Minerva's Voyage (4 page)

“What you doing?” Mary asked sharply.

“Nothing, mistress.”

“Where's your master?”

“What's it to you?”

“None of your business, toad spawn.” People always seemed to be saying that to me. “Where is he?”

“If he wanted you to know,” I retorted saucily, “he'd tell you himself.”

“How dare you? Don't you know who I am?” Her face had flushed bright red to match her skirt.

“No, mistress, and I don't much care. I serve my master, not you. He wouldn't thank me for telling strangers of his whereabouts.”

She was livid. “I ain't a stranger. I know him.”

That was right enough, at least in the Biblical sense, but my stupid mouth was quicker than a fighting cock out of the cage to say so.

She snarled. I snarled back, longer and larger. But even my fingers pulling down my lower lids with my thumbs stuck up my nostrils couldn't get rid of her. She circled, picking her way over and over again among voyagers, blankets, bundles, and all the other rubbish that littered the hold. After a bit she snorted and climbed into Scratcher's hammock, her holey shoes sticking out the top. When she fell asleep, I went back to my investigations, keeping a sharp eye out for Scratcher.

Just as I was about to give up, I felt something give under my fingers. It was a knob of some kind, hidden inside the lip of the cover. I lifted the top until there was a crack between it and the bottom, then doubled over and squinted. Papers were inside, quite a few of them. With inky writing and drawings. I opened the chest a fraction wider, dying to see more. At that moment, as fate would have it, Scratcher started down the ladder. In a trice I slammed the chest shut and sat on it.

“Where's my meat and drink?”

“Here, sir.” They were on the floor beside me.

He grunted and was scoffing a mouthful when the holey shoes caught his eye. “What are you doing in the hammock, Mary?” he cried, spitting food in all directions. “This meat's tough as leather. Did I not tell you to go away?”

“My dear…” came a sleepy voice, “I thought you'd be in need of a bit of cheering up.”

“Well, I'm not. Get lost. I'll tell you when — if — I want you.”

Mary climbed out and shook herself. “You want to watch that boy of yours, Scratcher. He ain't honest. He was in your bloody chest.” She took herself off. Two children and a chicken squawked out of her path.

Scratcher thrust his chicken-bone fist under my chin and lifted it.

“It's not so, sir. She's trying to make strife between you and me, true it is,” I whimpered. “In fact, your chest was hanging a little open when I got down here, and I made sure to close it for you. Perchance it was her who had opened it. I wouldn't know how.”

“It's either you or she, sirrah. One of you is lying. One of you isn't worth a gob of spit.”

“It's her, sir. She's lying to pay me back. She wanted to know where you were, and I wouldn't say, loyal to my master as I was. I know where my bread is buttered, as you've said many a time.”

Scratcher punched me hard in the belly. “That's for if it was you. And this will be too.” He took out his knife and waved its sharp point in my face. “Stop snivelling. If it was her, she'll be the one to see my ire. I'm not one for hitting women, but I'll do it if I'm pushed. And I'll keep my eye on both of you from now on, you truculent trickle of snot. See if I don't.”

Peter Fence was suddenly at my elbow. “I saw the whole thing, master. A woman was delving in your coffers. This boy here had nothing to do with it. He tried to close the lid on her. He almost succeeded in shutting it on her fingers.”

“Why didn't you say, so, Starveling?”

I thought fast. “Because you wouldn't have believed me, sir, honest to a fault though I am.”

Fence had saved my skin. Scratcher swore, opened the chest, checked it quickly, and snapped it shut, before taking an enormous bite of the leathery meat and washing it down with ale. He spat out a lump of gristle.

The emblem was still in his jerkin. It had to be. He wouldn't have left it with Boors. I'd get to it sooner or later, when he was drunk or fell into a deep snore of a sleep.

Fence had surprised me. He had acted like an ally. I wasn't used to that. I was suspicious of everyone I met. Mis
tress Oldham had beaten me, and the other scholars had pummelled or spat at me, mostly because I was poor, only minorly because I was wicked. But I realized, upon reflec
tion, that Fence's actions had seemed loyal and true from the beginning. Of course, “had seemed” is not exactly the same thing as “were.”

“What was it you were looking for in the box?” Fence asked later, while I, back turned, was pissing in a pail.

“A picture. Perchance a map.You lied for me.”

“I never lied before, and wish not to make a habit of it, but I'll play lookout for you if you wish.”

“The next time I go on the scavenge?”

“Aye — if you want me to. Then in return you'll tell me why the thing is so important to you.”

“A bargain! Do you read, Peter Fence?” asked I, having straightened my hose and rubbed my sore belly, which was still feeling the force of Scratcher's punch.

“No, Robin, not more than a few words. But I can count right well. It was my job to count the sheep out to pasture. Then I had to count them when they came back to see if any were missing. So I know my addition and my subtraction. But all this counting was before my daddy died and I came to sea.”

Aha. Counting, although a valuable skill to keep in one's pouch, was my downfall. It wasn't taught in school, and I had never developed the knack of it. I would run out of numbers the moment I ran out of fingers. Fence could definitely prove useful, I decided. I had obtained my own partner in crime, though I still wasn't sure that I entirely trusted him. After all, hadn't I told Scratcher I couldn't read when I could? Mayhap Fence had done the same kind of lying with me, though true it is he said he'd never lied before. But that could be a lie also; however, I could tell Fence as much or as little as I chose to, and thus make him into my servant, just as Scratcher thought he had made me into his.

We still had weeks or even months at sea. I could take my time about sniffing out Scratcher's “business.” That way I'd be more likely to succeed. And I'd find the treasure before Scratcher did or die in the attempt. My beating him to the trove would pay him back for his filthy treatment of me. As to what I would do with the treasure when I got it, that was another matter entirely, one that I couldn't figure out till I knew what it was.

C
HAPTER 6
D
AMN THAT
F
LY!

Days passed and I was careful to be careful. I didn't gainsay Scratcher. I didn't question him. And I had no opportunity to open the chest or hunt through his clothes, which he wore to bed, like most of the passengers. So I didn't get myself into further trouble. Instead, I managed to keep my wickedness at bay while gaining, or mayhap regaining, Scratcher's trust. I plied him with whatever food and drink was available, though he was the most disgusting eater I'd ever seen, taking huge mouthfuls, gagging, and spitting biscuit mixed with saliva and weevils far and wide. Otherwise, I tried to act as if I wasn't there, and so he seemed more at ease that I was. In fact, he took me with him when he next visited Boors. It was steaming. We could have fried eggs on the cabin floor had we possessed any. And the boat was heaving up and down with each huge wave, heaving my insides up and down too. The sickness kept growing in me. But Scratcher and Boors hardly noticed. They were too busy.

“In the event that the ships are separated in a simple storm or hurricano,” dictated Boors, with much prompting from Scratcher, “All captains are to sail their craft to the Baruadas in the West Indies. We shall meet up there.” Scratcher was writing the words down, his eyes almost crossed.

“Why did you tell me to tell them to go there?” asked Boors, the supposed author of the note.

“Because although we'll soon be south of Virginia, no one in his right mind would sail to the Isle of Devils, even if told to. The seas are high, the rocks are terribly dangerous, and it's full of shipwrecks, mostly Spanish, which have foundered there. We'll send the other ships elsewhere. We don't want them. We'll try for the Isle of Devils alone.”

“Why would we do that?”

“The Golden Prize, Sir Thomas, the Golden Prize.

Remember?”

“Oh, er, yes.” Boors clearly didn't.

I listened intently while sharpening the quills. That was my job. Scratcher's plan didn't sound very sensible to me.

“Now copy that out five more times, Rat Catcher,” ordered Boors, who was still under the mistaken impression that he was in charge.

“The name is Thatcher, Sir Thomas. Not Rat Catcher. And I would appreciate it if you would remember that. This should work like a charm.” Scratcher dipped his quill. “Who
ever heard of crossing the great sea without encountering at least one tempest? In fact, it's getting rough already.”

Indeed. The ship pitched. I staggered across the cabin. Ink splattered on the floor. Blue blood, I thought.

“You, you tripe-visaged rascal, come back here,” admon
ished my master. “Mop up that spill. Then roll up each note that I write and stick it with wax.”

I did as he commanded. “So Baruada is actually not the Isle of Devils?” I asked. I already knew the answer to this. It was merely my opening gambit in what I hoped would be a long game of verbal chess.

“No, boy, it's the Isle of Goats,” said Boors. He bleated twice, much to my astonishment. “You see…”

“Don't grace that saucy fellow with further information, Sir Thomas, if you have any. Best to leave his head as empty when he goes out as it was when he came in.”

“Ah, yes, of course.” Boors bent the ring on his finger to the warm wax to impress his seal on it. “Sorry, boy.” He bleated again. And truth be told, he did rather resemble a goat, with his long bony face and sparse beard.

“We should now give your notes to Proule, Sir Thomas,” said Scratcher, “and order him to take the small boat and row out to give them to the captains of the other ships. That way, Admiral Winters won't be involved.” Sweat cascaded down his skinny cheeks.

“Proule?”

“One of the mariners. Bald. Beer-stained moustache. Broken teeth.”

“Right. Of course. Send Proule in,” said Sir Thomas.

Scratcher slipped out and returned with him in less than half a minute. Proule must have been waiting right outside the door. This didn't particularly surprise me. It did seem to surprise Boors, however.

“What are you doing here, Proule?” he asked.

“You sent for me, sir.”

“Ah, yes, so I did. Why was that?” Boors blinked twice, unhappily.

“Dunno, sir.” Proule looked confused.

“The notes, Sir Thomas,” hinted Scratcher in a loud whisper.

Now I realized. He chose Boors to confide in because Boors' power was useful, but five minutes later he wouldn't remember a single word that Scratcher had said. Who could keep a secret safer than that?

“Yes, yes, the notes. Take the notes, Proule.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” said Proule. Unknown to Boors, he and Scratcher often stood in corners of the hold and muttered to each other, meanwhile throwing meaningful glances at Scratcher's tightly closed chest.

While Boors was simply being used, Proule was doubtless Scratcher's real partner. He smelled of something nasty. Cat pee and stinking sweat, with other putrid smells hover
ing around his person but unidentifiable. Not that a soul on board smelled clean, we all had a rottenness about us lately, but his stench was especially loathsome. It erupted from his pores and became even more disgusting when he opened his mouth, whether to speak or sneeze. His breath could slay dragons, his teeth were mere stumps. They looked like black gravestones.

His friendship with Scratcher, which was peppered with insult on both sides, drove Mary to distraction. She'd been banished from the hammock permanently, but still wanted Scratcher to herself for reasons I could easily imagine. She didn't want interference from Proule or anyone else. But Scratcher had said to her, as he sent her off, “Get away from me or you'll be sorry. You are my great sin.” He tossed her what looked to be a penny or two. She blamed anyone she could think of for her loss of him and his apparently new found religious fervour. But her hatred for me — she now pinched me hard whenever she could get hold of me — was only a puny shadow of her hatred for Proule. When he came within her sights she bared her teeth and flared her nostrils like a beserk horse. Proule, not to be outdone, thumped her arm or backside — whatever was available — to force her to shift.

“Look up there, boy,” Boors continued now, staring at the ceiling. “No, not there. There. For heaven's sake, swat that blasted fly for me.”

“Yes, sir.” I waved my arms violently in the air. “I got it,” I cried, clutching an invisible bluebottle.