Which they duly did (Lady Lovelace having nodded approval), not having the faintest idea of what else to do.
Dawn should have received a welcome from them, but instead it found the party half-dead (save for Ada, who was ahead of that curve…). They weren’t just soaked but saturated, and gladness of any kind wasn’t on the menu.
Their gross ingratitude had the excuse that it wasn’t much of a dawn. Diffuse light from somewhere behind the storm was allowed through on sufferance, but not much and not often. Big black clouds remained firmly in control of minor intruders like the sun.
It had been quite a night: dramatic but repetitious. First climb the mountain of a wave, rising to almost vertical, nearly tipping them out of the boat; then enjoy a sickening pause at the crest before plunging down the far side, losing the pit of your stomach (its contents being long gone) en route.
And that was just one wave: tonight the sea had many more where that came from, and another would be along in just a few seconds. Then rinse and repeat, again and again without pause for prayer or sigh of relief, throughout the hours of darkness. Each repetition every bit as thrilling as the first…
Lady Lovelace and Julius just clung on for dear life, but Foxglove lashed himself to the mast with his belt and spent the night baling like a man possessed, spoiling his top hat in the process. If he possessed inhuman powers and if he kept up the same pace for the duration of the storm, then maybe, just maybe, their most likely cause of death might be running ashore rather than foundering.
But, of course, he didn’t and couldn’t, and so taking a break from his labours didn’t make much odds. The big man straightened his complaining back and surveyed the sky.
‘Fimbulwinter…,’ he concluded.
Like most Swiss, Frankenstein was fluent in all the main European languages, but this word was new to him.
‘Pardon?’ he shouted above the roar.
Ada’s chin reposed in her hands. It was possible she was closely monitoring the inexorable rise of water in the bottom of the skiff. Or possibly she was just miles away.
But not too far to explain.
‘Old English for the end of the world,’ she said, without lifting her eyes. ‘My forebears believed it would be preceded by a mighty storm.’
Once again, erudition in the lower orders quite threw Frankenstein. Not only was it beyond his experience but also disturbing on myriad levels. Like returning home to find your hound playing the harp.
‘A storm taking wolf’s head form,’ Foxglove expounded. And gestured.
Indeed, when Julius looked the cloud front did somewhat resemble a monstrous maw advancing to swallow all. It was a tribute to Nature’s sadism—or possibly the power of suggestion.
‘No.’ Frankenstein discounted the evidence of his eyes, thinking to supply comfort and raise morale. ‘Not the end of the world. Merely of us—maybe.’
Ada clapped her hands in mock glee, just as a refreshingly icy wave found home in her lap.
‘Oh goodie!’ she said. ‘That’s all right then.’
Later. Lady Lovelace was cultivating her huff in the minimal cover afforded by a sun parasol. Unsuited to rough salt waves the flimsy thing soon looked not long for this world.
Likewise, Foxglove’s headgear. The top of his top hat had come out and he was having to use his boots for baling instead.
Their accessories closely matched the skiff itself. Spun and buffeted by wind and wave alike, like a human long maltreated by Fate, too much had been asked of it. If Mariner had still been aboard he would have known what to do, even if it was only succumb to despair. As it was their tiny glimmer of hope, probably misguided, was a torment to them.
But for the opposition of the waves they would have been making excellent progress… somewhere. The wind drove them at a fair pace, sails or no sails, but they’d long since lost any sense of direction. Land, if and when it loomed up, might be anywhere; friend or foe—but thereagain, anywhere would do. Always assuming of course, that they didn’t founder first under the weight of the water they were shipping, or smash to splinters on rocks. Little things like that.
Yet there was another remote possibility they’d hardly bothered to think about. Surely no other sensible ship would be about in such filthy weather, not if had a port to shelter in. Clearly therefore, the ship Ada spotted was not sensible, or else it was homeless and/or incompetent just like them.
These were not relevant considerations right now. Lady Lovelace went into action. She rose like a rocket, she screamed like a banshee, she waved like an admiralty semaphore tower.
It was a big vessel, they could tell that much despite the distance and poor conditions. An armed-merchantman, or a frigate maybe. Like the skiff its three tall masts were stripped, but professionally so, not lubberly-style. And though she rode the towering waves heavily, just as they did, she looked by far the better bet for survival.
Ada certainly thought so. At great risk of going overboard she was doing everything a lady might to attract attention across a watery gulf. More so in fact. If her drawers had been red or any other bright hue she would have happily whipped them off and waved them. For what use was a good name without years of life to enjoy it in?
‘Doctor!’ she ordered Frankenstein, in-between her ‘haloos’ and the regular rude interruption of waves. ‘Fire a shot in the air, fire several! Get their attention.’
Julius never ceased to marvel at the European aristocracy. Some times they were as innocent as angels, others as worldly as devils. The former in this case. Not having to lift a hand for themselves from cradle to grave made the class amazingly impractical.
‘I would if I could,’ he replied. ‘But I can’t, so I won’t.’
‘‘Won’t’?’ screamed Ada. ‘ “Won’t”? You? Mr Promiscuous-Pistol! Old shoot-on-sight? Normally, we can’t stop you! Oh, just do it, you damn foreign dago or I’ll…’
Empty threats are awfully demeaning, so Foxglove stepped in.
‘It’s the water, madam,’ he explained with saintly patience. ‘The waves: washing over all night long. I very much doubt Mr Frankenstein has any dry powder left…’
He’d have much preferred to avoid the subject altogether, having surreptitiously ditched Julius’ gun overboard long before. At the time it had seemed prudent, the better to feign innocence when intercepted by the cutter. Now, having survived that passing crisis, his action felt awfully like common theft. And Doctor Frankenstein did so dearly love his firearms. When he found out there’d be ructions…
Meanwhile, Lady Lovelace wasn’t having any truck with tomfool logical explanations. ‘That’s no excuse!’ she said, followed by something else fortunately swallowed up by the storm. Then she spurned her companions and devoted all attention to the new arrival.
It was nearer now, no doubt about it. The tempest, though 99% malevolent, was doing them this little favour, driving the dying skiff in the right direction. Unless, that is, it was really pure 100% evil and just stoking up false hopes in order to dash them shortly.
But ‘shortly’ was when they’d be within hailing distance. ‘Shortly’ there’d be method as well as madness in Ada’s efforts. Soon even Frankenstein saw purpose in adding his lung-power to the cause.
Now they could see activity on deck, and lots of it. Up and down the poop and middle portions there moved lovely swarms of people. Surely, any second now, one of them must turn and see the vessel bearing down on them.
Apparently not. Presumably preoccupied by the storm, the boiling mob aboard carried on without a friendly wave or word in their direction. At first it was frustrating, a cause for irritation to nerves and straining throat.