Over Gunther’s shoulder, I see the hatch lift and glimpse a scarlet plume. Ferdie sees it, too. He moves quickly away as the Captain comes onto the deck, dressed in full uniform for our arrival in Charles Towne.
Gunther has not released the hold he has on my hair. Grimacing in pain, I say, “I’ve my own work to do. You’ll have to find someone else to reknot the nets.”
Gunther reaches for the dagger at his side. Without loosening his grip on me, he pulls the knife free and holds it up before him. “You’ve pushed me too far,” he says. “There’s no reason to wait for night to fall. Refusing to obey a royal officer is a dying offense.”
“Who is it that he has refused to obey?” the Captain asks loudly. “I’ve given him no command.”
Gunther’s hands fall from me. He turns around slowly. “I told the boy to see to the nets so they are ready when we need them again.”
“Mending the nets is Ferdie’s job,” the Captain says. “Why is it that you’ve asked Jameson to do another’s work?”
Gunther clears his throat and spits over the railing. Not bothering to wipe the spit from his mouth, he says, “We are short on crew. The boy needs to do as he is told without question.”
“Jameson does as I command,” the Captain responds. “And I do not recall assigning him any new duties this morning.”
Gunther scowls. “This boy who stumbles at every turn is not fit to serve our Queen. Moreover, ’Tis bad luck to bring a brat onboard ship. You should have known better. Anyone would have to be daft to believe him sixteen as he claims.”
The crew gasps at the insult, but the Captain holds his temper. “His age no longer matters. The boy has proven himself worthy to sail on a royal vessel and to serve our Queen.”
“Peep is dead and our mast destroyed in a battle caused by the lad’s bumbling. He flaunted himself to the enemy and spoiled our ruse. You should have tossed him overboard then.”
“I could say our mast was destroyed because of your lack of skill, Gunther. Had your aim been true, the enemy ship would not have been able to return fire. If there is blame to be placed, perhaps it should be placed with you.”
A few men laugh loudly, pleased to see Gunther put in his place.
Gunther’s face darkens. He fingers the dagger still in his hand. Before he can speak, the Captain says, “Put the knife away and get back to your duties. I give the commands and no one else.”
Gunther smiles. “You will need a first mate with Peep gone. ’Tis natural that it be me. I have served you longest.”
The Captain shakes his head. “Your actions these past few days do not please me. You command as if you think yourself a king.” The Captain’s voice has turned cold. “You are not.”
Aware he has gone too far, Gunther bows slightly. “I assume no such thing. If I have displeased you, then I must redeem myself. Tell me what it is you would have me do.”
“You are to leave this ship immediately when we drop anchor and seek out merchants who can fill our hold quickly. I have no desire to linger in port.”
“I’ll prepare to take my leave, then. Perhaps the boy can take the ship in to the wharf.” He grins at me. “Surely those who watch us approach will be glad to see the return of their long-lost son.”
The Captain sighs. “I grow weary of your attempts at wit, Gunther. When you return, I may consider putting you in irons for a night or two to cool your tongue. Go now and ask Cook for a list of what we need.”
Gunther glances around quickly, as if taking note of those who have witnessed his defeat. Most of the crew lower their heads, but my eyes meet his and I hold his gaze until he moves toward the hatch. When he has below, I take a deep breath. I feel a growing sense of dread. “He will kill me,” I say, “given the chance.”
The Captain nods. “Aye, that he will. When he leaves the ship, come to my cabin. In the meantime, lock the storage door when you go below and do not be caught alone.”
Placing his arm around my shoulder, he nods toward Charles Towne. “This is your home, Jameson, but I fear you sail toward great risk, both on ship and off. You must watch your step, so that someday you can celebrate your sixteenth birthday.”
My head jerks up. “How long have you known?”
The Captain takes off his hat and pulls the feather through his hands. “I’ve had my suspicions since that first day when you fell at my feet.”
“I did not set out to lie to you,” I say quickly. “But I was afraid for my life.”
“I do not abide lying, Jameson. A man who cannot be trusted is worthless to me. But you are right. Had you confessed you were not sixteen, I would not have allowed you to sail on the Destiny.”
“Would you have allowed the crew to toss me overboard?” I ask.
The Captain raises an eyebrow. “That is something we both must wonder about. I did not know you then as I do now.” He pauses and then adds, “Your life may well depend on your wits, Jameson. Mind what I say and stay out of sight. We will dock for two days to fill our hold and then set sail. Sixteen or not, I desire that you sail with me when we go.”
“I shall be extra cautious, sir. When Destiny sails from Charles Towne, I will be onboard.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I can hardly believe I am home. We dropped anchor late yesterday, and I went below, for fear that a merchant using his spyglass would catch a glimpse of me. Last night, Gunther rowed to shore to organize supplies to be brought to ship. The Captain says we will leave the night before market day, before the port is clogged by ships arriving to trade.
Near supper, Cook bade me to bring the Captain a tankard of ale. I found him alone in his cabin, plotting the route we will take when we leave Charles Towne. I felt a shock to my core when I saw myself in the shaving mirror hanging on the wall behind his desk. My hair is bleached white as bones left to dry in the sun and my skin is deeply browned. My cheekbones jut forth, the skin stretched taut over them like cloth upon a loom.
The ship is quiet this night. I have passed much of it looking through the porthole, which draws me to it like a needle is pulled north on a compass. The stars cast their crystals upon the Ashley River and the water sparkles beneath me as I press my face against the glass and watch Charles Towne sleep. A few candles still burn, and I wonder if one glows from the window of the print shop.
Were I able to step foot on land, I would walk past the street where the print shop sits and on to the city field, where the bodies of those taken by the plague were buried. I know not where in the field my father and mother lie, for the dead numbered many and most were not placed in marked ground. It would be enough, I think, to stand still and whisper to them that I have come home, at least for a brief spell, and that I am alive and well. I would tell them that I have spent my time recording for Queen Anne, and that someday I will fill sheets of parchment with the stories of the days I sailed with the infamous Attack Jack and his one-eyed mate, Solitaire Peep. My father would know then that though I now labor at sea, I have not forgotten our trade. In my heart, I am still a printer’s son.
Three mornings later, a fierce pounding causes me to jump from my pallet and grab for my breeches and shirt. For a moment, I think the noise is cannon fire and I am being summoned to battle. When the pounding resumes, I remember that I am in the storage room. This is the last day we will be in Charles Towne. By nightfall, the hold will be filled and we will sail on the next morning’s tide.
Jabbart bursts through the door, fastening the buttons on his blue coat as he enters. He is dressed in full uniform, a sight I have never before seen. Jabbart speaks rapidly. “I came to warn you not to stray above deck before dark,” he says. “The Captain is leaving the ship and there will be no one to speak for you if you are spotted.”
I button my shirt quickly, surprised at the news. “Why does he leave?” I ask.
“To search for Gunther. No merchants have come onboard to say they have spoken to him; the Captain fears he may have met with harm.”
“I heard the crew talkin
g last night,” I say. “There is much guessing about Gunther’s absence.”
“We will search the streets, and if need be, go to the constable’s house.”
“Perhaps Gunther drank too much ale and has fallen asleep in a tavern,” I say.
Jabbart shakes his head. “The Captain thinks he may have been taken aboard another ship. His gunnery skills are widely known.” At the door, he turns back with a final warning. “Stay out of sight, Jameson. Word will spread that Gunther is missing, and attention will fall on Destiny.”
After Jabbart leaves, I shake the dust from my pallet and flip it onto the clean side. Without Gunther around to plague me, the time has passed easily. I do not have to look over my shoulder when I walk through the dark hallway to use the night bucket, nor do I spring up from my sleep every time a mouse scurries along the floorboard. I cannot be the only one who is glad Gunther is gone, for the mood on board has been light. That the Captain would delay Destiny’s departure to search for him speaks of Gunther’s value to Queen Anne’s cause; the Captain places his duty to her above all else.
For the remainder of the day, I keep busy below deck, repairing the hammocks that show signs of wear. I pull out rotted thread and weave in fresh hemp rope. The job requires concentration. If I allow my mind to wander, a tangled mess quickly reminds me to attend to the task at hand.
The work makes the day pass quickly. The ringing of the supper bell catches me by surprise. On the second ring, I stand and stretch. My back aches from bending over the roping. Still, if there were another hammock to be retied, I would do it just to avoid going to my room.
The storage room is too quiet without the animals. I have no wish to spend another night with only my growling stomach to keep me company. The food stores have dwindled to nothing. Since arriving in port, we have eaten only what Cook catches each morning. Yesterday, Cook scraped oysters from the rock piles along the beach. The bucket he filled barely fed the crew. I long for the hold to be refilled and food to be plentiful again.
I reluctantly put away the mended hammocks and take my supper below deck. I sit on my pallet and eat the meager ration of boiled fish and beans Cook left for me. Gradually the light fades until I am in darkness. Only then do I go up on deck, breathing deeply of the fresh air until the cold air stings my throat.
The crew mills about, but I do not join them. Instead, I lean over the railing and let the wet breeze sweep across my face. The air smells of salt and muck. Lanterns glow from across the water. Tonight the citizens will stay up late preparing their goods to trade or sell at market tomorrow.
Jabbart and the Captain have not returned, but I am not worried. They have likely found Gunther and have lingered to eat a bountiful dinner. I imagine them seated at a table before a crackling tavern fire, as a servant girl fills their trenchers with juicy strips of peppered meat and bread that drips with melted butter. My stomach growls noisily, and I try to think of something other than food. The pangs in my gut remind me of the days following my parent’s deaths, when I wandered Charles Towne’s streets alone and hungry.
As the night passes, the lights across the bay dim; one by one, the crew drifts below deck. A heavy rain begins to fall, and I pull my collar higher, unwilling to go to my room. I am still at the railing when the sound of oars slapping water drives me back into the shadows. From my hiding place, I watch the longboat approach. The man at the helm has his head bent against the rain. When he lifts it, I recognize Jabbart. I fetch the grappling hook and run back to the railing to pull him alongside.
I gasp when Jabbart steps onboard. His sleeve is ripped from the shoulder. His left eye is swollen shut and dried blood stains his cheek.
“What happened?” I ask.
“The Captain has been arrested,” Jabbart says, rubbing his hands together nervously. “I managed to fight my way free, but he was surrounded and I could not get to him.” In a weary voice, he explains what happened when he and the Captain arrived in Charles Towne. “We searched for Gunther all morning. Finally, we went to the constable to seek assistance. Instead of helping us, he called the guards.”
“And?” I say, growing impatient to hear the rest of the story. “Where is Gunther now?”
“We never found Gunther,” Jabbart says. “’Tis the Captain they seized … for piracy.”
I frown. “You are not making sense. Did you hit your head?”
“The captain of the Spanish merchant who destroyed our mast sailed to Charles Towne for repairs,” Jabbart says. “He filed a complaint with the constable, claiming Destiny is a pirating vessel.”
Relieved, I smile. “That’s easy to disprove. Spain is the enemy of our Queen. The Captain fired against the Spanish merchant in her name.”
“No,” Jabbart says. “When we battled the Spanish merchant, we were no longer at war. Whist we were at sea, Queen Anne signed a treaty at Utrecht. Our Captain broke Queen Anne’s promise of peace to France and Spain.”
“A treaty with Spain and France?” I say, amazed at the idea. The idea of England allying itself with France and Spain seems unbelievable.
Jabbart sways slightly, and I quickly reach out to steady him. “Come below. We can talk whilst Cook tends your eye. Then you should rest.”
“I’m hungry and tired to the bone, but there’s no time for sleep. We must think of a way to save the Captain.”
“We can do nothing this night,” I say, looking across the bay. “Charles Towne sleeps. You must sleep, too.”
Jabbart grabs my arm so hard I wince. “You don’t understand, lad,” he says. “Our Captain has been accused of piracy. On Wednesday, he goes before the court to answer the charge.”
“Yes, and they will hear his story and set him free.”
“No,” Jabbart says. “His friends in Charles Towne are few. They know him only as Attack Jack, who for years has taken what he has needed in the name of Queen Anne. Are you not proof of that?”
I think back to my first day on ship when I had pleaded to be returned to Charles Towne. Waving the Letter of Marque, the Captain had refused.
“The Letter of Marque!” I say quickly. “It was signed by Queen Anne herself.”
Jabbart’s eyes widen. “Where have you seen such a letter?”
“In the Captain’s desk,” I say, heading toward the hatch. “At first light, we shall bring the constable royal proof that the Captain had Queen Anne’s permission to attack the Spanish ship.”
When I reach the Captain’s door, I hesitate. Never have I entered the cabin without permission. Jabbart prods me in the back. “Find it,” he whispers, glancing over his shoulders to see if any of the crew has awakened.
I light the wall sconce and a pale yellow light fills the room. I move quickly to the Captain’s desk, remembering how he had rolled up the Letter and placed it inside the middle drawer. I reach far inside and my hand curls around a roll of parchment. When I pull it out, the gold ribbon wrapped around it glitters in the dim light.
“Here is the proof we need,” I say, sliding off the ribbon and spreading the Letter of Marque open on the desk.
Jabbart looks over my shoulder as I begin to read the document aloud. I am halfway down the page when Jabbart snatches the document from the desk for a closer look.
“What?” I ask, alarmed.
“Read the dates, Jameson,” he says slowly, handing the letter back to me.
I run my eyes quickly down the page until they find the date the document was drawn up —almost three years ago. Near the bottom of the page, beneath Queen Anne’s signature, is another date—the day the Letter of Marque expires. I murmur the words aloud. “This agreement holds true until January 1st … the Year of our Lord 1713.”
“Lord help him,” Jabbart whispers. “On the day of the battle, the Captain had no authority to act. He fired on the merchant under an expired order.”
I grab the Letter of Marque and roll it up. “We will take it to Constable Smythe and explain that the Captain had no knowledge of the treaty. Surely he will u
nderstand that the Captain has been a long while at sea and could not have known.”
Jabbart laughs, but there is no humor in his voice. “Did he understand that you picked up the bread in the bakery because you were starving?”
“The Captain has served our Queen well; the constable will consider that and set him free.” I reply.
“His loyalty to Queen Anne matters not,” Jabbart says. “If the constable determines that the Captain committed piracy, he will make him pay the price.”
A chill runs up my back. “How so?” I ask.
“Hanging,” Jabbart says. “Come market day next, a noose will be slipped around the Captain’s neck, and he will swing.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Jabbart and I leave Destiny before dawn the next day. Cook is on deck preparing breakfast when we leave; he watches us ready the longboat, but he doesn’t ask questions. We say nothing. It is better no one knows of our plan.
Jabbart guides the longboat across the harbor through the stinging rain. I stay at the other end of the boat, one hand on the pocket in which I placed the Letter of Marque. All night, it lay open beside me. More than once, my finger traced the signature sweeping across the parchment, as grand as a peacock’s tail. My heart pounds as I think of what will happen if the plan I have conceived goes awry. I pray God it works. If not, the Captain will hang, and it is likely that Jabbart and I will swing beside him.
As we approach the center wharf, I pull my hat down low on my brow. The wool shirt I wear feels itchy against my skin. Jabbart and I found it yesterday while rummaging through the crates in storage for new garments that would not bring as much notice as royal uniforms. Sweat trickles down my back—an odd feeling on a chilly, wet morning.
“Keep your head down and let me talk,” Jabbart says. He grabs a post at the end of the pier and pulls the boat to the dock. I note the empty wharf with satisfaction. We are early enough that Charles Towne still sleeps. By mid-morning the harbor will be crammed with vessels and the piers crowded with people. Had we come later, slipping unseen into the town would have been impossible.
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