The Ultimate Stonemage: A Modest Autobiography (35 page)

Now, it took me only a few minutes to make a small hole in the side of the ship. The boards were not thick, and I fancy they were a little rotten too, which will tell you what kind of mariners the Indians are!

I peered through the hole to see if there were people within, but all was dark, so I knew this was a safe place to continue chiselling. I then set about widening the hole as best as I was able, trying to work around the many nails which dotted the hull. This task was more difficult than it might sound, for the ship was moving this way and that, on a choppy sea, and the light for my work was very poor. In addition, I had to work quietly, for if I had been discovered by the ship’s crew, it would surely have been the end of me. Still, even working in these conditions, I made a fine job of it, and only twice did I strike my chisel against a nail. At last, the hole was as large as I wanted.

Now, you will perhaps think I did not know what I was about when I made the hole, for, as I have already said, if you want to sink a ship, it is best to make a hole below the waterline, not above it as I had done. However, the hole I had made was not for sinking the ship, but was just a hole I could climb through to the inside of the ship, there to carve a larger and lower hole.

I climbed within, staying clear of the protruding nails, then slowly lowered myself into the darkness until my foot touched the floor. It was a surprisingly long drop—nearly seven feet, I should say. Once inside, I crouched down as close to the floor as I was able, so I was perhaps four feet below the waterline. I then set to work with my chisel again, working in total darkness now, cutting into the side of the ship, carving a V-shaped groove in the outline of a large rectangle. The groove almost penetrated the boards, but not quite. In this way, I ensured no seawater would come in prematurely to interfere with my work. It was a slow business, and exceptionally difficult too, working blind as I was, but I did a masterful job, cutting until I was just a nail-white from the other side, and letting in only a little trickle of water. When the rectangle was complete, I stood and gave the chiselled area a kick with my boot. At once I heard a loud crack and the boards gave way, whereupon, the sea came rushing in with tremendous force, knocking me to the floor.

I tried to stand and pull myself back up to the hole by which I had entered, but I was knocked to my feet again by the rushing water. I tried a second time, grabbing a beam for support. With some effort, I managed to stand—the water was already halfway to my knees—but when I tried to jump to the hole above me, the water knocked my feet from under me, and again I fell back, with water all around me. After I had made several more futile attempts to reach the hole by jumping, I decided to apply my intelligence, perceptiveness and ingenuity to the problem at hand. I instantly realized that the lower hole, which was doing such a masterful job of bringing water into this ship, might also be usefully employed as my own exit. Without a moment’s hesitation, I ducked down under the water, groped around for the hole, and crawled through it, pushing with all my great strength against the powerful flow of water. Moments later, I was bobbing in the sea, a few feet from my rowing boat.

I reboarded my boat, dismissed the Peregrine Clasps, releasing the boat from the
Flame
, and rowed back into the darkness, crouching down so I might safely observe the sinking of my enemy. After just a few minutes I could see the ship was listing badly, and I chuckled to see the crew running this way and that trying to discover the source of their misfortune.

Meanwhile, my comrades, observing my success, had brought the
Moray
in much closer. They fired arrows and flaming bolts at the
Flame
with a renewed vigour, which was a spectacular sight you may be sure, and reminded me a little of the flaming bolts I had seen against the night sky when I escaped from Quebec.

A warlike fever filled my blood then, and I became anxious to join the battle, so I picked up my oars and started rowing for my ship. Suddenly I heard a great crash, as loud as thunder. I turned to look (for I was facing backwards in my rowing boat) and saw the
Moray
had ventured too close to the enemy, and the
Flame
, in its death throes, had managed to turn directly into the hull of my ship, ramming a great hole there. Moreover, it seemed the two ships were now stuck together, for the chank hull of my ship was much stronger than the ordinary wooden hulls the
Flame’
s ram was designed for, and once the sharp beak had pierced the hull, the boards did not give way enough to let it pull out again.

I instantly knew the situation was dire for both ships and I must rescue my companions. I cared nothing for stealth now: I rowed with tremendous speed and strength, spurred on by the sounds of shouts and skirmish which I could hear from the ships, for now that the ships were locked together, everyone was fighting hand to hand. When I caught up with them just a few minutes later, the
Moray
was so low in the water that the deck was almost level with my little boat. Alas, in those short minutes, the Indian pirates had won the fight—for the dead bodies of my cousins lay upon the deck. I saw too that the Indians had killed my slaves, which was a very cowardly act, for slaves are timid by nature and do not fight well. I pulled my rowing boat back then, for it was clear where things were headed. As I moved through the water, though, I saw a body floating there, which I recognized as Bitian Teppel. I pulled him onto my rowing boat, but he was in a bad way, having been stabbed through the belly then thrown into the sea. His heart was still beating, though, and when I pressed his eye he blinked a little, so I knew he was not yet dead.

Now, it is a fact that one must always listen to the words of a dying friend, for they can be very instructive and are often prophetic, so I tried to rouse Bitian from his unconscious state to see what he might say to me. I splashed water against his face and tapped his cheeks and shook him. But it was all to no avail, and I had almost given up when suddenly his eyes opened wide and he said, “Tah! He has put the wrong pigment in the mix!”

I said, “What do you mean, Bitian Teppel? Explain yourself?”

He did not answer me, but his face assumed the strangest expression, as if he was seeing something very wonderful and remarkable. Then his eyes closed again, and a few minutes later he died.

I was annoyed, for it was clear, whatever visions were before Bitian Teppel at that moment, he could not be bothered to share them with me, who was probably his closest friend upon the earth, but rather chose to enjoy them for himself. That is what these artists are like—particularly painters. I am sure if it were me dying, I would not hesitate to provide any onlookers with as much useful information as I could glean.

A strange thing though: Bitian Teppel’s last breaths exactly coincided with the moment the deck of the
Moray
went under the waves. I took this to mean he wished to be buried at sea with my ship, and so I pushed his body back into the water and let it float off on its way.

By then, the bow of the
Flame
was completely submerged, although the stern was lifted right out of the water. The Indian sailors had lost their rowing boat earlier, thanks to my fine work with the ballista, and now they leaped from their ship into the water.

I watched the
Flame
sink, feeling great pleasure at the sight. When the show was done, I made my way back to where the ships had been and rowed around for a time, searching for those of my enemies who were floating in the darkness. When I found them, I struck each upon the head with an oar, saying, “You see, the
Moray
still has a little bite in her!”

I killed a dozen of those warlike Indian sailors this way. When I could find no more, I turned my boat around and made for land.

A Thirteenth Section Of The Eleventh Part

In Which I Tell Of How I Fought The Indians On Land

The loss of my ship
did not discourage me one grain from my mission, and I decided, since I could no longer fight at sea, I would join up with some army and fight on the land.

As for the deaths of my friends, I did not feel too much sadness, for they had all died bravely, and I had avenged them well. I was a little sorry, though, that all my slaves had died, for they were a good crew.

Still, I was near to the battlefields now, and, after I had made my way to shore, I continued on foot, wandering across the country until I found an encampment where the tents bore the crest of
Cyprus.

The army here was led by a commander called
Raella. I presented myself to this man without delay and asked him how the land was set out here.

He said, “A large Indian army lies a short way to the east occupying the town of
Chonia.”

I said, “Chonia, is it? That is an important town. I will warrant that a victory for us in Chonia might send waves of despair throughout the Indian army, perhaps yielding us much greater victories throughout the length and breadth of our domains.”

He said, “As to that, I cannot say.” He was no more than a field commander, you see, and lacked my grander perspective.

I said, “I have some experience commanding myrmidons. Is there some way I can make myself useful?”

He said, “Yes, indeed. Take five slaves and scout out the areas to the north. If I wore the enemy’s boots, I would attack from that direction.”

Well, directing slaves was not the kind of job I was looking for, so I said to him, “I have a much better idea, which will make a more profitable use of my various talents. You and I will enter Chonia as spies. Then I will find the commander of the Indian myrmidons and learn from him, using clever and subtle questioning, many facts which will aid you in your battle plans.”

Raella did not care for my plan, and he said he would rest easier knowing there were no troops massing to attack from the north.

I scoffed at his views, for they were timid. “Besides,” I said, “a spying expedition will be a great adventure, such as befits intrepid fellows like us, whereas even the most inexperienced of your officers could carry out the simple scouting mission you have described.”

He said, “No no, it is not a good idea,” and then told me all the dangers spying would present.

Well, I spoke frankly to him then, saying, “This is no way for a commander to talk! Still, if the job is not suited to your own timorous disposition, then you can wait behind, and I will go alone!”

He said I was free to do as I pleased, provided I did not interfere with his own plans, and he added that he hoped I would be hanged when the Indians caught me.

I said, “I will not be
hanged
, you may be certain of that, but you will
hang
your head in shame when you think back on your callous words. I will be back before long, and with much useful knowledge in my head.” Then I left him, and went into a nearby village, so I might set myself up for spying.

For my purpose, I carefully assumed the appearance of a herb merchant, taking care to wear only such humble garments as a poor merchant might wear, and placing various leaves and herbs in my hat and belt. It was an excellent disguise, and when I looked at my reflection in a puddle I was astonished at how exactly like a herb merchant I looked.

The next day, a couple of hours before dawn, I left the village. I did not march straight for the enemy, but instead marched around in a great circle, so I entered Chonia from the east side. I reasoned, you see, that if the enemy myrmidons saw me coming from the west, they might suspect I had come from Raella’s army.

I arrived in the town about mid-morning. It was a small place, and it was not difficult to find the enemy commander, for I saw a group of myrmidons on guard outside a mealhouse. So, I entered the place, as if I was hungry and looking for my breakfast—although in actual fact I had eaten well on my long walk.

The commander was sitting at a table, playing at chess with a person from the town, while others stood around and watched, commenting upon the cleverness of the commander’s moves.

Now, I saw a great opportunity in this, for
chess is a game I am very good at, and I always win. I decided, then, to play a game against the commander, so I could enter into conversation with him. When he had beaten the man he was playing, I asked if I might try my hand. He said yes, and I sat down at the board.

This commander’s name was
Tary. He was around my age at that time, which is to say, close to his sixtieth year. He was tall and fat, with a round, foolish face. He spoke in an amusing way, panting, as if he was short of breath, after he had spoken just a few words.

In any case, I had hardly sat upon the bench when this fellow began to set up the pieces and said, “Let us begin, then. Shall we play with bishops-out, or do you prefer pawns-ready.”

I said, “Not so fast. Let us first decide upon the stakes. I propose three arrans.”

He said three arrans was too rich for his blood, and suggested four grotecs.

“That hardly makes the game worth the playing,” I said. “Let us settle upon a single arran.”

He agreed to this, even though it was a large sum, for I could see he had every expectation of winning, and he placed his money upon the table, as I did.

Then I said, as I always say, “And let us agree now that if either player should withdraw from the game before it is resolved, then he will have forfeited his stake, and it will go to the other.”

“Yes, yes,” said Tary, who was all ready to make his first move. “Now, let us begin. Did you say you favoured bishops-out?”

I never begin a game in such haste, for I find it is in the negotiation over the terms of the game where I achieve half my victories. So, I like to ensure the negotiation preceding the first move is a drawn-out and complicated affair, in order to make my opponents tired and angry. I always begin by making demands which are somewhat in my favour.

Therefore, I said to Tary, “No, I do not care for bishops-out—it makes for a dull game. Let us have more exciting terms. I propose you shall lose all your pawns save only for the centre ones, and, further, you shall play without queens or rooks.”

“And your terms shall be the same?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “That would make the game predictable, for we could mirror each other’s moves. Rather, I propose that I shall take a penalty which is identical in value to your own, but different in form. Specifically, I shall lose the two pawns which stand before the rooks, and in the place of these pieces I shall have two dragons, and you may not capture either of them with any of your pieces until they have made a single capture of their own. Further, I shall sacrifice the movement of my knights, for I find the hopping ways a distraction and difficult to calculate, and instead they shall move and capture exactly as a queen does.”

Tary did not care for these terms in the least, and he said he did not care to start the game with dragons, for they are too powerful. In this he was quite correct: they spoil the skill of the game, and I would never allow my opponent to have the use of one; although if I were permitted the use of dragons, and my opponent were not, then I should surely accept the terms, for a dragon is very difficult to capture by any other piece.

He also said I had substituted my knights for queens at no cost at all. There was something to what he said, of course, but even so, I refuted his words with great passion, pointing out that although my knights might move and capture as queens, their horselike heads showed they were still obviously knights, as any observer could plainly see.

Then he said my terms were ridiculous, and unfair to him,

I responded that, on the contrary, my side was now so powerful that I would certainly become lazy as I played, making dangerous mistakes, whereas he, being constantly on guard for further depletions to his puny force, would inevitably play the more skilful game.

He dismissed these arguments, however, suggesting instead that we start with crescent layouts, which I flatly rejected as being too symmetrical.

Then he suggested my crescent layout against his pawns-ready, but I rejected this too, saying it was unfair to me.

Then he offered me the pawns-ready layout, with the crescent for himself, but I rejected that on the grounds it was unfair to him, and I wished to take my money honestly.

He said I should take my turn once more at suggesting the terms, since his were clearly disagreeable to me, whereupon I made some other outlandish suggestion. I do not remember what it was.

Then he made other proposals, which I rejected, until at last he said, in his panting way, the thing my opponents always say:

“Since you will not be reasonable in setting the terms to the game, I will not play against you.”

I picked up the money and said, “If you wish to walk from the game, then you may do so. I will pocket my winnings, for, as we agreed, your withdrawal carries the cost of forfeiture.”

But he gripped my wrist, making me drop the arrans, and said he did not wish to withdraw just yet.

So we returned to this obstinate haggling, and we continued for half an hour or so. When he had grown very bored and frustrated from the debate, and angry too, so he was on the verge of coming to blows with me, I finally made a proposal that was reasonable, this being that he should lose his king’s rook and the five phalanx pawns (which is to say, those in front of the rooks, bishops and queen) in exchange for a second queen in the rook’s square. For myself, I would keep my full complement of pawns, and my king would have not only its natural movement, but also the movement of a knight.

These, incidentally, are the final terms I always insist on for myself, and, provided I get them, I will agree to any of the common terms for my opponent, though, as I have said, I do not permit dragons, and neither do I permit phantoms, for, if there is to be a piece upon the board, I want to see it, and not to trust upon the reliability of some third person, who may, after all, be in league with my opponent. I sometimes permit my opponent rockets, if he is willing to lose enough pawns for the privilege, because they really do not offer so great an advantage as people think.

In any case, we began our game, and I began to hum a little tune, while moving each of my pawns one square forward, starting at the leftmost pawn, and going to the rightmost, while he moved various pieces into play. I pretended I was paying little attention to the board. I looked around the room, and I ate bread, and I called out flattering words to a pretty young girl who sometimes walked through the room carrying dishes.

I moved chiefly my pawns, using a strategy which I call the
Creeping Wall, for the pawns advance up the board like a wall. I moved the other pieces only when it was necessary to defend a part of the wall. But still, I hummed tunes, and pretended to care little for the game.

At first, Tary scoffed at my tactics, for he was one of those who relies on planning and predicting, so they will say, “If he advances the knight to the sixth rank, next to the bishop, then I shall be checked and in danger of losing my queen. Therefore I must place a pawn forward to defend the spot. But, if I do this, the protection will be gone from the other pawn, next to my queen...” and so on. This style of play merely taxes the mind, making one irritable and sucking all pleasure from the game. It is the way men play when they have studied the game from books, and the use of the technique is easily discovered, for such people make small movements with their fingers when looking at the board, pointing to the places where they imagine pieces will be.

Soon, though, he began to take my moves more seriously, for he saw how relentlessly my pawn-wall was approaching. Moreover, as the game progressed, I began to change my humming, so the tune was the
Lullaby of Skulls
. I sang a little louder each time the pawn-wall moved forward.

Although chess is but a game, most players will start to become fearful at this sight, for the pawns approach like a well trained army, marching to my music, moving steadily onward, fearless of any danger, and blind even to destruction within their ranks.

Well, Tary tried the best he could to ignore my marching pawns, and he set himself upon killing my king. He threw a good many pieces into the attack, bishops and knights, and his queen too (for he had sacrificed his second queen by now for the sake of gaining a good position to strike against my king). But when he finally let the sword fall, saying, “It is checkmate for you,” I turned to him and said, “Not at all, for as you will surely remember, my king can leap to safety like a knight.” So saying, I moved my king away from his attacks.

Now he saw it was his king and not mine which was in danger, for he had been so intent upon setting his pieces against my king that he had not protected himself from the great storm clouds floating towards his camp in the form of the dreaded pawn-wall.

As it happened, his king managed to escape the wrath of my pawns, but this did not help him for long, because my little wooden army proceeded boldly onward to the eighth square, and once they are there, as you will know if you have studied the game as thoroughly as I have, the pawns may be transmuted to become any other piece.

Tary said, “What will you have for your pawn, then? A queen?”

I said, “No, not a queen, a dragon.”

He protested then, saying I had prohibited dragons from the game.

“Not so,” I replied. “I did not prohibit them from the game but merely from the starting terms.”

He appealed to those who were watching the game, but they all agreed with me, for they were eager to see the dragons turned loose upon Tary’s pieces.

Well, in just a few moves, I had three dragons on my side, and they flew around the board with a fury, killing all his men. I left his king until the end, and then, just to make the victory sweeter for me, I killed the old fellow not with a dragon, but with my own king, using its knightlike movement to strike the final blow.