Casca 17: The Warrior (3 page)

"And only an Irish bog trotter like Liam O'Dwyer would talk such nonsense," said Sandy by way of introduction. "Mister Case Lonnergan, meet the bosun of the ship."

"A name from the auld sod I'm thinking," said Liam as they shook hands, "but you don't look Irish."

"What is in a look or name these days, what with all the traveling and cross-breedin' people
do. Let's just say the name has served me well enough and let it go at that, but if you wish, you can call me by another name I've not heard for a long time. Casca!"

He didn't know why he gave his true name, but it was done and he liked the sound of it. He had carried too many others over the long years, and on this lonely ship heading to the edge of the world it was not likely that it would do him any harm.

"Well, then," said the Scot, "we'll call ye Casca, as you're leaving the states and save ye the indignity of carrying an Irish name any farther."

"In the name of Jesus," Liam shouted in feigned anger, "give me strength not to strangle this idiot who doesn't even know that his own name comes from Ireland in the first place."

Sandy laughed. "Oh, we're not so ignorant. We know where we came from, but we prefer not to think about it."

"Well," said Casca, "if it's all right with you warring Gaels, I'll accept Casca and keep Rafferty Lonnergan. The name got me a job with the Paddys on the railroad, and a few of them weren't such bad guys—for barbarians."

Over the next several weeks Casca got to know all the crew. The first watch of the day was run by Weston, a burly New Englander who was at the helm from midnight. On a thong around his thick, sunburned neck he wore the largest shark's tooth Casca had ever seen. At four Weston was relieved by Ulf, and at eight Liam took over. There were also an able seaman and an ordinary seaman on each watch to handle the sails and keep lookout, and for company for the helmsman.
Rangaroa
was a working merchant ship, and the officer of the watch ran the ship most of the time from the helm, the two seamen on the foredeck ready to take his orders or relieve him as required.

There was not much for them to do.
Rangaroa
was on a broad reach, the northwesterly breezes coming over her starboard side, keeping her nicely heeled to port as she kept her heading of 165, bound for the islands of Tahiti.

Day after day, night after night, week after week the
Rangaroa
bounded through the seas, and Casca enjoyed the voyage more and more. They passed to the southeast of Hawaii and picked up the northeast trades, replacing the north-westerly winds.
Rangaroa
changed tack and now lay over on her starboard side, running before the steady breeze, making good time with all sails set.

They crossed the equator with a great deal of tomfoolery, Casca being the butt of numerous pranks according to custom, since he was the only passenger aboard and claimed to have never previously ventured into the southern half of the planet. His head was ceremonially shaved; he was thrown into the sea in a harness on the end of a line. The idea was to drag him a little way behind the ship, but they were in the doldrums, becalmed between the northeast and the southeast trades.

Casca swam around for a while in the warm water, enjoying himself immensely. Had he known seagoing was so much fun, he would have taken to it much earlier in his long life.

Sandy dressed up as a girl, in a series of outfits borrowed from the ship's cargo. First he appeared in an elegant crinoline, then in a skirt made of sailcloth, a striped sailor's jersey stuffed with two potatoes, and a wig made from teased-out threads of rope. Chou Lui produced a box of Chinese paint colors and rouged his cheeks, blackened his eyelashes, painted shadows around his eyes, reddened his lips. With his small frame he looked and acted a very pretty little slut, playing the part thoroughly, dancing and flirting outrageously with all the crew, stripping lasciviously to a corset.

Rangaroa
flopped around on the flat sea for several more days, the sails hanging useless from the gaffs, the helmsmen striving hour after hour to maneuver the ship to catch the breath of any vagrant breeze. The whole crew, including Chou Lui, and even Casca, took turns at the helm.

At noon each day Larsen took a sextant shot, calculated the ship's position and recorded it on the chart and in the log. Some days they made as little as ten miles, and these miles were hard won, each helmsman in turn coaxing every possible mile from the almost non
-existent wind, trying to inch the ship toward where they might pick up the southeast trades.

One night when Casca was at the helm he allowed his attention to wander. The sails fell slack as the wind shifted slightly. Casca didn't notice and failed to adjust the heading, and the sails flapped across to the other tack.

Several seamen were on deck and they sprang to the ropes, but there was not enough wind to move the yards and they could not bring the ship back on to course. Weston motioned to Casca to put the helm over, and they swung a great arc all the way around the compass to regain their course.

When Larsen did his noon sight they had last three miles for the day. Casca was profoundly depressed, but all the others, even Ulf, made light of it.

"It don't really make no blamed difference," he said, "we'll make up three miles in twenty minutes when we get a good blow."

Maybe
, Casca thought,
but I've still cost the ship a whole day's work
.

The next night during Weston's watch, Casca tried another trick at the helm. This time he was determined at all costs to ensure that the ship would gain some miles, and certainly not lose any.

He kept his attention concentrated entirely on the sails, striving every moment to lay the ship into the path of even the faintest breeze, struggling to keep the canvas tilled with the very light air.

He was vaguely aware of the movements of the sailors on the foredeck. The able seamen had been sent below to repair sail, since they were not needed on deck, and the mate and
Sandy were forward of the fore cabin skylight, out of Casca's view.

Faint sounds from this direction obtruded into Casca's awareness and he resolutely shut them out as he listened for the faint flutter of the sail that would warn him of the danger of the canvas being backwinded, repeating his error of the previous night.

Gradually he became aware that the sounds from the foredeck were like those of a scuffle, and he called out, "You guys all right there?"

There was no answer, and the scuffling sounds increased. He thought he heard Sandy's muffled voice. "Sandy?" he called.

"Mind your own fuckin' business," Weston's voice came back to him, and again some faint undistinguishable noises from Sandy.

"What's going on?" Casca demanded.

There was no reply, but the sounds were now unmistakable. Weston and Sandy were wrestling on the deck.

For just a moment Casca hesitated. Perhaps it was none of his business. He knew that if he left the helm for a second, the ship could lose again every mile that the crew had sweated for in the past twenty-four hours. On the other hand Sandy was a friend and the sounds were disturbing.

He hesitated for one more instant, thinking, if nothing is really amiss how the hell will I explain the fuck-up to the crew? Then there was a muffled yelp of pain from Sandy and he dropped the helm and ran forward.

Just beyond the skylight Weston had Sandy pinned face down on the deck, one hand clamping a length of hemp into his mouth, the other hand tugging down the boy's
pants. Weston's pants were already down around his ankles, his legs a mass of thick, black hair.

Casca yelled as he ran toward the struggling pair.

"Fuck off, passenger," Weston grunted, and tried once more to force his entry into Sandy's struggling body.

With the skill learned in a thousand fights, and the strength of endless centuries of physical training and hard work, Casca chopped with the heel of his hand at the mate's thick, hairy neck.

Weston's powerful body jerked spasmodically in momentary paralysis and he released his hold on the boy. Sandy wriggled away as Casca seized the mate's thick neck in one powerful hand and smashed his face into the deck. He was repeating the movement for the third or fourth time when he heard the flutter of the sails.

Sandy was now on his feet, crying in rage, pain, and humiliation and tugging up his trousers. Casca drove the mate's nose once more into the deck and raced aft for the helm.

Too late.

The sails came across to the wrong side, and the
Rangaroa
was heading ninety degrees away from their desired course. Sandy ran to the foresail and handed it across the deck, tugging it through the resistance of the light breeze. But the four sails on the two masts remained obstinately back-winded.

Casca cursed. Without more men to hand across the sails, it was hopeless to try to regain the tack. But to call the crew would expose Sandy's embarrassment, and Casca knew that the boy would rather go over the side.

To put the helm over and make the necessary full circle of the compass would also alert everybody below decks, yet every second the ship was being carried farther from its course.

Casca was saved any further thinking about the problem by the appearance before him of Weston with a belaying pin in his hand, and the heavy pin was moving fast for Casca's head.

He threw himself across the deck, putting the helm hard over, dodging the heavy blow, to fall sprawling by the starboard rail. The burly mate was after him, the pin upraised for another blow.

But the blow never came. With all the power of his massive legs, Casca came up from the deck in a great rush and met Weston halfway, one powerful hand grabbing Weston's wrist. There was a sharp crack, and a hideous scream from the mate as Casca's single-handed grip broke his wrist.

Thoroughly enraged, Casca chopped again at Weston's neck, and the mate sagged unconscious to the deck as the alerted crew came running up the companionway.

"Get away forward," he snapped, and
Sandy ran for the flapping foresail.

Ulf was the first man to reach the deck, and he ran for the helm.
"Give it to me," he shouted, and Casca was happy to oblige.

"Get 'em over boys," Ulf shouted to the crew, and they manhandled the sails across the decks, holding them against the breeze on the port tack while Ulf gently moved the tiller about, seeking that magic spot that would fill the canvas.

The man had been born on a fishing smack in a storm in the middle of winter off the coast of Greenland—nothing special in the lives of his mother and father, who had both similarly been born aboard their parents' fishing boats. From arctic gale to tropic doldrum there was not a wind or a sea on the planet that Ulf didn't know and couldn't master.

One degree at a time, one second of one degree at a time, he brought the reluctant ship about, coaxing it into the wind so that the light breeze bellied the sails.

Larsen had arrived on deck with everybody else, but was forward with the rest of the crew, handling sail like an ordinary seaman while his second mate's skill saved the precious miles of the day's sailing.

The sails filled, the topsails came across, and
Rangaroa
was again moving serenely into the wind.

Larsen came aft to where Weston lay on the deck. He guessed easily enough what had happened, and asked no embarrassing questions, but gestured to two seamen.
"Get this garbage below," he snapped, and they lifted the mate and carried him down the companionway.

A little later in the night Larsen spoke to Casca. "I've had a look at Weston's arm. What did you use on him?"

Casca grunted. "Only my hands. His arm's broken, I suppose."

"Like it was snapped in a vise."

"Well, he asked for it."

"I don't doubt it. The man's a pig. I'm ashamed I made the mistake of hiring him. But his arm's a rare mess. You don't know as much about fixing as you do about breaking by any chance?"

"Yeah, as a matter of fact, I do."

"Well, would you have a look at it? It's beyond me. I can hack off the whole mess, of course, but I'm reluctant to take a man's hand."

"It might be a mistake not to with this one, but I'll look at it anyway. I can use the practice."

He went to where Weston lay in agony in the first mate's small cabin. He was now rotten drunk with the rum Larsen had provided to ease his pain. But he recognized Casca and cringed away from him, then became quarrelsome when he realized that he was not going to be harmed.

"Shut up or I'll snap the other one off too," Casca snarled, and the burly mate became once more a pathetic, moaning bundle of pain.

Casca gathered some small pieces of wood and some bandages. Then he got two seamen to hoist the moaning mate into a sitting position and to hold him there.

With one swift chop of his hand Casca rendered Weston unconscious. He grabbed his hand and deftly jerked it, to straighten as well as possible the mess of smashed bones, then splinted and wrapped it securely before consciousness returned to Weston.

"Better than
a bastard like you deserves," Larsen commented as he handed the rum bottle to the awakening man. "Thank the man for your hand, you bum, I'd have taken it off."

Weston put on
a disgusting performance of grabbing the bottle, gulping rum, dribbling, crying, cringing, slobbering thanks and apologies, before slumping once more into a drunken stupor.