Fidel cleared his throat. ‘To the matter then. I’ve called you four here because you are the four most junior lieutenants on board – and I’ve included Mr Amber for reasons I will explain in a moment.’
Dow glanced to Diego in surprise. He hadn’t realised until then just how junior Diego was, to be among the lowest four of all in rank.
‘As you know,’ Fidel continued, ‘we are bent upon a voyage to the north, in search of the lost fleet of the Lord Designate. We must venture into the Unquiet Ice, a perilous region for any ship, and even more so for one the great size of the Chloe. We may well come across many a narrow crevice or passage that must be investigated, and yet into which the Chloe cannot hope to sail. In such circumstances we will launch boats.
‘To that end, four of the Chloe’s cutters are being refitted to be made ready for arctic conditions. We’re giving them tougher rigging to withstand the northern gales, and bracing the planking of their bows to cope with collisions upon bergs and floes.
‘Now command of such boats always falls to the junior lieutenants – to you four, in other words – nevertheless, it is a position of importance, for on a mission such as ours a boat may have to strike out for some distance, and for some number of days, on its own. What’s more, none of you, I know, have ever ventured to the Ice before, and so have little idea of what to expect. For that matter, some of you have limited experience with handing small craft at all, especially in close quarters under sail.
‘And so we come to Mr Amber.’ Four heads swivelled to stare down the table at Dow. ‘He is, of course, no officer – but it would be foolish to ignore his experience in small boats. He is a fisherman, wise in the ways of treacherous waters and narrow passages; you all, I know, witnessed his riding of the maelstrom. He will not be in command of a boat, but he will assume a second-in-command position in the craft of our most junior, and least experienced, lieutenant. Understood, Mr Samson?’
Dow’s astonishment at this news was matched perhaps only by that of Samson himself, the youngest officer present, sitting close to Dow’s end of the table. His face – he looked no older than most of the boyish midshipmen – was only vaguely familiar to Dow, even after two months at sea, for he was not prominent among his fellow lieutenants. He was tall, yes, a head above Dow even when both were seated, but there was a portliness to him, and a self-consciousness, that robbed his size of authority. His only response to Fidel’s question was a ducking of his eyes and a flush of his skin.
His fellow lieutenants, however, were more visibly outraged – and Diego could not stay silent.
‘But this is—’ he began.
‘It’s an order direct from the captain,’ said Fidel. ‘And I’ve just given Mr Amber a lesson on the basics of nicre and ice, so he is quite as well informed as the rest of you – or should I say, quite as ignorant.’
Diego glowered, but said no more.
Fidel returned to his theme. ‘We depart with the tide tomorrow. We will, once we’re clear of land and properly underway to the North, commence a series of sea exercises with the cutters to sharpen your skills.’
The lieutenants groaned. ‘All of us, sir?’ asked Diego, aggrieved. ‘I was winner three times of the Carcel Regatta back home. I think I can already sail a boat around an iceberg without crashing into it.’
‘All of you, Lieutenant.’
Diego sighed. ‘I wouldn’t mind if there was any point to it all, but Nadal is dead; we all know that. If he wanted to go and perish in the Ice that was his business, but why should we have to suffer?’
There came movement from Nell’s corner; she shut her book with a clap, and stood abruptly. Under the eyes of the men, she gathered her papers together and made towards the doors.
‘You’ll excuse me, Commander,’ she said to Fidel. ‘I’ll leave Lieutenant Diego to reflect upon his boyhood regatta wins, rather than on the noble seamen who have died in the hope of new discoveries. It’s good to know that being the nephew of a king is not his only talent. But perhaps he should be more worried; Mr Amber here may give him a run for his money in the trials.’ She paused in the doorway, her stare passing coolly over them all. ‘It’s a long time, after all – since the Great War indeed – since a Ship King has raced a New Islander.’
Then she was gone. A laugh came from somewhere along the table, hastily suppressed. Diego turned to glare at his companions, his face reddening. Dow hid his own smile. So – he was not the only one with whom the scapegoat was displeased … Fidel was shaking his head. ‘Gentlemen, you’ll ignore her remarks, scapegoat or not. I don’t care who she has singled out as her favourites among you – these trials will be competitive, yes, but sensibly so. They will not become races to settle personal scores. Understood?’
The other lieutenants nodded obediently, but Diego was only staring stonily at Dow.
Personal was exactly what it was going to be.
6. NORTHWARD BOUND
The Chloe departed Haven Diaz next morning, under a grey sky and in the face of a cold north-east wind. After clearing the bay, they turned north once more along the coast. By day’s end, the stony shores of Valignano had given way to the fertile fields of Castille, the largest and richest of the western kingdoms, where Ferdinand of the Scale reigned. His royal seat was the great port of Coris, but Dow was not granted a sight of the city, for it lay at the eastern end of a deep twin-armed gulf, into which the Chloe did not venture.
They pressed on north. For two further days the coast of Castille slid slowly by, and then a mountainous peninsula reared ahead, the kingdom of Leone. Its inland peaks were tinged with snow, but they were different mountains compared to the wet and green highlands of Dow’s home, for their lower slopes were brown and bare of grass or forests. A day later, the Chloe had rounded the peninsula and stood off the very north-western point of all Great Island, and the path to the Ice lay open.
Yet hemmed in by north winds, Vincente now steered eastwards for a time, keeping in sight of land. The northern shores of Leone slid by, followed next day by the wild hills of the realm of Marchis. A day further on again they’d reached the barren coastline of Malmonte – a kingdom consisting almost entirely of desert. Its capital was Illreste, but before that city hove into view, the wind changed to blow clean and strong from the southwest. Gratefully, the Chloe turned north once more, and so at last left Great Island altogether behind.
Now the voyage was truly begun. To Dow, the ship seemed to shake off a strange lethargy imposed by the nearness of land, and leap towards the open horizon. Lighter now by the dead-weight of over sixty cannon, the Chloe might indeed have been a new ship entirely; livelier in sea-manner, heeling and rolling more sharply than before, but also lifting more freshly into an oncoming swell, and riding more easily before the wind.
But it was in the crew – also trimmed by some hundred-odd souls – that Dow noted the greatest transformation. On the voyage from New Island they had seemed as well-drilled a company as any he could imagine, but in hindsight their efficiency had verged on boredom.
There was no boredom now. This was no routine voyage in familiar waters, this was an expedition into the little known realm of the Ice, undertaken at the worst time of the year in which to do so. And more, this was a last desperate mission to rescue close to a thousand of their fellow mariners who, if not already dead, were surely not far from it.
The awareness seemed to enliven everyone on board, from the captain all the way down to the lowest cook’s assistant. Once the land sank away behind the Chloe’s stern, a new urgency quickened in everyone’s step and a new sharpness gleamed in everyone’s glance – and, yes, even a nervousness. For though the Ice and its perils might lie far ahead yet, there were dangers aplenty to be found before then, in the wilds of the northern ocean.
It was now too that the boat trials began.
The summons from Fidel came on the second day out from land. When Dow duly reported to the main deck he found himself assigned to one of four small crews waiting by the davits.
The Chloe bore eight boats in all, of various shapes and sizes, but only four – of a type known as cutters – had been refitted for the ice regions. Each cutter would take a crew of six rowers, plus a lieutenant as commander, seconded by a midshipman.
Dow stood uncertainly to one side of his own crew. His was the only party not to include a midshipman, for Dow himself was to be second-in-command. The question was, would a Ship Kings crew accept such an arrangement; a New Islander in position of authority over them? Would Lieutenant Samson accept it? And most importantly – to Dow’s mind – could they all work together well enough to outperform Diego’s boat?
Samson’s manner was not encouraging. At first he avoided Dow completely, issuing instructions in a slightly reedy voice to the men to ready their cutter for launch. Then Diego chimed in to make things worse; glancing across from his own boat, where he’d been snapping short-tempered orders to his crew, he called out, ‘Mind your midshipman there, Mr Samson, he’s wont to go looking for whirling holes in the ocean into which he can plunge.’ In response to which, Samson shot Dow a harried, angry look, as if it was all his fault.
But then a wiry figure sidled up to Dow and gave a friendly half-salute – it was none other than Alfons. Dow hadn’t even noticed, in his distraction, that the poet was part of his crew. The weathered old sailor added a wink, and, with a nod towards Diego, muttered slyly from the side of his mouth. ‘Never you mind, Mr Amber. We all know he don’t like you – but who’s he anyway? A Valdez man, for one, and none too loyal to the captain or to this ship, from what I hear. Nah – us lot below decks don’t pay heed to the likes of him; we make up our own minds. You’re good luck, lad, we know it.’
‘I am?’ said Dow, unnerved to hear this yet again.
‘Oh, aye. That’s why we volunteered for this duty, me and my mates. But young Samson there, well, it can’t be easy for him. He’s a sad stick at the best of times, and now his own kind are laughing in his face because he’s stuck with you as a second. And yet he knows, too, that you’re ten times the sailor he’ll ever be. He saw you in the whirlpool, same as the rest of us.’
Dow was struck silent a moment, watching the flustered Samson. He hadn’t thought about it that way.
‘Anyways,’ said Alfons, ‘he ain’t mean at heart, is what I’m saying. It’s just that he’s too green to know what’s what yet, and all he has to go on is what a propped-up fool like Diego tells him.’
Dow could only smile. Were crewmen really supposed to talk about their officers like this? However, Alfons had already tipped him another wink and slipped away to assist his fellow sailors with the boat, just as Samson himself approached. Dow stood straight and gave the lieutenant a smart salute.
Samson returned it, his hand fluttering awkwardly, and said, ‘At ease, Mr Amber. I’m instructed by Commander Fidel that for the purposes of this exercise, you will assume the rank of acting midshipman.’
‘Aye, Excellency.’
The young lieutenant nodded with an attempt at severity, but his eyes had trouble meeting Dow’s. ‘Very well then. But you will kindly remember that this is not a fishing boat, and that it’s my boat. You will man the tiller – but you will steer only as I order. Understood?’
‘Understood, Excellency,’ was Dow’s firm reply.
The preparations complete, the Chloe reduced sail and slowed, and the four cutters were swung out from their davits and lowered to the sea. Bouncing up and down in the chop, the crews clutched lines trailing from the battleship’s side, awaiting the order to cast off. The day was fair but cold, the sun pale in the southern sky, the wind blowing stiff and chill from the west.
Dow made brief tests of the tiller as his boat surged against the ropes, noting how differently it handled from the Maelstrom, the only other craft he’d ever piloted. The cutter – it was named the Chloe 4 – was about twenty-five feet long, with four benches that could seat two men side by side. It was usually rowed, not sailed, and so normally carried only a small mast that could bear a single canvas. Now a larger, sturdier rig had been installed – a mast and boom capable of carrying two sails; a mainsail rear of the mast, and a headsail before it. Dow knew nothing at all about steering with such a configuration of canvas; nevertheless, he couldn’t wait to be away.
At last Fidel called his instructions down to the boats. ‘Your task is to bear north-west until you stand a mile off the bow; you will then bear west for a mile, then north for a mile, and then directly back to the Chloe, which will be northeast of you by then. The signaller here on board will mark each turn by raised ensign, so keep an eye out. The lead boat at each signal will drop a bottle marker, and all following boats must turn at that mark. The first crew home earns double wine ration tonight. Understood? Very well then – cast off!’
Straightaway, the Chloe 4 fell behind.
The other boats – their crews calling challenges to each other, and their lieutenants loudly wagering silver coins – quickly raised sail and dashed off on the northwest tack. But Samson dithered nervously with setting the Chloe 4’s sails, and even after they were raised, kept changing his orders about their reefing and trimming. Dow too was at a loss initially; the rudder was more sensitive than he was used to, and the bow was more liable to turn than the Maelstrom’s had been. Between his own inexperience and Samson’s, their early progress was a lurching succession of accidental jibes and near broaches into the wind. And all the while the other boats skipped further ahead, the laughter of their crews fading in the distance.
Eventually, however, Dow began to get a feel for the new craft – it was a less stable vessel than the Maelstrom, but one, thanks to its more complex rigging, with greater power and manoeuvrability, especially close to the wind. He could imagine that the cutter would make for some fine sailing indeed – if only someone other than Samson was in charge.
On top of his indecision, the lieutenant seemed to have no natural instinct at all about boat handling. It was obvious to Dow that they should be steering closer to the wind than they were, and that the sails were drawn much too taut, so that air was spilling from them uncaptured. But when Dow tried to bring the bow around a little, Samson rebuked him sharply – and Dow could issue no commands about the sails, even though Alfons was grinning at him when the lieutenant wasn’t looking.
‘First signal, Excellency,’ said one of the other sailors, who had been given the task of watching back to the Chloe.
Far ahead the leading boat was turning west now, dropping a sealed bottle – painted red – in its wake. With a sinking heart, Dow saw that it was Diego’s boat. He was sure he even glimpsed Diego himself staring back to laugh at how far Samson and Dow had fallen behind ...
It was embarrassing. Dow had pictured this race many times in his head, and in those imagined encounters he had always triumphed. In some of them, a desperate Diego had even resorted to cheating – and still Dow had always beaten him! But it wasn’t happening that way at all in reality. Diego didn’t need to cheat – he was winning easily, and fairly.
And so it went for that whole first trial. At each marker, the Chloe 4 wallowed further behind the rest of the flotilla, and Dow’s frustrations mounted helplessly, for there was nothing he could do about it. They were a full mile astern of the others when they turned back for the Chloe at last, and by the time Samson navigated to the battleship’s side, the first three boats had already long finished and been hauled back on board.
On deck, Dow and his crew found Diego collecting winnings from his admiring fellow lieutenants. ‘Never fear, Samson,’ Diego called happily, pocketing the silver coins, ‘no one expects you to wager anything. It wouldn’t be sporting, after all – not with two beginners in your boat.’ Samson blushed red.
And if Diego’s glee wasn’t bad enough, Dow saw that Vincente was on the high deck, watching on. What would the captain think of such inept sailing? But worst of all was Nell. She was at the high deck rail, hands jammed in her pockets, a fond smile curled amid the scars of her face as she gazed down at D
iego.
Dow’s mood sank lower. He felt that he’d been tricked. He suspected now that Nell’s taunting of Diego in the Great Cabin had been but a ploy to stiffen Diego’s resolve and make him sail all the better – and to make all the bigger fool of the New Island boy.
‘Or perhaps Samson was slowed by something dragging behind,’ Diego was laughing now to his friends. ‘Like a New Island fishing net …’
Humiliated and disgusted, Dow fled below.
The next day they did it all over again, and then every day after that for a further week. The exercises varied; sometimes the cutters were set a simple course to sail, as on the first day, other times they were made to perform more complex manoeuvres, like retrieving men fallen overboard, or righting the boat from a deliberate capsize. But whatever the task, in the end it was always a race back to the Chloe, and day after day, to Dow’s mortification, Diego’s boat was the victor. There was no disputing it, no matter how much Dow would’ve liked to; the Valdez lieutenant was a fine small-craft sailor.
Samson was not – nor did he show any signs of ever becoming so. Each morning he set out seemingly intent upon mastering his boat and the sea, but by each exercise’s end he had retreated into a thwarted silence, leaving the crew to fend for themselves. Dow’s own performance improved enough to ensure that they were never again beaten as badly as the first time, but even so they always finished last – and then Dow would have to endure not only Diego’s victorious preening, but also the galling sight of Nell’s superior smile from the high deck, in testimony to her suitor’s triumphs.
The exercises continued no matter the weather or the seas – and indeed, these both worsened as the Chloe pushed steadily north. The sky clouded over and the wind stiffened until it was a constant thing, whipping and moaning across the ocean. The smaller chop of the first few days was gradually swallowed by greater waves that reared from all quarters and then sank away again without breaking, but with foam frothing even so from their broad crests. They were no particular threat or hindrance to the Chloe, but they loomed impressive and forbidding from the low seats of the cutters.
The Voyage of the Unquiet Ice Page 12