Publication Date: Tuesday, July 14h, 2015

Sael

Chapter 12 – Norwegian Steam

~~~ Saturday, the 16th of November, 1805 AD ~~~

~ 12:45 p.m. ~

Christiansborg Palace – Christiansted, Sankt Croix

"If it were not for sailors, it would be a pleasure to go to sea." – The officer's opinion.

"Ho' much farther Henrik?" a voice called up from below.

A long fir spar inched up the side of the mainmast of Lyn, held by a sturdy line rove through the eye of the dark iron endcap that crowned its upper half. Lines fore and aft to the fore and mizzen masts stood by to steer the long pole into place once it had reached the topmast cap. Two men stood there on either of its sides, each man quite sizeable, but the largest of the four … he was truly a giant.

"Hoist 'er up a rut now, fellows!" Knudsen shouted back down, leaning out and over the rail looking down to the deck far below.

Henrik Knudsen had been huge even as a boy, having reached a full six feet by his fourteenth birthday, a height seldom heard of, especially for one so young. He had bettered it by another ten inches and more by his eighteenth birthday and also gained a prodigious physique to match, making the blond giant easily the strongest man of the Lyns and quite possibly the strongest man in all of Sankt Croix, if not the whole of the Jomfruøerne.

"Lookin' good up here, Ralf!" Knudsen called down again as he crouched to receive the upper end of the spar, with only his left hand on the rail of the cap standing between him and the deck far below. "Ready Bård?"

Below, Bård Orvik nodded looking back up, his right hand held above his eyes to shield them from the early afternoon sun. "Aye Henrik. Got 'er now, do ya?"

Knudsen nodded, seizing the endcap line with his club of a fist and gripping it like a vice. "Aye!" Henrik shouted back down, then looking to the other three men who shared his perch, continued on in a quieter voice. "Tha's it fellahs, make 'er fast and let loose that cap."

The three other men moved quickly, Gregers Erdahl first followed by the other two as Knudsen watched to ensure his men worked with a care for their safety, spar line still in hand. Curiously he seemed to show little fear or even concern for his own well-being, strange considering his precarious unguarded position.

"Avast heaving down there!" Knudsen called back down to the dozen men who manned the jeer capstan below. "We'll turn 'er in a minute, then step 'er in!"

"Aye!" came a reply from below.

The line went slack as it was released. In an instant Knute Solberg took a heavy line to the spar's upper end and laid a good hitch about it, leaving but the inches needed for it to pivot. That way if it got loose it wouldn't go anywhere, particularly down. Unfastening the endcap, the sailor lowered it back to the deck and the hand waiting for it below.

Below, Rålf Bjornstad fed the line back into the capstan which his crew then turned to bring the aft hawser taut before heaving about to turn the topmast spar upward.

Solberg and Erdahl stood, taking a moment's respite as the work continued below to ready for the next stage of stepping the main topmast. The pivot would be the hardest part of the job and by far the most dangerous as well. Knute wiped his brow, looking over to Gregers. Pulling his shirt over his head, then taking it into callused hands, Solberg wrung the sweat from it in a series of hard twists, then unwinding it wiped his brow with the still damp cloth as he fought to catch his breath. "Ever thought you would see this sort of heat at the knock o' winter?"

"Nay, no' before we left Pollen and Merdø behind I sure didn't." Gregers returned, chuckling. "Ne'er did I think to see another princess again either, and so close."

"Nor be servin' the House o' the prince!" Knute added with a grim smile as he threw his shirt back over his head. "Have ta' admit, this year … been full o' surprises."

"Well, a prince." Gregers corrected his friend. "And, aye to be sure it has." The man paused, wiping his brow once again. "Pretty thing though, the l'il poppet, witch or no."

"Poppet? Wha' are you two going on about?" Knudsen grumbled from behind the two.

"Why, your 'sea witch' Henrik, my friend." Gregers replied, kneeling down to look at the socket soon to be occupied by the newly lifted spar as he began to make taut his line.

Knudsen grunted, otherwise ignoring the jibe and keeping his mind focused on the task at hand.

Beside him Solberg greased the topmast cap's rail both before and beneath the spar, packing a handful on either side of its near end.

"Henrik, we're ready to haul on 'er again down here when you say so!" a voice called up.

Knudsen nodded. "That's it lads, at the ready." Knudsen said quietly, a steadfast calm in his voice. Watching his men take their positions, he called back below to the mate at the capstan "Hale up, Ralf!"

This time, the lower hawser hanging out to the foremast drew taunt and started to pop and creak, once again lifting the weight of the spar, but this time from its bottom outward. Slowly its outer end began to rotate upward while its near end remained anchored to the rail of the mainmast cap. A half dozen men at points below the mainmast cap and top prodded at the spar with fathoms-long long poles, steering and steadying it until its far end hung suspended well above the anchored end.

"Tha'll do, avast heavin'!" Henrik called. The spar's movement and the pulling of the lines came to a halt. "'Right then, Gregers, Knute, pay 'er out now. Watch 'er though when she catches the grease an' slips."

The two men held their stations at either side of the spar, its near end now perched on the rail of the cap with its end weight bearing down, its full quarter ton ready to crush any man in its path if it got loose, or else carry him down below to his death if it fell. Slowly the spar's near end slid inward as the line from the foremast drew it upward. Then it caught the grease and the earth's pull did the rest, drawing the spar down and inward as its own plummeting weight pulled it erect.

With a loud 'boom' it dropped into its seat within the maintop below.

Cheers and whistles erupted from below as Knudsen turned with a fleeting smile to Erdahl and Solberg. Bård Orvik and Bjørg Thorsen went about aligning the newly made topmast, assisted by the linemen on the mizzen and fore. They had to work quickly, for the much smaller and hopefully far less challenging topgallant mast was yet to follow this one and time was growing short after the interruption that morning.

"More like to a corn poppy I think." Thorsen quipped, having been conspicuously silent in the matter of "the sea witch," as Eric's princess had now become known, this epithet being bandied about more as a jab at his mountainous third mate than out of any sense of conviction that the Mate's accusations bore water. Insulting royalty was no laughing matter however, so in truth, the man's dark humor veiled the deeper sea of misgivings now awash among all their shipmates, and each of the four men knew it.

Knudsen and the other two old hands looked at the dark-haired seaman, who noting the silence looked back at them. Seeing the confusion in their eyes, he continued. "Not a poppet … a poppy, right?!" he laughed "…that bright red hair of hers. Ne'er seen any lass wi' quite tha' color, e'en in the nor' o' Albany and Eire."

While the four men and even Ralf below had grown up in the Sørlandet country of Norway, they mostly kept to English or Danish when at work. Most of the Lyns were Danes, but given that the de facto tongue of the Jomfruøerne was English, using that tongue seemed a practical concession and kept their skill in it fresh. Still, sometimes the words, especially plays upon the same, didn't quite resonate, as had been the case with Thorsen's quip about the mysterious Princess's breathtaking appearance. It took the men a bit to see their friend's humor.

"I'm startin' ta' think you're all under 'er spell too, else tha' or daft." Knudsen said as he turned and went back to his labors.

"Henrik, spell or no, it's not a good policy to go about, cowin' young Eric's bride-ta-be."

"An' how do we know that? Ain't been no banns have there? Else were there I'd ha' said something'."

"Bjorg, it ain't ju' Henrik, we all heard the stories too, from men we know, good men. Fanciful they seem if ya' ask me but there's no doubt somethin' happened out there that night. It ain't hard ta' figure that out."

"Not just us tha' feels so either." Gregers added. "A lot o' the men feel the same way. Witches, they're a fierce lot to have bearin' against ya."

"Not sayin' they ain't, but how do ya' think tha' little poppy is one?" Thorsen shot back. "Near as I could see the worst she did was trip and fall, no' how I would think a witch ta' be. An' no sooner than tha' you were lashin' into her, Henrik ya' mome."

"Right, well, I heard the rumors too, Bjørg ya' pettifog, from Master Poulsen no less, and he was there, he saw it, saw it all"

"Saw what Henrik?" Thorsen asked, disregarding the man's chiding riposte.

"Tha' thing, tha' sirene, tha' storm tha' gathered." He paused, standing then to look out over the placid waters of the channel "… and tha' shadow tha' rose out o' the deep, out there in the offing."

The men continued dressing the topmast as a silence descended between them.

As he worked with the other three to anchor the spar into place, Knudsen remembered a smiling little boy when he was himself just a lad, showing him the knots he had learned, going aloft the first time, scouring out the seams in the deck with prayerbooks like any of the other men, like a little brother. Such a laugh and spirit that boy had, especially for one who had suffered so much. To be a prince didn't absolve one's life of pain or loneliness, that much was sure, but their little Prince had found his playmates and friends where he could, even among lowly folk and sailors such as himself.

"We owe it ta' Eric ta' look out for him, havin' lost his mum and 'is papa not wantin' 'im, save as a pawn in that game for the Crowns." Henrik looked back at the other three. "He's one o' us. Can't just let some ... some … some sirene witch drag him down ta' Davy Jones."

"You ain't alone Henrik. From wha' I hear, the folk that were there have been a talkin' the same, an' all o' what you was sayin' from earlier this morn. Witches, mermaids, the lot of it. Hard ta' tell what's true and what's no', but somethin' happened out there." Gregers added, not looking up from his fastenings.

"That' may be true, bu' Eric didn't look like he was anything other than himself, though he were angry, that was ta' be sure." Thorsen replied, casting a quick glance up to Knudsen. "I'd have been wroth too, if a troll like ta' you'd a looked ready to lunge at the pretty thing I fancied."

As the busy sailor spoke, Henrik Knudsen felt a sudden and strange sickness surge in his belly, a feeling akin to falling. Almost at the same time he caught a foul scent on their air like the stench of burning dung, at least he thought he did, yet there was barely a breeze, even up here in the tops. Still, Henrik couldn't shake the acrid odor now, something akin to the smoke of guns, foul and burning. His stomach lurched upward and he felt the taste of rich Jarlsberg and thick rye working its way back up his throat, afloat on a draught of dark ale, acid, and bile. He leaned over the rail, looking up, finding his gaze drawn inextricably to the North Tower of the palace as the world seemed to spin around him.

"At least, ya' should give 'er a chance?" Henrik heard Thorsen opining behind him, his voice seeming far, very far away.

In a great convulsion, Henrik's stomach heaved but nothing came forth, his unexpected retching causing the other three men to stand and look on in sudden alarm over to Knudsen as they made their way to his side; all with due care to the lofty heights at which they now stood. If there was anything their great north mountain troll was seldom if ever known to be, it was sick.

"Henrik lad," Thorsen said, "What's come over ya? You're ill?!"

Knudsen shook his head in sheer defiance of seeming weak, yet found his eyes riveted on the Palace, just above where the skywalk joined it. "Nay, 'tis nothin.'" he replied in a quiet and troubled voice.

"You need ta' get below lad, can't be sick up here. Sun got ya too?" Gregers asked, no small irony in his voice.

"Ain't goin' below. Still got work ta' do." Henrik replied, standing upright again stoically, his eyes still fixed.

"What is it lad? Henrik, what are ya' lookin' at?" Thorsen asked.

"Don't know. Just felt like that fine repast tha' Eric sent us was on its way back up."The giant stood there quietly for a moment."Lookin' at? Wha' do ya' mean?

"What are ya' staring at?"

At Thorsen's words Henrik focused, becoming aware at last of the object of his unbroken gaze, or rather one end of it; that tower of the palace at which he had been looking, but not seeing. Knudsen wondered why. Regaining his bearings he looked back to his mates. "I'm fine. Let's get back ta' work."

Returning to their toils, the men immersed themselves in the refitting of the main mast. Below them other Lyns and hired hands worked to prepare the last spar to be hoisted aloft, followed by the many yards and new top hamper. Sails would come last, but time was wearing. There was still ample daylight left, but all such tasks demanded care, and care demanded time. Failure to pay each task its own proper due could in the end lead to the most severe of penalties; every hand aboard knew it. No shortcuts would be taken when the lives of the Prince and even that of his betrothed were at stake, suspect though she was.

Above, the ardent sun pursued its steady decline from its zenith, as those who watched the precious few hours remaining were well aware. Beneath mast and spar, upon the quay and dock itself, a hundred odd afternoon shadows crept eastward, each making its own little sundial, each silently ticking off the remains of the day, the time left for its pains to be made right, for its wounds to be if not healed … then salved.

"A mermaid!"

For the first time in years, Hans Sael felt young again as he rolled the thought and memory of this little Ariel over and over in his mind. It all made so much more sense now, the curiosity and fascination he had seen in her eyes and odd actions out upon the Quay, her innocent and faltering attempts to defend herself from Henrik Knudsen's accusations, the rumors about her and that night weeks ago. But Hans had known the truth when he had first seen her hadn't he? Perhaps it was just the thrill of the sudden and deliciously unexpected confirmation that had made him feel so spry.

The rumors were true; well one of them was true. But if there had been witchcraft that night it was as Hans had thought, it was not this maiden's doing. As for Eric, well, he was under a spell to be sure, but it was merely the spell of his love for this beautiful young princess, and her own love for him. As to other details, who she was and from whence she came, Sael was sure he would find out more soon enough. Hans was rather good at finding out such things.

There was one thing on his mind however, something unusual from his trove, something he had held in special regard for many years now that reminded him so much of this maiden. "Perhaps she might like it." he thought. For some unfathomable reason, his memory for Elna perhaps, Hans deeply wished to touch this little mermaid's heart.

As he flew down the stairs, he ducked back into the inner stairwell north of the Ballroom and exited into the silent Audience Hall. Owing to his prior conversation with the Captain, he slipped across its dark marbled floor as quietly as he could manage. As he went, Hans found himself strangely sad that the Captain wasn't there with him. He found that he had enjoyed the conversation on the way up to the Princess's chambers, teasing the young soldier a bit and plumbing the depths of his thoughts and feelings. He seemed like an interesting fellow, his quiet demeanor obviously masking things, but Hans would find out about those too soon enough now that he knew they were there to be discovered.

Hans Rubert Sael liked knowing the people around him, knowing about them, knowing how far and under what circumstances he could trust them. That propensity was one of the reasons he had had such a long and successful career at sea as well as ashore, for he had known many people over the years. Sael was a humble man, but keen of mind and very observant, and it was his fortune to have made many friends in many ports far and wide over his long years. Some friends were Princes, and ironically, some enemies too. "Well, one each to be precise." The old fellow mused to himself.

Looking up, the sailor found himself unexpectedly standing at the eastern archway, staring at the great double oaken doors which now lay deep in the afternoon shadows, their fine polished surfaces and rich appointments of polished silver and brass almost concealed from view by the dark. It came as a bit of a surprise to him that he was now back at the same place in which his wounds had been treated before, for he had hardly noticed his path passing beneath him, so deeply absorbed in thought he had been. Almost in reply to his realization he felt a burning soreness in his back.

"Don' hurt so bad." he thought. "Won't amount t' nothing', being clean an' all. Asides, they be tasks at hand."

Hans turned the right door's brass handle, lifted its upper latch and pushed against the door. The bright light of middle afternoon at first trickled through the crack between the two great doors as they began to swing with only the softest creaking to be heard, then abruptly poured forth in a harsh golden flood as the doors swung open to reveal the yellow stone quay, Lyn, and the bay beyond. For a moment Hans could see nothing, being blinded by the great wave of heat and light that rolled in upon him. Lifting his left hand to shield his eyes, he stepped outside as his vision returned.

Low waves capped with white marched in toward the shore as the sea breeze continued its freshening, turning waters that had that morning been an inviting azure and green into something less friendly and grayer. The oppressive heat that had previously hung stagnant about the quay had now become a warm breeze blowing inland; pennants and sailcloth flapped and shuddered from the dock and Lyn, from the palace heights above, their metal fittings ringing in an uneven rhythm as they beat over and over again against their mountings, staves, and occasionally each other.

What greeted the old sailor was a surfeit of soldiers, almost the entire palace guard it seemed standing out there before him upon the quay. There were men everywhere, carrying timbers, line, nautical stores and all manner of items useful to the working of wood and cloth. Wagons on the shore were lowering their burdens to the strand below where work boats ferried them out to the dock and Lyn herself. The waters near the shore lay turbid in brown sandy clouds where the boats had landed and departed, churning up the bottom with the incessant activity of long oars and wet feet. Most important to Hans though was that the dock now lay adorned above by a bonnet of clean buff sailcloth, one that stretched from side to side, its breadth stretching out between the twin colonnades of six-fathom spars. It was just as old Sael had envisioned it.

"Aye, there she be, jus' as I'd a' seen her." The old man smiled, muttering to himself as he always did when one of his good ideas came to fruition.

One of the soldiers to his right took notice of his appearance on the pier and alerted the Sergeant who stood not far away. Sergeant Lundgren turned and looked, studying Sael for a moment, being well aware of what had previously transpired that morning between the old sailor and his Captain. Stepping towards the archway, the Sergeant loomed over the old man.

"Good afternoon Master Sael," he opened respectfully in a deep but otherwise surprisingly refined voice that almost rumbled like a low thunder from within him. "I trust all went well on your errand?"

Hans was startled at the attention and snapped his head to his right up in surprise at the towering soldier. Lundgren's height seemed only amplified by the immaculately tailored and groomed uniform and the tall shako hat he wore like the rest of the Guardsmen. Hans had heard stories about this fellow, his gallantry during the raids, and reckoned that he was probably the only man he had seen in the Guard who might match Henrik Knudsen pound for pound in strength. He hoped his speculation wouldn't come to the test.

"Aye, tha' it did Sergeant." He replied, wondering what the man's interest was, but guessed. "If'n yer wondrin', th' good Captain went wi' tha' Prince after tending' the young Princess."

Lundgren nodded, seemingly satisfied as he looked back out and down to the Docks, and then over to the shoreline. "Thank you Master Sael, I had been just about to ask. I shall not impede you further."

Hans nodded with a slight but nervous smile and proceeded along his way toward the dock, returning his mind to the matters at hand. The first order of business was to find out where the repairs stood, he had been away from them too long and Hans knew it. Where had the time gone since he had accompanied the Captain to the Princess's suites? He looked up at the sun, now strangely westering as though it was midafternoon rather than just before luncheon. He turned his eyes back toward his goal.

In the distance on the quarterdeck of Lyn beyond the paulin he saw Captain Larsen. There was no doubt the old Master would be incensed at Sael's prolonged absence, Hans knew the man too well from their many voyages together; he would have to make it right and to make sure the repairs were proceeding as required, even if the men had to work all night and sleep the whole next day before Lyn set sail.

Tomorrow was Sunday, and because no one worked on the Sabbath all must be finished before midnight. Sailing was a different matter though, and Hans kept that thought in the back of his mind in the event of need. Still, it wouldn't be too long now before the November daylight began to fail. The old sailor made a straight line for the ship.

Passing through two lines of workmen busying themselves at various tasks of carpentry, Hans saw that the splintered upper mainmast had been replaced along with a pair of broken spars. The rigging thereto had been struck to do so, and Hans expected that to spell trouble. Re-rigging a ship, even one mast, was hardly a small matter, it took time … and good light. It was hardly a surprise though, for Sael himself had given the order to make those very repairs upon their arrival quayside early that morning. Some things were a matter of necessity.

As Hans made his way through the crowd, a few men looked up and over at him, but otherwise seemed to pay him no mind; they were engrossed in their work. As he dropped down the dozen and a half steps to the dock passing into the new and welcome shade offered by the paulin, he noted a large table set up on its south side. Loaves of dark bread, wheels of good cheese, and what looked to be water casks and even a couple of kegs of ale sat upon it. Most of the wheels were now just rinds and the loaves crusts; at least his lads had eaten. Hans smiled and remembered exactly who had seen to that, hoping that the lads knew too and that they appreciated it as much as they should. It was a better meal than most of the men would have likely had while at such work. Eric hadn't needed to do that.

Hastening up the gangplank to Lyn, Hans turned left, and found much to his surprise found himself looking straight into Matthias Larsen's narrow eyes.

"Well, Master Sael, it's about time you joined us!" Larsen paused, letting his words catch in the breeze, but not for long. "Where the devil have you been off to?! Were you not supposed to be supervising all of this?!" he snapped, more than a few craftsmen turning to look before going about their tasks.

"Ah, well … err, Captain, somethin' sort o' … came up." Hans replied, realizing his hat was still tightly rolled up in the back of his belt, as it had been since he entered the Princess's bedchamber. He had forgotten to don it upon leaving the palace.

"Came up!?" Larsen replied, quietly now, his voice audible to perhaps him and Sael alone, but no less forceful and accusing.

"Aye."

"Well, what is it? Where have you been man?"

Hans looked down at the deck for a moment. "I been up wi' th' Prince sir, tending the Princess. She been a' taken ill." he offered in a similarly hushed voice.

Larsen just stood there, his mouth slowly opening in apparent disbelief.

"The Princess?!" Matthias scoffed until a sly grin turned the right corner of his mouth upward. "Hans, the truth now, we haven't got all day." The Captain's mood lightened in amusement at what he thought to be one of the old hand's legendary jests. "Come now, tell me quickly, daylight will soon fail us."

Hans looked at Larsen, an earnest look in his eyes, one that seemed almost hurt at being so questioned. "Captain, aye, I been a known ta tell a sea story er two, but lyin' ain't never been m' way.

Larsen blanched. "Hans! You can't be serious?!"

"No, no Cap'n, it be a true tale. Cross m' heart." Hans said, crossing himself so poorly that he would have been refused admittance to any self-respecting church that required the gesture.

"You … you are serious!" Larsen whispered, grabbing Hans by the shoulder and pulling him over to the outboard railing. "I heard what happened while I was seeking an audience with the Prince. Is she well?"

"Aye, she be a fine now, sleepin' I reckon as she were when we left 'er side." Sael paused in thought. "Been a lot fer 'er t'day I think. Maybe more'n th' poor lass could bear."

Larsen lowered his head. "None of this would have happened had I been here. I'd have set Henrik straight on that sharp tongue of his, given him the lash I …"

"Cap'n." Hans interrupted. "Ya' ain't gonna please neither 'er ner Eric by whipping young Knudsen or no one else. Ol' Hans don' think she'd a like that a' all, no' a bit." The old man raised his eyebrows slightly as he met the Captain's eyes, nodding once as he did so. "But … ya' might make 'er cry if ya' did."

Again, Larsen just stared at the old sailor, the blood now draining from his face.

"Eric … Prince Eric, he'll be a comin' out soon here. Had a matter ta' fix first wi' tha' Lord Grimsby." Hans looked back towards the palace then briefly up at the sun. "When he do come, he's a goin' ta' try to talk some sense into that lame ox o' ours, Henrik."

Larsen nodded. "Yes, and …?"

"Where is tha' lad anyhow? I don't see 'im a' all."

"Aloft. Henrik's been leading the repairs since you disappeared, just took over along with Chips and Sails getting her seaworthy again. He's up the mainmast now, refitting the topgallant. Finished the topmast earlier." Larson stepped forward, toward the eyes of the ship, leaving Sael where he stood.

Hans looked almost straight up, and sure enough standing barebacked astride the topgallant cap framed by the cloudless blue sky was the young giant Henrik Knudsen, calling to another man across from him. "Now ag'in, step 'er down easy." Hans faintly heard the man cry from aloft as he saw him and two other hands working to maneuver the spar into place where it would resume its former position. Re-rigging the top hamper would follow.

Hans saw the sailor pause to wipe the sweat from his brow before he returned to the task of stepping the new spar into place. How exactly the men had gotten both spars up there at all was beyond the Sael's immediate ken, though he might have guessed. In any case the effort must have been Herculean. Then again, in terms of strength and marlinspike alone there was no better man onboard than Henrik. As Hans watched, he could see a dozen other sailors busying themselves in that effort up there alongside, above, and around him, all working at Knudsen's command.

Looking about, Hans quickly surveyed the work going on about Lyn. There was a smell of fresh paint and thick lacquer in the air. Sails had been replaced with new ones, their color that of eggshells almost white, and a vast crew of artisans, workmen and sailors busied themselves at the task of restoring Lyn not just to seaworthiness, but it seemed back to her virgin beauty. The ship was almost new, having arrived only in September from Havana, having come such that the Household had hardly noticed the loss of Havfrue after she had foundered and her magazine exploded, nearly taking Eric down with her. During such long voyages however, storm or no, the sea always took its toll; thus wood was being reworked and replaced everywhere Hans looked, and wherever he looked, what he saw wasn't a crew in the act, but instead a disciplined army.

At various spots about the deck he saw his best sailors directing the work, speaking with the landsmen artisans about the tasks being undertaken. Back on the stern behind the quarterdeck a fresh sheen of black paint was being laid neatly over newly primed and sealed wood. An aft lantern was being replaced and the glass of the other two above the taffrail refitted with fresh and crystal clear panes. That all of this was happening, that it had happened almost entirely without his direction or guidance; it made Hans Sael feel strangely unneeded; unneeded … and old.

"Ta' be sure Eric's a makin' th' 'morrow ta' be a fine one fer his li'l lady." the old sailor thought.

The work underway was certain to have cost a small fortune when it was done, for no such work done well yet swiftly was ever cheap. Letting his gaze fall off aft to the wheel, Hans felt the joy of his recent discovery about their new Princess quenched by the burden of uselessness, and of the many years piled upon him. His was a time that had come and gone, he felt; he had overstayed his welcome. He thought of his beautiful little Elna, his beloved Kathrine, and wondered how long it would be … how long it would be until he saw them once again.

Bjorg Thorsen and Henrik Knudsen crouched as they worked to align and secure the topgallant mast. Up so high there was little room to maneuver and even less for error. A precarious foothold either side of the crosstees balanced only by their hold on the topgallant spar before them is all that spared them from the twenty fathom plummet into the yards and onto the deck below. Both had worked these tops for many years however, and being able-bodied tall-water men were masters at their craft. They were comfortable aloft, suspended against the sky by their talents and wills alone.

"How's she look?" Knudsen asked quietly, a gust of the now freshening warm sea breeze catching the loose linen of his shirt and making its loose hanging tails billow.

"All a-taunto." Thorsen replied, looking down to the yards below.

"Ready for the top hamper then. Cap should be waitin'."

"Got th' first o' it down 'ere." Came a gruff voice from below.

The men looked down. There hanging off the topmast was the Master's Mate Hans Sael, the first of the new rigging in hand.

Knudsen looked around the spar to Thorsen, "Le' me unship m'self 'ere and go talk to 'im, see wha' 'e wants. Shouldn't be long." With that Henrik began to scale his way down, one foot and one hand at a time followed by the next pair, until he dropped and alighted before the old man.

Hans locked eyes with the Third Mate, having to look quite a ways up to do so at such a close distance. Knudsen looked back. Neither men bared any emotion, showed any feeling on their faces as they took each other's measure, but their bodies seemed tense, drawing apart from one another in every minute move as though impelled by some mysterious force of nature.

Sael looked to the topmast, patting it with his right hand, holding out the lead line in his left to Knudsen. He looked about to the newly raised yards and rigging being put back into place. "Fine Norwegian steam this all be, lad." he offered.

Henrik nodded then looked back then down to the deck. "Half Dansker, don't forget old man." He replied with a smile, taking the lead in hand.

"Ah, no, I don't." Sael sighed. It was quiet for a moment, just the waft of the breeze and cries of distant gulls disturbing the silence. "No' so good a' mornin' were it, eh lad?"

"No … tha' it wasn't." Knudsen looked over at the old man. "Hans, I'm sorry, I was just lookin' out for our Eric. I know ya' don't believe me, half th' men don't, but I'm sure I'm right." Henrik seemed somehow a bit smaller then, more like a boy pleading with his father than a full grown man when he spoke, the regret in his voice clear to the old salt by the quiet tone he took, like a parishioner seeking absolution from his priest.

Thorsen slipped down the mast, passing them both by, the other hands below retreating as well as word of the parley spread. All knew to give old Hans Sael a wide berth, not so much out of fear, but of respect long ago earned.

"I know y'er sure lad. An' I'm sure I'm right too. Ha' ya' e'er known me ta' be wrong as a judge o' folk?"

Knudsen thought for a moment then shook his head. "No, but t'was you y'erself tha' always went on abou' the seafolk. About wha' they could do, them sirene songs o' theirs lurin' sailors ta' drown."

"Don' think you was a callin' 'er a mermaid if I recall Henrik Knudsen," Hans said quietly with a slight smile as he looked out toward Christiansted, noting to his surprise a man-o-war rounding the point northeast of Gallows Bay, the broad stripes and blue union of her ensign flying proudly in the freshening breeze, plain for all to see, even at this distance. "Word I seem ta' recall ya' used was 'witch'."

Knudsen nodded. "Maybe. Tha's wha' the talk was afore we left for Boston. Some o' the wrights say 'tis the' word on the Isle as well."

"She ain't no witch Henrik." Sael replied. "She's just a sweet, confused little girl tha' wouldn't ne'er hurt nothin', much less our young Eric, ta' who 'er heart be given."

"How do ya' know Hans, how can ya?"

"Well, I jus' spent abou' an hour wi' Eric in her bedchamber where she been trying to heal tha' heart o 'ers from what' ya' done ta it this mornin'."

"What I done to her?" Knudsen replied, a puzzled look clouding the younger sailor's face.

"Scared 'er outta 'er wits." Sael stopped, caught up in some thought. "Damned Doctor did no' help a whit e'er." he muttered.

"Doctor? What Doctor?"

"Don't ya' mind now. So, why're ya' so amenable to quiet talk now as opposed ta' th' morning' lad. T'was no reasonin' wi' ya' then."

Were his face not so flushed now from the sun, Knudsen would have turned a fair red, instead, he looked down again. "Don't feel so boxed in now."

"Boxed in?!"

"Hans, I was jus' speaking' my mind, it ain't me alone that has cares! And then I hear this sound like a girl cryin' and there behind me she was! An' as soon as I know i' you're a layin' into me as fierce like ta Old Harry himself. Then if that ain't enough, then half the' damned Guard came down on me. And that's all before Eric showed up!"

"Aye lad, don't ferget, I was there, an' ready ta break e'ery one o' yer teeth fer wha' ya ha' said and done ta' th' maid."

Henrik looked at his old teacher, the man who had practically been his father as he had to half the Lyns since they had first sailed together in Najaden all those years ago. "Hans, tha' wasn't the Eric we know, looked li' the' devil 'imself were in 'im. Never seen 'im like that afore."

"Lad, little Eric ain't never been in love afore."

"In love with a witch. Under her spell."

"No lad, jus' a fair maid in love, plain, simple an' true. I saw it, saw it fer myself, no' jus' out here, but up there."

Knudsen followed Hans' outstretched hand and forefinger with his eyes, seeing it alight on the very same North Tower of the Christiansborg that had drawn his attention earlier. Immediately his guard was raised. "An wha' happened up there Hans?" he asked, a soft but tense tone.

"Eric trying ta' comfort the poor thing. Stricken by the sun she was, then tha' damndable doctor a' came. Fer sure I knew he'd be nothin' but trouble."

"Stricken?"

"Ya." Hans replied, looking back to Henrik with a curious look at what had peaked the young man's interest.

"Hans. Do ya' want ta' know why I reckon she's a witch?"

Hans drew his hand down along the seams of the mainmast's scarph joint as he made his way down the shrouds, foot under foot down the ratlines until at last he alighted on the deck. He had been taken aback by Knudsen's question, thinking for no good reason that the matter of witchcraft close to being resolved, then realizing with a sinking feeling in his stomach that it was not. The young sailor's voice echoed in his mind.

"A first, it was tha' hair o' hers. Tha' red, so strikin'. Color o' a witch red 'tis Hans, a red like flame suc' as tha'. Straight out o' Hell itself too, er so th' ol' folk'ld say."

The old sailor's hand went to the formerly splintered rail, finding its condition excellent, nearly as good as new if not even better, now just awaiting priming and a coat of paint. Looking up he saw the top hamper bonnet of rigging being run down from the peaks of the mast to the maintop beneath it. As it had before, the work was proceeding handily under Knudsen's leadership, and without his.

"An' on account tha' when she had Eric holdin' her an' she turned ta' face me, I stared 'er down, asked God to strike 'er down. An' He did.

As Sael approached the brow he noted half a dozen barrels being rolled aboard, barrels and casks of fine water and wine no doubt from the same reserves of the Prince that had nourished the lot of them earlier that day; perhaps from a stock even finer.

"That's when she buckled and fell back, back into Eric."

There was ice, in great cut blocks in blond wooden boxes lined with hay, discernible by the dripping tails of water that trailed back into the southern House of the Christiansborg, a rare commodity in so warm a clime, precious for its cold so alien to the isles of the Caribbean Sea where never ice nor snow had even once been seen in its natural state.

Felt sorry for her I did Hans, when she fell a' first, wonderin' how could a witch jus' break so easy li' tha', tha' maybe I was wrong. Bu' then I tho' better o' it an' remembered lil' Eric, an' all them tales ya' told us abou' mermaids tha' yer papa told you.

E'en if she weren't a witch, then may be she was tha' very sirene Master Poulsen spoke of. One beautiful with hair like flame an' a fish's tail like malachite, a Godless fay. Not spells then, but th' sirene's voice an' song tha' lures good men ta' their deaths down in th' deep.

Down the brow Hans went, his feet settling onto the dock with almost a whisper as he turned toward the northeast stanchion and stepped over to it.

"Tha' little girl ain't no devil. No lad, no' a devil bu' an' angel; no' a nigh'mare but a dream, no jus' fer Eric bu' fer us all." Sael had paused, his left hand anchored to the mast, his right to the rail. "With her comes a little hope I think." Knudsen had just stood before him, unmoving, clutching the lead line in his left hand.

Looking up the length of the tall spar Sael inspected the corner lashings that held the paulin taut in place. His men had set the great awning in place well. Wildly now it fluttered as it caught the breeze above him, filling the dock below with its snapping chatter as it shrouded the pier in its cool and pleasant shade, deep now that the sun was arcing lower into the west.

Ya' see, the Almighty answered my prayer Hans, 'er spells had no power against me, like it seemed they did on everyone else, e'en you. An' if it's jus' me left standin' agin' the storm, so be it. I got the Lord on m' side, and neither me nor Him is goin' ta' let tha' thing drag ya' both down into th'abyss."

Hans' heart had dropped as he realized he was in a losing battle of faith with his Third Mate. He could see the rising spirit of righteous confirmation in Knudsen's eyes, growing like a flame, confirmation that he himself had stupidly delivered.

"Henrik lad." Sael asked, looking sadly into the younger mate's eyes. "When' ya' been havin' yer little parleys wi' the Lord … ha' ya' e'er once tried listenin' 'stead o' talkin'?"

For moment Hans had thought he had seen the blood drain from the young man's face, a look of shock and reflection disturbing the giant's previously implacable confidence.

Soon the day would seek its rest behind the East Wing of the Palace and the shadows would grow long, the evening cool. The men would need good lanterns to light what work would go on thereafter well into the night. As for what had been already done, all looked good, better than the old man could have hoped for to be honest, though he wished he had had a hand in all of it.

"Henrik, can I ask ya' a question?"

Knudsen nodded, a grim smile spreading across his face as he over once again to the North Tower and the Princess's apartments.

"Be they anythin' tha' could convince ya' otherwise?"

Knudsen shook his head, "Naught bu' th' Hand o' God himself."

Stepping over to the long cloth-covered table, Hans took a heel of dark rye and a hunk of cheese in hand, biting off a bit of the first as he looked up again toward the North Tower of the Palace, then turned on his heel and made a straight shot for the arched doors he had twice passed through this day. Even though he had failed at trying himself to talk some sense into Henrik Knudsen, the Prince needed to know what had transpired, as well as what Hans had learned.

Night was coming to the island all too soon.