Blood Red Tide. James Axler
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“Mr. Ryan, neither proved otherwise, nor signed.”
“Mr. Forgiven.”
“One hammock, mattress and blanket.” Wipe dropped them at Ryan’s feet. Forgiven held out his pen. “Sign or make your mark for your issuables.”
Ryan signed the indicated space in the book.
“You have been promoted from lubber to waister, until proved otherwise or signed.” Wipe set down a leather belt sheath with two implements on Ryan’s bedding. Forgiven nodded. “Ship’s knife number 12, Marlinspike number 42 and sheath. Mr. Ryan, these belong to the ship and are your responsibility until you’re chilled in action, leave ship’s service or should you buy implements of your own preference in port that meet ship standard and then these seen returned to stores. You understand?”
Ryan understood all too well. The beating at Manrape’s hands had been one test. Working him watch-on-watch had been another. Now he was being issued the tools that could be the keys toward mutiny or escape. He was being tested again. “I understand.”
“Sign.”
Ryan signed.
Forgiven nodded and walked away. “Very good.”
Ryan drew the marlinspike. It was twelve inches of tapered iron coming to point like a sharp, flathead screwdriver with a hitch loop at the top. It was made for splicing, knotting and hitching rope and line. Ryan slid the spike back into its side pocket and drew the knife. It was simple, with well-weathered wood grips and a full riveted tang. The blade was five inches long, discolored and pitted from salt and sea. It was a working man’s knife. The spine was thick for strength and the edge was thin as a razor and shaving sharp. The knife had been sharpened so many times the blade was starting to lose its original line. Ryan hefted it in his hand.
“Don’t even think about it,” Hardstone muttered.
Manrape pulled his trick of appearing behind Ryan out of nowhere. For a big man he moved very quietly. He whispered like a lover. “Think about it, Ryan.”
It took all of Ryan’s will not to turn and slash. Manrape laughed and resumed his walk along the gangway. “Think about sticking me, while I think about sticking little Ricky.” He looked up as he walked beneath Doc moaning in the shrouds and laughed.
Ryan slammed his new knife back in its sheath and gathered up his bedding. Hardstone jerked his head toward the hatch as the second watch came up and the ceaseless work continued. “Follow me. You mess with us. Word is the last hunting party brought back a barrel or two of bush meat. Enjoy it. We lost a lot of stores in the battle when the hull was pierced. Boiler and Skillet are both in the med. We’ll be on hard rations and badly cooked at that when we sail.” Hardstone limped for the hatch. Ryan stopped beneath Doc. Earlier Doc had been mumbling to his wife and children hundreds of years gone. Now Doc moaned, pleading to a baron only he could see.
Ryan flinched. Doc was spiraling down into the cellar of the horrors he had experienced. “Doc, you have to listen to me. You’re going to die up in those ropes unless you get it together.”
Some rational section of Doc’s unraveling mind sobbed in response. “Oh to be so blessed...”
Ryan could sense the nearby crew listening in. Doc’s utter loyalty to his friends often shored up his sanity. “Doc, we’re in a hard place and it’s getting harder. I need you. We all need you.” Ryan grasped at Doc’s words and his talents. “You said it yourself. This is a square-rigged ship. A thing from your time. You know about these things. Find something. Anything! Anything that could make you useful and get you cut down so we can get you to Mildred.”
“Mildred...”
“Doc.” Ryan put the iron of command in his voice. “You and I are friends. Now we’re watch mates. You die on my watch, and Krysty will never forgive me.”
“Krysty...”
“Loves you,” Ryan snarled. “Now you got to get yourself together, get yourself down out of those shrouds and make yourself useful! Tell me you hear me!”
A barely sane whisper responded. “Ryan...”
“Doc, you heard me. I know you heard me. Tell me you...” Ryan’s shoulders sagged in defeat as Doc’s chin had dropped to his chest and the evening breeze stirred the rivulet of drool hanging from his chin.
Manrape cooed. “Mr. Ryan, are you talking to a man under ship’s punishment?”
Ryan spun. Manrape lunged. Ryan was three steps too slow from exhaustion and still holding his bedding. He started to drop the bundle and go for the knife and marlinspike, but Manrape’s rope end slammed into his chest. Ryan fell back onto the deck. The tactical part of his mind noted that one end of Manrape’s double-ended rope was loaded. He gasped like a fish and tried to breathe.
Manrape knelt and put a knee on Ryan’s chest. The blond titan held his rope end between his legs and dangled the knot over Ryan’s face in horrible metaphor. “You haven’t been proved otherwise, so I can’t kill you. But know this. You are unsigned. You do not know the creed. You are not protected by the code. You’re lucky because we need every hand able or otherwise and for the good of the ship, so I’ll not put you in the med. This time. Now go mess with your mates.”
Manrape rose and walked away whistling. Chilling rage boiled behind Ryan’s eye and the red mist clouded his vision as he reeled to his feet. Hardstone stepped between them and gathered up Ryan’s meager belongings. A sailor Ryan had heard called Atlast hurried to his side. Atlast was the ship’s master of sails and spars. He was a head shorter than Ryan and Hardstone, but his shoulders were just as broad, his legs bowed like a horseman and what could only be described as a whiteman’s Afro was pulled back and barely restrained by a short pigtail.
“Listen, Ryan. We need the likes of you aboard this ship, then, don’t we? Best you go easy like around the bos’n.”
“Go easy.” Despite his rage, he knew Hardstone and Atlast were looking out for him. “Around Manrape?”
“Don’t rock the bloody boat, then. You’ve felt the thunderbolt.”
“The rope,” Ryan muttered.
“Yeah, well, Manrape’s rope end has two ends, doesn’t it? One’s a regular rope end knot, the other’s a monkey’s paw he’s woven in, and that paw holds four good grams of lead shot. One end’s for fighting, one end’s for fun.”
Hardstone handed Ryan his bedding. “Go down and string your hammock. Wipe should be below and will show you where. I’ll save you a bowl of meat and beans.”
Ryan knew it was the best offer he was going to get.
“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