Al Mina Quay. Tripoli, Lebanon. 1876.
George Godspeed looked out across the inky surface of the Mediterranean. Today of all
days, the usually flat sea churned and broiled. A mammoth wave slammed into the quay,
shaking the ground beneath him, and flinging spray into the air like venom from a viper.
He muttered to himself, questioning why the storm had to come today. He shuffled
from foot to foot in a vain attempt to stay warm.
He narrowed his eyes to slits and examined the dark water. Other than the occasional
flicker of a white-crested wave in the scant moonlight, the darkness was absolute.
Another stream of barbed, salty water slapped across his face.
For a moment, Godspeed wondered whether they would even be able to sail in weather
like this. He shook the thought from his mind. These men were as hard as the weather herself.
They had lived their entire lives on the sea, he supposed. Plus, he had communicated the
urgency of his mission. Come hell or high water, he and his precious cargo needed to leave
these shores tonight. The Almighty had certainly delivered on the latter of those, George
thought, as another fist of water spray slammed into his cheek.
George pulled his ill-fitting coat even more tightly around him. He doubled it up across
his chest and used the thick piece of rope to secure it closed. He had been forced to buy the
ragged garment from the hotelier in whose care he had been staying for the last two weeks.
Unable to leave the hotel, his shopping options were limited, so when the man dug the old
moth-eaten thing from a dusty box, George had no option but to accept it. George thought
about the fistful of oily notes he had exchanged for the garment. It wasn’t worth one tenth of
that, really, but he needed it. He had a long crossing ahead of him. First across the
Mediterranean, and then the Atlantic. The crossing would take anywhere upwards of two
weeks. If tonight’s weather was anything to go by, every bit of warmth would be essential.
Again, George squinted out to sea. Breakers the size and color of wild horses rushed
toward him and flung themselves against the harbor arm. Was that some other movement out
there amid the waves? The hull of a ship, maybe? At this distance George couldn’t be sure.
He turned and looked around the dockyard. Further down the quay, two large iron-
hulled freighters sat at anchor. Even in the protected waters of the harbor, they rose and fell on each swell, tugging at their shackles as though attempting to break free. The nearest one, a
vessel of some fifty feet in length, sat low and heavy in the water. Perhaps she was fully
laden and ready to go, just waiting for a break in the weather. Waiting was a luxury George
wished he had.
Several buildings reared up like cliffs somewhere behind him. Packing facilities,
George assumed. This port was one of the country’s arterial routes, exporting produce grown
in Lebanon’s fertile soil, all over the Mediterranean.
A gas lamp on the back of the nearest building flickered under a fresh attack from the
wind. The lamp’s inept flame shrunk in size, retracting the island of light to little more than a
puddle. You wouldn’t get that problem with electric lights, George pondered, turning back
toward the great black expanse of the water.
“If it isn’t the dead man walking.” A voice echoed from somewhere behind him, barely
a whisper against Poseidon’s roar.
George whipped around, searching for movement. His heart beat at twice it’s normal
pace.
“It’s alright old boy,” came the voice again. “Don’t worry, it’s only me. I’m the one
who should look like I’ve seen a ghost.”
“Rassam.” George breathed a sigh of relief. His friend’s lithe figure moved through the
gloom. George had always thought there was something feline about the man. He moved as
though in a state of constant relaxation.
“That’s right. Who else would it be? Nobody knows you’re here.” Rassam materialized
and stood beside George. “How are you holding up?” Rassam’s Persian accent purred, deep
and smooth.
“Well, you know. It’s not been easy, but needs must,” George said, scrutinizing the
man beside him. As usual Rassam was impeccably dressed. His long camel colored coat
whipped around his ankles, alternately exposing and hiding a pair of handmade, tan leather
boots. The son of a wealthy statesman, Rassam lived life governed by his own agenda, rather
than the simple need of money. Godspeed was well aware that without Rassam’s funding,
many of their more eccentric expeditions would never have been possible.
“Where are the documents?” George hissed in a moment of panic. “You said you
would bring them.”
“Relax, brother.” Rassam smiled at Godspeed. “They are waiting in the carriage. My
man will bring them to us when the ship arrives. We don’t want them out here getting soaked
through. In fact, look… I think that’s the Martha Ann now.” Rassam pointed out into the
void.
Squinting hard, Godspeed could just about make out a shape slipping through the
waves on the other side of the harbor arm. A dull lamp mounted on the bridge offered a
pinprick of light by which to recognize the vessel.
Rassam produced an oil lamp from beneath his coat and set about lighting it. He dug
out a box of matches and struck one to life. He turned on the gas and slid the burning match
inside. The lamp flickered as though deciding whether to obey, then rose into a steady orange
glow.
In the light, Godspeed recognized the box of matches. Brighton seafront in colorful oils
was printed on the front. The image seemed incongruous on the stormy shores of the
Mediterranean.
“How many of those have you got?” Godspeed asked. They were far from an ordinary
box of matches, Godspeed knew.
“Several,” Rassam answered, his voice laced with amusement. Rassam held the box out
toward his friend. “You have this one. A memento. Besides, you never know when you might
need it.”
Godspeed accepted the box of matches and then looked up at his friend. A sudden wave
of finality broke across him. “This is it, isn’t it? We will never see each other again.”
“Not in this life, no,” Rassam said. Neither man uttered a word for several seconds.
Around them the wind howled, and the sea churned and dragged. “She’s in the harbor, look.”
Rassam pointed with the lamp. The Martha Ann slid inside the protective harbor wall. The
thud of her engine thronged through the turbulent air.
Rassam gestured into the darkness. Two men appeared, struggling under the weight of
a trunk. They half-dragged, half-carried the trunk along the quay. By the time they reached
Godspeed and Rassam they were out of breath. The men placed the trunk by their masters’
feet and slunk back into the shadows.
The pounding of the Martha Ann’s engine grew louder now. Godspeed looked up at the
vessel. She was about sixty feet in length and sat high in the water. A pair of stocky funnels
coughed out streams of black smoke.
“She’ll be fine out in this,” Rassam said, looking up at the ship. “I bet she’s beaten
many worse storms that this.”
Godspeed nodded wordlessly.
The Martha Ann’s engine sunk into its lowest register and with a series of slow
movements, the skipper brought her alongside the quay. A hatch on the side of the ship
swung open and two men jumped out. They quickly lashed the Martha Ann to the quay. The
engine continued to rumble and hiss far beneath them.
“How long will it take you to make sense of this?” Rassam said, looking down at the
trunk.
“Two years, maybe three,” Godspeed replied.
Rassam beckoned for his men. They emerged from the gloom and carried the trunk up
onto the ship.
“And the original tablets?” Godspeed asked.
“They’ll be moved soon. I know where they’re going. I’ve got the rest of my life to
figure out how to get them there.”
Godspeed nodded. “This is it then. I’ll see you —”
“In the next life,” Rassam interrupted. The men merged into a hug. “Inshallah. If God
wills it.”
A lump forming in his throat, Godspeed hurried up the gangplank and into the belly of
the Martha Ann. Beneath his feet the engine that would take him halfway around the world
rumbled hungrily.
The sailors unleashed the ship from her bindings and hurried back inside. The engine
roared, sending power to the twin propellers, which churned the harbor waters anew.
Godspeed bustled up a set of metal stairs and out onto the deck. He looked down at the
quayside, but his friend had already disappeared.
“In the next life it is,” Godspeed whispered, his voice lost between the howling wind
and the pounding engines.
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