A KINGDOM OF ONE
After we rescued passengers from the sinking liner Doric in February 1894, the Nautilus departed British waters the 10th, but not without a bit of second-guessing on my part. Our divers had just recovered treasure from the wreck of the Royal Charter, so I hesitated to give them an identical assignment right away. However, somewhere off Land’s End lay the Merchant Royal, sunk by a storm in September 1641. Its cargo of 100,000 pounds of gold and half a million pieces of eight made it one of the most valuable wrecks in history.
The problem? No one knows where she went down. Rather than spend what might be weeks searching for the fabled wreck with no probability of success, I chose instead to visit one whose location was known. (Too well-known, as things turned out.) Reluctantly foregoing a chance at finding a literal gold mine, we moved out into the North Atlantic and traveled southeast.
As we cruised west of Cape Finisterre, Spain, a de-masted, iron-hulled hulk came into view. When I observed a revolving gun turret on the seabed nearby, I knew we had discovered the ill-fated HMS Captain, the Royal Navy’s first turreted ironclad. Constructed by my former employers at Cammell, Laird, the vessel was a textbook example of how not to build a warship. She rode too low in the water, and her heavy tripod masts helped create a high center of gravity which made her unstable and inherently unseaworthy. Only five months into her career, she capsized and sank in a September 1870 gale with the loss of 483 crew, including the man who designed her and insisted on her construction over objections from naval authorities. I could not help thinking, by way of contrast, how soundly and wisely Papa crafted the Nautilus.
Midday on the 12th we approached the Cape Verde Islands west of Africa. My objective there was to explore a wreck with a dubious history which, like the Royal Charter, could potentially yield additional precious metal for our treasure room.
In a meeting to discuss the operation with my First Officer, Brian Innes, I began with some history. “As you may recall learning, in 1600 Britain created a massively powerful economic entity known as the East India Company. Its purpose was to conduct trade on the Indian subcontinent and later with China.”
“Yes. They built a fleet of large ships called East Indiamen. My great-grandfather served on one.”
“Our target is the Hartwell, a most unlucky Indiaman. Her maiden voyage in 1787 was also her last. She ran aground and sank with more than seven tons of silver. Much of it remains unrecovered, though the Company did mount a salvage operation in the years immediately after her loss.
“What makes her story even more infamous is that she wrecked while her captain put down a mutiny. After the ship encountered some severe Atlantic storms, the crew revolted, thinking they could take the silver in her hold. The captain decided to hand the mutineers over to authorities in Cape Verde. Unfortunately, sleep deprivation caused her officers to be careless and ground her on an offshore reef. All hands were saved, but not the captain’s reputation. He was soon dismissed from Company service altogether.”
Brian shook his head.
“A cursed ship indeed. However, any silver we can bring up will help us bankroll freedom fighters, turning Hartwell’s tragedy into a modern triumph.”
“Do you have the coordinates of the wreck?”
“Yes.” I checked a reference book and copied them down for him. “A hundred years on, I imagine whatever silver remains is either covered with silt or sinking into the seabed. Some rotting timbers are likely all we will find of the ship itself.”
“I’ll confer with Dietrich and the dive team on surveying the wreck.”
“You and Hawkins must navigate these waters with extreme care. We don’t want the Nautilus joining Hartwell as a victim of the rocks.”
The Hartwell was ten and a third miles northeast of Boa Vista, the easternmost Cape Verdean island. Probably the shallowest wreck we ever visited, her remains lay in only 42 feet of water. The Nautilus had to anchor 300 yards away to avoid the shoals, so this necessitated a bit of a hike for the divers to reach the site.
Unlike our normal dives at greater depths, the afternoon sun provided wonderful illumination for the team to work in the clear water. The only hindrance that day was a strong current moving through the reefs. Or so I thought.
I was reading in the library when a crewman interrupted me just after 3:30. “Sir, come to the dive chamber! There’s been an accident!”
Immediately I rushed down to the bottom of the ship where my dear physician friend Bertrand was working on Bellaconte, whose right hand dripped blood.
“What happened?” I asked.
Dietrich, my chief diver, gave me Bellaconte’s glove and pointed to its badly gashed palm. “We were attacked!”
I frowned, knowing no sea creature could inflict such a clean laceration. “Attacked? By what?”
Bellaconte yelped in pain as Bertrand started stitching up his wound.
“Another diver,” Dietrich said.
Astonished, I asked, “Who else would be interested in that old wreck?”
The German shrugged. “I don’t know. We had located the keel timbers and several cannon when a man seemed to appear just ten yards in front of us. While we wondered what to make of it, he ran over and aggressively knocked us down. I got up to defend myself as he threw punches. Bellaconte tried to pull him away from me. Then he produced a gleaming knife and began slashing at us.
“We immediately retreated, but he still got Bellaconte across the hand. Captain, I’ve seen my share of dive knives but never anything like that blade. It was more of a bayonet! Whoever he is, he’s no ordinary diver.”
“Did he have a tether?”
“Yes. I was wishing I had a knife, too, so I could cut his air hose!”
I patted him on the shoulder. “I understand your anger, but I’m glad you exercised restraint. The last thing we want is a street brawl over a pile of silver coins. That’s what empires do.”
He looked down at Bellaconte. “It could have been so much worse.”
“How are you doing?” I asked the French diver.
He managed a smile. “I am fine, sir. I think my glove took the worst of it.”
“He is correct,” Bertrand said while completing the stitches and wrapping Bellaconte’s hand. “There does not appear to be any tendon damage or serious muscle injury.”
By this time, Brian had joined us, and I explained the incident. Handing him the glove, I said, “Follow me.”
We stepped out into the corridor. “A tether diver means there’s a ship nearby. Bring us to the surface. I want to find it and question her captain about this unprovoked attack.”
It did not take long for one mystery to clear up—and others to begin. Immediately upon surfacing, the Nautilus was approached by the vessel in question. She looked to have been converted from an obsolete Royal Navy gunboat (or some similar craft) and measured a little over half our ship’s length. A score of dark-skinned men armed with all manner of pistols, rifles and shotguns quickly gathered at the bow and aimed in our direction.
“That’s quite a welcoming committee,” Hawkins, my helmsman, quipped.
Brian and I observed their aggressive movements from the safety of the wheelhouse. “Do not go out there,” he cautioned.
I smiled. “I must, if we are to get to the bottom of their attack on Bellaconte.”
“At least have someone more…imposing like Dietrich or Frazier go with you.”
“As always, I appreciate your concern, but some things a captain must do alone.” In my mind, that included taking up for his crew.
Accordingly, I opened the main hatch and went out on deck. Turning slowly so as not to cause alarm, I faced the intimidating little ship which sat a mere 20 yards off our starboard side.
Every man trained his weapon on me.
I gestured with my hands to show I was unarmed. “I am Captain Nemo of the Nautilus. I want to know why you attacked my diver.”
Nothing happened for ten seconds, but then the crowd of gunners parted as a stout Caucasian man in an olive drab uniform with fur-lined cuffs and fringed epaulettes regally stepped forward. “Captain,” he called out, “I am Sir Harold Ellsworth, Governor-General of New Albion. Your ship has trespassed in our territorial waters.”
“Pardon me? Your territorial waters? We are more than ten miles from Cape Verde and nearly 400 from the African coast. There are no other recognized international boundaries in this area.”
He cleared his throat. “New Albion is a sovereign island nation due north of here. As her ruler, I duly claim rights to these and other waters surrounding our state. Therefore, diving on the Hartwell or any other wrecks which may be in our waters is prohibited. Since you are here without permission, you are violating our sovereignty and need to leave immediately.”
The man’s pompous audacity made me want to laugh, but with so many guns arrayed against me, I had to suppress the urge. I never expected to encounter some self-appointed head of state in this operation. I only wanted to explore the wreck.
The ludicrousness of the situation forced me to think on my feet. Whoever this man was—and whatever fantasy he presumed to live out—I had to extricate us from our predicament. Conciliatory words seemed to be the best option. “I was unaware of the existence of New Albion until this moment, and therefore we meant no ill will in attempting to dive on the Hartwell.”
“I see. What flag do you sail under?”
“My own. I claim allegiance to no territory except the sea itself. We respect the sovereignty of all countries, especially those who find themselves threatened by more powerful nations. In fact, we were hoping to recover treasure from the wreck in order to distribute it to oppressed people around the world.”
Ellsworth stood somber and taciturn. About half a minute later, a tall, bald man among the dark-skinned gunners said something to him. Nodding in response, the Englishman gestured to his men, and in unison everyone lowered their weapons.
“Despite the intrusion, your words intrigue me, Captain. I would like to hear more. Please accompany my ship back to New Albion so I may receive you as a guest, and we can discuss things further.”
Relieved at the de-escalation of tension, I felt compelled to accept his invitation, though I had no idea precisely to what I was agreeing. “I will do as you request.”
“Splendid. We’ll be underway momentarily.”
After that surreal experience, the chance to learn more about “New Albion” and especially her ruler felt irresistible. I sensed there was much more to Ellsworth’s story, and I needed to know if he was merely quirky or a potential threat. Accordingly, I returned to the wheelhouse and instructed Hawkins to follow the other vessel, whose name was Columba, according to the nameplate on her stern.
Next I conferred with my officers in the library about these surprising developments.
William Pendergast, my Second Officer, chuckled when I described Ellsworth. “He sounds like a real oddball.”
“Indeed,” I said. “But he is perfectly serious about all of it. I rechecked every one of our navigation charts for the region, including Papa’s. There is a tiny unnamed island where he said ‘New Albion’ is located but no indication it belongs to anyone or has territorial rights. It looks like an uninhabited lump of rock. Whatever he set up there was done without international help, notification, or recognition.”
“I saw his own flag flying from the mast,” Brian commented.
I nodded. “A gold lion rampant on a white field. He is apparently quite thorough in projecting a national identity. I wonder if he has truly created a functional state.”
Brian asked, “Is that something one man can do?”
“We will soon find out,” I replied.
“Why start your own personal country?” William wondered.
“I can think of a few reasons, none of them good: vanity…ambition…or a desire to do something away from the eyes of foreign scrutiny.”
“I’ve heard stories of British eccentricity,” Bertrand remarked, “but from your description he seems to be its living embodiment. Approach with caution, mon amie.”
“Of course. I would do so even if he didn’t have a crew who were armed to the teeth.”
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