“You'd want the first mate for that,” said the lad. “He does the hiring and firing.”
“Where would I find him?”
“On board, if the ship's loading. You wanna go today?
'Cause I know one that's sailing on the next tide. The Hope, she's called. First mate goes by the name of Flynn. I'll take you to him, if you like. Cost you sixpence, mind.”
Barkbelly wavered.
“Well? Do you want to go or not?”
“Yes,” said Barkbelly, “I do. But I was hoping to go to Ashenpeake. I don't suppose—”
“No. It ain't. You've got bad timing, matey. There was a ship sailed for Ashenpeake yesterday. Won't be another one for two or three weeks now, and Pebbleport ain't the kinda place to hang around in, if you know what I mean. No, if I were you I'd go with the Hope to Farrago.”
Barkbelly gasped. Farrago was famous: a sprawling new town on the borders of the known world. “Is that where it's going?”
“Sure is, an' I'll tell you this for nothing: Farrago is one wild place. Been there meself. You wouldn't believe the kinda things I got up to, an' me a gentleman an' all! Listen, matey, you wanna see a bit o' the world! You can see Ashenpeake anytime. The Hope's not a bad ship. Flynn's a bit sharp, but he's bound to be, ain't he? He's the mate. Captain's fair, though. So what do you say? Are you gonna give me that sixpence or not?”
Five minutes later, Barkbelly was staring at the most magnificent ship he had ever seen. The Hope was a three-masted galleon with dark, shining timbers and a golden figurehead of a goddess gleaming on its bow. The lad pointed out Flynn, the first mate. He was standing on the quarterdeck, barking out orders.
Barkbelly took a deep breath.
“Good luck,” said the lad.
“Thanks,” said Barkbelly, and he walked up the gangplank. Flynn was a sinewy man with silver earrings and salt- washed hair. His eyes had scanned so many horizons, they were permanently narrow. Now they scanned Barkbelly, from the tip of his tousled hair to the toes of his dirty boots.
“What do you want, boy?” he growled. “A job, is it?”
Barkbelly nodded.
“Been to sea before, have you? No? Well, there's a first time for us all. And a last.” A sly smile puckered his mouth. “You're very young.”
“I'm old enough, sir. And I'm very strong—strong as a man.”
“I don't doubt it. I've worked with your kind before. I want no trouble, though, see? No fighting. Agreed? Good. Baxter!”
A crusty-looking sailor joined them on the deck.
“Take this lad below. Find him a berth, then show him the galley. Ferdinand! Watch those chickens, boy! We want them alive, not dead!” And without another word, Flynn strode away.
“Is that it?” said Barkbelly.
“Aye, that's it,” said the sailor, hitching up his trousers to reveal tattooed toes. “Welcome to the Hope.”
Chapter 35
he galley was in the belly of the ship and during the day Barkbelly barely saw beyond it. He wanted to climb the rigging and haul on ropes, swab the decks and repair sails. Instead, he found himself peeling potatoes and scrubbing dirty pots. It's not fair. I'm wasted here. He knew he wasn't the cleverest boy in the world. He couldn't play a musical instrument or paint pictures. He couldn't run especially fast. But he was strong. And he was fearless. He would happily do the jobs no one wanted. He knew the sailors hated climbing the masts in bad weather. Miles up in the air, with the ship rolling beneath them and the wind whistling past their ears—it was so terrifying, Flynn used it as a punishment. But Barkbelly longed to do it. The height didn't worry him—why should it? A fall wouldn't kill him. But it would damage the ship. He had to admit that. He would hit the deck so hard, he would tear through the timbers like a cannonball. And if he went right through to the keel and tore a hole in it, the ship would sink and everyone would drown. Perhaps that was why Mister Flynn never sent him up the rigging.
Barkbelly's world was the galley and his hammock and nothing much in between. The only time he could experience the sea was late at night, when he would creep above deck and sit under the stars, listening to the sounds of the ship. It was never, ever quiet. Ropes creaked. Timbers groaned. Sails flapped. Sometimes there were footsteps: the ship's captain often promenaded at that time. Barkbelly, sitting on his favored tarpaulin, would hear the strike of a match as the captain lit his pipe. The light would flare in the dark like a firefly, and then the captain's walk would begin.
Captain Kempe was an immaculately dressed, impossibly handsome man. But for one so blessed with good looks, he was never haughty. On the contrary, he was utterly charming.
The captain had discovered Barkbelly's secret place just two nights into the voyage. Barkbelly had been sitting on the deck, thinking, when he was horrified to see an unmistakable pair of boots coming toward him. He cowered, waiting for the tongue-lashing to begin. But instead, the captain smiled and introduced himself. He asked Barkbelly's name. Asked him if he was enjoying his first voyage. Remarked about the beauty of the sky and bade him good night.
Now the captain nodded a greeting whenever their nocturnal paths crossed. Sometimes he would even make conversation. Barkbelly liked that. It was civilized. The captain was so clean and polite—quite unlike his crew. Barkbelly hated leaving the deck to return to the mess. Down there, the timbers echoed with the snores and grunts of sleeping men, and the air was thick with sailor smell.
The stink was caused by diet. At the start of the voyage, the men were given fresh fruit and vegetables every day. But as the weeks went by, the stores dwindled until there was little left but onions, salt beef and biscuits. The beef had to be soaked for hours to get rid of the salt, and even then it was tough as leather. The biscuits were even worse—so hard that the sailors broke their teeth on them. Barkbelly wondered how long the crew could live like this. How long was the voyage? He didn't know. He had never asked. And were they really going to Farrago? No one had said so, except the errand lad. He decided to ask the cook.
The cook's name was Griddle, and as long as he was in his galley, he was happy. He didn't care where the ship was heading or how long it would take to get there.
“It's not my business to know where we're going,” he replied when Barkbelly asked. “I concern myself with the provisioning of hot dinners for the working men. ‘Leave the navigating to Captain Kempe, Griddle,' that's what I tell myself. ‘Leave the navigating to Captain Kempe. That's what he's paid for. Let him do his job and I'll do mine.'”
“But you must know how long the voyage is,” Barkbelly persisted, “otherwise you wouldn't know how many provisions to take on board at the start.”
“Quite right, young man! I do need to know how long the voyage is, but that's not what you asked me. You asked if I knew our final destination and I don't. What I do know is this: it's a three-month voyage, with a provisioning stop at six weeks. We're putting in at Sharkteeth Island to take on fresh water, fruit, vegetables and such fresh food as we're likely to need to complete the voyage. And Sharkteeth Island, by my reckoning, should be appearing on the horizon any day now.”
Griddle was right. The very next morning, Barkbelly awoke to cries of “Land ho!” and the din of running feet as all the sailors dashed up on deck for a welcome glimpse of land. Barkbelly joined them, but there was nothing much to see.
Just a disappointing smudge on the horizon: a line of dark gray where the sea met the sky. But the next time he sneaked out from the galley to look, it was a different story. The island rose majestically out of the ocean: a tantalizing vista of palm trees, beaches and blue bays, crowned with a trio of jagged mountains. It looked so calm. So peaceful. Quite unlike the ship, which was a nightmare of noise. Gulls were screaming. Flynn was shouting. Swarms of sailors were swinging from the yardarms, furling the sails. Others were hauling on ropes or readying the longboats. And in the middle of the frenzy stood Captain Kempe, calmly looking through his telescope and smiling.
Barkbelly felt deliriously h
appy. After weeks at sea, he longed to walk on firm land again, and Sharkteeth Island looked such a beautiful place. By tonight, I will be sitting on that beach with a coconut drink in one hand and a barbecued steak in the other, wriggling my toes in the sand and listening to the waves lapping on the shore. Lovely!
But he was disappointed again. The ship was anchored just long enough to fetch the supplies. Admittedly, that took the best part of the day, with the longboats going back and forth from the ship, but nobody went ashore. Barkbelly found himself in the galley as usual, peeling onions and stirring soup. And when evening tide came, he heard Flynn stomping on the deck above, shouting, “Prepare to weigh anchor,” and the chain rattled and they were sailing again.
He was still feeling glum when he sat on the deck later that night. He was so lost in thought, he didn't hear the captain's approach. But suddenly the long, glistening black boots were there beside him. Barkbelly scrabbled to his feet and mumbled a good evening.
“Good evening to you, Barkbelly. Taking the air, are you? Good to feel the sea breeze after the heat we've had today.”
Barkbelly nodded miserably. The captain glanced at him.
“I suppose you were hoping to go ashore,” he said. He sucked his pipe and blew the spicy smoke out into the darkness. “Maybe another time. Certainly when we reach Farrago.”
“Where does the ship go after that, sir?” asked Barkbelly timidly.
“Up the coast to Barrenta Bay,” said the captain, tracing an imaginary map in the sky with his pipe. “Then across to the Rimba Islands. And from there a long voyage east to Maaloo. But you might not be with us then.”
Barkbelly frowned. “Why?”
“Because Farrago will steal your heart and you'll never want to leave!” The captain smiled. “Seriously, it is a fine place. It has such energy; you can feel it on the streets. It's … intoxicating. So you might decide to stay. Many do.”
Barkbelly thought for a moment. “I don't think so,” he said at last. “I want to go somewhere else. Ashenpeake.”
The captain slowly exhaled. The smoke climbed up the rigging like a gray lizard.
“I want to find my family. My real family,” said Barkbelly, filling the sudden silence.
The captain laughed. “Forget that idea,” he said. “Your family is in the past—the best place for them. Leave them there.” And with that, he thrust his hands into his pockets and walked off into the shadows.
Chapter 36
riddle was not in a good mood. It was one of those mornings when everything had gone wrong. Now he was making pastry for three dozen apple pies, he was up to his elbows in flour—and a whole barrel of apples had gone rotten.
“Patience, Griddle, patience,” he said, taking a deep breath. “These things are sent to challenge us. Apples is apples and they will go off, I don't deny it. But having said that, when I next see that Pebbleport fruit and veg man, there will be words. Oh, yes. There will be words. I'm trying to run a healthy ship here and he is not helping. The carrots aren't too clever either.”
“What shall I do with these?” asked Barkbelly, still holding the apple barrel.
“Give them to the goats. That's all they're fit for. I hope the goats will be all right, mind. The apples are fermenting a bit, and there's nothing worse than tipsy goats, especially when they've got horns.”
Barkbelly bumped the barrel out of the galley.
“And when you've done that,” Griddle called after him,
“go down into the store and bring up another. See if you can find one that's better.”
But each of the barrels was as bad as the next. Barkbelly opened every one in the store and found nothing but moldy brown fruit. What shall I do? he thought. Griddle's got to have apples. He's halfway through making the pastry.
Would there be more barrels in the hold? He didn't know. He had never been in the hold. It was packed with cargo. No one went down there except Flynn.
Barkbelly climbed back up on the deck and approached the hatch. There was no one around. He lifted it and peered down. It was dark. He would need a lantern. There was one hanging from the rail, but it needed lighting. He remembered that the one in the store was already lit; he went back to fetch it. Then he returned to the hatch, lifted it and climbed down the steps into the dark.
He could hear rats scratching in the far corners. He held the lantern higher and crept forward. He peered around, searching for barrels, and found half a dozen lined up by the steps. But they weren't apple barrels—they had wooden bungs. They would be wine or rum. Barkbelly explored further.
The hold was packed high with wooden crates. All of them were exactly the same shape and size. Row upon row, tower upon tower. Something was stamped on them in red paint. He held the lantern closer and saw a single word: ASHENPEAKE.
Barkbelly felt his heart lurch in his chest. No. It can't be.
He had to know. He walked between the aisles until he found a place where the timbers sloped. There the crates weren't stacked so high. He put down the lantern and lifted a crate from the top of the pile. It was sealed. Barkbelly banged his fists on the lid. Wood on wood, harder and harder he hammered. The crate shattered under his blows and he ripped away the splinters. Eggs. It was full of wooden eggs. He pulled down another crate and pummeled it to pieces. More eggs. Dozens of them, spilling out onto the floor, rolling away in all directions, and every one of them carrying a life. A life that would begin and end in slavery.
So this was the cargo the Hope carried. Not wine or wool but people. His people.
He had to set them free. He wanted to smash open every crate. Throw every egg into the sea. Let them drift away to who knows where. Anywhere was better than where they were going now. He grabbed hold of a crate and started to carry it toward the hatch. Then he stopped. Was he mad? He couldn't do this now, in the middle of the day! He had to wait until it was dark.
He fetched the lantern and climbed back up the steps. He peered out of the hatch. Still there was no one around. He climbed out into the sunlight and closed the hatch behind him.
“Tonight,” he said to himself. “I will do it tonight.”
Chapter 37
arkbelly lay in his hammock, floating on a sea of snores. Everyone was asleep. It was time to go.
He eased himself to the floor, wound his way between the swaying hammocks and climbed the companionway to the deck. It was deserted. Only the night watch would be around, and he was at the other end of the ship. The moon was cloaked in cloud. The stars were sleeping. It was perfect.
Barkbelly slowly lifted the hatch and felt his way down the steps into the hold. He hadn't brought a lantern this time. But he had brought an iron bar and soon he was hard at work.
Crrrp! The sound of splintering wood ripped through the darkness. Surely someone would hear. Barkbelly waited, his heart pounding, listening for footsteps. But none came.
He carried the opened crate out of the hold and set it down on the deck. He reached inside, took an egg in each hand and drew them to his lips. “Good luck,” he whispered. Then he kissed them and threw them over the side. The splashes were lost in the sound of the waves breaking against the ship; they wouldn't give him away. He took two more from the crate and then two more. But it was too slow, bending up and down. So he picked up the crate and wedged it between the ship's rail and his belly. Then he started throwing eggs one after another, faster and faster, as if he were scattering corn. They flew like swallows and disappeared into the night.
Soon the crate was empty. Barkbelly threw it over the side and returned to the hold for a second. Then a third. And a fourth. There were hundreds of eggs floating on the sea now. He fetched a fifth. And a sixth. And he was just emptying the seventh crate when he was grabbed roughly by the shoulder and a voice hissed out of the blackness: “What do you think you're doing?”
“What does it look like I'm doing?” said Barkbelly.
“Don't you get cocky with me, boy,” growled Flynn, and he shook Barkbelly like an old carpet.
“I'm doing what's right,” cried Barkbelly.
“No,” sneered the first mate, “you're robbin', that's what you're doin'—robbin'.”
“I'm setting my people free,” said Barkbelly, wriggling out of Flynn's grip. “I won't have them slaves.”
“And I won't have my wages thrown overboard,” said Flynn, and he pushed Barkbelly up against the rigging. “I told you I wanted no trouble. You're all the same. Just can't help it, can you? I should throw you over the side right now.”
“Go on, then!” shouted Barkbelly. “I'd rather drown out there than sail on a slave ship with scum like you!”
Flynn exploded. He grabbed Barkbelly by the legs and tried to shove him over the side. Barkbelly clung to the rigging and kicked hard. Flynn swore and held on. Barkbelly twisted and turned like a fish on a line. Curses, cuts, bruises, blows… Flynn was suffering more than Barkbelly ever would. Serves him right. He's nothing but a—
“Flynn!” The voice cut through the fight like a blade. “What is going on here?”
Flynn released Barkbelly and stood back. Barkbelly dangled like a puppet from the rigging. Captain Kempe looked from one to the other, then down at the broken crate on the deck.
“I caught him,” said Flynn, wiping the blood that trickled from a cut lip. “Robbin' cargo. Throwing it overboard.” He took a deep breath as the pain kicked in.
“So you thought you would throw him overboard too?” said the captain. “I'm surprised at you, Flynn. You normally know the value of things.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Cage him.”
“Sir?” Flynn was still dazed.
“Cage him. Leave him in the hold. We'll sell him at the market in Barrenta Bay. I know they prefer eggs, but they buy live ones too.” He pulled out his pipe and lit it.
In the sudden flare of light, Barkbelly saw three more sailors standing behind the captain. Too many to fight. They seized him and carried him down into the hold, and there, in the farthest corner, he saw a cage. They threw him into it and banged the door closed. Flynn had a lock. He fastened it through the bars.
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