Blood Red Tide. James Axler
awake with a scream and frightened the bird off, but the gulls circled in wait above the tops. They sensed the bound man’s weakness. They sensed no one was going to defend him. Ryan knew without a shadow of a doubt that Doc was going to die hanging from those shrouds this day, and there was nothing he could do about it.
Ryan snarled as the rope end thudded into his back with all of Manrape’s strength behind it. “You look back at Old Stick one more time, Ryan! One more time, and I will seize you to the shrouds beside him!” The rope end slammed between Ryan’s shoulder blades a second and third time. “Now heave!”
Ryan gritted his teeth against the “fun end” of Manrape’s starter. More than the knotted rope tenderizing his flesh, Ryan felt Captain Oracle’s eyes on him from the quarterdeck. Oracle always seemed to be watching him. Ryan heaved. The capstan turned. Ratchets and palls clacked with monotonous rhythm as the crewmen threw their muscle against the bars and hauled the dragging anchor off the rocky bottom.
Doc’s voice rose out of nowhere in song.
“A is the anchor that holds a bold ship.”
The crew glanced up at the insane, shroud-seized man.
“B is the bowsprit which often does dip...”
First Mate Loral laughed. “Sing more!” The capstan men grunted as the song met the rhythm of their heaving and the clank of the pall and ratchet.
“C is the capstan upon which friend Ryan does wind...”
Onetongue shot Ryan a smirk as they heaved together.
“And D is the davits, on which the jolly boat hangs.”
“What’s a jolly boat?” Wipe gasped.
“Shut up, Wipe,” Hardstone snarled. “I wanna hear.”
Doc’s voice rose. In his less broken moments he was a powerful orator. Ryan only seldom heard it, but Doc’s singing voice was a clear, beautiful tenor. It sang out now.
“E is the ensign, the white Hand of Glory on Blue, F is the foc’sle that holds the dear Glory’s crew.”
Noises of amusement and approval traveled through the crew from stem to stern.
“G is the gangway, on which Mr. Manrape makes his stand. H is the hawser, which seldom does strand.”
Manrape’s rope end hung limp in his hand as he stared up at Doc.
“I is the irons where the stuns’ll boom sits. J is the jib-boom, which Mr. Atlast will tell you does dip.”
Atlast roared from his precarious perch at the prow. “Ha!”
“K are the keesons of which you have been told, and L are the lanyards that always will hold. M is the main mast, so stout and so strong. N is the North Star that never points wrong. O are the orders of which we all must beware, and P are the pumps that cause sailors to swear...”
The crew laughed and the men on the capstan heaved in time with Doc’s song.
“Q is the quadrant, the sun for to take. R is the rigging that always does shake. S is the starboard of our old bold ship, and T is for the topmasts that often do split. U is for the ugliest, one-handed old captain of all...”
Every head snapped a look at Oracle. The captain stood like a statue of ebony, staring at Doc.
Doc continued without missing a beat. “V are the vapors that come with the squall. W is the windlass upon which we all wind, and X, Y and Z? I confess, I cannot put in a rhyme!”
The crew laughed and cheered. Men with two free hands clapped and those who didn’t whooped and pounded wood with their fist or stomped their feet. Commander Miles put his fists on his hips. “Sing another, Old Stick! That anchor is only halfway up, much less catted!”
Doc licked his cracked lips and stared at the birds circling him with intent. “I know a song about seagulls...”
Men laughed. Hardstone made a grudging noise. “He’s a bold, old scarecrow, I’ll give him that.”
Wipe did his slow mental math. “But...”
“But what, Wipe?”
“You were laughing at him just yesterday.”
“Well, he deserved laughing at yesterday!”
Manrape stared at Doc with a strange light in his eyes. “Sing me a song about seagulls, Old Stick, and I will cut you down from the shrouds.”
Captain Oracle’s hanged-man’s rasp cut all chatter like a knife across a throat. “Mr. Manrape, have Old Stick cut down.”
“Aye, Captain! Mr. BeGood! Mr. Born! Seize that man down from the shrouds!”
“Take him to Bonesaw.” Oracle watched as the twins cut Doc down. “I am without a servant since our last battle. When this man is fit, send him to my cabin. He will never make sailor, but perhaps he can pour wine and amuse us.”
Manrape nodded. “Make it so!”
Doc seemed to barely have a bone in his body as he collapsed to the deck. Sweet Marie pushed through and pressed a dipper of water to his lips. Doc drank and raised his head.
“My captain?”
Oracle’s eyes narrowed.
“I crave a boon.”
The deck went silent. Oracle stared at Doc like a cipher. Ryan wasn’t quite sure whether Oracle was considering in what manner to have Doc killed for his impertinence or whether the captain didn’t know what the word boon meant.
“What?”
“If I am to serve, may I have my cane to lean upon? It is my only comfort.”
Oracle turned to the ship’s purser. “Mr. Forgiven, fetch Old Stick’s cane from stores and bring it to my cabin.”
“Aye, Captain.”
“And strike Old Stick’s name from the ship’s book.” Oracle turned and resumed his pacing of the quarterdeck. “Enter ‘Doc’ into the log, serving in the captain’s quarters until proved otherwise or signed.”
The crew cheered.
Onetongue and Wipe pounded Ryan’s shoulders. Ryan and Doc exchanged a look. There were few secrets aboard a sailing ship. The crew knew that Ryan and Doc were friends, and all knew of Ryan’s whispers to Doc to save himself. The old man had cheated death and been elevated. It was a lucky thing, and the crew would take luck wherever and in whatever form they could find it. Sweet Marie scooped Doc up in her arms like a child and took him belowdecks to the med. A secret was now aboard the Glory. One only Ryan and his companions knew. Once Doc had his cane, and if Ryan gave the signal, Doc would draw his concealed sword and drive it through Captain Oracle’s heart.
* * *
“AGAIN!” THE MEN IN the mess shouted and clapped. “Again!”
Doc held up a hand. “Dear shipmates, I beg of you, let an old man break his fast.”
“Let him eat!” Hardstone bellowed. “He’s sung it seven times already!”
Ryan smiled wearily. Doc had indeed sung it seven times already. Doc was dealing with a crew that was mostly illiterate, but most of his watch mates could now sing his abridged version of The Sailor’s Alphabet by heart. Onetongue shoved a wooden stoop of small beer into Doc’s hand. Doc sighed happily. “Bless your heart, Mr. Onetongue.”
Onetongue drooled happily. “Welcome!”
Ryan regarded his messmate. The man was bald, bat-eared and blubbery. However, Ryan recalled the terrible strength of Onetongue’s arms as he’d simultaneous drugged him and choked him unconscious. “Onetongue.”
The sailor regarded Ryan warily. “Yup?”
“That’s an interesting