The below decks emptied as the boatswain and his mates roused all the men from both watches with their starter ropes, driving them up to stations.
“Bring her about!” shouted the captain from his perch on the quarterdeck. The dignified figure of Lieutenant Bishop echoed the order, which Mister Temple repeated.
“Helm-a-lee!” shouted the captain. Once more, the order echoed across the decks. Wyatt spun the ship’s great wheel.
“Tacks and sheets!” Lieutenant Bishop barked to the crew.
At the mizzen, main, and foremasts the other lieutenants shouted more orders which the boatswains reinforced.
Hadrian stood on the main deck in the dark and drizzling rain, unsure of his station or even if he had one. He was a cook after all, but it seemed even a cook was expected to lend a hand on deck when necessary. He still felt ill, but Royce appeared worse. Hadrian watched as Boatswain Bristol, a big burly man, ordered him up the ropes waving his short whip menacingly. Drained of color, Royce’s face and hands stood out pale in the dark, his eyes unfocused and empty. He reluctantly moved up the main mast’s ratlines, but he did not display any of the acrobatics of the day before. Instead, he crawled miserably and hesitated partway up. He hovered in the wet rigging as if he might fall. From below Bristol cursed at him until, at last, he moved upward once more. Hadrian imagined that the higher into the rigging Royce went, the more pronounced the sway of the ship would be. Between that, the slippery wet ropes, and the cold wind-driven rain, he did not envy his friend.
Several men were working the ropes that controlled the direction of the sails, but others, like him, remained idle waiting in lines, which the boatswains formed. There was a tension evident in the silence of the crew. The booming of the headlands grew louder and closer, sounding like the pounding of a giant’s hammer or the heartbeat of a god. They seemed to be flying blindly into the maw of some enormous unseen beast that would swallow them whole. The reality, Hadrian imagined, would not be much different should they come too close to the shoals.
All eyes watched the figure of Captain Seward, anticipating something. The ship was turning, he could tell by the feel of the wind and the direction of the rain. The sails once full and taut began to flutter and collapsed as the bow crossed over into the face of the wind.
“Main’sl haul!” the captain suddenly shouted, and the crew cast off the bow lines and braces.
Seeing the movements Hadrian realized the strategy. They were attempting a windward tack around the dangerous point, which meant the wind would be blowing the ship’s hull toward the treacherous rocks even as they struggled to reset the sails to catch the wind from the other side. The danger came from the lack of maneuverability caused by empty sails during the tack. Without the wind driving the ship, the rudder could not push against the water and turn her. If the ship could not come about fully, it would not be able to catch the wind again. If that happened they would drift into the shoals, which would shatter the timbered hull like an eggshell and cast the cargo and crew into a dark angry sea.
Hadrian took hold of the rope in his line and along with several others pulled the yards round, repositioning the sails to catch the wind as soon as she was able. The rope was slick and the wind jerked the coil so roughly that it took the whole line to pull the yards safely into position.
There was another deafening boom as the breakwater exploded and over the port bow a burst of white spray shot skyward. The vessel was turning fast now, pulling away from the foam, struggling to get clear. No sooner had the bow cleared the wind then he heard the captain, “Now! Meet her! Hard over!”
His voice was nearly lost as another powerful wave rammed the rocks just beside them, throwing the Emerald Storm’s bow upward with a rough lurch that staggered them all. On the quarterdeck, Wyatt followed the order, spinning the wheel back, checking the swing before the ship could turn too far and lose her stern into the rocks.
Overhead Hadrian heard a scream.
Looking up he saw the figure of a man fall from the mainsail rigging. His body landed a dozen steps away with a sickening thud. All eyes looked at the prone figure lying like a dark stain on the deck, but none dared move from their stations. Hadrian strained to see who it was. The man lay face down and in the dim light it was difficult to tell anything.
Could it be Royce?
Normally he would never have questioned his friend’s climbing skills, but with his sickness, the motion of the ship, and his inexperience, it was possible he could have slipped.
“Haul off all!” Mister Temple shouted, ignoring the fallen man and the crew pulled upon the sheets and braces, once more capturing the wind. The sails bloomed full and Hadrian felt the lurch under his feet as the ship burst forward once more, heaving into the waves now steering out to the open sea.
“Doctor Levy on deck!” Mister Bishop shouted.
Hadrian rushed over the instant he could, but stopped short seeing the tattoo of the mermaid on the dead man’s forearm.
“It’s Edgar Drew, sir. He’s dead, sir!” Bristol shouted to the quarterdeck, as he knelt next to the fallen man.
Several sailors gathered around the body, glancing upward at the mainsail shrouds until the boatswain’s mates took them to task. Hadrian thought he could see Royce up near the top yard, but in the dark he could not be sure. Still, he must have been close by when Drew fell.
The boatswain broke up the crowd and Hadrian, once more unsure of his duty, stood idle. The first light of dawn arrived revealing a dull gray sky above a dull gray sea that lurched and rolled like a terrible dark beast.
“Cook!” A voice barked sharply.
Hadrian turned to see a young boy not much older than Poe, but wearing the jacket and braid of an officer. He stood with a firm-set jaw and a posture so stiff he seemed made of wood. His cheeks were flushed red with the cool night air and rainwater ran off the end of his nose.
“Aye, sir?” Hadrian replied, taking a guess it would be the right response.
“We are securing from all hands. You’re free to fire the stove and get the meal ready.”
Not knowing anything better to say Hadrian replied, “Aye, aye.” He turned to head for the galley.
“Cook!” the boy-officer snapped, disapprovingly.
Hadrian pivoted as sharply as he could, recalling some of his military training. “Aye, sir?” he responded once more feeling a bit stupid at his limited vocabulary.
“You neglected to salute me,” he said, hotly. “I’m putting you on report. What’s your name?”
“Hadrian, sir. Blackwater, sir.”
“I’ll have the respect of you men even if I must flog you to obtain it! Do you understand? Now let’s see that salute.”
Hadrian imitated the salute he had seen others perform by placing his knuckles to his forehead.
“That’s better seaman. Don’t let it happen again.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
It felt good to get down out of the rain and wind, and Poe met him on the way to the galley. The knew his way around the kitchen well, which was no doubt why Wyatt suggested him. They fired up the stove and he watched him go to work cooking the morning oatmeal, adding butter and brown sugar in proper amounts and asking Hadrian to taste test it. Despite its name, the skillygalee was surprisingly good. Hadrian could not say the same about the biscuits, which were rock hard. Poe had not made them. He merely fetched the round stones from the bread room where boxes of them were stored. Hadrian’s years of soldiering had made him familiar with hardtack, as they were known on land. The ubiquitous biscuits lasted forever but were never very filling. They were so hard that you had to soften them in tea or soup before eating.
With the meal made, stewards from the mess arrived to gather their share and carry them below.
Hadrian entered the berth deck, helping the mess steward carry the last of the servings. “Bloody show off couldn’t even make it up the lines,” Jacob Derning was saying loudly. The men of the tops, and the petty officers, sat together at the ta
bles as befitted their status on board, while others lay scattered with their copper plates in amid the sacks and chests. Jacob looked like he was holding court at the center table. All eyes were on him as he spoke with grand gestures. On his head, he wore a bright blue kerchief, as did everyone on the foretop crew.
“It’s a different story with ’im when the seas heaving and the lines are wet,” Jacob went on. “You don’t see him prancing then.”
“He looked scared to me,” Bristol the boatswain added. “Thought I was gonna have to go up and wallop him good to get him going again.”
“Royce was fine,” said a thin gangly fellow with a white kerchief tied over his head and a thick, blonde walrus mustache. Hadrian did not know his name but recognized him as the captain of the maintop. “Just seasick that’s all. Once he was aloft he reefed the top’sl just fine, albeit a bit oddly.”
“Make excuses for him all ya want, Dime,” Jacob told him, pointing a finger his way, “but he’s a queer one he is, and I find it more than a little dodgy that his first day aloft finds his fellow mate falling to his death.”
“You suggesting Royce killed Drew?” Dime asked.
“I ain’t saying nuttin’, just think it is odd is all. ’O course you’d know better what went on up there, wouldn’t you, Dime?”
“I didn’t see it. Bernie was with him on the top’sl yard when he fell. He says Drew just got careless. I’ve seen it ’afore. Fools like ’im skylarking in the sheets. Bernie says he was trying to walk the yard when the ship lurched ’cause ’o that burst from the shoal. He lost his footing. Bernie tried to grab him as he hung onto the yard, but the wet made him slip off.”
“Drew walking the yard in a rainstorm?” Jacob laughed. “Not likely.”
“And where was Royce during all this?” Bristol asked.
Dime shook his head. “I dunno, didn’t see him till later when he turned up at the masthead.”
“Bernie was playing cards with him last night, wasn’t he? I heard Drew walked away with a big pot.”
“Now you’re saying Bernie killed him?” A third fellow with a red kerchief asked. Hadrian had never seen him before, but guessed he must be the captain of the mizzenmast, as the tops captains along with the boatswains seemed to dine together at the same table.
“No, but I’m saying the cook was there and he and Royce are mates aren’t they? I think—” Jacob stopped short when he spotted Hadrian. “Bloody good thing you’re a better cook than your mate is a topman or Mister Temple’s liable to chuck you both in the deep.”
Hadrian said nothing. He looked around for Royce, but could not find him, which was not too surprising as he guessed his friend would not want to be anywhere near food.
“Might want to let your mate know I’ve asked Bristol here to have a word with Mister Beryl about him see i>“Beryl?” Bristol responded puzzled. “I was gonna talk to Wesley.”
“Bugger that,” Jacob said. “Wesley’s useless. He’s a bleeding joke, ain’t he?”
“I can’t go over his head to Beryl,” Bristol said, defensively. “Wesley was Watch Officer when it happened.”
“Are you barmy? What’re you scared of? Think Wesley’s gonna have at ya for going to Beryl? All Wesley will do is report you. That’s all he ever does. He’s a boy and hasn’t grown a spine yet in that midshipman’s uniform ’o his. Only reason he’s on the Storm is ’cause his daddy is Lord Belstrad.”
“We need to serve the midshipmen next,” Poe reminded Hadrian, urgently tugging at his sleeve. “They mess in the wardroom aft.”
Hadrian dropped off the messkid, hanging it from a hook the way he saw Poe do, and gave Jacob one last glance only to find the fore captain grinning malevolently.
The midshipmen’s mess was far smaller and not much more comfortable than the crew’s quarters. It was a tiny room aft on the berth deck that creaked loudly as the ship’s hull lurched in the waves. Normally, Basil delivered the food he cooked for the officers, but this morning he was kept particularly busy working on the lieutenants’ and captain’s meal and asked them for help in delivering the food to the midshipmen’s mess.
“What are you doing in here?” the biggest midshipman asked abruptly as Hadrian and Poe entered. Hadrian almost answered when he realized the question was not addressed at him. Behind them, coming in late, was the young officer who had put Hadrian on report earlier. “You’re supposed to be on watch, Wesley.”
“Lieutenant Green relieved me a bit early so I could get some food while it was hot.”
“So, you’ve come to force yourself in on your betters, is that it?” the big man asked and got a round of laughter from those with him. This had to be Beryl, Hadrian guessed. He was by far the oldest of the midshipmen—by ten years or more. “You’re going to be nothing but a nuisance to the rest of us on this voyage, aren’t you, boy? Here we thought we could at least have a quiet meal without you disturbing us. What did you do, whine to Green about how your stomach was hurting because we didn’t let you have anything to eat last night?”
“No, I—” Wesley began.
“Shut it! I don’t want to hear your sniveling voice. You there, cook!” Beryl snapped. “Don’t serve Midshipman Wesley any food, not a biscuit crumb, do you understand?”
Hadrian nodded guessing that Beryl somehow outranked Wesley despite both of them wearing midshipmen uniforms.
Wesley looked angry, but said nothing and turned away from the table toward his sea chest.
“Oh, yes,” Beryl said, rising from the table and walking across the room to Wesley. As he did, Hadrian noticed an old scar down the side of Beryl’s face that looked to have nearly taken out his eye. “I’ve been meaning to go through your stuff to see if you had anything I might like.”
Wesley turned, closing his chest abruptly.
“Open it, boy, and let me have a look.”
“No, you have no right!”
Beryl’s toadies at the table jeered the boy and laughed.
He took a step forward and from his posture, Hadrian knew what was coming even if Wesley was oblivious. The big midshipman struck Wesley hard across the face. The boy fell over his chest onto his back. He rolled to his side, his face red with fury, but never got further than his knees before Beryl struck him again, this time hard enough to spray blood from his nose. Wesley collapsed to the floor again with a wail of pain, and lay crumbled in a ball holding his face. The other midshipmen cheered.
Beryl sifted through the contents of Wesley’s chest. “All that for nothing? I thought you were a lord’s son. This is pathetic.” He pulled a white linen shirt out and looked it over. “Well, this at least isn’t too bad, and I could use a new shirt.” He slammed the chest shut and returned to his breakfast.
Disgusted, Hadrian started to move to help Wesley but stopped when he saw Poe earnestly shaking his head. The young seaman took hold of Hadrian’s arm and nearly dragged him back up to the main deck where the sun had risen sufficiently to cause them to squint.
“Don’t involve yourself in the affairs of officers,” Poe told him earnestly. “They’re just like nobles. Strike one and you’ll hang for it. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about. My older brother Ned is the coxswain on the Immortal. The horror stories he’s told me can turn one’s stomach. Blimey, you act like you’ve never been on a ship ’afore.”
Hadrian did not say anything as he followed Poe back toward the galley.
“You haven’t, have you?” Poe asked suddenly.
“So, who is this big fella? Is he Beryl?” Hadrian asked to change the subject.
Poe scowled, then sighed. “Yep, he’s the senior midshipman.”
“So, Beryl’s a noble?”
“Don’t know if he is or he ain’t. Most are third or fourth sons, the ones not suited for the tournaments or monastic life who volunteer to serve hoping they can one day manage a captain’s rank, rule their own ship, and make some money. Most midshipmen only serve about five years before passing the lieutenant’s examination, but Beryl, he
’s been a midshipman for something like ten years now, I reckon. I guess it makes a man sorta cranky, being left behind like that. Even if he isn’t a true blue-blooded noble, he’s still an officer and on this ship that means the same thing.”
***
“Royce?” Hadrian whispered.
Royce lay in his hammock near the bow of the ship, his head still covered with the white kerchief—the insignia of the maintop crew. He was shivering and wet, lying in soaked clothes.
“Royce,” he repeated. This time, he shook his partner’s shoulder.
“Do that again and I’ll cut your hand off,” he growled miserably, his voice garbled and sickly.
“I brought you some coffee and bread. I put raisins in the bread. You like raisins.”
Royce peered out from under his thin blanket with a vicious glare. He eyed the meal and promptly looked away with a grimace.
“Sorry, I just knew you hadn’t eaten since yesterday.” Hadrian put the tray down away from him. “They gave you extra duty, didn’t they? You seemed to be up there longer than anyone else.”
“Bristol kept me on station as punishment for being slow yesterday. How long was I up there?”
“Twelve hours at least. Listen, I thought we’d have a look around the forward hold. Wyatt tells me the seret are hiding a special cargo up there. If you can get your stomach under control, maybe you can open a few locks for me?”
Royce shook his head miserably. “Not until this ship stops rolling. I stand up and the world spins. I’ve got to sleep. How come you’re not sick?”
“I am, but not like you. I guess elven blood and water don’t mix.”
“It might,” Royce said, disappearing back under his blanket. “If I don’t start feeling better soon I’ll slit my wrists.”
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