Red Seas Under Red Skies: The Gentleman Bastard Sequence, Book Two (Gentleman Bastards 2)

Belowdecks was a nightmare. At least on deck one had masts and crashing seas to offer some perspective on one’s place. Down here, in the enveloping fug of sweat, urine and vomit, the shuddering walls themselves seemed to tilt and lurch at malicious whim. Streams of water poured down from hatchways and gratings despite the weather precautions the crew had taken. The main deck echoed with the muffled howling of the wind and the clanking sound of the pumps rose from the orlop below.

Those pumps were fine Verrari gear-work, capable of heaving water up and dashing it over the side at some speed, but they demanded eight-man shifts in seas like this, and the labour was back-breaking. Even a crew in good health would have found the job onerous; it was just plain bad luck for this bunch that so few of them had come out of prison at anything near their full strength.

‘The water gains, Captain,’ said a sailor Locke couldn’t recognize in the near-darkness. He’d popped his head up the hatchway from the orlop. ‘Three feet in the well. Aspel says we busted a seam somewhere; says he needs men for a repair party.’

Aspel was their approximation of a ship’s carpenter. ‘He’ll have them,’ Locke said, though from where, he knew not. Ten doing important work on deck, eight at the pumps ... damn near their time to be relieved, too. Six or seven still too bloody weak to be of any use save as ballast. A squad in the orlop hold with Jean, resecuring casks of food and water after three had come loose and broken open. Eight sleeping fitfully on the main deck just a few feet away, having been up all night. Two with broken bones, trying to dull the pain with an unauthorized ration of wine. Their rudimentary scheme of watches was unravelling in the face of the storm’s demands, and Locke struggled to subsume a sharp pang of panic.

‘Fetch Master Valora from the orlop,’ he said at last. ‘Tell him he and his men can look to the stores again once they’ve given Aspel a hand.’

‘Aye, sir.’

‘Captain Ravelle!’

Another shout rose from below as the first sailor disappeared, and Locke stood over the hatchway to answer: ‘What passes?’

‘Our time at the bloody pumps, sir! We can’t keep up this gods-damned pace for ever. We need relief. And we need food!’

‘You shall have them both,’ said Locke, ‘in but ten minutes.’ Though from where, again, he knew not; all his choices were sick, injured, exhausted or otherwise engaged. He turned to make his way back up to the deck. He could swap the deck-watch and the men at the pumps; it would bring joy to neither group, but it might serve to nudge the ship ahead of total disaster for a few more precious hours.