by J. P. Sheen
He had served His Majesty aboard the HMS Swift for nearly three weeks now. He might as well be called a slave of the Royal Navy and have done with it. His palms were raw from scrubbing the deck and burned from assisting in the galley. And he hadn’t learned a single thing about sailing. Day after miserable day, all he did was scour wood and clean greasy pans. In fact, the only valuable lesson he had learned aboard the Swift was that he wasn’t cut out for this life.
He had to get back to Kingston.
At first, his predicament hadn’t seemed so hopeless. All he needed to do was speak to the Swift’s captain. Wouldn’t the man be scandalized to learn that his crewmen had abducted the Crown Heir? To Eselder’s dismay, however, he quickly discovered that Captain Thornhill rarely came out on deck, and anyway, he wasn’t really the one in charge of the ordinary seamen. Eselder didn’t know whether Captain Thornhill had sanctioned his pressganging, or how much authority Thornhill had over the officers, but as for the crew, they were under the tyranny of an able seaman called Thug Kurzon.
The morning after his pressganging, Eselder had blurted out his royal identity to the first officer on deck, but the midshipman had only laughed at him. Later on, Kurzon’s cronies had warned Eselder to keep his lying mouth shut or face Thug Kurzon’s wrath. They watched him ceaselessly after that, ready to haul him away if he so much as stepped toward any officer. Thanks to Kurzon’s spies, Eselder would never have an opportunity to present his case to Captain Thornhill.
Eselder heard the approaching click click of heeled shoes, and a second later, Lieutenant O’Shea walked past. The young lieutenant was newly promoted, and only recently assigned to the HMS Swift. Eselder glared at his shiny gold buckles and scrubbed the deck even harder. If only he could speak…but he didn’t dare. He knew he was being watched, and if he spoke even a word…there’d be hell to pay. Thug Kurzon had taught him that lesson himself, after Eselder had tried to abandon ship at Brackenpool…his last chance at freedom before the Swift set out on her long voyage to the New World. He had no idea how long that voyage would take, nor did he know when—or if—they would return to Eliothan shores.
Eselder’s shoulders sagged. His father was right. Life at sea was even more horrible than life at court…and, Eselder was shocked to discover, nearly as monotonous.
At least it’s a cool day.
Usually, the heat stuck like tar to the deck, searing his hands and knees. The galley was even worse. Below deck, the air hung stagnant, roasting Eselder alive. Today, however, a sheet of clouds mercifully blocked the sun, and a refreshing breeze swept across the top deck. Three weeks ago, the choppy water would have seen Eselder vomiting over the bulwarks, but he had developed his sea legs fairly quick. He still felt a little proud about that.
Eselder sat upright, letting the breeze hit his face. His back thanked him profusely for the respite.
Above him, the mainmast towered. Its white sails billowed out majestically. Eselder peered longingly past the ratlines to the mast top. These weeks had not extinguished his desire to test his agility aloft, to see what it felt like to ride the wind. But that would never happen. He would be stuck scouring this deck with saltwater and sandstone until he escaped…or died. At this rate, the latter seemed likelier.
“Let’s keep our eyes on that dirty deck, heh?”
A hand shoved Eselder’s head down. The sails disappeared. Eselder watched black bubbles pop between the wood planks.
Someone crouched down beside him, and a huge tanned arm draped itself around his hunched shoulders. Eselder cringed from the undesired contact, and its owner chuckled. This was Thug Kurzon, the HMS Swift’s boatswain and the man responsible for Eselder’s pressganging.
Eselder hated him.
Sun-bleached dreadlocks surrounded Thug Kurzon’s face like ratlines. His cheeks were mottled red from years at sea and pitted from a past attack of the smallpox. Still, the bo’sun looked almost handsome until he grinned. Then he revealed his black teeth, and a wicked soul that delighted in Eselder’s helpless rage.
“See now, boy! Me mate Bull’s got a problem, see? He’s been assigned to scrub the poop deck, but…” Thug Kurzon’s hairy arms spread in a gesture of mock helplessness. “He’s feelin’ tired today…when it comes right down to it, he just don’t feel like it, you know? So, I figured I might find some friendly soul up to the task, and you know what? I thought of you. Don’t go letting me down now…”
Kurzon’s arm slid off Eselder, who silently seethed.
“You got that, boy? What, can’t do a kind deed for a shipmate?”
Thug Kurzon knew full well that Eselder had to obey. To force his acquiescence was just adding insult to injury.
Eselder had nearly finished scrubbing the main deck. He was tired and devilishly thirsty. It was unjust. It was unfair. But Eselder’s heart beat fast, reminding him that he was not only furious but scared.
“Aye, sir,” he replied, not looking up. He was afraid that what Kurzon would see wouldn’t be to his liking.
“I knew I could count on you, boy,” Kurzon sneered. He went back to lounging under the mizzenmast. Of course he could count on Eselder. He knew the Swift’s newest cabin boy wouldn’t dare cross him, not after what had happened between them several days ago.
And he was right.
The first dogwatch was over, and a second round of hungry seamen piled into the middle gun deck for their supper. The portholes were open in an attempt to invite some sunshine and fresh air inside the ship. The afternoon light came right in, but the fresh air was having none of it. Eselder wrinkled his nose.
This must be what it’s like to stick your head inside a chamber pot.
Sharing space with seven hundred men who neither washed nor touched any liquid besides grog had given Eselder a newfound appreciation for weekly bathing. The HMS Swift was an ocean of stink, and now Eselder added to it. Hours earlier, on the top deck, two midshipmen had attested to that fact by blocking their noses as he had walked past. Or perhaps their adverse reaction had had more to do with the grease bucket he had been carrying.
Eselder hung back as seamen folded down tables and raced to the galley. Each mess consisted of several men who swapped off fetching their messmates’ rations. Eselder shared a mess with the Swift’s five other cabin boys, all of whom had made it clear from the start that he wasn’t “one of them.”
Finally, Eselder had no choice but to move toward his table. A cabin boy spotted him and called out, “’Ey, Tub, go get our food! We’re starvin’!”
His name was Cheddar. He was the cabin boys’ unelected leader, a heavily freckled redhead about a year or two younger than Eselder, with a bulbous tomato-like nose. When they had first met, Eselder had noticed the deep-rooted rage in Cheddar’s eyes. He soon learned the reason for it. Cheddar was not a good seaman, being both clumsy and unintelligent, and had little hope of ever being promoted to ordinary seaman. The only thing he excelled at was bullying his fellow cabin boys until they surpassed him in rank. It was hard to say which Eselder loathed more: Hamilton Cheddar, or living in his own skin.
“I don’t have to.”
It was not exactly a bold retort. Eselder stood beside his table, unwilling to comply yet unable to sit down. All around him seamen scarfed down their meals. Then, amidst the bedlam, another man appeared in the hatchway, casting a truly admirable glower about the deck. He was late, as he always was.
Eselder looked over to where Thug Kurzon sat like a king among his ill-bred subjects, and back at the newcomer. The man looked dangerous and half-crazed with his greasy black mop, grizzled cheeks, corpselike complexion, and red-rimmed eyes. He had appeared aboard the HMS Swift out of nowhere, the day after Eselder’s failed escape attempt. Probably, he had been pressganged at Brackenpool. The man gave Eselder the chills, and Eselder could tell that many crewmen felt the same way. The stranger never said a word but did the work assigned him with a scowl and an unfriendly glint in his eyes. He reminded Eselder of Count Magnoff’s mean-spirited bulldogs. M
ore likely than not, he was an evil brigand.
The man caught him staring, and Eselder felt the full force of his black glare. He quickly looked away, not wanting to antagonize a killer.
He’s a bully, who got in the way of a bigger bully.
The other cabin boys were also staring slack jawed at Mr. Evil Brigand. Then Cheddar snapped out of it.
“So what?” he shrugged, “Yer gonna do it because if you don’t, I’ll make you sorry, landlubber!”
Eselder was heartily sick of that word.
“It isn’t my day,” he said quietly.
“Eh? Did I ‘ear you right?” Cheddar stuck a hand behind his protruding ear. “Do I ‘ave to repeat meself? I said I don’t bloody care. Don’t make me say it again, Tub!”
Eselder didn’t know what he would have done had Thug Kurzon’s shout not cut their conversation short.
“You!”
Eselder jumped.
“Aye, that’s right, you! I’m afraid I’m gonna have to have a chat with you, friend.”
The cabin boys spun around in their seats. Mr. Evil Brigand had been heading toward the empty table at the stern, but at Kurzon’s address, he halted. Eselder found himself standing right between Kurzon and his target. Quietly, he sat down. Nobody challenged him.
“Did you hear me?” Kurzon demanded, “Face me square, wretch − ”
Mr. Evil Brigand turned. Eselder could have sworn that, as he did, every lantern dimmed. Kurzon looked momentarily unsettled, before concealing his unease behind an easygoing smile.
“Here’s the deal, mate,” he said in a friendly manner, “You gotta shoulder more of the weight ‘round here, so me and me mates can take it easy now and then. I know you ain’t no
landlubber—”
It was Eselder’s turn to glare.
“—and you ain’t doin’ your fair share to make our—”
“Go to hell!” interjected Mr. Evil Brigand. That certainly got a reaction from the crew. But Kurzon merely smiled and tugged on the sleeves of his maroon greatcoat.
“Hey, you didn’t let me finish, mate,” he said, spreading his hands in a reconciliatory gesture, “I was going to give you another option!”
“I have many of those, but they don’t come from you!” spat Mr. Evil Brigand.
“Sorry, mate, but that’s how it is aboard my ship,” Kurzon said apologetically. Mr. Evil Brigand looked livid. Thug Kurzon went on, “See, you can either do what I say, keeping your mouth shut and your head down, or I’ll make you like I made Mr. Lindsay here. Stand up, will you please, Mr. Lindsay?”
Out of the gaggle of seaman rose a gangly young man with broken spectacles and a beet-red face. Mr. Lindsay’s head was indeed bent low, weighed down by the wooden sign hanging around his neck. Most of the crew couldn’t read, but it didn’t matter. Everyone knew what those letters spelled: T-R-U-B-L-E-M-A-K-E-R.
Eselder looked away from the wretched Mr. Lindsay. He had worn that same sign for three days following his escape attempt. It was a warning, Thug Kurzon had told him. Next time, more than Eselder’s pride would take a beating. He’d still be wearing the sign now had he not caved to Kurzon’s threats right away.
Mr. Evil Brigand’s bowl crashed to the deck.
Eselder quickly looked up and saw what a demon would look like, were they real. Mr. Evil Brigand was storming right for Kurzon, who looked alarmed.
A whistle blew. Mr. Evil Brigand froze, and relief flashed across Kurzon’s face.
Moments later, the Swift’s newly appointed Lieutenant O’Shea descended below deck to ensure that order was being maintained. Thug Kurzon and Mr. Evil Brigand backed away from each other, glowering. They had no choice but to move to their tables while the rest of the crew turned hastily back to their supper, stuffing beans down their gullets before their shift ended.
Cheddar didn’t bully Eselder anymore that evening, but he glared at Eselder while another cabin boy scurried off to the galley. Ignoring Cheddar, Eselder snuck a glance toward the stern, where Mr. Evil Brigand sat at a table by himself. He spent the rest of the meal pretending not to notice Cheddar’s freckled scowl.
Coward, Eselder thought, and felt a stab of shame at his hypocrisy.
The bullying only got worse.
Between Thug Kurzon and Ham Cheddar, life aboard the HMS Swift was a living hell. Eselder kept a constant lookout for any opportunity to safely approach Captain Thornhill or Lieutenant O’Shea. But none came. He couldn’t escape Thug Kurzon’s all-seeing eye.
A week or so after Kurzon’s confrontation with Mr. Evil Brigand, Eselder was scrubbing the quarterdeck again. This time, the weather wasn’t so pleasant. The farther south the Swift voyaged across the Midlantic Ocean, the fiercer the sun bore down on her. It was so hot that the pitch between the planks had melted.
It didn’t say much for Eselder’s alertness, but he never saw it coming. A foot made contact with his backside, and he fell flat on his stomach, nearly knocking over his water bucket.
“Oops! Didn’t see ya there, Tub O’ Lard!”
Several seamen laughed. None of them moved to scold Cheddar. After all, it had been an accident.
The cabin boy kicked the bucket, drenching Eselder in dirty water. “Whoops-a-daisy! Didn’t see that either, mate, sorry—”
Cheddar went silent. It took the crewmen a little longer, but soon their joviality shriveled up too. Meanwhile, Eselder stared unblinkingly at a pair of (very smelly) feet. Their yellow toenails needed cutting. He slowly looked up, past a pair of sagging trousers. The long toenails belonged to Mr. Evil Brigand, who looked like he was selecting his next victim. Fortunately, his gaze was on Cheddar.
The other cabin boy was quick to scurry away, and the crewmen turned stiffly back to their duties. Mr. Evil Brigand swept past Eselder’s prone form like he was a human rug lying on deck.
Eselder got back on his knees, his mind reeling. Had Mr. Evil Brigand been waiting for the two idiot cabin boys to get out of his way? Or had he actually gone out of his way to help Eselder? The thought was as incredible as it was unlikely.
Eselder picked up his bucket and got back to work. It certainly was unlikely.
But not impossible.
Two days after Cheddar’s “accident”, Eselder was lugging a bucket of black grease (even the galley cook had deemed it unusable) up to the poop deck to toss it overboard. Being the clumsy oaf he was, he stumbled up the port stairs and into a heap of trouble.
Eselder froze. On the poop deck’s starboard side, Mr. Evil Brigand perched lightly on the bulwarks, facing the ocean. He appeared totally immersed, and indeed, the sunset was magnificent.
However, Mr. Evil Brigand was not the cause of Eselder’s alarm.
Thug Kurzon was taking advantage of the seaman’s distraction, sneaking up on him with a raised rattan. It didn’t take a prodigy to surmise Kurzon’s intent.
As the grease in his bucket splashed around, Eselder’s mind went totally blank, proving just how useful the Crown Heir was in a crisis. What should he do? What could he do? Eselder panicked.
Then he dropped his bucket.
A black wave rushed across the planks he had scoured spotless that morning, but the clatter did the trick. Mr. Evil Brigand jumped and spun around, and Kurzon froze, his rattan held tellingly aloft. The two men faced each other. Eselder couldn’t see Kurzon’s face, but Mr. Evil Brigand’s expression screamed of bloody murder.
Thug Kurzon reeled around. Eselder’s insides twisted up, for he saw the ugly suspicion in the boatswain’s blue eyes. He made a huge show of clutching at his hair and scampering to retrieve his bucket. Actually, it wasn’t much of a show. Eselder was terrified. But what else could he have done? Let Kurzon follow through with his wicked plan?
The boatswain stormed at him.
“Clumsy whelp!” he snarled, backhanding Eselder across the jaw. His blow hurt so much that Eselder gasped.
“Clean it up!” Kurzon roared and stomped down the stairs to vent his fury on an unfortunately situated
Mr. Lindsay.
Careful to avoid Mr. Evil Brigand’s gaze, Eselder got down on his hands and scabby, stinging knees. Brandishing his rag, he started mopping up the grease which, of course, had spread far across the deck.
A few moments passed. Then Eselder heard Mr. Evil Brigand follow Kurzon down to the quarterdeck. Wonderful. Now he was alone on the poop deck. Perhaps Thug Kurzon would come and knock him overboard.
Eselder shuddered at the thought. Naturally, he was relieved that Mr. Evil Brigand was safe, but after a few minutes, his goodwill toward the seaman evaporated. This was just perfect! Just exactly what Eselder wanted to be doing with his time! He didn’t have other jobs after this, oh no, certainly not! Why hadn’t Mr. Evil Brigand been more attentive? Didn’t he know Thug Kurzon was out for his blood?
The ship’s bell tolled, and Eselder’s spirits plummeted. Everyone else in his watch would now enjoy a lovely midday respite, including Mr. Evil Brigand. Only Eselder would spend his precious free time mopping up a puddle of stinky, sticky grease. It was so unfair.
And yet…
Eselder stared helplessly at the fast-spreading mess. In that moment, he felt so painfully, gut wrenchingly alone.
And yet, what else could he have done?
10
The Sea Pearl
Mr. Evil Brigand did not come and thank Eselder for saving his life.
Probably he thought that the clumsy landlubber had accidentally dropped his bucket. Fortunately, Thug Kurzon must have been fooled as well, for three tiring days went by, and the bo’sun didn’t single Eselder out for more torment. Eselder began to breathe easier. He supposed that was a perk of being a lily-livered coward. Nobody suspected you of trickery.
