“Hungry for what?”
Jehu was also busy nearby and he heard the muttered conversation.
“Hungry for meat, shipmates. The meat that grows from the loins of a man. The meat that grows and shrinks and rises and falls. That’s the fine red meat for our captain’s tastes.”
THE BARTLEBY WAS homeward bound, her voyage ended prematurely by the loss of Captain Delano’s two brothers. Her search across the vastness had been a fruitless one, and she was headed back to Claggartville to mourn her dead. She passed by the Phoenix , close-hauled on a starboard reach, and the captains were able to pass on their hurried news.
Krysty and Jak stood by Captain Deacon, to make sure he resisted the temptation to reveal his plight. But he kept silent about his unwelcome quintet of passengers.
The men of the Bartleby gazed with naked curiosity at the white-haired boy and the fire-haired young woman. But there was no time for questions. Just the one vital question, answered by the wild-eyed Delano, shaking a fist toward the heavens.
“Less than a hundred leagues ahead. On the southern edge of the whaling banks. If ye seek her for some vengeance, go with my blessing. If to aid her, then may ye sink with my curse.”
Then the whaler plunged astern of them, vanishing swiftly. Deacon turned to Krysty, tapping at his teeth with a forefinger. “Closing. The Salvation is not the swiftest vessel from the ville. With a good wind we can claw a couple of knots from her. More if Pyra Quadde is quartering the Lantic for the whales. Delano has seen few in a week or more. We could come within sight of her in another couple of days or less. Maybe less.”
“Be good,” J.B. said, joining them.
Deacon looked at the Armorer, unsmiling. “Yeah mister. It’d be good. Good to see the backs of ye outland chillers, and get on with our job.”
“When we get our friends safe, you won’t see us for dust. Or for spray,” Krysty replied.
Deacon, hands locked in the small of his back, walked away from them to the other side of the deck.
ANOTHER DAY on the Salvation without the sighting of a whale. Toward evening Captain Quadde beckoned Ryan to where she stood on the main deck.
“Figured I’d tell thee that I’m set on having thee, Outlander Cawdor. Soon. Settle the score ‘twixt us. Well set-up man like thee.” Her long tongue peeked out between the filed ivory teeth and licked her chapped lips. In an attractive woman it would have been a stimulating and coquettish gesture. In Pyra Quadde it was simply frightening. And disgusting.
That night, while the rest of the crew slept around them in the forecastle, Ryan told Donfil about the threat from Pyra Quadde.
Coiled uncomfortably in his too short bunk, the shaman asked him what he intended to do.
“Got no choice. I’ll do a lot to stay alive. Trader used to say a man who died of pride was a fool. A corpse can’t get any revenge. But her idea of fucking ends in death. We know that.”
“You’ll chill her first?”
In the rolling darkness, Ryan nodded. “Yeah. Guess so. If I can do it right. Then see if we can take out enough of the crew to win the ship. Not much of a hope, I guess.”
“I got nothing better. Maybe we’ll catch some whales tomorrow. Take her mind offoff other things.”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
FOLLOWING A HUNTER’S instinct, Pyra Quadde set her course back toward land, moving northerly, hoping to pick up one of the mighty schools of whales that broached and sunned themselves off the deserted coves.
The sun shone brightly, and the last of the blubber was finally rendered in the ovens and stored in sealed barrels below the main deck. The whaleboats were cleaned, lowered and raised again, the men on the davits chanting an old whaling capstan song to lighten the chore.
Though the sun shone brilliantly, Ryan noticed that dark clouds were building up, far away ahead of them, thunderheads that rolled and bubbled, filled with venomous lightning, streaked with white splashes across the violet sky.