The Emerald Storm (21 page)

“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.

“Mister Bishop,” Seward called. “Disburse weapons to the men, and issue an extra ration of grog.”

Royce was on his way aloft as the larboard crew came off duty. “How long do you think before they catch us?” he asked Hadrian, looking aft at the tiny armada of red sails chasing their wake.

“I don’t know. I’ve never done this before. What do you think?”

Royce shrugged, “A few hours maybe.”

“It’s not looking good, is it?”

“And you wanted to be a sailor.”

Hadrian went about the business of preparing for the evening meal, mindful that it might be the last the men would have. Poe, conspicuously absent, hastily entered the galley.

“Where you been?”

Poe looked sheepish. “Talking to Wyatt. Those Dacca ships are gaining fast. They’ll be on us tonight for sure.”

Hadrian nodded grimly.

Poe moved to help cut the salted pork, then added. “Wyatt has a plan. It won’t save everyone, only a handful really, and it may not work at all, but it’s something. He wants to know if you’re in.”

“What about Royce?”

“Him too.”

“What’s the plan?”

“Sail!” they heard Mister Wesley cry even from the galley, “Two more tartanes dead ahead!”

Poe and Hadrian, like everyone else aboard, scrambled to the deck to see Mister Wesley pointing off the starboard bow. Two red sails were slipping out from hidden coves along the shore to block their retreat. Sailing nimbly against the wind, they moved to intercept.

“Clear th deck for action!” Seward shouted from the quarterdeck, wiping the sweat from his head.

Men scrambled across the ship, once more hauling buckets of sand and water. Archers took their positions on the forecastle, stringing their bows. Oil and hot coals were placed at the ready.

“We need to steer clear,” the captain said. “Helm bring her—”

“We need speed,
sir
,” Wyatt interrupted.

The captain winced at the interruption. “Be mindful Deminthal or I’ll skip the flogging I owe you and have you hanged!”

“With all due respect, you abdicated that privilege to the Dacca last night. All the sooner if I alter course now.”

“By Maribor! Mister Temple take—” The captain stopped as he spotted the tartanes begin to turn.

“See! They expected us to break,” Wyatt told him.

Realizing their mistake, the Dacca fought to swing back, but it was too late. A hole had been created.

Seward grumbled and scowled at Wyatt.

“Sir?” Temple asked.

“Never mind. Steady as she goes. Mister Bishop! Order the archers to take aim at the port side ship! Perhaps we can slow them down if we can manage to set one afire.”

“Aye, aye, sir!”

Hadrian rushed to the forecastle. Having proved himself one of the best archers on the ship, his station was at the center of the port side. He picked a strong, solid bow and tested the string’s strength.

“The wind will set the arrows off a bit toward the bow,” Poe mentioned, readying a bucket of glowing hot coals. “Might want to lead the target a bit, eh?”

“You’re my squire now as well?”

Poe smiled, and shook his head. “I’ve seen you in practice. I figure the safest place on this ship right now is here. I’ll hand the oiled arrows. You just keep firing.”

The Dacca tartanes slipped through the waves, their red triangular sails billowing out sideways as they struggled on a tight tack to make the best use of the head wind. Dark figures scurried like ants across the decks and rigging of the smaller ships.

“Ready arrows!” Mister Bishop shouted.

Hadrian fitted his first shaft in the string.

As the Dacca closed on the
Storm
they began to turn. Their yards swept round and their tillers cranked, pivoting much as Wyatt had, the action all the more impressive as both ships moved in perfect unison, like dancers performing simultaneous pirouettes.

“Light arrows!”

Hadrian touched the oil-soaked wad at the tip of the shaft to the pot of coals and it burst into flame. A row of men on the port side stood ready, a trail of soot-black smoke wafting aft.

“Take aim!” Mister Bishop ordered as the Dacca ships came into range. On the deck of the tartanes, a line of flaming arrows mirrored their own. “Fire!”

Into the blue sky flew a staggered arc of fire trailing black smoke. At the same time, the Dacca launched their volley and the two passed each other in midair. All around him, Hadrian heard the pattering of arrows. The bucket brigade was running to douse the flames and above, Royce dropped along a line to kick free one lodged in the masthead before it could ignite the mainsail.

Poe had another arrow ready. Hadrian fitted it, lit it with the pot, took aim, and sent it into the lower right yard of their mainsail. To his right he heard the loud
thwack
of the massive ballista that sent forth a huge flaming missile. It struck the side of the tartane, splintering the hull and lodging there.

Hadrian heard a hissing fly past his ear. Behind him, the oil bucket splashed and the liquid ignited. Poe jumped backward as his trousers flamed. Grabbing a nearby bucket Hadrian smothered the burning oil with sand.

Another volley rained, peppering the deck. Boatswain Bristol, in the process of cranking the ballista for a second shot, fell dead with an arrow in his throat, his hair catching fire. Basil, the officers’ cook, took one in the chest, and Seaman Bliden screamed as two arrows hit him, one in the thigh and the other through his hand. Looking up, Hadrian saw this second volley came from the other ship.

Shaken but not seriously harmed, Poe found another oil bucket and brought it to Hadrian. As the two ships came close, Hadrian found what he was looking for—a bucket at the feet of the archers. Leading his target, he held his breath, took aim, and released. The tartane’s bucket exploded. Hadrian spotted a young Dacca attempt to douse the flames with water. Instantly the fire washed the deck. At that moment, the
Storm’s
ballista crew, having loaded the weapon with multiple bolts this time, released a cruel hail on the passing Dacca. Screams bridged the gap between the ships as the
Storm
sailed on, leaving the burning ships in their wake.

Once more, the crew cheered their victory, but it was hollow. Amid the blackened scorch marks left by scores of arrows, a dozen men lay dead on the deck. They had not slipped through the trap unscathed and the red sails behind them were closer now.