Down the RiverHerman and Stefan stood with the rest of the foremast men on the deck amidships deck, and like everyone else they were staring up at the poop deck where Captain Bart was clutching at mizzenmast and looking back down at them. A few moments of quiet passed - not complete silence, for the ship creaked and there were sounds from the other ships and boats nearby, but it was a soundlessness that was rare upon the Ocean Blight.
Finally the Captain spoke. Before the Battle of the Dunes he would have shouted, but now, wearing the whip lash scar from that battle down the left hand side of his face, with his eyes always wide and his complexion not what one could call healthy, he addressed them much more quietly. They all leaned forwards, straining to hear.
“The ship ain’t goin’ much further up this river, and she certainly ain’t going through the swamp ahead. I say we leave her here, with a skelet …” Here the captain stopped a moment and frowned. It took a while for some of the slower thinkers amongst the crew to work out why, but when they heard the mutters of “Manaan protect us” and such like, and the general murmurs about cursing the ship, they eventually realised. No one wanted a skeleton crew on board!
The Captain stroked the scar on his cheek and then went on, “I mean to say a guard crew. We’ll put a guard crew on her, and the rest of us can take the boats. We’ll put the pinnace together and take that and the towed boat. What say you?”
“I ain’t going ashore to build no pinnace,” shouted one of those at the front of the crowd.
Loud murmurs of agreement spread through the rest, as several of them could not help but glance once more at the shifting mangroves at the river’s edge to see once more the creeping presence of the undead - here a hat and a torn shirt, there a bloody face and a deathly grimace, and elsewhere clouds of buzzing flies or the rusty muzzle of an ill-kept handgun.
The Bosun Jan Mostert stepped up by the side of the captain, his bald pate shining in the sun, golden earrings glinting and his massive, flared muzzle pistol couched on his hip. He wore no shirt, not having done so since the Battle of the Dunes, when he had stumbled and put his arm elbow deep into the swollen, foetid belly of a zombie, so fouling his shirt that he had torn it off and thrown it into the sea on his way back to the fleet. “There’s no need to go ashore,” he told them all, in a voice much more certain than the captain’s. “We can fit her together on the deck.”
“That’s alright then, ain’t it?” said the fellow who had spoken up before.
There were several ‘ayes’ amongst the crew, but all on the poop deck could tell that their usual boisterousness was absent.
Stefanus cleared his throat nervously, and raised a hand. “I wants to speak.”
The Quartermaster, Lisbeth Boone, furrowed her brow. “You do?”
There was no answer, but she knew it was her place to run proceedings should council be called for. “ Then speak on, man,” she demanded, “for all have their say in this ship.”
Stefanus glanced at Herman, who gestured with a nod to encourage him.
“The Captain ain’t well. We all see that.” Nods and ayes of agreement rippled through the gathered crew. “I say that we ought to decide upon another captain, at least until he is well enough to lead us again.”
All waited for the captain to speak, but he said nothing. Instead it was the Bosun who glared at Stefanus and shouted. “S’pose you have someone in mind?”
“This ain’t a mutiny,” said Stefanus quickly, “and you know it. This is a call for a vote, to know the crew’s mind over that which plainly needs deciding.”
Lisbeth drew her cutlass from its scabbard and pointed it at the men. “I say when there’s to be a vote when enough of you demand it.”
Herman was the first to respond. “We do demand it.” All those around him gave a loud ‘aye’.
“Then as per the articles we shall have a vote,” said Lisbeth. “Are all present?”
“Aye” came the cry from everyone on the main deck. Then a moment later came a cry of “Nay” from behind the Captain. It was the ship’s boy, little Adolfus Korpel.
“Who’s missing?” the quartermaster asked.
“Martin,” said the boy. “He’s below deck in his hammock. He ain’t yet recovered from his wound.”
Lisbeth looked confused. “I thought he was dead.”
“Not dead, no. He’s just badly. But I spoke to him this morning.”
Spinning back round to face the crew, Lisbeth pointed her blade at Stefanus. “You want a vote, then you fetch him. And take Herman to help you carry him.”
The two of them stepped over to the hatch, then disappeared down into the darkness below.
“Martin?” called Stefanus. “Where are you?”
There was no answer.
“You asleep?” said Herman quietly. Stefanus glanced at him as if he were mad. “What?” asked Herman. “I didn’t want to disturb him.” Then realisation dawned on him. He grinned and shrugged his shoulders.
“You check starboard and I’ll look larboard.”
It was Herman who found him first, and he called his mate over. The two of them then stood looking at the hammock. Martin was covered with a blanket, with only the back of his head showing because he was facing the hull.
“Shake a leg, Martin” said Herman. “We’re voting on a Captain.”
There was no movement in response. Apart from the slow swaying of the hammock from side to side, rocked by the gentle motion of the ship, there was no sign of life under the blanket. Martin did not appear even to be breathing.
“I think,” began Herman, “... well, you know … it was bad wound. You can smell how it festered. I reckon he’s …” He stopped suddenly, blanched, then stepped back. Stefanus did the same.
Herman drew his gully knife, while Stefanus swept his cutlass from out from the sash at his waist.
“You think …?” began Herman.
“Of course,” interrupted Stefanus before Herman could finish. “It’s happened to all the others who died. This river’s cursed. It’s Galdabash’s doing, and it won’t stop ‘til he goes away.”
“So do we …?” Once more Herman failed to complete his words, but instead just gestured with his knife at his neck.
“We do.”
As Stefanus spoke, the bloodstained blanket twitched and Martin began to roll over onto his back, one arm pulling at the edge of the hammock. When his face appeared they could see his eyes had rolled right back in the sockets so that only the whites, or more accurately yellows, where visible.
Two seconds later and Martin was in two pieces, divided neatly at the belly by the vicious swipe of Stefanus’ razor sharp cutlass, each half of the the sliced hammock hanging down over him. He was not moving any more.
Two minutes later and Stefanus’ head reappeared at the hatch. Everyone on the deck turned to look at him.
“Martin won't be voting,” he said as he tossed his bloodied blade out onto the deck so that he could pull himself up. “Let’s get on with it.”