James White - The First Protector

He grasped the edge of the map, lifted it from the table and tried to refold it before letting it fall again.

"… It, it won't bend," he went on in a disbelieving voice as he stared at his fingers, one of which was showing traces of blood. "It's as stiff and hard as a plank of wood and, and the edges are sharp."

He broke off to give the old man a confused look. Ma'el tapped the map, put it back inside his cloak when it had refolded itself, then nodded to the captain before he turned to follow Seamus out of the cabin. Sinead leaned across the table to take Brian's unresisting hand in her own.

"The cut is clean-edged and shallow," she said in the impersonal healer's voice that Declan knew so well, "and nothing for you to concern yourself about. Wrap it in a firm, washed binding and by tomorrow it will have knitted together and healed."

She released the hand and followed Ma'el from the cabin.

Before he did the same, Declan heard Captain Nolan laugh quietly and say to Brian, "By tomorrow, old friend, I fear you will have more to worry about than a cut finger."

By first light next day the Atlantic rollers were marching across their beam like a procession of round-topped mountain ranges, their dark gray valleys filled with increasing frequency by spray blown by a wind that made the rigging sing and struck soft, muffled blows against the upperworks and deck cargo. The ship's rolling and pitching was continuous, but over the past three days Declan had become enough of a seafarer for the motion to make him feel worried but not sick. When one of the squalls blew past, briefly hiding the rising sun, the thunderous rattling of rain or hail on the decks made it difficult to talk or, at times, even to think.

Sinead and Declan were crouched in the lee of Ma'el's wagon, rather than spending the time in their dark and leaking deck shelters, while the worst of the weather blew over and past them. She was wearing, as was he, the long, thick, cloak, high boots, helmet, and oiled skins supplied by the venerable Padraig of Cashel a scant two weeks earlier and, apart from her rain-streaked face she, too, seemed to be warm and dry in them. But in spite of the fact that Ma'el was inside his wagon, Brian was sheltering in the ship's only passenger accommodation, and its officers and men were too busy working the ship to spend time on the idle chatter of nonseafarers, she did not seem disposed to help pass the stormy monotony of the day ahead by talking to him.

It was not that Declan wanted to talk to her. He was still angry over the way she had concealed the fact that she was a female from him, and particularly for the deep, personal insult implied in the reason she had given for concealing it. He looked at the thin, serious, rain-beaded face and wondered if there were dark thoughts going through her mind, thoughts, perhaps, that she would prefer not to be thinking so that she might welcome a change of subject. He waited until the latest rain cloud had cleared the sun and the turbulent ocean shone dark green rather than gray, and tried again.

"It is close," Declan shouted as he raised a hand to point out past the port bow where the dark, frowning outlines of Finisterre rose from the sea, "but it looks to be coming no closer."

When she did not reply at once, he began to wonder if he had sounded too angry. The truth was that he was angry, and it was difficult to hide the feeling when one was shouting at the object of one's anger. But when she did shout her reply, Sinead's words were banal and voiced only in tones of loud disinterest.

"A watched pot," she said, "never boils."

Another squall covered and then cleared the sun, sweeping the ship with rain that was more than half snow and leaving the windward edges of the masts and rigging outlined in white. Declan maintained an angry silence and neither looked at nor spoke to her, but when Seamus was passing them on his way aft to the captain, he grasped the lieutenant's arm.

"What is it?" the other said, his voice loud and harsh with impatience. "I have no time to stop for idle talk."

"And I have nothing to do," Declan shouted back. He pointed again at the dark mass of the land ahead with the waves breaking at its base like churning milk. "Suddenly it is coming very close. Can you use another oar?"

Seamus showed his crooked white teeth. "It is and we can," he said. "Follow me."

The ship's Ionadacht moved along the heaving deck as quickly and surely as if it had been a Roman paved road, while Declan grabbed at the bulwarks on one side and any other piece of rigging or structure inboard that looked strong enough to steady him. When he caught up to the other, Seamus had untied and was holding up a section of the weather shelter that had been rigged along the vessel's waist amidships, while he shouted to someone. One of the nearby oars swept upward until it was well clear of the sea and remained in that position while a small, wiry sailor with gray hair emerged and moved quickly in the direction of the crew accommodation forward. Impatiently Seamus waved Declan inside the shelter, squeezed in after him. and quickly secured its fastenings before the wind could get under it and blow it away.

He felt as if he was in a long, dark, and heaving tent that smelled of sweating bodies, wet clothing, and other smells that he could not identify. The only light was coming from the vertical slits through which projected the oars and it revealed dimly the indistinct shapes of the line of oarsmen ranged in front of him. They did not seem to have breath enough for conversation, but as they bent forward from the waist and pulled back on their oar handles, many of them were grunting in unison. Seamus pointed to the space lately vacated by the old sailor.

"Sit on the deck, there," he shouted above the sound of the rain and spray that was rattling against the shelter. "Bunch your cloak under you if you have a bony rump or are afraid of getting a deck splinter in it. Place both feet against the blocks in front of you and brace your legs as you pull. Try not to kick a hole or get a foot entangled in that roll of defense netting running along the side. It will take enough damage from a would-be boarding party without adding to it ourselves. But first, free your oar by removing that retaining loop around its handle which is holding it clear of the water…"

Apart from the notched base of the rowing slit which was the point of leverage, the entire weight of the oar was pulling the handle against the heavy leather strap. Declan struggled briefly with it and succeeded in sliding it free.

"… When you've done that," Seamus went on loudly in his ear, "the oar will drop to the water of its own accord. That mark that faces you on the handle tells when the blade of your oar is in the vertical position. Keep it so at all times, for if you let your wrists rotate it will simply slide through the water to no effect. And don't waste strength by lifting the oar at the end of a stroke. In these weather conditions, when we roll to starboard it will be lifted naturally from the sea, when you will move it forward against nothing but air in readiness for the next stroke when the roll to port returns it to the water. Take the timing from the hortator's drum, and the length of your stroke from the oarsmen in front of you. If you pull too slowly you will contribute little and be a drag on their efforts, too fast and you will be trying to move the weight of the entire ship on your own with a similar lack of result. Do you understand me?"

Rather than make a shouted reply, Declan decided to do what he had been told and give his answer in actions rather than words. Seamus watched him for a few moments, nodded, then left him to his work.

It had been three years since he had used an oar. On that occasion it had been while his vessel was being chased by a lumbering Roman trireme over a placid sea, but never before had he rowed during the prelude to an Atlantic storm of this severity. He had almost forgotten what unceasing, back-breaking work it was, but gradually he began to settle to it and to take his mind off protesting muscles by watching his severely limited view of the world outside.