Mad Mikolaj and the Submariners

 I've been working on the next name book, collating all the research so I may not have much to offer when I run out of Mikolaj; there's another 4 days, I think. I've been desultorily working on the Moorwick Chronicles [charity school spin off] and Falconburg 3 but I can't say I've been feeling too clever. On the other hand I've been managing a bit of gardening, and more fancy cooking.

5 The Submariners 1751

 

“Ah, how nice it is to snatch an afternoon off,” said Mikołaj to Jędrek. The two had been riding around the coastal parts of the land award from Freidrich of Prussia, seeing where sugar beets might be established, and where goats were already happy. “This would be a good place for a harbour, a nice haven, and we could ship sugar anywhere. A few fishermen supported by other peasants supporting the dock... Do you suppose we could give over some of these sandy lands to growing lavender? And what about sunflowers? Goats like sunflowers. And if we have some fishing, there’ll be fish guts for manure, as well as goat dung.”

“Miklosz,” said Jędrek, who was lying on the sand between clumps of marram grass, “Shut up. If we’re having an afternoon off, don’t spoil it with planning. Think on your own time.”

“Sorry,” said Mikołaj.

The two young men dozed in early spring’s balmy air, enjoying a rare lazy afternoon. Both had the capacity of stillness and contentment when free of duty, though inevitably Mikołaj was the first to stir. He enjoyed a rest, but he also liked to be up and doing.

“Jędrek,” said Mikołaj, “Is that a whale?”

“A whale? Inshore on this coast? Talk sense,” said Jędrek, sitting up. “It does look like a whale, though.”

“Well, that was why I asked,” said Mikołaj. “And it doesn’t make any sense to me either, why there should be a whale here.”

“And a damn funny whale to have oars,” said Jędrek. “As the wave went by, I swear I saw an oar.”

“It appears to be heading for us,” said Mikołaj. “Shall we go and say hello?”

“You daft bugger, I suppose you haven’t considered that it might be unfriendly?” said Jędrek.

“Yes, I should imagine it probably is,” said Mikołaj. “In which case, it’s our duty to kill the whale before it decides that either Poland or our pet Frydek is its Jonah.” He squinted. “Definitely oars. Fascinating. I wonder how they keep the water out?”

“Wouldn’t we do better to get the hell out of here to make someone aware of it?” said Jędrek.

“It’s not a bad idea. I order you to go back and tell Norbert.”

“But....”

“I don’t often order you, Jędrek.”

“No, my lord.” The big man dithered for a moment, then flung his arms around his lord. Mikołaj embraced him back.

“I’m too beautiful to die, remember?” said Mikołaj, giving him a gentle push.

Jędrek fled, tears pouring from his eyes. He was soon out of sight behind a dune, and heading for where they had left their horses. He had never left Mikołaj in danger before; but Mikołaj had never given him a direct order like that, before. Not when intelligence was more important than one life.

Mikołaj waited on the beach as the vessel drew closer. A window might be perceived at the front of it, and the leather-surrounded hatch in front of a raised hump with windows in.

The monstrosity rowed in until its prow beached on the sand. The hatch opened.

“Vem är du?” said the head that poked out.

“Swedish, are you?” muttered Mikołaj to himself. He smiled, and waved. “Guten tag?” he said.

The man speaking pulled out a package which unfolded to be a light weight boat, made, Mikołaj thought, after the fashion of a folding cover some carriages now had.  It was dropped into the water and the spokesman descended on a rope ladder he dropped, accompanied by two other men, who looked, Mikołaj thought, as if eating babies was only for breakfast, with tigers as a dessert. Less friendly yet was the musket trained on him from the fourth person to exit.

When this small craft made its way through the waves, Mikołaj could see that the hard men were fully as tall as he was, and the one who appeared to be in charge hardly any shorter.

“Welcome to my lands, gentlemen!” said Mikołaj, fatuously. “You and your magnificent craft! I am the Graf von und zu Dornquast, and my lands are honoured to be visited by merfolk from the realms of the deep!”

Mikołaj’s Swedish was rudimentary, and mostly coloured by the scatological side of the language his father knew, but he hid a smile as one of them muttered, ‘Merfolk? Realms of the deep? Is this idiot for real?” to be answered, sharply by the leader, ‘Just because he appears wealthy does not mean he is not superstitious. Good, it would not be a good thing to kill someone of his importance out of hand; better that he disappear.”

The leader smiled.

“Herr Graf! I am Anders Rundqvist. I had no idea anyone lived so close to the coast here.”

“But yes, we will have a harbour shortly, and fishing, and I think a little resort for sea bathing,” said Mikołaj.

“Indeed? Now, I would have taken you as a Pole by your dress,” said Rundqvist.

“I like Polish garb,” said Mikołaj. “We are Pomeranian, here, which is neither one thing nor another.”

“Yes, that’s why we came here to make trials on our ship,” said Rundqvist. “Would you like to see over it?”

“Oh, rather,” said Mikołaj. “Um... is it only lady merfolk who have tails?” He climbed willingly into the boat.

“Er... yes,” said Rundqvist. “Men have to be able to move about on land. And, er, it has to do with impregnating.”

“Of course.  I always worried about that,” said Mikołaj, giving Rundqvist full marks for thinking on his feet. “I say, I shan’t have to breathe water or anything, will I?”

“No, no, our ship is full of air,” said Rundqvist.

“I’ve been wondering how you have oars without water coming in every time you row,” said Mikołaj.

“Oh, it is like scupper drains, made of leather,” said Rundqvist. “The oars pass through them, and there is a flap of leather which only allows water one way, which is out. We also place ox guts on the oars, at the point where they go through the leather holes, and they are rolled on each side, to make a stop, and to minimise water coming in.”

“Clever, two forms of safety,” said Mikołaj. “And how do you go up and down?”

“Oh there is a little cabin at the rear,” said Rundqvist, “and in it, an Archimedes screw. Do you know what that is?”

“Yes, you use it to pump water out of mines,” said Mikołaj, beaming fatuously like a small boy adding two and two to make four.

“Even so,” said Rundquist. “And we pump water in when we want to go down, and when we want it to go up, we pump it out again. We cannot stay down too long, or the air gets bad, but we will not be going far.” He ushered Mikołaj up the rope ladder, which Mikołaj climbed willingly, and then down a more permanent ladder into what appeared to be two ship hulls put together. . Or rather, it was designed as if it were two ship hulls put together, but was plainly crafted as a whole, not cobbled together. Purpose built, then, thought Mikołaj.[1]  A bit stark, but then, who needed a war machine to be decorated.

Rundqvist was giving rapid orders in Swedish, which basically were to the effect of getting ready to beat a hasty retreat. Mikołaj continued gawking as if he had no clue.

“Well, I never,” said  Mikołaj. “What’s he doing?” he pointed to a youth with a bucket.

“Oh, that is the latrine bucket. It’s worth emptying and rinsing out every time we stop,” said Rundqvist. “Close the hatch!” he added in Swedish.

“Are we going on a journey?” asked Mikołaj, innocently, as the oars backed and they slid off the sand. They appeared to be turning, and the gurgling plash of a pump showed water was being pumped in.

“Yes, we’re going on a journey,” said Rundqvist. “I can’t let you talk about this. You’ve spoiled our plans enough as that was to be our forward base, being unoccupied, from where to strike along the coast and upriver to Warszawa, and finally beat those blasted Poles. But your king will want a part of it, and we can’t afford that.”

“How many of these do you have?” asked Mikołaj.

“Two so far, but we will have more,” said Rundqvist.

“And if your mission here was to fail?”

“I doubt we’d get any more funding. But it is just a question of finding another spot as good.”

Mikolai absently picked up the empty latrine bucket with his left hand, his right hand going into his kontusz belt.

“I can’t allow you to succeed,” he said, pulling his 6-barrelled pistol, and emptying all of them at the window, now well below water.

“You fool! We shall all drown!” screamed Rundqvist, as the glass, thick as it was, crazed, and then failed with a roar as water shot in.

“Yes, exhilarating, isn’t it?” said Mikołaj.

The musket which had been initially trained on him was somewhere under water now as the torrent gushed in. It was cold. Sailors ran up the ladder to the hatch, but it was under water, and the water pressure held it shut. Frantically they battered at it, fighting each other, as the water level rose, and the ship headed down. Mikołaj clung to the ladder, letting the water lift him. Red rivulets joined the sea water as some of the sailors fought with knives to be the ones by the hatch; a couple were swimming frantically for the hole where once the window had been, Rundqvist amongst them.

And Mikołaj rose towards the hatch as the ship filled, bucket held inverted, holding air, as he kept it above the surface of the water. Many of the men had fallen back; the ship’s boy, who had carried the bucket, had squirmed into a gap.

“Remember to breathe out as you go up to equalise the pressure,” said Mikołaj. “I’ll look after you, son.”

The boy gulped, and nodded, reassured by an adult seeming to know what he was doing. Mikołaj stuffed everything he kept in his kontusz sash inside his żupan, undid his sash, and tied it round the boy and himself.

And finally, the water was a head’s height from the hatch. Mikołaj popped his head into the bucket, indicating to the boy to do likewise, as it was a large bucket, almost the size of a wash tub. It was less noisome for having been swilled out if not scoured. Mikolaj opened the hatch by feel, and breathed out as he found himself shot up in the bubble of air escaping. He cautiously breathed in, and found the air in the bucket palatable.  It did work like science lessons at school. He breathed in and out, and the air bubbled frantically out of the bucket. Mikołaj smiled beatifically. It was equalising the pressure. He was not sure how deep they had gone, but not more than two atmospheres. He wondered if those who had gone out of the window had remembered to breathe out on the way up. If not, they’d be in a lot of pain, as their lungs tried to expand. The boy was panting in panic, but the air pressure of the bucket should equalise.

And then they were in the air. Mikolaj lifted the bucket off his head and used it to trap air to hang on to it, to float. The boy gave him a shaky grin and did so too. Mikołaj took stock of where they were. If he had to swim ashore, he would have to shuck his clothing, not something he wanted to do in cold seas. He was already cold but at least his clothes kept some of his body warmth against him. The boy was shivering, but  he might yet need Mikołaj’s strength.

The submarine had not gone far; the coast was perhaps half a staja away.  And there was activity on the shore, someone had been roused from down the coast with a skiff of some sort, and there were horses and men.

Mikołaj waved, and saw a slighter figure hold back a large one from crashing out into the waves.

“Think you can kick, son?” said Mikołaj. The boy nodded, and Mikołaj reversed the bucket so it was floating. “We can move it more easily like this and it will still hold us up,” he said.

The skiff was soon beside them, and Mikołaj handed up the lad, before letting the fisherfolk pull him inboard.

“Save my latrine bucket, lads, that’s going in my memory hall of things which have saved my life,” said Mikołaj. “Son, what’s your name?”

“Tuomas, sir. I’m Finnish.”

“We’ll find you somewhere. I don’t blame you for Rundqvist’s plans.”

 

oOoOo

 

Back on shore, Jędrek caught Mikołaj to him in a rough embrace.

“Miklosz, oh, Miklosz!” he sobbed.

“Steady on, you big bear, or you’ll squeeze all the stuffing out,” said Mikołaj. “Did anyone else come ashore?”

“Yes, we got a fellow called Rundqvist and a couple of others, all in pain and half drowned for screaming on the way up and then breathing in after screaming,” said Jędrek. “And one fellow who has lungs like iron who followed the bottom up, breathing out all the time.”

“What, all the way from where it sank?”

“No, sorry, I wasn’t clear, he made for the surface swimming in the direction the bottom shoaled. He swam ashore without needing to be rescued.”

“I was worried there that we really had caught one of King Neptune’s sons,” laughed Mikołaj. “Well, now I need to get warm and dry, though you did a half good job of drying me on you, if you weren’t drowning me with more salt water.”

“Stuff yourself with straw,” said Jędrek. “I worried.”

“I’d worry if it was you,” said Mikołaj.

“Probably with more cause; I’d have let them spirit me away and made a fight of it if it looked as if they were going to kill me. Rundqvist says you shot out their window, porthole, he called it.”

“I couldn’t leave you and Gosia without my remarkable presence,” said Mikołaj. “And both Milena and Seweryn would have been snippy about Papa being away too long.”

“You’re insane.”

“I understand pressure and things like that,” said Mikołaj. “It’s all about keeping your head, and staying calm. Nothing to it.”

“You know,” said Jędrek, “I’d hate to come up against anything which made you panic.”

“I don’t think it’s Armageddon o’clock yet,” said Mikołaj.

 

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[1] Based on the one demonstrated to James I of England by Cornelis Drebbel early in the 17^th century.