It was late afternoon when he returned, driving in from the far horizon, attended by the disciplined squadrons of his own guard. Like a reef far out to sea they seemed, a line of breakers, but a strangely straight and regular line, like a line of breakers that was sweeping shoreward at a rate of knots. And just offshore there was more activity, and a great snorting and whistling from Moby Dick who, leaping and plunging, marshalled his own forces into a semblance of order, who ranged them into two flanking bodies between which Noah must pass.
We were all of us down on the beach to watch — Green, with his pistol drawn and ready, Sally and Mary, each carrying a bundle of the assembled swords and harnesses, John and I, empty handed, standing, at Green’s orders, well away from the women so that we should not be tempted to snatch weapons and attack him.
Into the shallows swam the great porpoise, his retinue bringing up the rear. When it seemed that he must surely ground he stopped, floating there with his big head well clear of the water.
“Gurley!” he called. “Gurley!”
“I am here,” replied Curley Green.
I started to whistle then, softly, trying to incorporate the Morse symbols into some sort of tune. The Surrey With The Fringe On Top from Oklahoma it was; the rather staccato melody was suitable for the purpose. But I did not get far.
“Shut up, you!” snarled Green. “You aren’t a muckin’ canary.”
But I tried again, and got tangled up, so that the result was neither recognisable Morse nor a recognisable melody. Noah, I saw, was looking at me, and it seemed to me that there was curiosity in the little eyes. I would have continued, but I did not doubt that Green would use his pistol if pushed, as much for its effect on the cetacea as upon myself. (But the effects upon myself would be more than merely psychological.)
“Drop the swords,” ordered Green. The women did so. “Now stand well back,” he snapped.
Carefully, keeping us covered all the time, he went to the nearest pile of weapons. From it he selected one that was more ornate than the others. A design had been hammered into the headplate and the straps of the harness had been coated with scarlet paint. It was more than a weapon. It was a badge of rank, of kingship.
Green, watching us all warily, called to Mary. He handed her the sword, point first. Had she attempted to snatch it and use it (but she was a docile creature) he could have run her through. Leaving her holding it, he backed away from her, said to her and Sally, “You two! Inter the water, an’ get his fish-faced highness inter this lot!”
They obeyed him, wading out to where the porpoise was waiting. He submitted to their ministrations with a good grace, rolling over when required, twisting his big, scarred body to make their work easier. The sight should have been shocking — the two women there in the water, body servants to a member of a once inferior race — but somehow it was not. There was a natural dignity about Noah, a quality of leadership that was evident in spite of his form. Surely, I was thinking, it will be possible for our two peoples to live in mutually advantageous harmony …
They adjusted the last strap and buckle, stepped back.
Cautiously, adjusting to the shift of his centre of gravity, trying to get the feel of the blade, Noah turned until he was facing out to seaward, started to swim away from us, slowly at first and then building up to his normal speed. He turned again, then leapt high into the air, the blade flashing in the sunlight, the scarlet harness a brave splash of colour against the sea. Like a fantastic sea-war-horse he came charging in to the beach, pulled up short in the shallow water, the blade uplifted like a lance.
“Good,” he said thickly. “It is good.”
“Of course it’s muckin’ good,” said Green modestly. “Next, please.”
The next was Moby Dick. He was given the only other painted harness; the straps of this one were picked out in white enamel. He was not as patient during his fitting as Noah had been. But was it impatience? I did not like the way that he was nuzzling Sally’s thigh. And neither did she. Her face at first expressed irritation — and then there were the beginnings of fear.
“Green,” I protested, “can’t you see what he’s doing?”
“Time somebody had some fun with that frozen bitch,” he grunted. But he said harshly, “Lay off it, Moby Dick! Otherwise we never get this muckin’ job finished!”
One by one the porpoises were armed — twelve of them, counting the two leaders. I cannot say with any certainty how the remaining ten were selected; it seemed to me that some of them were from the guard escorting Noah and some of them from Moby Dick’s patrol. But, I thought, in any case Moby Dick was doing the selecting. I did not know what was about to happen, but I could guess. Again it seemed imperative that I give Noah some sort of warning, but he was far offshore now, and the other armed porpoises were between him and the beach.
Curley Green was surveying the outcome of his handiwork with pride. “Like cavalry …” he muttered, half to himself, watching the bravely flashing swords. “Like … Like …” He grinned as inspiration came to him. “Like the bleedin’ horse marines!”
Moby Dick, his white harness distinctive, was cruising just off the beach. He turned to face Green, lifting his head well clear of the water. “Now?” he demanded. “Now, Gurley?”
“Yes, now! Go fer yer bleedin’ life, yer fish-faced bastard!”
Moby Dick whistled loudly. Like a bugle call, it was. Three of his adherents fell in on either side of him, the remaining four swam in his wake as he sped out to where Noah was still leaping, plunging and turning, still working out for himself the limits that his armament had placed upon his maneuverability.
Noah sensed the danger, turned to face it. And he whistled, and a few — but only a few — of the unarmed porpoises ranged themselves around their leader, and of that few, fully half deserted in the face of the onrushing blades. Those who did not desert stood firm — and then the swords were into them. We heard them scream, saw the red stain that suddenly spread on the sea, saw the sword bearers leap and wheel, their blades held high. It may have been the ruddy light of the setting sun that made them seem that colour — surely the blood would have been washed off them at the moment of withdrawal. Not that it mattered. They were bloodied again — and then the last of Noah’s supporters took flight.
And there were Noah and Moby Dick, fighting it out between themselves in the wide circle kept clear by Moby Dick’s guards. For a long time — it seemed — they circled each other warily, dorsal fins barely breaking the surface, only an occasional gleam of brightly painted harness and metal identifying them to those of us watching from the beach. There was the occasional feint but, so far, neither thrust nor parry. The swordfish uses his weapon instinctively. The porpoises, like men, had to learn how to use theirs. The initial slaughter — steel blades skewering unarmed opponents — had been easy enough; this first meeting of equally armed adversaries was different.
“What are yer waitin’ for?” Curley Green was muttering. “What are yer scared about? Go on, yer stupid bastard, finish him!”
And that, I thought, won’t be so easy. Noah is older, more experienced. He’s been in more fights. And when Moby Dick is finished I doubt if his pals will carry on the fight …
“Get a bleedin’ move on, Moby Dick!” Green shouted. “Don’t let him bluff yer!”
And as his words broke the silence there was a sudden clamour from the sea people, an outburst of snorting and whistling, a few snatches of Morse, a few almost unintelligible words.
And then it was quiet again, save for the sighing of the almost calm sea along the shoreline, save for that other sighing that was the breathing of the sea beasts.
I looked out and saw the flash of scarlet harness. Noah was closing in. I saw the flash of white trappings as Moby Dick wheeled to face him, swinging his unarmoured flank out of the way of the probing blade. I saw the gleam of steel as Noah thrust, as Moby Dick parried.
And I heard Noah scream as the other’s blade went home.
He leapt high out of the water, the wound in his side streaming blood. But it was not that deep gash that held the attention, it was the oddly naked appearance of his head. Momentarily I was puzzled, then saw that although the helmet-like plate was still in place, although the scarlet harness was secure, the blade itself was missing.
Curley Green was chuckling. “I bet that gave the fish-faced old bastard a shock,” he grunted.
Again Noah propelled himself clear of the surface — scant inches, it seemed, above the tip of Moby Dick’s blade. This time he fell squarely a-top his enemy with what must have been stunning impact. With what should have been stunning impact … For the white harnessed Moby Dick was still fully mobile, was wheeling smartly to bring his blade to bear once more. And the other armed porpoises were closing in, and there was no doubt as to with whom their allegiance lay.
Noah whistled — a surprisingly soft sound, a forlorn sound. There were bugles in it — bugles calling Retreat. He broke through the circle of his enemies — but perhaps they made way for him, perhaps only Moby Dick would take up arms against the leader — and swam out to sea. In spite of his wound he was making good speed; without the blade to hamper him, better speed than his armed pursuers.
He might survive; he probably would survive, but alone, without followers. And without followers he would find it impossible to repeat his past performance, his past near miracle of organisation, the sinking of ships and the conscription of human hands to work for the handless sea people, the setting up of an armaments factory.
But there were followers — a scant twenty or so …
Followers — or pursuers?
Followers — for Moby Dick’s armed guard attacked them viciously, killing two of them, possibly three.
And then the survivors, unhampered by the weight and awkwardness of sword and harness, had vanished seawards in the wake of the deposed leader.