Jack Whyte - Order in Chaos

She strode rearward, moving effortlessly in concert with the heaving of the deck, taking delight in the sudden, growing brightness of the afternoon, in the growing patches of blue above her, and in the hasty scampering sound of the sacristan’s feet as he scuttled to catch up with her. By the time she reached the small doorway to the tiny space that was the admiral’s quarters, Thomas had fallen several paces behind her, and she had knocked and pulled the door open before he could interfere.

Inside the dark little cabin, fully dressed and propped up among a welter of bed coverings, Charles St. Valéry squinted painfully and raised a spread hand to his eyes in protest against the glaring brightness of the light now pouring in on him. He was unkempt and disheveled, his eyes sunken and his face haggard with deep-graven lines, and Jessie felt herself wince in sympathy at the sight of him. Fortunately, she thought, he had not seen her do it, blinded as he was. Brother Thomas arrived at her shoulder and began to speak, his voice raised in protest, but Jessie cut him short with a savage movement of her hand, then spoke to her good-brother, smiling and attempting to infuse her voice with friendly amusement.

“Brother Charles, I am happy to see you have survived the storm, though I fail to see how you managed it, cooped up in this black little box. Might I induce you to step outside and breathe in God’s clean air? It will do you good, I’ll warrant you.”

The admiral lowered his shielding hand slowly, blinking yet against the glare of the afternoon, then squeezed his eyes shut and grasped the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb, wrenching it from side to side as though attempting to break it loose from his face. Finally he took his hand away and shook his head hard from side to side, like a dog ridding itself of water, after which he opened his eyes wide and blinked again, owlishly this time, before asking, “What day is it?”

“It is Friday, Admiral. We have been beset by storms these past five days.” And you look as though you have been dead for four of those , she added silently; this was the first time she had ever seen him less than perfectly coiffed and trimmed.

He sat peering at her, his mouth working silently as though chewing, and an expression of distaste growing on his face. “My mouth tastes like death itself.” His gaze went by her to where the sacristan hovered at her back. “Thomas, fetch me some water, will you?”

She smelled the sacristan’s departure, the air sweetening immediately as he took his sour stench away with him.

“A seasick admiral,” St. Valéry murmured. “That is most unusual, even for me, with all my human weaknesses. I am … unused to seasickness. Unused to any kind of sickness, truth be told. It has been years since I last felt this way. And may God grant me many more before I feel this way again.” He pounded the flat of his hand against his breastbone, coughing at the congestion in his chest, then made a sucking sound before continuing. “Friday, you say? A week since La Rochelle already? And where are we now?”

“Still afloat, thanks be to God, but I can tell you no more than that. Sergeant Tescar and I, although we have no right to be, are the two healthiest beings aboard this vessel. Landsmen or not, he and I have been unfazed by the storms, our stomachs calm and our legs solidly beneath us … It’s strange, but after a while the smell of vomit seems to lose its strength. There are fifteen more like us, also in good health, but not a one of them knows any more of the sea than we do, and so we have no idea where we are. We are upon the waters and not beneath them, and for that, at least, we are grateful.”

“What are you saying, Sister? What nonsense is this? Where are my officers?”

“Abed, sir, all of them as sick as you.”

“But that is … that is unthinkable. What of my men?”

“In the same condition. Sick. All but a score or so. And Tescar told me three have died in the storm.”

“How, in God’s name?”

“Of the sickness … the seasickness.”

“The—” St. Valéry stopped and shook his head. “Seasickness does not kill, Jessie. I have never known anyone die of seasickness, although at times everyone afflicted by it expects to die and might even wish to. Do you recall, did all the men fall sick at once?”

Jessie frowned. “Aye, I think so, but I was sick myself for half a day and night, the first day the storm struck, and by the time I began to mend, everyone else was down with it, including you.”

St. Valéry’s head tilted slightly back as he stared into the distance. “There is something more afoot here, something sinister. This sounds to me like poisoning. I lived through something of the kind before, off Araby … That meat, the first night out. I thought at the time there was a taint to it.” His gaze sharpened, returning to Jessie. “Tell me, that first night at sea, after we picked up the Treasure. Did you eat anything that night? And did Tescar?”

“No.” Jessie shook her head slowly. “I lost all desire to eat as soon as the seas started to rise, and I spent the next hours in agony, so I cannot speak for Tescar, although I know he fell sick, too, that first afternoon, even before I did.”

“Then that must be the cause of what ails the rest of us. We had salted pork. The bread with it was fresh baked in La Rochelle the previous day. Would that the meat had been as fresh!” He looked around the cabin, taking in its condition. “I had best be up and about.” St. Valéry pulled himself slowly to his feet, although he was unable to stand upright beneath the low ceiling. He grimaced again and flexed his shoulders cautiously in the cramped space. “What of the others, the rest of the fleet? Are they in view?”

Jessie shrugged as Brother Thomas came bustling back, carrying a horn cup and a bag of water. “I have not looked recently, but the last time I did, and that must have been this morning—it was daylight, certainly—we were alone, nothing visible in any direction. Mind you, we were still being wildly tossed about, so I could not see far.”

“My thanks for this,” St. Valéry said to Brother Thomas, stepping out onto the deck and holding the cup while the sacristan poured for him. “Tell me, Thomas, have you been sick like the others?”

The sacristan shook his head slowly. “No, Brother Admiral, thanks be to God.”

“Did you not eat of the meat the day the storms came up on us?”

“I ate nothing, Brother. It was the anniversary of my mother’s death, and so I fasted for the entire day.”

“Hmm.” St. Valéry drank the contents of his cup in one quaff and held it out again, taking time to look about him this time as the water was being poured. “It’s broken,” he said, plainly talking about the storm. “Visibility’s about four miles.” He then straightened up to his full height, peering off the horizon before beckoning to Jessie. “Look, there’s one mast, over there, and where there’s one, there will be more.” He glanced around at his ship, noting the displaced coils of rope, a broken spar and other detritus of the storm caught in the scuppers on both sides of the deck. “First things first, though. I have to rally my crew and bring this ship back into working condition. Thomas, find Captain de Narremat for me. I care not what his condition may be, so be it he is breathing. If he is, bring him to me here … And find the other officers, as well. If they were poisoned, as I suspect, it will be wearing off now and they’ll recover more quickly working than they will lying around feeling sorry for themselves. I know I shall.”

THREE

The admiral and his honored guest, the Lady Jessica, had dined upon a meal similar in every detail to that eaten by the lowest-ranking oarsman on the ship: a thin slice of dried, salted beef, carefully checked for freshness this time, with smoked dried sausage, hard goat cheese, and all the hard-baked bannock one wished to eat, sweetened with a handful of dried grapes. But he and his brother’s wife had enjoyed the privilege of eating on the tiny stern deck, where they were able to enjoy at least an illusion of privacy, and, rank having its privilege as always, they were able to share a cup of wine from the admiral’s own stock. The great single sail was now set above their heads, bearing them steadily westward, along the northern coast of the Iberian landmass.