The Expedition Begins
In which the gerbils mobilise...
By breakfast the following morning it had become apparent that the Bluestocking had interpreted “Atlantic pursuit” as a fully operational logistical category.
Nobody was entirely certain when the transformation had occurred.
At dawn The Dreadnork had still resembled an improbable rescue expedition held together largely by determination, sea air and @Swashbuckled's complete inability to recognise practical limitations.
By eight o’clock it was beginning to resemble a functioning maritime operation. Barrels had appeared. Nobody knew from where.
Coils of rope now occupied parts of the deck that had definitely been empty the previous evening. Sailcloth was drying neatly across the stern rail. Someone had produced lantern oil, spare charts, medical supplies, waterproofs, smoked fish, three crates of biscuits and what appeared to be a disturbingly comprehensive emergency jam inventory.
@JanesLittleGirl had somehow taken command of the aft cargo arrangements less than an hour after boarding.
“This is appalling load distribution,” she announced, staring at a stack of barrels with personal disappointment. “Who secured this?”
Several gerbils looked faintly embarrassed.
Far overhead Batshit swung joyfully through the rigging screaming, “ATLAAAAAAANTIC!”
Octavia Briefcase emerged cautiously from below deck carrying a cup of coffee and the expression of an ocelot slowly realising she had accidentally joined a seventeenth-century naval campaign.
“Why,” she asked carefully, “are there now more barrels?”
“No idea,” said @Thehorticulturalhussie cheerfully, “but they're bound to come in useful.”
At that moment three capybaras emerged from the forward hatch carrying timber. Nobody questioned this either.
Behind them, unnoticed by almost everybody, several hundred gerbils carrying trays of tea and industrial quantities of Tunnocks Teacakes had somehow already appeared aboard ship.
Tiny voices drifted politely across the deck.
“Tea, madam?”
“Extra marshmallows?”
“Careful, starboard side please.”
“Mind the cannon.”
Octavia stopped walking. She turned slowly.
The gerbils continued flowing around the ship in impossibly organised streams carrying mugs, blankets, clipboards and baked goods with the calm efficiency of a small but highly disciplined naval bureaucracy.
“Where,” asked Octavia, “did all these gerbils come from?”
“The Bluestocking,” said @Magpiecomplex, as though this explained organised maritime deployment perfectly.
Ahead of them the Rustler remained visible only intermittently now. Sometimes the yacht vanished completely before reappearing briefly as a pale shard against the western horizon. Swashbuckled watched it steadily from the helm.
“We’re losing ground,” said Octavia quietly.
“Mm,” said Swashbuckled. “But not quickly.”
The wind remained steady from the south, filling the great square sails with a deep rolling thunder every time the ship shifted across the swell.
@RandomHypatia was already seated beside the mainmast surrounded by charts, books and several increasingly stressed-looking navigational gerbils. “This heading still makes sense for Maine,” she said without looking up. “If they continue north-west once clear of the Channel approaches.”
“Assuming they continue directly,” said Hedgehog.
“They won’t,” said Gosie immediately.
Everybody looked at her.
“The yacht kept stopping,” she said. “Not for repairs. For meetings. Deliveries. Something organised.”
Hedgehog nodded grimly. “The manifests suggest staging points all along the route.”
“That,” said Octavia, “is not reassuring.”
“No,” said Hedgehog. “But it does mean they may remain within reach longer than expected.”
A loud crash sounded from somewhere below deck.
JanesLittleGirl’s voice followed immediately afterwards. “WHO STORED PICKLED ONIONS NEXT TO THE BLACK POWDER?”
Back at the Bluestocking the situation had become both maritime and administrative.
The gerbils were deep in discussion about maps, inventories, rope samples, shipping schedules and increasingly heated theories concerning waterproof biscuit storage.
Nobody appeared entirely certain who was in charge. This did not seem to matter.
Geranium was directing emergency baking operations with the grim focus of someone preparing for a prolonged naval siege. Glandular had somehow acquired three ledger books and was attempting to create a transatlantic supply tracking system despite not fully understanding what a transatlantic crossing actually involved.
Near the fireplace, two guinea pigs were sorting potatoes by emotional resilience.
The gerbils had divided naturally into specialist departments overnight. Hospitality gerbils circulated continuously with tea. Shipping gerbils had occupied the long tables and were now surrounded by manifests, rulers and tiny handwritten labels. Several engineering gerbils were constructing something pulley-related in the corner.
Nobody asked.
@AngleofRepose stood beside the bar watching the whole operation with mild astonishment. “It’s becoming rather organised,” she observed.
“That’s usually a warning sign,” said MyrtleLion.
Outside, @ErrolTheDragon's enormous shadow passed slowly across the windows once again as another load of supplies vanished skyward towards The Dreadnork. Nobody even looked up.
At one table @NotAtMyAge narrowed her eyes thoughtfully over the rim of an alarming quantity of coffee. “Well,” she said, “with my Viking ancestry, it does rather seem possible that a longboat may shortly become relevant.”
There was a pause.
MyrtleLion said cautiously, “How many Vikings are we talking about exactly?”
“Difficult to say,” said NotAtMyAge. “Historically we did tend to arrive in batches.”
Maud stopped polishing glasses. MyrtleLion looked wary immediately. Angle closed one eye briefly in the manner of someone recognising danger approaching from a great distance across open water. “Oh no,” she said quietly. “Please tell me you do not actually own a longboat.”
“Oh certainly not,” said NotAtMyAge. “That would be ridiculous.”
Another pause followed.
“…however,” she added, “my cousin Runehild does know a woman in Orkney.”
Several people closed their eyes.
Angle looked up sharply. “Actual Orkney or symbolic Orkney?”
“Actual Orkney,” said NotAtMyAge.
This somehow made matters much worse. “Well,” she continued thoughtfully, “ceremonial longboats are usually much easier to obtain.”
Nobody liked the direction this was taking.
“Why,” asked Angle carefully, “is there a distinction?”
“People become oddly enthusiastic if one mentions festivals,” said NotAtMyAge. “One can generally acquire at least three longboats, six extremely committed Norsewomen and a folk band within about forty-eight hours.”
There was silence.
“And the practical kind?” asked MyrtleLion cautiously.
“Oh,” said NotAtMyAge. “Those belong to the serious Scandinavians."
From the far side of the room came the sound of hurried whispering among the gerbils. One of them produced a clipboard labelled, POSSIBLE VIKING EVENTUALITIES.
“Absolutely not,” said MyrtleLion immediately.
Nobody had actually suggested using a Viking longboat yet, but the mood in the room had already shifted from “surely not” to “well, if one must acquire Vikings, best do it properly.”
A low shape appeared alongside The Dreadnork shortly before dusk.
At first Octavia assumed it was another basking shark moving slowly across the Atlantic swell. Then the shape lifted cleanly on the water and she realised with horror that it possessed oars.
A longboat slid across the darkening sea with unnerving speed and complete steadiness. Six extremely solid-looking women were rowing with the calm concentration of people who considered the North Atlantic a personal acquaintance.
NotAtMyAge arrived alongside The Dreadnork as though pulling up beside a moving seventeenth-century galleon in open water were an entirely ordinary social call.
“Ahoy!” she called out. “We brought supplies.”
https://myrtlelion.substack.com/p/the-expedition-begins