Boyett-Compo, Charlotte - WindTales 02 (5 page)

to make me violently ill and I weren't no good to nobody; but that day, we needed every spare hand to

man them pumps. When I finally came topside, the storm was ripening. We'd already doubled-reefed the

topsail and furled the foresail. The Captain was looking worried like and he ordered us aloft to take in

every square inch of canvas. We clewed her down as tight as a virgin's thighs, we did, but she was

beginning to lie over almost to her beam-ends. One of the topsail halyards was snapping about the masts

like the cracks of a boson's cat and pretty soon, the Captain had me up there on them son-of-a-bitching

yards. I looked down and that was when I saw the lad in that cage."

“What cage?” Weir asked, not remembering anything on board the Tamarind that could be described as

such.

“When they took him down from the yardarms, after he was crucified, they put him in this cage that

they'd brought over from the Vortex. It was nothing more than a glorified chicken coop, it was, and they

stowed it up on the deck so everyone could see him."

Tarnes rubbed his whiskered chin. “Aye, I saw that thing.” His gaze went to Paddy.

“Thought it was for the livestock."

Stevens snorted with contempt. “That's about how the lad was considered."

“Get on with it!” Paddy growled. “I know all about those damned pens!"

Stevens ignored him. “Anyways, water was rushing in through the bow ports and over the knightsheads

like one of them geysers you find up in Chale. The lad was soaked through already and every time

another wave broke over him, he'd cry out.” Stevens shook his head. “I knew then the lad was afraid of

the water. Afraid of drowning, you see."

“And the Captain realized that,” Patrick snarled through clenched teeth.

Stevens nodded. “The screaming was a dead give away, I reckon,” he said with irony.

“What happened then?” Weir asked, not liking the image of a terrified man caged in a death trap with

water surging in all around him.

“Well, we fought that storm for over three hours before she began to lessen any. By then, some of the

canvas had shredded on the topgallants and I was sent aloft to reef ’em. It was while I was up in the

rigging doing repairs that the blow came back harder than ever. I laid myself out on them yards like it was

my dead wife's dear bosom and hung on for my life.

“Them waves shot over us all of a sudden and through the rain, I saw the helmsman let go of the ship's

wheel. One minute he was lashed to that wheel, the next he was over the side, his yelling lost in the wind.

The ship ran head on over a coral reef and I heard this grinding sound all the way up to where I was a

holding on for dear life. The topgallant let go with a snap, the sheets ripping all the way down, one half

blowing out to sea, the other flinging itself around the mast where I was praying like I'd never prayed

before.

“Water surged up through the aft hatchway and I knew the hold was rapidly filling with water. The

Captain yelled to man the jolly boats and even as he was shouting, the storm stopped."

“Just like that?” Tarnes asked, disbelief in his voice.

Stevens snapped his fingers. “Just like that! One minute we was all goners, the next we was heeling

leeward, turning slowly like we was on a pivot and we dropped off that coral so quick it clicked our teeth

together."

Patrick Kasella, having been raised on the rolling waves of the sea, lifted one eyebrow in contempt and

shot Stevens a look that said he didn't believe a word the old man was saying.

“Believe it or not, as you will, but that was the way of it!"

“They must have been in the eye of the storm,” Mr. Neevens commented.

“And then?” Weir injected, quickly.

Stevens drew himself up and directed his remarks to the Captain. “There wasn't that much damage done

to the hull, you see. We got her patched up quick enough, but we'd still shipped a lot of water in the hold

and we knowed she was going to have to be dry docked for a true repair. That was when the Captain

had this notion about the lad."

“He put him down in that hidden section behind the bulkhead,” Tarnes said. There was true grief in the

old man's voice.

Stevens nodded. “It seemed to me Captain Janssen was of a mind to let the lad drown down there.

When I finally got down there to him, he was already waist deep in bilge and screaming for all he was

worth.” The old man's eyes filled with tears. “I should have left the lad where he was. He really weren't in

that much danger of drowning, you see; we'd patched the hole up pretty tight. But it was that mindless

screaming, you see; it ate at my vitals. I couldn't stand it no more so I drug him out.” The old sailor wiped

a hasty gnarled hand over his face. “He was clinging to me like a vine."

“And then somebody found out you'd let him out?"

There was a haunted look on the leathery face of Jarl Stevens. “Aye. That was the way of it."

“And that's when they keelhauled him?"

Stevens shook his head and turned his eyes out to sea. “No. Not then."

“There was more?” Patrick asked, a finger of dread scraping down his back.

Stevens nodded. “Mr. Kullen, the First Mate, he'd come down to check on the lad, to see why he'd

stopped screaming. He saw me standing there holding the lad and all hell broke loose. He shouted for

some men and they came skipping down that companionway like ghosts on the wind and they was all

over me and the lad before you could say a word. They drug him topside at Mr. Kullen's orders, the lad

begging them all the while not to put him back in the cage, thinking that was what they was up to."

“But they had something else in mind,” Weir said quietly.

“Aye. Kullen had ’em seize the lad's wrists to the shrouds and then they laid the cat-'o-nine on him. It

was the fear of the storm they'd been through, I reckon, that made ’em so violent and all. The need to go

at something to calm themselves down. The lad was...” Stevens searched for the right word.

“Expendable,” Patrick furnished.

“Aye. Handy, too. Who cares about a prisoner? I felt sorry for the lad ‘cause all the while they was

whipping him, he was mumbling something about wanting to die, you see. That was when the Captain

took it in his mind to kill him, I guess."

“How many lashes did they give him?” Patrick had turned away, speaking over his shoulder to the old

man.

“I don't know. Thirty, Forty. What difference did it make? He'd been beat before. But I know this much:

by the time they was through with him, the lad was a gibbering fool. That cat-'o-nine was slick with his

blood ‘cause Kullen, himself, wielded the whip and he liked the sound of them metal barbs hitting flesh,

he did; he put his back into that evil business that day, running that steel-tipped thong as hard as he could

down the lad's back."

“There are men like that,” Patrick mumbled, vicariously feeling the pull of a cat down his own back.

“Aye, and Kullen was one of the worse. Then Janssen ordered him keelhauled.” Stevens shuddered for

he could still hear the young man's screaming, pleading as Janssen had ordered him tied and dropped

over the side.

“He was already afraid of the water and that must have seemed like a true hell to him,” Weir said.

“He was like a wild man, he was,” Stevens agreed. “He was thrashing about, spraying blood from his

torn back everywhere, but they seized his wrists and ankles and threw him overboard, him screaming like

a Chalean banshee all the way to the water."

“But he survived that, too,” Paddy said, admiration filling his voice.

“Aye!” Stevens said emphatically. “Aye, he did! They brought him up and he was still breathing."

“That must not have set well with Janssen,” Tarnes remarked.

“It might not have, but we got a code we live by on the seas, Tarnes, and I know you know it well: if a

man survives what they did to that lad, he's charmed! There weren't a man on board that would have

allowed Janssen to try keelhauling him again although he was about to."

Patrick turned around. “He was going to throw him back overboard?"

“Aye, he was! But we all voiced our opinion about that foolishness. So Janssen made them take him

back below.” The old man shrugged. “He'd lost interest anyway, ‘cause the lad had come to and was

just staring straight ahead of him like he was in another world. Janssen thought the lad's mind was gone,

and who'd have blamed him?"

“How did you get locked in the bulkhead with him?” Tarnes wanted to know.

“It was right after the watch yelled: ‘sail ho!’ and we saw this clipper bearing down on us. She had

poured on all her canvas and was streaking across that water like an avenging angel or the like. We

knowed her to be a pirate ship ‘cause she was flying the skull and crossbones. Pretty soon she was

steering sidewise our hawse and I knowed we was in trouble. Janssen had sent men aloft to spread all

the canvas, to wet down the sails, but I knowed it weren't no use. She was going to catch us, and you

know what pirates do to a penal colony crew.” He ran one gnarled finger across his neck.

“So, I snuck down there and crawled in with the lad. I knew they wouldn't do no more than take the

cargo and split the crew. We'd repaired that hole in the hull, but we was still shipping some water. She

weren't all that seaworthy, you see, so I knowed they wouldn't want her."

“And just what the hell were you going to do: sail her yourself?” Mr. Neevens snarled.

Stevens glared at Neevens. “I was going to get him in one of the jolly boats and make for the nearest

land, but once I got in that damned cage, I couldn't get myself back out again. The latch caught!"

“When we called down to you, you didn't answer,” Paddy accused. “Why?"

“I didn't know if you was friend or foe!” Stevens defended. “I'd had to keep my hand over the lad's

mouth while the pirates was on board. He was moaning, you see, the fever having set in on him from the

beating and the drenching. You'd have probably never heard us if his irons hadn't rattled."

“It's a damned good thing they did,” Tarnes told him.

Stevens looked at the Second Mate. “Aye, I suppose it is."

“And you don't have any idea who he is,” Weir probed.

“I didn't say that."

Patrick stared hard at the man. “You said you didn't know his name!"

Stevens’ eyes narrowed. “I said I didn't know it for sure, but you never asked if I had a notion as to

who he might be."

Weir sighed, putting up a hand to forestall Patrick's bellow. “Who do you think he is, Mr. Stevens?"

The old salt looked at the Captain and grinned; liking the title of respect he hadn't heard in a long, long

time. “I believe he might be the Duke's son."

“That Duke's son?” Paddy snapped, despite Weir's cautioning look. “Virago has a piss pot full of

Dukes!"

“The old man everybody was afraid of, the one that died in that mishap on board the Lady Tasha."

There was a sudden silence that seemed to still everything on board the Wind Lass. Three men faced

Jarl Stevens with faces blank and set.

“Duke Sorn? Giles Sorn?” Weir asked.

“That's the one. If I'm right, that there's his oldest boy, Syn-Jern."

Weir jerked, looked away from the probing stare of his best friend, Patrick Kasella. He walked to the

rail, braced his hands on the shining teak railing, and stared out to sea. He felt cold all the way to the tips

of his toes.

“You knew him? Duke Sorn?” Stevens asked.

Weir nodded though he didn't turn around. When he spoke, his voice was tight. “Aye, I knew the

bastard."

Stevens looked to Patrick. “Is there something I ought to be told?"

Paddy swung his attention from Weir's rigid back to the concerned face of the old man. “Maybe. If your

friend in there is who you think he is, then you just might have something to worry about."

“The sins of the father,” Weir whispered. His concentration was steady on the rolling green of the ocean

span.

Not liking the silence, the looks Paddy and Tarnes were giving him, Stevens drew himself up. “That boy

couldn't have done nothing to you. I know for a fact he's been in the Maze for nigh on ten year!"

Weir pushed away from the railing and turned to face Stevens. “But he might be Giles Sorn's son."

“What's that got to do with the price of tea in Chrystallus?” Stevens growled.

Saur squinted. “It was Giles Sorn who turned my father in to the Tribunal.” He left the rail and came

forward, his shoulders hunched with fury. “It was Giles Sorn who paid the back taxes on my father's

lands and then took them for his own.” He reached Stevens.

“And it was Giles Sorn who put my sister and me off that land after our father was murdered trying to

keep those same lands!” He snarled down into Steven's face. “My sister Genevieve was sent to the

Galrath nunnery to be raised. I was luckier; I was sent to the orphanage in Fealst. That was nearly twenty

years ago! It wasn't until two years ago that we found one another again. We've got Giles Sorn to thank

for that. The son-of-a-bitch died before I was old enough to avenge my father's death and being taken

away from the only family I had left!"

“But that was the father,” Stevens protested. “That boy in your cabin can't be no older than you. He

couldn't have been a part of that evil. He'd have been a boy himself!"

Weir Saur shook his head. “It doesn't matter!” he mumbled, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his

cords.

“It sure as hell does!” The old man reached out to take hold of Weir's arm, but the younger man stepped