Year 2183 of the Empire (since Foundation Year)
Year 979 of the Third Era of Empire (Dragonheart Line)
Martis, the thirteenth day of First Seed
Mid-morning
The number thirteen has always been considered an unlucky number, and to a superstitious sailor, extra prayers are sent to every god imaginable to keep a sailor safe whenever the date turns thirteen. And before the date hit thirteen, our moods were always low. On the ninth day of First Seed, Saturni, the weather took a turn for the worse. We had experienced storms at sea between the coast and the reef.
A storm while journeying across the ocean was a thing unimaginable. The barrelman at the crow's nest was the first to call out the warning of the incoming dark clouds. A few of us gathered at the bow, watching the grey near black clouds approach. "The gods are angry," I heard Pressly mutter.
There was no time to waste. This looked like it would be the storm to end all storms. "Batten down the hatches. Secure the rigging and sails. Anyone not required on deck, get them below," I ordered, turning towards my officers, "You know your jobs. Get the
Normandy
secure before it arrives. This is going to get nasty."
The whole lot saluted and hurried off to their stations. I could hear orders being yelled, but it wasn't just the yelling that captured the attention, I could hear the concern in their tones. I didn't blame them one bit. Already the ocean was starting to swell, a sure sign that the sea would soon turn rough, and only the skill of sailors and the will of the gods would see us through.
When it arrived, the storm battered us immediately. I stood at the bridge and would not move until we were through, or until I was so thoroughly exhausted, I would need carrying to quarters. Moreau had roped his hands and arms to the wheel, insisting he would remain too. Master Pressly looped rope around his waist and then to the quarterdeck railing. The one main fear any man on deck had was of being swept overboard. If that happened during a storm, the only outcome was death.
The Ninth of First Seed was our worst day at sea so far. Waves towered over us, covering the deck in saltwater, throwing our ship around as if it was weightless. The wind was relentless, though it was not a cold wind. The water was cool but the wind surprisingly warm. That might help the crew not suffer the after effects of being soaked for hours on end.
By the Thirteenth of First Seed, we were all exhausted on our feet. Barely any of us had slept since the Ninth. Apparently the decks below were covered in vomit as even the hardiest of sailors had to give in. The only words muttered by any man by now, whether officer or enlisted man, was of a prayer to the Five, to keep us safe, to keep us alive, to get us through the storm.
The bravest man on the
Normandy
was the barrelman high above us. There was no chance we could hear a word he said, so he was given a red cloth so we could see it against the white sails or black sky. He was given one instruction. To wave that cloth if he saw clear skies anywhere around us. For four days now, we had not seen that red cloth.
We were all drenched. Tired. Irritable. Hungry. But we ate little food. Many of us would just throw it up again later. As captain, I should remain calm and in charge at all times, but even I was irritated by now, my orders short and curt. The men and women below me would understand. They were suffering even more than I. But tiredness was the main problem. Sailors hated sleeping during the storms. If you were asleep and the worst happened, the chances of getting out were slim. More than one boat of the Empire had sunk during a storm, and it was fact that the lower the deck, the less chance of survival. Being a sailor was a brutal life at times, the chance of death sometimes high, and the way one could die could be utterly horrific.
The angles at which the
Normandy
was riding the waves defied belief, and I could only hope everything below my feet was secured. I know stewards immediately secured everything in the officer's quarters. Cannons would be wheeled and held by rope in a fashion which would hopefully stop them rolling back and forth, gods forbidding if the rope snapped. I'd heard more than one story of men being crushed by out of control cannons.
Standing on the quarterdeck, feeling the
Normandy
plummet down a wave as if falling down a mountain, only to immediately rise up and climb as if climbing that same mountain. The incline was sometime so steep, I was sure we would capsize. But Moreau had kept us safe so far. He knew exactly what to do. Never turn on a wave, except if our angle was so steep, we'd roll over. But a line of men remained on deck, shouting what they could see around us, hoping to guide us towards still water. There was no real such thing during a storm. It was more in hope than expectation.
I checked my pocket watch. It was now mid-afternoon. All I wanted was sleep. I don't think that was too much to ask. I was thankful I didn't feel too cold, though I wanted out of my wet clothes. Once the storm past, and I had a chance, I would strip until I was nude and walk around my cabin that way until I felt dry once again.
"Sir!" Pressly called out, "The flag! The flag!"
I looked up to see the barrelman waving the red flag, almost in desperation. Through the wind and the rain, it was impossible to hear his shouts. I'm sure he could barely see me. I took out my white handkerchief and signalled him in return. Incredibly bravely, he climbed out of the nest and clambered down the rigging. More than once he lost footing, and I was sure I was about to see him plummet. But he made it to the deck and ran towards us, stopping to salute. "Daylight, sir."
"Which way, sailor?"
Pressly called him to the compass and gave him a very quick lesson. The sailor understood and managed to relay what he thought. He turned and pointed. "That way. You should see the first blue sky in minutes."
"Moreau, turn twenty degrees to port immediately." Pressly then looked at me as this would be my decision. Slow and careful or hard and fast?
"Boatswain, hoist the sails and unfurl the spinnaker. We're getting the hell out of this storm!"
"Aye-aye, sir!"
Turning to the barrelman, I said, "Head below decks, sailor. Send your replacement up."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
With the wind at our backs and the sails now billowing, the
Normandy
surged forward. The sea was still treacherous, but knowing that daylight beckoned, and hopefully calmer seas, after four days of it, everyone would have happily taken this chance to escape. I had no idea what speed in knots we were soon doing. I wasn't concerned about that. I just wanted out of the damned storm. The ship still rode the waves, but with each passing minute, at the speed we were now surging, we could feel the swell of the waves drop, each ride taking less time and nowhere near as steep.
It was dark by the time we'd escaped the worse, and I wasn't the only one to feel a sense of relief when the clouds above us started to part, and for the first time in days, we could see the stars and faint moonlight. Moreau, who'd barely left the wheel the entire time, practically slumped against it, Pressly and I immediately grabbing him, untying the ropes that had cut into his wrists and arms, and we helped him back to his cot, where he'd built himself at least a cover from the worst of the weather.
"Call the night helmsman, Mister Pressly. But give it another couple of hours, and we're going to drop anchor and clear up. We all need a rest."
"Aye, sir. I'll pass the word."
I looked down to see Moreau was already asleep. I had nothing dry to cover him with but at least the rain had stopped, and it still wasn't cold. I figured he should be okay.
Gathering the officers around, I stared issuing orders. Damage assessments and conditions of the decks. Conditions of the men. Prepare the doctor's for an influx of patients. I asked Leliana to head down the next morning to help out. Once the sun rose the next day, we'd check the sails and send men over the side to assess any damage to the hull. It was doubtful, but better being safe than sorry.
I ordered anchor to drop once the ocean felt calm enough. Glancing back from the stern, it was clear even to me that the storm was heading away from our position. Walking to the bow, there was nothing but clear night sky. I couldn't help lean forward, hands against the side of the ship, the tiredness near enough overwhelming me.
"Are you okay, sir?"
"I'm fine, Lieutenant. Like everyone else, just a little tired and worn out." I turned back to Miranda, who looked very pale in the moonlight. "How are you?"
"I think my stomach is still doing loops, and I could sleep for a day."
"We'll get the ship in working order first, then I'll give everyone a chance to relax and recover. Hopefully the sun comes out and we can dry ourselves out at the same time."
She groaned. "I haven't even looked at our wardroom yet."
"The floor will be wet, but as long as everything was secure, it should be fine."
Wandering back to my quarters, Jeeves and a couple of sailors were helping return my cabin to normalcy. I'd barely been inside it during the entire storm, sleeping for no longer than an hour or two at a time. My bed looked warm and inviting, but first I needed something to eat, then fill in the official log and write in my diary. Jeeves offered me a drink, which I declined, though asked for a little food to be brought in.
Thankfully my cabin was relatively dry, the windows and doors being shut to keep the worst of the weather out. The floor was a little wet, but that was simply part of life at sea. Everything got wet eventually.
