The Voyage of the Unquiet Ice (3 page)

The lowest of the three was known as the Third Gun, and here Dow was above water level at last. On either hand daylight glinted around the edges of the gunports. Indeed, if a firing drill had been in process and the gunports thrown back then the deck would have been brightly lit, for it was mostly one large open space. But for now the ports were shut, and in the crowded dimness some two hundred and thirty-two men – the ship's Second Company – were readying themselves to go on watch.

The Third Gun was their home; they ate there and slept there and idled their spare hours there, all of it next to their guns. There were thirty-six cannon on the deck, eighteen to a side. Tables and benches were set up in the free spaces between them by day, and at night every inch of ceiling bore hammocks. But all of it, hammocks and bedding, tables and benches, could be cleared away in a few moments if battle stations should be called.

For the present the men were merely finishing up their breakfast. Some were carting bowls and mugs back to the ship's galley, which was in the stern of this deck; others were stowing away hammocks and scrubbing tables; and others again were crowding to the toilets and washrooms in the bow. Dow had to squeeze his way through the belching, farting, swearing mass to reach the next stairway, and though he moved as unobtrusively as he could, the ships heavy rolling meant he was thrown bodily against this man or that, and so received many ill-tempered stares and elbows jabbed deliberately into his ribs.

He was not, he knew, liked by these men. They might have been friendly to New Island folk when visiting Stone Port, but Dow had learned that they thought very differently about a New Islander roaming aboard their own vessel. They resented it, no matter who that New Islander was, or what wondrous feats he might have performed in a maelstrom. Sailing was
their
prerogative – said the jabbing elbows – and no one else's. As for letting him become an able seaman, Dow could read their thoughts on the matter as easily as if they'd spoken them aloud – what could the captain be
thinking
?

A question Dow himself had often asked.

The truth was, even after all these weeks at sea, he still understood little of what Vincente had planned for him. Yes, he knew that he'd been taken on board because of what he'd witnessed, at the captain's side, on the night of the Stone Port attack. Vincente needed him to confirm the existence, to the Ship Kings high authorities, of the strange, self-propelled boat.

But after Dow had done that? What then?

A gloomy realisation had settled upon him in the early days of the voyage. He was at sea at last – but he wasn't really
sailing
. Not yet. For he had no role on the
Chloe
, no purpose. He was little more than a prisoner – in fact, he was something even worse; he was a passenger. And what was the fate of passengers? They were delivered to a destination, then forgotten. Most probably Vincente intended that once Dow's usefulness was at an end, he would simply be ferried home again on the next convenient ship.

This was why Dow had grasped so eagerly at the suggestion to train as an able seaman; it offered hope that he could become something more than useless cargo. Perhaps he might even find a permanent place on the
Chloe.
The only puzzle was – why had Vincente agreed? If he intended to return Dow to New Island, then why waste time training him? One the other hand, even if Vincente did mean to keep Dow on as a crewmember, how could he? The captain had already defied Ship Kings law by taking a New Islander onboard even as a passenger – surely it was doubly illegal to enlist one?

But in his interview with Dow – a few curt words on the high deck – Vincente had offered no clues as to his reasoning. He had been severe and distant, and done no more than give brusque assent.

Dow had not spoken with him since. It was another puzzle, and a saddening one, for he'd thought, back on New Island, that a bond of some sort had been formed between himself and the captain. But then again, if there was one thing he'd learned about life upon a battleship at sea, it was that a captain was a remote and forbidding figure to his crew. He was master over all, and the power of life and death was in his hands, absolute and unquestioned. He had no need to explain himself to his inferiors.

On Dow climbed, passing now through the Second Gun deck. It housed another thirty-six guns, and another two hundred and thirty-two men – the ship's First Company – but was currently silent and deserted, for the company was still on watch topside. Then came the First Gun deck, smaller than the two below, carrying only twenty-eight cannon, and home to only the sixty marines who formed the ship's armed guard. But here the illumination was almost full, for daylight streamed through the upper hatches. Dow ascended the final stairs and emerged at last into the open air of the main deck.

Even after nearly two months of voyaging it was still thrilling to him. The morning was grey and sunless, and the wind was cold, but none of that mattered. None of his doubts mattered either, at least for a moment. He was at
sea
. Dow drew a grateful breath of the salt air. Overhead, a full spread of sails stood white against the bleak sky, and all around was the Great Ocean – grey-green beneath the clouds, veined with white foam, and extending off to horizons unblemished at any point by the stain of land.

No, of this at least he was certain. These brief weeks on the
Chloe
had only whetted his appetite for the sea. He could not allow himself to be returned to New Island. Another way must be found. And the first step would be to pass Fidel's test and become an able seaman.

Ah, but the rolling …

Dow could see the cause of it now. Long, broad waves were sweeping in procession down from the north, each rounded crest separated from the next by a deep trough.

The waves lay directly abeam the
Chloe's
eastward path, and so the great battleship was swaying as each swell rose and then sank away under its keel. From where Dow stood the ocean itself seemed to rear up hugely on one hand, almost to the level of the deck, before plunging away again and rearing up inexorably on the opposite rail.

He turned to the
Chloe's
mainmast, the tallest of the three, and with a reluctant fascination let his gaze climb slowly to the mast's very tip, and to the tiny basket of the crow's nest. A lone figure rode up there, a tousled head and hunched shoulders visible over the basket rim, moving against the clouds as the mast swung back and forth in great arcs.

Dow swallowed in queasy anticipation, and looked away.

Shortly afterwards, eight bells rang out, and with ordered commotion the watches changed over, the two hundred men of the First Company hurrying below to their breakfast, and the two hundred men of the Second Company swarming onto the main deck to begin their day's duty. Mates and lieutenants bawled orders as men ascended the shrouds.

Amid it all, Dow made his way to the stern castle and reported to the marines at the foot of the stairs. From there he was escorted up to Commander Fidel on the high deck. The first officer was busy at the ship's wheel, instructing the two helmsmen, newly come on duty, of their course; slightly south of east, by the compass.

By the compass.
Only two months ago Dow would have been baffled by such a phrase. He knew better now. Oh, there was still a mystery to the device; exactly why the iron needle always pointed north was something that even Johannes, a blacksmith, could not really explain. But Dow had seen that navigation involved far more than just knowing north; the
real
secret lay in daily observations of the sun and stars, and in calculations made with pen and paper, and books and charts and hourglasses. According to Johannes it took years of study to master the art; and without such skill no man could become an officer, let alone ever hope to command a ship.

Dow, of course, could not even read …

At length Fidel – satisfied with the state of the vessel, and handing command to the lieutenant on watch – turned to Dow. If Captain Vincente was held in awe by the crew, and feared and loved in equal measure, then the first officer was regarded with something closer to fondness. He was quite old, and his thin, thoughtful face always looked sad, rather than stern. But he was much respected all the same, and considered to be very wise, being, as well as a commander, a historian and scholar.

Indeed, it was Fidel himself who'd been tutoring Dow in basic seamanship over the last weeks. Such a menial chore was far beneath the first officer's rank and dignity, but for some reason Fidel had assumed the role without complaint. Perhaps it was because Dow's position on board was so unusual – or perhaps, as Dow himself suspected, it was because no one else on the
Chloe,
other than Johannes, was willing to help.

Fidel's expression now, as he contemplated his student, was sombre but kindly. ‘Good morning, Mr Amber,' he said, folding his hands behind his back. ‘It would seem we've encountered heavy seas.'

‘Aye, Excellency,' Dow responded, standing to attention as best he could with the deck canting so steeply under his feet.

Fidel glanced out over the waves. ‘And how would you account for it? Such swells, and yet with no great gale behind them?'

‘I don't know, Excellency.'

‘No, I don't expect that you would. The ways and whims of the weather are not something a new hand can learn in a week or two.' Fidel studied the ocean once again. ‘Take note then. Waves like these mean that somewhere far to the north a mighty storm is raging, a storm so vast that it has cast out a swell that rolls even here, many days sail from the eye of the tempest. So it often is during late autumn and early winter, for the icy realms are terrible then. Be grateful we are seeing no worse than this, and that our course lies eastward. It's an unlucky ship that it is forced north at this time of year.'

‘Aye, Excellency,' said Dow again, but his stomach dropped as the ship lurched into yet another trough, and from the corner of his eye he saw the crow's nest describe another arc, high above the deck.

‘To the test then,' said Fidel.

And so began a half hour of examination. Fidel at first questioned Dow on the particulars of the
Chloe
itself. What was the length of the ship? (Two hundred and ninety feet.) What was the shallowest water in which it could sail? (Thirty feet.) How many anchors were on board? (Seven, varying in size and shape, the largest twice the height of a man.) And so on.

Then came questions about the ship's day-to-day running. What was the rotation of the companies and the watches? (First Watch, First Company, Midnight to Eight Bells; Second Watch, Second Company, Eight Bells to Noon; Third Watch, First Company, Noon to Four Bells; Fourth Watch, Second Company, Four Bells to midnight.) What was the chain of command on board? (The captain, then the first officer, then the two lieutenant-commanders, then the nine lieutenants, then the various mates and masters, and lastly the twelve midshipmen – mere boys mostly, in training to be officers – all set over the six hundred or so men of the common crew.)

Next came queries about the rigging; Dow had to list with their proper names the full multitude of the
Chloe
's different sails, then the lines which controlled them, then the myriad belays and halyards and clews and pins that held them fast. Then he was asked to explain what various commands or whistles meant in regard to the setting or furling or trimming of those sails.

And on it went.

For all his nervousness, Dow found he actually had no trouble in answering such questions. Just as he had instinctively grasped the workings of small boats, all those months ago on the calm waters of the Claw, he had quickly grasped the workings of a tall ship too.

But understanding was not
doing
, and Dow's unease only grew as the test progressed. Worse, one by one, various midshipmen and junior lieutenants were emerging from below to loiter about the high deck. They paid Dow no obvious attention, but he was grimly certain that they'd come to observe his examination, especially the final part of it. Last to appear, his long face pinched red by the wind, was Lieutenant Diego, who smirked at his fellows, then leant on the rail with a bored and indifferent air that Dow knew was entirely feigned.

Soon after, Commander Fidel came to the end of his questioning; he straightened and glanced austerely about at sky and sea once more. ‘Very well, Mr Amber. I'm satisfied as to your
theory.
But theory is only so much use. Ultimately, a seaman must show practical proficiency.' He smiled thinly. ‘How high is the mainmast, measuring from the main deck?'

Dow's heart sank, for all that he'd known this was coming. ‘Two hundred and seventy feet, Excellency.'

‘A long ascent, and a long way to fall. But we can't have an able seaman who is afraid of heights, can we?'

‘No, Excellency.'

So it had come. This was always the last part of a seaman's test, to climb to the crow's nest and stand a full watch there. Dow had not yet climbed so high. Indeed, he'd been expressly forbidden from doing so before now. By long tradition, the test itself had to be the first time.