The Smugglers' Journal – Chapter 2

Jakob bent low over the pages of his journal. His quill scratched the rough parchment, pausing regularly to be dipped into the shallow inkpot on the floor beside him. It was night and he was having trouble reading in the oily light of the lamp beside him. So intent was he on his work that he didn't notice Yan approach.

"What you do?" the Norscan asked through a mouthful of hardtack.

"Writing" Jakob answered curtly, not looking up from his journal.

"Where you get boouk?" Yan asked, seating himself beside Jakob.

"It's pronounced b – uk" Jakob corrected, before adding "I traded for it with the clerk. He had a few spare and I wasn't feeling very hungry."

"Yan not blame you," the Norscan said ruefully, taking another bite out of the lump of hardtack in his hand "Southern food taste like wood!"

"You should try the cheese," Jakob said absently, returning to his writing, "The sailors carve buttons out of it."

There was silence in the room for a moment, broken only by the scratching of the quill and the crunching of hardtack.

"What you write?" Yan asked after a minute's concentrated chewing.

"A journal"

"What that?"

"A record of my journey" Jakob sighed. How did I get saddled with this imbecile he wondered for what felt like the thousandth time.

The seaman (who Jakob had later found out was named Ernst) had, true to his word, found them berths aboard his ship: the Swallow, a sloop of Imperial design but working under private enterprise. The scarred monstrosity that served as the ship's boatswain had been pleased to take Yan on as a regular hand, while the ship's clerk, an oily, servile Tilean with greasy lips and no hair, had sniffed at Jakob, but taken him on as an assistant none the less.

They had been at sea for ten days now, following the Nordland coast on a calm sea under relatively clear skies. Jakob had no head for navigation and was unsure as to their exact location, but the first mate had ensured him that this was a fifty mile round trip, no more. When he had asked what the purpose of the Swallow's journey actually was the first mate had muttered something about trading for local goods before stomping off to inspect the bowsprit. But Jakob was growing increasingly suspicious of the first mate's story as days past and the Swallow continued north, neither stopping to go ashore or receive visitors.

Jakob had a lot of time to chew over this problem, as his work under the Tilean clerk was laborious and extremely dull, involving little more than copying the ship's log or old stock records from one volume to another, as dictated by the clerk. For some reason Jakob was forbidden from actually seeing the actual ship's logbook. When he asked why this was the clerk merely scowled at him and chided him to be quiet and pay attention.

Yan, on the other hand, appeared to be having a much better time. He was a truly phenomenal sailor, out-performing all the other ships' hands with ease. The crew, wary of his Norscan heritage, treated him with a mixture of respect and caution. Only the captain seemed completely unafraid of him, but he was a remarkable man. Jakob had been amazed when he had first seen him. He had expected the captain to be a grizzled old sea dog with a beard like a dwarf's, especially with a crew as hard bitten and scarred as the Swallow's. But the captain was as effete and dainty as any nobleman Jakob had encountered in Altdorf. He dressed in the finest embroidered cloth with Arabian leather boots, his dark hair trimmed in the latest fashion. Yet, despite his foppish appearance, his crew treated him with a respect bordering on fear.

That would be nice, thought Jakob wistfully. In fact, just to be treated with respect would be a nice change. The sailors had realised he was bookworm and a city boy within minutes of him stepping aboard and had made tormenting him their favourite pastime. At first Jakob had been willing to put up with it, hoping it was some form of hazing, similar to the kind that he had encountered at Altdorf University, but even after a week the sailors had shown no signs of accepting him or growing tired of the bating. It had got so bad that Jakob spent most of his time in the clerk's workroom, only venturing on deck in the early hours of the morning.

"Want some tack?" Yan asked, interrupting Jakob's private thoughts to offer him a lump of the seaman's bread from the recesses of his fur coat.

"No, thank you" Jakob said tersely, before adding out of sheer curiosity "How did you get all this food? I only received one piece."

"Some southerners think they strong. Challenge Yan to kampk. Yan win food" the Norscan explained in his heavy, deliberate speech.

"Hold on," said Jakob, turning to a fresh page in the journal "What's kampk?"

Yan looked puzzled.

"You no have kampk in south?"

"I don't know, do I?! Tell me what is."

"It… battle, err, fight, test of strength… honour" Yan said slowly, searching his limited Reik for the right words.

"Do you mean a duel?" said Jakob cautiously, images of brutal single combat in the mess hall rising unbidden in his mind.

"Ja" said Yan happily "That word!"

"Oh gods" Jakob groaned, white faced "You haven't killed someone have you?!"

"Kill? No… We do blodna-kampk!" Yan placed his elbow on the desk and mimed forcing something down with his hand.

"Oh" Jakob sighed with relief "An arm wrestle!"

Yan shrugged and took a bite out of the lump of hardtack.

"So kampk is a duel, and a blodna-kampk is an arm wrestle" Jakob repeated, scribbling notes in the journal.

"No. In Norsca, we use fist, foot, anything in the blodna-kampk" Yan explained, pantomiming punching, kicking and head butting an invisible opponent.

"So… it's just a work for unarmed combat?" Jakob asked, crossing out the line he had just written. Yan looked puzzled.

"No weapons" Jakob added.

"Oh, ja. No weapons."

"You do kampk in south?" Yan asked, puzzled, as Jacob made the necessary alteration to his journal.

"Yes, but they're fought between gentlemen" Jakob explained.

"To death?"

"Sometimes. They usually stop at first blood, though. Most of them do it just for the scars, actually" said Jakob, recalling his university days.

"Scars good. But only kill prove worth" Yan stated proudly. Jakob listened, scribbling down notes, as the Norscan explained how the kampk was fought not just for personal honour, but to decide tribal leadership too. Kampk took place in front of the whole tribe, in the centre of the village. Full battle armour was worn, and only a death could end the combat. Interference, from any quarter, was strictly forbidden. Yan's father, a king amongst his people, had fought kampk many times to prove his right to lead the kruuskar.

"And a kruuskar is…?" asked Jakob, turning another page in his journal.

"Sailor… warrior… err, parrot?" Yan guessed.

"Pirate" corrected Jakob, suppressing a chuckle.

"Ja. Greatest honour for man to be kruuskar. Why you write words?" asked Yan, peering curiously at the journal as Jacob noted this latest fact.

"I'm researching the Norscan people a book. It's going to be my first work" Jakob said, not a little smugly.

"That why you want go on Yan ship?" asked the Norscan.

"Yeah" sighed Jakob. Why did I have to miss that ship, he wondered, not for the first time.

X X X X X X X X X X X X

It was just past midnight when Jakob climbed up on deck. Yan was in his hammock below decks, while the clerk was tucked up in his own personal room behind the office. Jakob, who was forced to sleep on the floor under his desk, had come on deck for a quiet smoke.

The night was overcast, with only the dim light of the prow and aft lamps to light the deck of the Swallow. Jakob could just make out the hunched figures of lookout men in the forecastle; two thin wisps of pipe smoke curling above their heads in the lantern light. To the south east and starboard, the dark, shapeless mass of the Nordland coast slunk against the horizon.

Jakob stepped lightly across the deck, careful not to attract the attention of the night watch, and got himself comfortable in the lee of the mast. He had just started thumbing tobacco into the bowl of his clay pipe when he heard footsteps on the gangway and low voices. Jakob, anxious not to be noticed, eased himself further back into the shadows. The voices ceased as a team of seaman came on deck. They did not speak but worked swiftly to shorten in the sails and lower the anchor. Jakob watched with interest: the ship had not halted since they left Marienburg. Why now, at night, on such a desolate stretch of coast?

The sailors finished their work and moved swiftly on to making the ship's boat ready. From his vantage point, hidden in the shadow of the mast, Jakob could see them muffling the rollicks with wads of cloth. Whatever they were doing, it was to be done quietly and secretly. Jakob pressed himself up against the mast. He was sure that to be discovered in such a situation would be very unwise.

Once the boat had been satisfactorily prepared, eight sailors took up the oars while the rest lowered the boat down onto the waves. As the boat moved off into the night, guided by a single lamp mounted at the prow, the remaining sailors stood back to wait. Jakob was not sure how long he stood in the shadows of the mast, his breathing soft and slow, terrified of attracting the attention of those covert sailors. After what felt like many hours, the lamp reappeared off the bow. Soon the boat had pulled along side and the sailors were working together to pass barrels up onto the deck. The barrels were small beer casks and wet with seawater. It was slow work, and in the dark one of the sailors fumbled his sodden load and sent it crashing to the deck where it split and spilled its contents in all directions. One of them slid against Jakob's foot. Moving slowly, so as not to attract the sailor's attention, Jakob bent down and retrieved it. Running his fingers over it, Jacob found it to be a small, flat package wrapped in oilskin.

"Clumsy fool!" hissed one of the sailors. A lamp appeared on the quarterdeck and the barking voice of the first mate called out:

"What's going on down there?"

Jakob heard footsteps and, to his ever-increasing horror, saw the first mate and the captain, both wrapped in boat cloaks, descend to the main deck. The sailors drew back as the captain approached.

"Who did this?" he asked with a pleasant, off-hand manner.

The bosun raised one tentative finger to indicate the careless seaman. Jakob barely saw the captain move. He caught a brief glimpse of something metal flashing in his hand and the next the sailor was lying moaning on the deck, his left eye plucked out. Jakob felt as if he was about to retch, but fought back the impulse. To be discovered now would be almost certain death.

"Take him below" the captain ordered, gesturing to the mutilated crewman, before returning to his cabin at a leisurely pace. The crew finished their work in a subdued silence, rolling the barrel from the deck down into the hold. No one dropped anything.

Jakob waited in petrified silence as they returned below decks. As the last seaman retreated down the gangplank, Jakob stepped out onto the deck. Crouching in the shadow of a gun carriage, and still fighting back the urge to be violently sick, Jakob broke the seal on the package. It contained dried leaves of dark brown, veined with an almost phosphorescent green. It smelled tinny, but with a hint sulphur. It brought back memories of a seedy drinking den in the slums of Altdorf that he and his drinking buddies had stumbled into one night by accident. The air had tasted of it, the smoke hanging in the heir like a veil while the 'customers', for want of a better word, lay on the floor, long pipes barely hanging from their drooping lips. Wyrdroot. Highly dangerous and highly illegal.

All the pieces clanged together in Jakob's terrified mind.

Smugglers, he thought, they're bloody smugglers!