Fireball (16 page)

His world now? He felt stunned. He said, all smiling over: “But . . . do you love him?”

“Of course,” Lavinia said. “He is to be my husband.”

She put her hand on his arm. “Listen, Simonus.
Don't let anyone know I told you this because it's meant to be a surprise. Grandfather has decided to adopt you into our family. Isn't that marvellous? You will be my brother!”

•  •  •

None of the family was stirring when Simon asked the groom to saddle his horse. But the steward, Mandarus, came out as he was preparing to mount.

“You leave early, young master.”

“Yes, Mandarus.” He paused. “Thank you for all your kindness.”

“Will you return soon?”

He shook his head. “Not soon.”

Mandarus nodded. His look was sympathetic.

“God go with you.”

•  •  •

The others had planned to put in at Dover only long enough to take on provisions and stores. By now they might be preparing to weigh anchor—might already have done so. He cursed himself for his stupidity in not getting away as soon as she had told him; he could have been three hours on his way before nightfall. He urged on the horse, recalling the interminable dinner, sharing a couch with the
fatuous Marcus, and watching Lavinia smile at them both from across the table.

The road ran through Canterbury, Durovernum here. He fed and watered his horse and gobbled bread and meat at an inn not far from the town's southern gate. If the fireball should return, he could step through it to see tourists gaping at the broken remnants of the wall, which here was high and solid. But he didn't care about the fireball or what lay beyond it. All that mattered was that it was midafternoon, and he was still more than twenty miles from the port. He threw money to the innkeeper and went running to his horse.

Daylight was fading as he rode into Dover, and his hopes with it. They disappeared completely when he had scanned the quayside. None of the ships tied up was the
Stella Africanus,
but well out in the harbour, putting to sea, was one that might be.

He turned away, feeling sick. Not looking where he was going, he bumped into someone. A voice cursed him, then called his name. He looked up.

“Bos!” He said stupidly: “But there's no ship. I looked for her.”

“Just as well you didn't stay a gladiator if that's
the quality of your eyesight! A
retiarius
with a broken leg would net you while you were still looking for him. They're short of wharf room, so we had to tie up on the far side of that Spanish wine ship. A mean lot, Spaniards—didn't even offer us a swig.”

He felt too dazed to say anything.

“You left it late, lad. We're sailing on the evening tide.” Bos grinned down at him. “But at least you've grown up. Come, and I'll take you on board.”

T
HEY HAD TWO WEEKS OF
reasonably good weather before the storms hit them. The first blew itself out in a couple of days, but the second was more severe and lasted twice as long. Simon was sick in the first, and sicker in the second, but too busy to brood over it. He was left with a confused memory of coldness and wetness and soreness and nausea, but all subordinate to an overpowering weariness.

The second storm had hit them bow on, and for the succeeding four days, without sight of sun or stars, they had no idea where they were being carried
through the howling grey waste of water. But they emerged from it still pointed west, and with a fresh southeaster that filled the sails as soon as they were rehoisted. The chickens that had been taken on board at Dubris had been laying unattended, and though some of the eggs were broken, there were enough whole for Brad to cook them ham and eggs—a combination new to Curtius and Bos and greeted with enthusiasm as a specimen of the cuisine of their country-to-be. Simon did not feel hungry when the cooking started, but by the time the meal was ready, nausea had given way to hunger, and he wolfed it down with the rest.

During the last stage of the storm one of the four goats had broken its neck; fortunately not the billy. (Brad had picked the goat as the most useful non-American animal they could take with them.) Bos skinned and butchered it with surprising skill, prepared a stew, and salted the rest of the carcase. They broached a small cask of wine, but it had turned to vinegar from the buffeting. That somewhat dampened the atmosphere of cheerfulness, for Bos especially, but Brad assured them the vine shoots they had also brought would flourish in the rich soil of America;
there would be wine enough in years to come.

Simon and Brad were alone on deck that night. Referring to the earlier conversation, Simon said: “You didn't have to keep the same name.”

“Of what?”

“America. No Amerigo Vespucci in this world. You could call it anything you like. Bradland.”

“With Simon City as its capital? I guess America will do. Not a bad idea to keep some old things when you're making a new beginning.”

Overhead the stars, in their familiar constellations, were diamonds on a backcloth of black velvet; the moon was not due to rise for an hour or two. Simon found the Great Bear and traced a path to the polestar. They were still on course, heading west towards the New World, the old one in their wake.

He said: “Do you think new beginnings do any good?”

Brad laughed. “Spoken like a true Brit!”

“Look what happened back there. That was a new beginning with a vengeance, wasn't it? We helped overthrow a two-thousand-year-old empire. And the tyranny which existed previously has been
replaced by one which could be a whole lot worse.”

Brad was silent for a while. Ropes creaked and groaned, and the mainsail cracked in a heavier gust of wind. He said at last: “I wouldn't deny that. There's always a possibility of things turning out bad. But I don't think it's a good reason for not going on trying.”

“I suppose you're right.” He yawned mightily. “Well, of course you're right.”

“Go below,” Brad said, “and get some sleep. I'll yell if I want help.” He added, as Simon turned to go: “I don't think I got around to thanking you for coming along. I learned during the past few days that three pairs of hands would have been a real case of undermanning. Dangerous, too.”

“No thanks due. I was glad to find you at Dover. Very glad.”

“What happened—at the villa?”

He had not previously asked questions, and Simon had not felt like volunteering information. He said: “She's going to marry Marcus Cornelius.”

“No kidding?” Brad laughed. “Sorry. But look on the bright side, fella. Pocahontas lies ahead.”

•  •  •

The days and weeks went by. There was a bad patch when they found the reserve supply of biscuits had been damaged by seawater and were mildewed; it threw both Curtius and Bos into depression. Curtius was morose and spent the whole of his nonworking time huddled silent in his bunk. Bos was more vocally despairing. He talked of the world's edge and the great waterfall that plunged there; when, in a good wind, the ship moved more swiftly, he guessed they were being borne by the current that would sweep them faster and faster to that final drop into eternity. There was no land ahead. After the distance they had travelled, there could be none.

Brad stared into the big man's face.

“There is a land, Bos. A great rich land, greater and richer than anything you could imagine. I was born there. Do you think I am a liar?”

Bos looked back mournfully. “Tell me about it, Bradus. Tell me of your land and its wonders.”

Brad told him. He spoke of the great rivers, the mountains higher than those in the land of the Helvetii, the plains in which one might set down the island of Britain six times over and still have room to spare. He spoke of trees that grew more than fifty
times the height of a man. And the animals—buffalo and antelope in numbers beyond counting, bears that stood seven feet tall, wolves and mountain lions, succulent prairie chickens and pigeons in flocks that blackened the sky at noon . . .

Even Simon was impressed. Bos said: “If you lie, Bradus, you lie well. It sounds like Elysium, the land of the blessed.”

“It is,” Brad assured him earnestly. “Exactly that.”

Bos shook his head. “But they also say that Elysium is a part of Hades.” He sighed deeply. “Well, we have come so far that we might as well go on, even if it does mean sailing over the world's rim.”

They had been seven weeks out of sight of land when the really big one hit them. It roared in from the stern quarter, so fast developing that they barely had time to furl the mainsail and the lateens—the bow sail was ripped from its spar before they could get to it. This was in what should have been the hour before dawn, but no dawn came that day. There were a few hours of dismal grey around noon; the rest of the time blackness, lit by the darting fury of lightning.
The seas were enormous, lifting the little ship to mountainous peaks and dropping her sickeningly into huge gulfs.

There was nothing to do but stay below and concentrate on bracing oneself against being hurled into a bulkhead. Simon was not sick this time, but was not sure that was an improvement. It made him more aware of what was likely going on around him and what might be going to happen. Increasingly the probabilities were that the next wave would swamp the tiny boat, or else her tortured keel would break and toss them out into the cold dark waters. There came a point when he was almost hoping for it, as an end to the misery.

The storm lasted through the day and night. The following day it eased up slightly, only to renew itself and come on more fiercely. It was three days more before they were able to go on deck and stare at a calm grey sky above a sullenly heaving sea.

The
Stella Africanus
was a mess. The mainmast had survived, but the sternpost which bore the swan had broken off and showed a jagged end. On the port side the hogging planks, which ran from stem to stern, had been completely torn away, and those on the starboard side had been battered in.

“Well,” Brad said, “she's not too bad. Leaking a little, but she's still afloat. Neptune had to go without his breakfast, after all.”

The joke wasn't funny, but Bos laughed, and after a moment Simon did, too. They were light-headed, from tension and hunger and lack of sleep.

Then Curtius called from the stern: “The rudder doesn't answer. Must have broken her blade.”

It stopped the laughter. Brad asked: “Can we rig something up?”

“If we got one of the lateens onto the bow spar,” Curtius said, “it would give us some steering. Not much, though.”

Simon said: “Maybe we shan't need much.”

He pointed across the starboard bow, to where the greys of sea and sky met.

“That smudge on the horizon. Do you think it could be land?”

•  •  •

They camped on a grassy ridge directly above the shore where the
Stella Africanus
lay beached; the breaker which had brought her in had wedged her firmly into the shingle. Another goat had died in the final storm, but again, luckily, it had not been the billy; the three
tethered survivors were placidly munching grass. The rooster had been put in a makeshift coop with his hens. Bos had built a primitive oven, using broken planks from the
Stella
as fuel. On this, the morning of the second day, smoke rose straight into a clear blue sky, and the air was sweet with the smell of baking bread. It was very cold, but crisp and invigorating.

The sensation of land underfoot was still strange; Simon found himself swaying as he walked. He and Brad were exploring inland, towards a wood a couple of hundred yards from the beach. Brad was giving reasons why he thought they might have made a landfall somewhere on the coast of New York State. Or maybe Delaware.

He stopped as they both saw them at the same time, standing by the edge of the trees: three figures, bronzed and breech-clouted, with feathers in their tightly bound black hair. Brad said quietly: “Another new beginning?”

Simon muttered: “Any chance of legging it back to the others? We don't even have a knife between us.”

Brad stared ahead. “Anywhere along this seaboard,” he said, “it's odds-on they're Algonquians.”

He walked forward, and after a moment's hesitation
Simon followed him. The figures remained motionless. When they were a few feet away, Brad stopped and raised his hands, palms outward. He said something incomprehensible. The figures gazed in silence.

“Wrong word?” Brad said. “Or wrong Indians? Either way . . .”

Suddenly the one in the middle, the tallest of the three, put his own hands up, copying Brad's gesture. He spoke something, more gutturally but plainly an echo of what Brad had said. Brad gave a short whistle of relief.

“What was that?” Simon asked.

“Langundowoágan,”
Brad said.

Simon looked at him.

“It's Algonquian for
peace.
”

Read on for a peek at another adventure from John Christopher!