CHAPTER 38

Porthos still had not regained consciousness by the time the sun rose on the horizon and the rowers began to take their positions on the rough wooden benches. Athos slowly rose from the damp wooden floor where he had been attempting to rest and block out the pain radiating from the whip's welts on his back and chest. His muscles were cramped and he tried to stretch them gingerly within the confines of his small space. Eventually maneuvering onto the bench, he attempted to distract his mind by studying the slaves' morning routine as it unfolded around him on the galley.

Like himself, the slaves were rising, stretching and working the kinks brought on by their Spartan sleeping arrangements out of their muscles. Interspersed amongst the rows of benches at regular intervals were buckets that were attached to the hull of the ship by a length of rope. It didn't take long for Athos to ascertain their purpose. Modesty was something quickly lost in these circumstances. The long cords allowed the bucket to be dumped overboard and washed out in the sea, which he supposed helped with sanitation.

Thirty wooden benches, parallel to each other, but perpendicular to the hull, lined the port and starboard side of the galley. Most benches had two men chained to them though occasionally there were benches with single occupants. The row directly in front of him and Porthos sported two men who, if Athos was to judge by their appearance, had been on the ship for some time. The man directly in front of him was scruffy and scrawny and had turned around to watch him with interest.

"Welcome to hell. You are French?" the scarecrow inquired in a voice that was made raspy by long exposure to the sea air.

Athos decided that French was not the man's native language judging by his accent, though the emaciated man was understandable. The swordsman momentarily debated what to reply, but as he had already spoken in French to Porthos, he didn't see the sense in denying his heritage.

Answering in his usual, clipped tone, he replied, "I am."

The scraggly human beanpole nodded, concurring with himself that he had guessed correctly. Gesturing towards Porthos he asked, "Him too?"

"Yes."

After scrutinizing Porthos' inert form some more he shook his head. "You look French. He does not. He looks like a slave."

"I assure you he is every bit as much a Frenchman as I am."

The scarecrow grimaced. "Poor bastard. A free man. Now stuck in this hell. God is indeed cruel."

Athos didn't bother agreeing with the man, even though his feelings on God ran along the same tracks. "This galley. It is Spanish?"

The man didn't answer, but instead began rummaging below his bench until he found the metal cup that was hanging from a nail underneath the wooden structure. Grasping it, he drew it out, then turned and expectantly peered up the aisle. A man with a sloshing bucket of water was slowly making his way down the narrow space. The crew member paused at each bench long enough to roughly grab the cup, plunge it into the bucket filled with brackish water, then shove it back in the direction of its owner.

"Get your cup out," the scarecrow instructed. "His too. We get water three times a day, unless the ship runs short. Get your friend's cup filled too. For when he wakes."

Athos shifted his position so he could peer beneath the bench upon which he sat and it didn't take but a moment to find the two hanging metal mugs. Drawing them out, he peered inside the first one and cringed at their state of cleanliness. However, he had a feeling that this was not the time to be picky so when the man with the bucket drew alongside the bench, he obediently handed over the two cups to be filled.

"If we get rain, we rinse out a piss bucket and store water. Still, always take your water when it's offered. We're surround by it, but it doesn't help."

Athos nodded to indicate he heard the words of wisdom. After safely placing Porthos' cup where it wouldn't get knocked over, he took a tentative sip from his own. When the stale liquid hit his throat, he realized how parched he was and the fact the water was almost hot and slightly musty was easily overlooked. Draining the cup, he hung it back on its hook as he had observed the others around him doing.

Another crew member came down the aisle and handed two hardtacks to each slave, which they greedily accepted and began to devour. Athos stared at the four biscuits in his hand before storing three of them on the deck next to Porthos' water. Taking a tentative bite of the fourth, he wished he had saved some water to choke it down. Part of him wanted to simply add this hardtack to Porthos' pile, though he knew he had to eat to survive. It wasn't that he was overly fussy about what he ate, not since having left the estate, but rather that his stomach was queasy from the motion of the ship and the abuse his body had taken since their capture. He didn't relish the thought of using the piss bucket, as the scarecrow so elegantly put it, to vomit in if his stomach staged a revolt.

His friendly neighbor watched as Athos stored three biscuits under the bench for Porthos. "Rowing is hard work," he offered up as advice. Athos didn't reply, simply nodded his head once again to indicate he heard the council. "Some days it's biscuits. Sometime cheese. Have a bit of meat once in a while. Whatever scraps they can find. Just enough to keep us alive to row."

Athos nodded once more.

"My name is Miguel."

Though he wasn't a particularly social person, he was a proper and polite one. "I'm Athos. That is Porthos."

"Your names sound similar yet you don't look like brothers," Miguel remarked as he ran his eye over the two of them again. "Unless your father had a dalliance. But makes no difference here. We are all in the same boat now."

The scarecrow started cackling in an alarming manner at his own pun, causing his bench mate to reach over and knock him sideways. Immediately, like a dog that has been beaten often, Miguel's demeanor changed and he groveled out an apology to the larger man next to him as he crabbed sideways down the bench, as far away as his chains would permit. "I'm sorry. I forget myself," he muttered by way of apology to the bully.

Grabbing the oar in front in him, Miguel faced forward and sat very still. The man next to him glanced over at Athos, as if daring him to say something. Athos simply stared back at him coolly, with his Comte stare, but remained silent. With a satisfied grunt, the man turned back around and went about finishing his morning meal.

Athos heard a small rustling noise on the floor. Shifting his eyes, he saw Porthos was beginning to stir on the deck. Sliding over on the bench, he watched and waited as the street fighter's eyes fluttered a few times before remaining half-open. Hoping to head off another panic attack, Athos began speaking in a low voice to the semi-conscious man.

"You need to remain calm," he directed in a low but soothing tone.

The dark brown orbs squinted at him in the morning sunlight. Athos offered a hand to assist Porthos to get on the seat. Stiffly, the large man rose from the wooden deck of the boat and maneuvered onto the bench.

Glancing around him, Porthos took in their predicament, which was exactly what he had thought. They were slaves on a ship. As the panic began to rise again in his gut, he registered a firm hand on his arm and he turned his head to look at its owner. Intense green eyes were staring at him and the coolness and calmness in their depths made his fear start to recede.

With the utmost confidence, the swordsman declared, "We will get out of this situation. I promise. We will get back to the garrison." And, as illogical as those statements seemed, Porthos found he believed the man and that was enough to allow him to keep his emotions in check. He gave Athos a brief nod to show he got it.

Bending over, Athos retrieved the cup of water and the three hardtacks and handed them to Porthos. "Bon appetite," he deadpanned as he looked over the hull and out to sea.

Porthos devoured the biscuits and drank the water. When he was finished, Athos showed him where to hang the cup and pointed out the bucket. Since as it was being used for its intended purpose, he didn't have to explain its function. Glancing around, the two men noticed that the majority of the other rowers had finished their morning ablutions and were sitting upright on the benches, hands on their oars.

From the bow area of the galley, words in Spanish rang forth and the few slaves that weren't manning their oars hurriedly grasped them. Athos and Porthos followed suit, placing their hands on the wooden oar in front of them. Another command rang forth and the slaves lifted the paddles from their tethers, shoved them further through the oar locks and positioned them over the tranquil blue sea. The next Spanish command had the oars' grips being pushed as far from the chest as possible, with the blades remaining above the water. A final command was shouted with much vigor and the slaves dipped the paddles in the water and drew them backwards.

For the next few minutes, the man towards the bow of the galley repetitively chanted a single word in Spanish until all sixty oars were in sync. After that point, he occasionally called out a cadence marker. The sounds of the ship took over, the rhythmic splash of the oars in the water, the creaking of the iron oar locks, the twang of the stays against the two masts, and the waves slapping against the hull of the galley. The slaves, however, were silent as they propelled the boat forward.

It didn't take Athos and Porthos long to grasp the ship's routine, which gave a new meaning to the term monotonous. When the slaves were rowing, it appeared the unspoken rule was no talking. Conversation only occurred, and always in hushed tones, while eating and a little while before sleeping.

It was during these brief periods of conversation, that Athos and Porthos began to piece together the puzzle. From what they gathered, the men manning the oars were either slaves, prisoners, or shanghaied, as they had been. The mission of the small galley, as near as Athos was able to ascertain, was to plot the coast line for the Spanish, most likely looking for advantageous areas for invasion should France and Spain go to war. He wondered if they would cross to the other side of the sea and plot Britain's coast too.

Mostly, the small galley hugged the coast line moving slowly north. Occasionally, the ship would set anchor and a small party would go ashore in the dinghy that was kept secured near the stern. What they did on the dry land, Athos was never able to determine, even though he surreptitiously watched over the edge of the hull. Sometimes at night the officers would depart in the dinghy for the shore too, most likely to sleep on solid ground for a change. On those particular nights, things were a little more relaxed on the ship as the few crew left behind to watch the slaves ignored them. After all, each and every man was chained to the deck. What were they going to do?

Miguel, they learned, had been in debtor's prison before he was dragged onboard to serve out his sentence. He was a frail, mousey man who seemed to be bullied by everyone around him, especially his bench mate. Miguel was a man who liked to talk, a lot. Athos and Porthos used this to their advantage to learn as much about their new environment as possible. More than once, when Miguel was prattling on, his bench mate would reach over, smack him, and order him to shut up. While it had the effect of stifling Miguel, it didn't keep him mute for long.

Most of the other rowers around him also treated Miguel cruelly; he served the role of runt of the litter. Because of the length of their chains, the slave's world on the ship consisted of the two men in front of them, the two men behind, and the one on the shared bench. If for some reason one or more of those people didn't like you, your life became hell as there was no way to escape.

After the first day of rowing, Athos' and Porthos' hands were sprouting blisters from the incessant rubbing of the wooden oars against their palms. Though both men had callouses from handling weapons, they weren't in the right place for rowing. Miguel counseled them to rip two strips from their shirts and bind their hands until they grew tougher. The same technique was applied to their ankles, where the shackles rubbed against their skin. Porthos chose to rip the sleeves off his shirt and used them to bind his hands and ankles. Athos, however, was forced to shorten the hem on his shirt as he preferred not exposing anymore of his fair skin to the elements.

Miguel also managed to get a salve from the ship's crew for Athos during the first week when the sun's brutal rays had brunt the man's exposed skin to a crisp. Athos was eternally grateful for the potion, which helped cool the fire that was his skin. Eventually, Athos' skin adjusted and tanned enough that the sun didn't fry him like an egg, though the first few weeks were pure hell for the fair-skinned man. Porthos' naturally darker skin did better and he was only mildly uncomfortable for a day or two.

The scarecrow also translated the commands being shouted at them in Spanish, saving them more than once from the overseer's whip. Athos didn't reveal he could understand some of them already. Eventually, the two men recognized the basic commands, though Miguel would still translate the non-routine communications. In his broken French he also would clue them in on the conversations of the slaves sitting around them.

Physically, their first month at sea was harder on Athos who developed a fever from one of his wounds that became infected. Luckily, the infection eventually cleared up on its own. However, it had left Athos under the weather for more than a few days during that first month. Most days, he gave the majority of his meager meals to Porthos and Miguel, eating only enough to function. His stomach seemed in a constant state of rebellion and the fever robbed him of his energy. He knew and was eternally grateful that on many days, Porthos was shouldering most of the burden of rowing for the pair of them.

Even with the extra rations from Athos, Porthos lived with the gnaw in his stomach of constant hunger, reminding him unpleasantly of his days as a child. Both men rapidly lost weight and soon appeared as gaunt as the rest of their fellow captives. The ship's officers seemed to have the feeding of their slaves down to a science, rather like they were farm animals. The rations were enough to keep the men alive enough to row. However, that didn't mean they weren't all on the edge of hunger, day and night.

The treatment of the captives on the galley upset Porthos and disgusted Athos. If one of the slaves was unable to perform his duty because of sickness, injury, or utter exhaustion, the ship's crew heaved the man over the side into the ocean to drown. It didn't matter if the man was dead or still clinging to a thread of life. If you couldn't work you were of no use, a worn out commodity. The ship was run in what the captain felt was an efficient, no nonsense manner. It was a business, no more no less, and every decision was about the profit margin.

The overseer kept discipline and order on the ship according to his own standards. He used the whip to convey his displeasure and to discourage unwanted behaviors. However, he was somewhat judicious in its application, not wanting to cause an injury that would hamper the slave's ability to row for long. After all, they were of no use if they couldn't perform their function. Still, the whip bit deep, often, and cruelly on many occasions.

Probably because of his ingrained attitude, which even when he was being beaten was slightly regal and indifferent, Athos suffered at the overseer's hand more than most. It was if the two had taken an instance dislike to each other, and in Athos' case it was certainly true. He felt the overseer was a cruel, sadistic human being.

Even though he was a Comte from a prestigious lineage, Athos didn't look down on anyone simply because of their station in life. It was a point about which he and his father often had argued. Athos judged people on their actions and intentions; his father was more bound by the class structure. In Athos' view, the overseer was wrong and needed to be brought to justice, though given his current position as a slave, that seemed like an impossibility. However, it didn't stop him from giving the overseer cool, contemptuous glares which certainly didn't endear him to the man.

Mentally, their captivity was hardest on Porthos, who still had occasional nightmares, waking drenched in a sweat that had nothing to do with the temperature. Whenever one of the terrors would commandeer his sleep, he would feel Athos' firm hand on his arm, grounding him and driving aside his panic. There was an innate calmness and confidence about the man that helped Porthos believe that they would get out of this situation alive.

Porthos was grateful for Athos' calming presence and his respect for the man continued to increase. Behind the fortress that Athos had built to keep everyone at bay, Porthos was discovering there was a man he was coming to respect. Though it had taken a while, he was beginning to see what Aramis must have seen in Athos, a man worth calling friend. Porthos sincerely wanted to get to know the swordsman better, if he could only find a chink in that armor.

Porthos often wondered, while they were rowing monotonously, how Aramis was handling his disappearance. He felt bad for his friend, having to endure another perceived tragedy so soon after Savoy. It helped Porthos remain strong, for he was determined to escape this hell hole, if not for himself then for Aramis, who didn't deserve to lose another brother.