Ryan nodded; words were unnecessary. He turned to find Dean and to prepare him for what may lay ahead.
However, not all the sailors were as forthcoming as Orthos. For on another boat, Doc had also drawn the matter to the attention of the Armorer.
“John Barrymore, I feel it necessary that you should perhaps glance over the side of this craft,” the old man said in passing. J.B. did so, whistling softly to himself when he saw how low in the water they sat. Glancing around, he could see that the sailor on the tiller was a man unknown to him.
“Figure I should mention this, Doc?” The old man shrugged. “They would be poor sailors if they were not already aware of the matter. I fear they were given little choice in the matter, egged on by the exegeses of time.”
“Yeah,” J.B. replied slowly. “I think I know what you mean and you’re right. But no one else seems to be aware,” he added, looking at his fellow passengers, who were either too wrapped in their own sadness at leaving their home or too busy being seasick to give the matter much thought. “I figure that at least some of us should be prepared for any trouble when we hit the rough sea. Let’s go and have a few words with the guy on the tiller.”
“I would concur with that,” Doc muttered, following the Armorer as he threaded his way through the crowded interior of the boat.
As J.B. approached, he knew that it was going to be difficult. He now recognized the man as one of the hostile separatists who had been on the tree-felling parties with the companions.
“What do you want, pale one?” the sailor asked, a malevolence in his voice that he barely disguised.
J.B. held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Hey, I only wanted to say that I’ve noticed that we’re a little low on the waterline. If there’s any problems, we want to help,” he continued, indicating both Doc and himself.
The sailor sneered. “We are able to handle our own problems without help from outsiders.”
J.B. was on the point of answering, but bit hard on his tongue. Perhaps things would be different if there was actually a crisis, but arguing now would achieve nothing on either side.
“Okay, have it your way,” he said simply, turning away.
THE FIRST FEW HOURS of the voyage were little more than tedious as the convoy of Pilatan ships sailed out and around the island on a flat sea. Following the lead boat, which was piloted by Sineta and Markos under the direction of the island’s most experienced sailor, the convoy proscribed an arc that took them out beyond any reefs that may lay in wait to snag a boat that sat lower than usual in the water. The heat of the afternoon sun and the glassy surface of the water made for a smooth passage, and the people on the boats were lulled into an almost comatose state by the calm.
That changed with a shocking suddenness as the convoy rounded the island and hit the stretch of water that lay between Pilatu and the mainland.
The calm, glassy surface suddenly gave way to white water that rose up as the crosscurrents of the channel churned the water and pulled beneath the surface.
As the lead boat hit the first conflicting current, it was as though the prow had slammed into concrete. The timbers moaned and protested as the force of the water hit them; and the rigging moaned, wind dropping from sails that were suddenly flung out of alignment. All around the island, the rigging had been angled to catch the wind, but now it was proving impossible. The motors fitted to each boat would have to be brought into play. They had remained unused up to this point as each skipper had wanted to save the fuel and resultant horsepower until necessity dictated. That time had now arrived.
“Fire the engine,” Markos yelled. But there was no responding cry as the call had been lost amid the panic that the sudden impact had triggered. Shaken violently from their repose, the people on board the boat had responded by panicking, the very thing he had hoped to avoid.