Opening Atlantis Read Online Free

tell ’em to. The catch comes first.” That might not have been the Apostles’ Creed, but it was the Fishermen’s.
    â€œDon’t you fret, skipper. Everybody’ll do what needs doing. That’s what we’re here for,” Fenner said.
    Radcliffe nodded without taking the master salter seriously. Telling him not to worry was like telling him not to breathe. Worrying was part of his job—a big part. If the captain didn’t worry, who would? Nobody. And if nobody worried, what would become of the fishing boat when something that people should have been worrying about happened? Nothing good—he was only too sure of that.
    â€œWe’ll fill the hold full—Devil take me if we don’t,” Hugh Fenner said. “We could fill it full two or three times, all the fish we’re taking. Jesus and Mary, we hardly need the hooks and lines. The cod’re so thick, we could dip baskets in the water and take ’em out that way.”
    He was likely right. No wonder François Kersauzon had led them here. This bank had more fish than any one boat could handle. Radcliffe thought it had more fish than a hundred boats could handle, or a thousand. In exchange for the secret, the canny Breton got an extra third of the catch for no extra work. It struck Radcliffe as a good bargain for both sides.
    Whether it would strike Kersauzon the same way five or ten years from now, Edward wasn’t so sure. The St. George would keep coming back, and next time around would owe nothing to the other boat. I can sell the secret, too, if I want to or need to, Radcliffe thought. It wouldn’t last. A secret this big, this rich, couldn’t last long by the nature of things.
    The wind shifted. Radcliffe’s eye automatically went to the rigging, though of course he knew the sail was furled. The breeze had been coming out of the west. Now it swung about so that it blew toward the clouds fixed in the mysterious distance there. Maybe it would shift them at last. He hoped so—he wanted a look at what they hid. He’d heard Kersauzon’s stories about Atlantis, and he’d seen one enormous smoked leg of fowl. All that whetted his appetite, both literally and figuratively.
    As soon as he was sure the swing portended no danger to the cog, he plunged back into the unending labor of gaffing and gutting and salting fish. Some time went by before he looked up again, startled, and realized he’d forgotten to do anything of the kind for much too long.
    Dripping knife in his hand, he stared and stared. Green as England in springtime was his first thought after he finally got a glimpse of…Atlantis. Yes, the name seemed to suit more than well enough. A longer look said his first thought wasn’t quite true. This green was darker, more somber, than that of his native land. But that didn’t mean he didn’t want to see this new countryside up close. Oh, no. It didn’t mean anything of the kind.

    Oars creaked in the oarlocks as the St. George ’s boat neared the shore. Edward waved to François Kersauzon—the Morzen ’s boat was going ashore, too, only a short bowshot away. The Breton skipper waved back. “Is it not as I told you?” he called, his voice thin across the waves.
    â€œSeems that way.” Edward looked over his shoulder, toward the two fishing boats anchored in eight fathoms of water. He didn’t believe in taking chances; he wanted plenty of ocean under his keel. Plainly, Kersauzon felt the same way. That surprised the Englishman not at all—you didn’t get to be a captain if you were reckless. Or, if you did, you didn’t stay a captain long.
    He and his sons and Hugh Fenner and two other fishermen had a longer pull than they would have if he’d brought the St. George into shallower water. So did the Bretons from the Morzen. So what? Edward thought. Anyone who minded work had no business going to sea in the first