was begging all and sundry—loudly—to, “Please, for the love of God, please shoot me.”
Passing the half bucket’s worth of stew to Shukhov, Mokrenko proceeded to take away Koslov’s pistol, his shashka, his kindjal, and his rope belt.
“Why the belt, Sergeant,” Shukhov asked.
“Lest the corporal try to hang himself.”
“Oh.”
Shukhov and Mokrenko did their best to estimate the size of the crew against the day of having to get rid of them. The best they’d been able to come up with, so far, was sixteen, including the captain and the cook, but not the roughly twelve- to fourteen-year-old girl who never said a word and seemed to be there for the captain’s nocturnal entertainment.
The ship, meanwhile, adding insult to injury, was a continuous roller coaster, alternating deep, seemingly terminal dives into the troughs with shuddering efforts to rise onto the swells.
That cocksucker, Vraciu, is making it worse on purpose, thought Mokrenko, carrying a vomit-filled bucket up a madly swaying ladder, to dump the contents over the side. The puke was a disgusting mix of Turgenev’s and Koslov’s ejecta. Mokrenko couldn’t quite bring himself even to look into the mess.
If either I or Shukhov succumb, the other is going to collapse from sheer fatigue. Then the crew will pile on us within the hour. I’d seriously consider attacking the bastards now, just myself and the engineer, but we can’t man the ship. Don’t know how and the two of us aren’t enough even if we did. And Shukhov’s not well enough even if we knew how and were enough. Maybe when the storm’s over, we can, but in this gale we haven’t a chance.
Hmmm… how about taking a hostage? No, Vraciu doesn’t seem to care enough about any of his crew, not even that underage girl he likely buggers, for a threat to one or two of them to delay him in launching an attack for an instant. At least the way he slaps them around says they don’t matter to him.
Mokrenko tied the vomit-filled bucket off to a line and dumped it over the side to wash it out. As he was hauling it back aboard, he noticed one of the crew—Ah, yes, my friend, black jacket—head covered with the jacket against the cold squall—moving unsteadily forward on the wet and swaying deck.
The bucket came back aboard just as the crewman passed close by, lost in his own thoughts, troubles, and miseries. Mokrenko took a quick glance toward the bow. Nobody. He looked even more quickly up into the rigging. Nobody. Then he dropped the bucket to the deck, bent down while lunging forward, grabbed the crewman about the thighs, then lifted and carried him to the gunwales, before launching the sailor over the side.
No one heard the splash, but Mokrenko took a deep personal satisfaction in watching the man treading water, far behind. The Cossack watched with glee as a three-meter wave crashed down upon the helpless crewman, momentarily sending him under. He popped up, struggling frantically, a few moments later. The next large wave likewise washed over him. By the time he should have popped up from that, the ship was far enough away that the mist, rain, and spray blocked any clear view.
Just doing Your work, Lord.
He probably won’t drown, but the cold will kill him eventually. One down. Fifteen to go. Sixteen if we have to dispose of that little girl. That, I would much rather not have to do.
Barquentine Loredana, Black Sea, 28 Jan, 1918
The captain and crew were absolutely frantic, desperately searching for their missing crewman. Mokrenko was shocked, actually. Who would have imagined that that old pirate would care about any of his crew?
The mystery was cleared up when Vraciu, himself, came into the passenger area demanding to know, “Have any of you seen my son?”
Which would also tend to explain why the shit thought he could get away with tripping me.
“Why, no, Captain,” Mokrenko lied. He felt zero obligation to be honest with known enemies. “What did he look like?”
Vraciu shot Mokrenko a look of sheer menace. He’d heard about his son’s little game with the passenger and how the passenger refused to play his part in the game. Maybe we’ll hang you from the yardarm, the captain thought, before we toss your corpse overboard. If we don’t find my son, alive and well, we’ll hang you to unconsciousness a dozen times before we finally let you die.
Barquentine Loredana, Black Sea, 29 Jan, 1918
Sarnof was the first of the stricken to show a recovery. Despite the continuing storm, he was well enough, indeed, that he could have stood a guard shift.
Mokrenko decided against that, very quietly telling the signaler, “No, they think there’s just two of us able to fight. Be a big surprise to them to discover just that little bit too late that there’s another pistol and sword in play. Stay in your cabin, Sarnof. Be quiet except for making the odd moan and gagging sound. You might even try doing vomiting imitations; you’ve had enough practice for that, I believe.”
Now it was Shukhov’s turn on guard. He had his pistol hidden under his tunic, his kindjal likewise, and his sword, his shashka, in one hand, across his lap, with the point of the scabbard resting on the floor.
It was hard, oh, so hard, to stay awake. It wasn’t made any easier by the occasional waves of nausea that still swept over the young pioneer from time to time. Neither was it made any easier by the very limited moonlight that crept in through the few portholes.
Shukhov used the fingers of his left hand to hold one eye open for a bit, then switched to the other, then back to the first. Gradually, he became aware—or thought he did—of a small presence in the open area between the cabins.
Suddenly awake, the pioneer swept his sword from its scabbard, holding it pointed at where he thought the apparition stood.
“Quietly,” the apparition said, in surprisingly good, albeit very soft, Russian. “Be quiet or they’ll hear you.”
“The… the girl?” Shukhov asked. “How…”
“How do I speak Russian? I am Russian,” the girl replied. “I am Natalya, Natalya Vladimirovna Sorokina. The Bolsheviks murdered my parents, made use of me for a week or so, and then sold me to that swine of a captain for three cases of rakia. I’m sure you’ve figured out what the captain bought me for.”
Shukhov didn’t confirm that he could guess. Why add to the girl’s humiliation? Her accent says “very upper class.” It will be harder on her, then.
“They are coming tonight,” Natalya said. “Even now the captain is giving half the crew, the half that will be used, their orders.”
“What weapons?” Shukhov asked.
“Clubs, knives. The only pistol on board is the captain’s. He’d only ever entrust it to his son, who seems to have disappeared. If you are the one who killed him—if he was killed—you have my eternal thanks.”
“Not me,” the pioneer answered. “Someone else. When will they come?”
“Sometime after midnight. Now, I have to go. Be ready. And good luck.”
Since the captain and crew had already made free with her, Natalya was free to go to her miserable bunk and lie down. She sent a prayer to a God she had come to have some doubts about, to take care of her countrymen about to fight for their lives. Maybe He’s there and maybe He’ll listen. It was so easy to believe back when I was a… well… that doesn’t matter anymore.