“The hull is intact below the water-line, sir. Benefit of the iron-cladding, I assume, else the ice would have crushed her long ago. There’s cordage aplenty too, though we’ll have to spend time thawing it out before it’s of any use. Life-boat’s intact and fully oared. The sheets are more of a concern.”
Hilemore nodded in sober acknowledgment. The Dreadfire’s masts were bare of canvas, the sails no doubt having been torn away by the polar winds over the course of many years. “Do we have any?”
“There’s spares in the hold, sir, but not enough for every mast. I’m confident she’ll make headway, but it’ll be a canter rather than a gallop.”
“You are familiar with the intricacies of sail then, Mr. Steelfine?”
“My first ship was all-sail, sir. Some things you never forget.”
“Very good, Number One. I hereby appoint you Sailing Master of the newly acquired Ironship Protectorate Vessel Dreadfire. Mr. Scrimshine will undertake the duties of helmsman. Mr. Skaggerhill, I request you act as the ship’s physician and quartermaster for the time being. Supplies will have to be strictly rationed from now on. Also, Green will be administered at your discretion.”
The harvester gave a cautious nod. “Happy to do my part, Captain. Probably a good idea if you ask Preacher to take the crow’s nest, put those eyes of his to good use.”
“A fine suggestion, sir.” Hilemore glanced down at the log once more. “All appointments to be recorded in the ship’s books just as soon as I find something to write with. Mr. Steelfine, let’s get those sheets unpacked.”
“Aye, sir.” Steelfine saluted again. “There was just one other thing, sir. Something you should see, in the hold.”
Hilemore saw Scrimshine straighten immediately, eyes suddenly agleam with interest. “Don’t be telling me you found the treasure, Mr. Steelfine.”
The Islander turned to the former smuggler and Hilemore saw the corners of his mouth twitch just a little. “Oh, it’s treasure to be sure. And plenty of it.”
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“I estimate three tons altogether.”
The cargo filled approximately half the hold and Hilemore quickly intuited the contents from the construction of the barrels. Wooden braces and pegs, no metal of any kind. “Three tons of powder,” he said.
“Not quite, sir.” Steelfine went to the nearest barrel, the lid of which he had already levered open. Hilemore moved closer, seeing that the contents were concealed within in a tight oilskin wrapping. Steelfine pulled the covering aside to reveal what appeared at first glance to be a dense mass of fragile, fibrous linen.
“Whassat stuff?” Scrimshine enquired, leaning closer with his lantern raised then stepping back as Steelfine placed a firm hand on his chest.
“Gun-cotton,” Hilemore said. “An accelerating agent possessing six times the blasting power of black powder.”
“Not used on a Protectorate ship for near twenty years,” Steelfine added. “Since the unfortunate incident in Feros harbour.”
“Is it still potent?” Hilemore asked.
“Seems likely, sir. The wrapping will have kept out the moisture and the cold’ll kill any corrupting agents in the air.”
“Best sling it all over the side, Skipper,” Scrimshine said, taking another step back holding his lantern out behind him. “One spark’ll tear this whole ship to splinters.”
Hilemore ignored him and turned to Steelfine. “The state of the ship’s guns, Number One?”
“A dozen eight-pounders on the upper deck, sir, all undamaged with twenty iron round shot each. The firing mechanisms are archaic and unfamiliar but I’m pretty sure I could reckon out how to get them working.”
“See to it once we’re underway. I shouldn’t like to run into any Blues without guns.”
“Aye, sir.”
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It took another day to get the sails rigged. The task was prolonged by the need to thaw out the dense, frozen mounds of rope required to affix the sheets to the masts. The stove in the galley, fortuitously stocked with a decent supply of coal, was duly fired up and the cordage piled around it. By morning they were able to start the rigging. At Steelfine’s insistence the mainmast received the bulk of the sails, with the fore and mizzen afforded the remaining canvas. Hilemore had some familiarity with sailing-ships, the basics were still taught to cadets at the Maritime Protectorate Academy, but it was clear that Steelfine’s knowledge of this fast-disappearing art far outstripped that of every man on board. Consequently, Hilemore felt it prudent to leave the handling of the ship to the Islander whilst he busied himself with an inspection of the charts bequeathed him by the unfortunate Captain Bledthorne. They had consigned the pirate’s remains to the deep following a brief ceremony the previous evening, mainly to allay the perennial superstitions of the men. It went against custom to deny the King of the Deep his due.
Hilemore’s study of Bledthorne’s charts swiftly led him to the conclusion that, whatever the man’s failings as both pirate and human being, his navigational skills had been of a very high order. The charts were all of the finest draughtsmanship and each of the Dreadfire’s course changes carefully plotted to within the nearest fifty yards. Bledthorne had also been scrupulous in annotating his charts with items of navigational interest, such as previously unrecorded reefs or dangerously swift currents. It was therefore a simple matter for Hilemore to track the course of the ship all the way from its luckless encounter off the south-western Arradsian coast, across the Myrdin Ocean and into these frozen wastes where she found her temporary grave.
He was surprised to find that the final position plotted by Bledthorne put the Dreadfire over one hundred miles to the north-east of her current situation. Hilemore’s finger traced along the dotted pencil-line through a blank section of chart. In Bledthorne’s day the southern polar region had received only minimal exploration and it was common practice for cartographers to leave large tracts of the southern reaches empty save for the words “Unknown—Navigate at Own Risk.”
Got her through the bergs in high summer, he mused, tapping the black circle at the terminus of the dotted line. But didn’t have the hands to sail her out again. Winter came and the ice closed in to claim its prize, dragging her ever farther south. Bledthorne had kept hold of the vessel’s original registration documents which revealed her to be an armed merchant trader named the Pure of Heart, apparently one of the first vessels beyond the Royal Mandinorian Fleet to be built with an iron-clad hull. The pirate was right about one thing, Hilemore thought, running a hand over one of the ship’s thick oak beams. Tough old bird like you deserved a better name.