Jeryon swims to where the block is nearly submerged by the weight of the harpoon. Beale is ten yards away. His flailing is getting more frantic. He’ll pull me under if I get close, Jeryon thinks.
Livion watches the dragon beat toward the Comber. It either has no fire left, or it’s so intent on swimming that it can’t muster a breath. With only starboard oars, any attempt to go forward will carry the Comber dangerously close to the dragon. But, if he backrows any farther, Jeryon’s lifeline will get pulled away. Company policy dictates: Never risk the ship for a sailor. But he can’t let the captain die. And he doesn’t have to use all his oars. He pipes for just the forward three to pull, steers to larboard, and the Comber, balanced, edges toward the men in the water.
The harpoon line folds before the prow. Everlyn and the sailors, relieved that the ship is moving, take up the slack. With the dragon closing in, Solet hears Livion pipe “to arms.” But, instead of gathering the scattered crossbows and men to wield them he runs to the stern deck. Livion pipes again. Solet won’t be deterred.
Jeryon holds his hands out as best he can, trying to calm Beale. “I’m going to push you to the rope,” he says, circling the harpooner. “Don’t do anything. Look at the rope.” Beale’s eyes follow him, though. He spots the dragon beyond Jeryon, and all the fire goes out of him. He pulls in his arms, exhales, and sinks.
Saving him for a flogging, Jeryon thinks. He dives.
While Topp is being lifted onto the galley Livion searches the water for the captain. He hasn’t emerged.
Solet climbs to the stern deck. Livion says, “I have the ship, and I gave you an order!”
“Then I am acting first officer,” Solet says, “and it’s my duty to remind you—”
“I know the book,” Livion says.
“And I know the captain would have ordered you to stay away from the dragon,” Solet says.
Livion stares at him coldly. “You want him dead. Then you’ll want the dragon as a prize.”
Solet has the audacity to appear surprised. He says, “The captain and Beale may already be gone. We aren’t.”
Jeryon still hasn’t emerged. The poth, Topp, and the firemen hold the line, waiting. A few other sailors have taken up crossbows to shoot the dragon. Two bolts stick in its face. The dragon isn’t discouraged.
“Crossbows aren’t going to kill that thing,” Solet says. “We have to back water. We can watch it die from a distance. It can’t have long.”
Livion has to agree, however insolent and manipulative Solet is. Even if the captain emerges, by the time they could reel him in, the dragon would be climbing over the rail. He pipes again. The remaining rowers lift as one and pull the ship away from the dragon. The harpoon line is dragged through the water. The poth throws the slack out, leaps up, and looks pleadingly at Livion. She points at the line. There’s nothing there.
Livion tells Solet, “I want a report on the damage below in five minutes and one on the wounded in ten.”
6
* * *
As the Comber accelerates, the block at the end of the harpoon line rises to the surface. Water streams over it, more than there should be, creating a bright wake. The poth yells, “There!” A head breaks through the overflow, and another. Jeryon holds the block, and Beale holds him. The poth says, “Help me,” to two sailors nearby. Topp is already heaving at the line. The others join in. The drag is considerable, though, with the ship moving. They make little progress. And the Comber is turning, drawing the line directly across the path of the dragon.
Livion pipes double-time to get them clear. He hopes the captain and Beale can hang on. They look like bait.
Solet sees what he must do. As two more sailors take hold of the line, he sprints to the cannon. The galley is turning into the dragon’s field of fire. He grabs a powder packet from its metal storage chest, stuffs it in, tamps it down, and pulls an iron out from under the feet of the poth and Topp. As they move aside, he slams the harpoon home, grabs the firing rod, and sights, conveniently, straight down the harpoon line.
The dragon is only ten yards behind Beale, its head just above the water, its body largely submerged, which doesn’t give Solet much of an angle. For a moment he finds the harpoon aimed straight at Jeryon. No one could blame me, he thinks. It’d be like a hunting accident. Jeryon looks Solet in the eye, clearly thinking the same thing. Solet feels for the touch hole with the rod. Then Beale, exhausted, lets go of the line.
Jeryon rolls over and reaches out to grasp him, but the lightened line is easier to pull in, and Jeryon is jerked forward by the poth and the sailors. He almost loses his own grip and rolls back to dig his fingers into the block. The dragon’s head rears and its jaw drops, not for a breath, but for a big downward bite. Beale scrambles in the water. The dragon’s wings throw spray over him. It’s one stroke away from the men.