The Pilot - an excerpt

For release in November 2011

The storm developed with astonishing speed. The crew could do nothing but watch as a haze the colour of dried blood formed beneath the billowing clouds that towered above the land. As it swept towards them the sun dimmed and the pale sea darkened. Although the shore was temptingly close, so too were the lines of barely submerged rock that protected it, and Captain Cirato ordered Hallam to climb the mast and report if he saw a more likely place to beach. Meanwhile, all they could do was maintain their present course and try to keep the other two boats in sight. With luck the storm would move north and the wind hold long enough for them to reach their night stop with the incoming tide.

But even as they watched, the breeze that had been blowing steadily all morning slowed, puffed several times as if exhausted, then stopped. It took everyone by surprise.

They drifted in a heavy stillness, the crew silent at their posts, only the slapping of waves against the hull. At the top of the swaying mast, Hallam looked apprehensively towards the disappearing shore. A flash of lightning made him start, then the captain’s bellow.

'Close sail!'

His voice was all but drowned in the crash of thunder that followed. The crew rushed for the brail ropes, and Hallam slithered hastily down the mast to join them.

The gods had awakened.

'Man the oars!' shouted the captain. 'And get those cursed awnings cleared away!'

The two long oars, one on each side, were quickly unlashed from the rails and jammed into their gimbals. Two men manned each oar, one team pushing, the other pulling to turn the boat quickly to meet the oncoming squall. The remaining crew hauled on the eight brail lines, closing the sail by hoisting it up from the base and bunching it at the top spar then securing the brail lines to hold it there. The two agents knelt at the mast and prayed, one in a thin wail , the other in a litany of incoherent sobs. Their plaintive entreaties to Baal doing little to ease the tension.

The first gusts that hit were light and brought with them the tantalising smell of the land; of wet earth and rotting seaweed. A brail line came loose and a section of sail at the end of the spar dropped down. The gusts increased, tugging and worrying at the fallen section of sail like a playful dog.

'Get that rope or I'll use it to remove your hide!' roared the captain, and a sailor rushed to secure the line, but too late. A heavy gust shuddered the boat, setting it back on its haunches. It tore at the loose section of sail, twisting the spar and snapping the port brace. Then came the sound all sailors dreaded; the terrifying splintering of timber.

Hallam collided with the Persian as they fell against the rail and nearly went over. 'Tie yourself!' the Persian shouted, and Hallam snatched up the loose end of a brail rope and fastened it around his waist.

'Clear that brace! Back the oars!' screamed the captain, and he put all his weight on the tiller arms to help the rowers keep the boat from broaching.

But the brace line had snapped at the spar end and could not be reached.

Any further orders were muffled by the wall of hail that rushed towards them, erupting the surface of the sea in a white frenzy, its roar growing rapidly in intensity; the sound of a waterfall in full flood.

Hallam threw himself down beside the Persian. The watery roar turned to a terrifying clatter as the fist-sized hailstones struck the deck and thudded onto exposed flesh; smacking painfully against bare knuckles and hastily covered heads.

The hail passed swiftly, but no reprieve followed. The crew scrambled back to their posts, slipping and stumbling on the ice as cold stinging rain, whipped horizontal by up draughts, lashed their faces and filled their eyes.

The damaged spar with its attached sail tore free and slid down the backstay. It struck Captain Cirato and one of the crew as they clung to the tiller arms of the steering oars, tangling them in ropes and dragging them both over the stern.

Hallam saw them go but could do nothing to help. He hauled himself to his feet on the safety-rope, only to be knocked flat by a wave as the boat slid into the trough and broached. The rope sawed and cut into his skin, but held as the cascading water crushed him against a rail post.

Not so fortunate was a sailor and one of the agents. Their cries were cut off as both were tumbled over the rail in the boil of water. Hallam dragged himself back to the mast and clung to it in the company of two others while the boat rolled dangerously in the rising sea.

The mast swung like a pendulum, its weight heeling the boat and holding it down longer with each roll. It could not be long before it turned completely over, and Hallam held his knife in his teeth, ready to cut his safety-rope.

Ironically, they were spared from going over by the same broken spar and floating sail that had caused them to broach. Still attached by one brace and a tangle of brail lines, it drifted with the strong wind and dragged the stern around to face the bows into the waves.

Hallam glanced around the deck and was alarmed to see that only five men remained. Another seaman had been crushed by a loose bundle of timber as it smashed through the railing. Held by his safety-rope, the man rolled lifelessly about the heaving deck.

The rain eased with the passing of the storm cell, but the wind continued to blow strongly and the seas to climb, although less steeply now they were in deeper water. Hallam could see no sign of the other two boats.

The remaining crew had lashed themselves to the mast, as if its solid bulk alone could save them. They seemed unable to speak, or even look at one another. All eyes were on the dark rushing sea.

Hallam was angry with himself for not jumping overboard while the shore was still visible. He believed he could easily have made it to the rocks. Now he had no option, the boat was his only chance, as it was for them all. He tore his eyes away from the mesmerising waves and forced himself to concentrate on what was happening to the battered vessel.

Both long oars had gone. The sail and brail ropes that had snagged over the tall sternpost were now dragging the boat sideways, heeling it at the top of every wave, then tugging it back into a broach as they descended. He shouted to the Persian beside him. 'We have to cut those ropes!'

The Persian stared blankly at him through red-rimmed eyes, his long moustaches blowing forward and waving in the wind like probing feelers. Hallam pointed, but the Persian did not look, perhaps not wanting to see more than he already had.

Hallam was also reluctant to leave the security of the mast, especially now that the boat was beginning to roll, but the other two sailors and the remaining agent were crouched low at the base of the mast and seemed intent on remaining there no matter what happened.

Hallam waited until the boat came level, then cut himself free and ran for the tangle of ropes at the stern, scrambling up the elevated section of the steering deck. As the ropes pulled taught on the next rise he hacked feverishly at them and, one at a time, they twanged away like broken strings from a lyre.

One of the steering oars and tiller arm had broken away, but the long tiller handle of the other swung free, the oar still intact. He pulled on it, trying to get the boat to come around, but it had already gone too far and the wind had caught the beam. In desperation he pushed the other way and gradually, helped by the wind, the bows swung around, the momentum keeping them going until they had turned completely away from the wind.

Running with the wind and set free of the restraining ropes and sail, the boat swooped down the first wave with spray flying. The prow dug into the trough and kept going, the stern rising until it seemed the boat must catapult over. It shuddered, struggling to free itself from the grip of the sea. Swinging helplessly from the steering oar, Hallam prepared himself to go under a second time. Perhaps for the last time.

But they had built a courageous boat, he and Zabby’s uncle. The bows rose sluggishly, the timbers groaning and creaking as it shook itself free, rising heavily, ponderously up the wave, but Hallam knew it would not survive another such dunking. As they crested the wave he dragged on the tiller with the strength of desperation, pushing hard with his bare feet against the deck, and she responded reluctantly, barely turning at all, but enough to set her down the next wave at a slight angle. She took the trough easier, rolling and yawing violently, but not driving under, and climbing free without the burden of water to strain her back.

Hallam was not conscious of passing time, only of the passing waves. As each came he held the shuddering tiller arm hard over, praying it would not break, for each wave was different and seemed higher or more jagged than the one before. He took them as they came, going by instinct, much as he would have on a runaway horse, holding his breath as they careered down into the troughs, then breathing out at every swooping and twisting rise. A tenuous pattern began to form with the sailing, and Hallam allowed a small dose of hope to penetrate his fear. The storm could not last forever, and maybe they had come through the worst of it.

The Persian crawled across to the rail and cut the dead sailor free, and the two Moabite sailors began untangling the ropes around the mast and securing some of the broken timbers that threatened injury to unwary limbs. Seeing them, Hallam felt his confidence surge. Apparently they felt the same, that the worst was over and hope had replaced dull acceptance. Then he realised with a shock that they were trusting the boat to his hands. Their confidence appalled him. They were the sailors, not he. He was a hunter, more at home in the mountain forests than these treacherous mountains of water. Until now his own life had been his only concern. All his actions had been out of sheer desperation, but with the unwelcome responsibility of other lives thrust into his care, it was different. Renewed fear and uncertainty struck him like a blow in the pit of his stomach. Suddenly the boat seemed larger and more threatening. The immensity of it stretched far out before him, its ponderous rising and plunging and twisting a thing of unimaginable power. No single man could ever hope to master so large a beast in so unfriendly a place. It was impossible. Still, when he returned his full attention to the sea, it was with a firm grip on the slender arm of the tiller.

Towards evening the wind eased, but it grew cold with mist and light rain. In the gloom of approaching dark the waves took on an even more ominous look, seeming to tower into the low cloud and become a part of it, with the horizon gone, as if they had been trapped inside some immense boiling cauldron.

From the top of one wave, Hallam was alarmed to see the rounded shape of something floating two waves almost directly ahead. Although he had never seen one, he first thought it must be a whale, and hoped they would not collide, then he saw what appeared to be waving tentacles. It disappeared in the trough and he waited anxiously, the thought going through his mind that it may be some great sea monster searching for prey. It rose again, closer and, peering hard into the gloom, he saw it was a man with frantically waving arms sitting on an overturned boat.

Hallam was faced with yet another terrifying decision. His control of the boat was tenuous and still largely instinctive. The angle he was holding seemed to be working fairly well. Changing it could mean disaster, but he would have to make a small adjustment if he were to try saving the man. He hesitated, grappling with his fear, deciding he could not take the chance and risk more lives. He held grimly to his course, the man would have to take his chances. Then he pushed on the tiller handle. It was almost an involuntary action, without conscious decision. He had no choice. He shouted to catch the Persian’s attention, beckoning urgently and pointing to the overturned boat. He cupped his hand to block the wind. 'We have to pick him up. When we come alongside throw him a rope. I will get as close as I can.'

The Persian gaped in disbelief, first at the waving man, then at Hallam and, for a disturbing moment, Hallam thought he had not understood or was refusing. 'Go!’ he bawled. ‘Or it will be too late!'

The Persian threw up his hands in a gesture of hopelessness and lurched along the deck to obey.

It was thirty cubits from where Hallam stood at the steering oar to the bows, and difficult to see in the fading light. With their erratic movement, it was more by luck than skill that he was able to bring them close to the upturned boat and its madly waving survivor. When he disappeared from view, Hallam thought he had pushed over him. It seemed to take a long time before the Persian finally leaned over the rail and hoisted what looked to be two long bundles over the rail. He passed them to the sailors then returned to help a large black man aboard.

Hallam glanced at the upturned hull as it drifted past. The bottom was laced with a tangle of rigging, and behind trailed a mess of torn sail bearing the distinctive red embroidery of the Sabaens. It was one of the boats that had accompanied them. The mast had obviously snapped and the capsized boat had rolled itself into the rigging.

The Persian finally pulled himself to the rear and gave Hallam the news. 'They are alive,' he panted. 'The slave is strong, but the two girls....' he shook his head. 'I do not think they will live for long.'

'Girls?' Hallam tore his eyes away from the sea long enough to give the Persian a startled glance. 'Are you sure?'

'Very young and sick. Nearly dead.'

Hallam had known that one of the Sabaen boats had on board the family and servant of a high Sabaen official in Serapio. but it had kept apart, so no one had seen them. 'Can you take the steering oar?' he asked.

The Persian pulled on one of his moustaches and took the handle cautiously, and Hallam was almost as reluctant to give it to him. He would not have, had the slight turn across the wave not given him the confidence. He felt as if he were handing the reins of a frisky but favourite horse to a stranger, but he had to see for himself, and he could not do all the steering alone. Sooner or later, he would need help, and the Persian was the only one he could trust. 'Keep it angled into the waves, exactly as it is now,' he advised.

They were indeed girls, and looked to be not more than eleven or twelve years old. Their flimsy summer robes were torn and twisted about their skinny limbs, and they had gone beyond shivering to violent shaking. The black was plump and tearfully thankful. 'O praise the gods, master!’ he cried. ‘And praise for your mercy and our lives. My poor mistresses...'

'They are not saved yet,' Hallam told him. Red welts of rope burn covered much of the girls’ exposed flesh. Short lengths of rope were still fastened to their legs and arms. One of the girls struggled when Hallam tried to turn her over, clutching at the deck in panic and gasping for breath, as if she was still in the water.

‘It’s all right now,’ Hallam soothed. He turned her over and removed the ropes, which must have held her to the overturned boat, and he felt a twinge of admiration for the black man and his presence of mind in what must have been terrifying circumstances. The other girl opened her eyes when he turned her over but her look was glazed and distant. He would have to get them warm soon or they would die of exposure. Hallam was struck by their similarity to each other and looked closer. They were more than similar, they were identical.

The agent and the two sailors were huddled at the base of the mast with their backs to the wind, as unconcerned with events around them as sheep in the rain; trusting their fate to the gods.

The slave fussed over the girls, removing the last of the ropes and covering their nakedness as best he could with the flimsy robes. He stripped to a loincloth and used his wet robe to further cover them. His own plump body, as sleek and hairless as a seal, was apparently impervious to the cold. A eunuch, Hallam surmised.

Thankfully, the Persian seemed to be controlling the boat fairly well, so Hallam looked at the remains of the deck cargo for something he could use for shelter or warmth. But there was only a bundle of timber, a few bales of leather sandals, and two crates of iron goods. Still it seemed to Hallam they could well do without the precarious-looking load. A stack of timber had already killed someone and it could easily happen again. And maybe the boat would sit higher in the water without the unnecessary weight. Fewer waves would wash over the deck, and it may give them a chance to open the hatch and bring out some dry clothing and blankets. It would be risky, but they would have to take the chance. Without some protection they may all perish.

The agent was horrified when Hallam squatted beside him and made the suggestion. 'No! I forbid it! You will have wasted half a year of trading!'

'It is already wasted,' Hallam reminded him. 'And there will be even more waste if the boat sinks and you drown like your friend.'

'But it will not! The storm is over now and tomorrow we will return!'

'Maybe you will show us the way,' Hallam retorted angrily.

'I say if it will help the boat then we should get rid of it,' said one of the sailors, and the other nodded his agreement.

They set about dumping it while the agent sulked at the mast, refusing to help. The reduced weight did not seem to make much difference, although Hallam was sure the boat rode a little higher. After discussing it with the Persian, Hallam removed the hatch cover with the help of the two sailors, then went below himself. The hatch was quickly closed after him, sealing him in the musty hull.

He felt his way around, thankful he had stacked most of the equipment himself so he knew roughly where to look. He found one of the smaller awnings, several blankets, his coat from the prince, and a smoked leg of meat. Only a small amount of water had leaked in, and he gave a grunt of satisfaction. They had built a fine boat, he and Zabby's uncle. He thumped urgently on the hatch to be let out.

With a following wind, the most sheltered place on deck was the wall of the steering deck immediately in front of the tiller. Hallam strung knotted ropes flat across the deck from one rail to the other, onto which safety-ropes could be tied, then he had everyone except the Persian, who was still on the tiller, move there. The awning was doubled over and they crawled between the folds with the blankets, securely held down by the ropes.

Before lashing them down with another rope, Hallam told the slave to remove the girls' wet clothes. 'And yours too,' he said, recalling the cold night he had spent with a dead sheep in the mountains of Lamos. 'You have fat and they do not. They need to share the heat of your body. Hold them close against you, one on either side.'

'Master, I beg you!' he pleaded. 'I could not...'

'Why, are you not gelded?'

'Yes, master, but even so, such a thing cannot be allowed.'

'It must be done, and quickly,’ Hallam growled.

Still scowling furiously, and trying to ignore the four large eyes that stared accusingly at him, Hallam pushed and pulled their thin and shivering naked bodies in close against the reluctant slave, then covered them with several blankets. 'Now pull the awning over your head,' he ordered.

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