Coggler's Brood (Work in Progress)

Chapter 5

Half a day out from Port Benson, we spy a huddle of ships in the distance and my heart sinks. This is not what I had imagined.

Two small Reaver traders are offloading cargo to a wallowing tub of an airship. No elegant clipper cleaving through the turbulent birdroads for me. This plump goose will wallow along leaking gas in every direction. Fool that I am: how could I have even dreamed of anything better? Once again I have deceived myself into thinking I am something special. I'm just a raggedy mouse in the employ of a sleazy rodent - nothing I do here will make even the slightest smudge on the world.

The two traders slip quietly away as we pull alongside the wallowing transport.

Jack leaps up the quarter deck ladder, two steps at a time. "Look at her, Nina, isn't she a beauty."

No Jack, I want to say, she is not.

He points to the stern. "Her name's picked out in gold letters."

Oh, Jack, you are so easily pleased.

I turn my back, not even wanting to know the name of this floating bucket. I'll climb on board, deliver the job, and depart as quickly as possible.

A gangway is laid across empty space between the two ships. I clasp the handrail, the fingers of my left hand pulling hard against their artificial ligaments. In this moment of stepping between the two ships and setting foot on my new command, I am intently aware of my coggler enhanced hand.

"Capt on deck!" Magnus hollers.

I tip the rim of my top hat, with my good hand, to acknowledge my new crew.

The sullen crew, larger than I expected, stop what they're doing and stare at their new captain, sizing me up in silence. I can feel everyone staring at my mechanical hand. Then a low murmur of conversation bubbles up as the sailors share their initial thoughts.

I was expecting something a little more... defined... definite... animated... enthusiastic even. Certainly not this complete disinterest.

Are they unimpressed by their new captain? Then I realize: they don't give a damn. How many captains have they seen come and go? I doubt any good ones stayed for long. They share the same hopelessness when they look at me, as I feel when I look at their ship.

This is not what I had in mind when I accepted Stan Wallingham's offer. Somehow, I had a romantic notion of a sailing clipper or privateer graciously cutting the air. Me, the rakish captain cutting a dash for others to envy. There is no way this merchant ship could possibly inspire anything but disdain.

I walk the filthy deck, watching the crew wind ropes and stow tackle preparing for departure. They glance at me suspiciously and drop their eyes as I pass. This ship is in worse condition than I thought. Not only is she slow and badly crewed, she is also rundown, decrepit, and in desperate need of some tender-loving-care.

Sails heaped on deck, ready to hoist, are in such bad repair they have patches sewed onto patches - trim these taught to the wind and they'll explode into a thousand shreds. Mechanical winches are in short supply too, which would account for all the extra crew: everything needs hauling by hand. Stand Wallingham doesn't splash out on repairs, but bad crew are cheap.

Then I turn into the wind and smell hits me. The ship reeks to high heaven. It makes me gag and I nearly heave. Some of the crew notice and share a private snigger.

There is only one smell like that: unwashed humanity.

I turn to Magnus. "What is our cargo?"

"Livestock."