I don’t want to tell him that I think the maps are lost, that the sea had already claimed them.
Cook sits down to rest while the Captain and I walk ahead and try to decide which way to go.
I run my hands along the wall, straining to recall something that will lead me to the hiding place. I close my eyes and force myself to remember the night of the storm. I see myself kneeling at the base of the wall, struggling to dig deep enough so that the maps will be safe. Peep is standing above me ranting, and I hear him yelling my name, shouting loudly above the wind. So strong is the memory that I jump when the Captain squeezes my shoulder. “Did you hear that?” he asks, looking around.
“What? I whisper. “We are the only ones here. Who else would know of this place?”
“I heard it meself,” Cook says, rising from the floor and hobbling toward us. “’Twas the bleat of a goat, for sure. And she called the boy’s name!”
“Could it be our lost goat?” I ask, listening carefully. “Perhaps she wandered in and became lost.”
“It could only be our goat,” Cook replies, his eyes wide. “’Twas a full moon last night and lost goats are summoned by full moons. ’Tis likely she called your name, too, for a full moon brings out strange powers in four-legged animals.”
I snort. “Goats cannot talk, full moon or not! I think you make up most of what you say.”
Cook lets out a great roar, and for a moment, I fear I have offended him. I open my mouth to offer an apology, but Cook is hobbling away from me faster than I would have thought possible. I yell for him to come back, that he’ll get lost if he goes deeper into the cave, but he ignores me. His arms are stretched out before him as if someone is commanding him to come forward. The Captain starts after him, and I follow.
Then suddenly my feet refuse to take another step. I open my mouth, but the name I want to shout lodges in my throat. I am frozen, unable to do anything except watch and pray that I am not imagining things. When the light from the lantern hits his face and I see the gleam of his jeweled eyepatch, I know for sure that the man walking toward us with the goat at his side is Solitaire Peep.
When Peep reaches the Captain, he drops the leather satchel at his feet with a grin. I watch, stunned, as the Captain grabs him in a tight hug, and then holds him at arm’s length and stares at his face as if he cannot believe his one-eyed mate stands before him. Cook hobbles and leaps around in circles. Turning to me, Peep says, “James-me-son, surely you didn’t think I would have left the maps after the sea swept through, did you?”
I sink down onto the floor and run my hand across the leather satchel. A long moment passes until I find my voice. Looking up, I say, “When you were swept away, I tried to go after you, but the water was rising too fast. I would not have left the cave had I known you were trapped.
Solitaire Peep scowls. “Trapped? Use your noggin, boy. There are more openings than the one we climbed through. I stayed in the cave until I was sure the maps were safe.”
I look over at the Captain. “Did you know he had escaped?”
“Not until we approached the island yesterday and I saw smoke coming from the cliff. It occurred to me then that Peep might have survived. I didn’t want say anything in case I was wrong.”
“But I saw land first,” I protest. “I looked through the glass and saw only fog.”
“You must think like a sailor, boy,” Peep says. “You saw not fog, but the fire I lit. Best learn the difference between fog and smoke, or you may find yourself trapped forever on an island someday.”
I sigh. I want to tell Peep that sailing is not natural to my blood like it is to his, and that perhaps I will never learn all the tricks that come through living a sailor’s life. Instead, I smile and pat the goat on its head. “You were right, Cook,” I say. “Lost friends are surely summoned by a full moon!”
Leaving Crossed Island
The Year of Our Lord 1713
We are two days sail from Crossed Island, with a strong wind beneath full sails. The crew is strong and our hold full of smoked fish, turtles, and wild pigs. The Captain says we will sail first to Port Royal to sell some of the clothes in the crates below deck and purchase the rest of the supplies we will need for our voyage to England.
From hereon, I intend to sketch daily what lies before me so that when we reach England, the Captain can show our Queen all that awaits her to command in the New World. I pray she will be pleased with my work and reward the Captain with a new commission to sail in her name. It is a mighty world that lies beyond Crossed Island and Charles Towne, and the Captain says I must seek it with him and Peep.
One day, I will return to Crossed Island. Already, I long to feel its fine-grained sand beneath my feet and hear the rustling of willows on the dunes. There is still much to learn about the island. Peep will not say exactly how he escaped from the cave. I ask from time to time, but his only reply is that my nose is too long.
Last night, while the others slept, I pulled out the parchment on which I had written of my days in Charles Towne’s jail. I am grateful when I read the lettering on the pages and feel the raised marks from the ink. Though I may never follow in my father’s trade, his gift of lettering is one I shall have always; it is a powerful feeling to know my memories will never be cast into the wind.
—JMC
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A huge thank you to my family, particularly my husband Jerry, who believed in me and this story, and my sons, Gerard and Keith, who had to share me with Jameson for a good long while. Thank you to my mother, Jean Connors, who read a very rough manuscript and offered positive feedback, and my sister Jeannie, who never once rushed me off of the phone when I wanted to read “just one paragraph” to her. I’d also like to acknowledge my brothers, Jimmy and Tommy, native Floridians who answered numerous vague questions about beaches and wildlife without realizing they were helping me out.
A heartfelt thanks to all of my friends who patiently listened to me go on and on about pirates and privateers; I hesitate to try to list names in fear that I might leave someone out, but you will recognize who you are when I say these conversation filled our nightly walks around the block, our daily phone conversations after the kids left for school, our beach days, and our weekly drives to the mall.
To my agent, Caryn Wiseman of Andrea Brown Literary Agency: thank you so much for having faith in this story and for your advice and relentless efforts on its behalf. The journey was long, but you never gave up.
To the editorial staff of Peachtree Publishers, and particularly Kathy Landwehr, thank you for selecting my book and for your efforts in bringing it to fruition. Kathy, your gentle approach in asking questions or making comments made the editorial process a breeze for me. I am still in awe of your keen eye for consistency with details.
And finally a special acknowledgement to my fifth grade teacher whose assignment to compose a story using the weekly vocabulary words ignited my passion and love for writing. That I can still recall writing the story and reading it to the class speaks of what it meant to me.
—Susan Verrico
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