Short Story: Vindicta Part 1 of 3

In the aftermath of World War II, a cargo vessel carrying a murderous jewel thief is menaced by a ghost ship

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Part One

He had it coming, the little bastard. Trying to rip me off. We’d agreed fifty-fifty, but he got greedy after the heist. Moving the loot from where we’d agreed to stash it was his first mistake. Demanding an eighty percent share was his second. But he didn’t think it through. He didn’t expect me to torture him till he told me where he’d moved the diamonds. Nor did he expect me to put a bullet in his skull once I had them in my hands.

Still, I knew the police would find me soon enough. The murder of a well-known jewel broker is bound to attract attention, even one as corrupt as Gilbert Mansley, with all his dubious sources. I had to flee the UK with a new identity, as Richard Park instead of Terry Harris. A shame, but I’m sure I’ll get used to life in South America.

Knowing I’d have to get out of the country before the police ended up on my tail, I bribed my way onto a cargo ship bound for Brazil, agreeing to work as part of the crew. I had experience in the navy during the war, so the merchant vessel Electra seemed the ideal hiding place. Charlie Quill, the Boatswain, was smart enough not to ask questions, and to the rest of the crew, I was just another seaman taking his share of the menial tasks aboard ship.

Now we’ve left British waters, I can breathe a little easier. The diamonds are well hidden, and none of my shipmates are any the wiser. The Electra, a single funnelled, battered grey hulk that’s doubtless overdue for decommissioning, is delivering a cargo of whisky to Porto de Santos. Once ashore, I have a contact to whom I will sell the diamonds. Afterwards, I shall retire a rich man. My troubles will be over.

With the war ending a few months earlier, having trade routes open without fear of being torpedoed has had a strange effect on the crew. Everyone lost colleagues, friends, and relatives in the conflict, many of them in sunken vessels. Alarming stories circulate, but whilst it’s a relief to sail without U-boat peril, the crew doesn’t boast about their heroic endeavours. Instead, they complain about pay and conditions — especially as American crews earn over twice as much.

‘Hey! Rick! I’m talking to you.’

I stare across the mess hall towards Scott, one of my fellow deckhands. He’s a grizzled stump of a man with an annoying habit of asking intrusive questions when I want to be left alone. However, solitude isn’t something I can reasonably demand in a place like this.

‘War wound?’ Scott asks, pointing to the patch over my right eye.

I nod. ‘Dunkirk. Stray bullet from a Messerschmitt. Lucky to be alive, but that was me out of the war.’

Another deck hand, a young tower of muscle called Owen, mutters: ‘You got off easy compared to some.’

‘Yeah, well I’m not complaining. I didn’t go back to the navy but worked in the shipyards. Sometimes they were bombed, but that was nothing compared to what happened at sea.’

‘Aye,’ Scott says. He holds up a hand with a missing finger. ‘Shipwrecked three times. One time I was in the water, and the U-boat surfaced. The German sub commander ordered his crew to open fire. Most of us were cut down by machine gun bullets. I’ll never forget that shivering cold, and the foam of blood in the water. I can still taste it, whenever I take a drink.’

‘Bastards,’ Owen grunts.

‘I heard that U-boat crew’s being court-martialled by the allies. If I were the judge, I’d have ’em all shot.’

‘Damn right. I think you’ve got the record for most torpedoed among this crew.’

Scott shakes his head. ‘Harding has three shipwrecks.’

‘The Mate? I heard he had none. Heard the Captain calls him his good luck charm, for that reason.’

‘Nope. That’s White, the Second Mate. Not one shipwreck on him. Bloody lucky.’

‘There’s a few here with no shipwrecks,’ I say. ‘But Quill says some of the engineers made it through the war without being torpedoed.’

‘Some of those fellas have guardian angels with a full-time job,’ Scott says.

Owen scoffs. ‘What does that say for our guardian angels? No such thing if you ask me.’

‘Well, if there is such a thing, the Captain’s another one with a busy angel. Surprised the drunken old bastard hasn’t fallen overboard.’

‘Surprised he’s allowed to run the ship.’

‘Harding covers for him and pretty much runs the ship himself. Besides, even if he complained to the higher-ups, I doubt they’d want to know. Not with all the captains they lost in the war.’

I listen to this conversation with interest, wondering if I’ll tire of mess hall gossip by the end of this five-week voyage. The most important thing is to keep my head down, be as invisible as possible, and do all I can to discourage curiosity.

Image by Anja from Pixabay

That afternoon, during my lookout watch, a vessel appears on the starboard horizon. I rub my eyes and stare through my binoculars into the salty breeze. Am I hallucinating? It’s a triple-masted eighteenth-century sailing vessel, perhaps a clipper. But the canvas sails are black, like the ship’s hull. It turns with unnatural speed, bearing down on the Electra.

I’m about to yell ship ahoy, but I blink, and it vanishes. Peering across the grey waves, I scan the horizon. No sign of the black clipper. Angry clouds boil in the skies, rumbling with discontent, but the mysterious ship has disappeared.

It must have been my imagination.

Perhaps I’m just tired.

I consider whether to report what I saw but decide against it. Quill may think I’ve been drinking, and I don’t want to draw attention to myself. Besides, sailors can still be surprisingly superstitious. I daresay there are all kinds of bad omens attached to seeing sinister, possibly spectral dark sailing vessels during an Atlantic crossing. I know the tales of the Flying Dutchman as well as any sailor.

I need this voyage to pass uneventfully and without incident, so try to place my thoughts elsewhere. But the image of the black vessel remains seared in my mind. To have beheld such a singular vision, only for it to vanish… It unsettles me. I’m not given to flights of fancy or hallucinations, yet there is a history of it in my family.