The Summer of the Swordsman

Chapter XXIII

I wasn't exaggerating. I've ridden many storms but this was the worst of them all. We were alternately hurled into the sky and plunged into the ocean, and then thrown about for good measure. I was sick several times, and the wounded landsmen fared even worse. Even though I had our men tie safety lines about their waists, two of them were washed overboard to drown alone in that dark, stormy ocean. I seemed to hear their cries long after I knew they had been swallowed by the sea, rising with the wind, following us across the water like the reproaches of all our dead.

Mourner stood at the wheel and fought it all through that black night. I don't know how he did it, either, wounded as he was and weakened by loss of blood, but every time I pushed my wet hair from my face and looked up into the lash of the wind I saw him lit by the flashes of lightning, pale‑faced as a wraith and as grimly silent.

The helm leapt and thrashed like a harpooned shark, but he wrestled it and held it on course, and the morning finally dawned. The storm seemed to fade and then blow away in the faint light of dawn. We could see the last rags of black cloud tumbling westward before the wind.

** ** **

The pitching eased, the helm stilled, and Mourner drew a deep breath and sagged suddenly against the wheel. I looked from him to Quinquius, thinking, and then made up my mind. "Roman," I said, "You've sailed on many ships, I know. You know how to hold a wheel steady‑‑"

"I can last another hour..." Mourner gasped, hauling himself upright.

"Another time," I said. "Quinquius, take the wheel. I'll relieve you as soon as I get a chance to look at the wounded‑‑"

"I'll come with you," Mourner said.

"You'll stay here and get some rest," I snapped at him. "Catch your breath at least." My gaze went to his thigh and then shifted. There would be time to treat him later. He needed to sit still for a moment or two. I smiled at him and Quinquius and the rest of the men, reflecting that they'd probably need smiles as much as anything else. With this voyage, I knew, the worst was yet to come.

I made my way belowdecks, to the cabins where we had laid the wounded. The ship was surprisingly spacious, for her size, and we had been able to rig hammocks before the storm grew bad, which saved the wounded the worst of the pitching. Nonetheless, four had died during the night and two or three more looked as though they were pining for their graves.

I bound up wounds, spoke comfortingly, distributed a few more smiles and some sharp, bracing words along with drinks of sweet water.

Kenui and Anakreon had been placed in the Captain's cabin in the stern. I went to Kenui's hammock first and drew back the bindings about the wound. It was large and deep, a death sentence. I knew it but he did not, for he was unconscious. I prayed that he would stay that way until he died, for I had seen too many men wounded in the bowels dying in agony.

I paused by his hammock, remembering the years and the battles and the jests along the road. Too short, too shallow and now too late to do more than moisten a cloth with water and blot his lips and then wipe his forehead. And yet it was all I could do.

It was different with Anakreon. He was gravely wounded, but through the lung and the throat. He could recover if I could keep him from developing pneumonia. He was still and white, his breathing shallow, but not clouded or congested. But he was so cold. We had found blankets in a chest bolted to the deck, and the wounded had been wrapped in them. Now I opened the chest again and brought out clothing, carpets‑‑anything to swathe round Anakreon to keep the chill from him.