The Captain seems startled to see Ferdie. “Why aren’t you up on deck?” he asks.
“Peep sent me to fetch the lad,” Ferdie says, placing his hand upon my shoulder. I jerk away.
The Captain frowns. “I’ll stand for no trouble between you,” he says. “There will be no fighting on my ship.”
“No trouble here,” Ferdie says. “Ain’t that right, Jamie?”
I flinch. My father was the only one who had ever called me Jamie. Ignoring Ferdie, I say, “Peep wants me up on deck, sir.”
“Then go,” the Captain says, stepping away from the door. “But remember what I said. You’ll work alongside everyone without complaint.”
In the passageway, I lean against the wall to gather myself together before going up on deck. Ferdie’s voice drifts into the hallway. “He’s like a hound sniffing for trouble, the lad is,” he says. “I came to bring him up on deck, and he starts a fight.”
“Is that so?” the Captain answers. “Perhaps he’s having trouble forgiving you the gash on his head.”
“He spoke of that,” Ferdie says. “He said you’d be sorry you ever took him. Claims he’s heading home to Charles Towne the first chance he gets, even if he has to swim.”
“Did he now? He should be congratulated for his courage. We are three days sail from shore.”
“I reminded him he was in the service of Queen Anne,” Ferdie says. “The cocky lad said he served no one.”
“He’ll serve Queen Anne, or he will serve no one,” the Captain replies, his voice suddenly cold.
I cannot catch my breath. It is caught in my throat, trapped there by Ferdie’s lies. I strain to hear more, but Cook calls the crew to breakfast and the stomping of feet above the rafters drowns out their words.
I am heading for the hatch when a hand grabs my shoulder and jerks me around. The Captain stares down at me. “So you’re an eavesdropper as well as a thief,” he says.
I lift my chin. “Is it wrong for me to listen when I am being talked about?”
“Did you hear what you were hoping to hear?”
“I heard only lies,” I say. “I never said any of what Ferdie claims.”
The Captain picks a piece of lint from his blue damask coat. “So says a thief and an eavesdropper.”
“So says Jameson Cooper of Charles Towne, who was taken against his will.” I swallow hard. Surely I will be tossed to the sharks for answering back, but I will not be lied about and called a thief without answering the charge.
The Captain’s eyes meet mine and hold them until I look away.
“Get your breakfast, and then tell Peep to start you on the oars,” he says. “We’ll see if your back is as strong as your tongue.” He pushes past me and disappears down the dark passageway.
I stare after him. The morning’s events have brought something to mind that my father once said: a man who permits another to speak falsely about him stamps the words with truth. Ferdie lied about me and the Captain believed him, but I answered them both. To have done less would have shamed my father’s memory. Taking a deep breath, I walk toward the stairs.
On deck, Solitaire Peep stands at the tiller. He glances at me as I approach. “’Bout time you woke from your nap,” he said.
“The Captain says I’m to eat and then work the oars,” I reply, looking around. The deck is crowded; everyone is at work.
“The oars is a good place to start,” Solitaire Peep answers, his bony hands gripping the large wooden wheel, “for the wind plays hide-and-seek this morning.” His head moves ever so slightly as he gazes upon the black sea. Despite the early sun, I shiver and shift from foot to foot. Peep shoots me a quick look. “You’re dancing around like a fool. What ails you?”
“There was no night bucket in storage,” I mutter.
Solitaire Peep turns from the tiller. His eye twinkles. “Cook sets the night bucket near the galley,” he says. “There’s no need for a bucket during the day.” He sweeps his arm out toward the water. “Step atop a crate, lad, and do your business over the side of the ship!”
I look around. Which crate would that be? There are dozens of them. Was there one special crate for such business? What if I chose the wrong one?
As if he can read my mind, Peep says, “Stop your lolling; one’s as good as any.”
I select a crate a few feet away; just after I step down, Cook calls me to eat. The other men have finished their breakfast, and their dirty bowls are scattered around Cook’s feet. He dips each in a bucket of sea water, swishes it around, and then places it in the sun to dry. Picking up a bowl that has not yet been washed, he ladles out a portion of hot oats. I stand where I am and eat, bracing myself against the swaying of the ship. The oats are lumpy and have little taste without the brown sugar and warm cream my mother used for flavoring, but they fill my stomach. I swallow my last spoonful and hand the bowl to Cook, just as Peep yells for me to hurry.
He is waiting for me beside an empty rower’s bench. There are twelve rowing stations in all, six on each side of the ship, with benches built into the ship’s sides. Sweat streams down the rowers’ naked backs as they struggle to keep the ship moving through the water. Peep points to an empty bench at the end of one row. “Grab the oar and on the next pull back, join in. Back, forward, side. Do it any other way, and you’ll have the ship spinning like a top.”
Nodding, I sit and pick up the wooden oar. The polished oak feels smooth against my palm. “Back, forward, side,” I whisper, watching the man seated before me. His muscles strain as he pulls back. Clutching my oar, I jerk back as well. When he moves forward, I push forward too. This isn’t so hard, I think, repeating the steps again. For the first few minutes, I do fine. Then, a heavy gust of wind blows through, and the ship surges forward. My movements suddenly feel awkward. I forget to go to the side and throw my arms forward instead.
Solitaire Peep storms across the deck. “Back, forward, side!” he snaps. “Row faster!”
“It’s hard,” I complain between heavy breaths. “My arms ache!”
“’Cause you do it wrong!” he hisses, coming up behind me. As the rower in front of me moves back, Peep grabs both my shoulders and yanks me back toward him. Then he pushes me forward, and then to the side. I can feel his nails cutting into my shoulder as he yanks me back and forth. “It’s all in the motion, boy,” Solitaire Peep says. “Faster!”
“I’m trying!” I snap.
“Then try harder,” the Captain says. Startled by his sudden appearance, I jump, releasing the oar. Grabbing it, he shoves it at me. “You’re not kneading bread dough. You are rowing for the queen of the greatest country on earth. Act like it!”
He turns to Solitaire Peep. “Keep him at it until he does it properly.”
Peep nods. “He’ll not move until he has this ship cutting through the water as smoothly as a blade cuts through buttered bread. Row, boy!” he shouts, walking away with the Captain. They look out over the railing and talk in low voices.
I fix my eyes on the other rowers, whispering the directions to myself as I row. But, as hard as I concentrate, I still break my rhythm. My awkward movements cause the other rowers to yell curses at me from over their shoulders. The morning drags on, the sun climbing slowly until it is directly overhead. I row until my arms feel as if they have become disconnected from my shoulders. My hands are on fire. Sweat trickles down my back and soaks through my shirt.
By midafternoon, smoky clouds roll across the sky and the sun disappears. A strong damp wind fills the sails and mists the deck. I welcome the cooling sprays. My back burns through my shirt, and the blisters on my hands have burst, causing the oar to slip in my hand. The pain in my shoulders is almost unbearable. Lightheaded with fatigue, I sway so far to one side that I almost fall off the bench. Just when I’m sure I can take no more, Solitaire Peep hands the tiller off to another mate and crosses the deck.
“You’re done here, lad,” he says. “The wind blows strong enough now.”
Unable to speak, I release
the oar. My eyes fill and I blink quickly. Turning my palms upward, I grimace when I see my hands streaked with blood.
“Wash your hands in yonder bucket and tell Cook to give you supper,” Peep says gruffly. “When you’re finished, come and find me.”
Obeying, I dip my sore hands into the bucket of seawater, breathing heavily as the blood from my hands swirls atop the water. My body hurts so much, I barely notice the stinging from the saltwater.
I feel no pride that I rowed almost the whole day with the others, only a dull ache so deep in my chest that it hurts to swallow. I keep my hands in the bucket until my breathing has returned to normal and I have blinked my eyes dry. As the wind billows the sails, the rowers drift away from their benches to seek their supper. After filling their trenchers, they lean against the railing or sit cross-legged on the deck, eating thick strips of salted beef boiled with pepper and spices that float atop the broth, along with the biscuits Cook has prepared. The sun has faded and though the moon has not yet appeared, the day’s work appears to be over.
Cook is squatting on the deck, plucking the eyes from a small pile of fish that lie before him. I watch as he flicks one out with the tip of his knife and then pops it into his mouth and quickly swallows it. When he sees me staring, he plucks another and holds it up to me on the tip of his dagger. “Fish eyes help you see beneath the water, lad,” he says.
Shaking my head, I back away. “I cannot eat such a thing,” I reply.
Sighing, he wipes his hands on his breeches and fills a trencher with salted beef for me. I take the wooden platter and lean against a barrel. I do not attempt to join in the conversation, and though the others cast looks my way, no one speaks to me. I eat silently, staring out across the water and toward the horizon, where beyond lies Charles Towne. When I am finished, I go in search of Solitaire Peep.
I find him under the hull surrounded by a number of clay pots of varying sizes, a length of rope, and a bucket of boiling tar. “Take a seat and watch, lad,” Peep says, plunging a wooden paddle into the bucket of pitch and stirring vigorously. Steam from the bubbling tar rises from the bucket. My eyes water, and I cough.
“You’ll get used to it soon enough,” Solitaire Peep says. “Pitch fumes are a good tonic for the lung mucus.” Using a small wooden spoon, he ladles the pitch into a small clay pot. Then he adds bits of broken glass and a handful of bent and rusted nails. He finishes it off with a pinch of gunpowder. Afterwards, he seals the jar with a cork that holds a long wick.
“This,” he says, holding up the clay jar, “is a firepot.”
“For what?” I ask. I have never seen such a thing.
“For fighting,” Solitaire Peep replies. “Raise this up for the enemy to see, and they’ll not draw closer without permission.”
I frown. “How so? It is only a pot.”
“Toss one onto the deck, and the crew will scurry like rats for cover,” Peep says.
I pick up a pot and turn it in my hands. “Do you jest? Who would fear a small thing such as this?”
He grabs my hand to silence me. I cry out as his nails slice into my blisters. “If you doubt my word, here be the proof,” he says, yanking down the jeweled patch covering his eye. “Take a good look, and don’t forget what you see.”
I look away from the shriveled black hole where his eye had once been.
“Lost me eye in a battle near St. Augustine,” Solitaire Peep says, releasing his grip on my hand. “A firepot smaller than this one smacked the deck where I stood manning the guns. I grabbed it to hurl it back, and the pot exploded in me hand. Took a nail right here,” he says, pointing to the black socket. “When they pulled it out, me eye was stuck on the end. ‘Twas lucky I lost only the one eye.”
My eyes widen at the picture he has drawn in my mind. “What happened to your ship?”
“We plugged the holes the best we could and made quick to shore for repairs.”
“In St. Augustine?” I ask, thinking that the ship must have listed badly for the Captain to choose a Spanish port.
“Are you daft? Use your noggin, lad! Had we sailed into St. Augustine flying the Queen’s flag, the governor would have finished us off with one shot across the bow.”
“Then where?”
“A place what is known only to me and the Captain.”
“An island?” I ask.
“Your nose is too long, boy. Pay attention to what I’m teaching you now, and perhaps you’ll die an old man with two eyes.” He turns back to his pots, talking to himself as he fills each one. He directs me to add handfuls of the nails and glass, yelling when I add too much or too little. By the time the moon appears, we have finished dozens of pots.
Finally, Peep stands and wipes his hands on his breeches. “We’ve done a good job,” he says, looking up at the night sky. “Perhaps in the morning we’ll make a few more just to be sure.”
“To be sure of what?” I ask, stifling a yawn.
“To be sure of whatever we need to be sure of,” Solitaire Peep says, waving his hands. “Now get below. I’m too tired to teach you anything else this day.”
He squats down and begins counting his pots. A frown crosses his face. “Aye,” he says. “Methinks a few more will do no harm.”
He speaks to himself, for I have already reached the hatch and don’t reply.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It is hard to believe more than a month has passed since I was taken from Charles Towne. I have noted each day with a scratch on the corner of parchment that I took from my father’s shop. I make the mark and then roll the parchment up quickly. I cannot bring myself to read what I wrote on my last night in jail, for I do not want to remember my fears. The desire to write or sketch strikes me often, for my father’s last words are strong in my head, but my body craves sleep more than anything when I return to this room. Someday, perhaps, I shall write of these days, but for now I tuck away each memory.
Morning is the time I like best, when the ship is quiet and no one is shouting my name or ordering me about. I have grown fond of this room, though it is always chilled because it sits so deep in the ocean. The temperature helps to keep the food stored in the crates and in the barrels fresh. The animals and I have become great friends, and sometimes on rainy nights they leave their straw beds and gather near me. I let them stay, for the goat’s fur is as warm as any blanket, and the sound of the piglets snoring near my head helps to drown out the rain beating upon the deck.
Today, the bright sunlight shows me how filthy the room has become. Looking around, I flush guiltily. It is my job to clean up after the animals; though I try to keep up, there are many more of them than there are of me. Last night, I stumbled down the stairs exhausted and ignored the stink that greeted me when I entered the room. Too tired to clean, I tossed around some scraps Cook saved from the day’s meals and ladled dippers of fresh water from the barrel where it is stored into the single trough the animals share, not bothering to dump out the dirty water. The mess and smells that surround me now make my stomach churn. Scratching a piglet’s smooth pink head, I murmur, “Did you come to sleep with me last night because your bed was too soiled?”
Sighing, I toss off the old sail that Cook gave me to use as covering. I grab the metal spade that hangs on the back of the door, quickly scoop up three piles of goat dung, and drop them into the night bucket. A wide yellow puddle has seeped into the cracks between the planking, and I blot the floor dry with a rag that I keep in the corner. I pause when I reach the piglets’ barrel and stare with dismay at the matted brown straw. Holding my breath, I dig out the sodden clumps with the spade. When the barrel is empty, I pull handfuls of fresh straw from a bale that sits in the corner and tuck it tightly inside. I resolve to bring down a fresh bucket of salt water later and scrub the floor.
I take my time dressing, my fingers fumbling over the shirt’s buttons. Barely have I finished knotting my belt when Cook hobbles in. “Hurry up on deck,” he says. “Peep is in a foul mood this day.”
“Shall I
first gather the eggs?” I ask.
Cook waves me away. “Best that I do it meself from here on. Yesterday, one had the black rot. You must have used both hands to pick them up. Eggs spoil when two hands touch them,” he declares. “Boils the yolks in the shell.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I often gathered the eggs with my mother. The yolks never boiled in their shells.”
“Did you use your right hand and your mum her left?” Cook asks.
“I don’t remember.” I shrug. “I just gathered them.”
“There you go, now,” Cook replies. “You must have used different hands or you would’ve found out about the boiling yolks.”
I shake my head and turn away. I don’t believe such foolishness, but arguing with Cook is pointless. He is the most superstitious person I’ve ever met.
Picking up the night bucket, I grab the goat’s leash and head for the door. “Get your oats from the pot,” Cook says, holding a cracked egg up to the light coming through the porthole.
Solitaire Peep meets me at the hatch. “’Tis time you showed,” he says. “A storm blows in from the north. There’s work to be done before it hits.”
I look up at the blue sky. The clouds are few and white. Surely Solitaire Peep imagines things. I dump the contents of the night bucket over the side of the ship and then tie a rope onto the handle and lower the bucket again, letting it drag through the strong current. When it is sufficiently clean, I set it to dry in the sun. I eat my oats quickly, feeling a tension on deck I don’t understand. I am scraping up the last spoonful of my meal when Solitaire Peep pushes a stick toward me with a rag tied to the end.
“Swab off the deck. ’Tis splattered with mud and we cain’t be slipping and sliding around like a bunch of fools.”
I take the stick, grateful for the simple chore. I have scarcely started mopping when Cook comes up on deck. He is holding a large net with tightly sewn threads. “Leave that for now and help me cast the nets. A school of fish follows us. We will catch our dinner tonight and save what’s in the crates.”
Privateer's Apprentice Page 5
