“We were all in a weak condition,” Beadle said. “And for the most part, John and I were already weakened. Our battle with the Dark Rider. The torture. Our world coming apart. We were quite the mess. Then Steam playing out. We were at the pirates’ mercy.”
“I suppose the pirates arrived out of time and space from some other place, through a rip in time,” Mr. Verne said.
Beadle nodded. “So I believe. They made slaves of us for a week. They had us bury gold, they made us help them make their grog. My guess is after they had enough barrels of grog for their ship, we would have been disposed of. Lucky for us, they drank what we made as fast as we made it.”
“That was lucky,” John Feather said.
“What about the Dutchman?” Passepartout said.
“He came the next day. The pirates spotted the ship, and took it over. Some of the Dutchman’s men were killed. The ship was grounded on the reef. It wasn’t until today that the pirates worked it off, beached it, and then had Rikwalk drag it ashore.”
HOW DID BULL AND CAT GET ON THE SHIP? I THOUGHT YOU WERE EATEN BY SHARKS WHEN THE NAUGHTY LASS BLEW UP.3 I DO NOT LIKE SHARKS.
Ned turned his sign toward Bull. Bull, though he seldom gave sign of it, could read basic English well. He said:
“Not eaten. Naughty Lass sink. Real shit time. Go down faster than white whore in buffalo camp. We get away. Boat pick up. Kill two pirates before get hit in head. Get even with their asses.”
“I’ll say,” Twain said.
The Dutchman suddenly appeared. A sailor had taken his place at the wheel. “I couldn’t help but overhear,” the Dutchman said. “I believe that I fit into the story about here. When we saw the pirates, knew we could not outrun them, and that we would be engaged, we pushed Cat’s hair under a big hat. I gave her a large shirt to pull over the one she wore, to hide her attributes. When we were ashore, we stayed as close to her as we could manage, trying not to allow too much scrutiny of her body. But you can only hide a figure like that for so long. I think the pirates were starting to think she might be a boy they could learn to love, and then, as fate would have it, the wind blew her hat off. They pulled up the long shirt, looked at her rear, looked down her pants. I’m surprised she was not raped.”
“Actually,” Beadle said, “the pirate captain saved her. He didn’t give a reason, but he had the men leave her alone. I believe he thought to have her for himself later on.”
“Now he has an island full of monsters to call his very own,” Verne said.
“What happened to Steam?” Twain said.
“They robbed what they could find inside Steam,” Beadle said. “They stuck him in the hold of the Dutchman’s ship. I don’t know why. Maybe they thought to dismantle him. Sell off the metal. Melt it down. I don’t know. It took all of the pirates and us as well to drag him over the side, and push him down into the hold. They weren’t easy with him, and he may be damaged down there.”
“So that’s what you wanted us to see in the hold?” Twain said.
“Yes,” Beadle said.
Twain and Verne, taking turns, with the occasional comment from Passepartout and sign writing from Ned, told their story, about the Martian invaders, how they had come to the island.
Rikwalk said, “I would like to, on behalf of the Mars from whence I come, apologize for these other Martians. They give us a bad name.”
“Apology accepted,” Twain said. “But I’m still curious about why you speak English.”
“I’m afraid I can’t shed light on that,” Rikwalk said. “I have ideas, but nothing concrete.”
“Shall we take that look in the hold now?” Beadle said. “I’m curious to see how Steam weathered his drop down the chute.”
“I’ll conduct that tour,” the Dutchman said. “After all, it is my ship.”
They followed the Dutchman to a pair of closed doors positioned and bolted shut in the floor of the deck. Beadle unbolted and opened them. There were stairs. They went down with the Dutchman in the lead.
The Dutchman lit a lantern hanging on a peg, and in the middle of the hold’s floor they saw an amazing sight.
A giant metal man with a conical hat, like a funnel turned upside down.
“Steam,” Beadle said. “If not in the flesh. In the metal.”
And so it was.
Big.
Tall.
Silver.
Stained-glass windows for eyes.
Steam.
1. Martian farm animals on Rikwalk’s Mars. One gives milk, the other gives eggs. That’s all you need to know.
2. Beadle’s world and his and John Feather’s adventures and greater background for his story are provided in the dime novel, The Steam Man of the Prairie and the Dark Rider Get Down by Joe R. Lansdale. Another version of this story, based on Ned the Seal’s translation of a more detailed story told to him later by Beadle, is available in some rare book collections as The Steam Man of the Prairie and the Incredible Vampire Traveler from Beyond. The Lansdale version is more readily available.
3. Zeppelins West
Eighteen: At Sea, the White Cliffs of Dover, the Invaders Seen from Afar
The morning arrived clear and crisp. The sea was calm and the wind was smooth. The sailing ship moved swiftly. Flying fish glided, porpoises leaped. A cool wind was not only in the sails, it was in the faces of its crew and passengers.
Ned, his nose hanging over the rail, wet with spray, full of the smell of salt, was in heaven.
Twain, Verne, Ned, Passepartout, John Feather and Beadle had joined the Dutchman, the ship’s captain, on the foredeck. They stood there while the Dutchman maintained the wheel, observed sky, sea and sails.
Rikwalk was seated down below, but his head almost reached the wheel deck. His red fur was crusted in places with salt. And in the bright morning light, wounds could be seen. Someone, the Dutchman perhaps, had treated them with black grease to keep out infection and dirt.
While they talked, Twain and the Dutchman smoked long black cigars.
Twain said, “Does anyone know where we are? I suppose we are not sailing at random.”
“The Island of Mist, as the pirates called it,” the Dutchman said, “was off the southwest coast of Africa. So, we are moving north along the coast of Africa.”
“My God,” Twain said. “The balloon sailed that far?”
“It must have,” the Dutchman said, “because that’s where you were. And along the coast of Africa is where you are now.”
“How amazing,” Verne said. “And even more amazing, I saw an actual flying dinosaur.”
“So it seems,” the Dutchman said. “It is said, that in the depths of the Congo there are dinosaurs, and even an ape near the size of our hairy red friend. I do not know that it is true, but it is said. And if there are such things on the Island of Mist, I suppose it’s possible.”
“And where do you sail?” Rikwalk asked.
“I am at your disposal. As for me, it matters not where I sail. I am to suffer ill fate. Storms and pirates. But I never die and the ship never sinks. And I always end up back at sea. No matter how often I dock, fate always leads me back to the ship and to the open sea. I am cursed.”
“My God,” Twain said. “You’re not that Dutchman, are you?”
“I am.”
“The Flying Dutchman?” Verne said.
“The one and only. That’s what the ship is called. It is written in German, my ancestry, on the side of the ship. I am not Dutch at all. But like many Germans, I am lumped under the label.”
The term Flying Dutchman didn’t register with Rikwalk, so they filled him in. They often had to stop and fill him in. He was, after all, a Martian. An English-speaking Martian, but a Martian.
“But I thought you couldn’t stop sailing at all,” Passepartout said. “Isn’t that the legend?”
“There are many legends,” the Dutchman said, “but I am not a legend. I am sadly real. I can stop, and because I can, I thought at first there was no curse, that the witch h
ad failed. I was wrong. First time I stopped and went ashore, I was shanghaied, hit in the head and tossed on my own ship, which was stolen. I eventually wrested it from the thieves, but I was wounded horribly. I survived, and I was still at sea. One day the sky opened up in front of me, and my crew and I sailed through a rift. It was not a dramatic event. We merely seemed to glide through a red rip in the sky, onto other waters that looked to be the same as the ocean we had been on moments before. I thought it was an optical illusion. Like a mirage. It was just another in a long line of events and disasters. I was in another time and place. This place. Then there were the pirates. I no longer fight my fate. There is no use.”
Ned wrote:
THAT’S TOUGH. THAT EATS THE BIG OLD FAT DONKEY DICK BUNCHES.
“You can say that again, Ned,” the Dutchman said. “I was cursed by a witch because I seduced her daughter. You want to know something? It wasn’t worth it. She wasn’t that good, and she wasn’t that clean. Even pussy isn’t worth this.”
Twain, Verne, Passepartout, Beadle, and Ned paused to consider this. No one agreed nor disagreed. It was like a Catholic cursing the Madonna. That kind of criticism was not taken lightly. Even in the face of indisputable evidence, men find it hard to turn against pussy, so silence ruled. Ned did not write.
Verne cleared his throat. “So can you sail us to Europe?”
“If that’s what you want,” the Dutchman said. “But why would you want to if it’s covered with those Martian machines?”
“Because we should do something,” Verne said. “And because they are bound to be all over the world. My guess is you will face them yourself eventually, and I am warning you, they are formidable.”
“Most likely I will face them,” The Dutchman said. “And I will struggle against them. And I must ask myself again and again why I even struggle. No matter how it ends, I will be at sail again. I can not die. The ship can be damaged, but never destroyed. I have even tried to kill myself. Tried to cut my own throat. I suffered a horrible wound. It healed. I have been wounded many other times in many different ways. But no matter how violent the wounds, in time they heal, and I live. And I continue.”
WHY DON’T YOU JUST SET FIRE TO THE SHIP AND BURN IT UP AND YOU WON’T HAVE TO SAIL IN IT ANYMORE?
The Dutchman was quiet for a time. “I hadn’t thought of that, Ned… But then again, a wind would probably just blow the fire out… But I could try it.”
WHEN WE ARE OFF THE SHIP. RIGHT?
The Dutchman did not answer. He seemed lost in thought.
“You can really just drop us off most anywhere,” Twain said.
They sailed on, though they slept nervously for a few nights and sniffed for smoke. Ned did a lot of apologizing, but after a couple days they decided that the Dutchman was not going to set fire to his ship, least not while they were aboard.
They hoped.
Several days more and they could see the English shoreline. The land stood out high and white in the sunlight.
“The White Cliffs of Dover,” Verne said.
“Correct,” the Dutchman said.
They were at the wheel with the Dutchman again, Verne, Twain, Ned and Passepartout. Rikwalk lay on the deck, his head cradled on his arm, sleeping. Beadle and John Feather were in the hold, finishing up repairs on Steam. Bull and Cat were below as well. They were below a lot. They were not making repairs on anything. Bull explained it once this way: “Hair pie.”
“I decided to bring you here, to these shores,” the Dutchman said, “because I thought if the Martian machines land here, or in America, they have a better chance of being defeated by the English or the Americans than anyone else.”
“You are saying the French can not defeat these machines?” Verne said. His and Passepartout’s faces scrunched with irritation.
“I am saying, if the machines want a croissant or a bottle of perfume, France is the place to be. If they want a fight, England or America or Japan is the place to be.”
“I take offense to those remarks,” Verne said.
“I really don’t worry about who I offend or don’t,” the Dutchman said. “I live forever, unfortunately. I go on and on, and no matter what is done to me, I live. Stab me. Shoot me. I will endure.”
“I have no interest in any such solution to an insult,” Verne said. “Though I doubt you would endure a shot to the head.”
“It was not meant to insult you, Mr. Verne, or you, Passepartout. But I no longer worry about insults. It was a statement of what I believe to be fact. And though I believe in the individual Frenchman’s bravery, and you have demonstrated your own, as a country, when it comes to war, you lack a certain something. Perhaps you are too individual.”
“That is one way of saying it,” Verne said. “But I am not sure I like that better.”
SEALS ARE SURPRISINGLY TOUGH, Ned wrote: WE ARE NOT FRENCH.
“I have no comment on the general toughness of seals,” the Dutchman said, “but on an individual level, you, my friend, are a tough little seal. And smart as well. I am giving your idea serious consideration. About the fire, I mean.”
Ned made a facial expression that might have been a grin.
“I don’t even like croissants,” Verne said.
“Don’t lie,” Twain said. “I’ve seen you eat them.”
“I’ve eaten them, but that doesn’t mean I like them. I tasted them. I didn’t swallow.”
“I like them,” Passepartout said. “And I refuse to feel shame for myself. Or the great country of France.”
Ned wrote: I AGREE. FRENCHMEN, ENGLISHMEN, AMERICANS. WE ARE ALL THE SAME. EXCEPT ME. I’M DIFFERENT. DO THE FRENCH LIKE FISH?
“Well, yes,” Passepartout said.
THE FRENCH ARE A-OKAY BY ME… WHAT KIND OF FISH?
“Most any kind,” Passepartout said.
ARE YOU SURE YOU ARE NOT A SEAL?
Passepartout laughed, then the others joined in.
Ned, proud of himself, made with the strange seal grin again.
They sailed along the English Channel, and from the sea they could see black smoke, and even once, in the distance, what they thought might be one of the great Martian stalking machines.
“I suggest we sail up the channel a bit, find an appropriate place to go ashore,” the Dutchman said. “But, if I were you, I would stay with me, take to the sea. Forget the idea of fighting these machines.”
“Unlike you,” Verne said, “we are willing to take our chances trying to do some good here. And sir, if I may bring it up again, for someone who maligns the French, and for someone who can not die, you seem determined to stay away from the fight.”
“I find little purpose in much of anything,” the Dutchman said.
“That is sad,” Verne said. “Very sad.”
“Have it as you wish,” the Dutchman said. “You, Mr. Twain, I could let them off here, sail you to America.”
“I would like that,” Twain said. “But I assume America is dealing with these same machines. If I’m going to try and do something, it might as well be here.”
“But what can you do?” the Dutchman said.
“You have been a pessimist too long,” Twain said. “I am not alone. I have my friends. Ned, Passepartout and Verne. And new friends as well, Beadle and John Feather, Bull and Cat.
“Bull and Cat not leave ship.”
It was Bull. He was coming up the steps that led to the wheel deck. Cat was with him.
“You’re staying?” the Dutchman said.
“Me stay. Cat stay. We like ship. Stop get supplies. Go back to sea. Help sail boat.”
“The Martians, they will come to sea eventually,” Verne said.
“Bad things always come. Always find. Men from rock in sky come, me and Cat fight. But now, we sail. Like life. On land, always cocksucker want trouble. Bull tired of trouble. Like big boat. Help out. Learn chess from Dutchman. Hump Cat. Good life.”
“Me-ow,” Cat said.
“Well then,” Twain said, “we wish you luck,
friends.”
Bull stuck out his hand and took Twain’s. “Bull and Cat wish friends luck. Bull miss Ned much. Ned is brave.”
“And sweet,” Cat said, giving Ned a kiss on the nose.
The little seal stuck out his chest.
“Much luck,” Bull said. “You need it.”
There was a hiss from below, and out of the open hold came a puff of steam followed by a shiny point of silver metal. Then Steam’s head, his multi-colored, stained-glass eyes appeared.
Steam climbed out of the hold and in a moment was on deck, walking slowly toward them. It was disconcerting. Steam was a great tall man of metal, but there was something about him that made him seem like a living thing. When he walked, his body moved the way a human’s does. It turned its head in an inquisitive manner, like a man looking for a certain street. It was hard to believe there were men at the controls.
Steam stopped, stood still. A trap in his bottom opened up, a ladder poked out, and down it came Beadle and John Feather.
“He works fine,” Beadle said as he climbed up on the wheel deck.
“We used some of the wood down there,” John Feather said. “I am sorry we did not ask. We actually broke off a few cabinet doors and put them in the furnace. We can only offer our apologies. We should have asked. But then again, we are desperate, sir.”
“Apology accepted,” the Dutchman said. “But had you asked, and had I said no, would you have done it anyway?”
“I suppose we would have,” Beadle said. “We feel that we must. We want to go ashore, help our friends here deal with the Martian machines. And we want to find our way home. Such as it is.”
John Feather said, “We’re not so sure we have a home anymore. Our world was in bad shape. But if we could study the diary of the Time Traveler in greater detail, perhaps with the help of scientists, or science-minded people, we could figure out what is happening to the universe. If our theory that Time Travel is causing rips in time and space is true, perhaps we could find a cure, so to speak.”