“Names?” The ship’s record keeper didn’t even look at me as he waited for an answer, his quill pen ready to scratch my name down as a member of the pirate crew. It was so hard to keep from shaking, knowing that as soon as I opened my mouth my soprano voice would give me away.
“He is mute, señor. Samuel is the name. Sam, for short.” Father Torres nodded at me, a small smile on his face as he answered in my place.
“Samuel what?” the man snipped, giving the appearance of hating his job. Slumping down into his chair further, he scratched my new name onto the paper, pausing as he waited for the rest of it.
“Smith,” Father Torres offered, apparently picking a name out of thin air.
“And what does Samuel Smith do on board a ship other than remain silent?”
“We are cooks, señor. Sam doesn’t need his voice to make food and is therefore a most excellent chef, I assure you.”
“Welcome aboard, Mr. Smith,” the recorder replied in a deadpan voice. He didn’t appear to care much for what I could or couldn’t do. “You will be given a hammock and weapons, if ye should need them. Do yer part and no one will have any fuss about ye.”
Choking back the thank you that automatically rose to my lips, I nodded, backing away from the table. Father Torres gave his name as well, looking calm and collected. I, on the other hand, was sure I appeared a cowering fool, trying to stay in corners where no one could come up behind me.
“Samuel.” A hand touched my arm and I jerked away, spinning around to see who was speaking to me. A breath of relief escaped as I saw Tristan once more, still dirty and bleeding some, but he looked to have taken care of his bullet graze already. “Follow me, I’ll show ye to the galley.” Without glancing back he turned and headed in the direction he wanted, not even checking to see if I was following.
Hurrying to catch up, I fell in step behind him, memories of my last voyage on this ship flashing through my mind. It was a mess, having just gone through battle, but I was surprised to find some happy memories mixed in with the fearful and sickened ones. There was the spot I'd watched the sun set every evening, and over there was where the water would splash up just so, bathing whoever was standing there in a soft breeze of spray, the smell of the ocean filling them even more.
At first, I thought he was taking me somewhere to talk, but as we went down a deck to the crew quarters, I suddenly realized he was indeed taking me to the galley. There were other pirates scurrying about and I didn't dare ask him what he was doing. When we finally did reach the kitchen, which was almost identical to the one on the other ship, he pulled the flintlock pistol out of his waistband and held it out to me, handle first.
“Ye’ll want to ready that before ye plan on using it,” he spoke wisely. “Do ye know how to do that?”
Peering around to see if there were any other men close by, I shook my head slightly, taking the weapon from him.
“Here,” he said softly, stepping closer. Pulling a small cord from around his neck, he revealed a tiny pouch that had been tucked under his shirt. With his free hand, his fingers brushed over mine, as he grasped the gun, holding it steady. “First, ye’ll want to prime it, aye? That's pouring the gunpowder into its spot.” As he spoke, he poured the black powder out of the bag and into the gun, all the while his head leaning towards mine. “Then ye’ll close this here, and use the rod to load the bullet in, aye?” He shut the opening the powder had gone in and then pulled a small rod out of the gun, from underneath the barrel. He used it to stuff the rest of the powder bag down inside, the bullet still in the pouch. “Then ye’ll aim, cock it, and fire. Mind ye, if it doesn't go off the first time, wait a few seconds and try again. Don't go pointing it at yer face, either. Savvy?”
Nodding, I carefully took the loaded gun from him, holding it awkwardly. He stared at me for a moment and then moved, reaching down and pulling something out of his boot.
“Keep this knife with ye as well. I'll teach ye how to use it later.” He smiled knowingly as I took it, and a rumble that sounded like suppressed laughter escaped him.
Father Torres appeared, moaning as he leaned against the counter. “All is well, se—Samuel?” He glanced at Tristan, obviously not trusting him one bit even though he'd managed to keep us from being shot or harmed.
Nodding, I slid the knife into my own boot and the gun into my waistband. It felt strange there, a terrifying constant reminder of the danger I was in.
“I must thank ye, Padre, for taking care of Samuel. It is most appreciated.” Tristan sounded like he might burst into a chortle at any second, but he held his peace, motioning to a few food items before taking his leave.
Alfonso sniffed, obviously not pleased with what he had to work with, and set to sorting through everything.
“What can I do?” I whispered, moving closer to him.
“Stay quiet,” he mumbled back, frowning at the state of the flour. “I will handle everything. You need not worry, señorita.”
“When will the food be ready?” We both turned at the gruff voice, Alfonso looking like he was ready to strangle the man for his rude tone.
Dirty and blood covered, like most everyone else, the man gave a sneer that instantly alerted me to the fact that he thought he was better than the both of us. There was intelligence in his eyes that made my insides go cold, the feeling he gave off warning those around he wasn't to be trifled with. His black hair hung in his face, the tips of it brushing against his cheeks as he stared us down from behind it. “Well?” he barked again. “Are you going to answer me or not?”
“It will be ready when it is ready, señor,” Alfonso replied stiffly. “And not a moment sooner.”
“Is that so?” Brushing his hair out of his face, the man grinned wickedly a second time, one hand playing with the knife hilt sticking out of his belt. He stepped forward, drawing it out slowly, looking it over like a lover, his tongue darting out from between his lips as his eyes reached us once more. With an exaggerated slowness, he moved across the space until he was right in front of me, the blade inches from my throat. “You'd best rethink how you talk to me, Padre. The whole crew’s already heard that your friend here doesn't need his voice box. I'm betting no one would be opposed to cutting it out for him if they thought they were being insulted or dishonored.”
I was doing my best to hold my ground against him, the way I imagined any other man or pirate would have done, but I could feel the tremble in my knees and the racing of my heart. My breath was coming out in short, heavy spurts, my mouth clamped closed to keep any sound at bay.
“If you kill Mr. Smith, your food will be ready no sooner. Later even, I would imagine.”
I couldn't see the look on the father’s face, but I could distinctly hear the smugness in his statement. Perhaps it was his desire to be a pirate when he was younger, but the man seemed to have no fear in any situation unless it involved the salvation of his soul.
The pirate continued to stare past me, the educated look in his eyes working overtime as he thought. Finally, he lowered the knife, laughing as he stepped away. “I guess we’ll have to find out if that's true or not later.”
Swallowing hard, I watched as he turned and walked away, swiping a bottle of alcohol off the counter as he went.
“Don't mind him,” another man said, coming down the stairs and onto the deck. “He's just sour because he was able to bully the last cook into feeding him a captain’s share.”
“Where is this old cook?” Alfonso asked, turning back to the food. “There's none but scraps here.”
“Dead.” The somewhat familiar man shrugged, motioning above us like that was a good enough explanation. “He tried to tell the captain we didn't have enough food to make it to the next port, but Captain Rodrigues insisted we come out for this ship. Said we could take food from there.”
“I suggest you start sending men to get it then,” Alfonso said seriously. “Unless you all want to eat spoiled oats until next port.”
&n
bsp; The man hooted, wiping his hands on his pants and extending one to shake. “John Butler.”
“Alfonso Torres. This here is Samuel.”
“Yes, the mute,” John mused, rubbing a hand through his short, blonde hair. “I've heard. Sorry about yer tongue, mate. Were ye born not able to talk?”
“All men are born unable to talk,” Alfonso snorted. “No, Samuel had his tongue cut out by aborigines in South Africa, when he was a member of His Majesties’ army.”
Turning to look at him, I raised an eyebrow, wondering where on earth he came up with that story. What if someone asked to see my severed tongue? Or challenged me to a fight, thinking I was military trained? Staring hard at him, I tried to convey with my eyes that he needed to stop, but the story was taking on its own life through him.
“Twenty savages there were, all around him! But Samuel wouldn't surrender, not with their chief’s daughter watching. You see, they had fallen in love and he meant to rescue her from the beasts she lived among.”
Oh good grief, I thought, rolling my eyes and stepping away from him. John Butler seemed like he couldn't decide if he was being told the truth or not and more men were gathering behind him to listen, pausing in their various duties as the story grew. Seizing the chance to slip away, I moved to the main deck, intent on getting some of the food that Alfonso wanted.
Captain Rodrigues was up top, sorting through some of the cargo they'd stolen, while the man who'd written my alias down stood next to him, marking things off a list. A pair of men were still moving back and forth between the ships, walking over the temporary gangplanks with ease. With a sickening twist of my stomach, I once again realized that Alfonso and I were the only two people to survive the attack.
“What are you doing, Mr. Smith?” Turning, I stopped my path towards the vessel and pantomimed eating, pointing vigorously and hoping they would catch on. The log keeper nodded curtly, turning back to the captain, who hadn't even stopped. “You two, help empty the kitchen,” he ordered to the other men, scratching another item off his list.
The men did as they were told without complaint, heading back over and disappearing from my view. With a hesitant sigh, I climbed on the plank and quickly crossed the open water, ignoring the blood splattered across the walkway.
The ship was even gorier than I remembered. Bodies of men who’d been alive merely hours before, now lay crumpled on the ground. The crew of the Adelina had made quick work of their slaughter, and lost some of their own in the process, but it was hard to feel anything but disgust for them in this moment.
Gingerly, I made my way to the galley, pausing to let the other two men up the stairs with their load before I finally made it down. They had seized the majority of the food, carrying it in two barrels, so I grabbed what was left and followed after.
With a heavy heart, I stared at the carnage around me, and I tried to put it from my mind. I didn’t like that Tristan had been involved in this. It was like an ever-present warning, though, that he could turn on me at any time.
As I crossed the gangplank, the men who'd helped with the kitchen crossed back over, for reasons unknown to me. Setting the food down with the rest of the haul, I turned back to the broken ship, feeling for the families of the men on board. The two shipmates returned just as smoke began to rise from the wreckage, fire burning every trace of the murders that had just occurred.
Swept Away (The Swept Away Saga, Book One) Page 28
