"Paul Kearney - Monarchies of God 1 - Hawkwoods Voyage" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kearney Paul)

“It’s an unlucky ship that coasts in from the empty west and no sign of life aboard,” another muttered.
“There’s naught out there but a thousandscore leagues of unsailed sea, and beyond that the very rim of
the earth.”

“There may be men alive aboard her in need of help,” the skipper said sternly. His son gazed at him with
round eyes. For a moment, the stares of all his crew were fixed on his face. He felt them like he did the
warmth of the sun, but his seamed visage revealed nothing as he made his decision.

“We’ll close with her. Jakob, set the forecourse, brace her round. Gorm, get these nets in and hail the
other boats. They should stay. There’s a good shoal here, too good to let by.”

The crew leapt to their tasks, some sullen, some excited. The yawl was two-masted, the mizzen stepped
abaft the rudder head. She would have to beat into the landward breeze to board the carrack. Men on
the other boats paused in the hauling of their catch to watch as the yawl closed on her goal. The bigger
vessel was broadside on to the swell, listing to starboard as the waves broke on her windward side. As
the yawl drew close, her crew broke out sweeps and strained at the heavy oars whilst the skipper and a
few others stood poised on the gunwale, ready to make the perilous leap on to the side of the carrack.

She towered darkly above them now, a looming giant, her running rigging flying free, the lateen yard on
her mizzen a mere stump and the thick wales that lined her side smashed and splintered as though she had
squeezed through a narrow place. There was no sign of life, no reply to the skipper’s hail. Surreptitiously,
men at the sweeps paused in their labour to make the Sign of the Saint at their breasts.

The skipper leapt, grunted at the impact as he hit the carrack’s side, hauled himself over her rail and
stood panting. The others followed, two with their dirks in their teeth as if they expected to fight their way
aboard. And then the yawl drew off, her mate putting her about on the port tack. She would heave to,
keep the wind on her weather bow and ride out the breeze. The skipper waved at her as she eased
away.

The carrack was wallowing low in the water and the wind was working on her high fore- and
sterncastles. There was no sound but the hiss and lap of the sea, the creak of wood and rigging, the
thump of a staved cask that rolled back and forth in the scuppers. The skipper raised his head as he
caught the whiff of corruption. He met the knowing gaze of old Jakob. They nodded at each other. There
was death aboard, corpses rotting somewhere.

“The Blessed Ramusio preserve us, let it not be the plague,” one man said hoarsely, and the skipper
scowled.

“Hold your tongue, Kresten. You and Daniel see what you can do to put her before the wind. It’s my
belief her seams are working in this swell. We’ll see if we can’t get her into Abrusio before she spews her
oakum and sinks her bow.”

“You’re going to bring her in?” Jakob asked.

“If I can. We’ll have to look below though, see if she’s anywhere near settling.” The roll of the ship made
him lurch a little. “Wind’s picking up. That’s all to the good if we can get her head round. Come, Jakob.”

He pushed open one of the doors in the sterncastle and entered the darkness beyond. The bright blue
day was cut off. He could hear Jakob padding barefoot and breathing heavily behind him in the sudden
gloom. He stopped. The ship heaved like a dying thing under his feet—that smell of putrefaction, stronger