Chapter Text
Disclaimer: Voyagers! and its associated characters are registered trademarks of Scholastic Productions, James D. Parriott Productions, and Universal-MCA Entertainment. This story is provided for entertainment purposes only; no copyright infringement is intended by the author.
Acknowledgements: Thanks to Jordre for doing the beta thing on this one, and especially for helping me with the nautical terms and situations. The blame for this tale belongs entirely to Ginger. In Asylum, Bogg says about the Voyager Academy, "I loved it, once I got used to it and learned what a toilet bowl and computer were." I read that line, and suddenly there was this little plot bunny hopping around on my desk...
Plucked!
by
Jake Crepeau
"We’re the people that are plucked out of time and trained to travel through the ages..."
---Phineas Bogg
Chapter 1
They would have had plenty of warning, had it been the usual sort of storm. The first indication was the rough seas, nothing the men hadn’t encountered before. Then the first clouds had been spotted on the horizon, a vague greenish tint to the great billowing cumulus clouds whose anvils disappeared in the heights of the heavens, and the ship began to make for the nearest port. But they were too far out, and the hurricane was moving too quickly.
The seas were impossibly high; it took three men to keep the bow aimed into them. Powerful waves, the likes of which had been known to sweep men overboard, washed over the deck; everyone who could possibly be spared had long since been sent below.
Phineas Bogg was exhausted by the time his relief touched his shoulder, speech having been rendered impractical by the roaring of the winds and waves. Gratefully, he turned to head below, then, barely audible in the raging storm, he heard a flapping, whipping sound. Whirling, his gaze went immediately to the reefed storm sails. Some of the reefing of the mains’l had come undone, and the loose canvas was flapping dangerously, catching too much wind, threatening the brigantine’s already precarious control. With no time to alert the captain, he began roaring orders himself as he scrambled up the rigging, several others swarming up behind him. The footrope swayed beneath them as they worked, the whipping ties raising painful welts on their arms before they could get them secured once more. At length, with much cursing, the job was done, and they made their careful way back to the deck. Hold on, Phineas told his stomach firmly as the pitching of the ship, magnified several times at this height, threatened his equilibrium. Wait ‘til I make it below; then you can be sick.
But the storm had other ideas. The wind picked up even further and set the rigging to vibrating with such force that it weakened his hold; he slowed his descent, wrapping each arm and leg in the lines with each step to keep himself from falling.
It didn’t help. A vicious blast tore his free arm loose, and he let out a cry of pain as he felt the other arm snap. In that same instant, the three steersmen lost their battle with the wheel, and suddenly the waves were coming athwart, rolling the ship so violently that they were in danger of capsizing. At one point, the spar end dipped beneath the water; when it came up again, the gagging, sputtering men continued their descent, but Phineas was not among them.