Why I Write…

Certain persons of note have asked me “why”, of all things, I have become a writer. The profession is not as profitable, nor prolific, as it once was, and as a husband and father of two young girls it is not sustainable. Even with a wife with her own career as a musician (another odd choice in today’s economy), the income is paltry. Of course, over time, my responsibilities as husband and father have been greatly reduced.

Most of my closest friends and immediate family will remember that I gained some success and notoriety as a journalist during the war. It was during this time I gained a reputation for a certain insight for the people and technology pertaining the shipping industry, and of which I provided to various news organizations for inclusion into their business rhetoric. It was these submissions, these semi-perfect dissertations, that ensured me placement within social and business circles among shipping entrepreneurs, shipwrights, and the like, who sought an edge on the competition. All one needed to do was to look at the merger of Cunard and the White Star Line to see the level of influence and money involved with these discussions.

It was, perhaps, the level of pressure or possibility of higher levels of fortune which drove me to make my own poor decisions that landed me in the state I am in today. Those motivations, and if I am to be honest with you, the drink was a close contributor to my downfall. The curse of all writers, whether it to be to increase ones exhibitism in their authorship, calm ones nerves in social integration, or to just bolster one’s own will, leads us to the bottle and the  ignominious end with bouts of dipsomania, congestion of the brain, cerebral inflammation - whatever the euphemism is of the time for alchoholism that we use to mask our trembling hands in polite society.  It is the the thickening nodules of the cerebral cortex which continues to limit persons like me to just accept the fact that we are diseased and continue to make excuses for our actions.

A small wonder it was to my family and colleagues that my dearest wife departed from our marriage, having obtained divorce papers from a local prefect, and fled with the children for parts unknown. At this point, my work was still on point and had been lucrative, but I required funds to contend with my growing habit. I gave what I could to my now estranged family and sought other means of income to fulfill my lifestyle to which I had grown accustomed. From there, as the quality of my work became inversely proportional to the amount of drink I was consuming, it was easy to prostitute my integrity to the highest bidder by squandering my eye for the maritime market. 

The concept of economic espionage was new at the time, and my own (alcohol-induced, I am sure) bravado and inexperience contributed to my being apprehended. Readers of the various journals no doubt noted the dissimilar takes that I, or through proxies, directed the market of recent advances on the cavitation screw by certain shipbuilders. This, in turn, skewed the market value of the maritime industry to those who would ultimately provide me a modest sum. Perhaps it was the sinking of the Kate off Bermuda, hauling two long tons of cotton when she sank in those shallow waters, that began the investigation into my ties. The last of her line to utilize the inefficient model propeller made by an English shipwright whom I despised, even more so now that I was found out, the iron hulled ship had been on her way from Texas to France when she ran aground. Weeks before I had directed investors in the direction of backing the shipment, and for the blind luck of the captain hitting an unmarked reef, nobody would have been the wiser to how deep my corruption went.

There were, as some may remember reading the local news, a series of investigations to ascertain the cause and effect of my meddling. In the end, after some time incarcerated at different locations pending trial decisions, having sold what little property remained after the divorce, lacked the monies to afford bail, I was released due to legal technicalities. However, the damage was done. Much like the acclaimed journalist found out to have committed plagiarism, I became a pariah in the journalist world; drifting from hob to job in search of any income until I finally came to rest in Baltimore as a yellow journalist for one of the local rags where my trembling hands would cause little concern to me editors in comparison to my contemporaries.

It was from the confines of this exile that my story really begins. I remember that the lot of us had been called in that morning from the sweltering heat of the Baltimore streets into the comparatively stuffy confines of the rag’s office. There were seven of us all told which spent our days when not erstwhile employed, crouched on the sidewalk in the heat, exchanging lies or taking bets on who would spot the next rat to emerge from the sewer adjacent to the garbage-choked alleyway across the street. The gruff voice of the editor provided us some promise of relief from our condition, if only for a moment, as we entered the dingy office. A single overhead fan pushed the heated air around us, providing as much comfort as the possibility of payment from the rag’s coffers.

There were only six assignments that needed immediate attention , and the editor skipped me during his normal dialogue of thanking us for our patience and directing us on how to file for compensation. It may have been the sink of booze on me, I assure you it was no different than the others, or possibly the threadbare condition of my clothes, or the run-down condition of my shoes which had lost their polish, that influenced his decision. But, I needed the money badly to afford more time in the flophouse I was renting a bed in; And there was always the drink to consider. So, I lingered behind as the others shuffled from the office with their assignments tightly gripped in their grubby hands to inquire why he had not chosen me.

The editor, a thin man of waxen pallor, was a nervous but cautious individual. He hem hawed around the topic, citing a lack of tidbits of rumor and intrigued which piqued the readership’s interest. The pandemic, while recent, had not produced a whole lot of sensationalism (indeed- the major papers had scooped up the majority of the stories, and readers were experiencing fatigue with the local and National political fights). He excused his actions in providing the others with assignments which amounted to local propaganda work, things which pertained to the waning days of the war and such. Half-heartedly listening, undoubtedly the depression feeding the ourobourus of the need for my next drink, I nodded as if in understanding and turned to leave.

I had scarcely pushed the door open when he called for me to wait. He walked back to one of the two desks which took up the furniture space in the office, this one staked with yellowing tabloids (aging copies of both the rag and its competitors) and haphazardly staked envelopes and papers. After a search, he withdrew a large, manila envelope which had been previously torn open. He examined the contents and with a cocked eyebrow asked, “You were a war correspondent, yes ?”

I mumbled something of that I had been something of the sort. Since my incarceration, I had been loathe to utilize my true name in the industry.  To be honest, I had been unsure if I had told the editor my true identity or used it in publishing any articles for the rag. 

He shoved the document back into the envelope, and my heart sank. Then, seemingly having read the expression on my face, he proffered the envelope to me stating, “‘Kay. Need you to head to Charles County to follow up on this.”

I took the envelope, graciously, and quickly examined the contents. It was a basic lead sheet with an attached letter. I did not need to read the contents to know that this was going to be a dead end. He’d given me a job from the crank file which usually amounted to a lot of leg work with no story.

“Look, bud. Beggars can’t be choosers.” , he said even as I started at the term “beggar”, “I know that this type of thing isn’t something we usually report, but, maybe there’s something in it.”

“Something.” I said ruefully, “ This is almost in Virginia, it’s way out of town.” I reached into one of my pockets, turning it out to demonstrate my needs. In reflection, it was a stupid ploy, asking him to risk payment up front on an obvious drunkard. I was biting the hand that generously fed me.

The editor shrewdly eyed me then walked to the other, more cleared, desk and unlocked a top drawer from which he withdrew a locked box.  From this, he pulled out a few dollars and handed them to me coolly.

 “For train fare.” he said, “I’ll pay you for an article plus per-diem for the trip when you get something publish-worthy. I don’t need to remind you that until you make something of this lead, don’t be coming back here and don’t be asking for no more money.”

That was that. A last chance. I thanked him and made my way back to the flophouse to gather what measly items I still owned and made my way back to the train station to begin my trek South.  The ride itself out of Baltimore was not worthy of comment.  Following the route of the Northeast Corridor line, built back in 1873, through the Baltimore and Potomac tunnel and onward to Union Station. From there, it was no small chore on my part to arrange further rail passage along the freight lines delivering coal and other sundries to the southern points of Charles County. An unremarkable journey overall, save or the oppressive heat and sapping humidity as the train neared the end of the journey.

The train followed the path of the Potomac River, and as I lounged in relative comfort in one of the freight cars, surrounded by tack and sundry I viewed through the cattle doors to the passing swampy waterfront and Spanish moss hanging throughout the adjoining tree line with some apprehension. Taking from the manilla envelope the document and adjoining missive provided by the editor. My destination was for Mallows Bay, a lagoon of sorts off the coast of the Potomac in the area of Nanjemoy and found my deepening sense of dread justified. The significance of the destination is not unknown in the shipping industry, and if anything, served as a cautionary tale of Caveat Emptor. 

The U.S. Government, in its wisdom, had contracted with some of the more mis-managed companies of the age to build of fleet of ships as part of its wartime strategy in the face of the Great War. The materials used in construction, as it turns out, was of mostly wood with little iron or steel reinforcements which , in comparison with the navies of the Central Powers, was no match.  Some 230 ships in total had been built and sat, unused for the whole of the war, and towed to the James River in Virginia where they became a legendary ghost fleet- the largest in the Western Hemisphere. The monthly cost more than the government could bear, they sold the salvage rights to Western Marine and Salvage, who towed the fleet back across the Potomac to Mallows Bay, where they had procured the land to dispose of the ships and reap the valuable iron ore from the husks.

Western Marine went bankrupt within the year, and looking back, I realize I played no small role in the business’ demise. Most of this was due to a creative article I authored regarding the composition of keep construction of a line of ships for a now defunct North Caroline shipping fleet. It was a deception that even the most novice ship architect could have discovered had they inspected for the presence of zinc anodes on the outer hull. It was not my fault that the business had purchased the fleet whole and lost millions on the deal once the copper materials so indicated in the article were not found present, but I digress.

The company decided the best means of destroying the albatross fleet was to burn it, which they did, sending the whole lot to the bottom of Mallows Bay. I suspect that the bankruptcy covered the fines for the abandonment, but salvage law has never been my speciality. Recently, the Pennsylvania-based Bethlehem Steel set their eyes upon the salvage of what was left of the worm-ridden fleet, and had set up shop in Mallows Bay for the recovery. The rag wanted a waste or fraud angle on the effort. 

My despair was that even a remote chance on such a story was dependent on insider knowledge such as the business deals, something that I would have had in place back in my earlier journalistic days. As it was, even if such a contact did exist, my reputation would precede me into any dealings that would provide any factual or background that I could find useful enough to publish a story that would meet the editor’s standards. The situation was hopeless, and with this mindset, I rode the train past my Nanjemoy stop and instead departed at the port of La Plata, finding a ride into town proper with a local farmer. There, I procured a bottle of the finest rot-gut with the remainder of the editor’s cash to quench my thirst and numb my mind against my impending downfall.

For several hours I wandered the twilight streets of La Plata, I found myself standing on the access road at the Church of the Repentant. Its imposing edifice  sits on the Main Street, and due to the sloping road, the adjoining graveyard sits higher than the church and surrounding territory. A cinderblock retaining wall surrounds the cemetery, topped with a six foot iron spiked fence to keep safe those living and dead inside its enclosures.

I knew this place well, and the editor had even spoke of it before my journey, having written a Halloween piece on the legends of the area. “Beware !” , it proclaimed, “the White Lady of the Evening”, or something of the sort. Legend had it that a lady in white  roamed the grounds and streets near the church. Nobody had ever spoken with her, or fully knew the story of the haunting. Some of the townsfolk believed that it was the ghost of Tempest Middleton, a casualty of the War of 1812. The long held belief was that she roamed the streets looking for her father (her brothers were buried alongside her in the Northeast end of the graveyard).  Which, as the local history tells us, was a futile endeavor as her father was the one tried, convicted, and executed for her and her neighbor’s murders. His own corpse lies in an unmarked grave somewhere in the prison yard up in Waldorf.  If my research was correct, or at least was correct enough to get the editor’s approval, the whole affair was due to Mr. Middleton’s spying on behalf of the British during the war and having been found out by the deceased parties.  The result was a family ruined and destroyed by the founder’s actions.

I sat upon the curb of the street here, bottle in hand, and thought of the irony that I should be sent on this errand, into the den of my own ineptitude, the story of which paralleled Middleton’s to a word. I looked further into the darkened streets as the heat of the sun diminished with the twilight onslaught, and determined that the fateful and destructive path that I was on had to come to an end. It may have been too late to save my marriage or make reparations to my children, but I had to try; I must strive to be a better man than Middleton.

I quickly staggered back up the street in the still humid air of the type reserved for these riparian towns.  Finding a ride in the direction of Nanjemoy, I found myself in the vicinity of the dock where I would depart for Mallows Bay and secured an abandoned shack to reside in for the evening not too far distant. The evening was late, and I soon fell asleep amongst the broken remains of bottles and bricks forgotten with time.  The sounds of crickets and tree frogs girded me for the dreams and visions brought on by the excessive drink, the salty taste of the Potomac in the nights sky unable to slate my thirst. 

The next morning found me standing at a dilapidated pier with a dozen or so men of various dress awaiting the vessel to ferry us to Mallows Bay.  Many of the men, I observed, were local farmhands which had been hired by Bethlehem Steel due to their knowledge of the area. Scarcely a few generations away from the casualties both societal and economic of the Civil War, they showed signs of the stunted education and finances which came with the halting tobacco industry that limited the continuation of the area’s economy.

About an hour after my arrival, the boat soon arrived. It was an amalgam of oyster boat and modern vessel, the former having been reduced in use due to the decrease in oyster population of the Chesapeake and its tributaries. The masts had been reduced on the flat-bottomed vessel, having no need for sail power given that they had been replaced with a smokestack belching clouds of black diesel over the transom.  The boat’s stays still were in place, displaying steel belaying pins which had been used to control the lines directing the sails. A strange thing, I thought, and then determined that the Diesel engine had been a recent addition by the company to quicken worker’s passage to the site. I further surmised that the engine was not burning efficiently by the quality of the smoke, something I would contribute to either an inferior engine, wet fuel, or incompetence of the ship’s master.

The master himself was of medium height, but was grossly overweight and unkempt. From beneath  a wool Aegean sailor’s hat, his salt-and-pepper hair popped out in squiggly threads similar in design to his eyebrows, from which the hair popped like insectoid feelers over his deep-set eyes whose blue coloring offset any Sus genus comparisons, despite the long jowls which formed into a stump of a neck. Between his teeth, he clamped onto a cigar which was matched only for its volumous output of smoke with the engine’s stack; he removed this only when shouting orders to the deck-hand or exclaiming frustration regarding the engine.  A feeling of repulsion came over me when I looked to the master, and after my introductions for passage, I vowed to only to perform my inquiries with the other workers or deck hand, leaving the master to his ship borne duties of which he seemed competent (leaving the engine issues to the other two factors, in my mind), or at least threatening enough for me not to tempt his ire.

The deck hand was of Liberian descent, and spoke with a thick French accent and as I stood aside waiting for the motley crew of men to board, I asked him little questions about the operations and what he had seen with respect to the salvage. He was of little information, other than indicating the vessel was the Delilah, an insider joke of sorts referring to the dislike of the captain’s wife of her middle name due to its negative Biblical implications and her similar dislike of his chosen occupation. There was no more a jealous mistress than the sea itself, as I have been told. He may have said more, but the master called out for me to get my worthless such and such onboard and for the deck hand to get to casting off. 

I had just gotten aboard and the deck hand to his work at the lines when there was a shout from the shoreline. From the weed-infected track approaching the pier, this side of the shack that had erstwhile kept me from exposure, stepped a curious couple. Both were well-dressed men, evident from even this distance. The younger of which was a young, dark man of average build who pushed a more elderly man in a wheelchair before him. The master was perplexed at their sight, and signaled the deck hand to quit his objective.

They closed on the pier, and the younger man addressed the master with a decidedly Bostonian accent, “Thank you, sir. Yah see, we have come..”

The master interrupted, ostensibly sticking out his lower jaw which provided him a more of the look of an ungulate, “No, you see here. You are holding up my business, as these men here are to be on site within the hour. The longer we stay here jawing, the more they lose wage. Now state your business.”

The young man reached into his jacket, and as I watched, the master’s hand strayed to a position behind the steering column. I thought at that moment that I was about to see an attempted murder, but when the stranger’s hand emerged with a leather-bound notebook , the master stayed his hand. Form within the notebook, he removed a business envelope and waved it so that the Army Corps of Engineers emblem was visible. 

“I have here a writ from the Major General from the Army Corps of Engineers stating that Mister Laurie, “ he indicated to his charge, “is to be granted passage at the earliest convenience to Mallows Bay. It stresses the importance of his presence at the salvage site and states that his escort is to be of primary consideration.”

He sneered, “The only consideration I have is for the business of these men. The Delilah can’t take no more men on board, and you will need to wait for me to deliver them for their shift. I’ll be back for you after their delivery.”

Mister Laurie coughed “Williamson”, which brought the younger man to the wheelchair. The deck hand looked to the master for direction as the two strangers whispered together. Just as the master was about to give the signal to cast off, Williamson nodded and turned back to the ship, withdrawing a large sum of bills from within his jacket. 

“For those we inconvenience, Mister Laurie is willing to pay a day’s wages. That, and an additional bonus to you and your crew to make the additional voyage to ensure their passage for their daily work schedule. Mister Laurie believes that two day’s pay is worthy compensation for the schedule’s interference.”  Williamson spoke loudly, and more than a few of the men displayed their willingness to trade their passage for the invalid. In short time, the strangers were safely ensconced upon the Delilah and she turned away from the pier, the red and white flag of the Army Corps of Engineers fluttering from the decimated main mast.

The boat rounded an embankment, heading in an Easterly direction toward a column of smoke appearing over the tree line marking the coast of Maryland. It took an hour passing through the outgoing tide to reach Mallows Bay, and my inquiries to the rest of the crew on the current operation were equally fruitless as that of the deck hand. I steered clear of the two strange men, having no obvious connection to either the Army Corps or the salvage company.

The cacophony of industry reached our ears long before our visual approach, the scope of which was mind-boggling. The view of the bay was largely obstructed by a large, metallic basin that served to blockade the flow of the Potomac into the bay’s entrance. From beyond, smoke poured from an extraordinary amount of cranes which extracted the iron from the hapless carcasses of the fleet, depositing them on barges on the water side of the boundary. The industry produced much flotsam and jetsam which flowed in the wake of the Delilah’s passage.

The master set us down on a beach on which a series of pontoons had been constructed and chained to metallic posts set deep in concrete to form a semi-permanent dock for when the tide returned.  Above the high water mark, a quonset hut had been constructed which I postulated contained the brains of the operation. Williamson pushed his charge to the top of the pontoon construction, and having anchored him, proceeded into the brush after the workers in the direction of the salvage. The master turned the Delilah to reverse its course back to the point of origin, leaving me alone with Mister Laurie. I tipped my hat in a half-hearted salute on her departure, the deck hand only showing appreciation for the gesture by waving back.

I meandered through the sandy beach beyond the pontoon pier to the hut which had a wooden sign hanging off the door indicating it as the “office”. Knocking twice, I heard a muffled greeting of sorts and pushed my way inside to a dimly lit office not unlike the one of the rag, only more hot and humid. Yellowing charts decorated the walls, ostensibly so from the salt in the atmosphere, showing a variety of data. Three filing cabinets sat along the back wall, decorated overhead with a large Army Corps of Engineers flag, behind an oaken desk littered with papers, a typewriter, and a green-shaded oil lamp. Behind the desk sat, in a creaking office chair, a middle-aged man dressed in clothing suited for a trip to Panama rather than the rural riverside the operation was taking place in 

He identified himself as a Mister Ferguson, and was the Salvage Lead for Bethlehem Steel. I identified myself as Samuel Crowley, lest my actual name jog his memory of any of my past articles pertaining to the failure of the last company, or any other related subjects for which my infamy may bring in the topics nautical. Rapidly producing my journalistic credentials for viewing, I took care to ensure Ferguson could not make out the name on the identification, as not to allow him the chance to glean information to infer the deception. At the mention of the rag’s name, his demeanor changed to a more professional and guarded tone and I quickly discovered any line of questioning was fruitless as he rebuffed me at all angles.

From the charts on the wall and the filing cabinets, he produced data indicating the efficiencies of cost and salvage export, of which it was evidence that no sign of waste of abuse was culpable on the part of the company. All the loopholes I designed to leverage for the story were closed to the point that even third or fourth points of reference from which I could draw a nebulous conclusion could not be used in the manner that my writing could draw forth intrigue that the readers of the rag would desire. The interview was futile in that sense, at best I could produce a “good news” story which the editor would not desire. Dejected, remembering my futile thoughts fo the night previous, I left the hut to await the return of the Delilah.

The pontoon deck was still occupied by the wheelchair-bound Laurie and the hereto returned Williamson. I observed in the old man’s blanket-covered lap that a large object, wrapped in oil cloth, had been deposited and on which his hands rubbed along the domed shape in a miserly manner. Williamson, obviously the source of the delivered package while I questioned Ferguson, stood nearby with a disinterested look while I approached the pair. I had scarcely gotten within hailing range, having just stepped upon the pontoon dock, when his hand moved with a smoothness I hand not before observed since his exchange with the Delilah’s master, and I saw something that no doubt the captain had only assumed was present on Williamson’s person - the wooden handle of a rather large caliber pistol sat comfortably in the right armpit of the man’s jacket. Mister Laurie’s caretaker was a southpaw, and as I had no desire to find out his accuracy with said iron, I raised both hands in a gesture of peace to which he relaxed and resumed his disinterested gaze back to the river.

Laurie, unmoved by Williamson’s reaction continued to  address his attentions to the package as I walked down to join them. Observing me after a moment, he said in a raspy, Bostonian accent not unlike Willliamson:

“You are a curious sort.”

Still in my funk from my conversation with Ferguson, I replied in an offhand manner, “The same can be said about you two gentlemen.” I tried to walk down the beach from the pair, in no mood for frivolous discussion. The old man grabbed at my sleeve , and I pulled away at his scrabbling hands with an oath.

Williamson made a move for his gun at my reaction, but Laurie stayed his hand with a gesture. 

“I apologize. I apologize. I was just hoping you’d stay for a bit and talk. Williamson here, he is not the best conversationalist, reserving his own energies for the less, shall we say, academic or imaginative actions.”

Williamson looked on unplussed. If he was affected by his employer’s words, he did not indicate it as such, simply resuming his previous stance.

I replied, “Look Sir, I have to apologize for my own reaction, but please excuse me for I am disinclined to provide company at this time.”

“I see.  Received from the manager word you didn’t want to hear ? No good story, no meat as they say, or dirty laundry for your paper ? Nothing to sell ?” He grinned up at me undoubtedly reading the shock on my face as such a direct line was provided to me. I swallowed, not rising to the implications of his words.

“You know who I am, then ?”

“Indeed. Williamson asked around the crew and spoke with the deck hand on the trip over.  It wasn’t a huge jump to conclude what type of periodicals would be of interest of the salvage operation. Moreover, as your nom de plume has not been seen in the periodicals as of late, it was a reasonable guess to assume who you are.”

I nodded in defeat. “Then you knew that there was no story here.”

“Well, that all depends on what you are looking for, and knowing where to look. Basic journalistic techniques probably will not benefit you. It’s the research man ! For instance, no doubt that you were shown the books and the indicate the salvage is all above-board.”

“Yes.”

“Then, would you be interest to know that the salvage effort will be ending in a week, maybe three at most ?”

I laughed. “And what evidence would back that conclusion ?”

“The inevitable conclusion of the war, of course. Once that happens, the salvage would not produce profitable margins, and the whole off it will shut down. I expect that news will occur in the very near future...”

He went on to produce various distinctive facts and observations of ongoing military strategies of both our and the enemy’s movements. He pointed to newspaper articles, rail and shipping manifests, and manufacturing exports. His conclusions were very plausible and had I the mind to pull out my notebook at the beginning of the dissertation, I would have had a pretty strong story to provide the editor upon my return. As it was, I retrieved my utensils from inside my jacket towards the end of the monologue , dropping the bottle purchased the night before in doing so. The bottle bounced off the pontoons deck and into the neighboring beach where it stuck, neck-down, marooned in the sand.

“What’s this ?”

I provided some excuse of the bottle being a local moonshiner’s attempt at fine drink and fished it out from its ignominious position. “Now, you were pointing to the economic diversion of...” I began, my hands shaking in excitement of the prospect of achieving a somewhat plausible story in the vein of journalism I was used to, when I saw in Laurie’s face something which once again made me abandon hope. It was the shark-like instinct of sensing blood in the water, he grinned exposing yellowing teeth as he looked from me to the bottle in my hand. It was the thirst.  Once creature can recognize his own.

“Williamson, “ he said, “can you excuse us for a moment ?”

Williamson looked a bit concerned, but his charge poo-pooed him and sent him back to the hut on an errand I could not quite make out. Once Williamson was out of earshot, Laurie said:

“How about a drink, eh ? Just a touch. I’ll tell you something - something that will get you set up better than all this talk of money and investment.”

Considering that I had the better part of his predictions in my mind, the thought that a few swigs may loosen his tongue on more lucrative topics seemed a pleasing proposal. I handed the bottle to the invalid.

“Just a bit. I’m not sure you should be drinking in your condition.”

He laughed at this, a raspy laugh full of the promise that turbuculosis, asthma, or other long-termed ailments could provide. After his “touch”, he handed the bottle back to me, still chuckling under his breath.

“What’s so amusing ?”

He grinned, his pitted lips allowing a dribble fo the drink down the front of his coat as he spoke, “The thought that the drink caused this condition. No, sir, it was other environs that crippled me. Largely, I have my time in the Navy to blame.”

“Oh ? You served ?”

“Yes, indeed. I was a quartermaster during the Great War, having previously served in shipping as a navigator on merchant vessels both here in the States and abroad. I was probably well past the age for recruitment when I applied, but with my shipping knowledge , the Navy wasn’t too concerned about that.”

I thought of the man’s apparent age, and agreed that he would have been easily in his forties at the time of the war by my estimation. 

“Yeah, I served on the Aphrodite out of New York, and later on the Gladiola of the same port. Both fine ships, better than those you can find here that never made it. You know, back then, the Navy was so desperate for vessels they were taking on private vessels for patrols ? That’s where I fit in, knowing the East Coast as well as I could to find the enemy, finding them before they could ambush our merchant vessels sailing for England. In the end, you know what they were doing ?”

I replied that I hadn’t.

“They’d be coming ashore as far North as Maine, dropped off by their submarines and such, then go and buy a local newspaper. Gleaned off of the business papers the departure times of the merchant vessels, and from there on in, it was simple math. They’d triangulate in on the ship, and ‘bam’.” He clapped his hands together. “Down they went.  It wasn’t long after when we entered the war that they’d pull the same with our fleets. That’s where I came in, to make sure they’d not get the chance to land. Never really got a chance to sink one of the Gerry’s boats myself, but we gave ‘em a good chance when we could. I did stop a few from getting ashore, helped capture more than a few in times they did.”

I drank, rueing my misstep to hear the line Laurie was taking. I was not in the mood to court his memory lane, at a cost of my own liquor, and almost refused him the return of the bottle, saying, “So, if neither the Gladiola or the Aphrodite met their end here, what was it that brought you here to Mallow’s Bay ? Not for the sights, I am sure.”

“No, it was for a vessel I served on after that time, between the wars. One in particular, that I came to pay my respects to.” He took another gulp of drink, his unoccupied hand seemly gripping the package closer to his chest.

“What vessel was that ?”

“The Tigershark.”

It was my turn to laugh. “The Tigershark ? I heard you right ?” He seemed not to notice, and I thought at the time the drink had possibly hit him. It was not long after that this I learned from personal interactions among the returning soldiers that this was what the soldiers today refer to as “shell-shock”, a condition which we once mistook for cowardice or malingering. I continued, observing his eyes taking on a far-off stare, “You, sir, are trying to put one over on me. No ship or vessel has ever been registered under that name.” It was preposterous. The names of vessels followed a certain naming convention, and those named after fish were submarines, and none had ever been members of the ghost fleet at Mallows Bay - nor has there ever been a wood constructed submarine since the days of Da Vinici.

Laurie seemed a bit put off by my mirth at his expense, and held onto the bottle while gripping the package tighter. “It’s true, if you checked the rosters of vessels, you wouldn’t come across her name. But for any role that exists, there also exists overseers that can strike someone or something from said list. Like a lawyer being disbarred, or even the likes of yourself, stricken from the roles of reputable journalism.”

“Touche’.” I put my hand out for the bottle’s return.

Laurie stuck his chin out in a most insolent manner. Giving a glance over his shoulder to the hut and any sign of the returning Williamson, he placed the bottle bottom-first into the sand and set to work prying open the oilskin packet and withdrawing its contents. It was a heavily corroded ship’s bell, green from years under the salty deeps of the bay. The dedication was still visible, painstakingly etched upon the bronze surface:

USS Tigershark

SS-52

1917, New London

Stunned, I motioned to hold the artifact, and he reluctantly held it forward to me with trembling hands before returning to the discarded bottle. I examined the bell externally and internally , for there are certain marks that any purveyor of nautical antiquity can identify to validate the authenticity of an object. My examination complete, I knew that this was a genuine object. Whether the bell actually hung within the confines of a submarine (for that was what the “SS” designated), was another story.

“I see that you perceive that I am being truthful.”

“How’d you come by this ? Why here ?”

“That is the story worthy of publishing.”

Had I known at that moment what he was to divulge, I would have forsaken the return of the Delilah and swam my way back to the landing and undoubtedly found myself in Baltimore within the week without a story, real or imagined, from the damned mental cavity of Mister Laurie. As it was, with the sun high, and my bottle held captive in his claws, I had little choice to let him continue on with his tale.

“The Tigershark, she was one of those L-class submarines, built up in New London by ‘lectric Boat. Perhaps that’s what she had in common with these poor saps here in Mallows Bay, she was no match for the Germans either.  It didn’t take long for the Navy to notice it either, so by the time I had stopped shipping, the Navy had turned over the L-classes to testing new equipment. Hydrophones, torpedoes, and the like. Used ‘em for their war games between wars to train the other sailors in tracking the enemy. You know the drill.”

“Ugly thing it was too. Her sail was cropped short, and each time she surfaced, we had to erect a tent around it to keep her watertight while the officers took their surface bearings.”

I remembered the L-class, and Laurie was not far from wrong. The submarine barely was a match for anything during its day. A stupid construction worthy of my own misleading journalistic research, it took almost a half hour longer to surface and make secure due to the clipped sail - which was constructed just to improve its hydrodynamic structure. Electric Boat had come a long way since then.

“I had been, since the end of the war, working here and there as a navigational expert. Saved enough money and opened my own company, employing veteran sailors to act as pilots for vessels coming and going among our now-open ports.   There is some good money in the business, you’d agree, and I had been doing well for about three years until one of my pilots was neglectful and managed to run the ammo carrier Eagle into the fishing schooner the Harold off of Block Island Sound.”

I let out a low whistle. Over 70 dead from the collision. Ship impact ignited one of the Eagle’s magazines, about 3800 tons of ammunition. Everything in a mile radius, including some other twelve vessels in the immediate area, were evaporated instantly. 

“Indeed. Bankrupt within a week.” He took a long drag off the bottle. “Had to find myself a new occupation, which led me back to the Navy. And they assigned me to the L-classes out of Groton. That was fine for a spell. Until 1926.”

I searched my addled brain for the significance of the year.  He picked up on my blank stare, even from his seemingly focused stare into the sweltering heat of the Potomac.“You remember, perhaps, the newspaper announcements back in 1929 of the Navy’s use of torpedos on the bootleggers up in Massachusetts ?”

I had. “Near Innsmouth ?”

“Yes, that’s the place. Devil’s Reef, it was. Innsmouth had always been a queer place, Devil’s Reef was out about a nautical mile or so from the shore and was the source of the fishing industry for the locals. I’d run my share of missions chasing U-Boats out of there during the Great War, and perhaps that’s why they called upon me to volunteer for a shakedown on the Tigershark.” 

“We would ship with a skeleton crew, normally, just a pair of helmsman, a navigator, an engineer, and the captain. We’d get a team of technicians on board to test the hydrophones or whatever the advancement of the day was, but after we’d return, we’d just circulate to some other L-Boat in the fleet awaiting some other trial. More often than not, I’d find myself in the navigation position.  This trip, we didn’t have any of the normal technicians on board. Just two men in black suits, claiming to be with the Department of Defense, wanting to observe the torpedo’s detonation from within the submarine.”

“It was a queer request, and something the Navy obviously didn’t challenge because they fitted the Tigershark up with their newest torpedoes, the Mark 18. Never before tried. Supposed to have double the yield of what everyone was packing at the time.”

“Wait, you shipped with untried weapons ? They didn’t fix the issues with the ‘18’s until a coupe of years ago.”  The Mark 18’s were notorious for circling back on the firing submarine, claiming the submarines such as the Tang.

“Crazy, I know. But here I was, in need of a paycheck, and there was this feeling, you know, of importance of the mission. It wasn’t just these two men with us, the captain was feeling down from the admiral himself. We shipped with a full complement of torpedoes, all four. The captain and engineer, for neither were really needed for piloting the boat during the testing, would be in the torpedo bay during the exercise. I was to have the bridge through the exercise.”

“That’s the compliment we found ourselves with that fateful evening.  We weren’t briefed on what the true mission was until we had been underway, which was not what the newspapers reported.”

“It wasn’t ?”

“No. Have you ever wondered what good it was blowing up that reef ? What good it would have been to bootleggers in the region ?”

“To be honest, I never gave the story a second thought.”

“No, nobody would. Because, as you know, the public are sheep. Tell them something plausible, they wont bother to scratch the surface, show them something implausible, something too large for them to comprehend, they will make up excuses to push the reality into their own comfortable bubble. Until it goes pop. ”

This, I could not deny. The average reading level of my journal was probably the fourth grade. I’m sure that there will be a time and place that it will be higher, but when you factor in the education standards across the country, it should come to no surprise that the comprehension level  of the whole is much lower than that of centralized locations. Had I not made my own way on preying upon this principle ?

“Devil’s Reef, at best, was a natural barrier. It kept the fish in close to the town. When the fish ran out, the town had to find other means to make their way in the world. They made their way alright. It took me years to contemplate how they did it, and it was the government who figured it out back in 1926.  It wasn’t the bootlegging.”

“It wasn’t ?”

“No.”  He gulped another drink, “It was them.”

“Them ? The Germans ?”

“Oh, no. That would be too easy, too plausible an answer. The Great War had been over at that point, and had the Germans been feeling salty, salty indeed because this would have been twelve years before America made their decline to enter this conflict. Any subterfuge on our mainland soil in 1929 would have an effect greater than the Zimmerman Telegram could have ever done, and probably more outrage than we saw with Pearl Harbor.”

“We were briefed by these men from the government. Briefed that there was an influence over the town. Government had been sending men into the area for years. Taxmen. Recruiters. You name it. None of them ever came back. The fear was that this influence was turning the populace against the Government. Our job was to provide a reminder to the people who was in charge. That the U.S. Government was here to lead. To set the example. To bring those in line who buck the system. They put it to us that this was to be a display of firepower as a reminder. While we were to set our weapons against the seaward side of the town, the Army and other Federal forces would be raiding the town for the leaders of these acts of insurrection for we were assured the town had been watched for some time and the leaders identified.”

The Tigershark sailed to about 42 degrees North by 43 minutes and changed course to 180, keeping our distance through a holding pattern to the horizon from Innsmouth until sunset to recharge the batteries. While I believe this a necessary precaution by the Captain from his sea warfare experience, I also thought it a waste of time to set that canvas drape about the tower and set watches for shipping - for there was none to be had in those waters, despite it being a fishing town. It was not like a group of trawlers would be able to track us down should we anger Neptune himself.”

“When the time came, we set our watch with me at the periscope shouting orders to the planesmen. One was named Herbert, he was our steerage, and the other was Dombrowski, who was our laterals - his job was easy , just keep us at periscope depth. I kept her on course easily, watching the coastal lights of the town. On our last run, the Tigershark had installed hydrophones for testing which allowed us to hear the depths around us, and I had initiated them upon our run. I trusted my eyes to pick up the navigation cues, but the hydrophones would give us an edge when we would come upon the currents surrounding the reef.”

“It wasn’t long, either, before I could pick up the occlusion of lights from the spray off of the reef’s surface rock. In the distance, there was some obvious commotion in town where I could see the red and blue lights of approaching vehicles, and soon white lights could be seen rapidly bobbing about the coastline and dilapidated facades of the Innsmouth harbor front. The details, being limited by the periscope technology, could not be made out. I do swear I saw bouts of red-orange, which I imagined to be gunfire, erupting in bits throughout the glare of the shoreside lights.”

I said, “It must have been a wild evening for the town.” He ignored my comment, carrying on with his story.

“I shifted my attentions to the target, as the time seemed of the essence. From the hydrophones, I could hear the churning of the tide against the reef and I knew that we were well within the Mark 18’s range. I called down to the torpedo bay and told them to ready both tubes. They responded to the affirmative. Fitting my finger to the trigger on the periscope, I nodded to Dombrowski and Herbert, the latter of which gave me a goofy smile.”

“ ‘Go get ‘em !’ He yelled to me. And for a moment, I felt the exhilaration of the fight that I felt years before tracking the Hun through the waters of these Northern climes. Then I stared back into the periscope to target in on the reef. Then I saw it.”

“What?”

“Them. There was five of them. They’d hauled themselves up on the surface rock of Devil’s Reef and were watching the goings on. ”

“What, like, these folks that were of such negative influence had taken a boat out to the reef and were just - watching ?”

“In a manner of speaking. I paused from triggering the tubes and watched the group for a moment, then one of them turned to look back over their shoulder. As if it knew that we were sitting out there in the darkness, and knew that murder was on our minds.”

“Murder ? You mean you blew them up ? Like they said in the papers ?”

“Yes. But it was no murder as you know, lad. It was a defense, or at least that is what I keep telling myself. For when it turned, I saw that these things were not human. The stood in a stooped stance, their hands gripping the rocky ground while they watched on all fours. Their bald heads held within them yellowing, unblinking eyes which were reflected off the lights on the mainland. That is when it sank in for me, the importance of our mission. Undoubtedly the full nature of which our Captain was told by our handlers. These...things...had been feeding the town its wealth, no doubt with the fortunes of those boats we sent to the bottom during the war. For what repayment, I cannot imagine.”

“In my hesitation, I imagine the Captain and Engineer had gotten antsy and at no small urging from the suited men, called back up to the bridge for a status. Snapped into the action I must undertake, I pressed the trigger shouting ‘fire one’ and following rapidly with “fire two’. The torpedoes successfully fired, and I kept watching as the beings - I could no longer think of them otherwise- leapt into the water in a flash, save for the one who initially looked back. He watched the inevitable path of the torpedos’ contrails until impact. I lost sight of him in the flash.”

“The hydrophones picked up the impacts, and something else. I have heard from other sailors in the submarine service that you can hear the sounds of scallops clicking alongside the skin of the vessel. That the new sonar operators can listen in on the sounds of whales speaking their nautical tunes. I have no doubt these stories are true, for in that instant, I believed I heard screaming, as if hundreds of voices lifted to us from the dark abyss below us. It wasn’t screaming as we know it - more like animalistic baying of something in pain or fear.”

“I heard from the Captain that the remaining armament was loaded, and ordered a thirty degree descent before releasing the remaining two torpedoes into what I hoped was the source of the screams deep below. By this time, I could hear the moans of the Tigershark’s pressure hull against the shockwave rebounding off the reef wall. I ordered Herbert to come about rapidly, and felt the roll of the current as he followed my orders. To Dombrowski, I had him move us back up to the surface. Neither looked easy as to what they had heard, but I kept from them what I had seen in addition. Mercifully, neither the Captain or Engineer had heard or seen anything.”

“Uh, huh. So, what you are telling me is that the Federal Government took part in a conspiracy to cover up an alien influence ?” I was angry. This was the story he wanted me to go with - not anything of monetary influence which would turn Wall Street on its head.

“Precisely. Look, I understand how this sounds. The suits, they debriefed us. Asked us questions. None of us on the bridge that night were dumb enough to tell them what we saw and heard. We went our separate ways. I took some time off and went up to Innsmouth, because I had to know. I had to tell someone who would understand. People need to know.”

“What did you find ?”

“Nothing. Town was empty. Deserted. There were rumors from neighboring Arkham and Newburyport about military trucks carting off people to parts unknown. I even heard through some of my military contacts of concentration camps, now used to house the Japanese citizens, of also housing the Innsmouth refugees. I even hear some of them have been sent here , to Indian Head. One thing for certain, at least in Newburyport, the fishing has never been better since. Of the reef, nothing was visible on the surface.”

“Damning evidence.”

He nodded, “I know. I know. Far fetched. Take a look into the fish industry in the papers, if you don’t believe me. See how the market has fluctuated since the date.  Take a look at good transports to these concentration camps, see where the resources lead you.  The facts are there, if you choose to see the correlation.”

“Better still, look into the whereabouts of Scott Herbert of Newport News or Robert Dombrowski of Annapolis (that is closer to your neighborhood). Look at their obituaries, or perhaps the investigations into their untimely deaths. Them, the Captain, the Engineer, all of them deceased under strange circumstances.”

“I was able to get ahold of an official over in Newport News who was willing to provide me a copy of Herbert’s investigation. They found him murdered out by the docks, and initially thought it a mugging gone wrong. He still retained his wallet, but the strange thing they found around him was a smelly, yellow fluid. I compared this with other tales from our Captain and Engineer’s passing, and in each instance there was this sickly fluid on or nearby the respective corpses. You don’t believe me, I see - I will give you my points of contact before the day is out.”

“At the end of my initial investigation, I returned to our Connecticut business to find that there had been strange attacks on our fleet. Marks, as if by clawed hands were found on various submarines, all L-Class, and it didn’t take me long to figure out what the intended target was to be. Herbert and Dombrowski knew it too. So, in the dark of the night, we took the Tigershark to what I intended to be her last resting place. Here. Marrow’s Bay. “

“I filed a report with the Admiralty, informing them the vessel had been stolen and presumably lost. Since it was woefully outdated, the  Navy did not seem to care - and those in the know within the Department of Defense were just as happy to remain quiet. The insurance more than paid my remaining debts, allowing me to retire in comfort. At the news of Herbert and Dombrowski, it was more than adequate to provide for my own protection.”

“And have you needed Mr. Williamson to protect you from these, alien interlopers ?”

He shrugged. “How would I know ?”

As if on cue, Williamson appeared from the hut and worked his way down to us, giving me an unappreciative look when he saw the mostly empty bottle.

“The Delilah should be docking shortly, Mr. Laurie.”

I could see the puff of her diesel smoke over the tree line.  The real story, as far as I was concerned, was the ability of this ex-contractor to hijack one of the Navy’s vessels and somehow scuttle it here. I was sure that a casual investigation into this story would yield some nuggets, and with some business angles easily researched would produce something publishable.

“You believe me ? “ Laurie asked from my elbow.

“Uh, yeah, sure.”

“People need to know.”, he mumbled, dropping off to drunken sleep. The bottle slipped from his outstretched hand and Williamson caught it easily , handing back to me.

“Thanks.” I said, but he didn’t reply.

The Delilah picked us up for a return trip back to the dockside, the remaining salvage crew departing to the site. Laurie rested again in his wheelchair to the rear of the vessel while Williamson stood guard nearby. Besides ourselves, only the Captain and the deck-hand was on board. We made better time on our return, thanks to the tide, and I found myself helping the deck hand and Williamson to disembark the still unconscious Laurie.

Walking back to the main road with the pair, I inquired from the reticent Williamson as to Laurie’s points of contact in Newport News or Annapolis who could assist me in some further inquiries. He put me off until Laurie was again awake, asking me for my card instead (I didn’t have one) , or the name of the rag so I could be contacted (which I gave him). He did offer me a ride back to the shoreside train station, which I gratefully took.

It was here, as I later told investigators, that I last saw the pair. The station, located at the junction of the Potomac and the Maryland shore, stretches clear across the river to Virginia. Offshoots of the rail system led downward for the ease of shipboard freight loading. I imagine that is where the assassin  or assassin came from, but I withheld this from the police investigators.

I’d been negotiating my passage back to Baltimore with one of the railroad bulls, having no monies on me from my splurge in neighboring La Plata. The conversation had not been very congenial, and as I returned to Laurie’s automobile to beg another favor, I heard the gunshots of Williamson’s pistol echoing along the coast. When the authorities arrived, they found me in a state of shock sitting on the kick boards of the automobile. 

Laurie was in the vehicle, dead. Someone had strangled him. The package which he so proudly had shown me back at the salvage site was missing. Of the bodyguard, Williamson, no sign was found with the exception of his Colt revolver, which had been fired four times. I walked through the crime scene with the investigators. They concluded that either Williamson had killed Laurie for reasons unknown, opening fire to scare away potential witnesses before disappearing, or that persons known had killed Laurie with Williamson firing after them, potentially himself being killed and dropped off into the river below - or was working with them and the gunshots were a red herring.

I said nothing, but the yellow streaks of stinking fluid along the wooden decking, which so rapidly disappeared , told me that Williamson’s marksmanship didn’t fail him in carrying out his duties. There may be a day the Potomac gives up its secrets of his demise, but I doubt that those who Laurie feared would allow it to happen in my lifetime.

I retuned to Baltimore care of the Charles County constabulary soon thereafter. I took my time to research the facts, cross-referencing the points Laurie told me. I found obituaries, made contacts, and got witness reports. I added to this my own account. The facts were there, just as Laurie said. In two weeks, I was back in front of my editor, and he was looking through my story as I stood proudly nearby.

“You must be kidding. Get out.” He tossed my work into the garbage.

I fished it out. Took it around town to different publishers, each refusing the work, either on the prima face of the work, or from my reputation. They all ask me, “why” did I become a writer. 

I write because people have to know. 

_________________________________

Copyright © 2021 by JES Campbell

With respects to H.P Lovecraft and his work Shadow Over Innsmouth.

All rights reserved. No part of this story may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance of any persons living or dead, or events or locales are purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.