Rise of Empire (The Riyria Revelations #3-4)

At the mizzen, main, and foremasts the other lieutenants shouted more orders, which the boatswains reinforced.

Hadrian stood on the main deck in the dark and the drizzling rain, unsure of his station or even if he had one. He was a cook, after all, but it seemed even a cook was expected to lend a hand on deck when necessary. He still felt ill, but Royce appeared worse. Hadrian watched as Boatswain Bristol, a big burly man, ordered him up the ropes, waving his short whip menacingly. Drained of color, Royce’s face and hands stood out pale in the dark. His eyes were unfocused and empty. He reluctantly moved up the mainmast’s ratlines, but he did not display any of the acrobatics of the previous day. Instead, he crawled miserably and hesitated partway up. He hovered in the wet rigging as if he might fall. From below, Bristol cursed at him until, at last, he moved upward once more. Hadrian imagined that the higher into the rigging Royce went, the more pronounced the sway of the ship would be. Between that, the slippery wet ropes, and the cold wind-driven rain, he did not envy his friend.

Several men were working the ropes that controlled the direction of the sails, but others, like him, remained idle, waiting in lines, which the boatswains formed. There was a tension evident in the silence of the crew. The booming of the headlands grew louder and closer, sounding like the pounding of a giant’s hammer or the heartbeat of a god. They seemed to be flying blindly into the maw of some enormous unseen beast that would swallow them whole. The reality, Hadrian imagined, would not be much different should they come too close to the shoal.

Anticipating something, all eyes watched the figure of Captain Seward. Hadrian could tell by the feel of the wind and the direction of the rain that the ship was turning. The sails, once full and taut, began to flutter and collapsed as the bow crossed over into the face of the wind.

“Mains’l haul!” the captain suddenly shouted, and the crew cast off the bowlines and braces.

Seeing the movements, Hadrian realized the strategy. They were attempting a windward tack around the dangerous point, which meant the wind would be blowing the ship’s hull toward the treacherous rocks even as they struggled to reset the sails to catch the wind from the other side. The danger came from the lack of maneuverability caused by empty sails during the tack. Without the wind driving the ship, the rudder could not push against the water and turn it. If the ship could not come about fully, it would not be able to catch the wind again, and it would drift into the shoal, which would shatter the timbered hull like an eggshell and cast the cargo and crew into a dark, angry sea.

Hadrian took hold of the rope in his line and, along with several others, pulled the yards round, repositioning the sails to catch the wind as soon as they were able. The rope was slick, and the wind jerked the coil so roughly that it took the whole line to pull the yards safely into position.

There was another deafening boom, and a burst of white spray shot skyward as the breaking water exploded over the port bow. The vessel was turning fast now, pulling away from the foam, struggling to get clear. No sooner had the bow cleared the wind than he heard the captain order: “Now! Meet her! Hard over!”

His voice was nearly lost as another powerful wave rammed the rocks just beside them, throwing the Emerald Storm’s bow upward with a rough lurch that staggered them all. On the quarterdeck, Wyatt followed the order, spinning the wheel back, checking the swing before the ship could turn too far and lose its stern in the rocks.

Overhead, Hadrian heard a scream.

Looking up, he saw the figure of a man fall from the mainsail rigging. His body landed a dozen steps away with a sickening thud. All eyes looked at the prone figure lying like a dark stain on the deck, but none dared move from their stations. Hadrian strained to see who it was. The man lay facedown, and in the dim light it was difficult to tell anything.

Is that Royce?

Normally he would never have questioned his friend’s climbing skills, but with his sickness, the motion of the ship, and his inexperience, it was possible he could have slipped.

“Haul off all!” Mr. Temple shouted, ignoring the fallen man. The crew pulled on the sheets and braces, and once more captured the wind. The sails bloomed full, and Hadrian felt the lurch under his feet as the ship burst forward once more, heaving into the waves, now steering out to the open sea.

“Dr. Levy on deck!” Bishop shouted.

Hadrian rushed over the instant he could, but stopped short on seeing the tattoo of the mermaid on the dead man’s forearm.

“It’s Edgar Drew, sir. He’s dead, sir!” Bristol shouted to the quarterdeck as he knelt next to the fallen man.

Several sailors gathered around the body, glancing upward at the mainsail shrouds, until the boatswain’s mates took them to task. Hadrian thought he could see Royce up near the top yard, but in the dark he could not be sure. Still, he must have been close by when Drew fell.

The boatswain broke up the crowd and Hadrian, once more unsure of his duty, stood idle. The first light of dawn arrived, revealing a dull gray sky above a dull gray sea that lurched and rolled like a terrible dark beast.

“Cook!” a voice barked sharply.

Hadrian turned to see a young boy who was not much older than Poe but wearing the jacket and braid of an officer. He stood with a firm-set jaw and a posture so stiff he seemed made of wood. His cheeks were flushed red with the cool night air, and rainwater ran off the end of his nose.

“Aye, sir?” Hadrian replied, taking a guess it would be the right response.

“We are securing from all hands. You’re free to fire the stove and get the meal ready.”

Not knowing anything better to say, Hadrian replied, “Aye, aye.” He turned to head for the galley.

“Cook!” the boy-officer snapped disapprovingly.

Hadrian pivoted as sharply as he could, recalling some of his military training. “Aye, sir?” he responded once more, feeling a bit stupid at his limited vocabulary.

“You neglected to salute me,” he said hotly. “I’m putting you on report. What’s your name?”

“Hadrian, sir. Blackwater, sir.”

“I’ll have the respect of you men even if I must flog you to obtain it! Do you understand? Now, let’s see that salute.”

Hadrian imitated the salute he had seen others perform by placing his knuckles to his forehead.

“That’s better, seaman. Don’t let it happen again.”