The day darkened quickly and Soren felt as if he was back in Vellin-Ilora. The wind whistled through the rigging and spray started to break across the deck of the Honest Christophe. The crew were not chatting now; the fatalistic humour was replaced by silence and gritted teeth. Joris stood determinedly at the wheel, his face showing ever greater strain as he wrestled with it, struggling to keep control of his ship and ensure she remained on his chosen course.
As the wind continued to build, the whistling increased to a constant screech that made it impossible to hear even his own voice. Joris had one of his crew tie him to the binnacle so he could concentrate on the wheel and not have to worry about hanging on to the ship. Soren didn’t need to be told twice when one of the crew instructed him to go below and lash himself into his hammock.
The next several hours were a nightmarish blur. Strapped into his hammock, Soren’s body was flung back and forth with each violent pitch and roll of the ship. Sleep was impossible and, isolated in the darkness below the decks, he had no idea what was going on. He felt completely powerless, that his fate was out of his hands and that he had no control over whether he would live or die over the next few hours.
He vomited several more times, soaking the cloth of his hammock with foul smelling bile. Stinking bilge water sloshed around and was added to by waves that broke over the ship and washed down the companionway. The ship’s timbers groaned and creaked in protest, and Soren thought she was going to break apart. Above all other noise was the howling of the wind as it tore across the decks and through the rigging. Soren’s imagination ran wild; he feared that the crew had all been washed overboard and he was the only soul on board, being blown inexorably toward his death.
The nausea and the stench, the violent movement of the ship, the noise, the darkness and the fear all drove him to a state of near delirium as the storm seemed to go on for ever.
At some point, like a blessing from the gods, sleep came.
He was still strapped into his hammock when he awoke. From the swinging movement, it seemed to him that it was still attached to the deck beams of the ship. He was not floating in the sea, which had seemed a likely outcome the night before and something he was thankful for. The movement was less violent now, more regular and not straining the lines of his hammock with each swing. The sounds of the ship groaning and straining to hold herself together were also gone, as was the screaming of the wind across the deck. The stench of bilge and vomit was still there though, and each time he caught a whiff of it he wanted to throw up again.
He was hungry and exhausted by the strain of the night before, both physical and emotional. He slowly undid the ties on his hammock and released himself from his wet and stinking cocoon. He dropped his feet to the deck, which was awash with water; hardly a good sign. He slipped from the hammock and stood unsteadily. The cold water was a shock and sent a shiver up his spine. His nerves were still shaken from the night before and the gradual tolerance he had been developing for ship-board travel was completely erased. Each time one of the pieces of junk that was floating in the bilge water brushed against his feet and ankles, it gave him a start.
He moved from handhold to handhold as he made his way to the companionway. The fresh air drifting down from above was a relief and flushed the stench of below from his nostrils. He stumbled up the steps and out into the sunlight.
The initial shock of the water sloshing around aside, Soren’s hopes had grown that the Honest Christophe was still intact and seaworthy. He was unprepared for what greeted him when he stepped up on deck. Captain Joris stood by the wheel, one hand resting on its rim, his other arm in a roughly tied sling. The otherwise calm day was disturbed by a constant clanking sound. Soren turned to see two of the crew working a crank on a pedestal beside the main mast. With each turn there was a sloshing noise and Soren could see water gushing from a pipe that ran across the deck and out of the scuppers.
The main mast was now no taller than the height of two men, ending in shattered splinters of wood. Some of the spars were lashed down at the side of the deck, while others were missing. The bowsprit was also gone, along with much of the rigging. The ship also seemed to be riding lower in the water than it had been the day before. Soren looked back to Joris, who had a grim look on his face. There were two fewer men on deck than there had been the day before.
‘Can the damage be repaired?’ Soren asked hopefully.
‘Not while we’re at sea. We can jury-rig some sails that’ll keep some way on her, but we’ve sprung a few timbers below the waterline and there’s not much that can be done about that without getting to a dry-dock or beaching. The only question is, can we get to a safe shore before the lads are too tired to turn the handle on the pump? That’s the only thing keeping us afloat. You’ll have to take your turn on that. I’m not much bloody use now, I pulled my arm out during the night. We lost two of the lads overboard. Never even saw them go; one minute they were on deck, the next they were just gone. First time I’ve lost anyone at sea,’ Joris said.
Soren thought about Alessandra. Had that been how she had died? The notion gave him a pain in the pit of his stomach. Soren considered trying to console Joris, but didn’t want to dwell on the subject of drowning. Changing the subject was all that remained. ‘How far are we from the coast?’ he said.
‘No clue,’ Joris said.
So much for trying to change the topic to something more positive, Soren thought.
‘The storm blew us south. We could be as much as two hundred miles farther south than we were when we started. We’re still drifting that way too. I’ll take a sighting on the sun at noon to see how far east we went. The coast could be ten miles, or a hundred. There’s no steerage on the rudder because there’s nothing to put canvas up on to drive us forward. We’ll rig up something to try and put a bit of way on her and just have to creep along and land wherever we land.’
The eastern seaboard of the Middle Sea was one continuous coastline, which meant as long as they made ground to the east, they would reach land eventually, assuming they could keep the Honest Christophe afloat for long enough.
Chapter 20
The Red Flag
The weather had grown noticeably hotter since the storm. They were pushed much farther south than Soren had ever been before, certainly far south of the Auracian border, and perhaps even far enough to be off the coast of Shandahar. The heat, not something that had ever bothered Soren before, became oppressive. Combined with back-breaking work at the pump, Soren was utterly exhausted and beginning to suffer from the many signs of exhaustion and exposure. While the Fount was stronger on the ship than it had been on Vellin, it seemed that it was not strong enough to sustain Soren through the constant exertion of working the pump on minimal food.
Most of the ship’s food stores had been spoiled in the storm; sacks were soaked through with bilge water and casks had been smashed open by the violent heaving of the ship. Some dried foods remained, but they had to be strictly rationed and were not nearly enough to keep up with the energy expended keeping the pump going. Coupled with his bouts of seasickness, Soren realised that he had not had a proper meal — that he had kept down — since leaving the dining hall in Vellin-Ilora. Even when living on the streets, he’d managed to eat better than he had over the past days.
There was little chance to spare a thought for any of the things that he had discussed with Berengarius, the information he hoped would help him master the Gift. During the short breaks he took from the pump, he tried to see the blue glow by accepting it was there, but he could not. He didn’t have enough experience to know how much there would be on the ship with only eight men including himself. There was definitely some, as he was faring visibly better than his crewmates who had to make do with the meagre rations.
The crew managed to jury-rig a few of the less damaged spars into a ramshackle mast and yard, and fitted a spare sail to it. It gave them a little forward momentum, but they still crawled along at a snail’s pace. The main issue was th
e ingress of water between the damaged planking of the hull, which required the pump to be worked continuously, the men taking their turns in shifts. It was exhausting work, and as the day after the storm wore on the shifts had to be shortened several times.
Despite their efforts and several abortive attempts to staunch the flow of water, they were fighting a losing battle and only delaying the inevitable. The question that remained was if they would be able to delay the inevitable long enough to get to shore. With the rapidly deteriorating condition of the crew, Soren did not think their chances were high. The ship was moving too slowly; with all the weight added by the water, their small and inefficient sail was not able push them along quickly enough.
The rowboat that Soren had taken ashore to Vellin would perhaps have been just big enough for the eight surviving crewmembers to abandon the ship, but it had been smashed to pieces in the storm. The prospect of spending days in a small, open and overcrowded boat was not attractive, and Soren was relieved that it was not an option. Abandoning the ship would have been a worst-case scenario, if there was one worse than their current predicament. Captain Joris’s entire life’s worth was tied up in the Honest Christophe and what was left of its cargo. If she foundered, he would lose everything and Soren suspected he would rather go down with her than abandon her. They would simply have to struggle on in the hope that they had been blown closer to the eastern coast than they thought.
The sky remained overcast with the tail of the storm during the middle of the day, preventing Joris from taking a reading from the sun and getting a rough idea where they were. He tried, but despite his best effort could not get anything usable. The crew groaned as they went back to the pump, still no wiser as to where they actually were, and how far away safety was.
The evening continued much as the day had been, a constant and exhausting struggle with the pump in order to keep the ship afloat. The idea of jettisoning the cargo had been mooted, but it seemed to be an impossible task. Had the rigging still been intact, it might have been possible to put together a tackle system that would let them hoist the crates out of the hold and over the side, but their flimsy jury-rigged mast wouldn’t take the strain, and they could not risk losing even the meagre propulsion it allowed them to generate. Hauling cargo out would mean even more strain on the crew, and less energy for the pumps. Keep fighting the ingress of water, or try to lighten the load. They could only manage one, but seemed damned either way.
The strain on the crew became increasingly evident as the night wore on. Despite wrapping swaddles of sailcloth around their hands when turning the crank on the pump, they were all suffering from blisters that had turned the palms of their hands into little more than raw meat.
With the arrival of stars in the night’s sky, the crew gathered at the stern of the ship to watch Joris take a reading from the stars. They huddled around him in silence as he watched the sky, waiting for a large enough break in the cloud. Finally he raised his astrolabe and held it up to the stars, squinting along a line etched on its surface.
‘We’re well south, past the border between Auracia and Shandahar.’
It was not the crucial piece of information all the men were waiting for. Soren was holding his breath.
Joris lowered the astrolabe and looked at the markings on its side. His mouth moved in silence as though he was working something out in his head.
‘Twenty-five, maybe thirty miles from the coast.’
The men cheered, although the voices were strained and tired. Without needing to be told, they returned to their station. Joris had said earlier that they were making two miles to the east every hour. If they were able to keep the ship afloat and move at that pace, there was a good chance they would sight the Shandahari coast late the following day.
This lifted the crew’s spirits, but there was only so much the positive news could do for their exhausted bodies. The darkness hid the return of despair and exhaustion, with each man living within his own bubble of pain and fatigue, none wanting to let the others see how tired they were. The camaraderie on board amazed Soren. There was something admirable about it, but he feared it might be futile. They had to keep the Honest Christophe afloat for at least twelve hours. Soren would have been concerned if told they only needed two.
By the time morning came, the crew were in a pitiful state. The ship was lower in the water than at the previous sunset. That it was still afloat at all was due to the unfailing effort of all the crew. One man had pushed himself to the point where he could not continue. They carried him down to his hammock in a comatose state from which he showed no sign of recovering. Soren would never forget the pained expression on Joris’s face as he watched one of his lads drop. He seemed haunted by the two that were lost during the storm.
Soren had been able to sustain a higher work rate for longer, but he was now also in a state where hauling himself up off the deck to return to the pump handle felt like more effort than he could manage.
They were all so exhausted that when Joris announced the sight of land, there was barely a reaction. Shimmering in and out of view with the pitch of the ship, it was still distant, but there nonetheless. It was only mid-morning but the heat was building steadily. The haze in the air made it difficult for dry, tired eyes to see, but after a moment or two propped against the bulwark with his hand shading his eyes, Soren saw it, a thin yellow line atop the crystal blue sea. He looked back to Joris with a relieved smile while two of the men finally managed to muster enough energy to react, clapping each other on the back and laughing. The remaining food was dished out and they returned to the pump with renewed vigour.
The gods seemed to be smiling upon them as the breeze increased and the Honest Christophe responded, pressing on toward the coast with a little more speed. All eyes were fixed on the shoreline. Even those on the pump turned their heads and strained to see how much progress they were making toward it from time to time.
Joris was the first to spot an approaching ship. It had already covered half the distance between them and the horizon before he noticed it. Soren was on a break from duty at the pump when the call came, so he hobbled over to the opposite bulwark to look for himself.
There was nothing out of the ordinary about it. From the look of the spread of white canvas, it appeared as though she had avoided the worst of the storm. It occurred to Soren that if she closed with them quickly enough, her captain might be convinced to tow them closer to the coast. There was something unsettling about the way Captain Joris had announced his sighting however.
‘Is there a problem?’ Soren said.
‘Not right now, lad, but there might be,’ he said. ‘She’s moving too fast to be carrying cargo. That leaves two possibilities. Warship or pirate. In Shandahari waters, there ain’t much difference between warship and pirate, not to a vessel from the north anyhow.’
Soren felt a flutter of panic in his chest. If they were attacked, there was no way they could repel it. He marvelled at how the other men had been able to keep going for so long. Despite the advantages conferred by the Gift, albeit when the Fount was very weak, he felt as though he was near the end. With nothing but some biscuit, salt beef and water, they had managed to keep going. With the state they were in, a boatload of children would have little difficulty overwhelming them and taking the Honest Christophe. For a moment Soren wondered what effect the arrival of a large number of people would have on him. With a stronger Fount, how quickly would he recover? Quickly enough to fight? Even with the Moment, how many would he be able to cope with? He knew he was expecting too much from the Gift. He also knew, for the first time in his life, he was facing a fight that he was certain he could not win.
When the ship drew closer a red flag broke out at her masthead. Whether she was truly a warship or a pirate, on this day she chose to be a pirate. Being caught was a foregone conclusion. With the men so weak, Joris gave orders not to resist; the only sensible choice. If they took up arms, they would most certainly all be killed. If they surrendered
peacefully, like as not they would have the chance to fight again another day.
It was with a sense of frustration that Soren and the rest of the crew leaned against the bulwark and watched the predatory vessel tack its way up to them, too tired to do anything else and no longer caring about the bilge that was rapidly filling with water. The pirate was sleek and of finer lines than the Honest Christophe, having clearly been built for speed and agility rather than cargo capacity. As she grew closer they could see that her deck was crowded with men. Even had the crew of the Honest Christophe been in perfect health, they would have had little chance in repelling so many men.
It was a new experience for Soren, waiting for an enemy to come to him in the knowledge that surrender was his only option for survival. It felt strange, emasculating. Even as a youth living on the streets of Ostenheim, he had fought for every scrap in the belief that he would win out in the end. Now he didn’t know what the next few hours would hold. It reminded him of the despair and isolation of the dungeon in Ostenheim. He had realised then that no matter how many friends you have, or how many people you have around you, you always face death alone — and it was no different now.
The other vessel drew up a short distance away, close enough to make out the individual features of the men on board. Its crew scrambled to furl sails and make the ship ready for combat. Others stood by the rail, all armed, watching their prey.
Grappling hooks were fired from small arbalests mounted along the bulwark. The hooks arched gracefully through the air towing ropes behind them. One of the crew had to dive out of the way to avoid being struck by one. The lines were pulled tight, and once the grapnels had gripped the wood of the Honest Christophe firmly, the pirates began to draw the vessels toward each other.
The Huntsman's Amulet (Society of the Sword Volume 2) Page 10
