Someone manned the pump at all times, struggling to keep the vessel from taking on more water than she could hold. The close confines below deck reeked with the smell of dried fish and unwashed bodies. Vomit created a stench that was almost unbearable. Yet no one dared venture on deck for fear of being washed overboard by the tempestuous waves.
As the day wore on with no abatement of the storm, nerves and tempers threatened to break. The feeling of utter helplessness worked on Luka. He grew angry with this hell that refused to end. He couldn’t believe that he’d come this far only to be denied the riches he sought. The idleness nearly drove him mad. He couldn’t stand to sit there in the dark, stinking hold and listen to the shuddering groans of the vessel, wondering how much more punishment it would take, wondering when he’d hear the crack of timber and feel the rush of sea water closing around him.
Getting to his feet, he grabbed the support of a cross beam to balance himself against the wild pitching of the shitik. As he made his way over to the keg of dried salmon, he stumbled over a body in the shadows. A booted foot kicked at his leg in retaliation. Luka kicked back and went on.
“Anybody want some food?” He lifted off the cover and scooped out a handful of dried chunks. Someone answered affirmatively from the near corner, and Luka tossed a piece in his direction. Beside him a man moaned. “Want one?” He offered a chunk to the half-supine man.
The man’s eyes opened and focused on the fishy object, then he gave another groan. Convulsively his stomach heaved, disgorging its meager contents. Vomit bubbled from his mouth, slowly dribbling out of a corner to roll into his beard.
Derisively Luka snorted and moved on. He paused in front of Shekhurdin, who managed to appear less disheveled than the rest of the company. He met the Cossack’s empty, hollow-eyed stare. “Better eat if you’ve got the stomach for it,” Luka advised.
Shekhurdin reached out and took a chunk of salmon, then carried it to his mouth. He tore off a dry stringy bite with his teeth and chewed on it. “Give the hostages some.”
All his instincts rebelled against sharing their meager food supply with savages, but he suppressed them, aware of the practical value of looking after hostages well. Irritably he nodded a reply to Shekhurdin’s directive.
He located the pair huddled in a corner and maneuvered around slumped bodies—some sick and some simply dispirited—to the hostages. Bracing a hand against the bulkhead, he offered the hunks of dried salmon to them. The boy turned his sickly pale face away from the sight of it, obviously fighting nausea. Luka tossed a chunk onto his lap. When he started to give one to the old woman, he was roughly shoved from the side and the lurch of the shitik sent him sprawling. He struck his head on something when he fell, and he rolled onto his side, trying to stop the spinning blaze behind his eyes.
“The woman is old.” Belyaev’s bulk towered over him. “She’s going to die anyway, so why feed her?”
“You fool, Belyaev,” Luka jeered as the shitik yawed badly and a rush of sea water spilled down the hatchway. “We’re probably all going to die.”
Metal flashed as Belyaev pulled his knife from its belt sheath. “Then let’s kill them now. If we’re going to die, let’s make sure they’re dead first.”
Luka saw the madness of a trapped animal in Belyaev’s face, the wild violence that came with the fear of approaching death. Although he believed this wasn’t the time to kill the hostages, he had no intention of risking his life against Belyaev to protect them. The natives weren’t irreplaceable; more hostages could be taken. He lay unmoving as Belyaev swung toward the pair.
Shekhurdin stepped out of the shadows and placed himself between Belyaev and the hostages. “I took them prisoner. I will say when they die, Belyaev, not you.”
“Out of my way, Cossack.”
As the day wore on with no abatement of the storm, nerves and tempers threatened to break. The feeling of utter helplessness worked on Luka. He grew angry with this hell that refused to end. He couldn’t believe that he’d come this far only to be denied the riches he sought. The idleness nearly drove him mad. He couldn’t stand to sit there in the dark, stinking hold and listen to the shuddering groans of the vessel, wondering how much more punishment it would take, wondering when he’d hear the crack of timber and feel the rush of sea water closing around him.
Getting to his feet, he grabbed the support of a cross beam to balance himself against the wild pitching of the shitik. As he made his way over to the keg of dried salmon, he stumbled over a body in the shadows. A booted foot kicked at his leg in retaliation. Luka kicked back and went on.
“Anybody want some food?” He lifted off the cover and scooped out a handful of dried chunks. Someone answered affirmatively from the near corner, and Luka tossed a piece in his direction. Beside him a man moaned. “Want one?” He offered a chunk to the half-supine man.
The man’s eyes opened and focused on the fishy object, then he gave another groan. Convulsively his stomach heaved, disgorging its meager contents. Vomit bubbled from his mouth, slowly dribbling out of a corner to roll into his beard.
Derisively Luka snorted and moved on. He paused in front of Shekhurdin, who managed to appear less disheveled than the rest of the company. He met the Cossack’s empty, hollow-eyed stare. “Better eat if you’ve got the stomach for it,” Luka advised.
Shekhurdin reached out and took a chunk of salmon, then carried it to his mouth. He tore off a dry stringy bite with his teeth and chewed on it. “Give the hostages some.”
All his instincts rebelled against sharing their meager food supply with savages, but he suppressed them, aware of the practical value of looking after hostages well. Irritably he nodded a reply to Shekhurdin’s directive.
He located the pair huddled in a corner and maneuvered around slumped bodies—some sick and some simply dispirited—to the hostages. Bracing a hand against the bulkhead, he offered the hunks of dried salmon to them. The boy turned his sickly pale face away from the sight of it, obviously fighting nausea. Luka tossed a chunk onto his lap. When he started to give one to the old woman, he was roughly shoved from the side and the lurch of the shitik sent him sprawling. He struck his head on something when he fell, and he rolled onto his side, trying to stop the spinning blaze behind his eyes.
“The woman is old.” Belyaev’s bulk towered over him. “She’s going to die anyway, so why feed her?”
“You fool, Belyaev,” Luka jeered as the shitik yawed badly and a rush of sea water spilled down the hatchway. “We’re probably all going to die.”
Metal flashed as Belyaev pulled his knife from its belt sheath. “Then let’s kill them now. If we’re going to die, let’s make sure they’re dead first.”
Luka saw the madness of a trapped animal in Belyaev’s face, the wild violence that came with the fear of approaching death. Although he believed this wasn’t the time to kill the hostages, he had no intention of risking his life against Belyaev to protect them. The natives weren’t irreplaceable; more hostages could be taken. He lay unmoving as Belyaev swung toward the pair.
Shekhurdin stepped out of the shadows and placed himself between Belyaev and the hostages. “I took them prisoner. I will say when they die, Belyaev, not you.”
“Out of my way, Cossack.”
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