Hard Tack

2

"Make a pass for survivors!" came the cry from the forecastle. Captain Marlow’s bellow brought life back into everyone’s limbs. High in the crow’s nest, Ansel eased his fingers off the railing. He moved them, carefully, as if they would snap like twigs. They felt as stiff as twigs. The captain’s ruddy face peeked out of the wooden structure that contained the ship’s wheel and glared up at Ansel. His face looked like a squashed tomato, Ansel thought clinically.

“Frost,” he yelled. “You stay put!”

“Ay, Captain,” said Ansel. He resisted the urge to spit over the rails.

“You don’t think there could be another one?” asked the first mate, a weak chinned fellow by the name of Mange. “Another monster?”

“I know nothing,” said Marlow, wiping his brow. “Could be more, could be that the monster returns. But I do know that could have been us.”

He tipped his tricorne to Ansel who nodded back. Grimly. He was under no illusions. The captain quite likely would have flailed him if he had been wrong. The beer had run out a week back. Marlow was a sour man at the best of times. Voyages like this attracted the naïve, the bitter, the desperate and the devote. The naïve were trying to find bright futures. Dreamers and fools. But most were men trying to outrun their pasts. Men with no other options. Criminals some of them. Criminals like Ansel, trying to make new lives for themselves on distant shores. But the captain was not a man to be crossed. Not if you wanted to survive with all your fingers.

The decks below exploded into action, the crew leaping to haul in sail and rope to adjust the fins. It was pointless, Ansel knew. They all knew, but they had to look. Glancing back at the rest of the fleet, Ansel could see the remaining airships, all ten of them, riding high at their upper limits. The Unsparing was listing heavily to one side, and seemed to be in some distress – they must have been hit. Or perhaps they had been caught in the cannon fire. The others all seemed unscathed. Ansel could make out the watchers on the Bright Terror and the Warspite. Little men, toy-like in the distance, clinging to the crow’s nests. Just like him.

Communication between the ships was difficult. They steered like gravid whales, especially the larger vessels. A stray gust of wind could spell disaster. The fleet got by on a complicated system of flairs, and flag signals. Right now, the word filtered from ship to ship, flags barely visible in the gloaming. Extinguish the high runes.

The Sky Lion jolted downwards, taking Ansel’s stomach with it. He eyed the water, knowing there was no cavorite to spare. Soon the fleet would be no better than Karinth water ships, bobbing in the sea like some peasant fleet. At the mercy of the monsters that seemed to thrive in these alien waters.

Before five minutes had passed, all the high runes were extinguished. The Sky Lion settled, barely two metres clear of the waves. Low enough that salt spray slapped her keel. Stars winked into existence overhead, peeking through the thinning clouds.

Ansel’s eyes flickered to the water, casting about for survivors, or for monsters. There was no sign of the Trillium or its crew. Nothing. Nobody. One hundred cannons, the Trillium had carried, one hundred cannons and seven hundred souls had been lost to the seas. The Trillium had not had the opportunity to fire a single shot in self–defense. Seven hundred men would never see the green hills of Lochlanach again. Ansel forced himself to watch the waves. They were down there somewhere. Dead men staring up through the dark waters. Forever lost to the sun and air. Nothing would mark their grave.

The fleet searched. At last the acting commander gave the word and the fleet turned south again, forming themselves up behind the Warspite, which was the next largest ship. How many more would they lose? Ansel wondered.

The sails of the fleet were reset and the fins re–extended. Up in the crow's nest Ansel leaned back against the mast, breathing heavily. It was almost impossible to see in the gathering dark. Any moment now, his watch would be relieved, he reminded himself, although he wondered if his shaking limbs were fit to make the climb down the rigging. He longed for his hammock in the cramped quarters below, but he knew once he arrived there, sleep would not come. At least up here the air was fresh and he could be alone with his thoughts.

The tingling, metallic feeling in his gut was gone, but he didn’t trust it, any more than he trusted the quiet waters below. Ansel needed something to drink soon. His mouth was dry, and his throat raw.

He stared out across the darkening waters, the breeze soft on his cheek, touching a tear he hadn't realised he had shed. The clouds had cleared with the passing of the day. The sky was dark and glittering with cold, uncaring stars. He was one of the lucky ones, Ansel thought. What chance of fate had assigned him to the Sky Lion, rather than the Trillium or the Wivern? At the time it had seemed ill luck, but then he had been lucky to join up at all. Lucky. He had been lucky…He shook his head — no point dwelling on what might be.

His gaze swept out across the curve of the ocean, and he frowned as he looked to the east. Low on the horizon the blackness had coalesced into a line of deep, dark velvet. He squinted. It wasn't clouds on the horizon, it wasn't a shoal or a patch of rock. It could be only one thing. Ansel stared, then rubbed his eyes.

The hairs on the back of his neck rose and he staggered to his feet.

"Land!" he cried, his voice hoarse. He coughed and tried again. "Land, ho!"

There was a hushed silence from the deck.

“You are sure?” asked Captain Marlow, quietly, from below.

“Yes!” shouted Ansel, pointing, and jiggling in the nest. “Yes! Land! I see it!”

“Land!” came the shout from below. “Did the lad say land?”

“Are we saved?”

“I can’t see it–“

“Land ho!” rang out from the Albatross.

“Land ho!” came the shout from Unsparing. A green flare rose from the Bright Terror.

“Land!” the crew of the Sky Lion took up the shout. So many men rushed to the port deck that the ship started to tilt. Ansel clung to the net laughing and crying.

The landmass was clearly visible now – a dark, brooding lump on the far horizon. If it was an island it was a big one. Perhaps it was the continent itself. Ys. The fabled lost continent of Ys. Their destination.

Flags and flares flew in the evening skies.

As one the fleet changed tack, striking due east.

Frost’s watch was relieved. He climbed down the rigging with stiff fingers, slowly, lest he risk a tumble. The adrenaline had left his body and now he felt drained. Once his feet were firmly on the wooden deck he nodded to the helmsman and made his way below deck. The crew patted his back, calling and congratulating him. He nodded, stumbling and hungry, wincing at every backslap.

At last he escaped and managed to stagger below deck. The mess was a dark, dimly lit hole mid-ship that reeked of food, sweat and the metallic reek of burning runes. There were no candles, they were too much of a fire hazard. Instead, the interior was rune-lit. They burned slow and faintly silver, letting off just enough cold light to see by. The mess was dry and protected, at the centre of the ship. These runes would only be extinguished at the end of the voyage, when the Sky Lion reached safe harbour and finally came to rest. Or when the cavorite ran out.

The room was empty, except for a trio of dirty powder boys. The three were still covered in gunshot residue, the whites of their eyes staring out from brown, soot smeared faces. They stared up at him as he plopped onto a bench.

“Hi,” said Talcott, as he sat. He had his arm around Riley, who was staring off into space. Kip had a slightly manic grin on his small face, which was even more alarming.

Talcott, Kip and Riley were the closest thing to friends that Ansel had onboard. They were young – younger than Ansel’s twenty years. Riley was fourteen if he was a day, Talcott and Kip a few years older. Possibly. Ansel wasn’t even sure if they knew. They were uneducated, poor, and the lowest of the low. They were to do the dirty work, and stuff the cannons during battles.

Ansel preferred them to the rough men of the crew. He didn’t ask them if they were alright. No one was. But they seemed physically unharmed.

Talcott slid a ship’s biscuit across to Ansel.

“Thanks,” he said, picking it up with a grimace and pouring himself a cup of precious water. The ship’s cook peered around the corner. Ansel saw the ruddy-faced man make a mark in his book. Marking Ansel’s ration.

“How long till we get to the shore?” asked Kip. “What did you see? What did it look like? Is it Ys?”

Kip was grinning, but the expression did not reach his eyes. Ansel knew how he felt. The thought of setting foot on dry land. Of food that wasn’t ship’s biscuit. He stared at the dry, hard disk in his palm. Land. It was intoxicating. Better to fixate on land than to think of the way the Trillium had folded like a tissue. How they all might die at any minute. Without warning. Crunch. He shuddered.

“I couldn’t see much,” he said. “I hope it’s the continent. I really do.”

Now he was sitting he felt the exhaustion sweep over him in a wave.

“Probably a sandbar,” said Talcott.

“Nah,” said Ansel. “Too big.”

“I hope you are right.” Talcott stretched out his long skinny legs, "I don’t know about you fellas but I am really beginning to regret some of my life choices."

Kip snorted. Riley didn’t even seem to notice the conversation. He continued to stare blankly at the runes.

“How so?” he asked.

"I mean it. I can't take much more of this."

“I don’t think any of us can,” said Ansel quietly. “But now there is hope.”

“Land,” said Riley, his face pinched and white.

“Yes,” said Talcott, not moving his arm.

“We are close now,” said Ansel. “It’s gonna be okay.”

“Think of the food,” said Kip, dreamily. “Fruit. Bread. Meat. Oh, the All-Mother, think of the meat.”

“I mean it's not like there will be shops,” said Tal. “Probably just nothing but savages. Weird animals.” The subject seemed to perk him up though. The four of them pondered in silence.

Ansel poured himself a cup of water, downed it, then poured another. He dipped his biscuit in, and left it to soften. It did little to improve the flavour but made it easier to chew. He didn’t want to break his teeth. He tried to ignore the weevils floating to the surface. It was better not to notice. Fishing had not been an option since crossing the Equator. The monsters were too dangerous and too plentiful. Food was more or less gone, except for the hard tack. The beer and coffee had run out the week before and now even water was running low. Gods, he hoped they found food.

“Would you rather be eaten by a sea monster or a savage?" he asked, more to distract himself from the disgust swallowing than from genuine curiosity.

"I'd rather die in my bed, an old man, surrounded by cake and treasure," said Talcott sourly. “Thank you very much. How about you? Death or nothing to eat but ship's biscuit for the rest of your life?"

"Death," said Ansel instantly.

Tal smiled and Kip laughed out loud.

The foursome sat in companionable silence, listening to Ansel work on his biscuit. Footsteps sounded behind them and a tall, dark haired young man sat down at the table, his back straight as a poker.

“Greetings,” he said.

“We were just going,” said Talcott, giving an anxious bob. “Bye, Ansel.”

The three powder boys scurried away.

“Hi Ezra,” said Ansel, biting into his biscuit and concentrating on working his jaws up and down.

“I see I’m as popular as ever,” said Ezra, eyeing Talcott’s retreating back.

“You know,” said Ansel, waving his biscuit in an airy loop. “It’s not you, it's…” he gestured to Ezra’s robes which were dark red and worked with gold threat. “It’s your inquisitor’s robes.”

“You would think,” Ezra said, “the stupid urchins would be pleased to take the opportunity. To be closer to purity. I’m supposed to help people. How am I supposed to council anyone on the state of their soul if they run away at the sight of me? I don’t smell do I?” He sniffed an armpit. “Okay, I don’t smell any worse than you.”

“I know, I know. You can take care of my soul anytime,” Ansel lied. “They are just ignorant. Not as enlightened as I am.”

“Hmph,” said Ezra. He poured himself a cup of water and swallowed it with a grimace. “How long do you think before we make landfall?”

It was like everyone had made a pact, thought Ansel. A silent pact not to mention the Trillium, not to mention the kraken from the sea. It was like the great ship had never existed.

“I don’t know,” he said. “It could be farther away than it looks.”

“That’s right, lads.” Mange, the first mate, walked in. He slapped Ansel on the back then blanched when he saw Ezra. “Oh, excuse me your eminence, didn’t see you there.”

Ezra scowled into his cup.

“How long?” he growled to Ansel.

“I have no idea,” he said.

Ezra did nothing to help his cause with the crew, Ansel thought sleepily. But then lying came naturally to Ansel. He had been lying to everyone since he was five years old. Now, approaching his twenty-first year he wasn’t sure where the lies stopped and the real Ansel began. “The captain won’t risk going ashore in the night,” Mange said, speaking to Ansel, as if he had asked the question instead of Ezra. The crew found it difficult to meet Ezra’s eyes. “Get some sleep while you can. We’ll be up with the dawn.”

Mange left, leaving the two young men alone in the mess.

“I am tired,” said Ansel, swallowing the last of his biscuit. The hard parts stuck like glass in his throat.

“I’m not surprised,” said Ezra, softly. “How long were you in the nest?”

“Too long.”

There was silence. They listened to the soft rocking of the ship. Ansel stifled a yawn.

“I feel like unknown dangers on the land might be preferable to those we know lurk beneath us,” said Ezra.

“Truth,” said Ansel, standing. But he was too weary to be afraid any longer. “Let’s try and get some sleep.”

“Go,” said Ezra. “I must pray for the souls of the dead.”

Ansel climbed in his hammock and shut his eyes.

He lay in the dark, listening to the creak of the Sky Lion, and the breathing of the sleeping crew around him. How many lay, eyes open, staring up at the dark? He wondered. More than a few, no doubt. Ansel fully expected to be among them, but to his surprise exhaustion sucked him down, like a dark current pulling him under.

For once the nightmares did not come. He did not see his mother burning. He did not see the kraken’s monstrous, glowing blue eye. He did not see the tentacles smashing the Trillium like a toy. He did not hear the screams.

Ansel slept.

When he woke with the dawn the fleet had arrived.