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.
