Cutthroats of the Coast

Chapter 7 - Snow Business

I stared at Mr Mandrake, his fleshy face taking on a ghastly chiaroscuro as I directed my lantern at him.  His mouth twisted in a leer and he licked his lips with his pointed tongue.  Beaded sweat on his forehead glistened, the odd drop trailing down to hang within unkempt eyebrows.  The leer became a smile and I felt the dagger's point press harder into me.

"Well, West," he grunted, "Why would you be down here nosing around in my domain?  Was it more of the Captain's draught that you were wanting?  I would have thought that you'd had enough of that by now."  An odd gurgle emanated from him in a waft of rum and raw onion that I realised was Mandrake chuckling.

I was about to concoct some trite remark that questioned Mr Madrake's proclivities toward unholy practices when I was rescued by the sudden interruption of a thunderous crash that shook the ship.  The casks within the hold groaned as they settled further on their racks.  I grabbed at a hand rope in anticipation of The Betsy heeling hard over, afflicted by some terrible mishap. 

Mandrake's head twitched as he cocked an ear towards the companionway.  He grinned, his few remaining teeth bared in a grim rictus.  "Stow your panic, West.  That was a chaser!  The Captain has a fox, I'd say!"

My face must have registered some bemusement because Mandrake then graced me with an excited explanation, "A chaser is one of the long guns at the bow of The Betsy, ye ignorant gawk!  The Captain's shooting at something!"

With that he turned on his heel and bounded up the companionway with more agility than a man of his size would be properly expected to display.  Bemused, Mandrake's sinister confrontation forgotten, I dashed after him, keen to see the great gun fired again.  

I passed through the empty gundeck, the bowls of meals left lying unheeded on the planks that served as tables that were slung between the guns.  I grabbed at a jack and quickly swigged the ale left within it.  I suppose I must have repeated this half a dozen times before I reached the main hatch and climbed up into the waist of The Betsy.  I bounded onto the deck feeling quite hale and hearty, belched to clear some of the discomfort of my hasty lunch and turned to face forward.

The waist and much of the fo'c'sle were packed with men.  Most were craning their heads to see over others, or past the foremast and bowsprit.  Most of their attention was concentrated on the sweating crew, stripped to their waists, who were currently hauling on the tackles, pulling one of the long guns back into place.   This gun was emplaced on the fo'c'sle, facing more forward than to the side, unlike most of the ship's guns.  This advantageous placement afforded a skilled crew with the opportunity to fire upon an enemy whilst giving chase.  I climbed up a step or two toward the quarterdeck and could see the gun just as it slid through the gunport.  As I followed the line of the barrel, I percieved a small vessel at a distance of about three hundred yards flying before us, every sail set in a great cloud of white canvas.

"A fine morning, is it not Matthew?" Tom Smith said cheerily.  I turned to him and smiled at the obvious happiness that was painted on his face.  He skipped on one foot like a small boy, pointing at the little boat and grinning about him.  "A fine prize she'll make.  Small and quick as she is, we will be in snow hurry to beat to quarters.  We can enjoy our morning!"

I must have appeared perplexed because Tom continued, "Did you not mark it, Matthew? Did you not percieve my jest?"  I shook my head dumbly, smiling with him. "She is a snow, Matthew. A square rigged ship like our brigantine?  Like us she has two masts but also another one aft of the main.  Do you not see it, there, the trysail mast?"  He pointed towards the ship.

I nodded, happy to oblige Tom with the task of enlightening me, but thinking more of the jacks of unattended ale below.  "So you say that we will be hunting our quarry for a while, yet?"