The Grace was a different matter. Haukal had had to take in canvas to avoid outpacing the carrack entirely, though Hawkwood knew he chafed at the slow progress and longed to break out his whole store of lateen sails and plough ahead. At this moment the caravel was under main course alone, bobbing along some four cables to starboard. This beam wind suited her admirably, though she had yards enough down in her hold to transform her into a square-rigged ship should the wind veer round and come from right aft.
Little chance of that. They would be sailing close to the wind in more ways than one for nearly all of this voyage, if the word of long-dead Tyrenius Cobrian was to be believed.
Well, they had hit upon North Cape, as pretty a sighting as could be wished for. All Hawkwood had to do in theory was steer due west until he bumped into the Western Continent. It sounded simple, but there were the winds to take into account, ocean currents, storms or doldrums. He and Haukal both took sightings of the North Star every night with their cross-staffs and compared notes afterwards, but Hawkwood still felt that the ships were sailing in the dark. True, he had the baldly summarized sailing instructions that Murad had copied out of the old rutter for him, but he needed more. He needed to read the account of the Cartigellan Faulcon’s crossing. He admitted to himself that he needed reassurance, the account of another seaman’s accomplishment of what he was attempting to do. He also knew that Murad was concealing something, something to do with the fate of the earlier voyage. The knowledge maddened him.
He stood up from his desk, long accustomed to the slight roll and pitch of the ship, and extinguished the single candle which lit his cabin. Fire was one of the most dreaded accidents aboard ship, and the use of naked flame was carefully regulated. Only in the galley was any cooking permitted, and only on the forecastle could the soldiers and sailors smoke their pipes. There were sea lanterns hanging in serried rows in the crowded filth of the gundeck for the passengers’ comfort, but these were the responsibility of the master-at-arms and his mates. The kegs which contained the powder both for the ship’s guns and the soldiers’ arquebuses were stored below the waterline in a tinlined room so that the rats might not gnaw at them, and no naked light was permitted in there. A tiny pane of double glass allowed the powder store to be illuminated from outside, and only the gunner had access to the interior.
And what a hullabaloo that had caused! Soldiers! They had moaned and bitched about not being able to get at their ammunition quickly enough, about not being able to smoke their pipes in the comfort of their hammocks, about not being able to prepare their own food in their own messes as they were used to. And Murad had not helped. He had insisted that his food and that of his officers be prepared separately from the men’s and served at a different time, doubling the workload of the ship’s cook. And the delicacies he had laid in by way of private stores! There were fully two tons of foodstuff in the hold that were for the exclusive consumption of Murad and his two officers. It beggared belief. And those damn horses! One was dead already, having gone mad in its cramped stall and thrashed about until it had broken its leg. That aristocratic young ensign, Sequero, had almost been in tears as he had cut its throat. The sailors had jointed the animal and salted down the meat despite the protestations of the soldiers. The cooper had barrelled it and placed it in the hold. Those same soldiers might be glad of it ere they saw land again.
Hawkwood made his unlit way out of his cabin, stepping over the storm sill with the grace of habit and exiting the companionway to enter the fresh air of the evening. He ran up the ladder to the quarterdeck where Velasca, the second mate, had the watch. The hourglass ran out, the ship’s boy turned it, then stepped forward to the break of the deck and rang the ship’s bell twice. Two bells in the last dog-watch, or the seventh hour after the zenith to a landsman.
“All quiet, Velasca?”
“Aye, sir. There are a few souls puking over the larboard rail, but most of ’em are below preparing for dinner.”
Hawkwood nodded. Even in the failing light he could make out the wisps of smoke from the galley chimney drifting off to leeward.
Velasca cleared his throat. “I’ve had a deputation from the soldiers come to see me this watch, sir.”
“Another one? What did they want this time?”
“They don’t like the idea of a priest berthing in the forecastle with the common sailors, sir. They think he should be aft with the officers.”
“There’s no room aft, unless he cares to sling his hammock in my chartroom. No, we didn’t ask for a Raven on board so he must make the best of it. Trust an Inceptine to put the common soldiers up to intercede for him.”
“Oh, they say he hasn’t said a word, sir. He seems to be a kindly enough sort of fellow for one of his order. They took it upon themselves to ask.”
“Well they can take it upon themselves to keep their mouths shut, or go through their own officers. The running of the ship is difficult enough as it is without playing runaround with the assigned quarters.”
“Yes, sir.”
“How’s the wind?”
“Light as a baby’s fart, sir. Still nor’-nor’-west, though it’s showing signs of backing to nor’-west.”
“I hope not. We’re close-hauled enough as it is. I’ll take the watch now if you like, Velasca. I’m as restless as a springtime bear. Get yourself below and grab some food.”
“Aye, sir, thanks. Shall I have the cook send something up?”
“No, I’ll survive.”
Velasca left the deck, Hawkwood having relieved him an hour early.
The carrack sailed on as the first stars came out to brighten the sky. There would be a moon later on; it was near the full, but the wind was fitful and wayward. The Osprey was under courses and topsails, the courses bonneted, but Hawkwood guessed she was making less than three knots. A peaceful evening, though. He could hear the growing hubbub from below-decks as the passengers assembled for the evening meal, and light poured out in shafts from the gunports. They kept them open most of the time these nights, for ventilation.
He heard the clink of glass and laughter from the officers’ cabins below his feet: Murad entertaining again. The scar-faced nobleman had even invited Ortelius, the last-minute Inceptine, to dinner a few times. Primarily, Hawkwood thought, to interrogate him as to his reasons for joining the ship. Someone high up in the Inceptines of Abrusio had ordered him to, that was clear, but so far Ortelius had deflected all Murad’s enquiries.
He was being watched. Turning, Hawkwood caught Mateo, the ship’s boy, staring at him. He frowned and Mateo looked away hurriedly. The boy’s voice was breaking; soon he would be a man. He no longer held any temptation for Hawkwood, not with the sneering Murad and an Inceptine on board. No doubt the lad was hurt by Hawkwood’s curt treatment of him, but he would get over it.