Now sensing unseen urgency almost palpably, Van Reiver scampered up the staircase and almost headlong into First Mate Sithric, in an unusually quiet evening.
"Calmly, Edouard." Sithric chided, easing back a pace to allow him access to a quarterdeck silent in the still oppression of thick evening air.
"Where the hell did this fog come from?" Van Reiver asked, looking at the dim forms of the men on duty, their feet quiet as they padded on the deck.
"No idea. From the suddenness, today is stranger than strange. It's unlike the old man to be this concerned, to send someone up," commented Sithric in rare confidence. Van Reiver shivered as trepidation caressed his stomach with her light, lingering fingertips. He could hardly see the mainmast, and the thick nest of ratlines, never mind the foremast.
"He does not know. What was the bump, sir?"
"What bump?" Sithric's sombre glance swivelled to scrutinise him, missing nothing.
"There were bumps on the hull plating. The captain heard them too."
Sithric strode to the stern, to peer past the shadow of the aft balcony. They could see little from the dim light of the stern lanterns. "Which side?"
"Larboard. Faint, but a knock against the copper plating carries inside." Nothing was evident to Van Reiver. Sithric glanced through his brass rimmed spyglass along the phosphorescence of their wake, but still...
"I see nothing." Turning to the bosun's mate, the first mate rasped shut his spyglass and ordered curtly, "Have the bosun, cox'n and four additional lookouts up here."
"Aye, sir." The blond sailor scurried off in a slap of bare feet.
"Quarters, sir?" a thick-set man on the wheel asked through missing teeth. Van Reiver shuddered. Disgusting bloody habit.
"Not when the lads are messing," Sithric said wryly. "The noise would disturb the captain's post-prandial glass. We had an unobstructed ocean before this muck trundled in at twilight. The mainmast saw it before that bloody sunjammer." He handed his spyglass to Van Reiver, all sarcasm gone. "Go forrard and keep an eye out. I'll send you the bosun and more lookouts. We'll man the forrard ballista as a precaution."
"Aye, sir." Van Reiver slid the full length of the ladder and trotted along the steerboard gangway and around the oilcloth-covered twin catapult mountings amidships. Two on each beam straddled the massive mainmast with its two taut square sails. Faster running was awkward in high boots—and frowned upon by Bullsen. He nimbly avoided Carla's boat, upside down on wedges, and clattered up the steps beside the fortified ballista on the crenellated fo'c's'le.
The artillery piece was trained forward, aimed over the ship's graceful curved stem. He gave a cordial nod to the startled duty marine. The man's eyes rounded as Wittmann, and four complaining seamen jostled their way up the steps, griping about their missed meal. Van Reiver found it hard to disagree as he forced himself to ignore the discontent chuntering against the back of his belt.
"Keep a good eye out; something strange is afoot. I heard something clobber our hull." He instructed.
"I think it's bits of wreckage, sir." The larboard lookout reported several long, interminable minutes later, turning around and keeping his right eye closed against Tryphon's navigation lanterns. "I see dunnage off the bow." He sucked his teeth for several seconds. "There may be a distant fire—there's a glimmer of light. I'm unsure how far, but there's timber bobbing between here and there."
"Nice work, Rhames." Van Reiver praised despite the habit. He turned to the seaman at the steerboard rear quarter. "Run to the quarterdeck and report this to the first mate." The man gulped and scurried off. Van Reiver stared at the wreckage through Sithric's spyglass, then strapped on his sword. Rattling and muffled voices from their marines behind the heavy weapon showed it being loaded.
Knowing the lookouts knew their jobs, Van Reiver turned to Wittmann. "Have you finished the carving for your son, Claus?"
"Almost, sir," chuckled the bosun in guttural tones. "Scarferwood is harder to carve than other timbers. I'm saving the canopy and the quarterdeck until last. Our big 'T' is a sizable lady, and it's taken a while to scrounge enough wood for the hull, two castles and the three masts. I'll dowel the aft and forecastles on, and I think I'm going to do the same with the midship catapult platforms if I use offcuts."
"That makes sense, less wastage," chuckled Van Reiver, visualising the leviathan they stood on. He scanned the murky water to each side. "Are you painting her, or leaving the grain natural?"
"In all honesty, sir, I'm not sure. I'll wait and see how the back end looks. The squarish aftcastle and the curve of the transom and rudder will take practice. I'll try the fiddly knife-work on scrap. I don't want it fubsey. I need to think about the dome that looks down on the deck. If it was on top, or on the front, it would be easy to do."
"It will look fine, I'm sure. They likely designed the aft mast to fit over the framing above the rudder. But I see your point." Van Reiver thought Tryphon was beamy, but not that fat-arsed. "I was damn impressed with that sloop for the rope maker's cousin. That was gorgeous, oiling the grain like that to highlight the copper sheathing. You have a skill there, bosun."
"Thank you, sir. They were fine lines to work with, plating too." Wittmann smiled into the darkness. "I hear you give big Harcux a lovely evening."
"He's been hankering for it," Van Reiver chuntered. "The marine was being dozy, but there was no need to start a scrap. He was spoiling for a rumpus, even though it was the tin-head's kit soaking muck off the deck. I say, bosun, he took some calming. I wondered whether he would swing at me."
The bosun winced. "Still, sir, I'm glad you handled it," Wittmann declared in his Germania accented Spires. "He's a fine rating but had problems at home."
"I can see why. It would not surprise me if he smacked her about." Van Reiver observed, seeing nothing to settle his unease in the mist.
"No, sir. It was not like that," interrupted Wittmann, raising an apologetic hand. "He cared for the girl—a real stunner, the lucky bastard. Fiery and passionate, everyone thought they were perfect together. The drinking and fighting came when she left. A real shame for the man. I think her doing it with a bargeman behind his back got his goat up and brought out the temper we see. That occurred before the other bloke came along who she married to rub it in."
"I never realised." Van Reiver felt more than a little guilty at placing the swarthy-skinned man on defaulters so often.
"I know, sir. He's in the third mate's division. It's easier to charge and whip him than resolve the problem—professionally, I mean. I've had words, big Cephill, Hatch and Grimm, but he won't listen to us anymore."
"Peachy," sighed Van Reiver, puffing out his cheeks and furrowing his brow. "Was that a rebuke?"
The bosun smiled, but with the barest hint of unhappiness. "There's worse, sir. Our crew is pretty decent." He winked at the steerboard lookout, who glanced over to follow the conversation. "Asides from the limp-dick marines, who shit themselves in anything windier than a sneeze, even on a hulk this big. Some people are born only to turn water into piss." The bosun's Germania accent sounded insulting, but the seamen knew his barbed humour well.
"That wasn't nice," a gravelly voice rumbled behind the square iron shield, giving it a ringing slap with weapon hardened fingers. "Would you like to see how far my baby here makes gobby bosuns fly over the orange?"
Van Reiver heard Wittmann chuckle at the serjeant miming flight and an explosive splash and peered across at the bulky shadow, "Can you spare a man, Serjeant?"
"I guess so, sir." A craggy face peered over the shield. "What do you want him for—so we don't piss ourselves?" A mirthless grin showed several missing teeth as he looked about like a homicidal mother hen beside her chicks.
"A simple task. Ask the cox'n for my keys and return with them." Van Reiver ignored the crudities as they served their purpose. Besides, Wittmann summed up many aboard to perfection.
.*.*.
Below decks, Seaman Harcux sighed and flicked a look at the marine. The killing ra
ge had dissipated, and as usual, he felt ashamed. This time more with futility than anything else. Life should mean something, have a purpose. It took all his iron will not to hang his head in shame. Every time he went ashore, he promised he wouldn't frequent the drinking dens. He always did. If Harcux chopped his own head off, his feet would get his decapitated body to the bar before it toppled. Walking past the cottage where he'd spent three wonderful years with his former wife had not been the smart thing to do on his last trip ashore. The raw memory still made his temper boil and being used as a servant stirred the embers.
Harcux sighed, forcing himself to calm, and spoke in his deep rumble. "What's yer name?"
"Trevir," said the small, wiry marine. "You're Harcux, our brawler, eh?" he seemed to the seaman to tense for a further confrontation.
"Aye, the name travels?" Harcux asked in bemusement and made no move to attack to gauge the reaction.
Trevir frowned, then raised placating hands. "Only in a port mate, you're a legend. I thought you'd be bigger though." Trevir grinned despite himself, holding his fingers an inch apart.
"Some things are tough to forget," Harcux retorted, feeling the embers of anger stir and with dread inevitability waited for the other man to pour pitch on the smouldering coals.
Instead, to Harcux' surprise, Trevir nodded, his face becoming sympathetic. "The hard ones never are."
Harcux digested the simple words and stamped his anger down. He looked up from the belt upon he was scrubbing. "The fight's over."
"You aren't the only with issues, mate." Trevir must have seen something in Harcux' face but continued, relentless and unforgiving. "My first posting was with my brother on the little Greyhound, if you know her."
"Yeah, I know of her. A fast sloop out of rainy Batten, right?"
Trevir nodded, drifting elsewhere from what Harcux could see in his expression. "Aye. We had a dozen marines as the small ballista crew, so we were close. My older brother was senior serjeant, so we had a decent mess and good banter. On a regular patrol, we stopped what we thought was an Atlantean merchie en route to Spires Central. Our skipper boarded, as for a trader the sails were ragged. That's no coin earner, and it took two tries to get the bugger to cease playing deaf ’n’ blind and stop.
"Our marine officer decided not to man the ballista, as it looked a simple, quiet job. Straightforward. The cocky shanker sent eight of us over under my brother for a look-see, with a new snot-nosed cadet for the experience." Harcux stopped scrubbing to stare as Trevir gazed glassily at the tunic he was brushing and continued in a wooden tone, indigo eyes moist. "Three of us got off, as the fucker turned out to be a pirate trader from Freeport. Three and a one-armed body.
"We left the others, as we got mobbed by scores of the bastards and shoved into the amber. I'll never forget how they hacked the kid apart, the glee and frenzy to their faces.
"Our captain was lucky to keep the ship as they massacred half his deck crew. The corporal and our lads put a naphtha bolt through their stern lights, ignoring the bloody officer altogether. It was our sunjammer who saved us by shoving Greyhound away in a circle. The merchie heaved its guts up and almost boiled us in the water. Only the gods know what the fuckers carried as it roasted them all. We couldn't fault the skipper as he shook the boarders off and circled back for us.
"The feel of that rope, as I climbed back up, was the strangest sensation I've ever had. So clear, so vivid. I can remember every twist to the fibre. It took their bear of a bosun and five men to pry me off the fuckin' officer. The first thing I did was punch the twat. The bosun disarmed me before I could drop his guts into a puddle. Then, the rest swarmed me before I could put the bastard over the side. Shame they wouldn't let me. His fancy armour would have sunk the cunt like a rock."
Trevir grinned. Cold, distant and yearning. Harcux shivered, despite his superior height and bulk. Trevir exuded danger like a sword to the throat. Harcux was glad they hadn't continued the silly fight away from interfering officers.
"I should have used the knife first, must remember that."
Harcux forced a chuckle, noticing the clenching of the marine's jaw. "If you were my size, you might've got the cunt, but they'd have hung you for it."
Trevir nodded, shuddered, and blinked several times to clear his eyes. Harcux pretended not to see it. He knew he was right about the small marine. The man was a walking vendetta and Harcux knew how that sat in the mess deck from the wary stares, but what was the little fucker doing different? Talking couldn't make a difference, could it?
"The thing is, I got lucky." Trevir continued. "I could've been flogged to dog-meat, or hung as you say for strikin' an officer. The captain confined the useless cunt to quarters. I think for his safety as the crew's mood was murderous. I ended up in the brig. Many a time I figured I'd swing, but the skipper came down on the second night. He said they'd treat me fair and he would see to my transfer in person. If I gave my word, I could attend the service for my brother and the men the next morn."
"Did you?"
"Aye, I fancied a second crack at the fucker, but the skipper was wise enough to prohibit the officer attending because of his injuries. Maybe the guy felt guilty for not overrulin' the prick?"
"Must have been a right smack to his gob." Harcux felt the tension slacken by a cock hair's width.
Trevir shrugged. No doubt the memory still tender, which Harcux could relate with. "Dunno, I heard his nose ended up being an unusual shape over some missin' teeth. I guess the apothecary couldn't be arsed or did a piss-poor job setting it. The skipper was as good as his word, and I came here. If I remember, I joined with that officer from earlier."
"Second Mate Van Reiver, our happy-faced navigator." Harcux supplied, then quantified. "All officers are bastards. He's fair, to be honest. Most would've had us on the first mate's defaulters in the morn, but he uses his brains without the kiss-arsin' and lung-clearin' in front of the skipper. I reckon he's no noble, just a guy getting on with the job, which pisses some others off."
"Surprising," Trevir remarked, distracted enough to pronounce the word fully. "Most officers have a punitive title from an unheard-of shithole at the arse end of nowhere. The one I clobbered, was the son of a baron with a farmstead of inbred pig-fuckers and six windswept trees. Probably dances well but was a danger in a scrap."
"Not that we have seen much in what, eight months since you've come aboard with the last reshuffle?" Harcux asked, feeling a need to talk.
"Eleven maybe? Just those ballista exchanges and our futile pirate seeking forays." Trevir frowned as though he realised something. "It hasn't been a bad thing, the quiet and routine. We've missed the nastier pirate attacks, and it's given me a chance to get myself together. It hasn't made me forget, but I do my job."
"That's what I tried," Harcux' shoulders dropped. When folk spoke to him it was for a bollocking, to egg him on, or cheers in victory as coins clinked in raised hands. Their hands. It was a sudden realisation for him to appreciate how his mess mates profited. Shit, what a fuckup he'd become.
"Try harder and grow a pair. Keep off the taplash and hold on to your iron and brass," smiled the marine. "You've a good heart, but you can't let your past rule over you. You won't survive. Some dickless bastard'll make you swing. From what I've seen of your artillery bod, quartermaster, and that third mate, they're cunts. They'll have you."
Trevir brushed his tunic, taking his irritation out on the fabric with a blunt-toothed wooden comb.
"Perhaps." Harcux considered appreciating the truth. Shit, maybe Tryphon's petty officers had been correct in their bitching. All he'd wanted to do to Hatch, Cephill and Grimm was deck them when they spoke. He'd came close with Hatch daily. Harcux shivered, feeling how thin the ice was under his feet. He frowned, cocking his ear. Scrape, clunk. Scrape. "What's that?"
"Hmm?" Trevir peered up from his tunic, brush poised.
"Somethin' rattled off the hull, didn't you fuckin' hear?"
"I didn't hear a fuckin' thing," Trevir snarled
back.
Harcux considered berating him for being a deaf twat, when another thump, followed by a double tap as something thudded along the hull outside the thick oaken timbers. Both men looked at each other.
"Get your gear on, quick," Harcux tossed across the damp belt and crammed the dripping cleaning gear into the store. Turning, he saw Trevir dressing himself. He was dripping wet as he navigated up the tunic buttons, but more or less clean over freshly scrubbed black pants, black leather ankle boots, white shirt and red tunic.
"What's the plan?" Trevir asked as he dropped his helm onto his head, but left the oiled straps dangling.
"Report it to the duty officer on the quarterdeck, I reckon. He might tell us to bugger off, but you rarely bang int' things in the middle of an empty sea."
"Us?" Trevir's expression became wry. "Well, I'm used to shit jobs being the new guy aboard."
Harcux shrugged unsmiling and led their way up to the quarterdeck. They passed through the unhurried turning of the watch. No doubt it was nothing, Harcux thought, and while he'd missed a meal it was better to check than be sorry.
6
A quarter hour later, one of Wittmann's assistants staggered over, grunting under the weight of the iron strapped ready-use weapon chest. Sweating heavily, he thumped it behind the lookouts.
"What's up, Mason?" Wittmann greeted the scruffy man.
"First mate ordered the ready-use out, Bosun." The man said. He opened the box and withdrew a dozen oiled cutlasses, their plain steel and leather hilts a dull gleam from brown leather scabbards and belts.
"Did he order you to wash?" At the rankness permeating the platform, Wittmann wrinkled his nose and wafted an ineffectual hand. Sour sweat would be a sweet perfume to the sailor, Van Reiver thought as he listened in, feeling his nasal senses seize after the initial moment of suffocating torture. How by all the gods could a smell have a personality?
THE TRYPHON ODYSSEY (The Voyage Book 1) Page 6
