frank mosco
~ novelist ~ journalist ~
~ photographer ~
Frank Mosco Author/Photographer
United States
frankmos
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Here is your serialization of the award winning novel "Monkey" by Frank Mosco.
Chapter 4
* for October 21st thru 27th, 2018 *
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CHAPTER 4
The Crimson Glory
The rain earlier in the day soaked and rested on the Princeton field just waiting to be churned into a slosh of ugly muck, a deep muddy muck interspersed with a tint of the remaining green grass of the season. Churned up as it had been for the past few hours by the spiked footwear of a group of tired sweaty collegiate gladiators who were now gathered head to head in a circle, interlocked and rocking to and fro to finally explode from the scrummage into a violent tumultuous effort to gain possession and control of that oversized leather egg they called a ball. As they did, the grunts of effort and physical stress mixed with the groans of fleeting physical pain and brutal contact. They fought and scrapped, shins and feet, shoulders and elbows, teeth and gritty turf, all collided and mixed in a vicious symphony of chaos called rugby, a game of endurance and incredible determination. It was also a game loved by our two intrepid ivy leaguers, Stanley and Bart, who were there in the middle of it all running with the best of them. Trying to identify who was who however was a mere guess at best for they were all so encrusted in the brown stew of the wet ball field that their only discernable individual feature seemed to be the color of their eyes. Yet through the fatigue and strain of the game those same eyes flashed bright with excitement and challenge.
“How does it feel to have your stuck-up ass rolling in the mud with the rest of us commoners?” huffed Bart as he ran past Stanley.
“How else can I achieve the level of my idol and…”
He was suddenly interrupted when he was blind sided, blocked and sent rolling to the ground. Bart came to his aid, extended a muddy hand and helped him up.
“Idol. What idol?”
“Bart Haile of course,” laughed Stanley, wiping mud from his face. “You know, that guy who laughs in the face of danger, would crawl through hell to reach the stars, leaves the ladies swooning in his absence.”
“Damn. Sounds like quite a guy. Like to meet him some time,” laughed Bart.
“The opportunity may very well come, my man,” smiled Stanley.
“Also sounds like your brain is overheating again.”
“We’ll only be young once, my man. If it’s to be done it’s to be done now.”
“Oh no. Don’t start that again,” said Bart as he turned away, wiping the mud from his hands. “I’m comfortable right where I am. Right here in the mud with the sane people.”
The sudden shrill of a whistle froze each player in his muddy tracks and another halted the match altogether, allowing the exhausted players to finally drag themselves off the field. The group of young men caught their breath at the sideline as they gathered their gear then wearily headed for the locker room, moving in a manner reminiscent of a troop of wrung out World War I doughboys coming off a month in the trenches. Bart and Stanley were accompanied by an exceptionally large muscular young man known as Big Tiny Braxton who sucked on a slightly bent and muddied cigar and seemed to tower over another shorter student player by the name of Geoffrey Chrisfield, a geology major. Big Tiny and Chrisfield listened as Bart and Stanley engaged in a conversation that had begun earlier that day and continued through most of the weekly rugby club match.
“You can’t be serious, Stanley. He was just some old sailor spouting a bullshit story,” insisted Bart. “That’s what old sailors do when they can’t sail any more. They sit around and get drunk and embellish little old stories until they’re great big new lies.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so. What do you mean you don’t think so? You thought that old codger was a loose duck from the minute you saw him but now you don’t think so?”
“Well, I’ve reconsidered.”
“No, you’re trying to fend off that family beast of yours,” insisted Bart as he began exploring a foreign object lodged somewhere in his shorts. “But it’s going to come around and bite you in the ass if you don’t wise up.”
“Now there you go again, Bart. Overreacting,” said Stanley. “Just like you did when I had that affair with that Turkish belly dancer.”
“I thought I had the affair with the Turkish belly dancer,” asked a confused Bart.
“You did. That’s why you overreacted when I did.”
Big Tiny looked to Chrisfield, “This is starting to get good. I didn’t know about the Turkish belly dancer.”
“You didn’t? I thought everybody knew about that Turkish belly dancer,” replied Chrisfield.
“How the hell did you know about the Turkish belly dancer,” asked Bart, turning to Chrisfield.
Chrisfield offered only a smile in response.
“Bart, where’s your lawyers logic?” asked Stanley. “If the information validates the potential outcome then it’s essential that we pursue the course.”
“What…what information? What course?” demanded Bart. “And what the hell does that mean anyway?”
Chrisfield tried to offer an explanation, “It means that…”
“I know what it means,” insisted Bart, interrupting Chrisfield. “It means, I still don’t know how the hell you found out about that Turkish belly dancer.”
“There, you see?” offered Stanley. “The Turkish belly dancer. The perfect example.”
“Of what?” asked a frustrated Bart.
“It’s about adventure and exploration and opportunity. It’s about choosing between a sexy Turkish belly dancer and just another day at the office.”
“Yeah,” agreed Bart. “But you don’t have to go all the way around the world for that kind of adventure.”
“Sorry Bart, but you have a vested interest in this venture and I won’t let you refrain from your obligations,” insisted Stanley.
“Vested? I’m not vested, I’m sensible and you’re obsessed. You’ve been obsessed with this idea ever since last Christmas. Get a damn grip on yourself, will ya.”
“I took the map to the archeology department and Professor Huckstep over there said it was authentic.”
“So what. That only means it’s old. Doesn’t mean it’s real. My grandmother’s old but that doesn’t mean she’s the Queen of England.”
“Is the queen of England old,” Big Tiny asked Chrisfield.
“Don’t know,” shrugged Chrisfield. “Never met her.”
Bart reached down to finally discover and carefully removed the irritating chunk of muddy sod from inside his shorts. Looking at the clump of sod he observed, “This is what I subject myself to, balls in the mud and brains in the clouds. You see, playing this game is just as ridiculous as pursuing a sailor’s yarn. Why do we do this? Why do I do this? And why the hell would you want to chase an old sailor’s fable anyway?”
“Because the game is good for the soul,” answered Stanley. “And so is the pursuit of fortune and glory. Besides you love rugby. You said it yourself, something about releasing all your inhibitions, although I can’t imagine you having any.”
“It’s a bunch of boys chasing a ball around in the mud. How’s that good for the soul?”
Chrisfield looked up at the towering Big Tiny Braxton, “Boys? What boys?”
“It’s an uncharted island, remember?” continued Bart. “It doesn’t even have a name. You can’t prove it’s there if it’s not there… not charted. I mean… Well, you know what I mean.”
“Exactly. If it were charted then everybody would know about it and there wouldn’t be any diamonds would there? Not only that, I had the old sailor’s ship, the Saint Jane, researched. Her disappearance is a matter of record just like the old guy said. And why are you objecting so much anyway? The map’s half yours. You’ll be a full partner.”
“Yeah, like that old sailor. He was a partner and all he came away with was a sliced up face and a bum leg. And his life, barely,” replied Bart. “Um, if you can believe him, that is.”
Chrisfield, listening with intense interest, tried to offer an observation but couldn’t get a word in over Bart’s continued animated protests.
“Actually, I think…”
“Crazy,” Bart interrupted Chrisfield. “Just plain crazy. Maybe not for you but crazy for me. You can afford to gamble, you’ve got nothing to lose but I could lose everything.”
“Bart, you don’t have anything,” observed Stanley.
“Yeah, that’s true. But I’m on my way to having more of it.”
Stanley and Big Tiny looked to Bart, puzzled.
Chrisfield tried again, “You know, it’s not so…”
“And what about your father?” Bart interrupted Chrisfield again. He’s not exactly fond of the idea. He could cut you off. Disinherit you. Then what will you do?”
A knowing sly smile crawled over Stanley’s dirty mud caked face that was quickly detected by Bart.
“What?” asked an aggravated Bart. “What? I‘ve seen that look before. When you absconded with that Turkish belly dancer.”
“You have to tell me about that Turkish belly dancer,” Big Tiny said to Chrisfield.
“Don’t you tell him anything,” ordered Bart.
“Well, she had this mustache,” Chrisfield told Big Tiny. “And a really big…”
“Imagination,” interrupted Bart.
Stanley continued his smile in silence as they walked on to the locker room where they found the rest of the muddy Princeton rugby doughboys shedding their filthy uniforms and entering the showers. The four young men did the same and as the water transformed them from sweaty mud people to a more recognizable species, Bart continued to argue his case.
“It’s just insane that’s all,” Bart‘s voice echoed off the tiled shower walls. “We’d need a ship and a crew and if that old sailor’s telling the truth… a howitzer canon… a small army. Hell, maybe a large army. Not that that old guy included a lot of details. And then maybe…”
Chrisfield finally broke in, determined to offer his opinion, “You know Wellington, it’s not really that far fetched, quite reasonable in fact. Diamonds are usually found at the site of formerly active volcanoes. Pushed up from far below the earth’s surface millions of years ago. As we all know the Pacific Ocean and especially that part of the world is just littered with volcanic islands.”
“There you go, Bart,” Stanley offered in defense. “Chrisfield here is a geology major. He doesn’t think it’s so crazy.”
“Yeah well, I’m a law major but that doesn’t mean I can kick Al Capone’s ass,” replied Bart as he dug some mud from his ear. “Volcanoes? I didn’t know that. Oh that’s even better. Phony maps, mysterious beast, volcanoes. Yeah, we’ll certainly need an army all right. An army of psychiatrists.”
“An army,” echoed Stanley who went on to shower in silent thought until an idea evolved and the smile returned. Then when he exited the shower Stanley went to the center of the locker room, stood atop a bench and turned to face the rest of the members of the rugby club.
“Gentlemen, may I have your attention!”
The young men, some still muddy and some clean, all gathered around. Bart moved to his locker, curious and wary of the look on Stanley’s face.
“Gentlemen, I’d like to tell you all a story about an old sailor and a map,” began Stanley.
Bart, dejected, plopped down on a bench and plunged his wet face into a towel.
There was no fog on this evening nor was there any moon to speak of, resulting in the large sign which hung near the entrance of the dock to be barely readable. The headlights of an approaching vehicle however, momentarily brought the sign to life just long enough to make out the faded lettering that boldly proclaimed WELLINGTON SHIPPING LINES. The shiny black Duesenberg limousine glided prominently past the sign, through the gate and along the dock, its top uncharacteristically stacked safari like with assorted gear and baggage. Eventually the limousine eased to a full stop near the foot of a gangplank where its chauffeur exited the car and quickly opened the rear door. From inside emerged Stanley and Bart looking up to discover a classic three-masted ship. It was the Crimson Glory, a big, beamy, proud, well-seasoned cargo ship and yes, one of those prized vessels immortalized under glass in the Wellington library.
Above, Captain Horatio Buckmaster, a man in his mid 40s, experienced and confident, came to the side of the ship and peered down at the arriving limousine. He then called to some nearby crewmen, “You men there. Go ashore and bring up that gear.”
“Aye Skipper,” replied the crewmen as they quickly obeyed and made way down the gangplank to assist the new arrivals. As they began dislodging and unloading the baggage and gear another passenger emerged from the vehicle, grandfather Wellington. As usual, he wore an aged but comfortable English wool sporting coat, a silk scarf, and his favorite tweed touring cap. Essentially he was no different than on the night of the Christmas gala and as usual, not caring whom he did or did not impress by his appearance. After exiting the vehicle he looked up to the ship and grew an affectionate smile.
Upon seeing the elder Wellington, Captain Buckmaster offered up a respectful salute of recognition that Wellington acknowledged with a casual salute of his own.
Stanley, with a sea bag slung over his shoulder, came to his grandfather’s side.
“Grandfather, I…”
The old man looked on him with pride and approval. “No need for words, son,” he politely interrupted. “I only wish I were going with you.”
They shook hands until the formal handshake grew into a manly embrace. Stanley then turned away and finding a space between the crewmen hauling the gear up the gangplank, began to ascend when he was accidentally bumped by another crewman on his way down.
“Oh, sorry, me boyo.”
It was the Wellington’s Christmas Gala Irish poet doorman who after bumping into and apologizing to Stanley glanced over to grandfather Wellington and offered up a restrained confidential salute of his own. The senior Wellington nodded recognition then turned to Bart who was loaded down with baggage as he started for the ship.
“Mr. Haile,” Called Wellington.
Bart stopped and turned. Perceiving and understanding the look on Wellington’s face he offered without hesitation, “I will, sir. Like he was my own brother.”
The old man nodded appreciation and Bart turned away to board the ship.
As he ascended the gangplank he continued mumbling to himself, “A brother? What kind of a brother would do this to me? Crazy son of a…”
Bart looked up to fully appreciate the ship for the first time, growing more apprehensive as he viewed its daunting complex characteristics.
“Oh boy, it’s a boat. It’s a real boat. I don’t know shit about boats. And on the ocean, that’s great too. I’m going to puke. I’m going to puke all the way to… wherever the hell… Uncharted… Perdition. That’s what that crazy old salt called it, perdition.”
With Stanley and Bart safely aboard the elder Wellington gave the ship a final look of approval then turned and entered his limousine.
Moments later the vehicle cruised slowly near one of the Wellington warehouses coming to a halt near the building’s shadowy entrance. Grandfather Wellington sat patiently while the door of the Duesenberg opened. Out of the shadows limped the old sailor who paused, acknowledged Wellington with a friendly nod and slid easily onto the seat next to him. The chauffeur closed the door then drove the two men off into the night.
END CHAPTER 4
Be sure and return next week for Chapter 5.
Don't forget to look for the special free gift to be given with the release and introduction of the Monkey sequel titled,
~ On Still Waters ~
Chapter 5
Goodby Lady Liberty
Frank Mosco Author/Photographer
United States
frankmos