Rise Of Empire (63 page)

Hadrian stood on the main deck in the dark and the drizzling rain, unsure of his station or even if he had one. He was a cook, after all, but it seemed even a cook was expected to lend a hand on deck when necessary. He still felt ill, but Royce appeared worse. Hadrian watched as Boatswain Bristol, a big burly man, ordered him up the ropes, waving his short whip menacingly. Drained of color, Royce’s face and hands stood out pale in the dark. His eyes were unfocused and empty. He reluctantly moved up the mainmast’s ratlines, but he did not display any of the acrobatics of the previous day. Instead, he crawled miserably and hesitated partway up. He hovered in the wet rigging as if he might fall. From below, Bristol cursed at him until, at last, he moved upward once more. Hadrian imagined that the higher into the rigging Royce went, the more pronounced the sway of the ship would be. Between that, the slippery wet ropes, and the cold wind-driven rain, he did not envy his friend.

Several men were working the ropes that controlled the direction of the sails, but others, like him, remained idle, waiting in lines, which the boatswains formed. There was a tension evident in the silence of the crew. The booming of the headlands grew louder and closer, sounding like the pounding of a giant’s hammer or the heartbeat of a god. They seemed to be flying blindly into the maw of some enormous unseen beast that would swallow them whole. The reality, Hadrian imagined, would not be much different should they come too close to the shoal.

Anticipating something, all eyes watched the figure of Captain Seward. Hadrian could tell by the feel of the wind and the direction of the rain that the ship was turning. The sails, once full and taut, began to flutter and collapsed as the bow crossed over into the face of the wind.

“Mains’l haul!” the captain suddenly shouted, and the crew cast off the bowlines and braces.

Seeing the movements, Hadrian realized the strategy. They were attempting a windward tack around the dangerous point, which meant the wind would be blowing the ship’s hull toward the treacherous rocks even as they struggled to reset the sails to catch the wind from the other side. The danger came from the lack of maneuverability caused by empty sails during the tack. Without the wind driving the ship, the rudder could not push against the water and turn it. If the ship could not come about fully, it would not be able to catch the wind again, and it would drift into the shoal, which would shatter the timbered hull like an eggshell and cast the cargo and crew into a dark, angry sea.

Hadrian took hold of the rope in his line and, along with several others, pulled the yards round, repositioning the sails to catch the wind as soon as they were able. The rope was slick, and the wind jerked the coil so roughly that it took the whole line to pull the yards safely into position.

There was another deafening boom, and a burst of white spray shot skyward as the breaking water exploded over the port bow. The vessel was turning fast now, pulling away from the foam, struggling to get clear. No sooner had the bow cleared the wind than he heard the captain order: “Now! Meet her! Hard over!”

His voice was nearly lost as another powerful wave rammed the rocks just beside them, throwing the
Emerald Storm’s
bow upward with a rough lurch that staggered them all. On the quarterdeck, Wyatt followed the order, spinning the wheel back, checking the swing before the ship could turn too far and lose its stern in the rocks.

Overhead, Hadrian heard a scream.

Looking up, he saw the figure of a man fall from the
mainsail rigging. His body landed a dozen steps away with a sickening thud. All eyes looked at the prone figure lying like a dark stain on the deck, but none dared move from their stations. Hadrian strained to see who it was. The man lay facedown, and in the dim light it was difficult to tell anything.

Is that Royce?

Normally he would never have questioned his friend’s climbing skills, but with his sickness, the motion of the ship, and his inexperience, it was possible he could have slipped.

“Haul off all!” Mr. Temple shouted, ignoring the fallen man. The crew pulled on the sheets and braces, and once more captured the wind. The sails bloomed full, and Hadrian felt the lurch under his feet as the ship burst forward once more, heaving into the waves, now steering out to the open sea.

“Dr. Levy on deck!” Bishop shouted.

Hadrian rushed over the instant he could, but stopped short on seeing the tattoo of the mermaid on the dead man’s forearm.

“It’s Edgar Drew, sir. He’s dead, sir!” Bristol shouted to the quarterdeck as he knelt next to the fallen man.

Several sailors gathered around the body, glancing upward at the mainsail shrouds, until the boatswain’s mates took them to task. Hadrian thought he could see Royce up near the top yard, but in the dark he could not be sure. Still, he must have been close by when Drew fell.

The boatswain broke up the crowd and Hadrian, once more unsure of his duty, stood idle. The first light of dawn arrived, revealing a dull gray sky above a dull gray sea that lurched and rolled like a terrible dark beast.

“Cook!” a voice barked sharply.

Hadrian turned to see a young boy who was not much older than Poe but wearing the jacket and braid of an officer. He stood with a firm-set jaw and a posture so stiff he seemed
made of wood. His cheeks were flushed red with the cool night air, and rainwater ran off the end of his nose.

“Aye, sir?” Hadrian replied, taking a guess it would be the right response.

“We are securing from all hands. You’re free to fire the stove and get the meal ready.”

Not knowing anything better to say, Hadrian replied, “Aye, aye.” He turned to head for the galley.

“Cook!” the boy-officer snapped disapprovingly.

Hadrian pivoted as sharply as he could, recalling some of his military training. “Aye, sir?” he responded once more, feeling a bit stupid at his limited vocabulary.

“You neglected to salute me,” he said hotly. “I’m putting you on report. What’s your name?”

“Hadrian, sir. Blackwater, sir.”

“I’ll have the respect of you men even if I must flog you to obtain it! Do you understand? Now, let’s see that salute.”

Hadrian imitated the salute he had seen others perform by placing his knuckles to his forehead.

“That’s better, seaman. Don’t let it happen again.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

It felt good to get down out of the rain and wind, and Poe met him on the way to the galley. The boy knew his way around the kitchen well, which was no doubt why Wyatt had suggested him. They fired up the stove and Hadrian watched Poe go to work cooking the morning oatmeal, adding butter and brown sugar in proper amounts and asking Hadrian to taste test it. Despite its name, the skillygalee was surprisingly good. Hadrian could not say the same about the biscuits, which were rock hard. Poe had not made them. He had merely fetched the round stones from the bread room, where boxes of them were stored. Hadrian’s years of soldiering had made him familiar with hardtack, as they were known on land. The
ubiquitous biscuits lasted forever but were never very filling. They were so hard that you had to soften them in tea or soup before eating them.

With the meal made, stewards from the mess arrived to gather their shares and carry them below.

Hadrian entered the berth deck, helping the mess steward carry the last of the servings. “Bloody show-off couldn’t even make it up the lines,” Jacob Derning was saying loudly. The men of the tops, and the petty officers, sat together at the tables as befitted their status on board, while others lay scattered with their copper plates amid the sacks and chests. Jacob looked like he was holding court at the center table. All eyes were on him as he spoke with grand gestures. On his head he wore a bright blue kerchief, as did everyone on the foretop crew.

“It’s a different story with him when the sea’s heaving and the lines are wet,” Jacob went on. “You don’t see him prancing then.”

“He looked scared to me,” Bristol the boatswain added. “Thought I was gonna have to go up and wallop him good to get him going again.”

“Royce was fine,” said a thin, gangly fellow with a white kerchief tied over his head and a thick blond walrus mustache. Hadrian did not know his name but recognized him as the captain of the maintop. “Just seasick, that’s all. Once he was aloft, he reefed the tops’l just fine, albeit a bit oddly.”

“Make excuses for him all ya want, Dime,” Jacob told him, pointing a finger his way, “but he’s a queer one, he is, and I find it more than a little dodgy that his first day aloft finds his fellow mate falling to his death.”

“You suggesting Royce killed Drew?” Dime asked.

“I ain’t saying nuttin’, just think it’s odd is all. Of course, you’d know better what went on up there, wouldn’t you, Dime?”

“I didn’t see it. Bernie was with him on the tops’l yard when
he fell. He says Drew just got careless. I’ve seen it before. Fools like him skylarking in the sheets. Bernie says he was trying to walk the yard when the ship lurched ’cause of that burst from the shoal. He lost his footing. Bernie tried to grab him as he hung on to the yard, but the wetness made him slip off.”

“Drew walking the yard in a rainstorm?” Jacob laughed. “Not likely.”

“And where was Royce during all this?” Bristol asked.

Dime shook his head. “I dunno, didn’t see him till later when he turned up at the masthead.”

“Bernie was playing cards with him last night, wasn’t he? I heard Drew walked away with a big pot.”

“Now you’re saying Bernie killed him?” a third fellow, with a red kerchief, asked. Hadrian had never seen him before but guessed he must be the captain of the mizzenmast, as the top captains, along with the boatswains, seemed to dine together at the same table.

“No, but I’m saying the cook was there and he and Royce are mates, aren’t they? I think—” Jacob stopped short when he spotted Hadrian. “Bloody good thing you’re a better cook than your mate is a topman or Mr. Temple’s liable to chuck you both in the deep.”

Hadrian said nothing. He looked around for Royce but did not find him, which was not too surprising, as he guessed his friend would not want to be anywhere near food.

“Might want to let your mate know I’ve asked Bristol here to have a word with Mr. Beryl about him.”

“Beryl?” Bristol responded, puzzled. “I was gonna talk to Wesley.”

“Bugger that,” Jacob said. “Wesley’s useless. He’s a bleeding joke, ain’t he?”

“I can’t go over his head to Beryl,” Bristol said defensively. “Wesley was watch officer when it happened.”

“Are you barmy? What’re you scared of? Think Wesley’s gonna have at ya for going to Beryl? All Wesley will do is report you. That’s all he ever does. He’s a boy and hasn’t grown a spine yet in that midshipman’s uniform of his. Only reason he’s on the
Storm
is ’cause his daddy is Lord Belstrad.”

“We need to serve the midshipmen next,” Poe reminded Hadrian, urgently tugging at his sleeve. “They mess in the wardroom aft.”

Hadrian dropped off the messkid, hanging it from a hook the way he had seen Poe do, and gave Jacob one last glance only to find the fore captain grinning malevolently.

Far smaller and not much more comfortable than the crew’s quarters, the midshipmen’s mess was a tiny room aft on the berth deck that creaked loudly as the ship’s hull lurched in the waves. Normally, Basil delivered the food he cooked for the officers, but this morning he was kept particularly busy working on the lieutenants’ and captain’s meal and had asked Poe and Hadrian for help in delivering the food to the midshipmen’s mess.

“What are you doing in here?” the biggest midshipman asked abruptly as Hadrian and Poe entered. Hadrian almost answered when he realized the question was not addressed to him. Behind them, coming in late, was the young officer who had put Hadrian on report earlier. “You’re supposed to be on watch, Wesley.”

“Lieutenant Green relieved me a bit early so I could get some food while it was hot.”

“So you’ve come to force yourself in on your betters, is that it?” the big man asked, and got a round of laughter from those with him. This had to be Beryl, Hadrian guessed. He was by far the oldest of the midshipmen—by ten years or more. “You’re going to be nothing but a nuisance to the rest of us on this voyage, aren’t you, boy? Here we thought we could have a
quiet meal without you disturbing us. What did you do, whine to Green about how your stomach was hurting because we didn’t let you have anything to eat last night?”

“No, I—” Wesley began.

“Shut it! I don’t want to hear your sniveling voice. You there, cook!” Beryl snapped. “Don’t serve Midshipman Wesley any food, not a biscuit crumb, do you understand?”

Hadrian nodded, guessing that Beryl somehow outranked Wesley despite both of them wearing midshipmen uniforms.

Wesley looked angry but said nothing. The boy turned away from the table toward his sea chest.

“Oh yes,” Beryl said, rising from the table and walking across the room to Wesley. As he did, Hadrian noticed an old scar down the side of Beryl’s face that looked to have nearly taken out his eye. “I’ve been meaning to go through your stuff to see if you had anything I might like.”

Wesley turned, closing his chest abruptly.

“Open it, boy, and let me have a look.”

“No, you have no right!”

Beryl’s toadies at the table jeered the boy and laughed.