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The BloodVaine EpicChapter 34: Frigid Sailing
Jack’s comic orders were so loud even Barbod, who was at the helm of the Bull’s Revenge heard him. The Bull King smiled at bit, but it faded when his eyes wandered to the plume of smoke billowing from the far north.
“Avast, ye, Fleetwood, pull hard to starboard, before ye go across our bow!” cried the Lone Ranger at the ship captained by the young Peter McSornley.
The shout made Barbod jump and he turned. The Fleetwood was listing sideways, the rudder turned at an angle, directing the ship to a collision course with the Bull’s Revenge. Acting quickly, Barbod jerked his ship hard to port, straining to hold the helm in place. His action saved the Bull’s Revenge from being sideswiped by the erratic Fleetwood, but is also caused a chain reaction, forcing the Lone Falcon of the Rose Marie and Trevelayn of the Barbarian Blood to swerve to port as well.
The Lone Ranger swore. “Why the megabloks did you ever put that fool in the captain's position of the Fleetwood?? He is naught but fifteen years of age!”
Barbod neither smiled nor frowned. “I was merely 19 when my father was killed and I was forced to make my own way in the world. I see a lot of myself in that lad, in time he will prove himself worthy of his captainship.”
On the Rose Marie Jack had been watching the odd sliding of the Fleetwood, as it struggled through the waves and tacked first too far to one side of the fleet, then too far to another. Through the darkest part of the night the ships sailed north-east to circle the Fright Knight’s kingdom at its eastern edge. While the other three ships kept in a good grouping, the Fleetwood still straggled behind, unable to keep along a straight course.
“Jack-me-lad, that ship will founder like a biscuit in the soup if this goes on much longer... Hoy! You there! Cullens, right?”
The sailor Jack was addressing was part of the Midwatch crew, who manned the rigging until just before dawn.
“Aye, Bo’sun! What say you?”
“Cullens, have the sails close-hauled for a bit. Let the Fleetwood catch us-- and get me a mooring grapple and a rope ladder.”
“Aye!”
The Lone Falcon, hearing the order, came alongside Jack.
“What are you doing, Jack? Barbod wanted all the ships to stay together.”
“Just planning on giving the Fleetwood some help. Do you mind if I drop by for a visit? I promise to give them your regards.”
The Lone Falcon nodded.
“I think the Rose Marie can spare you for a bit. Be careful, though.”
As the Fleetwood drew closer off the port stern, Jack waved to the deck watch on the other ship, and threw them a mooring grapple to catch. A rope ladder was tied to the end, and Jack made sure the other end was carefully tied to the gunwale of the ship. When the grapple had been secured, he began to climb across to the Fleetwood.
“Oof. Brix and Blox, this sort of thing was easier ten years ago. Jack-me-lad, you’ve too much ale and not enough youth in ye.”
Jack allowed the waiting crew of the Fleetwood to help him over the side, and he lay on the deck for a long moment to catch his breath. He could see the young captain at the helm, gripping the tiller with white hands and squinting into the night. Once he could stand without shaking, Jack wandered over, realizing for the first time that this was the same young soldier he had been tending to no more than two days ago, his broken nose still bandaged.
“Aye. They’re minting these ship’s captains younger every year. You shouldn’t even be up and about, lad -- let alone at the helm of a brig!”
Peter frowned angrily, frustrated at the trouble he had been having with the ship. He had refused all offers of help from the crew, determined to prove his worth to Barbod.
“Leave me be and get back to your ship. I can do this without your interference.”
“That's no way to talk to your churgeon, lad. Anyhow, you’ve just about foundered this here brig a dozen times, and collided with every other ship in the fleet.”
“The waves are too rough -- I steer for the lowest point of each, but the ship still pulls to the side.”
“Aye, she’s bucking like a steer, true enough. Don’t steer for the shallow part of the wave. Don’t reef or she’ll roll with each swell -- you might just as well be in a squall for the good it’ll do you. Give her head -- she’ll always run along the wind if you let her. Just give her a touch when it’s needed. And stop trying to choke the life from the tiller, lad -- it’s done nothing to deserve it.”
Peter let his grip relax a bit, and let the tiller move into each wave on its own. He could feel the difference -- the sea was sliding along the ship now, instead of fighting it.
“Aye. See how the masts are steady? Order the crew to put on extra stays for the foremast. She’ll gain some speed, and we’ll catch the others a bit better.”
Peter gave the order, and the crew moved to obey. The Fleetwood was already moving smoother than before. Jack nodded.
“Feels better underfoot, doesn’t it lad? Smoother?”
“Yes. Yes, I think I see what you mean. Thank you.”
“Jack’s honor, your captainship. And if you’d take another bit of advice, bullheadedness is nothing to impress Barbod with. You’ve a good crew, here -- let them do their jobs as well.”
Peter blinked, and stared at the tiller for a moment, before calling one of the midwatch over. He stepped away and let the more experienced salt take over as helmsman.
Though Barbod’s convoy sailed towards a fire that would not fade, the weather began to grow colder as they made their way north-east. Tiny flurries of ice whirled across the deck, and here and there chunks of ice drifted across the water like flocks of sheep. The more superstitious members of the crew muttered darkly about curses and chaos.
Jack had returned to the Rose Marie earlier that morning, and was asleep in the forward cabin when a pounding roused him.
“...mmph. I swear, your knightship...didn't know she was your daughter...hmm... no, no-- that's not Jack’s ostrich...hurm? Oh. Brix and blox.”
He staggered to the door and opened it so swiftly that the sailor pounding on it nearly knocked on his forehead.
“Captain wants you at the helm, Bo’sun!”
Jack yawned theatrically and waved the crewman away. Before leaving the cabin, he noticed the sudden chill in the air and closed his jacket tighter. He made his way to the helm, where the Lone Falcon was having a shouted conversation with King Barbod, the Bull’s Revenge now pacing the Rose Marie at a distance of no more than forty feet.
“...no sense! It’s not even fall, yet the frost grows thicker by the minute! We’ve had two spars crack from the cold already!”
“First fire! Now ice! Tyco, this is a nightmare! We cannot turn back!”
Jack approached, and the Lone Falcon nodded a greeting but continued his shouting.
“My Lord, you know this is magic as well as I! How can we fight a foe who strikes us with the very elements themselves!? And the fire still rages-- what of the Forestmen? They may already be dead!”
“Megabloks!!! We will not turn back! If any of the Forestmen survive, they will need our help! If they have been destroyed, then their foe will pay!”
Jack, watching the tumble of snowflakes in the air and the now boulder-sized blocks of ice scraping the ship’s hulls, called some crewmen over.
“I want double watches on the rigging. Fore and aft. If anyone sees an ice block bigger than a prized pig headed our way, they’re to call out to the helm. And send word to the other ships to do the same. I’d just as soon not have to patch another hole in Rosie’s hull. And have foul weather gear and oilskins on all the crew-- it’s going to get colder than a Black Falcon’s heart before we’re done. Aye, Jack’ll lay money after that…”
“Ice Ho! Two cables off starboard beam!”
The lookout called out a warning to the helm, where a tense Lone Falcon guided the Rose Marie. For much of the morning and early afternoon, the convoy had plowed slowly east-northeast, hoping to circle the snowstorm and reach warmer waters. So far, to no avail. Icicles hung glittering from the rigging and spars, and the deckhands were working constantly to keep the decks clear of ice and snow. Every spare scrap of cloth from the hold now served as protection for the crew, who in their few free moments huddled below decks or around one of the makeshift coal braziers Jack Craft had set out.
“Ho! Fleetwood, Barbarian’s Blood! Ice a-coming!”
Thus far, the ships had served as warning for one another, calling out the locations of dangerous ice in the waters. Although a few close scrapes had shifted planks and caused small leaks, the convoy had dodged serious incident-- so far. But all on board knew it would only be a matter of time before an icy collision holed one of the vessels. The crew were nervous and bleary-eyed, and as the afternoon wore on, they dreaded the frigid night to come.
“Clear waters, four cables to port!”
No one on board could even see the fires and smoke to the north anymore, though whether that was because they had died down, or because the winter squall had reduced visibility, none could say. They ships were running close-hauled against the storm, and progress had slowed to a dismal crawl.
“Ice Ho! Dead ahead! Clear waters to port!”
Jack finished his patrol of the ship at the helm, nodding to the Lone Falcon to see if any new orders were forthcoming. Like the rest of the crew, most of his face was swathed in strips of spare sailcloth to keep the ice at bay. The Lone Falcon, looking much the same, only shook his head to signify no changes in the orders. Jack dipped his head, and went forward to shift some of the crew to different posts.
“Ice Ho! Port and Starboard! Clear waters dead ahead!”
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