'GANS AT SEA

by Lucille D'ecoupage*

Above the fetid stalls of the crew's quarters existed a world of majesty and terror. The grey dreariness of the previous few days was now dominated by blue, churning skies. The dark swells took on a crispness, were more defined and somehow tamed; yet it was still impossible to make out a linear horizon on those occasions when the ship rose to a crest. There, in a trough some fathoms away, bobbed the twin masts of another as yet unidentified vessel.

The Rotund and Sceptre were not scheduled to meet with their escort for some time. Each man did some quick calculations in order to determine the amount of time 'til they reached land. Dr Dickinson made an appearance above deck. While not aloof, he did spend an inordinate amount of time studying texts.

"Where away?" he asked, wiping his spectacles on his sleeve. The others pointed hard to port and concentrated on the brief appearance of the ship.

"She's close-reefed in these seas..." said Farthing, one eye pressed against the small end of a telescope.

"Brigantine Sir!" came a cry from above, barely audible in the wind. Farthing looked up at the lackey strapped in a bosun's chair.

"Is she in distress?" he called.

"She's under steam..." came the reply.

They all swung together to get another look and there was now, faintly visible, a plume of smoke rising from the retro-fitted stack at the stern of the ship. A whaler.

They all stood for a moment and stared at the brief shadow as it lifted and fell over the crests. A spell of recognition held them - any sighting of their fellows in this inhospitable place gave bittersweet comfort. The Captain was the first to break rank and head back below deck.

"She's a whaler Sir." said Caudal, in order to draw attention to his considerable gifts as a mariner.

"Aye..." came the belaboured response. Farthing knew the routine and waited to answer the next question - as he had done for years whenever encountering a standard proceedure.

"Shall we signal her?"

"In acknowledgement." He ducked his head, then heard Tarbin excitedly cry, "There followth anover!" He sighed with the kind of resolve only a passing ship can muster. These seas were too heavy for any exchange. Fresh whale meat, oil for their lanterns, conditions to the east... Running flags and semaphore was a young man's game. Everything he needed to know he had already gleaned. The keel sat low in the water, her rigging in good repair. She had been at sea for the season and now the fleet was heading home. Conditions had been fair, perhaps the coming winter would be as well. He lay in his bunk with his eyes wide open and listened to the excited footsteps of the crew as they sought contact with a stranger.

*editor's note: I am in deep shit with Lucy right now... who knew she actually read the blog? Anyway, please post your comments to convince her to keep submitting stuff. Thx G.