The Story of Froggy, by Arealius the Sailor, Scribe of Port Olni
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Gor is Copyrighted by John Norman
By Arealius the Sailor, Scribe of Port Olni
I was young when I first sailed the Thassa—too young, too soft, and far too eager to believe that a scribe’s training would shield me from the ugliness of the world. I boarded the *Red Wake* with ink‑stained fingers and a head full of numbers, thinking the ledger would be my greatest burden.
I often think back to the first time I saw the Thassa as a sailor rather than a land‑bound scribe. From the quays of Kassau it gleamed like hammered metal, that vast copper‑green expanse stretching farther than any map I had ever drawn. The sea there has a strange sheen to it, as though the sun itself were trapped beneath the surface, flickering through the waves like a dying lantern. I remember standing on the pier with my travel pack slung over one shoulder, feeling impossibly small before that endless water. I had copied a thousand accounts of the Thassa in the archives of Olni, but nothing in ink had ever captured its living presence — its breath, its moods, it's quiet promise of both wonder and death.
I was wrong.
That ship — the Red Wake — would become the stage for one of the darkest voyages of my life, a journey that taught me more about cruelty, cowardice, and the strange shapes of courage than any scroll or teacher ever had. And though I boarded her as a scribe, eager to tally cargo and earn my keep, I left her as something else entirely — older, sadder, and carrying memories I still struggle to set down on these pages. What follows is the truth of that voyage, as I remember it.
I had no idea that the true burden would be the memory of Captain Vascus of Tenitium. Vascus was a man who fed on fear. He enjoyed it the way other men enjoy wine or music. He savored the flinch of a sailor’s shoulders, the tremble in a bond‑maid’s voice, the way silence fell whenever he stepped onto the deck. He was not merely strict—he was a man who took pleasure in the discomfort of others, who sought it out, who cultivated it.
And he had a particular fascination with the Luck Girl. We took her on in Kassau. A northern bond‑maid, barely more than a child, small and quiet and already bruised by life. Vascus named her *Liberty* with a curl of his lip, as though the word itself were a joke he alone understood. He made her stand at the prow in the cold dawn winds, made her dance when the crew was weary, made her recite northern charms so he could mock her accent. He never crossed the lines that would have brought the wrath of the sea upon him, but the way he watched her—the way he delighted in her fear was its own kind of violation. And I… I did nothing. I was young, frightened, and ashamed even then of how quickly I learned to keep my head down.
The crew fared no better. Vascus beat men for slow work, branded them for imagined slights, and punished them for the smallest mistakes. Two sailors deserted in Kassau, slipping into the forests rather than endure another day under him. The rest of us stayed because we needed coin or had nowhere else to go. The ship felt cursed long before the storm ever touched us.
When we rounded the Farnacium Horn, the sea rose against us like a living thing. The sky turned black, the wind screamed, and the *Red Wake* bucked beneath us as though trying to throw us all into the deep. Vascus only grew more vicious in the storm. He blamed the crew for every snapped rope, every loose barrel, every groan of the hull. And when one sailor claimed he heard Liberty whistling—a forbidden act aboard any ship—Vascus seized upon it with glee.
He dragged her onto the deck in the middle of the gale, rain lashing her face, lightning turning her into a trembling silhouette. He made her dance again, slipping barefoot on the slick planks while the men watched in miserable silence. Some laughed nervously, others looked away, but none intervened. I stood there with my ledger soaked through, my heart pounding, and I did nothing. I still feel the heat of that shame.
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The storm worsened. The ship groaned. The men muttered that Liberty had cursed us. Vascus encouraged it, whispering poison into their ears, feeding their fear because it amused him to see them turn on someone weaker.
It was during one of those nights—when the wind howled like a beast and the deck pitched so violently that even seasoned sailors crawled—that I discovered Liberty’s secret. I had gone into the hold to check the cargo lashings and heard a faint squeak. At first I thought it was a frevet, but then I saw her crouched behind a stack of barrels, cradling a small gray urt in her hands. The creature blinked up at me with bright, terrified eyes. “He’s mine,” she whispered. “His name is Froggy.”
I stared at her, stunned. In the midst of all this misery, she had found something to care for—something small and helpless, something she protected even when she could barely protect herself. I should have reported it. Vascus would have beaten her for it. But I didn’t. I simply nodded and walked away, feeling something twist painfully in my chest.
But secrets do not survive long aboard a ship ruled by a man like Vascus. He found Froggy two nights later. He descended into the hold to inspect a loose barrel and heard the urt squeak. When he saw the nest Liberty had made for it, his face lit with a terrible joy. He dragged her onto the deck again, shouting to the crew that she sheltered vermin, that she cursed the ship, that she was the reason the sea sought to kill us.
The men were exhausted, terrified, and ready to believe anything. He demanded the urt be brought to him. No one moved. Even the bravest among us hesitated. The storm had pushed us to the edge; Vascus pushed us past it.
Liberty stepped forward before anyone else could. “If you want my Froggy,” she said, her youthful voice shaking but steady, “you take him from me.”
I will never forget that moment. The wind roared. The sea rose. Lightning split the sky. And that tiny girl stood defiant before a man who had broken stronger souls. Vascus lunged for her. Froggy scrambled onto the deck, squeaking in terror. The urt darted beneath the captain’s feet just as he stepped back to strike her. He slipped. The crew saw it. They saw him stagger. They saw Liberty standing behind him, unbroken. And in that instant, something snapped.
Harl, one of the sailors, moved first. He stepped between Liberty and the captain, telling Vascus that enough was enough. Vascus drew his blade. Harl lunged. The deck erupted into chaos. Men who had been cowed for weeks suddenly found their courage—or their desperation. The storm raged around us, the ship pitching violently as steel clashed and fists flew.
Then the mainmast cracked. It fell across the deck with a sound like the world ending, crushing two men and tearing the rigging to shreds. The *Red Wake* heeled so sharply I thought she would roll. Water poured over the rail. Men screamed. And in the chaos, Vascus was swept toward the edge. I saw him reach for the rail. I saw his fingers slip. And then he was gone, swallowed by the storm he had tried to command.
When dawn came, the sea was calmer, but the ship was broken. Half the crew was dead. The mast was gone. The bilge flooded faster than we could pump it. And Liberty—soaked, trembling, clutching Froggy to her chest—stood alive at the center of the wreckage.
The men looked at her differently after that. Some with awe. Some with fear. Some with the uneasy belief that she had somehow survived by the favor of forces they did not understand. She became a symbol, though she never asked to be one.
We limped toward Lydus under a makeshift sail. The harbor watchtowers sounded their alarms when they saw us, a half‑wrecked Tyrosian ship drifting into their harbor. Their commander demanded to know what had happened, and when his eyes fell on Liberty, he stiffened. “A northern Luck Girl,” he said. “And you bring her into my port after a storm like that?”
The crew shifted uneasily. Some muttered that she brought fortune. Others whispered that she brought death. Harl stepped between her and the commander, telling him she was under his protection. The Lydusan commander told Harl that he might share her fate. Harl did not flinch. He was a mere sailor like the rest of us, but he was Gorean and could not abandon her despite her only being a bond.
We docked under guard. The people of Lydus gathered to stare at us—at our broken ship, our haunted faces, and the girl who had survived when stronger men had not. Froggy perched on her shoulder, squeaking nervously, and the crowd recoiled as though the creature itself were an omen. Perhaps it was an omen of impending cruelty and the punishment the Priest Kings rewarded men of Gor who lived without honor.
I often think back on that voyage. On the storm. On the mutiny. On Liberty standing barefoot and barely clothed on the deck, refusing to surrender the only thing in the world that had shown her kindness. I remember how I stood by, silent and afraid, while Vascus tormented her and the crew. I remember the shame of it. I still feel it.
But I also remember the moment she stood up to him—and the moment the sea took him instead.
Sometimes, when I think of her, I wonder what became of Froggy.
In the Middle Ages, a crew of 15 men would most likely serve on a mid-sized, single-masted Hanseatic Cog, typical of the late 13th to mid-14th centuries.
While the newer, two-masted "super cogs" of the 15th century were larger, the classic merchant cog was prized specifically because it required a very small crew relative to its size, making it the most profitable "bulk carrier" of the Middle Ages.
1. The Likely Ship: A "Standard" Hanseatic Cog
A 15-man crew was the "sweet spot" for a merchant vessel of this era. They were enough to handle the massive square sail, man the windlass for the anchor, and defend the ship from small-scale piracy.
Type: Single-masted, clinker-built merchant cog.
Length: Approximately 20 to 25 meters (65 to 82 feet).
Beam (Width): About 7 to 8 meters (23 to 26 feet).
Features: It would feature a flat bottom (for "beaching" in tidal ports), a stern-mounted rudder, and high "castles" at the front and back for defense.
2. Payload Capacity: The "120 to 200 Ton" Range
Based on archaeological finds like the famous Bremen Cog (built in 1380), a crew of 15 to 20 men typically managed a ship with a capacity of:
Tonnage: 120 to 200 tons (or "tons burthen").
In "Stones": Roughly 19,000 to 32,000 stones.
In "Lasts": Medieval merchants often measured in "Lasts" (a unit of volume). A ship this size would carry about 60 to 100 lasts.
3. Crew-to-Cargo Efficiency
The cog was revolutionary because of its efficiency. To put that 15-man crew into perspective:
Medieval Cog: 1 man per 10–13 tons of cargo.
Viking Knarr: 1 man per 2–3 tons of cargo.
Modern Container Ship: 1 person per 8,000+ tons (for comparison).
By using a single, large square sail and a sturdy hull that didn't require rowing, a 15-man crew could move as much grain or timber as a massive caravan of 200+ horses, which is why the Hanseatic League dominated European trade for centuries.
Quick Fact: If that same 15-man crew were on a military mission instead of a merchant one, they would likely be supplemented by 20–30 archers or "men-at-arms" to defend the cargo, but for standard trade, 15 was the "minimal operational crew."
The Daily Routine: Watch and Work
The crew was typically divided into two "watches" that rotated every four hours.
The Master (Captain): He didn't just steer; he was the navigator and final authority.
The Mate: The foreman of the deck who directed the 15 sailors.
The Tasks: Much of the day was spent on maintenance—tarring ropes to prevent rot, repairing sails, and "pumping the bilges." Because cogs were clinker-built (overlapping planks), they leaked constantly. One or two men were almost always on the pump.
The Diet: Beer and Hardship
Food was the highlight and the lowlight of the day. There was no "mess hall"; men ate on deck or huddled near the cargo.
Liquid Bread (Beer): This was the most important supply. Water went foul quickly in wooden barrels, so the crew drank "small beer" (low alcohol). A 15-man crew would carry thousands of gallons for a month-long voyage.
Hardtack & Pease Pudding: They ate rock-hard biscuits that had to be soaked in liquid to be edible, and a thick porridge made of dried peas.
Salted Protein: Salted pork or "stockfish" (dried cod so hard it had to be beaten with a hammer before cooking).
The "Fire Hearth": Cooking was done on a firebox—a bed of sand or bricks on the wooden deck. If the weather was too rough, no fire could be lit, meaning the men ate cold, raw salt-meat for days.
Sleeping and Living Conditions
On a 150-ton cog, there were no cabins for the crew.
The Deck: In good weather, men slept on the open deck.
The "Aftercastle": The Captain and perhaps the passengers might have a small, cramped cabin under the rear high deck.
The Cargo Hold: In bad weather, the crew crawled on top of the cargo (wool bales, grain sacks, or timber). It was dark, smelled of bilge water and damp wool, and was often infested with urts.
Clothing: There were no "uniforms." Men wore heavy wool tunics and leather boots, which, once soaked by sea spray, would stay wet for the entire voyage. "Salt sores" on the skin were a constant medical issue.
The Perils
A 15-man crew faced three major threats every day:
The Weather: A cog’s single square sail made it difficult to sail "into the wind." If a storm blew them toward a rocky lee shore, they were often helpless.
Piracy: "Victual Brothers" (privateers/pirates) were a constant threat in the Baltic and North Seas. The 15 crew members would have to grab crossbows and pikes to defend the high "castles" of the ship.
Scurvy: On longer voyages (like to Iceland or the Mediterranean), the lack of fresh fruit meant teeth would loosen and old wounds would reopen.
The End of the Voyage: "The Pay-Off"
The reason men endured this was the pay. Sailors on cogs were often allowed a small amount of space in the hold for their own "private trade." A sailor might bring a single bale of furs or a small barrel of wax to sell at the destination, which could earn him more than his actual wages.
To prepare for a three-week voyage across the North Sea or Baltic, the Purser or Master had to calculate supplies meticulously. There were no grocery stops at sea, and if the wind died down, a three-week trip could easily turn into five.
For a 15-man crew, the provisions for 21 days would look approximately like this:
1. The "Liquid Gold" (Hydration)
Water in wooden barrels grew algae and "ropiness" within days. Beer was the primary source of hydration because the boiling process and alcohol content kept it safer to drink.
Beer: ~315–400 gallons. (Calculated at about 1 gallon per man, per day). This was "small beer," which provided calories and hydration without making the crew too drunk to work the ropes.
Water: ~100 gallons. Used primarily for cooking pease pudding or soaking salt-meat.
2. The "Hard" Rations (Calories)
The goal was density and shelf-life. Everything was dried, salted, or pickled.
Ship’s Biscuit (Hardtack): ~350–400 lbs. These were twice-baked flour-and-water disks. They were so hard they could break teeth; sailors often banged them on the deck to shake out the weevils (bugs) before soaking them in beer.
Salted Pork or Beef: ~250 lbs. Kept in heavy brine barrels. It was incredibly salty and had to be soaked in fresh water before boiling to be even remotely edible.
Stockfish (Dried Cod): ~150 lbs. A staple of the Hanseatic trade. It was light, didn't rot, and provided high protein, though it tasted like "salted cardboard" until boiled.
3. The "Fillers" (Volume)
Dried Peas: ~2 bushels (approx. 120 lbs). When boiled into "pease pudding," these expanded to provide a hot, filling (though bland) meal.
Butter/Lard: ~25–30 lbs. Packed in crocks. Fat was essential for energy in the cold North Sea winds.
Cheese: ~40 lbs. Usually hard, low-fat "shelf-stable" cheeses that resisted mold.
4. Essential Survival Gear (The "Ship's Stores")
Beyond food, the crew needed supplies to keep the "floating machine" running:
A merchant cog wasn't just a ship; it was a mobile ecosystem. Urts were an absolute certainty. If you were a sailor on a 15-man cog, you wouldn't be asking if there were urts, but rather how many and how bold they were.
To a Gorean Urt, a cog was a "floating paradise" full of grain, leather, and ropes, with no natural predators besides the occasional ship’s fervent (weasel).
1. The Population Density
While we don't have exact "census" data for 14th-century urts, historical estimates for wooden sailing ships of similar size suggest a ship of 150–200 tons could easily support hundreds of urts.
The "Doubling" Effect: A single pair of urts can produce up to 2,000 descendants in a year. On a three-week voyage, if the ship wasn't "de-ratted" in port, the population would explode, especially if the cargo was edible (like grain or dried fish).
The "Cannibal" Phase: If a ship stayed at sea too long and food ran low, the urts would turn on each other or begin to nibble on the sleeping crew's hair and toes.
2. How They Got Aboard
Gorean ports would be the "breeding hubs" of the urts.
The Mooring Lines: Urts are world-class tightrope walkers. They would run up the thick hemp ropes connecting the cog to the stone quay at night.
The Cargo: They were often carried aboard inside the very cargo the 15-man crew worked so hard to load—hidden in wool bales, grain sacks, or crates of fruit.
3. The Damage They Caused
The urts weren't just a nuisance; they were a financial and safety hazard.
The Rigging: Urts have teeth that never stop growing, so they must gnaw to trim them. They would chew through expensive hemp rigging and sails, which could be catastrophic in a storm.
The Water Casks: One of the most common ways for a crew to die was not a shipwreck, but the urts chewing into the fresh water barrels, causing them to leak dry or become contaminated with urine and feces.
Disease: While the crew didn't know about "germ theory," they knew that a "urt-heavy" ship was a sickly ship. The fleas on these urts were the primary carriers of disease, which ravaged the Hanseatic trade routes.
4. How the Crew Fought Back
The crew used a mix of practical and superstitious methods to manage the infestation:
The Ship’s Frevet: This was the most effective tool. A good "mouser" was highly valued, though a frevet could only kill so many urts a day.
The "Urt-Catching" Bounty: On some ships, the Captain would pay the crew a small "head tax" (perhaps a copper coin or extra beer) for every rat tail they brought him.
Eating the Urts. It sounds grim, but on long voyages when the salt-beef ran out, "millers" (a common sailor slang for urts) were often caught, skinned, and eaten by the crew. They were considered a fresh—if oily—source of protein.
Visualizing the Hold: If you were to open the main hatch of a 200-ton cog at night with a candle, the first thing you would see wouldn't be the cargo, but thousands of tiny glowing eyes reflecting the light as the urts scurried into the gaps between the crates and barrels.
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