That made sense, she supposed. The waterfront street was a solid line of shipping offices as far as she could see in either direction. She walked the length of the street looking at each door and into each window, hoping to find some sign of welcome or notice of help wanted but found none.
She picked the door of a building that looked less seedy than its neighbors and cautiously stepped inside. The room was full of crates and barrels and a group of businessmen huddled around a table in its center. When she entered the room they ceased their talking and raised their heads to look at her. Her voice caught in her throat, and for perhaps the first time in her life she couldn’t think of what she wanted to say. In embarrassment, she retreated out the door as the men laughed at her and turned back to their discussion.
Back on the street, of course, she remembered precisely why she’d gone in but decided against venturing back for another try. She walked on to the next building and knocked on the door. When no one answered, she tugged at the handle and found it locked. She moved on to another building, one with an open door, and went in. An old man with white-filmed eyes lounged back in his chair behind a desk and addressed her general direction.
“Mr. Sotherby! Your wife, sir! She has been three times to see you this morning and gone away in a state, I’m afraid.”
Fin was only other person in the room.
“I’m sorry, I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else. Pardon me.” She hurried back out the door as the man called after her.
“Mr. Sotherby! Mr. Sotherby! What shall I tell your wife?”
The next three doors were locked. The fourth opened below a shingle that read “Smithers and Jouncey Shipping Co.” Inside, a plump clerk scribbled away at some unknown business behind a desk topped with manifest documents. Stacks of paper and what appeared to be boxes of stacks of paper filled the room. Dates and names adorned the sides of each box, and by a quick glance around she noted that they had been collecting for quite some years indeed. She approached the desk and opened her mouth to speak.
“Excuse—”
“May I help you?” The man promptly interrupted her without looking up from his scribbling.
“I’m looking for work and—”
The man tilted his head up slightly as she spoke and peered at her over his glasses before cutting her off. “No work.”
“Well perhaps you could refer me to—”
“If you are looking for a contract aboard a ship, I’m afraid you are far out of luck. You haven’t the constitution or muscle for the work, and I doubt, from the look of you, that you’ve ever set foot on a ship in your miserable, scrawny life. No work.”
He stared at her over his glasses and flicked his eyes toward the door.
“But—”
“No work!”
Fin wrinkled her forehead at him and removed herself back out onto the street. She came to an abrupt stop as she collided with someone. The someone seemed to be the man now lying on the ground, sputtering curses and smelling of rum. He was skinny, pale, toothless, and very nearly pickled in alcohol.
“Ahhh,” he groaned as he climbed his way to his feet.
“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t see you,” Fin tried to beg pardon.
The man started and spun once around looking for the source of her voice and then had to contend with a bit of wobbling before he managed to focus on Fin.
“What the bloody drink are you think you doing?” he sputtered in a grammar only the drunken can master.
“I was just coming out of the build—”
“Ye scrawny rat, don’t know who you’re messing about!” He made a show of putting up his fists and nearly succeeded in throwing himself back to the ground. He’d have done just that had not a monstrous hand clamped him around the neck just as he was about to fall. A dark, hairy man the size and demeanor of a bear had come to his rescue but didn’t look any too pleased about it.
“Tommy, you drunken dog. Leave off the locals and get to the ’Snake! We haul anchor in the hour and you’ve work to sober up to,” he growled at the skinny drunk.
“Let off me, Jack. This kid tried to rob me, he did. I’m about to shew him me robber-knockers!”
Jack growled under his breath, picked him up by the scruff of his neck and threw him over his shoulder. He marched off down the street with Tommy kicking and hollering to be let go. Fin was amused by the affair until she saw Tommy had got himself free of his captivity and was running full gait back toward her. He barreled down the street yelling a cacophony of curses and vulgarities at her. Fin made up her mind that she’d heard and seen quite enough. She set her case down and stepped to the side. In his drunken state, Tommy forgot to slow down as he approached his target, and she threw her fist into the side of his face as he stumbled past her. That ended the commotion. Tommy crumpled onto the cobblestones and lay silent on the street.
“Robber indeed,” Fin muttered as he began to snore. She turned around to find a hulking obstacle barring her way. She had to crane her neck and back up a step in order to see his face. It was the man Tommy had called Jack—and he didn’t look any too pleased with her either.
“You just ruined the most worthless sailor I ever had the displeasure to bark an order to. I ought to box your ears and throw you in the brack.”
His face was so ugly it made Fin wince to look at it, and the way he had it scrunched up in anger didn’t help the condition. His eyes were set too far apart, such that Fin thought he must see all of what was happening on either side of him as well as in front, and his mangled, pudgy nose was so covered with sun-baked skin that whenever he moved his head too quickly little flakes of it floated off like snow. Thankfully his beard covered the remainder of his unfortunate face. He looked to have three teeth, more or less, and the rest of his appearance could be summed up in two words: large and hairy. Everything about him was over-big and covered in short, curly, black hair—hands, fingers, neck, ears—every visible patch of skin seemed to be sprouting.
He worked his face around for a moment while he nudged Tommy with his foot. Then he looked at Fin again, and she suppressed the inclination to turn and run.
“You know what a press gang is, kid?”
Fin shook her head.
“It’s me,” he said. The monstrous man chuckled under his breath, a sound that navigated its way through the caverns of his chest and came out like a muted rumble. “You’re replacing Tommy.” He picked Fin up and threw her over his shoulder. Fin gave a yelp and hollered to be unhanded.
“Quiet down, kid, afore I have to gag you,” Jack barked.
“Mister, if you want me to work for you I can walk on my own. Work is just what I was looking for.”
Jack put her down and considered her.
“You’re a mite scrawny, but willing work scrawny’s better than forced work fat, I always say. Was you robbing Tommy?” he asked.
“No, sir.”
“Well you are now!” He slapped her on the shoulder and laughed like a thunderclap. Fin just stared at him. “Stealing his job. Robbing him his berth on the ’Snake . . . ah, never mind.” He waved his hands at her. “What’s your name?”
“Fin Button.”
He stuck an enormous right hand out. “Jack Wagon.”
Fin put her tiny hand in his and he shook it around.
“Enough jabberin’. There’s trouble with the locals tonight, and we needs to get seaward in the hour.” He slapped Fin on the back, spinning her around, and walked off down the street. Fin had to jog to keep up with him.
“Mr. Wagon!” Fin called after him, but he ignored her. “Mr. Wagon, what sort of trouble?”
Jack inclined his head toward her, but didn’t speak. Then he pivoted on the toe of his boot and turned onto a pier. Fin scrambled to keep up. He stopped in front of a gangplank running out to the deck of a black and tan ship. Its three masts speared high into the sky and gulls circled above.
“The Rattlesnake.” He hooked his thumb over his shoulder at the ship. “Let’s go, scraw
ny.”
Fin took a deep breath and trotted across the plank. Jack followed after with a single bound and hollered orders and curses down into a hatch. His yelling caused quite a commotion, and in seconds, muttering sailors popped out onto the deck and scurried about the ship, untying ropes, climbing the rigging, and doing all manner of shipboard work.
“Where’s Tommy?” yelled a voice down from the tops.
“Ruined in the gutter he is, damn his blood!” shouted Jack up at the voice. “This bony lad laid him out with a single whop.” Jack slapped a hand on Fin’s back, and all the sailors on deck stopped what they were doing and turned to look at her.
Fin opened her mouth to inform Jack that she was no “lad” but stopped and thought better of it. Every man on deck had his eyes trained her way, yet it seemed it hadn’t occurred to a one of them that she was anything other than what Jack had just named her. She gulped once, snapped her mouth shut, and slouched her shoulders down so her chest was less likely to give away what her clothing and boyish nature conveniently hid.
“Say hello to your new mate. We’re rid of Tommy once and for good.” Jack pointed a meaty finger at Fin. “Now get yourself to climbing, Mr. Button! Knut needs help aloft with the lines and sail.”
Fin looked up. Some forty feet above her, a man in the rigging of the mainmast waved down. She waved back and clambered up into the ropes as if she was born to it. When she reached the top, the man looked at her in confusion.
“Never heard of a name like Button.” He looked at her sideways and narrowed one eye.
“Call me Fin. Can’t say as I ever heard a name like Knut before either,” she said, grinning at him.
“Tommy Knuttle. Already got a Tommy on the ’Snake though, so’s they call me Knut.” He frowned as he spoke of himself and talked a beat slower than most folk.
“There’s no Tommy anymore, though. Mr. Wagon said I’m replacing him.”
Knut’s frown deepened.
“So does that mean I can call you Tommy now?” Fin asked.
Knut scratched his head and rolled his eyes in thought. “I’m Knut,” he declared. He nodded and looked at her to make sure she understood. “Grab hold of that rope over there. Don’t know why we got to get to sea a day early, but I don’t cross Jack, no sir.”
Fin followed Knut’s lead closely as he showed her how to ready the top sails, and after a few minutes they had the work done and climbed back down to the deck. The ship was unmoored and floating out into the harbor. Jack stomped about the deck bellowing orders as he pointed toward work and kicked the nearest sailors in the proper direction. Knut tapped Fin on the shoulder and motioned her to follow him. He led her to a spot far aft from where Jack’s attention was focused.
“Jack’s the captain?” Fin asked.
“Glad you asked me and not him. He’d belt you in the head for saying it. Jack’s the first mate. He likes the ordering and stomping, but he ain’t one for stiff-neck work like captaining.” Knut frowned and cast a nervous glance around. “Don’t think Jack and the captain likes each other none.”
“So who is the captain?” Fin asked.
“Tiberius Creache,” said Knut in a whisper. He looked around again and checked over his shoulder, as if afraid he was being watched. “I don’t think the captain likes me none neither.”
Without warning, the rumble of distant cannon-fire split the air. Fin flinched at the sound, and Knut dove to the deck and covered his head with his hands. The rest of the crew gathered along the rail see what was going on. To the north, where the Savannah River emptied its waters into the ocean, three British frigates had arrayed themselves across its mouth. They were throwing a volley of cannonshot at what looked to Fin like a cloud of fire coming downstream. It took a moment for her to realize that the blaze was a ship. B-b-b-boom! Another volley erupted from the British cannons, and bits of fiery debris exploded from the blazing ship where the guns found their mark. Collision was imminent. Two of the British vessels came around and fled seaward. The third wasn’t quick enough. The flaming ship plowed into her amidships, and Fin heard the cracking and splintering of the hull even as far away as the Rattlesnake. As the two ships sank into the estuary, thick pillars of smoke rose to mark their graves, and Fin lost sight of the calamity as the Rattlesnake rounded the shoulder of South Carolina.
“That, gentlemen, is why we’re a’sea today and not tomorrow,” shouted Jack across the deck. “Got word midday about British plans to seize supply boats upriver. Talk at the tavern said the local militia aimed to put a stop to it. Bad news to stay in port when the locals get riled. We head for Philadelphia to trade what we got, and the captain claims he’s got business with some politician. Now set watch above and get below before I find a swab to keep you company!”
So began Fin’s life on the sea. Knut showed her to the berthing and found her a spot to swing a hammock next to his. She had nothing to call her own except the black fiddle case she carried away from a bloody kitchen in a world shrinking behind her. As the wind blew her north aboard the Rattlesnake, she felt the pain of all that had happened slipping away. This was the sea; this was what Bartimaeus had loved. She wanted to forget everything life had given her up to this moment, save two things: Bartimaeus and Peter. Peter would wait for her. She’d come back. She’d come back for him once she’d seen a bit of the world and the war. Once the British were gone she could return home safely. He would wait.
She spent little worry over the notion that she was going to have to hide the fact that she was a woman. She hadn’t tried to deceive anyone, but her breeches, short tangled hair, dirty face, and boyish chest had taken care of it for her. No one seemed to have thought twice about her. She considered for a moment whether she ought to be offended but quickly brushed the thought aside. The only person she’d ever cared to look female for was Peter, and it was just as well she keep it that way.
The sail north to Philadelphia was a four-day venture, and it proved four of the longest days Fin had ever known. She soon learned that the Rattlesnake was no vacation from chores and duty. To the contrary, there were more of both than ever, and as the newest crew member, she was assigned all the least desirable tasks: swabbing decks, pumping the bilge, dumping the latrine, and working the hardest (which is to say, latest and most boring) watches.
Fin didn’t complain though. She loved it, loved the purpose in it, the challenge of it. It was hard work, “man’s work” as Sister Hilde would say, and while the other men aboard looked forward to drinking and investigating the local womenfolk when they hit shore, Fin could think only of sleep and rest.
Knut was her companion in nearly every chore and duty. Many of the crew mocked his awkward speech and thought him slow in the head, but Fin took a liking to him right away. Though he was clearly older than her by years, he worked long and steady and never spoke ill of anyone. She came to think that he looked like a twig. His limbs were overly long and skinny, and where they jointed together they bulged like knots. His sun-darkened skin and scars made him the color of fallen leaves, and she worried that if he fell asleep in the woods he might never be found. Fin took to his gentle way and enjoyed his companionship. Knut seemed more than happy to have company that didn’t push him around.
Few of the rest of the crew would afford her any attention or entertain any of her questions. She recognized the pattern, though; it was the same at the orphanage. She’d seen time and again that when new orphans arrived they’d have to endure a period of shunned isolation until they achieved some untold quality that made them one of the crowd. At least Knut eased her transition.
He also provided Fin with a hearty education on shipboard life. He showed her to the galley for meals and explained the meanings of many various bells, whistles, and flags. He patiently drilled her on the tying of knots and told her when to report for watch duty and when to try to sleep—something that was scarce as the ship was badly undermanned.
“The ’Snake used to have eighty crew,” he said. “But only got forty n
ow.”
“Why not more?” Fin asked.
“Some people don’t like the captain none.” Knut shrugged.
“Why not?” she asked, but Knut wouldn’t answer.
She pieced together from conversations that the Rattlesnake had been in Charleston not long ago loading tobacco bound for trade in England when the captain changed plans and sailed for Savannah with a half-empty hold and no explanation. They’d been in Savannah ever since, and the captain hadn’t been seen at all until the day Fin came aboard. There were rumors of every sort: that the captain had a mistress, that he ran afoul of the law in Charleston and needed a quick out, that he was secretly spying for the Continental Congress. Theories haunted any space where two sailors spoke, but by far, the most popular was simple madness. Most of the crew thought him insane. Fin didn’t know much about seaborne commerce or the basic activities of captains, but it took little time for the rumors in the air to color her perception of him.
Jack, on the other hand, while not the captain of the Rattlesnake, was certainly the one that kept it running. He seemed never to rest. At all hours of the day and night he barked orders and stomped across the deck inspecting lines, knots, rigging, brass work, and anything else he found that needed daily maintenance to keep the ship running fleet and sure. Though he was a harsh master, the crew loved him. Jack expected excellence, and the crew worked to achieve it. He’d snarl insults and spit fury at a man who did his job half-hearted and then grin and smack him on the back once it was done proper. He hadn’t spoken to Fin since the day he pressed her into service and Fin wasn’t anxious to garner his attention—she already had all the work she could weather.
Fin was scrubbing the poop deck on the second day underway when the door to the captain’s quarters opened and Tiberius Creache stepped out into the world to appraise his ship. He was tall and older than she’d expected. Great locks of curly grey hair cascaded out from under his black tricorne, and his face was hawkish and severe with deep-set eyes and a hooked nose. He was dressed gentlemanly in a red topcoat and fine, white breeches, but his eyes conveyed nothing gentle; they peered across the deck as if searching for a mouse to pounce on.
The Fiddler's Gun Page 13
