Flashman and the Throne of Swords
Chapter 16
by Technomad
I'm no sailor, and I don't know whether that storm was natural (although the sailors, and Spring, all swore they'd never seen the like in all their time in Westerosi waters) or the work of that damned hell-b*tch Melisandre, but by the time it blew out, we were far off-course for Kings Landing. We were out of fuel for the steam engines, and the sails were in a sad state. The winds had torn them and tattered them as though they were guided by some malign intelligence, and the rigging and upper masts were barely held together with jury-rigs.
Spring was in a foul mood, but thank G-d, not directed at me. "We're in no shape to sail far," he growled, his scar going dark, as we sat around the table in the mess. We had just got around the first hot food we'd had in days; while the storm raged, Spring had been forced to order the cookie to douse the fires in the galley, lest they get out of control and set the Lady of Shallot ablaze. A fire aboard ship is nothing any sailor wants. Even though the crew (and I) had been on short commons, since the Lady of Shallot had not been fitted out for a long voyage and we'd anticipated, at most, a few days between setting sail and returning to Kings Landing, nobody had complained about cold bully-beef and hardtack, washed down with water from the scuttlebutts.
"Where are we, Captain?" I didn't like being away from Kings Landing for this long, particularly if Stannis and his tame witch were nursing malice against me. With a king, even a cutch-raja(1) like Stannis, angry at me, I wanted to be safe behind thick stone walls, with the Royal Marines patrolling reassuringly on the parapets and one of Her Majesty's ironclads riding at anchor not far offshore, to keep my ill-wishers safely at bay.
Spring scowled. "We've never been anywhere near this far north since I came to these waters. I think we're north of the Wall. I've never dealt with the wild folk north of the Wall, but we're going to have to."
I knew what he meant. I had been present when the reports had been made to him, and I knew that we needed to land, shortly. Besides being short on food and with our upper masts in tatters, we'd taken damage belowdecks during that h*ll-storm. The pumps were going full-time, and even I had had to take a turn on 'em, for all my "Sir" and Victoria Cross. The worst of it was, I could see the reasoning. If even I, Colonel Sir Harry Flashman, VC, damn-yer-eyes, had to turn to on the pumps, even the biggest croaker among the crew would have to admit that things were desperate.
When we came in sight of a shoreline to our west, Spring took to the crows'-nest, peering at it with his spyglass. "It's wooded, at least," he said when he came down. "We may be able to get timber to repair ourselves, at least enough to limp back to Kings Landing and a civilised shipyard!" While I'd not have characterised anything in Westeros as "civilised," I knew what he meant. Kings Landing was a busy port, and would have had the skilled men and materials needed to put the Lady of Shallot to rights. As it was, we'd have to work on it ourselves.
At least we were better off than we'd have been had we been in one of those new-fashioned iron ships. Had we been in one of those, I'd have not been surprised had we ended in Davy Jones' locker. When I mentioned that to Spring, he smiled rather sourly and nodded. "Aye-fluctuat nec merigitur, (2) eh?" When he was feeling up to spouting Latin quotes, I knew that life was returning to normal, or as normal as it ever gets with a homicidally-insane ex-Oxford don, ex-slaver, and ex-Africa magnate in command.
We worked our way in cautiously; we had few charts of these coasts, and those prepared in haste right after Westeros had been discovered. All it would have taken would have been one uncharted rock ripping out our ship's bottom, and we'd have been in the drink. While Westeros' seasons lasted for years, I could see signs that "Winter was coming," to use the Starks' motto. I did not fancy trying to swim for it in those waters.
After a couple of days' anxious searching, we found what looked to be a suitable anchorage, with a shelfing beach on which we could draw up the Lady of Shallot and repair her. The leadsmen in the bows were chanting their chant as we edged on in under tops'ls, wary as a burglar entering a maiden's room. Spring was a prime seaman for all that he was mad, but he was on edge, pacing the quarterdeck and muttering imprecations to himself in Latin and English that I was just as glad I couldn't catch. Me, I was making myself very inconspicuous; I'd not forgotten for a second that Spring felt he had some grievances against me, and I had no intention of coming to his attention at just the wrong moment. As bad as that storm had been, he could easily have convinced Dick Burton and the rest of our embassage that I'd been swept overboard. I could just hear him: "Terrible accident…swept off the deck by a freak wave…never forgive myself…" So not bringing myself to his notice struck me as an excellent idea.
For all of Spring's and my forbodings, we found ourselves anchored in a neat little bay on what appeared to be the northeastern shore of the continent of Westeros. We could see small plumes of smoke off in the distance, but even from the top of the masts, we could find no other sign of human life other than ourselves. Any pirate would have loved it as a quiet place to rest and refit after a close call, and we were close enough to pirates to like it, too.
Once our spare anchor was holding us in place, the ship's carpenter came into his own. Under his direction, we unloaded everything we could from the Lady of Shallot, trying to make her ride higher in the water so we might be able to get some, at least, of the leaks above water. As we lightened ship, I worked like any wharf rat, my hands a mass of blisters and my back aching, cursing Spring, Stannis and Dick Burton in my heart. I didn't dare not show willing, not with Spring himself taking a share of the load, and him old enough to be my father. The sight of us both working alongside them heartened the crew, and before I'd have believed it, the Lady of Shallot was light enough that we could see several of the worst leaks, stuffed as best we could have with oakum and tar to try to staunch the water cascading in during the storm.
At least I wasn't expected to bear a hand on the actual repairs. Nobody expected me to have any such skills, so along with some of the other crew, I stood guard on the shore while the men felled trees, shaping them into replacement timbers. I took my turn with a musket, peering into the surrounding forests, wondering what the locals were like and whether they would turn out to be friendly. At my suggestion, we fortified our landing-place as best we could, setting up the Lady of Shallot's guns to cover the main approaches to our encampment. As far as we knew, we were the first folk from our world to ever venture into this area, and I trusted that any savages who fancied trying their luck would find a warm welcome.
When the carpenter said it was time, we attached cables to the bow of the Lady of Shallot, hauling her up onto the beach. We hauled her up as far as she would go at high tide, then fastened blocks-and-tackles to some particularly large trees to pull her up even farther, out of the water. Once she was out of the water, and on her side, the next part of the work began.
I'd as soon never had to do such a task, but watching the sailors at work under the carpenter's direction was an education. I had thought that the poor Lady of Shallot was a goner when I saw how badly her seams had been abused by that d*mned witch's storm, but the carpenter knew his business, and before I'd have believed it, most of them were patched and looking d*mned neat.
Meanwhile, the ship's armourer was also hard at work. He'd set up a smithy with things we'd been carrying for just such an emergency, and he was using the last scraps of coal, eked out with the hardest hardwood we could find that wasn't suited to being reworked into parts for our ship, to heat his forge and beat damaged iron fittings back into shape. When he wasn't doing that, he was supervising the scraping of the Lady of Shallot's bottom, and inspecting her copper plating to make sure that it was all still there. All it would take would be one part gone, and the teredo worms would be hard at work eating the hull out from under us.
When the hull was in reasonably-seaworthy condition, we then had to refloat our ship, and that was another weary, backbreaking job. Luckily, the ship's artificers knew their jobs, and before I would have really believed it, the Lady of Shallot was afloat. And if I ever touched a block-and-tackle again, I was d*mned, I swore privately. Like everybody else, from Captain Spring down to the ship's boy, I'd been hauling madly at the ropes when we'd dug enough of a channel for the incoming tide to flow in and get at least some water under the keel, and I was knackered.
At least I wasn't wanted for re-fitting the ship. The crew knew their business and didn't need or want a butter-fingered landlubber bumbling about and getting in their way when they were working. After a night's sleep, I found myself routed out by John Charity Spring himself, d*mn him. As I stared at him, bleary-eyed, he held out a hunting rifle.
"Here, Sir Harry. We're dreadfully low on food, and you've got the skills to shoot some game. We're going to see if we can bring in a couple of deer, or something like that. I remember hearing that such things existed around here." I noticed that he had another hunting rifle slung over his shoulder, and a pouch by his side with what I took to be ammunition in it.
I didn't care for this idea, not above half I didn't. This wasn't Balmoral or some landed estate, where I could stalk my prey without worrying that the ghillie or shooter beside me might take it into his head to blow my brains out (that incident with Ignatieff notwithstanding (3)), but an unknown wilderness, with a man beside me who had reasons (at least in his own diseased mind) to hate me, and whom I knew, all too well, to be more than capable of murder. On top of that, I had no idea of what, if anything, was out there. I'd had to do a fair amount of shooting for the pot, in the American West and elsewhere, so that was nothing new.
There was nothing for it but to show willing. I plastered a smile on my face that felt as genuine as a three-pound note, levered myself to my feet and took the rifle. With a soldier's instincts burned deep into me (despite my best efforts to avoid soldiering), I checked the weapon over. It was a fine piece, a Whitworth, I noticed. That, at least, was excellent news. (4) With a Whitworth, I knew I was a good enough shot to take down a deer at a good distance. I just hoped that whatever folk were in the neighbourhood were either friendly, or indifferent to our attempts on the local wildlife. I'd no desire to fall afoul of whatever game laws were in force there.
With a couple of sailors along to do the hauling, we tramped off into the forest. I was reminded of times I'd been out shooting before, in the more forested parts of the American West. The pine forest was quiet, and I found myself going on alert, just as if the Cheyenne or Apache might be nearby. Uneasily, I listened to the silence, the only sound being our feet crunching on the stony soil and the wind soughing through the tree-limbs, and remembered Kit Carson (5) saying "It's quiet. Too quiet."
After a while, Spring (who was in the lead; I didn't trust him at my back) signalled for quiet, as he halted us and went on ahead. When he pointed off a little to the left, I looked through a gap in the trees, and saw a small herd of deer grazing. Spring stepped back, and we conferred in very low voices, not wanting to take a chance on spooking the game. "I'll take the big doe on the far left, you take the buck," he muttered. I nodded, and we slipped forward, taking careful aim with our Whitworths.
We fired almost simultaneously, the sharp crack of our rifles echoing in the stillness. As the deer we'd targeted fell, birds flew up all around us, startled by the unaccustomed noise. We went forward to collect our kills, when all of a sudden, a bunch of shabby strangers appeared all around us, all pointing nasty-looking longbows at us. We were caught, dead-bang-to-rights.
Neither of us could do anything. I had my Baby Dragoon on me, and Spring had a barker on him as well, but between us, we wouldn't have been able to do much before we were feathered with arrows. Our Whitworths were useless, since they took time to reload. Accordingly, I put my Whitworth down on the ground gently and raised my hands. To Spring and the sailors, I hissed: "They've got us! Play along! We don't want trouble with these people!" Spring's scar was darkening, and he muttered something in Latin I didn't catch, but he followed my example, and the sailors raised their hands.
Our captors moved in, efficiently separating us from the Whitworths, and looked us over. I was looking them over, and while they were a rough-looking lot of gyascutas, they weren't as scary as the tribesmen of the Vale of Arryn. Shagga son of Dolf was quite a bit more impressive than they were. Of course, they had the drop on us, which made them as impressive as they needed to be.
"Whom have I the honour of addressing?" I asked. While I bar savages as a rule, when I'm in their power, I make a point of being as polite as I know how to be. A few soft words often turn away wrath…or a blade aimed at one's essentials.
"We are the Free Folk," one of them growled. "What manner of men are you? We have never seen folk like you before."
"We are British," I answered, looking him in the eye while my guts dissolved in me, "driven onto your shores by a storm. All we want is some food, and we'll soon be on our way again." And that was nothing but the truth! If I had a chance, I'd be back aboard the Lady of Shallot in a second, heading straight for Kings Landing, or, better still, London, where I could be safe from howling savages looking to rearrange my anatomy for me.
"Our children are hungry. Why should we share what is ours?" That question came, to my surprise, from a woman. She was looking at us like we were captured chicken thieves. If these people thought the wild game was rightfully theirs, the situation was not terribly different, I had to admit. I remembered how much the Indians I had met in the American West resented white depredations on the buffalo herds, limitless though they seemed to be. They depended heavily on those animals, and seeing them wantonly slaughtered enraged 'em, much as having poachers preying on their game parks did landowners and gamekeepers in Britain.
"We would be willing to trade with you," I assured them. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Spring nodding. While he was a dangerous lunatic, he was also a shrewd trader, as my look at his books aboard the late, lamented Balliol College slaver (6) had shown me. And when he'd been shanghaied to South Africa in '59, he'd been able to draw on his accounts in Paris and Antwerp to start his rise to the top again, investing in land and local businesses.
"
We would pay well for bangsticks, like these," the spokesman said, poking with his toe at one of our Whitworth rifles. "With these, we could show those crows on the Wall what it's like to be on the losing end of things." Grins and mutters of agreement ran through the crowd. Apparently the Night's Watch was not at all popular with the people they were tasked with keeping out of Westeros.
"We could supply some," I said. I knew that the Hudson's Bay Company still manufactured a flintlock musket for trade in Canada and elsewhere. They were simple to use, and even featured a large trigger guard, so that someone wearing mittens could still fire the piece. They'd be much better than bows and arrows for hunting, and if Canadian experience was any guide, the locals would pay well for them. "The powder you need to make them work, though, is only made in our country, so you'd have to buy it from us."
This set off a colloquy among the Free Folk. They huddled together, muttering to each other in a language I did not know. If they'd forgotten us, I might've been tempted to slip off…or not. I wasn't too sure of the way back to the shore, and I knew these sort of folk knew the woods the way they knew their wives' backsides. They'd have had no trouble running me down, and likely spitting me on an arrow as a punishment for my attempt to take French leave.
Finally, they seemed to come to a decision. The one who seemed to be in charge turned to us. "Come. We will take you to the King-Beyond-the-Wall, Mance Rayder, and see what he says about you." He gestured to his subordinates. "Bring those deer. They will do well for dinner." And with that, we were herded off into the wilderness, farther and farther from our ship and any back to civilisation, even such civilisation as existed in Westeros.
END Chapter 16
[1] Cutch-raja: An Indian term, meaning a lesser or unimportant king.
[2] "She is tossed about but does not sink."
[3] See Flashman in the Great Game. Flashman had met Ignatieff, an old enemy from his previous stay in Russia, at Balmoral, and had survived a murder attempt while out shooting stag, with the help of the ghillie John Brown, later known as a favourite of Queen Victoria.
[4] The Whitworth rifle was one of the most accurate firearms of the muzzle-loading era. Featuring a polygonal barrel and firing specially-made ammunition, it was used by both sides in the US Civil War as a sniper rifle. It had been considered to replace the Enfield by the British Army, but rejected due to issues with increased fouling of the barrel.
[5] Flashman had met Kit Carson in his first journey into the American West, in 1849.
[6] Flashman had first met Spring after being coerced into serving as his supercargo aboard the Balliol College bark, an illicit slaver running slaves from Dahomey to Cuba, in 1848. While aboard the ship, he had seen surrepitious copies of Spring's accounts made by a Royal Navy officer serving undercover as one of Spring's subordinates. See Flash for Freedom!
