The Emerald Storm

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “Look at me,” she said extending her arms to display her stained asomehowrn kirtle. “A shepherd’s daughter would pity me, don’t you think? She took his hand and kissed it. “Can you ever forgive me?”

  He looked at her confused. “For what?”

  “For being so blind.”

  Chapter 12

  Sea Wolves

  As it had for days, the Emerald Storm remained on its easterly course, making slow progress against a headwind that refused to shift. Maintaining direction required frequent tacking which caused the top crews to work all night. Royce, as usual, had drawn the late shift. It was not Dime’s fault. Royce had concluded that the mainmast captain was a fair man, but Royce was the newest member of a crew that rewarded seniority. He did not mind the shift. He enjoyed the nights he spent aloft. The air was fresh and in the dark among the ropes he was as comfortable as a spider in his web. This afforded Royce the opportunity to relax, think, and occasionally amuse himself by tormenting Defoe, who panicked any time his old guild mate lost track of Royce.

  Royce hung in the netting of the futtock shroud, his feet dangling over the open space—a drop of nearly a hundred feet. Above lay the dust of stars, while on the horizon, the moon rose as a sliver—a cat’s eye peering across the water at him. Below, lanterns flickering on the bow, quarterdeck, and the stern, outlined the Emerald Storm. To his left he could just make out the dark coast of Calis drifting lazily by thick vegetation punctuated by the occasional cliff, often marked by the brilliant white plume of a waterfall catching moonlight.

  The seasickness was gone. He could not recall a more miserable time than his first week on board. The nausea and dizziness reminded him of being drunk—a sensation he hated. He spent most of the first night hugging the ship’s figurehead and vomiting off the bow. After four days, his stomach settled but he remained drained, and tired easily. It took weeks, but he forgot all that as he nested in the rigging looking out at the dark sea. It surprised him just how beautiful the black waves could be. The graceful undulating swells kissed by the barefaced moon, all below a scattering of stars. Only one sight could beat it.

  What is she doing right now? Is she looking at the same moon and thinking of me?

  Royce reached inside his tunic, pulled out the scarf, and rubbed the material between his fingers. He held it to his face and breathed deep. It smelled like her. Soft and warm, he kept it hidden—his tiny treasure. On the nights of his sickness, he had lain in the hammock clutching it to his cheek as if a magic talisman to ward off misery. It was how he fell asleep.

  The officers’ deck hatch opened and Royce spotted Beryl stepping out into the night air. Beryl liked his sleep and, being senior midshipman, rarely held the late watch. He stood glancing around, taking in the lay of the deck. He cast an eye up at the maintop, but Royce knew he was invisible in the dark tangles. Beryl spotted Wesley making his rounds on the forecastle and made his way across the waist and up the stair. Wesley looked concerned at his approach but held his ground. Perhaps the boy would get another beating tonight. Whatever torments Beryl planned for Wesley were no concern of Royce, and he thought it might be time to scare Defoe again.

  “I won’t do it,” Wesley declared, drawing Royce’s attention. Once more Royce noticed Beryl nervously looking upward.

  Who are you looking for, Mister Beryl?

  He unhooked himself from the shrouds and rolled over for his own glance upward. As usual, Defoe was keeping his distance.

  No threat there.

  Royce climbed to the yard, walked to the end and just as he had done during the race with Derning, slid down the rope so he could hear them.

  “I can make life on this ship very difficult for you,” Beryl threatened Wesley. “Or have you forgotten your two days without sleep? There is talk that I wi made acting lieutenant, and if you think your life is hard with me as the senior midshipman—as a lieutenant it will be a nightmare. And I’ll see to it that any transfer is refused.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You don’t have to. In fact, it’s better if you don’t. That way you can sound sincere if the captain questions you. Just find him guilty of something. Misconduct, disrespect, I don’t care. You put his buddy the cook on report for not saluting, do something like that. Only this time it needs to be a flogging offense.”

  “But why me? Why can’t you invent this charge?”

  “Because if the accusation comes from you, the captain and Mister Bishop will not question it.” He grinned. “And if they don’t—it’s your ass not mine.”

  “And that’s supposed to entice me?”

  “No, but I’ll get off your back. If you don’t—you won’t eat, you won’t sleep, and you’ll become very accident-prone. The sea can be dangerous. Midshipmen Jenkins lost both thumbs on our last voyage when he slipped with a rope, which is strange ’cause he didn’t handle ropes that day. Invent a charge, make it stick, and get him flogged.”

  “And why do you want him whipped?”

  “I told you. My friends want blood. Now do we have a deal?”

  Wesley stared at Beryl and took a deep breath. “I can’t misrepresent a man, and certainly not one under my command, simply to avoid personal discomfort.”

  “It will be a great deal more than discomfort you little git!”

  “The best I can do is forget we had this conversation. Of course, should some unusual or circumstantial accusation be leveled against Seaman Melborn, I might find it necessary to report this incident to the captain. I suspect he will take a dim view of your efforts to advance insubordination on his vessel. It could be viewed as the seeds of mutiny, and we both know the penalty for that.”

  “You don’t know who you’re playing with, boy. As much as you’d like to think it, you’re no Breckton. If I can’t use you, I’ll lose you.”

  “Is that all, Mister Beryl? I must tack the ship now.”

  Beryl spit at the younger man’s feet and stalked away. Wesley remained standing rigidly, watching him go. Once Beryl disappeared below, he gripped the rail and took off his hat to wipe the sweat from his forehead. Wesley took a deep breath, replaced his hat, straightened his jacket, then shouted in a clear voice. “Hands to the braces! Prepare to bring her about!”

  Royce had dealt with many people in his life, from serfs to kings, and few shocked him. He knew he could always depend on their greed and weakness and was rarely disappointed. Wesley was the first in years to surprise him. While the young midshipman could not see it, the thief offered him the only sincere salute bestowed since Royce stepped aboard.

  Royce ascended to the topsail to loose the yard brace in anticipation of Wesley’s next order when his eye caught an irregularity on the horizon. At night, with only the suggestion of a moon, it was hard for anyone to tell where the sky ended and the sea began. Royce however, could discern the difference. At that moment, he noticed a break in the line. Out to sea, ahead of the Storm, a black silhouette broke the dusty star field.

  “Sail ho!” he shouted.

  “What was that?” Wesley asked.

  “Sail off the starboard bow,” he shouted, pointing to the southeast.

  “Is there a light?”

  “No, sir, a triangle-shaped sail.”

  Wesley moved to the starboard rail. “I don’t see anything, how far out?”

  “On the horizon, sir.”

  “The horizon?” Wesley picked up the eyeglass and panned the sea. The rest of the ship was silent except for the creaking of the oak timbers as they waited. “I’ll be buggered,” Wesley muttered, as he slapped the glass closed and ran to the quarterdeck to pound on the captain’s cabin. He paused then pounded again.

  Te door opened to reveal the captain, barefoot in his nightshirt. “Mister Wesley, have we run aground? Is there a mutiny?” The captain’s steward rushed to him with his robe.

  “No, sir. There’s a sail on the horizon, sir.”

  “A what?”

  “A triangular sail, sir. Over there.” Wesley poi
nted while handing him the glass.

  “On the horizon you say? But how—” Seward crossed to the rail and looked out. “By Mar! But you’ve got keen eyes, lad!”

  “Actually, the maintop crew spotted it first, sir. Sounded like Seaman Melborn, sir.”

  “Looks like three ships, Mister Wesley. Call all hands.”

  “Aye, aye, sir!”

  Wesley roused Bristol who roused the rest of the crew and in a matter of minutes men ran to their stations. Mister Bishop was still buttoning his coat when he reached the quarterdeck, followed by Mister Temple.

  “What is it, sir?”

  “The Dacca have returned.”

  Wyatt, who was taking the helm, glanced over. “Orders, sir?” he asked coldly.

  “Watch your tone, helmsman!” Temple snapped.

  “Just asking, sir.”

  “Asking for a caning!” Mister Temple roared. “And you’ll get one if you don’t keep a civil tongue.”

  “Shut up the both of you. I need to think.” Seward began to pace the quarterdeck, his head down, one hand playing with the tie to his robe, the other stroking his lips.

  “Sir, we only have one chance and it’s a thin one at that,” Wyatt said.

  Mister Temple took hold of his cane and moved toward him.

  “Belay, Mister Temple!” The captain ordered, before turning his attention back to Wyatt. “Explain yourself, helmsman.”

  “At that range, with the land behind us, the Dacca can’t possibly see the Storm. All they can see are the lanterns.”

  “Good god! You’re right, put out those—”

  “No, wait, sir!” Wyatt stopped him. “We want them to see the lanterns. Lower the long boat, rig it with a pole fore and aft, and hang two lanterns on the ends. Put ours out as you light those then cast off. The Dacca will focus on it all night. We’ll be able to bring the Storm about, catch the wind, and reach the safety of Wesbaden Bay.”

  “But that’s not our destination.”

  “Damn our orders, sir! If we don’t catch the wind the Dacca will be on us by tomorrow night.”

  “I’m the captain of this ship!” Seward roared. “Another outburst and I’ll not hold Mister Temple’s hand.”

  The captain looked at the waiting crew; every eye was on him. He returned to pacing with his head down.

  “Sir?” Mister Bishop inquired. “Orders?”

  “Can’t you see I’m thinking, man?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The wind fluttered the sails overhead as the ship began to lose the angle on the wind.

  “Lower the long boat,” Seward ordered at last. “Rig it with poles and lanterns.”

  “And our heading?”

  Seward tapped his lips.

  “I shouldn’t need to remind you, Captain Seward,” Thranic said as he climbed the ladder to the quarterdeck, “that it is imperative that we reach the port of Dagastan without delay.”

  Seward tapped his lips once more. “Send the long boat aft with a crew of four, have them stroke for their lives toward Wesbaden. The Dacca will think we’ve seen them and will expect us to head that way, but the Storm will maintain its present course. There is to be no light on this ship without my order, and I want absolute silence. Do you hear me? Not a sound.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Seward glanced at Wyatt, who shook his head with a look of disgust. The captain ignored him and turned to Bishop. “See to it Mister Bishop.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  ***

  “You should have tried for the long boat’s crew,” Wyatt whispered to Hadrian. “We all should have.”

  It was still dark but the crescent moon halong since fallen into the sea. As per the captain’s orders, the ship was quiet. The only sound came from the whispers of some of the men who had not returned to their hammocks after the long boat launched. Even the wind died, and the ship rocked motionless and silent in the darkness.

  “You don’t have a lot of faith in Seward’s decision?”

  “The Dacca are smarter than he is.”

  “You’ve got to at least give him the benefit of the doubt. They might think we turned and ran.”

  Wyatt muffled a laugh. “If you were captain and decided to make a run for it against faster ships in the dead of night, would you have left the lanterns burning? The lantern ruse only works if they think we haven’t seen them.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Hadrian admitted. “We’ll know soon enough if they took the bait. It’s getting lighter.”

  “Where’s Royce and his eagle eyes?” Wyatt asked.

  “He went to sleep after his shift. Sleep and eat when you can so you don’t regret it later—something we’ve learned over the years.”

  They peered out across the water as the light increased. “Maybe the captain was right,” Hadrian said.

  “How do you mean?”

  “I don’t see them.”

  Wyatt laughed. “You don’t see them because you can’t see anything, not even a horizon. There’s fog on the water. It happens this time of year.”

  It grew lighter and Hadrian could see Wyatt was right. A thick gray blanket of clouds surrounded them.

  Mister Bishop climbed to the quarterdeck and rapped softly on the captain’s door. “You asked to be awakened at first light, sir,” he whispered

  The captain came out fully dressed this time, and proudly strode to the bridge.

  “Fog, sir.”

  The captain scowled at him. “I can see that, Mister Bishop. I’m not blind.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Send a lad up the main masts with a glass.”

  “Mister Wesley,” Bishop called softly and the midshipman came running. “Take this glass to the masthead and report.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Captain Seward stood with his hand fidgeting behind his back, rocking on his heels and staring out at the fog. “It at least looks promising so far, doesn’t it, Mister Bishop?”

  “It does indeed, sir. The fog will help hide us all the more.”

  “What do you think now, helmsman?” the captain asked Wyatt.

  “I think I’ll wait for Mister Wesley’s report. If you don’t mind, sir.”

  Seward folded his arms in irritation and began to pace, his short legs and plump belly doing little to impart the vision of a commanding figure.

  Wesley reached the masthead and extended the glass.

  “Well?” Seward called aloud, his impatience getting the better of him.

  “I can’t tell, sir. The fog is too thick.”

  “They say the Dacca can use magic to raise a fog when they want,” Poe whispered to Hadrian as they watched. “They’re likely using it to sneak up on us.”

  “Or maybe it’s just because the air is cooler this morning,” Hadrian replied.

  Poe shrugged.

  The crew stood around silent and idle for an hour before Mister Temple ordered Hadrian to serve the morning meal. The men ate then wandered the deck in silence, like ghosts in a misty world of white. The midday meal came and went as well, with no break in the mist that continued to envelop them.

  Hadrian had just finished cleaning up when he heard Wesley’s voice from the masthead shout, “Sail!”

  Emerging from the hold, Hadrian felt a cool breeze as a wind moved the fog, parting the hazy white curtains veil after veil.

  The single word left everyone on edge.

  “Good Maribor, man!” Seward shouted up. “What kind of sail?”

  “Red lateen sails, sir!”

  “Damn!” Seward cursed. “How many?”

  “Five!”

  “Five? Five! How could there be five?”

  “No, wait!” Wesley shouted. “Six to windward! And three more coming off the port bow.”

  The captain’s face drained of color. “Good Maribor!”

  Even as he spoke, Hadrian spotted the sails clustered on the water.

  “Orders captain?” Wyatt asked.

  Seward glanced around him
desperately. “Mister Bishop, lay the ship on the port tack.”

  Wyatt shook his head defiantly. “We need to grab the wind.”

  “Damn you!” He hesitated only a moment than shouted, “So be it! Hard a port, helmsman. Bring her around, hard over!”

  Wyatt spun the wheel, the chains cranking the rudder so that the ship started to turn. Mister Temple barked orders to the crew. The Emerald Storm was sluggish, stalling in the futile wind. The ship slowed to a mere drift. Then the foresail fluttered, billowed, and started to draw. She was coming around slowly. The yards turned as the men ran aft with the lee-braces. The mainsail caught the breeze and blew full. The ship creaked loudly as the masts took up the strain.

  The Storm picked up speed and was halfway round and pointed toward the coast. Still, Wyatt held the wheel hard over. The wind pressed the sails and leaned the ship dipping the beam dangerously low. Spray broke over the rail as men grabbed hold of whatever they could to remain standing as the deck tilted steadily upward. The captain glared at Wyatt as he too grabbed hold of the mizzen shroud, yet he held his tongue.

  Letting the wind take the ship full-on with all sails set, Wyatt pressed the wheel raising the ship on its edge. Mister Bishop and Mister Temple glanced from Wyatt to the captain and back again, but no one dared give an order in the captain’s presence.

  Hadrian also grabbed hold of a rail to keep from slipping down the deck. Holding tight, he worried Wyatt might capsize her. The hull groaned from the strain, the masts creaked with the pressure, but the ship picked up speed. At first the ship bucked through the waves sending bursts of spray over the deck, then faster she went until the Storm skipped the waves, flying off the crests with the wind squarely on her aft quarter. The ship made its tight circle and at last Wyatt let up, leveling the deck. The ship fell in direct line with the wind and the bow rose as she ran with it.

  “Trim the sails” Mister Bishop ordered and the men set to work once more, periodically glancing astern to watch the approach of the ships.