Privateer's Apprentice (15 page)

J
abbart 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.

After we have tied up the boat, we head down the beach toward a secluded part of the harbor lined with fishing shanties. I peer from beneath the brim of my hat, wondering that Charles Towne looks so different to me after my months at sea. My mind turns back to auction day, when I was led through these streets with my hands tied before me. I bowed my head then, too, ashamed to be recognized as the printer's son turned bread thief. If I were able, I would walk through Charles Towne wearing the Queen's colors and holding my head high.

Near Fishers' Alley, the overwhelming stench causes bile to rise in my throat. Grimacing, I hold my breath as I quickly sidestep a pile of rotting fish heads that are covered with flies.

Seeing my discomfort, Jabbart chuckles as if he smells nothing out of the ordinary. “You get used to such smells after a while,” he says. “The taverns are not far now.”

“Good,” I say. “My stomach pleads for food.”

“Mine as well.” He jingles the coins in his pocket. “We shall dally beside a fire this day and fill our bellies. Then we'll slip back to town.”

I'm surprised I can talk of eating when I am so nervous When I think of what we must do, I feel ill. The plan came to me as I stood at the Captain's desk, staring at the worthless Letter of Marque. I pray we can pull off the dangerous deed.

We stop at a tavern that is close to the water. The hinges have rusted on the door frame and a split in the middle of the oak door allows the candles burning inside to show through.

“Are you sure this is it, lad?” Jabbart asks, his hand upon the door.

“Aye,” I say, glancing up at the sign. “This is Mr. Carver's place, for sure.”

“The old lady might be dead by now,” Jabbart says. “Then what?”

I don't answer because I don't know what will happen if old Netty Nottingham is no longer indentured to Wilton Carver. I last saw her when Carver led her away from the auction block. The old woman's back was bent and her steps wobbly. Had she survived the past year working in a place where wet sea winds swept over her daily? Moreover, if she did remember me, would she think of me kindly and help me with the plan?

A crackling fire burns in a corner hearth, filling the small tavern with dense gray smoke. My eyes burn as I count the empty tables. We have come at the right time; the fishermen are still out on the water.

A door near the back swings open suddenly. Wilton Carver stops, surprised to see that he has guests so early in the morning. I turn away quickly and make a show of warming my hands before the fire.

“Is it breakfast you'll be wanting?” Carver asks. “My cook has just risen, but she can bring bread and such in short order.”

“Aye,” Jabbart responds cheerily. 'Tis bread we want, and goose eggs, too. The sea winds have chilled us to the bones.”

The tavernkeeper grabs the iron poker beside the hearth and gives it a hearty thrust. “Surely a pint or two of ale will warm your blood.”

“Surely,” Jabbart said. “Perhaps three or four pints; we have nowhere else to be this day.”

Biting back a smile, I move closer to the fire. When we dressed that morning, Jabbart insisted we wear the fanciest clothes we had found. The ruse has worked. Carver noticed the expensive clothes and thinks we have pocketfuls of coins.

“Sit close to the hearth whilst I fetch your ale,” Carver says, brushing away crumbs from the night before. He gives me a
fleeting glance before he leaves. When the door stops swinging, Jabbart whispers, “You can't keep your head bowed all day like you've done something wrong. It will surely raise an eyebrow if you act like a criminal.”

“I fear he will recognize me,” I say. “He used to come to my father's shop.”

“You've grown two inches since I first laid eyes on you, and the sun has roasted your skin the color of weak tea. Your sleeves pull tight against your muscles now. You look nothing like the pale, sniveling boy Ferdie dragged onto the deck that first day.”

“We'll know soon enough,” I whisper as the door swings open again and the old woman I met in jail comes through carrying two tankards of ale. She slams the platter onto the table, causing the ale to slosh over the sides of the cups. Our early arrival does not sit well with her.

“'Tis a wait you'll have for the eggs,” she announces. “One person I am and an old one at that. You've come at an ungodly hour; the eggs are still beneath the hen!”

I raise my head and stare into her face. She hasn't changed much since I last saw her, except that she has lost more teeth. Taking a deep breath, I reach out and touch her arm. “Lord keep you, ma'am,” I say softly, repeating the words she whispered to me on auction day.

She tries to snatch her arm away, but I hold it. I lean toward her, so that her eyes can search my face. She bends closer, straining to see through the smoky haze around the table.

“Lord keep you, ma'am,” I repeat slowly.

Suddenly, a gap-tooth grin spreads across the old woman's face. She clasps her hand down over mine. “That He has! As He has surely kept you!”

Y
ou shouldn't have come back,” the old woman says. “You're a posted runaway.”

“I know, but something has happened that forces me here.”

“Are you in trouble again?”

“It is a story that cannot be told quickly.”

Netty glances over her shoulder. “Carver left for the pier to wait for the fishers to return. Tell me why you've come.” She looks at Jabbart as if she is just noticing him. “And who is this man you've trusted with your life?”

I quickly explain about being taken aboard
Destiny
. The old woman's eyes narrow when I tell her about Ferdie clouting me on the head.

“When I heard you'd run, I prayed for your safety. I never thought you'd been taken by Attack Jack.”

“It was by accident that Ferdie grabbed me, but the Captain would not let me leave the ship. I have served as a sea artist for Queen Anne.”

Netty takes a gulp of the ale she brought for me and urges me to continue. I tell her about the attack by the Spanish merchant and the damage to
Destiny
. I explain about tossing the food overboard and sailing to Crossed Island for repairs. When
I tell her about the cave flooding and Solitaire Peep drowning, her eyes light up. “'Twas a viper, that one,” she says.

“No,” I say. “He did not deserve to drown. I would not have left the cave had I thought I could save him.”

The old woman hobbles to the back door and looks out at the alley. “Get what you need and be on your way, boy,” she says. “'Tis not safe here. You look full-grown now. They will not treat you kindly if you're caught.”

“They did not treat me kindly before,” I reply. “What difference will it make that I am a few inches taller?”

“Your neck is still short. If they catch you, 'Twill be stretched long—like a Christmas goose.”

I sigh. “As the Captain's neck will be soon, unless we can help him.” I explain about the arrest and the expired Letter of Marque.

At the end of my story, the old woman draws back with a skeptical look on her face. “'Tis an act of piracy to be sure,” she says. “The Governor has issued a declaration that all pirates are to be hung and their heads stuck on a pike near the harbor.”

The very thought of this sends a chill up my spine. “No,” I say. “We fought the Spanish merchant in defense of Queen Anne. Besides, we were fired upon first. If a pirate is amongst us, it is the captain of the Spanish merchant.”

“You must save yourself, lad. You cannot help Attack Jack. Only a letter from Queen Anne could set him free.”

“And I shall present such a letter,” I say. “That is why I came here to see you.”

A clanking in the kitchen causes the old woman to leap to her feet. “My master's back. At midday, he goes into the cellar to check his ale. We can talk then.”

A short while later, Netty comes out carrying a tray of steaming eggs that have been fried in fat, half a loaf of bread
that has been toasted and smeared with stewed plums, and two thick slices of salted ham. I start to speak to her, but she gives a quick shake of her head. “'Twill be two shillings, six pence,” she demands, looking over her shoulder.

Jabbart counts out the coins and drops them into her outstretched hand. “A pot of tea to wash it down would be welcomed,” he says loudly. “Tell your master we are grateful for his good service.”

After she serves our tea, we do not see her again for the rest of the morning. At noon, she comes back out. “He has gone into the cellar,” she says. I invite her to sit while I continue with my story, but she refuses. “If he catches me at your table, we're all done for,” she whispers. “He'll see that we're not strangers to one another.” She touches my hand and leans forward. “Be quick and tell me what you need.”

“First, we need answers,” I say, asking the question most on my mind. “Does Carver still visit my father's shop?”

“The new printer and Carver are like this.” The old woman crosses her fingers one over the other.

“Can you tell me the printer's habits?” I ask. “Does he leave the shop often?”

“Most nights he comes here to drink the ale Carver serves him in exchange for free printing. He's as cheap as—”

I break in. “Will he come here tonight?”

Netty shrugs. “'Tis likely, but I cain't say for sure. Perhaps near suppertime.”

“Then we'll wait and see,” Jabbart says. “If God wills it, the printer will come this night.”

The old woman frowns, confused. “What does it matter if he comes here?”

I bite my lip. I trust her not to betray me, but having one more person know the plan makes it more dangerous. I wait until Jabbart gives a nod of approval.

“If he comes,” I tell her, “Jabbart and I will leave here and return to town. At midnight, when the town crier snuffs the street torches, I will enter my father's shop and print a new Letter of Marque.”

“The printer may not tarry that long,” Netty says. “Some nights he stays for hours, others he's gone after one tankard.”

I glance at Jabbart. “I cannot do this quickly. I will need most of the night.”

Netty thinks for a moment, then grabs my arm. “Never you mind, lad. If the printer comes, you'll have the time you need. I shall pour him double ales and seat him close to the fire. His head will droop soon enough. When he wakes, a new day will be upon him.”

The door swings open suddenly and Wilton Carver beckons to his servant. “Why is it that you tarry out here so long?” he asks. “The dishes from this morning are not yet scrubbed.”

“'Tis our fault,” Jabbart says quickly. “We asked her if it might be possible to have roasted hen for dinner with new potatoes and onions. Our sea journey has been long and our bellies beg for something more than dried fish and hard biscuits.”

“Then you will be staying until late?” Carver asks, a smile forming on his face.

“Perhaps,” Jabbart says, “if there is reason to do so.”

Turning to the old woman, Carver says, “Go wring a chicken's neck and pluck the bird clean.”

Complaining loudly, Netty stomps off to the kitchen. Jabbart smiles broadly. “My son and I thank you for your good hospitality. We'll be pleased to rest our weary bones a while longer beside your fire.”

Carver nods. “A storm is blowing in. I can think of no better place for you to be this day.”

“Aye,” I say loudly. “We shall spend the day and perhaps
the night, too.” With these words, I lift the tankard of ale. “When I return to ship, I will share the story of this fine day in Charles Towne.” Setting it down without taking a sip, I offer a silent prayer that I might live long enough to do just that.

W
ith the wind blowing hard and the waves swelling, the fishermen leave the water early. Some stop by the tavern on their way home. Each time the door swings open, I bow my head and watch through the lock of hair that falls over my eyes. From time to time Jabbart's chin falls to his chest, but the fear of being recognized keeps me awake and alert.

When the moon appears, Netty comes from the back room to fetch our dishes and the roasted chicken carcass that Jabbart and I have picked clean to the bones. She stacks the dishes and slowly wipes our table with a damp cloth.

“I don't think he's coming,” I whisper. The supper hour has passed. Most of the customers have wiped the ale from their chins and gone home.

“'Tis growing late, for sure,” she says, glancing toward the door. “Might be the rain's keeping him home tonight.”

“Isn't there another way, lad?” Jabbart asks. “Can't you use the pens and inks the Captain gave you?”

I shake my head. “We'd fool no one that way. To try would be begging the hangman to knot the rope around our necks.”

Tossing payment for our dinner onto the table, Jabbart stands. “We should head back to the ship,” he says. “'Tis no use waiting anymore.”

I try to swallow my disappointment. I had been foolish to think we could pull off such a deed. Still, I couldn't help but wonder what might have happened had I been given the chance.

“What will become of you, boy?” The old woman whispers. “When Attack Jack swings, where will you go?”

Jabbart places his hand on my shoulder and squeezes hard. “The constable will likely seize
Destiny
as a pirating vessel, but I will see the boy to safety. If luck is with us, we'll secure a place on another ship sailing far from here.”

I stare at him in disbelief. “Surely you do not want to give up on the Captain now? We will find another way.”

“We have no choice,” Jabbart insists. “The constable will pronounce sentence as soon as the trial is over; there is no time to do else.”

“If the Captain hangs, you must flee without me,” I tell him. “Gunther is right; I've brought the devil's luck to
Destiny
.”

The old woman makes a sour face. “You spew superstitions, boy,” she says. “Do not waste your breath speaking such nonsense. If the devil's luck is on that ship, you can—” She stops midsentence as the tavern door swings open. A great gust of wind blows across the room, extinguishing several candles.

“'Tis him,” Netty whispers. “He has come!”

Standing in the doorway is the printer, his hair wild from the wind and glistening with rain.

I draw a deep breath. “Aye, the silver-bearded man,” I whisper, my voice taut, “who has stolen what is rightfully mine.”

“Careful, lad,” Jabbart cautions. He touches my arm lightly. “Do not let your anger spoil what we've planned.”

Snorting, the old woman whispers, “'Twould take a hurricane to keep that vulture from drinking the free ale.”

The printer steps inside, standing in the doorway while he scans the room. Hurrying over, the old woman shuts the door
behind him. “I've the perfect table by the fire,” she says, her voice loud and cheery. “Warm your bones a bit whilst I fetch the ale.”

The printer looks at her with a raised eyebrow. “Would the table be about to collapse?” he asks. “Surely that is the only reason for your kind offer.”

She laughs merrily at his joke and taps his arm. “Come and sit whilst I fetch your tankard.”

Still looking suspicious, the printer makes his way to the table. Taking off his overcoat, he tosses it onto a chair. He sits down and looks around the room, rubbing his hands together to warm them. When he sees me staring, he nods slightly before looking away.

“'Tis clear he doesn't recognize you, lad,” Jabbart whispers. “He didn't give you a second glance.”

“Only because he is not expecting to see me this night,” I say. “Surely he has not forgotten so easily the one he robbed.”

“Pray God he has,” Jabbart says. “'Twill make our task easier.” He nudges me as the old woman comes through the door and heads straight to the printer's table.

“My master is serving a strong brew this day to ward off the chill,” she says, placing a dripping tankard before the printer. “Taste and see for yourself.”

Wiping the brim of the mug with his sleeve, the printer takes a long drink. He smacks his lips to show his pleasure. “'Tis fine, to be sure, but my stomach growls. What's left in your pot tonight?”

“A treat,” the old woman says. “Roasted chicken and potatoes. Let me fetch you a trencher.”

Before leaving the room, she stops by our table. Bending low as if wiping it clean, she says, “I'll see that he has a long wait before tasting a morsel. All the while, I'll pour him double ales.”

“Keep him here as long as you can,” I urge. “I must work until dawn.”

“Begone, lad,” the old woman says, glancing around to see if we are watched. “I shall pray that your plan works, for I would hate to watch the hangman's hood cover your flaxen hair.”

My eyes meet hers. “I shall not forget the kindness you have shown me this night and before.”

With the slightest smile that only I can see, the old woman turns away.

Jabbart and I step out into the night, letting the door bang shut behind us.

Outside the tavern we button our collars high onto our necks against a pounding wind.

“There's no one about on the wharf,” Jabbart says. “'Tis the best luck we've had yet.”

“Aye,” I reply, tucking my chin to my chest. “Who else would be out walking on such a night?”

We don't speak again as we make our way back toward the harbor. I think about what lies ahead. In my mind, I see myself enter the print shop with its small front door and four windows that look out onto the street. I imagine myself standing before the type board, my hands brushing against the cold, metal letters as I pick the ones I need. Then my mind goes blank, for I have not thought beyond that moment, have not imagined what might happen if someone discovers me there.

The town crier announces the ninth hour as we reach the print shop. Candles still burn low in the windows of nearby homes. I stand silently before the door. The sign my father painted has been removed and an engraved one hangs in its place.

“Pinkerton,” I say in a voice that can barely be heard. My voice shakes, but I read the sign aloud: “Samuel Pinkerton, Printer and Recorder.”

Jabbart places his hand upon my shoulder. “Do not forget why we are here, lad,” he cautions. “One cannot change what has already happened. Save your anger for another day.”

For a moment, I want to rip the sign from its chain and fling it to the street. But I know Jabbart speaks the truth. The print shop has already been stolen from me, and there is nothing I can do about it.

“Another day, then,” I murmur, my hand upon the door. “I shall stand on these steps another day.”

Looking up and down the empty street, Jabbart turns the knob slowly, pushing against the door. “'Tis locked tight,” he says, frowning. Up until that moment, I had not considered what we would do if the thieving printer had locked the door behind him. I hold my breath as Jabbart pulls a dagger from his pocket and inserts the tip into the lock, twisting it from side to side. The lock clicks loudly as the knife finds its mark. Jabbart pushes on the door and it swings open.

Stepping across the threshold, I whisper to Jabbart, “I will open the shutters on the bottom window. If you see someone approach, tap against the pane to warn me and then move into the alley.”

Jabbart sticks his hand into his coat pockets. “Work as fast as you can, lad, for surely I will freeze if you don't.”

“Surely you will hang if I don't,” I say. With those words, I enter my father's shop and pull the door shut behind me.