Good Day/Night/Morrow to all comers, this is my first Fic, so please bare with me with update schedules and the like. Oh, and I'd love to hear what you think, so please leave me a review!
Onwards;
Title: The Golden Hind
Summary: Gunpowder and Cannon smoke, as the Captain, Mustang has a responsibility to his men, as a Gunner, Edward has a responsibility to the Captain, but can either of them survive in a world of politics and war?
Declaration: I don't own Full Metal Alchemist, you know this.
UN-BETA'D If you want to beta, I'd love the help.
A few nautical terms, I think these are all of those I use in this chapter. If there's anything I missed, Google has all the answers.
Gangplank or gangway: A walkway made of wood with horizontal slats for foot holds that is used to span the gap between the main deck and the pier or quay. Often narrow and dangerous, bouncing up and down as people move on them.
Before the mast: In front of the mast, or on ships like the Golden Hind, which have two or more masts, in front of the tallest mast or "mainmast". Often used to mean lower class, i.e. non-officer crewmen.
fo'csle: The 'forecastle', a raised platform on the front of the ship, originally used during boarding to gain the high ground on the opposing ship. On the Hind it holds two guns pointing forwards for attacking fleeing ships and contains the 'running powder', gunpowder that's on hand during a battle, and the gunners room.
Poop deck: like the fo'csle, a raised platform that is also the roof of the officers' mess. Holds two guns for firing on following ships and the tiller, a long bar attached to the rudder mechanism and used for steering the ship.
Grog: watered down rum, common sailors drink.
Chapter one: Salting the Powder
Hissing rain formed the back ground to the sound of wet footsteps on the cobbled streets of Portsmouth as the brothers strode through the false twilight. The light of the setting sun had disappeared behind the heavy rainclouds, which had settled over the port city for the past four days, long ago and the docks worked by the light of gas lamps. The tide had dictated that unloading begin at six that evening so the piers where still thick with merchantmen and dockhands long after sundown.
The brothers eyed the chaos critically before plunging into the maze of moving crates, carts and lines of baggage handlers. The smells of tar, wet rigging and salt burnt the boy's noses and the shorter of the two sneezed violently, the hood of his red long-coat sluicing icy rain down his neck as it flopped back.
"Damnit, I hate English weather." He growled, golden eyes flashing as if the sailor who'd glanced at his sudden sneeze was at fault for the English downpour.
"Brother! Are you getting sick? Maybe we should wait..." Edward shook his head as he pulled his hood back up with his left hand.
"Al, if we wait any longer then they'll not have time to get the potash." Al pulled his own dark green hood further down over his face to keep the water from dripping into his eyes, and waited for the next, somewhat acrid comment; "Besides I don't get sick!"
They bickered the rest of the way to the pier where a roundish bosun was overseeing the loading of munitions, supplies and coils of rope so large they took two men to carry. The long, narrow gangplanks bounced in their fastenings as men loaded with barrels jogged up to the high deck of the Golden Hind.
As they came alongside, Al openly gaped at the big two-mast ship with its web of rigging and gold-painted figure head, of a Hind he supposed though it looked to be any old deer to him. Ed, however, was unimpressed. Not only had he seen the ship before but worked on one's larger and more intricate, though merely as a lookout boy. That had been before the accident though; you wouldn't find him running the rigging any more.
"Bosun!" The shorter of the two called, lifting the front of his hood with a hand to let him see the man's face, "we have business with the captain, permission to board?"
The blond bosun turned towards him, shifting a limp, wet excuse for a cigarette to the side of his mouth to speak, "Yer name, kid?" He asked in a bored tone, no one liked working in the rain.
Edward gritted his teeth and was about to launch into a tirade but held himself back with the help of Al's hand on his shoulder. "Elric, Master Gunner." The bosun perked at that, the Hind had lost her gunner to yellow fever not long past, add to that the captain's mention of a "blond, shorty" and you got an easy-to-read picture.
"Permission granted. Watch your way on the gangplank, its slimy and those who ain't used to it'll fall."
"WHO'RE YOU CALLING SO SHORT HE'D DROWN IN A LAYER OF SLIME?!" Al dropped his head onto his palm and proceeded to drag the snarling gunner away from the bosun, to the gangplank.
"Brother, please? At least until we get out of port?" Ed growled himself into silence and stomped up the wet wood. His left leg slipped a little but Al was close and still had his hand on his older brother's collar so nothing came of it.
The deck was wet but its frequent scrubbings had kept it clear and free of slime so the rainwater ran off swiftly, into the scuppers then on into the harbour. Edward stomped over the planking towards the aft cabins, his hood coming down and his heavy, wet braid slapping against his shoulders. Al let him go; just hitching the large duffel bag they shared higher up his back. He was glad that he'd waxed the canvas again before they left, Ed would not be pleased if their journals got wet.
Ed didn't notice his hood come off, his hair was soaked anyway, and banged the door open to the officers mess. It served as the captain's office too and Ed was met by a confusing mess of nautical charts, scribing tools and markers that no doubt meant something to someone. They were spread over the oak table in a thin layer baring a small section in front of the sitting Captain. An eagle eyed woman was looming over him with an unfathomable look on her face that managed to shut even Edward up. He didn't miss the fact that she had no fewer than four pistols on her person. That he could see. He gulped and thought twice about his violent entry. An arrogant drawl broke the moment;
"Elric, shut the damned door." Alphonse shuffled in behind his brother and closed said door against the rain, the Captains' black hair hung down as he unhurriedly signed a chitty for six barrels of limes. The Elric brothers stood awkwardly, Edward cowed by the He's-doing-his-paper-work-so-you-damn-well-better-shut-up look that the woman behind the desk was giving him and Alphonse ever too polite to interrupt. After a moment the Captain looked up at the fearsome woman and handed her the chitty,
"Hawkeye, get that to the bosun, if he's good at his job he'll have them by the tide tomorrow morning." A meaningful look past between them, "Make that afternoon..." She nodded and turned to a small stack of papers,
"Sir, there's a letter from the Archbishop of Canterbury, the seals intact, and I can have the missive to the Earl on his grounds by the morning."
"Wait, how late is it?" The Captain had yet to further acknowledge the Elric's presence but they could see his face by that point. He looked tired and drawn, with charcoal bruises under his coal-black eyes. The set of his face suggested eastern origins, with fine cheekbones and an elegant slant to his eyelids. "Curse you, Hawkeye..."
"Curses on yourself, Captain Mustang." She replied blithely.
Edward was finally getting his sense back and looked ready to go off like his much-loved black powder so Al coughed politely, looking at the deck.
"Ah, you must be Alphonse? Well met. As we discussed, Edward, He's to be put with the ships surgeon." The Captains eyes bored into the elder of the two, marvelling at how little shouting the hot-headed gunner was emitting. "His pay-share will be half that of yours as Master Gunner." That did not seem to please Ed but they had already beaten out the terms of this arrangement, at the cost of much shouting, he let it pass.
"I take it we're going to be in port for a few days yet? There's something you need to buy. The black powder you're loading is of low quality,"
Mustang cut in abruptly, "I am aware of its quality, it's an unfortunate matter of money, though I'd hardly expect someone of your stature to understand the intricacies of running a ship."
Al managed to grab his brother before he scrambled the navigational charts completely. "Who the hell are you calling so-short-he-can't-see-over-the-top-of-a-desk-and-would-be-crushed-by-a-pen?!" Ed's voice accelerated and rose in volume as Al muttered that he hadn't said any such thing. The dusty blond glared accusingly at the Captain, who had a distinct look of smug victory on his face.
"Brother-! Now is not the time!"
When Ed finally calmed down enough to stop shouting he realised that the sleeve of his jacket had fallen down his right arm as he flailed. With a jerk, he pulled the sleeve back down over his hand. Mustang raised an eyebrow at that, when crewmen had something to hide, it was always a good time to start getting nosy.
"What Brother was trying to say is that he can improve the powder," He nudged Ed out of his grumbling slouch,
"Ah, yeah. By bringing the Potassium nitrate content up you can increase the performance dramatically. You can get maybe a third again the number of shots out of the same amount of powder..."
The Captain broke into a grin, "I knew there was a reason I hired you." He filed away his momentary suspicions under 'take immanent action/pester soon'. "How much Potash will you need to modify all of our powder?"
"That depends on how much is in it already. I'll need an hour, perhaps two to calculate the proportions." Ed's voice was nonchalant and cocky, but Mustang let it pass, for now. He pushed his chair back and stepped around the table, his lieutenant standing behind and to his left, to formally welcome them to his crew. He held out his right hand, first to Alphonse, who he noted had a ginger grip, as if he was afraid he would crush someone, then to Ed. The blonde gunner did not raise his hand, looking murderous. The smirk on Mustang's face grew and he snatched Ed's right hand up, holding it by the wrist and pulling the sleeve away from his forearm swiftly.
The next few seconds where filled with a chorus of leather sounds and metallic clicks as four pistols flashed from holster to hand to target. Mustang raised his chin slightly as the gleaming muzzle of Ed's pistol pressed into the vulnerable flesh of his throat. Hawkeye had two of her four guns pointed at an Elric temple and Al's longer custom-made rifle rested on his forearm, aimed at her chest. The metal under the Captain's chin was icy cold and he glanced down at it briefly.
"You didn't mention this." He looked pointedly at the wrist he was holding just above Ed's shoulder level.
"Why the hell should I have told you. It's none of your business." Ed's face was twisted in anger but, unless Mustang was much mistaken, pain too. His breathing was uneven and his gaze flicked between Mustang's face and his own forearm. Lamplight glinted on brass and polished wood. Ed's arm, wrist and hand was surrounded by a complex construction of thin hardwood spars, leather straps and brass hinges which bound his arm to thicker, stronger wooden bars. The glinting wood disappeared up his sleeve and at that distance Mustang could see the outline of the framework up to his shoulder where the wet fabric clung to it.
The damp skin underneath the brace was lined by long white scars and Ed's hand shook faintly in the Captains grip. He let out a sigh and loosened his grip, letting the limb slide through his fingers as he turned it over at the wrist to examine the palm, pulling Edwards white glove off as he did so.
"Hawkeye, stand down..." He muttered softly, engrossed in the workmanship of the brace.
"With all due respect sir, he's pointing a gun at your head." He raised an eyebrow at her and muttered something that sounded distinctly like "Women should wear skirts," and she hastily holstered her weapons, brushing her hands down the side of her leggings. Al did the same, once it was apparent that his brother was in no danger. Ed, however was a different matter, he wasn't taking kindly to having his weakness so openly on display. Al looked anxiously between the gunner and the captain, shifting from foot to foot.
"Captain, please, let him go, you're hurting him." Ed's pistol was lowering slowly as Mustangs dark eyes watched the brass joints bend under his nimble fingers.
"It's ok Al... Let him look. It... He's not hurting me." Ed's cheeks where flushing, though the black-haired captain didn't appear to notice. Ed's pistol went back into its holster on his hip and he held his arm out more willingly.
The contraption seemed to be assisting the shredded muscles in Ed's arm, but didn't allow full movement. Roy twisted the wrist gently but stopped before he even got near a normal range because Edward began to tense. The look in those black eyes where telling Ed clearly that he would have to explain this, eventually. The bits of brass under Roy's fingers where icy cold and the wood was sticky with water so he let Edward have his arm back gently.
"Go get dried off and start working with the powder. Report on it when the watch changes." The hidden implication wasn't much hidden, there would be searching questions and uncomfortable moments in a couple of hours. "I shall see you then."
Even Ed knew a dismissal when he heard one, and turned away pulling his sleeve down over the glimmering brass.
"Come on Al," he slipped out of the door, looking almost grateful. Al looked mortified that his brother had just left and pulled of a salute, and tripped over his own tongue while trying to say "Excuse us, sir."
He stepped out into the rain and trotted alongside his brother to the hatch before the mast. Edward grumbled bitterly, about rain, about Bastard Captains and about poor quality powder, all the while fighting a rising blush as the feel of Mustangs gentle fingers over his brace, just brushing his skin, refused to go away.
The little warmth that had crept into them in the officers' mess was soon banished by the sluicing rain and Edward began to shiver, the metal bands on his arm and left leg sucking the heat right out of his body. The ships cannons where mere shadows in the rain, nine on each side, lashed down tight to rings in the deck. Even loading had ceased in the face of the elements, which all sailors had deep respect for. Ed lifted the hatch he'd been shown on his first visit and Al slid down into the bowls of the ship first, Ed soon following. His leg had remained dry and he scuttled down the ladder without too much difficulty, though his right arm was stiff with water and cold and he held it against his chest.
Below deck on the Hind consisted of two levels, a crew deck and below that a cargo-hold. Below that again was the bilges, where ballast kept the ship steady and water collected to be pumped out. The crew deck consisted of two main parts, crew quarters, officers' quarters and the galley. A large firebox with pots and a kettle hanging off a horizontal pole above it heated the space and Ed melted into the warmth with a soft moan. The crew quarters was basically a large deck with a large opening into the galley at one end and a wooden wall at the other which separated it from the officers quarters, which also held the surgeons room and all its horrors.
Due to the rain and the change of shifts most of the crew was packed into the space, some dozing in hammocks slung from the beams and some sitting at the long tables with bowls of something hot and mugs of weak ale in front of them. The bosun who had let them on the ship was standing by the entrance to the galley, talking with the cook, a roundish man with close cropped brown, or-is-that-ginger hair. Ed knew they'd been given the old gunner's quarters but had no idea which of the officers rooms that might be, so he glanced at Al, who shrugged, then at the bosun who would probably know. After a moment he sighed and shuffled forwards, noting to his distinct annoyance that all of the sailors where taller than him, except the ships boy who could be no more that thirteen. Admittedly Ed was seventeen and should take no pleasure in beating a thirteen year old in height, but he still decided that he liked the little blonde.
The bosun spotted the two of them as they weaved their way through the crowded room and shifted his, now lit, cigarette to the other side of his mouth as they approached.
"Get on with Drake then... Tha's the Captain's name amongst the crew, its Latin or some such." He held out a hand, which Al shook, giving him their names as he did. Ed just managed to look pissed.
"Pass us a pot, Heymans. We got us a new gunner." Ed eyed him with suspicion but the bosun just held the pot he was handed by the cook loosely in one hand, picking up a ladle in the other. "Yers might want to cover yer ears." The two Elric's slammed their hands over their ears as he brought the ladle and pot together with a resounding crash. Those in their bunks were jerked rudely awake, apparently under the impression that they were under fire while those eating, drinking and talking half rose from their seats with a roar of swearing and cursing. There was a second resounding crash and silence fell, the brothers letting their hands down cautiously.
"Did you have to use the pot, Havoc?" a small man with black hair and a squint asked in a whine.
"Shut yer face, Fuery. Listen up, the Cap got us a new Gunner! By the name of Edward Elric." There was a sudden out brake of whispers and mutterings as Havoc slapped Ed on the back with a wet sounding thump. Fortunately Ed's ears where still ringing so he missed the mutterings that mentioned his shortcomings, he caught some of them though;
"Drake did? Always manages something." "Can't be worse than Armstrong..." "Just a kid!" "wonder if he can hold his drin-smack" that one's neighbour swatted him firmly about the head with a quiet "He's an officer, idiot! Goin after officers's Drakes preogeti perotive... um, job."
Ed really couldn't understand that one so he just ignored them all. They didn't last long as bosun Havoc reached for the pot again and the noise died a hasty death.
"This is his brother, Alphonse. Be nice, never know when he'll have to saw of an arm or leg. Mans a surgeons boy! Tringham, here you go." He gave Alphonse a little push towards the ships surgeon, who shook his hand and introduced himself as Russell Tringham and pointed out the ships boy as his little brother, Fletcher. Edward lent against the wall next to Havoc as his more social brother got talking to the crew. The heat from the firebox seemed to be drying Al quickly, combined with his own body heat, whereas Ed was chilled to the bone, not to mention unnerved by Mustangs sharp eye and his discovery. It hadn't scared him; he told himself resolutely that he had just been surprised by the sudden contact.
A wooden bowl was pushed into his hands by an observant Breda; "Get that in you, looks to me that you've come a long way." Ed tasted the stew gingerly, holding the bowl in his right hand and the spoon clumsily in his left. It tasted to be an unknown meat with lumps of potato and swede in a broth and he was soon wolfing it down. Breda kept an eye on him with an amused look, refilling his bowl when it emptied. After some second or third helping, Edward was warm and his coat had dried out, though his brace had need of oil and care before it would move with ease again, supporting his broken muscles. For now it moved crudely but it was enough, and he had work to be done before finding his bunk.
After a last look at his brother, his innocent eyes laughing at something Russell's brother, Fletcher, has said, he asked Havoc to show him the powder store. It was a closed room on a level with the main deck, where the cannons would be run out, to the front of the ship and as such he had to go out in the rain again, though he manage to duck and run enough to keep mostly dry. The bowsprit divided the room in two, to port barrels were stacked carefully and bound by thick rope and to the starboard side of the bowsprit stood a desk fixed to the deck with a chair similarly attached and numerous latched lockers containing various bits of obscure equipment and data sheets.
He took the duffel bag his brother had been carrying with him and settled it on the gunners' bench, apparently the previous Gunner had known the trade well enough to have the right charts and tables, for which he was grateful. The small precision scales he pulled out of the bag and their box where delicate but essential equipment, as was the selection of ceramic vessels and the grinding mortar and pestle that he unwrapped from their cloth and stowed in the lockers over the desk. Behind him, large barrels of powder lurked like bears and he treated the lantern Havoc had left him with care, aware that a powder store had powder everywhere, not just in the barrels.
He set about his work methodically, weighing some black powder, washing it with fresh water, and then weighing it once more. This he repeated over and over until the weight no longer changed. It took almost an hour and a half to finish driving the solute elements from the powder, by which time he was truly tired, and to determine the relative quantities of Potash that was needed to correct the recipe. At some point Al appeared to pick up their personal effects from the duffel bag, he mentioned that he was working the rest of the shift with the surgeon but knew better than to expect a reply from Ed while he was doing calculations.
By the time he had finished the sound of the rain had softened and there where feet pounding the deck outside once more. He could hear Havocs commanding voice directing the crew with their loads and he figured that Mustang wouldn't mind the information early. The prospect of twelve hours of straight sleep was deeply appealing. He stood slowly, easing the kinks out of his not-quite-all-biological leg, the joints between wood and metal had stiffened with the damp and he'd probably limp until he could get the thing off and oil it properly. He grumbled under his breath, there'd be no hiding that from Mustang, Drake, Captain, whatever the bastard wanted to be called. Still, Ed wanted to get paid and Mustang wanted an explanation, that combined with the fact that Ed was far too lazy to make up a good lie meant that he probably wouldn't bother with resisting Mustangs questioning.
Ed had long since given up on easing the stiffness in his arm, the muscles where just too weak to move the seizing joints, and opened the door with his left hand. He made sure it latched firmly behind him, nothing was worse than wet powder, as made his way through the drizzle to the officers mess/Captains office. He knocked this time, just in case the Lieutenant was there. There was a muffled "Come!" and he let himself in. He had flipped his hood up to cross the deck and now he let it back down again. His golden bangs draped in his eyes and he ran his hand through them to get them out of his way.
Mustang was seated behind the table once more, though the papers and charts had been cleared away into the lockers that where indispensable to a seafaring ship. In front of him was a large bowl of Breda's stew, along with a hunk of bread and a mug of what smelled to be spiced wine. Little wisps of scented steam rose from the mug between the Captains hands as he warmed his palms on the pewter.
"Ah, Edward. You made good your time estimate, a little early if anything." Mustangs face betrayed little of his opinion on this.
Ed shrugged and replied glibly, waving a hand in the air. "It is a boring process, best to make it quick." A little quirk of the lips was all that showed Mustangs amusement,
"Then what news? Will you bankrupt me not two hours from coming aboard?" The amusement was evident in his voice, as was his sarcasm.
"The Potash content is a little over two thirds of what it should be. For the number of barrels you have, six barrels of plain potash should be enough. Anymore and you'd burst your cannons." Mustang nodded thoughtfully, it'd certainly be possible to get that much by their sail-date. He sipped his wine slowly, Hughes, his first mate, would probably even be able to get it for a decent price by flashing the Hind's Letter of Marque. He became aware that Edward was still standing rather awkwardly by the door,
"Lieutenant Hawkeye is ashore, carrying missives." Edward visibly relaxed, "Sit. You have some questions to answer."
TBC