To Lie with Lions - Dorothy Dunnett [175]
Lying trussed below in the hold, Martin of the Vatachino listened to his fellows complaining, and wished he could watch what Benecke was going to do when the snow ceased. Indeed, he would like to have helped him. The ship swayed to the west-going current. The wind, gusting along her high sides, caused her gear to rattle and knock, and the slap of the waves vibrated through the rubbish-strewn void below decks. Their voices boomed. It pleased Martin to think that if he survived, de Fleury would soon be in equal discomfort – perhaps on the Maiden, perhaps in this same windowless prison. It would be dark in three or four hours. Benecke would want to storm and take the Svipa before then.
Although a far-travelled man, Martin had little interest in maritime matters: the crew worked for the merchant, not the other way round. When the water-sounds from the keel became louder, he thought at first that the tide must have turned. Then he remembered that this could not be so: the ebb was not due to begin until darkness. It was some moments later that he, and all those with him, realised that their vessel was actually in motion. Mogens Björnsen the Faroese began to shout something, while Martin lay and attempted to think.
They were not going to sea. That would have been preceded by the stamping of feet overhead, the chant of the marines and the squeal and creak of the winches. They were not going to sea; they were simply changing their present anchorage. The snow must have stopped, and Benecke was moving forward to confront the Svipa. And to help with his capture, the damned Danziger was taking the Unicorn with him.
Mogens the Faroese was still shouting. Martin gritted his teeth and shouted back. ‘They must be bringing us into the fighting.’ The noise of turbulent sea was increasing: he could hear a distinct chuckle and flow, as if the water were under his elbow.
His elbow was wet. His padded tunic was wet. He was reclining in a vigorous small stream of liquid. Martin sat up. Crashing and rolling, the bound form of his pilot thumped against him. ‘I said,’ said Mogens loudly, ‘we’re running in front of the wind. We’ve broken loose from our anchors. Shout! Shout!’
‘We’re leaking!’ Martin said. Around him, men had started to bellow.
‘We’ll leak a lot more when we land on the rocks. Rouse the bastards! Hey! Hey!’ Mogens shrieked.
Martin’s heart started to thud. ‘Don’t they see?’
‘It’s still snowing, for sure. We’ll crash, and they won’t even notice. Bang your heels! Yell!’
‘How long have we?’ Martin said.
‘With a north-east gale at our backs, and in the height of a west-going current? Minutes,’ said Mogens Björnsen. ‘Yell!’
The snow started to wane. Nicholas said, ‘Stations, everybody. Get ready. It’s happening.’
The crew on the Maiden, avarice lending them speed, had finished their stowing, eaten, and were proceeding to arm for assault when the message came from the after-deck: to go to positions, and wait. The snow-veil was lifting. Animadverting upon the distant, cowering form of the Svipa, no one immediately thought to check on their first prize, the Unicorn. It was left to Benecke to discern, through the swirl of the flakes, that there appeared to be nothing but sea between himself and the clifftops of Bjarnarey. For a moment he thought the damned ship had gone.
It couldn’t have; he knew that. The prisoners could not have burst free. No one could have sailed in the snow. And, staring breathlessly from the height of the mast, he saw that of course he was right. The captive crew of the Unicorn hadn’t sailed his prize anywhere. It was the ship itself that was loose, and was now running, lurching and yawing towards the jagged rocks of the holm. His eye told him that it had not dragged its anchors: it was moving too fast and too wildly for that. The bloody ship had no anchors at all.
He dropped to the deck, shouting orders, his eyes on the runaway vessel. Its decks were full now of men. Someone threw out a kedge, then another. The steps came down, and