Privateer's Apprentice

by Susan Verrico

  Peep nods. “Aye, before the stars twinkle, we’ll be on Crossed Island.” He breathes deeply and I can see that he is pleased. “It has been a long time, but I’ve forgotten nothing,” he adds.

  I snort. “What is there to forget about such a place?”

  Solitaire Peep turns away. “Your nose is too long, boy,” he says. “You ask too many questions.” Halfway to the hatch, he turns back. “Remember what I said. Keep the island’s markings in your noggin and off the paper.”

  Though forbidden to sketch, I remain on deck, filling the hours with one chore after another. The oarsmen’s benches stay full, so I polish the ship’s railing with whale fat, and then wash down the deck, looking for any chore that will give me a reason to stay up on deck.

  Other than climb the rigging, something I haven’t tried again since my fall, I’ve learned most of the duties of a royal sailor. I have become what Solitaire Peep refers to as the “all-around,” filling in wherever an extra hand is needed. Most of the time, though, I sketch. And when the oarsmen look my way and smirk as if I am a child at play, I remind myself that my father served in a trade that often went unnoticed, but that did not make it less valuable than others.

  As Solitaire Peep predicted, the Captain gives the order to lay anchor when the first stars appear in the sky. Destiny’s huge iron anchor requires three men to lift it over the side. A loud cheer sounds when the anchor hits the water with a resounding splash, and the longboats are immediately lowered.

  Cook brings out a handful of straw and the crew gathers around to draw lots; those who pull out the longest stalks will be in the first boats rowed to shore. I sigh, disappointed, when I hold up my straw beside the rest. I wanted to row ashore with the Captain.

  Seeing my face, Jabbart laughs and ruffles my hair. “Don’t fret; you’ll feel the earth beneath your feet soon enough,” he says.

  I shrug. At least I won’t be in the same boat as Gunther and Ferdie, who have each drawn a long straw.

  Those who remain on board try to keep busy, but their eyes wander across the black water. I absentmindedly cut frays from the piles of hemp roping and then retie the ends, impatiently waiting for Peep to give the command to lower another boat.

  As the hour passes, there is much speculation about what the island might be like, and I realize that no one in the present crew except the Captain, Solitaire Peep, and Cook has ever been there. An excited murmur sweeps the deck when a flash of orange appears suddenly across the water. Cook has found a dry spot to light a fire. Before leaving the ship, the Captain ordered supper to be served only when the entire crew has gathered on the beach. Cook, who left in the first boat, carried with him a bag of flour for the evening biscuits as well as a slab of cheese wrapped in cloth, a kettle, and a sackful of trenchers.

  Solitaire Peep orders the last boat filled and finally it is my turn. A deep darkness spreads over the water, making it impossible to see anything except the orange glow from the beach. I start carefully down the rope ladder. We have all been instructed to take our sleep pallets and though I have rolled mine and tied it tightly with rope, it weighs awkwardly in my hands as I climb into the longboat.

  Peep unknots the lines hat secure the longboat to Destiny, and then takes his place near the hull. “Push off,” he commands.

  Using the end of my oar, I help to push away from Destiny. The longboat tilts sharply and cold water washes over the side, soaking us all. Muttering a curse, Solitaire Peep orders two of the men to move to the other side for balance. After careful maneuvering, the boat heads toward land.

  The incoming tide carries the vessel quickly toward the beach. I grip my oar firmly and pull it through the waves. Water sprays up from the sides as the crew finds their rhythm and guides the narrow vessel toward land.

  As the boat nears the island, the smell of decaying plants and muddy earth fills the air. A shrill cry comes suddenly out of the darkness, a pleading sound that causes the hair on my neck to rise. I grip the oar harder, my eyes searching through the thick blackness of the distant trees. The cry comes again, loud and angry.

  “’Tis human,” I whisper.

  “Nay,” Solitaire Peep replies. “’Tis only the swamp owls calling our arrival.”

  “To whom?” I ask, alarmed.

  “To the other creatures that live on the island, that’s who,” says Solitaire Peep. “The forests are thick with wild birds and the like.”

  My eyes settle on Cook’s fire. Flames lick the air, setting embers adrift in the black sky. It occurs to me that such a large fire is not necessary to brown the supper biscuits. “Cook’s fire will surely attract the enemy,” I say to Peep. “Why does he risk such a large one?”

  “To keep the wild animals away,” Peep replies. “A fire must burn each night or we’ll all awake to find our legs being carted off by the wild pigs that roam the forest. Besides, from a distance, the enemy will not be able to tell if it’s a fire that burns or if it is the moon shining upon the water.”

  Through the orange glow, I glimpse the crew huddled around the fire. I notice immediately that the Captain isn’t among them. Before I can sort that out, the boat hits hard into a sandbar. “Get out, boy,” Peep commands, “and help bring the boat onto the beach.”

  Removing my boots, I lay down my oar and leap over the side along with Ratty Tom. The water, still warm from the day’s sun, laps at my waist. We jerk the rope and pull the boat toward the shore. The others still in the boat lean over the sides and push their oars along the shallow bottom to move it along. I stumble twice as my feet sink into the sand, but I catch myself before the boat can overrun me. At the beach, the others jump out and help us drag the boat high onto the sand.

  Solitaire Peep points to a thick line of trees. “We’ll tie it to the stump over there,” he says.

  I loop the rope over my shoulder and we pull the boat toward the stump. Solitaire Peep comes up behind me. “Tie it right or come morning ’Twill be gone with the outgoing tide. Weave the rope through the loop,” he says, pointing toward the stump’s base.

  When I look down, I see a gold ring protruding from the stump. I kneel in the sand and run my hand over the ring, discovering that it’s not a ring at all, but rather a piece of pewter twisted into a half circle. Someone has embedded the twisted ends deep into the tree. There is no need for me to ask who has done so; of all the trees and stumps along the shoreline, Solitaire Peep had known exactly which one to head for.

  As I thread the rope through the ring, I think about the island. From a distance, it seems like nothing special. But a question nags at me: with a broken mast and the daily threat of storms that could sink us, why had the Captain risked sailing to Crossed Island? Surely, we could have charted course to a closer island. Troubled, I give the rope a final tug and hurry back toward the fire, where the others have gathered to eat.

  After ladling broth into the trenchers, Cook tosses dried grass into the fire. With each handful, the flames crackle loudly and roar toward the night sky. I ease in beside Jabbart. Despite the fire, the air holds a chill. My shirt and pants are soaked from wading through the surf, and they will likely stay that way until the next day’s sun dries them. Others have brought along some of their belongings, and I feel a pang of regret that I did not think to do the same. Now I will have to sleep in wet clothes.

  I stir my soup, turning over a root of some sort, its leaves still attached. Other than that, there is nothing in the broth except for a few morsels of fish. I bite into one biscuit, pocketing the other to eat when the others sleep and I cannot. Lately my nights have been plagued with thoughts of home. In my mind’s eye, I see the two-story house and remember how it leans toward the street. I chew my biscuit slowly until it dissolves and there is no danger that it will lodge against the lump that fills my throat.

  A few of the men drift from the fire to spread their pallets on the sand. I wonder who will stand guard for the night. It is unlikely Peep will fail to post a lookout, as if no harm can come to us here.

>   I glance up and down the beach, searching for the Captain, who did not appear for supper. My eyes fall upon the thicket of trees that line the edge of the beach. Their leaves glisten silvery-green beneath the moon’s hazy light. Surely the Captain would not remain in the forest at this late hour.

  Suddenly, the swamp owl I had heard earlier screams again, its piercing cry rising and falling until I place my hands over my ears to block out the sound. It occurs to me that only the owl knows if the Captain has gone beyond the trees, for no human eyes could see through such darkness. Is that what the owl is saying? Is it calling out to other creatures that the Captain has trespassed amongst them?

  The crew begins to settle in for the night, arranging their sleeping mats around the fire. My eyelids are heavy, so I find a clear space and unroll my pallet. I close my eyes and will myself to sleep. When morning comes, there will be much to do and consider. Now, in the darkness, there are no answers to be had.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I wake near dawn to a swarm of mosquitoes buzzing loudly near my head. My face feels as if it is on fire, the skin hot and swollen. “This place is not fit for animals,” I mutter.

  Swatting at mosquitoes clinging to my shirt, I pull my pallet over beside Jabbart’s and Ratty Tom’s. Their even snores tell me they have not suffered the same fate. I scratch a welt on my neck, vowing to sleep closer to the fire from now on.

  The salt from the water has left my clothing stiff. I tug on my trouser legs as I walk to the stump where I tied the boat the night before. I give two quick yanks on the rope and then drop it, satisfied the vessel is still secure. The others are just waking, and so I walk down the beach, enjoying the feel of the white sand beneath my feet and the sun on my face. In the morning light, the island doesn’t seem as hostile as it did the night before.

  I eye the trees that line the edge of the beach like soldiers blocking entry into the thick woods that lie behind them. Two tall oaks, their trunks charred black by lightning, stand side by side. The narrow gap between them looks like a doorway into the woods. Around the base of both trees grows a thick green vine covered with red berries. I squat for a closer look, remembering the berries that grew wild each summer behind the print shop, and the way my mother picked them to make jam and pies. With food supplies low, perhaps Cook can put these berries to good use.

  Holding up the bottom of my shirt to use as a basket, I pull the brightest ones from the vine. When only hard green ones are left, I step between the charred oaks in search of more.

  The forest is cool and dark inside, shielded by thick branches that form a wide canopy across the sky and block out the light. Pine needles, dry palms, and clumps of gray moss blanket the ground. I breathe deeply, inhaling air tinged with pine.

  The quietness of the woods causes me to forget about Solitaire Peep’s warning and the cries from the animals I heard the night before. I concentrate on picking the berries, imagining how pleased Cook will be when I return with them. The vine seems endless as I follow it farther into the woods.

  When my shirt can hold no more, I turn to leave. I am almost at the charred oaks when I hear a loud rustling of leaves that causes me to spin around. A large black boar, his snout to the ground, appears suddenly from beneath a bush. The boar seems as startled to see me as I am to see him. He stares at me with closely set eyes that look to be crossed.

  I draw a sharp breath. The boar’s tusks are as sharp as any dagger I have ever seen, capable of cutting me to the bone. With my eyes on the animal, I edge slowly backwards. Alarmed at my movement, the boar’s ears flicker. He raises his head and snorts loudly.

  “Easy,” I whisper.

  The boar’s lips curl back over rows of pointed yellow teeth. When he begins pawing at the ground with his hoof, I know he has no intention of letting me escape. I drop the berries and grab for the dagger hanging at my side. Instantly the boar springs at me, teeth bared and snarling. His tusk catches me below the knee, knocking me backwards. I stumble, but I manage to stay on my feet. I yank my knife free and crouch, ready in case the boar turns and charges again. When he does, I step quickly to the side and stab wildly at him with my dagger, plunging it deep into the flesh near the back of his neck. The sight of blood spurting upward shocks me, and I stumble back. The boar falls, rises to his feet, staggers toward me, and then collapses. I wait with my knife raised, but he doesn’t move again.

  I sink back against a tree, my heart pounding. Blood spills down my leg. Ripping a piece of fabric from my torn pants, I wrap it tightly around the wound. My leg hurts, but the pain is worth it. The boar is large and will feed us for many nights.

  I limp slowly back toward camp, dragging the carcass awkwardly behind me. Cook’s eyes widen when he sees what I have brought. “Has the man in the moon stolen your wits, boy?” he asks. “One who hunts the wild pig with only a knife is surely asking to die.”

  “It was more like he hunted me,” I reply. “He attacked me whilst I was in the woods.”

  “Lucky for you the moon was full last night,” Cook says. “Animals with tusks are weakened after a full moon.” He turns the boar over, grunting in approval at the heaviness. “You did good, lad. We’ll feast on wild pig this night and smoke the rest for later.”

  The crew gathers around the boar. I step back to examine the wound on my leg.

  Ferdie watches me, smirking. “What did you do to yourself now, lad?”

  Cook speaks up before I can answer. “Whilst you were sleeping the day away, the lad battled a great beast. You can thank him tonight when your belly is filled with wild pig.”

  “’Tis time he earned his keep,” Gunther grumbles. “The Captain keeps him like a worthless pet.”

  “Your mouth spews words like a waterspout when the Captain and Peep are not nearby to hear,” Cook says. “’Tis empty like a summer’s well when they are.”

  The crew laughs uneasily. Gunther steps forward. “Do you challenge me on the boy’s behalf?”

  Cook stabs at the fire with a thick branch. “Remember who stews your food. A bit of this or that, and the pains in your stomach will drive you to madness.”

  Gunther spits into the flames and walks away without replying.

  Jabbart waits until Gunther is out of earshot. “You are foolish to taunt him when the Captain is gone,” he says. “There is no telling what he will do with no one to stop him.”

  Dabbing blood from my leg, I ask. “Where are the Captain and Peep?”

  Jabbart shrugs. “Peep disappeared during the night. ’Tis strange that they are both gone at the same time.”

  Cook nods toward the boar. “We need to build a pit to smoke the meat before the sun rots it. Can you bring wood for a boucan by midday?”

  Jabbart nods and turns to me. “Tend your injury and come help me, lad,” he says. “When the Captain returns, he will order the ship careened. We must have the timber ready.”

  I wash my wound in the sea, wincing as I splash the salty water against my leg. I let the sun shine on it to dry the blood while I eat my biscuits. Then, I bandage it with a strip of cloth that Cook gives me. When Jabbart is ready, I follow him to the woods. At the charred oaks, I hesitate, reluctant to pass between them. No doubt the woods are full of wild pigs that will come at me again; I could not hope to fight another with an injured leg.

  Jabbart squeezes my shoulder. “Overcome your fear,” he says. “We’ll be here too long for you to avoid the woods forever.” He strides between the charred oaks without waiting for me to respond. Taking a deep breath, I fall in step behind him.

  For the rest of the morning, we gather branches. Those too thin or brittle are put aside for kindling. The thicker ones please Jabbart. Holding a fat oak branch in his hand, he explains how Cook will bind the branches with strong willows to build the boucan.

  By midday we have what we need. Cook is waiting impatiently when we come out of the woods. He spreads the branches on the beach, crossing one over the other and binding them together at the corners with cut willows.
When he finishes, he steps back and admires the three-sided structure he has built.

  Flies have settled around the boar’s eyes and snout, and Cook swats them away. He pulls a dagger from his pocket and hacks around the tusks. Then, with a quick twist of his wrists, he wrenches the ivory tusks free and tosses them to me. “With these in your pocket, the beast’s strength will be with you always.”

  I wipe the bloodied tusks in the sand and stick them in my pocket. I don’t believe they will bring me strength, but I have seen such tusks sold in the market in Charles Towne and know they hold value.

  After skinning the boar, Cook gathers stones from the water’s edge and arranges them inside the boucan. He stuffs dried grass between the stones and strikes a flint. The grass flames up. To my surprise, Cook and Jabbart quickly stomp out most of the fire, leaving just a few twigs burning between the stones. “If you roast the meat,” Cook says, “you’ll have to gobble it quick before it spoils. It’s the smoke you want to cure the meat.”

  “Aye,” Jabbart says. “Meat smoked proper will last for months. What we don’t eat tonight will keep until it’s gone.”

  Smoke slowly fills the boucan. Cook busies himself arranging the boar on the stones inside the boucan. I leave him to help Jabbart find wood to repair the ship and build a new mast.

  Jabbart shows me how to look for proper trees. They cannot be too thick around the base or they will be unmanageable. If the bark is brittle, the tree might be damaged and the wood might rot and split open at sea. There can be no mold, for that might spread to the other wood on the ship. Our search for just the right timber takes us deep into the woods. Along the way, Jabbart carves arrows on the trees to leave a trail for us to follow back. I watch, impressed. Such planning would never have occurred to me. Sometimes it seems as if there is too much to learn for me to ever become a sailor. Being a printer’s son wasn’t nearly as complicated.

  Toward dusk, Jabbart finds an oak he thinks might do for the new mast. “Pine works best for the flooring and pins,” he explains, “but oak stands strong against the wind.”