Though Nat hated thrusting a stiff bone needle through the heavy canvas, the cut in pay hurt him as well, if less than those with family on shore to feed. They used the sails more than the East India Trading Company wanted to admit, the massive steam engine an early model that offered less speed than a stiff wind. At least the smokestack had been upgraded to the latest filtration system once they realized the coal dust and occasional sparks proved hazardous to the sails. Not that the Company cared for their safety, but repairs meant dock time when the ship earned nothing.
Nat glanced toward the hatch that led down to the engine room, his mind lost in the possibilities if Mister Garth would only let him near the engine. Not that Nat had any special training in steam engines, mind you. He knew nothing more than any other member of the crew.
But he wanted to learn every aspect of the ship, especially the mechanism that drove their protected paddles, and Garth’s gruff refusal bothered him.
The first mate caught his head and turned it back to face the rigging. “Keep your mind on the task at hand, boy, and you’ll go far. Keep looking for the next one, and you’ll trip over your own feet in the process.”
Nat flushed as he headed off to join the others already up the ropes. He’d been foolish enough to tell Trupt his dream of becoming a captain when he’d been aboard not even two days. Instead of laughing, though, the first mate encouraged him at every turn, gently, or not so gently, schooling him when he drifted off his goal. Nothing meant more than when, a few weeks earlier, Trupt had said, “If you keep going as you are, you’ll surely make captain in my lifetime.”
Lost in thought, Nat tripped over a coil of rope and ran head first into the pins right below the rigging he’d been aiming for.
Phil, one of the riggers with an uncanny balance on the ropes, flipped upside down to give him a steadying hand. “You’ve spent too much time locked in that cabin. Forgot your sea legs, you have. Wandering around the deck like a drunkard.”
One of the others barked a laugh. “Our cabin boy’s from the same stock as the captain. He’s still green behind the ears and never tossed back enough to make him stagger.”
Phil waited for Nat to join him, and together they scampered up to the others, Nat taking extra care to watch how Phil placed his feet and levered his rail-thin body so that he walked the ropes as though on dry land.
“Don’t you let their teasing get you red,” Phil told him. “When we finally limp into port, I’ll show you the real sailor’s life. You should know what it’s truly like, if you know what I mean.”
This time Nat flushed bright red all the way to the tips of his ears if the rush of heat meant anything. At least his overgrown hair, curling down past his collar, kept some of his embarrassment hidden.
“You’re scaring the boy,” a third rigger called with a laugh. “He’s not ready to meet that side of the universe, not the drinking or the other manly entertainments.”
Nat knew better than to let their teasing get to him. He offered a lopsided grin in return. They spoke only the truth. His upbringing had been sheltered compared to theirs, and someday he’d do something about that, but not with Phil in the lead. If the man weren’t the best rigger any ship could claim, he’d have been kicked ashore to find his own way back from any one of the many ports he’d had to be carried in from.
After twisting his knees in a space of rope and wrapping one hand securely, Nat leaned out to check what looked to be a loose thread on the sailcloth. Even something as tiny as a dangling end could become a major tear under the force of a full wind.
But though he squinted to improve his view, he couldn’t be sure if what he saw was thread or shadow. The first mate would cuff him hard if he called for the sail to come down and it turned out to be a shadow. Phil might have been joking about showing Nat the seedier side of the next port, but he’d been right on about the limping. Storm winds were unreliable, but even now they had the sails storm-rigged in the hopes of getting an extra jump over that offered by the old steamer.
The sailors liked to call it a teakettle, but only when Kyle Garth was out of hearing. No one wanted to be on his bad side. The worst task a man could be given was feeding the boiler. The heat from the open flame made them sweat even when snowflakes drifted across the deck and any better-earning vessel would have already stowed for the winter or not yet freed rather than chance ice floes.
But the engineer wouldn’t even let Nat take that task, though he couldn’t for the life of him figure out what he’d done to offend the man.
Nat forced his attention back to his current duty.
Mulling over his failure where the engineer was concerned did no good, and whatever he might think about the steam engine, Nat couldn’t argue the importance of the sails even had he wanted to. With a gulp of air, he pried his fingers loose. He channeled Phil, determined to prove he could conquer the task, and let go, his legs the only hold as he swayed toward the sail to get a better look.
A high-pitched whine cut through the wind and waves to pierce his ears at that very moment.
The whole vessel lurched, a ripple of blocked movement sending creaks and groans from one end to the next. The strain translated into jerking of the rigging a heartbeat later, not late enough for Nat to have time to secure his position, though.
The ropes he’d twisted around his knees seemed to vanish from around him.
He started slipping. His head flipped downward, and he could see the hard wood deck approaching at a speed having little to do with safety.
Just when he’d given up hope, his ankle caught, wrenching muscle and maybe bone as he jolted to a stop, the wood grains no more than a body length below him.
A string of curses strong enough to turn the air around Mister Trupt a cloudy blue reached Nat’s ears, with enough mixed in to reveal the cause of the strain, though there’d been little doubt.
The steam engine had seized again, its gears locking the paddles in place so the water became a wall to block their progress.
Some days the engine seemed more trouble than a help, but at least the distraction meant no one had been paying attention to his own undignified predicament.
Nat twisted around, biting his lip to keep a cry of pain from gaining voice as he tried to pull himself up.
A hand caught hold of his before he could reach the ropes above him and jerked Nat the rest of the way.
He choked on a scream, only to realize the pain in his ankle had lessened rather than growing.
Phil grinned down at him. “Never worth chancing an ankle. Can’t climb the ropes without one of them. Take care in your scrambling.”
And with that warning, Phil raced off to check another part of the rigging for damage, either of the wood supports or the rope itself.
Nat hung there, relieved to be upright as reaction settled in. He’d come so close to losing all goals and dreams, to ending his very life. His limbs trembled, and only the grip at four separate points kept him on the ropes.
Unable to do anything else, Nat tried to distract himself by staring out across the sea, the unrelieved waters soothing in comparison to his fears.
What he saw made no sense at first, and then it did.
That strip of brown against the horizon meant they finally neared the port they’d been heading for, a full day late thanks to storm winds on a different tack and their engine’s quirks.
“Land ho!”
His shout was lost beneath the curses and commands as the crew identified new damage they’d have to report to the Company or repair out of their own pockets, either choice often amounting to the same thing.
Nat jerked his tangled foot clear, gingerly placing it in a different join. The ankle ached but held, so he scrambled the rest of the way to the deck, waiting until the last moment to jump clear.
“Land ho,” he shouted again, run-jumping his way to the first mate.
Mister Trupt caught him by the shoulder. “You need to see the ship surgeon?”
Nate shook his head, knowi
ng it best to avoid the surgeon unless the choice meant sure death. “I’m fine. It’s twisted a little, but as soon as I wrap the ankle, it’ll hold.”
“Good. Get your wrapping done, then lend a hand.”
He’d already turned away to address the next crisis, but Nat called him back. “Mister Trupt, that’s not why I came for you. Look.” Nat pointed toward the shadow of land, less visible from the deck with the spent storm still sending ripples through the water taller than a man’s height.
Trupt raised a hand to shade his eyes and stared, willing enough to give credence to Nat’s observation. The decision was rewarded as, a short time later, his eyes narrowed when he saw the same as Nat had seen. “Land. Maybe we’ll survive this voyage after all.” His words sounded bitter, but he spoke them with humor lacing his tone.
The first mate slapped Nat hard enough on the back to send him reeling. Trupt steadied him and grinned. “You’ve a good set of eyes, boy. Maybe we should send you to the crow’s nest for a spell.”
Nat glanced up to the very top of the main mast, unable to stop his shiver.
“Or maybe that’s not a reward you’re seeking just now. You were up in the ropes when that cursed engine seized, weren’t you? I can see how that would put the fear in a man. Just don’t let it catch hold of you or you’ll never shake the bite.”
He turned away, the conversation clearly over. With land in view, the first mate had even more to do than assess the damage.
Nat limped off to his hammock to find a scarf or shred of an old shirt he could use to bind his ankle. There were sails to check, and he took Mister Trupt’s advice as pure gold. The riggings would not lay claim to him, nor would they hold him back.
6
Though he’d seen shore early in the day, the winds were against them. Garth got the steam engine moving again, but it did little to speed their passage. Still each of the sailors worked to prepare for landing in their own way, confident they’d soon make dock.
This time Nat had been assigned to Jenson, the ship’s cook.
“Would you take a gander at this list himself gave to me?” Jenson said, waving the same paper that had brought Nat down to the kitchen in the first place. “Cucumbers, sweet jellies? What does he think this is? Some mansion house?”
Nat smiled and nodded in the right places, unwilling to admit he’d grown up on the same fare the captain demanded for his table. At least Captain Paderwatch could afford the luxuries he wanted, though they’d become hard to find in the ports their ship was sent to. This only made the list longer whenever they landed on their native soil.
Jenson squinted in the weak light seeping in through a shaded porthole. “There’s not a bit of good stew and potato on this list. The captain will blow away on this feeding. It’s not like he has much skin on his bones to speak of.”
A laugh he failed to stifle escaped at that grumble. Jenson’s words held a little too much truth for Nat to keep silent. The captain cut a slender figure if one was being kind and had the look of a scarecrow when the sailors spoke of it hunkered down against a storm.
Guilt drove him to his feet from where he’d been peeling the very potatoes Jenson so loved. “The professor wasn’t meant for this life. Why, he’s seen more of the world than I bet you know exists, and all that before he reached a mature age. You should hear him tell of the far flung island cultures he’s studied.”
Jenson shrugged. “I didn’t mean anything by it, young Nat. He’s a good man at heart when many don’t give that much. Still, ain’t any use for that kind of learning, book or ‘scientific expeditions,’ as the captain calls them, in the real world.”
Nat winced to hear the cook butcher Professor Paderwatch’s common phrase, but this time his laughter held no guilt at all, against the captain at least. “Jenson, you’re wrong about that. We’re the slowest of the steam vessels. As unreliable as a pure sail ship with the hull of the most ungainly tugboat to hear the crew speak of it. Just how do you think your share is so decent?” He might complain about the papers, but the knowledge behind them offered insights other captains didn’t share.
“I’m thinking our Mister Trupt has much to do with that.”
Jenson’s statement left no room for debate, and yet Nat couldn’t let it stand.
“The captain knows just what people need and where to get it no matter what port the Company sends us to. He uses his share of the hold on goods that can cover our expenses. I’ve seen him do the calculations. Even helped him out a time or two. He might not know much about sailing, but what he does know keeps all of us fat and happy. Even Mister Trupt would say so.”
“Now don’t you get so riled up, especially with that peeling knife still in your hand.”
Nat flushed as he realized he’d been waving his knife about with little thought to the consequences if the engine should balk another time, as it had twice already since dawn.
“But…” The cook slapped the captain’s list on the table. “Maybe he does deserve some of these strange victuals after all. I’m not much with the calculating, beyond the weight of flour we’ll need for how many months at sea. If you say he’s doing us right, you’d be in a better place what with all the time you spend in his cabin with those musty books of his. He’s a good man, I’ll give you that much. I’m just glad we have Trupt to sail the ship. The captain would have to use all those fancy tongues he claims if he had charge of the wheel. He’d have us aground in foreign lands on every voyage with that contraption he swears by. At least the risk of steering us wrong is slight, what with it rarely doing much of anything.”
Nate gave a grunt of agreement and turned back to his task, the potatoes slippery and his fingers rough from layers of starch. Captain Paderwatch had found the navigation tool on one of their passages, but it didn’t seem to read the charts the same way the captain had been teaching Nat to, when it functioned at all. Still, something about complicated machines drew the former professor like a Spaniard after gold. From the clutter in his cabin, this love had started before even the drive of industry did away with higher learning.
“Don’t you scrape them too close to the bone, boy. Peelings might taste a little better with some innards on them, but those thin slices of white, well they won’t do naught but melt away on their own.”
Nat glanced at the potato in his hand to see he’d been slicing the same side over and over until translucent white strips lay among the darker skins. “Sorry,” he muttered.
Jenson only laughed. “Good thing we’re heading to port to restock. Those’ll be the last of the bin. If you hadn’t caught sight of land, the waste’d be criminal. Yon captain might keep us well off, but not even he can control the winds, or that crazy contraption Kyle Garth likes so much. You’re right she’s slow. Why I could tell you of some of the crews I’ve fed on vessels that swept the Channel under them like a milkmaid cleaning out the old hay. Used to be more to the merchant life than just chugging along slower than a walking pace if only we could walk on water.”
Settling onto his stool a little more comfortably, Nat kept to the task at hand while he listened to Jenson tell of other ships and other voyages. Half of the tales were sure to be false, but with enough truth in them to feel grand in the telling. Better this than another arithmetic lesson, and at least Jenson didn’t scowl when Nat’s thoughts drifted.
Nat held no ill will for the light scolding over the potatoes. He’d earn his passage and suffer his punishments well enough, knowing them to be earned just as much.
7
That evening, Nat sat down to a meal of hearty beef stew, the results of his own labors in some small part. A half dissolved white strip of potato lay across the top of his serving, a deliberate gift from Jenson he could be sure.
The crew treated him much as they would any of their own—teasing and chastising went hand in hand with stiffer punishments and greater rewards. If not for the time in the captain’s cabin, they might forget he came from the same kind of polished background as Captain Paderwatch
. Nat made sure he worked as hard as any of them.
“It might not be the fare you’ve come to expect when you share my table, Nathaniel, but eat up. It’ll be a busy day tomorrow when we reach Dover. There’s much to do and little time to do it in if we’re to have any chance of keeping to our schedule.”
Nat swallowed his smile and dug into the stew with an enthusiasm his dinner partner obviously did not share. At the last moment, he remembered to tear off a chunk of bread and dip it at the end of his fork, something unnecessary, and inappropriate, when he ate among the crew.
The captain nodded in approval, but his own bread lay untouched, his mind clearly on something else.
“Everything all right?” There was a risk in asking, but better to chance a lecture on some far-off island where no one in their right mind would go than let the captain run with an idea. Captain Paderwatch was likely to propose the most outlandish things left to his own devices, one of the reasons few among the crew resented Nat’s extra privileges. Meals in the captain’s cabin meant as much time spent turning the captain aside from trouble as eating richer victuals most of the crew would not appreciate any more than Jenson did.
Captain Paderwatch tapped his bread on the table, dislodging a few weevils, but still didn’t tear any off. “You’re getting along all right, aren’t you, Nathaniel? If you’d rather try your hand at another trade, or even seek position on a better-equipped vessel, there’s no harm done. I won’t hold it against you.”
Nat started shaking his head before the captain got halfway into this speech. “No, sir, I’m happy here, sir. Don’t send me off. If I’m doing something wrong, just tell me. I know I don’t always focus like I should, but I can try harder—”
His rapid speech broke off when tears of laughter rolled down the captain’s fine-cut cheeks.
“I have no problems with your efforts, Nat,” the captain said after regaining control, using the nickname the crew preferred. “The opposite if anything. The men seem to have taken to you well enough, and you do good work. It can get frustrating, though, with a ship like this one. I’ve heard the men talk. I can’t help them, but your mother made me responsible for you.”
Secrets (The Steamship Chronicles Book 1) Page 4
