Hawkswood's Voyage

Hawkwood grinned back, suddenly cheered, then bent over the binnacle. The compass was housed in a glass case, and to one side within it a small oil lamp burned so the helmsmen might see the compass needle at all times of the day or night. It was one of Hawkwood’s own inventions, and he had been inordinately proud of it. As he bent over the yellow-lit glass his blood fell upon it, becoming shining ruby like wine with candlelight behind it. He wiped the glass clean irritably. Sou’-sou’-west all right, and with this storm his dead- reckoning was shot to pieces. They were going to be far off course when this thing blew itself out, and if they wanted to get back on their old latitude they would have to beat for weeks into the teeth of the wind: an agonizing, snail’s-pace labour.

He swore viciously and fluently under his breath, and then straightened. How was the Grace of God faring? Had Haukal been caught as unprepared as he? The caravel was a sound, weatherly little vessel, but he knew for a fact that it had never before encountered seas as high as these.

He waved to the helmsmen and left the tiller-house, lurching with the dip and rise of the ship. He slid down a ladder and then kept going forward until he was through into the gundeck. There he halted, looking up the long length of the ship.

The place was a shambles. The sailors had lashed the guns tight so they were crouched up against the gunports like great, chained beasts, and in between them a mass of humanity cowered and writhed in a foot of water that came surging up and down the deck with every dip of the carrack’s bow. Hawkwood saw bodies floating face-down in the water, the pathetic rag-tag possessions of the passengers drifting and abandoned. There was a collective wailing of women while men cursed. The lanterns had been put out, which was just as well. The deck resembled the dark, fevered nightmare of a visionary hermit, a picture of some subterranean hell.

Someone staggered over to him and took his arm.

“Well, Captain, are we sinking yet?”

There was no panic in the voice, perhaps even a kind of irony. In the almost dark Hawkwood thought he could make out a roughly broken nose, short-cropped hair, the square carriage of a soldier.

“Are you Bardolin, the girl Griella’s guardian?”

“Aye.”

“Well, we’ve no fear of sinking, though it was touch and go for a moment or two there. This storm may last some time so you had best get the passengers to make themselves as comfortable as they can.”

The man Bardolin glanced back down the heaving length of the gundeck.

“How many hours do you think it will last?”

“Hours? More than that, it’ll be. We’re in for a blow of some days, if I’m any judge. I’ll try and get the ship’s cook to serve out some food as soon as we have things more settled. It’ll be cold, mind. There will be no galley fires lit whilst the storm lasts.”

He could see the dismay, instantly mastered, on the older man’s face.

“Do you need any help?” Bardolin asked.

Hawkwood smiled. “No, this is a job for mariners alone. You see to your own people. Calm them down and make them more comfortable. As I say, this storm will last a while.”

“Have you seen Griella? Is she all right?” Bardolin demanded.

“She’ll be with Lord Murad, I expect.”

As soon as he had said the words Hawkwood wished he had not. Bardolin’s face had become like stone, his eyes two shards of winking glass.

“Thank you, Captain. I’ll see what I can do here.”

“One more thing.” Hawkwood laid a hand on Bardolin’s arm as he turned away. “The weather-worker, Pernicus. We may need him in the days to come. How is he?”

“Prostrate with fear and seasickness, but otherwise he is hale.”

“Good. Look after him for me.”

“Our ship’s chaplain will not be happy at the thought of a Dweomer-propelled vessel.”

“You let me worry about the Raven,” Hawkwood growled and, slapping Bardolin on the arm, he left the gundeck with real relief.

Deeper he went, into the bowels of the ship. The Osprey was a roomy vessel, despite her lower than usual sterncastle. Below the gundeck was the main hold, and below that again the bilge. The hold itself was divided up into large compartments. One for the cable tiers, where the anchor cables were coiled down, one for the water and provisions, a small cubbyhole that was the powder store and then the newly created compartment that housed the damned horses and other livestock.

There was water everywhere, dripping from the deckhead above, sloshing around his feet, trickling down the sides of the hull. Hawkwood found himself a ship’s lantern and fought it alight after a few aggravating minutes of fumbling in the dark with damp tinder. Then he made his way deeper below.

Here it was possible to hear more clearly the sound of the hull itself. The wood of the carrack’s timbers was creaking and groaning with every pitch of her beakhead, and the sound of the wind was muted. The horses had gone silent, which was a blessing of sorts. Hawkwood wondered if any of them had survived.

He found a working party of mariners sent down by Velasca to secure the cargo. There was four feet of water in the hold, and the men were labouring waist-deep among the jumbled casks and sacks and boxes, lashing down anything that had come loose in the carrack’s wild battle with the monster waves.

“How much water is she making?” Hawkwood asked their leader, a master’s mate named Mihal, Gabrionese like himself.

“Maybe a foot with every two turns of the glass, sir. Most of it came down from above with those green seas we shipped, but her timbers are strained, too, and there’s some coming in at the seams.”

“Show me.”

Mihal took him to the side of the hull, and there Hawkwood could see the timbers of the ship’s side quivering and twisting. Every time the carrack moved with the waves, the timbers opened a little and more water forced itself in.

“We’re not holed anywhere?”

“Not so far as I can see, sir. I’ve had men in the cable tiers and in the stockpens aft—a bloody mess down there, by the by. No, she’s just taking the strain, is all, but I hope Velasca has strong men on the pumps.”

“Report to him when you’ve finished here, Mihal. The pump crews and the helmsmen will need relieving soon.”

“Aye, sir.”

Hawkwood moved on, wading through the cold water. He struggled aft against the movement of the ship and passed through the bulkhead hatch that separated the hold from the stockpens nearer the stern.

Lanterns here, the terrified bleating of a few sheep, straw and dung turning the water into a kind of soup. Animal corpses were bobbing and drifting. Hawkwood approached the group of men who were working there in leather gambesons—soldiers, then, not members of his crew.

“Who’s that?” a voice snapped.

“The Captain. Is that you, Sequero?”

“Hawkwood. Yes, it’s me.”

Hawkwood saw the pale ovals of faces in the lantern light, the shining flanks of a horse.

“How bad is it?”

Sequero splashed towards him. “What kind of ship’s master are you, Hawkwood? No one was told to secure the horses, and then the ship went on its damned side. They never had a chance. Why could you not have warned my people?”

Sequero was standing before him, filthy and dripping. Something had laid open his forehead so that a flap of skin glistened there, but the blood had slowed to an ooze. The ensign’s eyes were bright with fury.

“We had no time,” Hawkwood said hotly. “As it was we almost lost the ship, and I’ve lost some of my men putting her to rights. We had no time to worry about your damned horses.”

He thought for a second that Sequero was going to fly at him and tensed into a crouch, but then the ensign sagged, obviously worn out.

“I am no sailor. I cannot say whether you are in the right of it or not. Will the ship survive?”