CHAPTER 10
"In which nothing beats a captain on deck."
Tintin motioned for the others to be silent and to crouch down. He pulled Snowy to him, put a hand on his neck to soothe the dog and parted the branches to see what had set his faithful companion on alert.
In the frozen forest, the black and skeletal trees soared like shadows in a puppet show against the crimson twilight sky. Dark figures were waving at each other in between them in the distance: green uniforms, guns flashing briefly, dogs pulling on their leashes.
- "Thundering Typhoons! The Bordurians!" gasped the captain who had come to lean over the reporter's shoulder.
Behind them, the Thompsons stifled a dramatic squeal. Frowning, Calculus was overturning all his pockets in search of his acoustic horn… which Nestor was holding out to him, imperturbable.
Tintin quickly rummaged in Haddock's knapsack.
- "Come on, let's go," he whispered, pushing his companions through the thickets in the general direction they had followed so far. "We can still reach the lake in time."
He paused just for a moment and Snowy snorted indignantly before running ahead of them. Haddock turned to wait for the young reporter and couldn't help but smile when he realized Tintin was peppering their trail. Ah, what a good idea it had been to take Nestor with them on these holidays! Other than Oliveira Da Figueira, the captain couldn't think of anyone else who might have had so many unexpected and oddly useful things in their luggage.
Tintin caught up with him and urged him to move forward. They hurried through the forest, trying to be as discreet as possible. The night was gradually swallowing the bushes, the trees, the ruts. With just the pale moon as light, they were stumbling over roots, scratched by brambles, slipping on patches of hard snow, bumping into stumps. They crossed a stream which water was so cold they almost let out a cry when it submerged their ankles, and had to help each other up a muddy embankment, before they stopped again to listen to their pursuers.
A ghostly fog was now rising from the frozen black earth. The barking of the dogs and the hoarse shouts of the Bordurians seemed sometimes far away and sometimes too close.
The infernal race resumed. Their hearts were pounding in their chests, adrenaline was lashing their exhausted bodies, making them forget for a moment their side stitches, their quivering legs, their scrapes and bruises.
The captain was leading the way, arms crossed in front of his face to protect himself from the branches, rushing on like a bulldozer. Nestor was following close, supporting Calculus whose scrawny legs were knitting as fast as he could. The Thompsons, distraught and sweating, came next. Tintin was watching their rear and occasionally helping the policemen out of a rabbit hole (they seemed to set foot in every single burrow in the forest).
Finally, they emerged into a fallow field on the edge of the woods and, through the blue mist, they made out the buildings of a farm.
- "Quick!" panted Tintin. "The dogs will have a hard time finding our trail in other animal scents."
The others nodded, out of breath. They made their way to a vegetable garden, scrambled over a low wall made of old stones and hid just in time under an awning protecting a pile of wood.
Snowy growled again. Tintin closed a hand on his muzzle to calm him down.
The soldiers, who had almost caught up with them, had stopped at the edge of the forest to take their orders. The beams of their lamps were hovering in the fog. Their guttural calls didn't bode well, and the reporter urged his friends to go on.
They plodded around a stable where cows were chewing the cud placidly and had to bend over to pass under the lighted windows of the house, praying for the briard inside, who was greedily eating his soup, to not sound the alarm. They crossed then the next field and found themselves facing barbed wire that the shadow of the trees on the other side had hidden from them.
Haddock got tangled up and shredded his clothes. Tintin freed him with Nestor's help, then had to shake awake Calculus who had fallen asleep standing against the tree beside which he had been left and who Snowy was pulling in vain by the hem of his pants. The Thompsons called out to them softly: the lake was very close, beyond a barrier of brambles. You could make out its dark, shimmering surface in the night mist.
- "We have to find the harbor," gasped the reporter. "We can't just take any boat; they would catch up with us too easily. We need a speed-"
A fit of coughing cut him off. Curling to contain the pain in his ribs, he tried to catch his breath and, for a few moments, seemed unable to do so. The terrified captain grabbed his arm to steady him when he staggered, but did not dare to pat his back for fear of doing him more harm than good. Nestor uncorked his gourd to pour him some water. Snowy was whimpering pitifully, pressed against his master's legs, his eyes like black marbles reflecting an almost human concern.
- "They are coming!" Thompson squeaked in a low voice while Thomson waved frantically, not able to find his words.
- "To the port", managed Tintin between two wheezing intakes.
His lips were blue, and his nostrils pinched. He spit out some pinkish foam, straightened up with a terrible effort of will, leaning on the captain, and motioned the policemen to keep moving forward.
His eyes were bright in the dim light. He was burning with fever, but his ideas were still very clear.
The port. A speedboat. The Rocks of the Trident. Niko and Nouchka – help.
Saving his friends.
They set off again, skirting the barrier of brambles, looking for a passage. The lake was lapping against the shore, very close, inaccessible. The hem of the waves was glinting, silvery, as they came to lick the foggy banks.
Finally, they came to a gap between two groves which gave onto a small beach. The first houses of the village stood near the pontoon which jutted out onto the dark lake, fading into the bluish mist like a passage to the beyond.
A few boats with peeling paint were swaying gently in the port. A cat bristled and fled when it saw them. Nestor grabbed Snowy just in time and gagged him with a firm glove.
- "There are no motorboats," the captain muttered, feeling anger bubbling through him with nervous and physical exhaustion, fueled by the anxiety devouring him. "Who made up a country of bachi-bazouks like this?"
- "The Syldavians… called… the artificial lake… "the cursed place"… last time we were there", slurred Tintin. "Chances are… the Bordurian farmers are just… as superstitious and… don't venture… out on it… much more than their neighbors."
- "Save your breath, son," Haddock groaned.
He changed his position slightly, making sure to better support the young man. The reporter was growing weaker by the minute. His breathing was more and more difficult, his legs gave way under him, his head sometimes rolled to the side as if he was about to lose consciousness.
- "Here!" one of the Thompsons called in a low voice from the other end of the harbor – in the darkness and the fog it was difficult to know which one. "A speedboat!"
The captain stifled a nervous laugh when he got to the chubby little man and saw his twin colleague standing in a boat that clearly belonged ... to the bordurian police.
- "Quick, Nestor," he said.
The butler nodded and climbed down to the boat. They first maneuvered to help Calculus on board, then helped Tintin get down. Once the reporter was seated at the back of the you-you, the captain handed Snowy to Nestor, then stepped down the few rusty rungs.
It was time. The soldiers were out on the beach and their dogs were pulling on their leashes, barking furiously.
- "Hurry! Get started!" cried Haddock.
But Thomson had tangled himself in the moorings and Thompson was staring in perplexity at the eight knot at the end of the throwing line.
- "Oh, pour l'amour du Ciel ! Let me do it, you nitwitted ninepins!"
He stepped over Calculus, shoved aside the police officers who almost tumbled overboard, and leaned over the old outboard motor. With a nimble and precise movement, he untied the knot, wound the line on the pulley, turned at the point of compression and put the line on sharply – blessing the many times he had seen Tintin do this on one of their adventures.
The speedboat hiccupped, spluttered and roared on, throwing itself forward, biting the waves in a splash.
Shots erupted behind them. A bullet lunged into the rail, sending shards of wood flying off – one of them stuck into the cheek of the captain who did not notice it. The Thompsons were clutching their bowler hats, shrinking as much as they could. Nestor had put Calculus at the bottom of the dinghy and the professor, who understood nothing, was struggling to get free. Tintin was holding Snowy close to him. The dog was barking furiously, but he stayed put – he was trained to flatten out on the ground when bullets were fizzing around.
The fog swallowed them into its icy, thick, damp veil and the sputtering noise of the engine was soon the only thing to be heard over the dark silent lake.
Haddock prayed they were going in the right direction. There was no way he could orient himself in this peasouper of a night. He ran the back of his sleeve over his weathered forehead to wipe away the sweat dripping there, then turned to examine his companions, without letting go of the helm.
- "Everyone okay?"
Nestor, pale, weakly nodded his horsey chin as he helped a puzzled and dizzy Calculus to sit up. The professor was rubbing his head, eyes half-closed, glasses askew. He had lost his hat and his hair was frizzing all over the place, but he looked otherwise unharmed. The Thompsons were chattering like crazy, but they seemed in one piece. Snowy was licking Tintin's face. The reporter was breathing with difficulty, his arms cradling his chest. He leaned his exhausted neck against the rail and gave his friend a long look.
"Take us home. I'm counting on you. The lives of our friends are in your hands."
The captain nodded silently, his throat tight, submerged once more by the absolute trust Tintin had in him despite all the times he had failed him.
Perhaps that was the reporter's greatest strength: he never had any doubts about humanity, about the selfish goals and the blackness of heart of his contemporaries. If he discerned the slightest spark of goodness in you, he believed in it so strongly that it stoked this fragile flame until it became a burning fire that kept you from ever coming back to your previous ways.
Haddock had seen Piotr Skut undergo this transformation and turn from a hardened mercenary to the most loyal of allies after just a few hours on a raft with the young reporter. He knew that Nestor could have lean towards his former masters' side if the young man had not defended him immediately. He was also convinced that Franck Wolff would never have given his life to save them if Tintin had not resolutely taken him back into their ranks on their return from the Moon...
People could say whatever they wanted about Le Petit Vingtième's boy-scout, whose apparent naivety they laughed at. They were wrong. Haddock knew that his friend made a terribly lucid choice every day, every time he looked at the world and at the people living in it: he purposely decided to give them yet another chance, despite the consequences it might have for him. He deliberately placed himself on the side of hope, ready to endure betrayals, disappointments, eternal apologies.
The Tibetan monks had been right. It took the pure heart of a child to see beauty in the world, but a man's courage to tirelessly decide to believe that people could change.
A hand touched the captain's shoulder and he flinched, pulled from his thoughts. His eyes returned to the black waves hemmed with silver that were splashing at the bow of the dinghy. The thick fog was beading his beard with brilliant droplets and weighing down his clothes that were already soaked with the sweat from their mad rush and the dampness of the snow.
- "How far is this Rock of the Fork?" Thompson asked, leaning towards him to be heard despite the noise of the engine.
- "Close enough to get to safety before that bunch of galloping gophers catch up with us, I hope," Haddock scoffed, rubbing his tired eyes. "It had taken us an hour or so with a police speedboat to get to it from the Syldavian shore when we were chasing after Rastapopoulos."
- "Do you want me to take the helm so you can rest for a while?"
The captain shuddered at the idea of the dinghy accidentally hitting reefs and sinking in that nightmare night.
- "No, that'll be fine, thank you."
He did not have Tintin's faith when it came to humanity and he had too often paid the price for the Thompsons' clumsiness to entrust them with his ship – however little it was.
- "I understand," said the small plump man with a mustache, nodding. "You're the captain. It is indeed you who you should be on deck."
Haddock grinned.
- "Aye."
He watched as the policeman tottered back to his seat, fearing that he might entangle his feet in a rope and fall overboard, then heaved an imperceptible sigh of relief when Thompson was seated next to his colleague who was snoozing under his bowler hat.
Nestor and Calculus were slumbering, leaning against each other. Snowy was watching the fog, ears pricked up. Tintin gently caressed his back, also attentive despite the cough that was shaking him from time to time and the fever still bright in his eyes.
Pulling up the collar of his jacket, the captain concentrated on the lake and the blue mist in front of him. The slightest dark shadow could be a fatal reef, a speedboat ready to ambush them – a submarine cunningly hidden in the sunken village.
Fortunately, the engine was purring regularly. It would have been really bad luck for it to…
Snowy growled. Tintin straightened up as best he could, stifling a moan when the movement pulled on his broken ribs. Frowning, he scanned the fog surrounding them on all sides. His breath condensed slightly above the rail. Haddock felt a drop of icy sweat slowly trickle down his spine.
Hadn't the engine been particularly noisy for the last few minutes?
As if…
As if there were two speedboats on the lake.
The dark form of the other one grew in the night, menacingly. Its prow tore the fog and a searchlight suddenly was turned on, dazzling the exhausted passengers slumped in the small dinghy the waves were tossing about.
Haddock made a move to turn the boat around in a desperate maneuver, but at the same time a voice fell from the other boat, amplified by a loudspeaker.
- "Hält, Kapitan! Noh dzem buthsz… uh… Syldavia Police! Friends!"
For a few moments the world was completely silent. Then, Haddock's legs trembled beneath him, his ears tingled and a hint of laughter that was perhaps also a sob choked in his throat.
- "Saved!" he gasped.
He sat down heavily, while the Thompsons awkwardly stood up to cheer for their Syldavian counterparts - and ended their grand gestures of welcome with an inevitable dive into the lake. Nestor was stammering thanks and retrospective lamentations (he was already starting a list of all the things they had left on the mountain). Calculus wiped his glasses off, shaking his head in both disapproval and amusement as he watched the policemen splashing and sputtering. Snowy barked happily, leaping against the railing, wagging his tail at full speed.
Too exhausted to help the customs officers to tie the dinghy to their speedboat, the captain let himself drown into the fuzzy feeling that everything would be fine now, that he no longer needed to be strong. He turned his head to look at Tintin. The young reporter had not moved, his head still leaning against the rail. They shared a long, silent look, then giggled, exactly at the same time.
- "Remind me to never take the plane again," Haddock stammered, eyes moistening.
- "Next time, let's take the train", hiccupped Tintin with a nervous laugh.
- "No thank you", groaned the captain. "With our luck, we'd still end up in a detached wagon at the bottom of a cliff."
He fumbled in the dark, found the reporter's arm and squeezed it lightly.
- "Next time we have the brilliant idea of taking a break, let's stay at Marlinspike Hall."
- "Right", stammered Tintin. "Next time, let's stay at home."
The searchlight of the Syldavian speedboat was reflected in Lake Flechizaff, flickering on the black waves like a full moon. The sailors were bustling about, wrapping the survivors in blankets, pouring out cups of coffee and giving around pats on the back. A radio crackled, informing the other boats the castaways had been found.
Haddock felt his eyelids shutting on their own again and he stopped fighting it. He still saw that they were taking care of Tintin, heard in a haze that someone was asking him something, but did not try to answer.
It was over.
The nightmare was over.
His hand let go of the young reporter's sleeve, falling limply to the bottom of the boat, and he let himself sink into the blissful darkness.
TBC