The insult wasn’t lost on Mansel. He knew a “sprog” was an untrained person at sea, which was exactly what he was. Still, Mansel had an idea who needed a little carpentry work and didn’t complain.
“Aye,” he said sarcastically.
Ern just waved Mansel away. The big carpenter’s helper picked up his bag of tools and arranged the strap over his shoulder. He left Ern in the workshop and headed for the stairway that would take him up to the main deck. The passenger deck did not run the entire length of the ship and could only be accessed from the main deck. Mansel guessed that either the passengers didn’t want to rub shoulders with the crew or the officers didn’t want the crew to get any ideas about visiting the passengers in secret. Either way, he would have to get permission from the officer of the watch to go onto the passenger deck.
“And just where do you think you’re going, toad?”
Mansel sighed. Toad was the nickname some of the crew had given him. He had been content to keep to himself, but in the close quarters of the “’tween” decks, that had been impossible. He had been polite to the other sailors, but a new recruit was always a target and Mansel’s size made him an easy one. He was constantly bumping his head or accidentally stumbling into someone.
“He’s going up on deck,” said one of a group of sailors who had taken it upon themselves to torment Mansel.
“I’ve work to do,” he said simply, but they stepped in front of him, blocking his path to the stairs that led up to the main deck.
“Toads aren’t allowed on the main deck, Sprog, or didn’t you know that?”
“I’m working,” Mansel said again. “Ern sent me.”
“Sure he did,” said the vocal sailor in the group. He had a scar across one check, and the other sailors called him Slice. “I see you’ve got your tools there. Are you enjoying your pleasure cruise while the rest of us do all the work?”
“I am working,” Mansel said, making the monumental effort it took to keep his temper in check with the group of bullying sailors.
“Sure you are, Toad. Just hopping about, and smashing everything you touch. I guess it’s good that you’re a carpenter, eh. You can fix things.”
The other sailors laughed but Mansel wasn’t sure what was so funny. “Let me pass,” he said.
“It will cost you your ration of rum,” Slice said.
“No,” Mansel immediately replied.
“Oh, he’s a brave one, he is,” Slice said.
“Foolhardy,” one of the other sailors said.
“Show ’em who’s the big man ’tween decks, Slice,” said another.
“I know you’re new,” said Slice, “so you may not have the lay of the land, so to speak. We all have different duties on deck, but down here there’s just two kinds of sailors. There’s them that do what I tell ’em, and there’s them that don’t. That second group is small and they don’t generally live too long, if you take my meaning.”
“Is that a threat?” Mansel said, his hand slowly dipping into his tool back and taking hold of his mallet.
“You take it however you want, but you best decide what you’re gonna do, Toady. I want that rum today or things are going to get very uncomfortable for you.”
Slice stepped out of Mansel’s way and the big warrior eyed him fiercely for a moment, then stalked past. He was surprised that the smaller man was so confident he could best Mansel in a fight. Normally, people gave him deference because of his size, but on the ship his muscular frame had only caused him problems. He longed for a horse and the open road. He was tired of the cramped quarters, the constant work, and the awful stench of the lower decks.
He climbed the stairs to the main deck, stretching his back and breathing the clean sea air deep into this lungs. He had to squint in the bright sunlight, but made his way straight to the officer on watch.
“Permission to go on the passenger deck, sir?” he said.
“Ah, you’re the carpenter?”
“Aye sir,” Mansel said, trying to remember the correct way to speak to a superior on board ship. The discipline of sea life he could endure, but the sailors had their own ways of doing everything. His plan had been to blend in, lay low until they reached Osla and then slip away with Zollin and Eustice. Unfortunately, blending in hadn’t exactly happened yet. “My name’s Mansel, sir.”
“Very good, Mansel. I’ll escort you down,” the officer said. “Bollen, you have the watch.”
“Aye, aye, sir, I have the watch,” said the sailor at the helm.
“Do your work as quickly as possible,” the officer instructed as he led Mansel down onto the passenger deck. “Don’t speak unless spoken to, and if you have any questions, come back to me. Is that understood?”
“Aye,” Mansel said.
“Good, here we are.”
The officer knocked on the door and Zollin opened it. He ignored Mansel completely, doing his best to give no sign that he knew the bigger man.
“This man will fix your problem,” the officer said. “If you have any complaints, please find me.”
“I will, Lieutenant, thank you,” Zollin said.
The officer spun on his heel and walked briskly back up to the main deck. Zollin stood aside and let Mansel into the cabin. The table was smashed, as were both of the canvas chairs.
“How did you explain that?” Mansel asked.
Zollin waved at Eustice, who was sporting a black eye and grinning.
“We had a bit too much to drink and had a disagreement, didn’t we Eustice?” Zollin said. Eustice nodded and they all tried not to laugh.
“So how’s life as a sailor?” Zollin asked.
“I hate it,” Mansel said as he slumped onto the bed. “I’m too big to move around ’tween decks. I have to stay bent over almost the whole time.”
“Couldn’t you get on as a passenger?”
“No, you picked the most popular ship in the kingdom.”
“It was the only ship still taking passengers.”
“Well, at least it won’t last too long. My real problem is getting along with the locals. They all seem to think I’m not cut out for life at sea. I’m beginning to believe them.”
“Well, try not to cause trouble. What can we do to help?”
“Nothing that I know of,” Mansel said. “I’m trying to keep a low profile, but it’s getting harder. I may have to crack a few heads before we get to Osla.”
“Be careful,” Zollin warned. “I’m trying to lay low as well. The last thing I want is to attract another monster.”
“Tell me about it. This is the first time I’ve been allowed above deck in days without Ern. He’s worse than your father. I don’t want to be down in the workshop if something happens to the ship. There’s no way I could get on deck fast enough not to drown.”
“Are you getting enough food?”
“Not really,” Mansel admitted.
“Okay, Eustice, fix Mansel something to eat. I’ll repair the furniture.”
“Wait, you can’t use magic. It has to look like I patched it up. I’ll need to go down and get some wood.”
“Can you spare a moment to eat?”
“Yes,” he said enthusiastically.
Eustice gathered food from their stores. The bread wasn’t fresh, but it wasn’t crawling with weevils, and they still had some fruit and cheese. They gave Mansel a small sack full of dried meat, which he stashed in his satchel. They had wine and ale, but he forced himself to drink water, since he had no way to hide the smell of alcohol on his breath.
Once he’d finished eating, he shuffled out of the small cabin and returned to the work shop. Ern was busy making another barrel. Mansel understood the desire to have fresh casks, since the water he usually drank tasted like it had been drawn from a stagnant pond. The water barrels had to be moved to shore and refilled at every port they stopped in. The constant wear and tear often resulted in barrels that weren’t watertight, and it didn’t take much seawater to ruin a barrel and it’s contents.
“What’s the problem?” Ern asked.
“The damn fools got into a drunken fight and smashed up the furniture,” Mansel explained.
“The captain should make them do without it,” Ern said bitterly. “If that happened ’tween decks, we’d get the cattails for certain.”
“What’s the cattails?” Mansel asked.
“You don’t want to know, boy. You just keep your nose clean and do you duty.”
“Aye,” Mansel said as he secretly stashed the food Zollin had given him among the supplies he was gathering. He felt a pang of guilt at hiding the food, but he knew that if he told Ern, the old sailor would just take it from him and perhaps even report him to the captain. The last thing Mansel needed was to be kicked off the ship before they reached Osla.
He was thinking about the last time he’d been at sea, with Quinn. They’d been forced to stop along the way for repairs and Mansel had gone ashore, gotten drunk, and missed returning to the ship. Quinn had left him in the middle of Falxis. The memory was still bitter in his mouth, but he would never have met Nycoll if it hadn’t happened. Getting back to Nycoll was what Mansel wanted more than anything in the world, but he had to help Zollin. After all the terrible things he’d done under the witch’s spell, he felt compelled to repay his friend somehow. And the truth was, he had to make sure Gwendolyn the witch was stopped. He remembered the small army of men willing to kill and even die for her. She couldn’t be allowed to spread her foul sorcery across the kingdoms, he thought. Then, when that was done, he would return to Nycoll.
“Toady,” came a sing-song voice from behind Mansel.
He turned toward the voice just as something slammed into his stomach, forcing all the breath from his lungs in a whoosh. He dropped to his knees and gasped for breath.
“Look, he’s kneeling before you, Slice,” said a rat-faced sailor with rotting teeth and one eye that was turned out at an unnatural angle.
“Of course he is,” said the sailor with the scar. “They all do, sooner or later. How’s it feel, Toad? Aren’t you more at home on your knees? Maybe you miss the mud. We could help with that.”
Mansel was still struggling to get his breathing under control when Slice swung a small wooden club at his head. Mansel dodged away from the blow instinctively.
“Ah, you want to play, eh? That’s good Toady, very good indeed,” said Slice.
He feigned one direction and then swung the club in the other. It caught Mansel on the shoulder. Pain exploded across the young warrior’s neck, shoulder, and arm. He slumped back, but Slice moved in close and kicked Mansel hard in the ribs. Mansel fell over onto his side, sharp pain stabbing through him with each breath now. He felt shaky and weak, but he was angry too. He pulled the mallet out of the satchel of tools that still hung around his head and shoulder.
“Look, he’s still got a little fight left in him,” said the rat-faced sailor.
There were several other sailors standing back from the fight with the rat-faced man. Slice’s gang, who seemed to never be working, were the bullies between decks. Fighting on board was forbidden, Mansel knew that, but he wasn’t going to lie down and take a beating if he could help it.
“That mallet won’t help you, Toad,” said Slice.
“Leave me alone,” Mansel warned.
“Or what? You can’t stop us. You going to run to the captain and rat us out? If you do, you’ll never make it off this ship alive. No, I think you’re going to take your knocks like a man. But first we’ll send you someplace you’re more at home. Get him, boys.”
The other sailors rushed forward. Mansel tried to rise up and swing the mallet, but he was too weak. Slice caught the mallet on his club and then the hammer was snatched roughly from Mansel’s hand. They picked him up by the arms and legs. He started to struggle, but the pain in his side and shoulder was devastating. The sailors carried him a short way and then Slice pulled open a trap door. The sailors slung Mansel into the darkness below.
Fear made his stomach feel as if it were going to jump out of his throat, but the drop wasn’t that far and it ended quickly. The Northern Star was made up of three decks. There was the main deck, and immediately below that was the passenger deck, which also housed the officer’s quarters. The lowest deck was the cargo deck, but there was a small space between the cargo deck and the passenger deck, and the crew called the cramped area the “’tween decks.” From the ’tween decks was a shaft that allowed crew members to access the lowest part of the ship-the space below the cargo deck, which the sailors called the bilge.
The smell hit Mansel just before he landed in the thick, wet sewage. The passengers and officers used chamber pots in the cabins, which could be emptied out of their small windows and washed with seawater. The crew used a privy, which was designed to empty out of the ship, but a portion of the sewage inevitably found it’s way down to the bilge. Seawater also found it’s way in, no matter how well made the ship or how thick the pitch was applied to the seams of the hull. The bilge was a nasty place that had to be pumped out regularly, and the foulest job aboard the ship was working the bilge.
The area was as dark as a cave and Mansel landed with a splash. Seawater was free standing above the sludge that was thick like mud and had settled onto the hull. Rats were tolerated on board the ship because they ate the waste that ended up in the bilge. Mansel could hear the vermin scurrying around the bilge, reacting to his crash.
It took a few moments for the shock of what had happened to pass. Then pain swept over Mansel. His shoulder ached terribly and the muscles in his neck and back were spasming from the pain. He knew that at least two ribs had been broken, perhaps more. His entire left side was awash in pain. He knew he had to get out of the filth of the bilge, but he had no idea how he could possibly climb the ladder that lined the shaft.
He rolled onto his knees, using his right arm to lift his body out of the sewage. He moved slowly, despite the overwhelming urge to get out of the darkness as quickly as possible. Mansel didn’t fear rats normally, but knowing they were around him now, in the darkness where he couldn’t see them, made him feel weak and exposed. His mind, struggling with the shock of pain and fear, had trouble focusing on the task at hand. The water in the bilge rose and fell in motion with the ship.
Mansel had been thankful for the food his friends had given him, but now it came back up violently. After several moments of retching that was made unbearably painful because of his broken ribs, he passed out. He fell onto his side at a time when the water was low, but it only took a moment before the small wave rushed back toward Mansel, dousing him in the filthy water and rousing him.
He coughed and sputtered as the filthy water filled his nose and ears. He screamed as he pulled himself back to his knees. He could see bright specks of light dancing at the edges of his vision. He knew he had to get out of the bilge. Somehow he had to get back to Zollin. He knew his friend could end the pain and restore his health so that he could deal with the band of bullies between decks, but the obstacles between him and Zollin seemed insurmountable.
He crawled forward slowly, hoping to find the ladder that led back up to the ’tween decks. There was no light and Mansel was completely disoriented from his fall. He did know the ladder should have been close, but he didn’t know in which direction to look. It took him almost half an hour of slow searching before he found it. To Mansel, that half hour seemed like a lifetime. The pain was almost completely debilitating, but once he reached the rough-hewn ladder, he felt much better. He sat on his knees, which were aching from the rough floor of the ship, and tried to calm himself down.
“You’re going to be okay,” he told himself out loud. It was a silly sentiment, he knew, but during his search for the ladder he had felt reasonably sure that he would die in the bilge. His next task was to stand up. Even though he couldn’t see, he still felt like the ship was spinning in circles around him. He held tightly to the ladder with his good hand and pulled himself slowly to his feet. His muscles were screaming for relief an
d the thought of closing his eyes was so tempting he had to shake his head to fight it off. Unfortunately, shaking his head sent sharp stabbing pain through his neck and shoulder.
“Use it,” he told himself. “Use the pain to keep yourself focused.”
He slowly raised one foot, groaning with the effort. It was natural to raise his left leg since his right arm was pulling upward, but his ribs couldn’t take the pressure. Instead, he lifted his right leg and, after finding the lowest rung, pulled himself up. It was painful and difficult, but he knew he couldn’t stop. If he did, he would end up falling again and possibly hurting himself much worse. He climbed, the effort so demanding he couldn’t remember ever working so hard. Sweat poured off of him, dizziness threatened to make him sick again, but through it all he kept moving. Finally, his hand felt the heavy trapdoor above him. He gnashed his teeth as he took one more step up the ladder and then heaved with his right arm.
The trap door opened slowly. It took all of Mansel’s strength just to push it up enough to stick his arm out. The dim light of the ’tween decks was the most welcome sight Mansel could remember, but pushing his way out of the trap door proved too difficult in his weakened state. He hung in the hunched over position with one arm out of the trap door for several minutes until finally another sailor saw him.
“Hold on, mate,” the sailor shouted. “Hey, you louts, get over here and help me. This man’s trapped in the bilge shaft.”
A moment later the heavy trap door was thrown open and rough hands pulled Mansel up out of the shaft. He lay curled on the floor, panting for several minutes. The sailors around him were all murmuring, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. Finally, the sailor who’d seen him bent over and spoke quietly. “Hey mate, it wasn’t Slice who threw you down there was it?”
Mansel nodded.
Without another word the other sailors all drifted away. They were afraid of Slice and his gang, Mansel knew that, but he was aghast that they would simply leave him on the floor. Mansel struggled back up onto his knees and began crawling toward the stairs that led up to the main deck. His tool satchel had been pulled off of him, and was now near the foot of the stairs, along with the extra wood he needed to repair Zollin’s furniture.
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