Deathlands 118: Blood Red Tide Read Online Free PDF

fighting, one end’s for fun.”
    Hardstone handed Ryan his bedding. “Go down and string your hammock. Wipe should be below and will show you where. I’ll save you a bowl of meat and beans.”
    Ryan knew it was the best offer he was going to get.

Chapter Four
    “Heave away, boys!” Manrape called. “Heave away!”
    The Hand of Glory cast off. The captain had deemed the ship ready for sail. The watch hours had been changed. Six hours of dreamless sleep and a bowl of leftover beans with biscuit broken into it had done Ryan a world of good. He wore stiff canvas pants and a blue-striped jersey someone had sewn to his proportions. He was still sore all over. His hands were well callused from life in the Deathlands, but working a wooden ship watch-on-watch had ripped his hands to shreds. Twenty-four hours barefoot on a wooden deck and rope riggings had left him limping and leaving bloody footprints that got him roared at wherever he went.
    Ryan heaved against the horrible weight of the capstan bar next to Onetongue. Despite his fatboy body, Onetongue’s muscles rippled beneath his flesh, and unlike every other sailor aboard he never seemed happier than when confronted with back-breaking work. Hardstone and Wipe heaved on the bar ahead and groaned like everyone else as they slowly moved clockwise and the capstan shaft wound anchor cable. Four more pairs heaved on bars behind them.
    Ryan risked a glance back at Doc. The old man hung limp from the shrouds in the morning sun. Blood ran down his cheek and chin and spattered his shirt. Ryan had been belowdecks eating, but he had heard the roars and catcalls above and heard the story. Just before the watch had changed, a gull had gone for Doc’s left eye. Doc had jerked awake with a scream and frightened the bird off, but the gulls circled in wait above the tops. They sensed the bound man’s weakness. They sensed no one was going to defend him. Ryan knew without a shadow of a doubt that Doc was going to die hanging from those shrouds this day, and there was nothing he could do about it.
    Ryan snarled as the rope end thudded into his back with all of Manrape’s strength behind it. “You look back at Old Stick one more time, Ryan! One more time, and I will seize you to the shrouds beside him!” The rope end slammed between Ryan’s shoulder blades a second and third time. “Now heave!”
    Ryan gritted his teeth against the “fun end” of Manrape’s starter. More than the knotted rope tenderizing his flesh, Ryan felt Captain Oracle’s eyes on him from the quarterdeck. Oracle always seemed to be watching him. Ryan heaved. The capstan turned. Ratchets and palls clacked with monotonous rhythm as the crewmen threw their muscle against the bars and hauled the dragging anchor off the rocky bottom.
    Doc’s voice rose out of nowhere in song.
    “A is the anchor that holds a bold ship.”
    The crew glanced up at the insane, shroud-seized man.
    “B is the bowsprit which often does dip...”
    First Mate Loral laughed. “Sing more!” The capstan men grunted as the song met the rhythm of their heaving and the clank of the pall and ratchet.
    “C is the capstan upon which friend Ryan does wind...”
    Onetongue shot Ryan a smirk as they heaved together.
    “And D is the davits, on which the jolly boat hangs.”
    “What’s a jolly boat?” Wipe gasped.
    “Shut up, Wipe,” Hardstone snarled. “I wanna hear.”
    Doc’s voice rose. In his less broken moments he was a powerful orator. Ryan only seldom heard it, but Doc’s singing voice was a clear, beautiful tenor. It sang out now.
    “E is the ensign, the white Hand of Glory on Blue, F is the foc’sle that holds the dear Glory’s crew.”
    Noises of amusement and approval traveled through the crew from stem to stern.
    “G is the gangway, on which Mr. Manrape makes his stand. H is the hawser, which seldom does strand.”
    Manrape’s rope end hung limp in his hand as he stared up at Doc.
    “I is the irons where the stuns’ll