“Shut up, Wipe!” Miles snapped. Wipe flinched and stood at attention. Miles sighed at Forgiven. “Old Stick, rate him lubber, let him pull a rope until he proves himself ordinary seaman or breaks.” Doc seemed completely oblivious to his sentencing.
Forgiven made a derisive noise and a note. “Aye.”
The commander gave Ryan a smile that held not an ounce of warmth. “And you, Mr. Ryan, word is you can pull a rope, heave harpoon and lance and fight a boarding action.”
Ryan knew what was coming. He was the leader of a group of the shanghaied aboard a ship in dire straits. He was mostly likely to be worked until broken or made an example of. “I can.”
“Rate One-Eye lubber, until proved otherwise or signed.”
“Aye.”
“Mr. Manrape! I don’t want any of the new fish together in number on deck until proved otherwise or signed. Let them mess together but separate their hammocks. Clap Red, Whitey and Softboy in irons until the next watch. Put Ryan to work now.”
Manrape sneered openly at Doc. “And this one?”
Commander Miles laughed. “Put Old Stick to work immediately. Let Mr. Ryan have him as a comfort.”
* * *
RYAN WORKED LIKE a slave. The knockout drug and the beating did him no favors as he hauled on ropes to bring fresh spars and sails aloft. Small boats brought casks of water, and by the crew’s grumbling, far too little bush meat from the forest. Ryan staggered beneath their weight to bring them down into the dark depths of the hold.
Their complaints and worry about the food situation were nearly constant. Ryan was treated like a pariah, a pressed man and probably rebellious if given any chance. No one talked to him except to scream about how he was doing his every task wrong. Crewmen laughed when he threw up or fell, but some gave him grunts or nods as he rose again and again and returned to his tasks. If there was any solace in the situation, it was that every other member of the crew was working just as hard as he was. The ship had been in a battle and barely escaped. The urgency among officers and crew to get the vessel seaworthy and under sails again was palpable.
Doc was not doing as well.
The knockout drug had addled him. He had been put to work picking apart torn rope and rigging for caulking material. Doc was spending more time talking to the rope scraps than picking them. Manrape stalked the decks with a knotted rope end of his own and it fell upon Doc again and again. The old man whimpered and looked to be spiraling into a genuine episode. Ryan tottered beneath two wooden kegs roped to his shoulders. The ships bell clanged the hour and the commander called out, “Miss Loral!”
A lanky, grinning, raven-haired beauty in officer’s blue produced a pewter whistle on a chain from her ample cleavage and piped the change of watch. The crew put away its equipment and gear and began filing down the hatch. Miss Loral looked at Miles, who shook his head.
Miss Loral shook her head at Ryan. “Not you, Ryan! Watch on watch! And you, Old Stick!”
Ryan had already worked straight through two four-hour watches, and now it would be twelve hours without rest. He was handed hard bread at intervals, and he was given as much water as the rest of the crew, but Ryan could see his sentence written on the wall. They were going to break him and destroy Doc. The new watch filed up. Ryan hadn’t seen J.B. or Mildred, but he saw Krysty, Jak and Ricky with each change of watch and they shot him increasingly concerned looks. Jak and Ricky filed by. Jak hesitated, but Miss Loral’s voice cracked like a whip. “Into the tops, Whitey!”
Jak was without his Colt Python and his smorgasbord of knives. He knew he would only get Ryan and himself punished if he tried anything. He frowned and moved toward the port rigging. Ricky shot Ryan a grin and tossed a piece of salted mystery meat the size of a deck of cards between two buckets by Ryan’s feet.
Ricky shot Ryan a wink.
Manrape appeared out of nowhere behind Ricky. He grabbed the youth by the back of the neck and lifted him off the deck with one hand, caressing his buttocks with the other. “Aiding and succoring a man sentenced to watch on watch, Ricky Softboy?”
Ricky cursed and flailed in the titan’s grip.
Ryan stepped forward despite the kegs strapped to his back.
Doc’s voice thundered across the deck. “Cursed pederast!” The entire deck stared as Doc rounded on Manrape. The old man drew himself up to his full height and his eyes flashed with imminent violence. “Should you wish to compulse young Ricardo into the role of catamite, then you shall be forced to come through me!”
Manrape dropped Ricky and turned.
“Doc!” Ryan shouted. “No!”
Doc produced a marlinspike with the same oil-on-glass speed he could draw his sword from his cane when properly motivated. The crew barely had time to gasp as Doc lunged for Manrape’s heart. Manrape slapped the marlinespike out of Doc’s hand as if he was swatting a fly, and his backhand tossed Doc to the deck. For a moment, silence reigned.
Commander Miles’s familiar roar broke the silence. “What in the last megaton that boiled the seas is going on?”
Manrape sighed happily. “Old Stick, unsigned, attempted murder of the bos’n with a marlinspike.”
Miles glared down at Doc in terrible judgment. All fight had gone out of the old man, and he twitched and mewled on the deck. The marlinspike lay damningly beside his hand. Miles’s eyes filled with rage. “Witnessed?”
More than a dozen men chorused. “Aye!”
“Clap Old Stick in irons! Take him to the captain for judgment!” Miles shook his head. He already knew the sentence. “String a rope, and prepare to pipe all hands on deck to witness the mighty hand of the Glory’s creed and code.”
“Can’t you see he’s damaged!” Ryan shouted. “The drug you gave him stuped him!”
Shocked silence fell across the deck. Ryan expected a second rope to be rigged beside Doc’s. It was Manrape who spoke. “Perhaps One-Eye is right, Commander. Why bother the captain? We have a cure for those who are drunk or addled on duty.”
“We know the creed. We hold the code,” Miles intoned. “Mr. Manrape does not press his injury and begs mercy.” Miles jerked his head toward the starboard rigging. “Ship’s punishment, then! Seize Old Stick into the shrouds. See if that clears his head. Failing that, let the gulls have him as an example to those who might be likewise tempted.”
Crewmen seized Doc and carried him over their heads to the starboard rail, laughing. Ryan took a step forward. A huge, raw, red hand slammed onto his shoulder. “Best case, you hang right up there next to him in the shrouds. Worst case, you hang alone from the yardarm.”
Ryan tensed with frustrated rage as the crewmen lashed Doc spread-eagled in the shrouds ten feet above the deck and facing inward. “Mr. Hardstone!” Miles called.
The big red-headed man removed his hand from Ryan’s shoulder and snapped to attention. “Aye, Commander!”
“You have empty seats at your table. One-Eye will mess with you and your mates.”
“Aye, sir!”
“The captain says until he is proved otherwise or signed, One-Eye is your responsibility.”
Ryan was starting to have a very bad feeling about being proved otherwise.
Hardstone gave Ryan a none-too-pleased look. “Aye, sir.”
“Mr. Manrape!”
“Aye!”
“Let Mr. Ryan stand another watch for his insolence.”
“Aye.”
Miles turned on his heel and returned to the quarterdeck.
Manrape stroked his chin. “Mr. Forgiven!”
The purser looked up from counting a pallet of green bananas. “Aye, bos’n?”
“Would you gaze on the ship’s dictionary for me when you have a moment?”
