by Ken Hagan
Our final fire-ship was completed earlier today. It was cobbled together at a pinch. Wool-seal and pine-tar mask hundreds of blemishes on the hull; hairy rope-ends and wood shavings dipped in tar were stuffed into ill-matched joints at knees and thwarts. ‘Not my finest oak off the slipway,’ said Thrandt wistfully. Lodin shook hands with him in gratitude.
A cheer went up from every man at the shipyard when the hull rolled into the water.
In the Erse tongue someone shouted, ‘By Jesus, it floats like a fishing-curach!’
An Ostman replied in good jest. ‘It will sink like one too.’
We cheered with one voice: Deasún’s clansmen; crewmen off kaupships, lubbers and wherrymen; servants from Lodin’s household; warriors drafted in from the fort; sumpter-men hungry for coin; fishermen who trawl nets in curachs off Criadain strand, and had paddled up-estuary to grab a share of Lodin’s silver. Thrandt may not be proud of his fire-ships but the motley crew who built them are.
We will be sorry to see them burn.
Chapter 39
‘Dantzk,’ says Halpin in a drunken drawl. ‘You have lost your reason, man.’
Dantzk picks pork-fat from his teeth — smoked pork is the only fare supplied at the brew-house. The big man offers no reply. He takes a sip of his brew-master’s ale. The mincing sip irks his friend. Dantzk normally downs a pot from brim to dregs in one gulp or two. For Halp it is plain wrong for a seafaring man not to take a whole-hearted draught from his pot, especially if the ale is being bought for his pleasure — for tonight the brew-master’s bill will be paid by me.
‘I have never heard such folly,’ continues the midshipman. He tuts and shakes his head in disbelief. ‘Marry a widow — and settle on dry land! Thor save us!’
‘Derdriu is a grand woman,’ protests Dantzk. ‘Not a chit of a girl but a good, solid widow — and no stranger to work. No children; no ties, and with three milking cows to her name — she will suit me fine.’
‘I will give you till the end of summer with her — and next winter too if she keeps you busy under your breeches. But at the first smell of spring, come Vali’s day, you will be hankering for the sea, for rain whipping in your eyes off the sail with only Skip’s orders to worry about, and a salt wind gnawing in your teeth.’
‘Fancy skald-man’s words, Halp,’ says Fjak. ‘Hell’s shit, man, with all this “whipping in our eyes” and “gnawing in our teeth”, I thought you might burst into a song — one of your bawdy shanties, eh?’
Fjak gets a cold glare from our midshipman, but it doesn’t bother him. Nothing nowadays can dent Fjak’s high spirits. He has his eye on the brew-house steps — a sloped paving that leads up to the lanes from the fort: Hrut will come down those steps. Thrandt’s son is expected to join us come nightfall, or as soon as his work is done with at the smithy. I am hoping he might bring my axe with him if the forge-work on it is done.
Dantzk ignores Fjak’s jibe. ‘I have not said I won’t miss the sea. And I daresay, Halp,’ he adds softly. ‘I will miss your ugly old face.’ Halp, thumb in his mouth, sucks in his cheeks and pulls a girn. ‘On second thoughts,’ says Dantzk. ‘Maybe not! Who would want to wake up to your foul breath first thing of a morning?’
Halp snorts and puffs to mimic a snore.
‘Let’s be serious, old friend,’ says Dantzk. ‘There comes a time when a man’s thoughts turn to how he will live in his old age.’
Baldr makes rapid hand-signs for Kru, so that our mute crew-mate can follow the chat between Halp and Dantzk. No one has mastered the art of signs better than Baldr. He and Kru converse in silence the day long. It is the same whether they are jesting and laughing together or, when they fall to their knees at noon and dusk, signing shoulder to shoulder in Christian prayer. A part of me envies Baldr for his closeness with Kru, but I am relieved that our deaf-mute is no longer dependent on me. As skipper, I won’t be able to show favour or be close to any of the crew.
While Baldr and Kru sign, I notice it from the corner of my eye. As an aside from talk of Dantzk’s widow, Kru has asked Baldr about me. Kru is too quick. I can’t catch the meaning of his gestures, but I do understand Baldr’s mute response.
‘Thralson will make a good skipper.’ Baldr hurriedly taps on his palm, a sign to indicate Hakon’s ship. He points to me and then his finger — moving like a ship over waves — rubs smoothly over the dips between his knuckles. I take it to mean: ‘the Meuris is safe in Thralson’s hands.’
*
‘You and Dantzk will be in trouble with Skip,’ says Fjak. ‘He won’t like it — you have left his precious Meuris unattended, unguarded; you should be on ship-watch, and yet here you are, sitting in the brew-house, filling your boots with ale.’
Baldr signs for Kru.
‘Never mind the fecking signs, Pigtail,’ says Fjak. ‘These two lubbers should be on ship-watch — simple as that!’
‘I have paid an Erse-boy to sit on board for us,’ says Halp. ‘We are only a spit away from the jetties. There is a lodin in it for the lad if he sits till morning. He can be here in a jiffy, if we are needed.’
‘The haven is deserted,’ says Dantzk. ‘Nothing on the landings but an old wherry — and the fire-ships, of course. The Meuris couldn’t be safer if it were sitting in Lodin’s treasury.’
‘Lodin’s treasury, my arse,’ returns Fjak coarsely. ‘Putting a boy to watch for you won’t get you off the hook. Hakon will hang your tackle from the mast-head for flouting ship’s orders. Then where will your fat widow be? She will not want a man without his full chain and balls.’
Halp laughs. ‘I wouldn’t worry, Dantzk, I’d wager it is not your balls she is after, or your good looks, but your fat purse of silver coin. That Derdriu recognised a dumb lubber when she set eyes on you!’
Dantzk joins in the laughter. In one draught his ale disappears down his throat. Our big jib-man waves the empty pot at me.
‘And besides, Fjak, how should I be in trouble? Our new skipper is right here! Here’s to Thralson! Long days to young Thralson! You have made a fine start to your divvy days! Can’t fault a skipper, who keeps our pots filled with ale!’
*
After dusk, in summer, the brew-house at Vadrar-fiord haven would usually be crowded with skippers and lubbers inside and out, seated at benches under the thatch roof or standing in the open yard. The dimly-lit space would be alive with shouts and song; lewd talk of drunken lubbers, shrieks of the brew-house girls; the greasy floor awash with spillage of ale and with dregs of grainy porter tipped from men’s emptied pails. But not tonight. The Meuris is the last trading vessel in haven. Skippers who have traded for years in sheep and wares have stayed away for fear of being caught up in what the brew-master scathingly calls ‘Lodin’s war’.
When earlier I told the brew-master I would foot the bill for our crew’s ale, he rubbed his stale beard and muttered in my ear. ‘Why did your friend Hakon not talk Lodin round? Old Hakon has known Lodin and his wife for years. Your skipper is a man of the world. He must know it could have been settled comfortably with Iron-knee.’ I ignore the brew-master, but he goes on. ‘All that was needed was to give a helping hand to the men from Linn-dubh — safe haven and supplies, and free passage up river. What’s wrong with that? We are all Ostman together, aren’t we?’ His voice drops to a whisper. ‘Who gives a shit for the filthy Erse up north? Who cares if the men of Osri are wiped out? It is not our fight, nothing to do with us — why should we have all this unpleasantness?’
*
Tonight the brew-master’s curs go hungry for lack of spills and dregs. His five big wolfing-hounds sit expectantly at our corner benches by the steps to the fort — the only benches occupied under the thatch — and wait for scarce tippings from our emptied pails. The dogs are dozy from years of supping brew-house slops, their boozy noses dripping, black and shiny. The coarse, mealy sludge of ale in the dregs of a pail of ale is undrinkable. When a pail is drained to near bottom, we spill its grainy dregs to the ground. The hounds rush to the p
uddle of swill and chaff. Their long flicking tongues lick and lap till the floor at our feet is clean. When they are done, they sniff our boots and lick them clean from spittle and splash, and then settle back to sleep.
The brew-master’s wife sets a full ‘brimmer’ of ale in the middle of our bench. She removes an empty pail and drops it with a clatter at my feet. She lifts her ankle-length skirts over the pail, and covers it teasingly from the hounds. The hounds skitter around, squealing softly, their noses sniffing and pleading at the tails of her apron. They won’t dare bark at her.
When the brew-master’s wife is sure she has my attention, she kicks over the pail, lifts off her skirts and lets the hounds scramble to lick the spillage. Halpin and Dantzk help themselves to more ale. The woman sets her sharp eyes on me. ‘Young skipper-man, him indoors wants you to settle tonight. My husband is done brewing for tonight. He is taking a nap. When he wakens, he wants paying. Doesn’t want you sailing on the morrow’s tide without silver safe in his hand.’
‘I will settle for sure,’ I reply. ‘But mind, I won’t pay ‘Ekvith prices’.’
The woman looks round at the empty benches. ‘Can’t serve ale for free, can he?’
‘What’s got into your fecking husband?’ Fjak asks in annoyance. ‘Our credit is good. We are only going upriver for a bit — tide-head and back, that’s all — not putting out to sea. Does he think we won’t be back?’
The woman scoffs in return. ‘None of your lip, little runt. Stick your bald head in the dog-swill. Thor’s shit, hold your tongue! Is it you who is paying the bill?’ She gives Fjak a salutary skight on his bald pate.
Baldr chuckles and Kru opens his toothless gums in laughter — no need for signs between them.
Admonished by the ale-woman’s charms, Fjak turns from her glaring face and looks longingly to the flight of steps from the fort. Still no sign of Hrut. Two lubbers turn up — the brew-house is where they tout for work on the ships — and linger by the steps. A wherryman joins them. A brief exchange and all three are about to leave without stopping for ale. The brew-master’s wife rushes outside to waylay them with a sweet word. On a quiet night like this, she can’t afford to miss their trade.
*
Halp sways drunkenly between two brew-house girls — his favourites — tall and lanky like himself, but sallow-skinned, sickly and of mixed blood, offspring from warriors at the fort. Halp takes a step from the bench and trips over his own feet. If it weren’t for the girls’ arms at his waist and the buttressing of their sturdy hips, our midshipman would have tumbled to the floor. ‘Dantzk!’ he shouts ‘Why not come with us? Come, old friend! Make a foursome.’
‘Make a foursome. Make a foursome.’ Fjak laughs at his own jest as he mimics our crewmate’s slurred speech.
Dantzk ignores the urging of his friend. Still seated, he shakes his head to refuse.
‘Thor’s sake, man! What’s got into you?’ Halp is hoarse from the ale — and from much gushing talk, song, and laughter. He coughs deep; spits to floor, misses; spittle smacks the nose of a hound sleeping under the bench. The hound doesn’t budge. ‘Come with us, Dantzk, for a ‘shake-down’.’ Halp slurs an oath, his words barely audible. ‘Where’s the harm, man? These lasses will give you an ache, right where you want it — tried and tested before, eh?’ Halp blinks his eyes, shapes his mouth as if unable for a moment to find his voice. ‘Don’t be tight-fisted,’ he splutters. ‘Think of them! The girls have to earn their coin.’
‘The girls do alright,’ says I. ‘They have been emptying your purse all week.’
Baldr gives a disapproving look and makes hand-signs for Kru. Both crewmen like their ale, but neither wastes his divvy on brew-house girls — nor does Fjak. Fjak eyes the flight of steps that lead from the fort. He sees me watching him and looks away.
Dantzk pulls a bulging leather purse from under his serk, and carefully shakes out two silver lodins. He hands one apiece to the brew-house girls, who stare, wide-eyed, at the silver. They loosen their grip on Halp and he slumps senseless in their arms. ‘There,’ says Dantzk to the girls. ‘Take the lodins and have a free night. As for my friend, set him on the bench, and fetch me a pail of water.’ He winks in my direction. ‘Leave Halp to me, Skipper Thralson. I will soon have him sea-worthy. Dunk him or drown him, I soak his fecking head till he wakens. It’s time we were back at ship.’
*
‘Just one more pot of ale.’ Halp drips from the dunking — serk wet to the skin, with head, neck and beard soaked in water. ‘One more slurp, Dantzk,’ he pleads. ‘That’s all — another draught of ale, and then we are off.’
Dantzk shrugs his burly shoulders. He drains his pot; throws dregs to the floor. ‘Go ahead if you like,’ says he. ‘But I’m done!’
‘Thralson,’ Baldr asks. ‘Is the number settled yet? Have you been told? How many warriors will come north with us on the Meuris?’
‘Twenty-eight men, all veterans,’ I return. ‘It is a definite number, Baldr. I heard it from Bergthor.’
‘Bergthor?’
‘The greybeard who serves in Lodin’s quarters. Bergthor is coming with us, he is one of our twenty-eight.’
‘Only twenty-eight warriors,’ says Fjak derisively. ‘I was expecting more than that.’
‘On Lodin’s two new long-ships there will be more,’ says Halp. The ale has freshened his senses. ‘I’d say Hakon and Thrandt will carry twice that number.’
‘Fifty-six veterans, each ship.’ A booming voice, forceful, strong, sounds through the brew-house.
Everyone from our bench turns to look — everyone, that is, but Kru. We peer into the dim light outside the brew-house. Kru follows our gaze into the evening shadows. There before us stands Bergthor, kitted with kirtle and shield, sword-scabbard and axe in his belt. Behind Bergthor in the shadows is Hrut Thrandtson, black-faced from a day’s toil at the ironsmith’s. The young man steps aside and comes into the tallow-light. His bare, hairless chest shines with soot and sweat, and he shoulders a long-shafted battle-axe.
‘Well, Skipper Thralson,’ says Hrut, breathlessly, sweat dripping from his brow, ‘I kept my word. I waited till the ironsmith had finished your axe. He shortened the pike-end as you asked, and fitted a new shaft — he lengthened it by a span. I would have stayed till past midnight if I’d needed to while he re-cast the head. I knew you were counting on having it back tonight.’
I slip the battle-axe out of sight under the bench. ‘Good man, Hrut — thanks for bringing the axe. Help yourself to ale from the bucket. Here, use my pot! Looks like you have worked up a thirst!’
Hrut’s beardless face breaks into a grin. He gladly takes my pot, and a smile shows that he welcomes the praise.
Fjak gives me an envious look.
‘The ironsmiths have had their forges going night and day,’ says Bergthor. ‘The men going north have kept them busy, the Erse too — mostly spear-heads for them, flesh-dippers for close combat. The axe work for us veterans is almost done. That’s why I am here. I have told Lord Lodin that, come the day after next, we can leave for Inis-tioc. Thrandt will have the two long-ships rigged by then. Hakon said I should come and see you about putting out on the Meuris.’
‘You only have to give the word.’ The words ring false in my ears — and my deep voice, deepened for effect, is too jaunty, too full of swagger — but I want the crew to hear a response fit for a skipper. ‘We can sail tomorrow, Bergthor, if you like, morning tide.’
‘No,’ answers Bergthor firmly. ‘Make it day-after-tomorrow, like I said.’
Dantzk and Halp chuckle at the news. They are glad that the wait is over. Old crewmen don’t mind idling at haven, drinking ale and squandering their silver on brew-house girls but, once they have news of a voyage, they can’t abide hanging about. They loathe whiling away the days, waiting for the off. And I expect too that Dantzk will have Derdriu on his mind.
Baldr passes word to Kru. He explains in simple hand-signs the where and when of our voyage. For once the deaf-mute seems d
istracted, unable to take it in. Kru ignores Baldr’s signs. His eyes are fixed on my battle-axe under the bench.
Fjak points scathingly at my axe. ‘Are you planning to use that, Thralson?’
I ignore him.
Fjak persists. ‘Why don’t you leave blade-work to the likes of Bergthor? The veterans are kitted and kirtled. They know what they are doing!’
Bergthor clears his throat to speak. The greybeard has everyone’s attention, but first he swallows a mouthful of ale. ‘I hope you don’t mind, Thralson, but, while young Hrut and I were walking down the pavings, I asked if he would let me try out your long-axe in my hand — and the young man obliged.’
Dantzk shakes his head in disapproval, and touches the heft of his axe. ‘It is bad luck to touch another man’s axe before he has blooded it.’
Halp belches and snorts to agree.
Hrut, now fearful that he may have done wrong, gives me a darting look.
‘I don’t mind you handling the axe, Bergthor,’ I reply at last. ‘And don’t fret about bad luck, Dantzk, the blade is blooded already. Well, Bergthor, tell me, how did you like the axe?’
‘A good feel to the shaft,’ says Bergthor. ‘The weight is perfect. You were right to lengthen it. And I like a stubby pike-end too — makes for a sweeping cut on the back-thrust. An old warrior trick! Where did you learn that?’
The blood rises to my cheeks. ‘An axe fell into my hands when I was a lad. It was mine for years, while I was growing up — though it is no longer in my possession. It had a long shaft and short pike. I suppose I got used to the weight of it. And now any axe that is different feels wrong in my hand.’
Bergthor nods sagely. ‘Never a truer word spoken! Once a man’s thumb rubs a groove in the shaft, the thumb won’t slip from where it started.’