Privateer's Apprentice (4 page)

A
s I climb the steps to the deck, the throbbing in my head returns. I pause and lean against the wall. “What's stopping you?” Solitaire Peep snaps. “Get going!”

“My head,” I murmur, pushing off from the wall. “It is starting to hurt again.” I stumble slowly up the narrow flight. Two steps from the top, my legs fold and I pitch forward. Everything goes black.

When I awake, I am stretched out on the deck. Solitaire Peep is crouched over me. “Stay awake, boy,” he commands, poking my cheek with a bony finger. I will my eyes to remain open, but they refuse to obey. From far away, I hear the bleating of a goat and think I am dreaming again.

“Open your lookers,” Solitaire Peep says loudly. He pinches my chin hard and slaps at my cheeks until my eyes flutter and the ship's deck slowly comes into focus.

The humped-back cook climbs through the hatch carrying a rag and a small bucket. Kneeling beside my head, he examines the deep gash that runs behind my ear to the base of my neck. “Leave him sleep, Peep. 'Twill go easier.” He dips the rag into the bucket. “Twist his head around.”

Solitaire Peep grabs my chin and turns it to the side. Cook presses the dripping rag against the gash on my head and wipes at the dried blood. The overpowering odor from the rag
fills my nostrils. “Th-that smell!” I stammer, suddenly wide awake. “It's awful!”

“Goat pee,” Cook answers proudly. “The best thing for scouring wounds.”

Solitaire Peep nods at a goat tied to the deck's railing. “Lucky for you we ain't ate her yet. Cook took her on in Charles Towne for milk.”

“Turn him over and hold him still,” Cook says. Fishing in his pocket, he pulls out a long silver needle that flashes in the sunlight. Before I realize what is happening, Solitaire Peep's knee is pressed hard against my back so that I can't move. A sweaty hand covers my mouth as the needle pierces my scalp. Streaks of fire shoot through my head, and I struggle against Solitaire Peep's hand, but it's pressed so hard against my mouth that I can I taste the salt from his palm. “Bite me, boy,” he says with a grimace as he tries to hold me still, “and I'll yank the teeth from your head when this is done.”

Cook works fast, moving the needle in and out until the wound closes. He chews the thread through and carefully knots the two ends. “Only six stitches,” he says, patting the wound with the wet rag. “Ferdie captured a man from Port Royal once who needed more stitches than I knew how to count. Never was the same, that one,” he says. “Jumped overboard one night and tried to swim to shore.”

“Aye,” Solitaire Peep says, scowling. “Waste of a strong man.”

“You'll be good as new come morning,” Cook says. Pressing his palms against the deck, he pushes himself to his feet. He waddles over to the goat. “Come along,” he says, untying the rope. “Too much sun'll sour your milk.” At the hatch, the animal refuses to go below. She strains against her leash, pawing the deck with her hoofs. Cook gives a hard yank, and the goat reluctantly moves forward, bleating loudly.

I lie on the deck for the rest of the afternoon, drifting in and out of sleep. Late in the afternoon, I wake to find Solitaire Peep staring down at me. “Day's growing old,” he says. “Best get washed before the sun's gone.” He grabs the back of my shirt and helps me to my feet. “You'll wash in that,” he says, pointing to a wooden tub that has been dragged into the center of the deck. “'Tis where we scald the hogs and dry the fish come smoking time, but 'Twill do.”

I frown. At home I had taken my weekly bath in a large iron tub in the back of the shop, behind a sheet hung for privacy. I glance around. The deck is filled with sailors. A tall man whose long hair is twisted into knots sits nearby, coiling a pile of tangled ropes. A few feet away, Jabbart is scrubbing the deck with buckets of seawater. Above my head, two lookouts cling to the ship's ratlines, scanning the water for other ships. No one, except the oarsmen who occasionally glance my way, pays me any attention. Still, I don't want to bathe in front of them.

“I have nothing clean to put on,” I argue. “What use is washing if I must wear dirty clothes?”

“There's a crate of garments below deck that's to be sold in the next port. The Captain told me to give you what you need.” He takes a bucket hanging on the side of the ship and threads the handle onto a long wooden pole. Bending low over the ship's railing, he drags the bucket through the water until it is filled and then hoists it onto the deck. “Watch, boy,” he says, pouring the water into the tub. “For you'll fill your own tub next month.” I lean closer to the railing, watching as he skims the water with the bucket again and again.

When the tub is filled, he turns his attention back to me, glaring when he sees that I am still dressed. “Strip!” he says. “There's work to be done.”

The ocean air ruffles my hair, and I shiver as little bumps rise on my arms.

Sighing loudly, I unknot the four thin pieces of leather that close my vest. As I remove the garment, the roll of parchment I'd hidden in the pocket the night before the auction tumbles onto the deck.

“What's this?” Solitaire Peep asks, snatching it up. The bottle of ink and the quill fall at his feet. “What are you up to, lad?” he demands, peering closely at the writing on the paper. He rubs his chin, and then the back of his head, and then his chin again. “Let's see,” Solitaire Peep says, his bony finger running across the page. “Says here that you … that you …”

“It says nothing important,” I reply. “It's only a note I wrote to myself.”

Solitaire Peep snorts. “What stupidness is that?” he asks. His eye narrows as his attention falls onto the corner of the paper where I had sketched Strabo hanging his lantern on the hook. Peep holds the paper aloft and taps it with one finger. “Who is this rascal you've drawn?”

“The jailer,” I reply. “No one of importance to you.”

“Don't lie to me. 'Twill go bad for you if you weave a tale.”

I reach for the parchment. “Something I wrote to help me remember, so that my memories aren't scattered on the wind.”

Solitaire Peep scowls and taps his head. “What you cain't store in your noggin ain't worth remembering.” He shoves the parchment toward me. “Get in the tub,” he commands, heading for the hatch.

I smooth out the parchment carefully. The sight of the printed words makes my breath catch in my throat. My writing is immaculate, almost identical to my father's. How could it not be? Night after night we sat together, my father's hand covering mine. We spent hours practicing each letter, refining every stroke. I copied deeds and letters, drew crests, labored over whatever my father had given me for practice, carefully imitating the graceful way his hand moved across the parchment, so that I could someday help him run his shop.

Pushing away the memory, I place the paper away from the tub where splashes of water might soil it, and pull at the wooden buttons on my breeches until they fall to my ankles. Quickly kicking them aside, I step into the oval tub. The wind blows off the sea, and I shiver as I sink deeper into the cold water. The tub has a strong odor that reminds me of the fish heads left to rot on the banks of the Ashley River. A seagull circles the ship twice, swoops low across the deck, and then flies away, leaving behind two splatters of silver white droppings.

I watch the gull until it becomes a speck and then vanishes, blending into the clouds. I wonder if it is from Charles Towne and is flying back to one of the posts on the wharf, where everything is familiar and safe. Perhaps the gull has a mother or father waiting, someone who will worry if he doesn't return and go looking for him. It pleases me to imagine such things, and I smile slightly, my spirit warmed by the sun.

Solitaire Peep comes up from the hold. He tosses me a sponge and a ball of soap. “This here's the last of the soap until we beach, so use it sparingly. If you didn't smell like a muck pile, you'd do without.”

I eye the sponge critically. It is nothing more than a piece of softened coral. The soap has a sharp sour smell, and the color is unusual, yellow with black streaks running throughout.

“Why are you sitting there like a lazy bag of bones?” Peep demands. “If you're waiting for me to scrub your back, 'Twill be a long wait,” he says. “Get to washing!”

“This tub stinks something awful,” I mutter.

“Aye,” he replies, “but no worse than you do.”

I rub the soap across my skin and it leaves a greasy line. Still, it makes a bit of lather. I hurry to bathe.

Solitaire Peep has left a linen towel, stained yellow with age, beside the tub. When I am finished, I grab it and wrap it around my waist.

“Washed your bum, did you?” Peep inquires, tossing me a shirt and pants. “We don't want the birds trailing us and telling our enemies where we be.” He looks up at a flock of gulls, and his taut brown face creases with worry. “They shouldn't be out here,” he says. “Mighty far from land, they are.”

“Perhaps they have strong wings,” I say, drying off.

“Strong wings or no, they're too far out,” Solitaire Peep says. “Could be they've found something to land on when they tire.”

I look out over the ship's railing. There is nothing except water and sky. If the stray birds have found a resting perch, I cannot see it.

I dress quickly in the new garments. The shirt is fine white linen, nicer than anything I've ever owned. I fasten the buttons, savoring the smoothness of the polished bone against my fingertips. The breeches, gray broadcloth with black silk lining, hang loose around my waist, but a long red sash works well as a belt. The garments are of a quality my father never could have afforded for me. I finger the sleeve. “Such fine clothes,” I say.

Solitaire Peep raises his eyebrow. “Aye, they came from a French frigate whose captain thought to blow a hole in the side of the Queen's ship,” he says. “We blasted his ship to splinters and then plucked their goods from the water.”

“And what of those on board?” I ask, a chill washing over me. “Did you rescue them?”

“What do you think, boy?” the first mate says. “They were French.”

I look away. Solitaire Peep is right. The captain and those on board the other ship were French … the enemy of my Queen. But my mind turns back to auction day and the girl with the basket. Suzanne Le Croix is French, yet she offered me kindness on auction day, when others turned away. Rummaging through the pockets of my discarded breeches, I find the red cloth Suzanne gave me and tie it around my neck,
remembering her promise that it would bring me good luck. I pray she was right.

Peep picks up my bloodied clothes and flings them over the railing. “Save your boots for when the weather turns cold,” he says. “Bare feet work best on deck.” He tosses me a stick that has been whittled smooth. Wrapped around the end is a piece of gray leather covered with wiry hairs. “Clean your chompers,” he says. “Pig bristles make the best scrubbers.”

Beneath the hot sun, my hair dries quickly. I run my fingers through the tangles, wincing when I touch the threads binding my wound.

Cook comes through the hatch carrying a small iron cauldron. He sets it in the middle of the deck, and then rings a small bell attached to the handle to call the crew to dinner. After he ladles out chowder for the others, he hands me a bowlful, along with a hard biscuit. “You'll be sore a day or so, and then good as new,” he says.

I clutch the wooden bowl tightly, letting the heat warm my hands. Tiny pools of golden butter swirl atop the creamy white chowder. Chunks of potatoes and carrots bob in the broth, along with thick pieces of fish. Saliva fills my mouth at the sight of the rich stew, and I begin to eat greedily. Using the biscuit, I scoop up the vegetables and shove them into my mouth. When the bread can catch no more, I lick the bowl's rim, unwilling to waste any of the buttery broth. I am so busy eating I don't see the Captain approach. “A hungry belly is a powerful master,” he says.

Embarrassed to have been caught gulping my food like a starving street urchin, I don't reply.

“Enjoy the food whilst we have it,” the Captain says. He walks over to the ship's railing and looks out over the water. A gull appears and then is gone.

“That bird means trouble,” Solitaire Peep says.

“It might have lost its way,” the Captain says.

“Put a mark upon my word. We'll have company soon.” Peep taps his cutlass. “Mayhap by morning.”

“Assign extra men on lookout tonight to be sure,” the Captain says, turning to leave. Seeing me, he frowns. He whispers something to Solitaire Peep that I can't hear. Peep points toward the hatch. “Get below, boy. You'll need extra sleep tonight to help heal your wound. Find Cook and tell him I said to make you a pallet in storage. From here on, you'll care for the animals.”

“Yes sir,” I say, curious as to what the bird's presence means and why Solitaire Peep's mood has darkened. Whatever the reason, I feel grateful to be sent below to rest. I want nothing more than to lie down somewhere and close my eyes. Clutching the empty bowl, I follow orders and go below.

I
have been locked in storage since yesterday when I was ordered below. It is a larger room than the one in which I was first kept. Two portholes, one on each side of the room, shed moonlight upon my bed—nothing more than a burlap sack stuffed with dried corn husks, but warmer than the damp planking.

I slept soundly last night and most of today, waking only when I heard Cook ringing the bell to call the crew to eat. It's as if my body sought to reclaim the hours I lay awake in the alley, unable to sleep for fear that the spiders and rats would feast on me when I closed my eyes.

This morning, Cook left a cloth containing biscuits and cheese inside the door. I did not wake for his morning visit and he did not come again until late today, when the sun began to streak red through the portholes. He brought my supper, a trencher of salted pork with beans and rice and a biscuit to sop the broth. I begged him to leave his candle so that the room would not be so dark, but he ignored my pleas, claiming I would set the ship ablaze. When he left, I heard the rattle of keys and the click of the lock. I think it odd that they confine me when there is nowhere to run except for the sea. I think
that in the Captain's eyes I am a thief, one who must be kept under lock and key.

Cook's goat sleeps nearby and good company she is, for her snores dull the silence. A half-barrel holds two rosy piglets that are amusing, but stink fiercely. A tapping of tiny claws along the walls tells me that mice linger near.

I know not where we sail, only that each minute takes me farther from Charles Towne. My heart is heavy over the troubles I've left behind and those that surely lie ahead. Plagued by thoughts of Charles Towne and all that has happened, I close my eyes and drift back to sleep.

At dawn, the hens begin laying. The commotion wakes me, and I sit up and watch, though the sight is not new to me. Cackling loudly, they wiggle down into straw-lined crates and puff their feathers as they drop their eggs. When they have settled, I count two dozen, including a cracked one whose shiny liquid oozes onto the straw.

I stretch and yawn loudly, feeling stiff from tossing about. The ship turned and dipped throughout the night, and several times I rolled off my pallet onto the hard floor. Once I got up to relieve myself, but after stumbling around in the darkness, I discovered Cook had forgotten to leave a bucket. Now, my stomach aches and rumbles.

The goat bleats softly and staggers to her feet. She releases a long yellow stream into the straw. When she finishes, she comes to me and nuzzles at my side. I reach down and scratch her head. “Are you wondering how you came to be here, too?” I ask.

I dress slowly, wondering what the day holds. Remembering what Peep said, I leave my boots where they sit. Having heard the click of a lock the night before, I don't bother to try the door, choosing instead to explore the storage area until someone comes to free me.

Heavy ropes of garlic and onions hang from the rafters, and I push them aside to clear my way. Their juices leach into the air, burning my eyes. Shelves built high along the walls hold wooden crates filled with corn, carrots, and potatoes, though not many, for vegetables spoil quickly; already I can see the potatoes are sprouting eyes. Barrels of small ale are stacked atop one another, and a large cask labeled “rum” sits nearby. Cones of brown sugar wrapped in linen and wheels of cheese dipped in wax have been placed on the highest shelves, beside bricks of salt that have yet to be chipped. Several tea tins hold black leaves whose fragrance mingles faintly with the other odors that fill the room.

I am marveling at the vast amount of food when the storage door opens behind me. My heart skips when I see that it is Ferdie standing in the doorway; his eyes search the room until they settle on me. He shuts the door softly behind him and leans against it. “Up and about, are you, lad?” he asks. “Your noggin fixed, is it?”

I don't answer.

“A fine fighter you are,” Ferdie says, waving his bandaged arm. “Got the proof right here.” He grins, and I see gums streaked black and teeth specked with brown rot.

He dangles a key on a ring. “Peep sent me to fetch you. You're to hightail it up on deck and start earning your keep.” As Ferdie speaks, a piglet oinks softly. He moves away from the door and goes to it. Squatting, he pokes one in the rump, then the other. “'Twill be a fine day when we roast ‘em,” he says, making loud smacking noises. The piglets stare back at him with wide gray eyes.

Quelling the fear that boils up in my stomach, I walk over to the door. My hand is on the latch when Ferdie seizes my elbow.

“I ain't forgetting our scuffle,” Ferdie says. “But, if you mind
yourself and keep out of me way, I'm willing to ignore what you did to me.”

“You attacked me,” I say, sounding braver than I feel, “so I seek no forgiveness from you.”

Ferdie smacks me on the ear, sending pain shooting through my stitched-up wound. “Shut your trap and listen up. Peep's going to be hard on you today, learning you this and that.”

“What of it?” I say, ignoring the throbbing in my ear. I try to pull open the door, but Ferdie holds it shut.

“So if you caterwaul or do anything that makes the Captain think you ain't full grown and cain't do a man's work, you'll be sorry.”

“And you will be, too,” I say, “for I will tell him that you forced me to lie, and you will be blamed.”

“He won't believe you. He already thinks you're a scoundrel, for he saw you tied like a dog when you were brought to auction.”

Before I can reply, there are footsteps outside the door. Ferdie moves back just as it opens.

The Captain seems startled to see Ferdie. “Why aren't you up on deck?” he asks.

“Peep sent me to fetch the lad,” Ferdie says, placing his hand upon my shoulder. I jerk away.

The Captain frowns. “I'll stand for no trouble between you,” he says. “There will be no fighting on my ship.”

“No trouble here,” Ferdie says. “Ain't that right, Jamie?”

I flinch. My father was the only one who had ever called me Jamie. Ignoring Ferdie, I say, “Peep wants me up on deck, sir.”

“Then go,” the Captain says, stepping away from the door. “But remember what I said. You'll work alongside everyone without complaint.”

In the passageway, I lean against the wall to gather myself together before going up on deck. Ferdie's voice drifts into the hallway. “He's like a hound sniffing for trouble, the lad is,” he says. “I came to bring him up on deck, and he starts a fight.”

“Is that so?” the Captain answers. “Perhaps he's having trouble forgiving you the gash on his head.”

“He spoke of that,” Ferdie says. “He said you'd be sorry you ever took him. Claims he's heading home to Charles Towne the first chance he gets, even if he has to swim.”

“Did he now? He should be congratulated for his courage. We are three days sail from shore.”

“I reminded him he was in the service of Queen Anne,” Ferdie says. “The cocky lad said he served no one.”

“He'll serve Queen Anne, or he
will
serve no one,” the Captain replies, his voice suddenly cold.

I cannot catch my breath. It is caught in my throat, trapped there by Ferdie's lies. I strain to hear more, but Cook calls the crew to breakfast and the stomping of feet above the rafters drowns out their words.

I am heading for the hatch when a hand grabs my shoulder and jerks me around. The Captain stares down at me. “So you're an eavesdropper as well as a thief,” he says.

I lift my chin. “Is it wrong for me to listen when I am being talked about?”

“Did you hear what you were hoping to hear?”

“I heard only lies,” I say. “I never said any of what Ferdie claims.”

The Captain picks a piece of lint from his blue damask coat. “So says a thief and an eavesdropper.”

“So says Jameson Cooper of Charles Towne, who was taken against his will.” I swallow hard. Surely I will be tossed to the sharks for answering back, but I will not be lied about and called a thief without answering the charge.

The Captain's eyes meet mine and hold them until I look away.

“Get your breakfast, and then tell Peep to start you on the oars,” he says. “We'll see if your back is as strong as your tongue.” He pushes past me and disappears down the dark passageway.

I stare after him. The morning's events have brought something to mind that my father once said: a man who permits another to speak falsely about him stamps the words with truth. Ferdie lied about me and the Captain believed him, but I answered them both. To have done less would have shamed my father's memory. Taking a deep breath, I walk toward the stairs.

On deck, Solitaire Peep stands at the tiller. He glances at me as I approach. “'Bout time you woke from your nap,” he said.

“The Captain says I'm to eat and then work the oars,” I reply, looking around. The deck is crowded; everyone is at work.

“The oars is a good place to start,” Solitaire Peep answers, his bony hands gripping the large wooden wheel, “for the wind plays hide-and-seek this morning.” His head moves ever so slightly as he gazes upon the black sea. Despite the early sun, I shiver and shift from foot to foot. Peep shoots me a quick look. “You're dancing around like a fool. What ails you?”

“There was no night bucket in storage,” I mutter.

Solitaire Peep turns from the tiller. His eye twinkles. “Cook sets the night bucket near the galley,” he says. “There's no need for a bucket during the day.” He sweeps his arm out toward the water. “Step atop a crate, lad, and do your business over the side of the ship!”

I look around. Which crate would that be? There are dozens of them. Was there one special crate for such business? What if I chose the wrong one?

As if he can read my mind, Peep says, “Stop your lolling; one's as good as any.”

I select a crate a few feet away; just after I step down, Cook calls me to eat. The other men have finished their breakfast, and their dirty bowls are scattered around Cook's feet. He dips each in a bucket of sea water, swishes it around, and then places it in the sun to dry. Picking up a bowl that has not yet been washed, he ladles out a portion of hot oats. I stand where I am and eat, bracing myself against the swaying of the ship. The oats are lumpy and have little taste without the brown sugar and warm cream my mother used for flavoring, but they fill my stomach. I swallow my last spoonful and hand the bowl to Cook, just as Peep yells for me to hurry.

He is waiting for me beside an empty rower's bench. There are twelve rowing stations in all, six on each side of the ship, with benches built into the ship's sides. Sweat streams down the rowers' naked backs as they struggle to keep the ship moving through the water. Peep points to an empty bench at the end of one row. “Grab the oar and on the next pull back, join in. Back, forward, side. Do it any other way, and you'll have the ship spinning like a top.”

Nodding, I sit and pick up the wooden oar. The polished oak feels smooth against my palm. “Back, forward, side,” I whisper, watching the man seated before me. His muscles strain as he pulls back. Clutching my oar, I jerk back as well. When he moves forward, I push forward too.
This isn't so hard
, I think, repeating the steps again. For the first few minutes, I do fine. Then, a heavy gust of wind blows through, and the ship surges forward. My movements suddenly feel awkward. I forget to go to the side and throw my arms forward instead.

Solitaire Peep storms across the deck. “Back, forward, side!” he snaps. “Row faster!”

“It's hard,” I complain between heavy breaths. “My arms ache!”

“'Cause you do it wrong!” he hisses, coming up behind me. As the rower in front of me moves back, Peep grabs both my shoulders and yanks me back toward him. Then he pushes me forward, and then to the side. I can feel his nails cutting into my shoulder as he yanks me back and forth. “It's all in the motion, boy,” Solitaire Peep says. “Faster!”

“I'm trying!” I snap.

“Then try harder,” the Captain says. Startled by his sudden appearance, I jump, releasing the oar. Grabbing it, he shoves it at me. “You're not kneading bread dough. You are rowing for the queen of the greatest country on earth. Act like it!”

He turns to Solitaire Peep. “Keep him at it until he does it properly.”

Peep nods. “He'll not move until he has this ship cutting through the water as smoothly as a blade cuts through buttered bread. Row, boy!” he shouts, walking away with the Captain. They look out over the railing and talk in low voices.

I fix my eyes on the other rowers, whispering the directions to myself as I row. But, as hard as I concentrate, I still break my rhythm. My awkward movements cause the other rowers to yell curses at me from over their shoulders. The morning drags on, the sun climbing slowly until it is directly overhead. I row until my arms feel as if they have become disconnected from my shoulders. My hands are on fire. Sweat trickles down my back and soaks through my shirt.