I know some of the merchants by name. Closest to the block is Mr. Carver, the tavern owner, who used to visit my father’s shop every few months. He would make a grand show of patting my head and offering handfuls of candy, perhaps hoping that my father might charge him less for his newspapers. Now he shifts his eyes from mine and pretends not to know me.
Strabo tucks his whip into his back pocket and begins untying the prisoners. “When your names are called, move quickly to the block,” he says. “And don’t think of running, for you will pay dearly if you do.”
I rub my wrists as the ropes fall away and look around, noticing for the first time the nearly empty harbor. How odd, I think. Rarely would a ship’s captain fail to dock at Charles Towne with a hold filled with rum from Barbados or stocked to the beams with cones of brown sugar from Jamaica. The townspeople valued such goods and would gladly trade tobacco and freshly cut timber that could be used for barter in other ports. An empty harbor in the middle of summer is indeed strange.
My glance falls upon a brigantine moored near the mouth of the harbor. Above the ship, Queen Anne’s blue and red standards snap in the breeze. I eye the ship thoughtfully, wondering who sails beneath the Queen’s colors.
I shift my weight from one foot to another. Other prisoners seem not to feel the heat that rises from the sand. Old Netty shuffles over to a large piece of driftwood and sinks down on it. Her chest heaves from the walk to the harbor. She has barely caught her breath when Strabo charges toward her, his whip held high above his head. “Think you’re at a tea party, do you?” he asks, bringing the whip down across her arm. “Think you can sit and preen like a grand lady? Get back with the others!”
Crying out, the old woman grabs her bony shoulder. She tries to stand, but Strabo blocks her way and strikes her again. Unable to stop myself, I run toward her. “Leave her be!” I shout, shoving myself between them.
His metal-tipped whip catches me across the back. I gasp as fire spreads between my shoulders. Spinning around, I wrench the whip from Strabo’s hand and fling it down into the sand.
The jailer’s face turns dark. “You stinking brat,” he says, bending down to retrieve the whip. “I’ll teach you to cross me.” He wipes the whip across his thigh and then draws back his arm. I think of running, but there is nowhere to run except into the sea. I hunch my shoulders and brace myself, but the pain never comes. Instead, a hush falls over the crowd. Strabo turns his attention from me and stares at two men standing on the wharf, silently watching the scene on the beach. The younger man wears the uniform of a captain in the Queen’s navy: a blue damask jacket and ivory breeches trimmed in gold cording. His brown hair falls loose beneath a blue three-cornered hat trimmed with a scarlet feather.
Had it not been for his companion, the pair might have gone unnoticed. But the older man is an odd sight. Tall and bony, he wears a royal blue naval coat that has been left open to reveal a brown leather vest. His brown leather breeches have been hacked away, ending unevenly below his knees. Speckled black-and-white cow skins secured with leather ties cover the man’s feet and stretch halfway up his legs. The man steps forward, and the magnificent jewels, emeralds, rubies, and aquamarines, decorating the patch over his eye, sparkle in the bright sunlight. Turning to Netty, I whisper, “Who are those men?”
“Devils, they be,” she murmurs, still holding her shoulder.
I glance toward the ship moored in the harbor. “But they sail under our Queen’s flag. They cannot be French or Spaniards.”
“There are more demons on earth than those from France and Spain,” the old woman says. She nods toward the pair. “The captain is Sir Jack Edwards, but he’s known far and wide as Attack Jack. You’ll never find him without his one-eyed mate, Solitaire Peep, for they watch each other’s back like vipers watch their nest.” She crosses her fingers and places them over her lips, as if afraid that mentioning their names will bring bad luck. “Satans,” she whispers, “prowling the water and harbors in the name of Queen Anne.”
I am so engrossed in the old woman’s words, I don’t see Constable Smythe approach the block. He stands in the middle and claps his hands. “Let the auction begin! Oldest prisoner first!”
Strabo grabs Netty by the elbow and drags her over to the block. Jerking her arm away, she climbs the steps alone and stands beside the constable, who shuffles through a stack of papers. Finding the one he needs, he bellows, “Netty Nottingham will labor for two years at our Queen’s pleasure for repeated drunkenness on the Sabbath. Who starts the bidding?”
“That old crow will be dead in six months!” a man yells. “Bring on someone worthy of a bid!”
Netty lifts her chin and glares at the man who has insulted her. “Old perhaps, but strong I am, and a good cook to boot!”
“She is indeed a fine cook,” the constable agrees, glancing at the papers before him. “Take her home to your missus for ten pounds.”
“Five, and not a shilling more,” Wilton Carver calls out. “If she can cook, I can put her to good use in my tavern.”
The constable nods. “In Her Majesty’s name, so be it.”
Strabo leads the old woman away. When she passes me she touches my arm. “I thank you, boy, for your protection today. Lord keep you safe.”
I nod. “And you, ma’am.”
Throughout the afternoon, one prisoner after another is led onto the block. As dusk falls, only two of us are left. The stable master purchases the one-year term of a stocky young man who has been convicted of public swearing and leads him away. Though I remain, the crowd begins to thin. Strabo laughs. “Looks like no one needs a scrawny lad like yourself, for you’ll bring them nothing but an extra mouth to feed.” Placing his hand on my back, he gives me a hard shove toward the block. “Up you go, brat.”
I stumble onto the platform and look out at the faces of the few bidders who remain.
“For stealing a loaf of bread, Jameson Cooper, thirteen years old, is sentenced to labor for seven years at our Queen’s pleasure. Who will offer thirty-five pounds for this lad?”
My face flushes at the constable’s words. I hadn’t stolen anything! Had it not been for the sign posted in the window—Boy Needed for General Help—I would not have gone inside the bakery at all. Once inside, I called out for the baker, but no one answered. When I turned to leave I noticed several fresh baked loaves cooling near the window. The sight of the strawberry jelly glistening atop the bread had set my belly to gurgling. My last shilling had been spent on a bowl of soup three days before, and I had eaten nothing since. Unable to stop myself, I lifted a loaf to smell. A little sniff was all I wanted, nothing more. I held the loaf close to my nostrils, inhaling the scent of sugared berries. At that very moment the baker stormed from the back room. Seeing me with the loaf, he grabbed my arm. “Thief!” he yelled, shaking me like one might shake dust from a rug. The loaf tumbled from my hands onto the floor, splattering jelly upon the planks and splitting down the middle. I tried to explain that I hadn’t intended to steal the bread. I even offered to work for a day to earn its worth since it could no longer be sold, but the baker would not listen. He summoned the constable, and I was arrested for stealing.
A shabby-looking farmer steps forward to offer the first bid. “Twenty pounds for the lad’s term,” he offers.
The constable shakes his head. “Twenty pounds for a seven-year term? Surely you jest. This boy will make a fine worker.” He looks out over the crowd. “Who offers thirty-five pounds?”
“A hard worker with thieving hands is no bargain,” the farmer argues. “He’ll steal me blind.”
Unable to remain silent any longer, I shout, “I’m not a thief! I was only holding the bread!”
“A spirited lad,” the constable says, forcing a smile. “Nothing a thick strap can’t cure. Do I hear thirty-five pounds?”
“Twenty pounds for the little thief,” the farmer says quietly. “I’ll cure him for sure.”
A shiver shoots up my spine. I can already feel the sting of hi
s lash.
“Twenty-five for the boy!” someone yells.
The constable looks around. “Let the bidder show himself.”
My eyes widen as my accuser steps into sight. The baker—the very man who brought the charges against me—wipes his fingers across his apron and lifts his hand. “Twenty-five pounds.”
The Constable waits as if he is hoping for a higher offer. When no one speaks, he declares, “In the name of Queen Anne, so be it!”
I stay on the block, too stunned to move. The other bidders walk away. After the baker has paid my price, he jerks his thumb toward the street. “Follow me,” he says.
As I follow the baker through the streets of Charles Towne, I try to sort out what has happened. I find it strange that the same man who accused me of stealing has stepped forward to purchase my term.
The baker walks fast, flinging orders over his shoulder. “You’ll light the hearth before dawn and quench it come night. The floor is to be swept hourly, and you’ll swat the flies without being told. If they fall into the flour and I find them, you’ll eat them. Each night, you’ll go to the stable and tend my mule. And when I need errands run, ’Tis your legs that will tire, not mine. Understand?”
“Yes sir,” I say, double-stepping to keep up.
When we reach the bakery, the baker lights the lanterns in the front room and goes to the hearth. He pulls out a long paddle that looks as if it has been soaked in oil. Grabbing a cloth, he dips the end into a small pot and scoops out a thick, yellow glob. “Goose fat,” he explains. “It crisps the crust and keeps the wood from cracking.” He rubs the cloth vigorously in circles from one end of the board to the other and along the back and sides. “From now on, you’ll fat the board each night.”
I look around, wondering where my bed will be. Perhaps near the hearth where the smell of baking bread will lull me to sleep.
The baker snaps his fingers to command my attention. “The hour is late and my Sadie needs tending. She beds in the stable on the outskirts of town. The stable master will point her out. Give her a bucket of oats and brush her down.” He frowns, sniffing the air. “Wash yourself in the trough behind the stables before you return. You stink.”
Nodding, I turn to leave. On a table near the hearth, four loaves remain unsold. My mouth waters. I feel ashamed to ask, but the rumbling in my stomach urges me on. “It has been a long day,” I say hesitantly, “and I’ve eaten naught.”
“Take one,” the baker says, “for they will be stale come morning, and I have nothing left in my pot for you. But from now on, you’ll sell the day’s leavings on the streets each night before you get your dinner.” He goes into the back room and returns with a candle. Bending low before the fire, he dips the wick into the flames and holds it there until it catches. “To the stable and back should take you no more than half an hour, with a few minutes added to bathe. If you do not return before this fire dies, I will alert Constable Smythe that you have run.”
“I shan’t run,” I reply quickly.
Turning to face me, he cups his hand around the flame and holds it high so that his face is illuminated by the glow. I stare into eyes that are cold and dark. As if he hasn’t heard my pledge, he continues. “Have you ever been lashed, boy? Beat until the blood runs down your back and drips into your shoes?”
Though the fire roars only a few inches away, I shiver. He notices and smiles. “You are wise to be afraid, for if you run from me, I will see you whipped from one end of Main Street to the other. Understand?”
“I give you my word,” I whisper.
Satisfied, the baker hands me a loaf of the bread, and I go out the door. The street is deserted. Without the day’s light it seems dark and unfamiliar. A half-moon casts shadows across the cobblestones, and I wish I had asked the baker for his candle. In the distance, the town crier rings his bell and calls the hour.
I eat the bread quickly as I walk through Charles Towne, thinking about the day that has just passed. The farmer’s angry face lingers in my mind. I feel grateful my fate was not worse. Seven years as a baker’s apprentice is not such a terrible thing. If I work hard, perhaps the baker might spare a few shillings that can be saved for the day my term ends. And when that day comes, I will find a way to reclaim my father’s business.
Remembering that the stable lies near the wharves, I follow the cobbled streets and make my way toward the harbor. When a horse’s neigh breaks the silence, I know I am close. I walk quickly, and soon I can hear the sea sloshing against the pilings. Looking up, I see England’s flag beating against the night sky, high above the brigantine still moored in the harbor. I walk farther and soon the red-oak barn lies before me. The stable master’s house sits just beyond it. I head in that direction, and that’s when I see him—a lone man crouching behind a stack of barrels near the barn’s doors.
The man rises from his haunches and limps toward me. A smile tugs at his mouth. “Lost, are you, lad?” he asks softly.
I hesitate. The man’s eyes make me uneasy. They go in opposite directions, as if they battle over which way to look.
“I m-m-must hurry, sir,” I stammer. “My master’s mule needs tending.”
“Come closer, laddie,” the man urges. “I cain’t see you in the darkness.”
He reaches toward me and silver flashes in the moonlight. I brace for the sharp pain of a dagger’s blade, but then I see that the man wears leather glove on his right hand with small nails protruding from it. I back away. “I mean you no harm, sir,” I say.
The man grins and cocks his head. “Ain’t it a pity I cain’t say the same?”
The words hang between us for only a second before I turn to flee. The man is quicker, though. Lurching forward, he grabs me by the back of my collar. The studs on the glove’s palm scrape my neck as the man pulls me toward him.
“Let me go!” I shout. I thrash from side to side as if I’m on fire, but I can’t loosen the hairy arm wrapped tightly around my neck.
The man’s breath blows hot against my cheek. “Stop your twisting!” he hisses. “Your head’ll feed the fish tonight if you fight me!”
Lowering my chin, I sink my teeth into the man’s arm, bearing down until I hit bone and taste blood. Screaming, the man wrenches his arm away, and I am suddenly free and running into the night, back toward the cobbled streets. The torches in the street have been extinguished, but I need no light to show me the way; I care only that I run far from the metal-gloved man. Up ahead, a candle flickers in a window. My heart quickens at the sight. If I make it to the house, surely those inside will aid me!
Suddenly a searing pain slices into the back of my head, a pain so sharp it dulls my thoughts and sends me to my knees. Gasping for air, I struggle to stand, but my feet can find no ground. The man grunts as he grabs my hair and yanks me up. I stare into the night sky and see that the moon has turned upside down and stars are falling from the sky like drops of silver rain. The last thing I hear before the darkness overcomes me is the man’s laughter as he hefts me over his shoulder and turns back toward the wharves.
CHAPTER THREE
The distant bleating of a goat wakes me from a fitful sleep. I sit up slowly, unsure of where I am or how I came to be there. My eyes feel heavy, as if someone has placed a blanket over them. I squint into the thick darkness. Unable to see anything, I listen for a clue that will tell me where I have been taken, but only the goat’s mournful bleating cuts through the blackness.
I close my eyes again to steady myself against a sudden wave of dizziness, as if someone is yanking me back and forth. My memory is like a seashell that has been stepped upon; the pieces are there, but they no longer fit together. Some things I recall clearly, like standing upon the auction block. I remember the baker’s words as we walked through town, and I see him handing me the leftover bread that I ate on my walk to the stable. Then my mind fogs, leaving me with jumbled visions of a gap-toothed old woman and a man crouching behind a barrel. Could all that came after have been a dream?
The back of my head throbs, and I reach for the place where it hurts most. Would a nightmare cause such pain? My fingers find a deep gash, and I trace it to just below my ear. The sticky wetness of the wound tells me that the man hiding behind the barrel had indeed been real, for dreams bring no blood.
I know I have been taken by force, but I cannot fathom the value of someone such as myself. Had the gloved man mistaken me for a nobleman’s son who might fetch a ransom? Perhaps the man’s eyes were clogged with mucus and he had not noticed my tangled hair and ragged clothing.
I fumble with the ropes knotted around my ankles. My captor has tied me poorly, and the ropes fall away with only a tug. Kicking them off, I stand quickly and smack my throbbing head against a beam. Crying out, I sink back down.
When the pain eases a bit, I begin to move about in the darkness, feeling for mounds of dirt and the thick roots of Carolina oaks that can split a cellar’s floor. Perhaps I am on a farm somewhere, for hadn’t I heard a goat’s cry? But I feel neither dirt nor roots beneath my palm, only the coolness of smoothly polished wood. The floor seems to tilt as I crawl about, as if someone is rocking it back and forth.
I freeze at the sound of footsteps above my head. Light spills over me as a door creaks open. I grab the ropes I had kicked aside. Lacing them around my ankles, I lie back and pretend to sleep.
From beneath my eyelashes, I watch two men stomp down the narrow staircase across from where I lie. A short, bald man carries a lantern that casts a wide yellow slash across the wall. The man swings the lantern sideways until the light falls upon my face.
“By God, Ferdie, ’Tis only a lad!” the man whispers.
When Ferdie steps into the light and raises his hand, it is all I can do to remain still. A thick bandage is wrapped around his wrist. “Nasty brat almost bit me bone in half,” he says. “His teeth still mark me this morning!”
“The Captain will split your hide when he sees what you’ve brought,” the bald man says. “Hates children, he does.”
Privateer's Apprentice Page 2
