Deathlands 118: Blood Red Tide (4 page)

Krysty decided to go from worst to best. She picked up the mutie mess and began stripping meager meat and tendon and spitting bones.

Krysty looked at her friends. “How’s it going. Mildred?”

“Bonesaw is a drunk, and when he isn’t drunk he’s sampling whatever meds he has. Strangely enough he seems to care about his patients. He likes the way I sew.”

“J.B.?”

J.B. shoveled down beans. “I wasn’t allowed in the armory or near the cannons. I cleaned blasters. Mostly single shooters. Homemade. I think they’re desperate short of—”

Sweet Marie spoke low and dangerous. “You best keep that talk between you and Gunny till you get your short ass signed, Specs.”

Krysty changed the subject. “Jak?”

“Big boat.”

Sweet Marie, Movies, Gallondrunk and Goulash spoke in harsh unison. “She’s a ship!”

“Ship,” Jak amended. “Big ship.”

“You all right?”

Jak almost smiled. Krysty had seen Jak up in the rigging and knew that despite their circumstances Jak was enjoying hanging from the rigging and being in the tops. He was already as agile as a monkey, and he was learning a new skill set. It didn’t mean he wasn’t planning on how to murder the entire crew, but part of him was enjoying the work.

“Ricky?” Krysty asked.

Ricky’s fists clenched. “If one more person pinches my ass...”

“You and me both. Has anyone seen Ryan?”

Sweet Marie sucked the meat off a monkey bone. “Captain’s working your man watch-on-watch. Can’t imagine he’ll last much longer without falling asleep on duty or collapsin’. Then it’s ship’s punishment.”

Krysty bit her lip. “Like Doc?”

Sweet Marie looked at Krysty with genuine sympathy. “Best you forget about Old Stick, girl. He’s done. Eat. Sleep. If you gotta worry, worry about your man.”

* * *

T
HE SHIP’S BELL RANG.
First Mate Loral piped the change of watch as the sun set. Ryan had been going twenty-four hours straight. “One-Eye! Take supper with your mates!” Ryan managed not to collapse to the deck. Loral called to the purser. “Mr. Forgiven! Rate Mr. Ryan waister!”

Crewmen made approving noises of Ryan’s elevation from One-Eye to his name and from lubber to waister. His bravery, work ethic and sheer toughness had not gone unnoticed.

Mr. Forgiven came forward bearing the book. “Come along, Wipe!” The thatch-headed sailor who had named Doc “Old Stick” bore a large bundle. Forgiven opened his book and flipped to a page. “Mr. Ryan, neither proved otherwise, nor signed.”

“Mr. Forgiven.”

“One hammock, mattress and blanket.” Wipe dropped them at Ryan’s feet. Forgiven held out his pen. “Sign or make your mark for your issuables.”

Ryan signed the indicated space in the book.

“You have been promoted from lubber to waister, until proved otherwise or signed.” Wipe set down a leather belt sheath with two implements on Ryan’s bedding. Forgiven nodded. “Ship’s knife number 12, Marlinspike number 42 and sheath. Mr. Ryan, these belong to the ship and are your responsibility until you’re chilled in action, leave ship’s service or should you buy implements of your own preference in port that meet ship standard and then these seen returned to stores. You understand?”

Ryan understood all too well. The beating at Manrape’s hands had been one test. Working him watch-on-watch had been another. Now he was being issued the tools that could be the keys toward mutiny or escape. He was being tested again. “I understand.”

“Sign.”

Ryan signed.

Forgiven nodded and walked away. “Very good.”

Ryan drew the marlinspike. It was twelve inches of tapered iron coming to point like a sharp, flathead screwdriver with a hitch loop at the top. It was made for splicing, knotting and hitching rope and line. Ryan slid the spike back into its side pocket and drew the knife. It was simple, with well-weathered wood grips and a full riveted tang. The blade was five inches long, discolored and pitted from salt and sea. It was a working man’s knife. The spine was thick for strength and the edge was thin as a razor and shaving sharp. The knife had been sharpened so many times the blade was starting to lose its original line. Ryan hefted it in his hand.

“Don’t even think about it,” Hardstone muttered.

Manrape pulled his trick of appearing behind Ryan out of nowhere. For a big man he moved very quietly. He whispered like a lover. “Think about it, Ryan.”

It took all of Ryan’s will not to turn and slash. Manrape laughed and resumed his walk along the gangway. “Think about sticking me, while I think about sticking little Ricky.” He looked up as he walked beneath Doc moaning in the shrouds and laughed.

Ryan slammed his new knife back in its sheath and gathered up his bedding. Hardstone jerked his head toward the hatch as the second watch came up and the ceaseless work continued. “Follow me. You mess with us. Word is the last hunting party brought back a barrel or two of bush meat. Enjoy it. We lost a lot of stores in the battle when the hull was pierced. Boiler and Skillet are both in the med. We’ll be on hard rations and badly cooked at that when we sail.” Hardstone limped for the hatch. Ryan stopped beneath Doc. Earlier Doc had been mumbling to his wife and children hundreds of years gone. Now Doc moaned, pleading to a baron only he could see.

Ryan flinched. Doc was spiraling down into the cellar of the horrors he had experienced. “Doc, you have to listen to me. You’re going to die up in those ropes unless you get it together.”

Some rational section of Doc’s unraveling mind sobbed in response. “Oh to be so blessed...”

Ryan could sense the nearby crew listening in. Doc’s utter loyalty to his friends often shored up his sanity. “Doc, we’re in a hard place and it’s getting harder. I need you. We all need you.” Ryan grasped at Doc’s words and his talents. “You said it yourself. This is a square-rigged ship. A thing from your time. You know about these things. Find something. Anything! Anything that could make you useful and get you cut down so we can get you to Mildred.”

“Mildred...”

“Doc.” Ryan put the iron of command in his voice. “You and I are friends. Now we’re watch mates. You die on my watch, and Krysty will never forgive me.”

“Krysty...”

“Loves you,” Ryan snarled. “Now you got to get yourself together, get yourself down out of those shrouds and make yourself useful! Tell me you hear me!”

A barely sane whisper responded. “Ryan...”

“Doc, you heard me. I know you heard me. Tell me you...” Ryan’s shoulders sagged in defeat as Doc’s chin had dropped to his chest and the evening breeze stirred the rivulet of drool hanging from his chin.

Manrape cooed. “Mr. Ryan, are you talking to a man under ship’s punishment?”

Ryan spun. Manrape lunged. Ryan was three steps too slow from exhaustion and still holding his bedding. He started to drop the bundle and go for the knife and marlinspike, but Manrape’s rope end slammed into his chest. Ryan fell back onto the deck. The tactical part of his mind noted that one end of Manrape’s double-ended rope was loaded. He gasped like a fish and tried to breathe.

Manrape knelt and put a knee on Ryan’s chest. The blond titan held his rope end between his legs and dangled the knot over Ryan’s face in horrible metaphor. “You haven’t been proved otherwise, so I can’t kill you. But know this. You are unsigned. You do not know the creed. You are not protected by the code. You’re lucky because we need every hand able or otherwise and for the good of the ship, so I’ll not put you in the med. This time. Now go mess with your mates.”

Manrape rose and walked away whistling. Chilling rage boiled behind Ryan’s eye and the red mist clouded his vision as he reeled to his feet. Hardstone stepped between them and gathered up Ryan’s meager belongings. A sailor Ryan had heard called Atlast hurried to his side. Atlast was the ship’s master of sails and spars. He was a head shorter than Ryan and Hardstone, but his shoulders were just as broad, his legs bowed like a horseman and what could only be described as a whiteman’s Afro was pulled back and barely restrained by a short pigtail.

“Listen, Ryan. We need the likes of you aboard this ship, then, don’t we? Best you go easy like around the bos’n.”

“Go easy.” Despite his rage, he knew Hardstone and Atlast were looking out for him. “Around Manrape?”

“Don’t rock the bloody boat, then. You’ve felt the thunderbolt.”

“The rope,” Ryan muttered.

“Yeah, well, Manrape’s rope end has two ends, doesn’t it? One’s a regular rope end knot, the other’s a monkey’s paw he’s woven in, and that paw holds four good grams of lead shot. One end’s for fighting, one end’s for fun.”

Hardstone handed Ryan his bedding. “Go down and string your hammock. Wipe should be below and will show you where. I’ll save you a bowl of meat and beans.”

Ryan knew it was the best offer he was going to get.

Chapter Four

“Heave away, boys!” Manrape called. “Heave away!”

The
Hand of Glory
cast off. The captain had deemed the ship ready for sail. The watch hours had been changed. Six hours of dreamless sleep and a bowl of leftover beans with biscuit broken into it had done Ryan a world of good. He wore stiff canvas pants and a blue-striped jersey someone had sewn to his proportions. He was still sore all over. His hands were well callused from life in the Deathlands, but working a wooden ship watch-on-watch had ripped his hands to shreds. Twenty-four hours barefoot on a wooden deck and rope riggings had left him limping and leaving bloody footprints that got him roared at wherever he went.

Ryan heaved against the horrible weight of the capstan bar next to Onetongue. Despite his fatboy body, Onetongue’s muscles rippled beneath his flesh, and unlike every other sailor aboard he never seemed happier than when confronted with back-breaking work. Hardstone and Wipe heaved on the bar ahead and groaned like everyone else as they slowly moved clockwise and the capstan shaft wound anchor cable. Four more pairs heaved on bars behind them.

Ryan risked a glance back at Doc. The old man hung limp from the shrouds in the morning sun. Blood ran down his cheek and chin and spattered his shirt. Ryan had been belowdecks eating, but he had heard the roars and catcalls above and heard the story. Just before the watch had changed, a gull had gone for Doc’s left eye. Doc had jerked awake with a scream and frightened the bird off, but the gulls circled in wait above the tops. They sensed the bound man’s weakness. They sensed no one was going to defend him. Ryan knew without a shadow of a doubt that Doc was going to die hanging from those shrouds this day, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Ryan snarled as the rope end thudded into his back with all of Manrape’s strength behind it. “You look back at Old Stick one more time, Ryan! One more time, and I will seize you to the shrouds beside him!” The rope end slammed between Ryan’s shoulder blades a second and third time. “Now heave!”

Ryan gritted his teeth against the “fun end” of Manrape’s starter. More than the knotted rope tenderizing his flesh, Ryan felt Captain Oracle’s eyes on him from the quarterdeck. Oracle always seemed to be watching him. Ryan heaved. The capstan turned. Ratchets and palls clacked with monotonous rhythm as the crewmen threw their muscle against the bars and hauled the dragging anchor off the rocky bottom.

Doc’s voice rose out of nowhere in song.

“A is the anchor that holds a bold ship.”

The crew glanced up at the insane, shroud-seized man.

“B is the bowsprit which often does dip...”

First Mate Loral laughed. “Sing more!” The capstan men grunted as the song met the rhythm of their heaving and the clank of the pall and ratchet.

“C is the capstan upon which friend Ryan does wind...”

Onetongue shot Ryan a smirk as they heaved together.

“And D is the davits, on which the jolly boat hangs.”

“What’s a jolly boat?” Wipe gasped.

“Shut up, Wipe,” Hardstone snarled. “I wanna hear.”

Doc’s voice rose. In his less broken moments he was a powerful orator. Ryan only seldom heard it, but Doc’s singing voice was a clear, beautiful tenor. It sang out now.

“E is the ensign, the white Hand of Glory on Blue, F is the foc’sle that holds the dear Glory’s crew.”

Noises of amusement and approval traveled through the crew from stem to stern.

“G is the gangway, on which Mr. Manrape makes his stand. H is the hawser, which seldom does strand.”

Manrape’s rope end hung limp in his hand as he stared up at Doc.

“I is the irons where the stuns’ll boom sits. J is the jib-boom, which Mr. Atlast will tell you does dip.”

Atlast roared from his precarious perch at the prow. “Ha!”

“K are the keesons of which you have been told, and L are the lanyards that always will hold. M is the main mast, so stout and so strong. N is the North Star that never points wrong. O are the orders of which we all must beware, and P are the pumps that cause sailors to swear...”

The crew laughed and the men on the capstan heaved in time with Doc’s song.

“Q is the quadrant, the sun for to take. R is the rigging that always does shake. S is the starboard of our old bold ship, and T is for the topmasts that often do split. U is for the ugliest, one-handed old captain of all...”

Every head snapped a look at Oracle. The captain stood like a statue of ebony, staring at Doc.

Doc continued without missing a beat.
“V are the vapors that come with the squall. W is the windlass upon which we all wind, and X, Y and Z? I confess, I cannot put in a rhyme!”

The crew laughed and cheered. Men with two free hands clapped and those who didn’t whooped and pounded wood with their fist or stomped their feet. Commander Miles put his fists on his hips. “Sing another, Old Stick! That anchor is only halfway up, much less catted!”

Doc licked his cracked lips and stared at the birds circling him with intent. “I know a song about seagulls...”

Men laughed. Hardstone made a grudging noise. “He’s a bold, old scarecrow, I’ll give him that.”

Wipe did his slow mental math. “But...”