Blood Red Tide

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...”

“But what, Wipe?”

“You were laughing at him just yesterday.”

“Well, he deserved laughing at yesterday!”

Manrape stared at Doc with a strange light in his eyes. “Sing me a song about seagulls, Old Stick, and I will cut you down from the shrouds.”

Captain Oracle’s hanged-man’s rasp cut all chatter like a knife across a throat. “Mr. Manrape, have Old Stick cut down.”

“Aye, Captain! Mr. BeGood! Mr. Born! Seize that man down from the shrouds!”

“Take him to Bonesaw.” Oracle watched as the twins cut Doc down. “I am without a servant since our last battle. When this man is fit, send him to my cabin. He will never make sailor, but perhaps he can pour wine and amuse us.”

Manrape nodded. “Make it so!”

Doc seemed to barely have a bone in his body as he collapsed to the deck. Sweet Marie pushed through and pressed a dipper of water to his lips. Doc drank and raised his head.

“My captain?”

Oracle’s eyes narrowed.

“I crave a boon.”

The deck went silent. Oracle stared at Doc like a cipher. Ryan wasn’t quite sure whether Oracle was considering in what manner to have Doc killed for his impertinence or whether the captain didn’t know what the word boon meant.

“What?”

“If I am to serve, may I have my cane to lean upon? It is my only comfort.”

Oracle turned to the ship’s purser. “Mr. Forgiven, fetch Old Stick’s cane from stores and bring it to my cabin.”

“Aye, Captain.”

“And strike Old Stick’s name from the ship’s book.” Oracle turned and resumed his pacing of the quarterdeck. “Enter ‘Doc’ into the log, serving in the captain’s quarters until proved otherwise or signed.”

The crew cheered.

Onetongue and Wipe pounded Ryan’s shoulders. Ryan and Doc exchanged a look. There were few secrets aboard a sailing ship. The crew knew that Ryan and Doc were friends, and all knew of Ryan’s whispers to Doc to save himself. The old man had cheated death and been elevated. It was a lucky thing, and the crew would take luck wherever and in whatever form they could find it. Sweet Marie scooped Doc up in her arms like a child and took him belowdecks to the med. A secret was now aboard the Glory. One only Ryan and his companions knew. Once Doc had his cane, and if Ryan gave the signal, Doc would draw his concealed sword and drive it through Captain Oracle’s heart.

* * *

“AGAIN!” THE MEN IN the mess shouted and clapped. “Again!”

Doc held up a hand. “Dear shipmates, I beg of you, let an old man break his fast.”

“Let him eat!” Hardstone bellowed. “He’s sung it seven times already!”

Ryan smiled wearily. Doc had indeed sung it seven times already. Doc was dealing with a crew that was mostly illiterate, but most of his watch mates could now sing his abridged version of The Sailor’s Alphabet by heart. Onetongue shoved a wooden stoop of small beer into Doc’s hand. Doc sighed happily. “Bless your heart, Mr. Onetongue.”

Onetongue drooled happily. “Welcome!”

Ryan regarded his messmate. The man was bald, bat-eared and blubbery. However, Ryan recalled the terrible strength of Onetongue’s arms as he’d simultaneous drugged him and choked him unconscious. “Onetongue.”

The sailor regarded Ryan warily. “Yup?”

“That’s an interesting handle.”

“Oh! I u’thed to have two tongue’th! But the previouth cap’n couldn’t stand my thlobbering and thtuttering so he cut one out! Now I th’peak real good! Thep’t for the lith’p.”

Doc sipped his small beer and lime with relish. “In my circles, and in several languages, a lisp was considered a sign of refinement.”

Onetongue beamed happily and pointed an accusing finger at Wipe. “Th’ee!”

Ryan had no desire whatsoever to discover the origin of Mr. Wipe’s appellation. Doc took a seat across from Ryan between the twins. They were young and wiry topmen with skin burned brown and hair bleached blond. These same young men who had gleefully seized Doc into the shrouds had, like most of the crew, done a complete one-eighty and now doted on him.

Doc had been entered in the log as Captain’s Manservant until signed or proved otherwise. He still messed and slept with the crew. Doc stared sadly at the stew Wipe ladled him from the kid. Ryan nodded in agreement as he mechanically shoveled the food down. It was chipped dried meat, dried peas and dried plantains boiled into a viscous mass. The job of cook had fallen by default to Mr. Forgiven, and forgiven he was most certainly not. Suggestions of how Forgiven might be tortured and murdered for his culinary crimes grew in imagination and severity with every meal. His unofficial name aboard ship was now Unforgiven, and he hardly dared to show his face belowdecks.

Doc reached into his frock coat. His kerchief was wrapped like a parcel, and he unwrapped it to reveal a decidedly runny, fist-sized wheel of cheese.

Onetongue sighed. “Chee’th!” Atlast looked at it lovingly. “Oh, a tidbit from the captain’s table! You’re the lucky monkey, Doc, aren’t you, then?”

“Our good captain declared it past its prime.” Doc pushed it toward Atlast. “Dear shipmate, would you take your knife and cut each man among us a portion? A good sailing man must share with his messmates.”

“Oh indeed, and thankee!” Atlast drew his knife and began dividing the dilapidated cheese into eighths with geometric precision.

Doc spoke low. “Ryan, I fear for our young friend Ricky.”

Ryan kept his face neutral. “Manrape.”

“The same.”

“What’ve you heard, Doc?”

“As you may have surmised, Manrape is not our esteemed bosun’s given name. Like many aboard this ship, his moniker was earned.”

“Got that feeling the moment I met him.”

“Well, the word about ship is he plans to press the matter of his affections upon young Ricky once the boy is rated able up in the rigging and next time ashore. Ricky is no acrobat upon the yards like dear Jak, but he has taken serving this ship well to heart. He is young and quick and learns his new trade well. Sad to say his speedy grasp of hand and reef only sends him ever more swiftly into Mr. Manrape’s most untender—” Doc made a face “—embraces.”

“You’ve got the captain’s ear. There’s nothing you can do?”

Doc flinched. “I did broach the subject.”

“And?”

Doc stopped short of going pale. “The good captain told me sailors settle these matters among themselves, and just from his demeanor I received the strongest impression not to broach that or any other ship’s subject with him without being asked first ever again.”

“The commander?” Ryan suggested. “I saw you talking with him.”

“He seemed to find the subject quite distasteful, but when I pressed him he said that ‘a buggered boy can do his duty as well as any other man.’” Doc shook his head and ate a spoon of stew. “The first mate is another man not to be pressed lightly.”

Atlast handed out slices of cheese. “Too right.”

“Ryan, I have read this ship’s creed and code. No sailor may lay his hand upon a shipmate aboard ship in anger without provocation. Should he, the lashing is to equal the damage inflicted. Should a sailor murder his shipmate aboard ship, it is death, the nature of execution to depend on the circumstances of the crime and the local availability of materials. Ryan, I tell you, some of the proscribed methods stop nothing short of the Roman Circus.”

Ryan didn’t know what the Roman Circus was, but he got the gist. He grasped at straws.

“Manrape seems sweet on you, Doc. Not like Ricky, but you’ve got no influence?”

“I have considered it, and Mr. Manrape’s entire demeanor toward me has changed since I sang from the shrouds. Indeed, he has become genuinely solicitous of my welfare. Yet, were I to demand he leave our Ricky alone, I fear he would insist that I make him.” Doc stared deeply into his stew. “Shall I make him?”

Throughout the mess men drank their small beer, swore about their stew between mouthfuls, laughed, joked, smoked and took the few pleasures sailors had in their free time. Ryan’s mess table went silent. None of Ryan’s and Doc’s messmates had seen Doc in battle with blaster or sword. None knew how dangerous the man from the past was once he set himself upon the path of violence. All they saw was an old man who had gone from a figure of fun and torture turned into an exotic and lucky ship’s mascot. Hardstone spoke low and slow as he smeared his cheese across a piece of bread with his knife. “Ryan, tell Doc to stand down.”

“What if I kill him?” Ryan asked. “On shore.”

Doc was aghast. “Dear Ryan, I beg of you, as a friend, do not even think of it!”

Hardstone grunted around his food. “Listen to your friend, Ryan.”

“Mr. Manrape, whatever his proclivities, has risen to the rank of bosun,” Doc continued. “In my day a bosun was an able sailor and responsible for overseeing nearly every part of the day-to-day running of the ship. We had a saying that it was sergeants who made an army run. Bosuns run a ship. Good ones are invaluable, and the Glory is short-handed. The crew will hate you for it. As bosun, Manrape also has many allies and associates aboard. They would surely seek your demise, and many of our dear companions would suffer by association.”

“Listen to your friend,” Hardstone repeated.

“Manrape is the worst of us, and the best,” Atlast said as he savored his cheese. “Knows the ship from stem to stern, he does.”

Onetongue slobbered around his mutated and shorn soft palate. “Taught me all I know about th’ips! Th’aved my life more than one’th!”

Wipe sighed. “Beautiful speaking voice.”

Hardstone contemplated his small beer. “Ryan?”

“Yeah?”

“We’re messmates, and I like you.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“I was a sec man before I was a sailor, a Deathlands man, like you.”

Ryan nodded. “It shows.”

Hardstone nodded his thanks. “Some then, well as now, thought me a hard man, but save for the Captain himself, there is no better fighter aboard the Glory than Manrape. You’ve seen my gimp. We’d recently lost a bos’n. Many thought I should be given the post. Manrape was up and coming and challenged me for it. We both had our fair share of supporters. So, Manrape and I rowed the dinghy ashore one soft, fine morning and decided it between us.”

“Hard way to decide rank on a ship.” Ryan frowned. “The captain allowed that?”

Hardstone sighed bitterly. “There wasn’t too much to choose between us as able sailors. Bos’n is the first man in a boarding action and stands at the captain’s side if boarded. It had to be settled.” Hardstone stared into his warm, weak beer. “And he’s bos’n now, and I’ll never go into the tops again. And I’ll tell you what else, Ryan. Manrape’s dark night itself in a fight. Even with all your Deathlands steel in hand, I’d bet no bounty upon you.”

“I appreciate your honesty.” Ryan read the writing on the wall. “Ricky’s going to have to stand for himself.”

“That is the way of it,” Hardstone agreed.

Atlast tucked back into his stew. “Aye.”

Chapter Five

Ryan stood deck watch. A moderate attempt had been made to work him to death the previous day, and he had been given light duty to recover. He had not been sent to the med, but he’d been issued a small jar of foul-smelling liniment. A tiny scrap of paper with Mildred’s handwriting said, “Use it!” He’d been reissued his own Navy longeyes and had spent his watch walking the rails surveying the sea and occasionally reporting to Miss Loral that there was nothing to report while his shipmates muttered envious insults about Deathlanders and their land-lubbing, weakling ways and needs.

Ryan snapped the optic shut as dusk began to fall. The ship’s bell rang the hour. He took a deep breath as the evening breeze ruffled his hair. He was still stiff and sore from the beatings and hard labor. He was sunburned and smelled like a rottie, his hands and feet were raw meat and he was eating food barely fit for man or mutie.

But Ryan felt surprisingly good.

He looked down at the rad counter pinned to the open neck of his jersey. The air here on the outer edge of the Caribbean barely registered a rad. Ryan took the dipper from the water barrel and drank. One of the twins shot down a shroud so fast Ryan couldn’t fathom how he didn’t burn his palms off. He plunked down on the rail with perfect alacrity.

“Hard work, Ryan? Walking the deck like a baron in his ville? Feeling a bit parched?”

Ryan sighed, drank water and waited for it.

“You know, Ryan, Purser Forgiven is kinda fond of me.”

“And?”

The topsman grinned. “And I could requisition you a nice silk pillow from the captain’s cabin. You could rest your gaudy soft little Deathlands hands on it. Mebbe have Wipe hold your cock for you when you step to the siphon.”

Nearby crewmen laughed.

Ryan held out the dipper. “If I cared, Born. If I even cared at all.”

“Yeah, you’d chill me. Whatever.” The twin grinned and drank. “By the way, if you want to chill Born, which I recommend highly, he’s over there.”

Ryan turned to see the other twin grinning and waving from the opposite rail. The one-eyed man waved back. “Naw. If I wanted to chill Mr. Born, I’d chill the bastard right in front of me.”

The correctly identified twin started backward and grabbed for a shroud as he nearly fell overboard. “Nukestorm it! For a man with only one eye, you don’t miss much!”

The twin called out to his brother. “BeGood! Ryan wants to chill you with his soft, Deathlands...” Born trailed off. His brother was gone. He shot his gaze back up into the rigging.

“Ahoy! Topmen!” Born called. “Anyone seen my triple stupe brother—”

“Man overboard!” Ryan roared. He vaulted barrels, coils of rope and an open hatch as he ripped off his shirt.

Crewmen shouted in alarm. “Who? Where away?”

“My brother, BeGood!” Born bawled. “Off the starboard rail!”

Miss Loral stepped in Ryan’s path. “Belay that, Ryan!” He skid to a halt with a snarl and restrained himself from throwing the woman in after BeGood. Miss Loral sensed the danger she was in. “Last swim you’ll ever take, Mr. Ryan! Don’t do it!”

“Barrel and a line!” Commander Miles bellowed. Onetongue and Atlast secured a line around an empty cask and sent it over the side. The barrel landed in the purple water with a splash and bobbed forlornly in the Glory’s bow wake, paying out line and swiftly disappearing into the gloom. The crew shouted into the gathering dark, “BeGood! BeGood!”

Gypsyfair screamed out of all relation to her size. “Shut up!”

The crew shut up while the little mutant cupped her hands behind her ears and turned her head slowly, clicking like the second hand on a chron. Her shoulders sagged. “Nothing above water, nothing within my range.”

The waters didn’t stir. Oracle rasped from the quarterdeck, “I admire your sense of duty toward your messmate, Mr. Ryan. I know not what the waters are like where you come from, but no one swims here without a spear in hand, a bright sun above, clear water below and many mates fool enough to muster to him.” The crew scanned the murk and muttered in loss and agreement. Born fell to his knees, howling and pulling his hair.

Oracle continued. “Dusk has fallen. The night feeders rise from the depths. Mr. BeGood has fallen down among them.”

“No one heard him yell,” Ryan countered. “No one heard a splash.”

The entire crew on deck and above looked at Ryan in shock at his challenge to the captain.

“Ryan’s right,” Gypsyfair agreed. “I didn’t hear nothing until Ryan and Born shouted, and I hear everything.”

Born ceased his howling. “My brother is a first-rate top man! He don’t fall from no rad-blasted rail in calm water! Much less without a sound! If he did, he’d have been laughing!”

Ryan put his hand on the rail where BeGood had sat grinning at him moments before. It was dripping wet, as if BeGood had already been soaked before he had fallen. “Captain, BeGood didn’t fall. Something rose up to the rail and took him.”

Oracle’s voice rose from his breaking slate rasp to a landslide. “Beat to quarters! All hands on deck! Prepare to repel boarders!” The drum beat to quarters. Shouts and footfalls echoed below. “Sharpshooters, top men! Look alive! Watch below, report to the armory! I want every lantern lit and—”

Screaming broke out on the blaster deck below Ryan’s feet.

The one-eyed man didn’t wait for orders. “Watch the starboard rail!” Ryan drew his knife and his marlinspike and ran portside. In the pale glow of the ship’s lanterns, Ryan saw man-sized, gray octopods climbing up the side of the hull. Crewmen boiled on deck armed with swords, war clubs, axes and butchering implements of every description. Far too few had blasters. Ryan had heard the crew had expended far too much of their ammo in the last battle with no hope of replacement soon, and they were saving their black powder for their cannons. The one-eyed warrior vainly yearned for his Scout, his SIG and his panga, but no one was hustling him his weapons. Ryan hefted his knife and spike in each hand and waited for the creatures suckering their way toward him. He counted more than two dozen. “Sharpshooters! The sides!”

Blasterfire crackled and popped from the tops, but it was far too slow and sporadic. Two of the eight-armed muties burst as high-powered longblasters exploded their soft heads, but Ryan knew the shooters in the tops of the three masts were trying to cover port and starboard as well as bow and stern. Goulash shoved in shoulder to shoulder with Ryan, brandishing a beautiful, filigreed hunting sword and a double-barreled scattergun sawn down into a handblaster. He leaned out over the rail and pulled one trigger and then another. Two octopods smeared off the hull in riddled ruins. The Hungarian waved the swiftly creeping creatures upward. “Ha! Come then!”

“Goulash, get the hell back from the rail! Reload!”

An octopod launched out of the water like a rocket. It shot up level with the rail, and Goulash screamed and thrust his sword. His attack was instantly entangled as two arms wrapped around his wrist and elbow. His sword clattered to the deck as an arm cinched around his neck and squeezed. Ryan lunged, but the creature simply fell away before his attack and let its weight pull Goulash over the rail. The Hungarian fell gasping and struggling into the dark sea below wrapped in the octopod’s embrace.