Chapter Twelve: Redbird's Last Gifts
A couple of hours later Gerbald arrived in camp carrying several full water skins, which were met with great cheer by the thirsty castaways. Their meager and stale supply from the pinnace, augmented by what little rainwater they had been able to capture in the confusion of the storm, had nearly run out, so Gerbald was just in time. After hearing the sad news, and paying his graveside respects to the deceased first mate, Gerbald led them to a delightfully clear spring about half a mile back in the forest that would provide more than enough water for their needs. If that ever failed, he had also found an actual river a few miles farther on, so they were no longer in any danger from dehydration. Everyone felt a piece of their overall tension fall away; the presence of potable water was crucial to survival. Even if all else was hardship, their thirst would be quenched.
Pam turned to the bosun. "It looks like the tide has come in. Have your sailors got enough strength left to go check out the wreck?"
"Why of course we do, Frau Pam. We are Swedes of the royal navy! Stronger than any ten other men, ja, boys?" The men all brought themselves to their feet with a creaky chorus of jas, mustering smiles for the brave Lady Scientist.
Dore took Pam gently by the arm. "Pam, you must promise me to be careful, yes?"
"I will be, Dore. We all will be." Serious-faced Dore looked mostly satisfied at this promise, then clutched at Pam's arm again. "I know you go to look for things we can use from the broken ship. Please, if you can, and only if it is not dangerous, try to find me some more pots and pans! I can make do with only the one, but if I had more to cook with I could provide better comfort for these poor men, and we three as well."
Pam smiled at Dore's always earnest desire to help, and gave her a quick hug. "I will, Dore. That's first on our list—I'm sure the men will all agree. You are the best, Dore, always the best."
Dore blushed at the praise, and hid it with her usual bluff sternness. "Yes, well, I'll be that much better with a soup pot in my hand! Now go, and be careful. All of you!"
The salvage party, including the bosun, all murmured their "Yes, ma'ams" to the feared and revered Most Excellent Cook, as they went to drag the pinnace back into the water.
****
Pam sat in the prow of the long, narrow craft where she could use her birdwatching trained sharp vision to locate any floating prizes while keeping out of the oarsmen's way. Gerbald had declined to come along, preferring to continue his scouting of their new, and hopefully temporary home. The water was incredibly clear, the tide having swept away the roiled murk from the storm. Below them a kaleidoscope of fantastical fish darted and cruised among branches of coral in an undersea garden of fancy. Pam looked back at the horizon, resisting the siren call of the mysterious realm beneath. She wished for a mask and snorkel, and regretted that she could put a name to only a few denizens of these exotic seas, such as the elegant Moorish idols, and the hearty little clownfish guarding their anemone homes. Maybe some day there would be time to study the aquatic world as she wished to, but for now she had other, more pressing matters.
The pinnace carefully approached the rocky point that had taken the Redbird in its crushing embrace. Pam's heart sped up as she waited with dread for the first view of her wrecked ship. She knew it had sustained heavy damage, but maybe, just maybe, they could fix her up, and she could sail again. As it came into sight, that hope was dashed. Pam bit her lip as she saw what little remained of her, the broken spine and ribs of her hull surrounded by splintered wood and damp scraps of torn sails. The men landed the pinnace on a relatively flat stretch of sand from which they clambered up slippery rocks to view the devastation first hand. Pam stood at the water's edge, gazing at the place where her great mission had come to its grievous end.
"So much for rescuing the dodo," she mumbled to herself. "Now we are the ones who are going to need rescuing." Shaking her head in resignation, she gingerly made her way up the tide-bared volcanic rocks. Most of the ship's contents had been smashed by the power of the storm into unrecognizable bits of flotsam and jetsam.
A flash of bright color against the dark stone caught her eye, a canary yellow plastic whistle, still intact. It had been the captain's, a prized possession from the future world he had come across in his travels. It made his absence all the more painful, but she tucked it safely into a pocket of her rucksack, holding onto a wispy hope that she might one day return it to him. She heard one of the sailors, kindly old Fritjoff, the princess' number one fan, calling to her so she made her way over to him. He grinned with his few odd remaining teeth as he pointed down into a wide shallow depression in the rocks filled with lukewarm seawater left behind by the tide.
"Look! Madame's bird wire!" Just under the surface lay one of the rolls of chicken wire that her old friend Willie Ray Hudson had managed to scrounge up for her, in perfect condition except for a festooning of seaweed. She hadn't thought of Grantville for days, and the memory of afternoon lemonades on the much-loved farmer's wide front porch flooded her with nostalgia. Suddenly she missed Grantville, badly, and wondered if she would ever see it again.
"You want us to retrieve it, don't you?" Fritjoff asked her shyly, having seen the sad look pass across her face.
"Yes, please do. It could still be of some use. We don't know how long we'll be here . . ."
Fritjoff nodded respectfully, then climbed down into the depression to manhandle the heavy roll up out of the pool. Pam was astonished at his strength and agility, considering his octogenarian looks. He's probably only in his sixties! This world is so hard on people. Soon he and another sailor, sturdy Arne, were hauling it down to the pinnace. Little by little as they sifted through the broken remains of Redbird, they found other small prizes; a length of good rope here, a box of copper nails there. To their eyes it was pretty fair salvage; they would by no means be coming back empty-handed. Pam saw the bosun and a few of the sailors standing near one of the ships' surviving ribs, a curved finger of wood pointing at the bright southern skies. Pam made her way over to see what they were up to.
"It is one of the cannon, Frau Pam!" The bosun announced with a bright tone of excitement in his voice, hoarse from shouting orders at sailors. "The new type, the carronade made with the Grantville designs! It is still usable! We just have to gather up the balls scattered about here, and we brought plenty of gunpowder with us on the pinnace!"
Pam looked down at the big metal weapon still connected to a section of broken ship's wood. It shone brightly in the sunlight, retaining its polish despite the rough handling.
"Okay . . . but what good does this do us? We don't have a ship anymore."
The bosun nodded. "Even with no ship, this gun can protect us. We can mount it on the shore. If an enemy ship comes to our cove, then boom! It is better than throwing coconuts!" This made everybody chuckle, even if a bit grimly.
"Can we get it back to shore?"
"Yes, I think so. It is very heavy, but we have tools. Tomorrow we will come back for it. Now the tide is returning and we must go. I think this won't be floating away!" They left the elegant-looking cannon behind for later retrieval, but the men didn't wait to haul the tremendously heavy barrel of ammunition back to the pinnace. They would take no chances there.
The sturdy little boat rode lower in the water on the return trip, burdened with the weight of their prizes. Pam smiled, looking down at the variety of metal pots, pans, and cutlery they had recovered. That would make Dore very, very happy. Maybe our luck will change? Pam mused, but didn't dwell on the thought, not wanting to jinx it.
That night they passed around a big bottle of kirschwasser that had miraculously survived the storm, and a bit of good cheer came back into the group. They were not in a good situation, not at all, but it could have been much worse, and they were all doing their best to improve it. Pam tried not to think of the dodos she had come to save, and the abrupt end of her quest to forge a colony that might truly coexist with nature, having learned from all the terrible mistakes of her own time. Instead, she swallowed as much of the cherry-flavored liquor as the men did, and drifted off into an exhausted slumber. If she dreamed that night she knew not.