Privateer's Apprentice (3 page)

I hesitate. The man's eyes make me uneasy. They go in opposite directions, as if they battle over which way to look.

“I m-m-must hurry, sir,” I stammer. “My master's mule needs tending.”

“Come closer, laddie,” the man urges. “I cain't see you in the darkness.”

He reaches toward me and silver flashes in the moonlight. I brace for the sharp pain of a dagger's blade, but then I see that the man wears leather glove on his right hand with small nails protruding from it. I back away. “I mean you no harm, sir,” I say.

The man grins and cocks his head. “Ain't it a pity I cain't say the same?”

The words hang between us for only a second before I turn to flee. The man is quicker, though. Lurching forward, he grabs me by the back of my collar. The studs on the glove's palm scrape my neck as the man pulls me toward him.

“Let me go!” I shout. I thrash from side to side as if I'm on fire, but I can't loosen the hairy arm wrapped tightly around my neck.

The man's breath blows hot against my cheek. “Stop your twisting!” he hisses. “Your head'll feed the fish tonight if you fight me!”

Lowering my chin, I sink my teeth into the man's arm, bearing down until I hit bone and taste blood. Screaming, the man wrenches his arm away, and I am suddenly free and running into the night, back toward the cobbled streets. The torches in the street have been extinguished, but I need no light to show me the way; I care only that I run far from the
metal-gloved man. Up ahead, a candle flickers in a window. My heart quickens at the sight. If I make it to the house, surely those inside will aid me!

Suddenly a searing pain slices into the back of my head, a pain so sharp it dulls my thoughts and sends me to my knees. Gasping for air, I struggle to stand, but my feet can find no ground. The man grunts as he grabs my hair and yanks me up. I stare into the night sky and see that the moon has turned upside down and stars are falling from the sky like drops of silver rain. The last thing I hear before the darkness overcomes me is the man's laughter as he hefts me over his shoulder and turns back toward the wharves.

T
he distant bleating of a goat wakes me from a fitful sleep. I sit up slowly, unsure of where I am or how I came to be there. My eyes feel heavy, as if someone has placed a blanket over them. I squint into the thick darkness. Unable to see anything, I listen for a clue that will tell me where I have been taken, but only the goat's mournful bleating cuts through the blackness.

I close my eyes again to steady myself against a sudden wave of dizziness, as if someone is yanking me back and forth. My memory is like a seashell that has been stepped upon; the pieces are there, but they no longer fit together. Some things I recall clearly, like standing upon the auction block. I remember the baker's words as we walked through town, and I see him handing me the leftover bread that I ate on my walk to the stable. Then my mind fogs, leaving me with jumbled visions of a gap-toothed old woman and a man crouching behind a barrel. Could all that came after have been a dream?

The back of my head throbs, and I reach for the place where it hurts most. Would a nightmare cause such pain? My fingers find a deep gash, and I trace it to just below my ear. The sticky wetness of the wound tells me that the man hiding behind the barrel had indeed been real, for dreams bring no blood.

I know I have been taken by force, but I cannot fathom the value of someone such as myself. Had the gloved man mistaken me for a nobleman's son who might fetch a ransom? Perhaps the man's eyes were clogged with mucus and he had not noticed my tangled hair and ragged clothing.

I fumble with the ropes knotted around my ankles. My captor has tied me poorly, and the ropes fall away with only a tug. Kicking them off, I stand quickly and smack my throbbing head against a beam. Crying out, I sink back down.

When the pain eases a bit, I begin to move about in the darkness, feeling for mounds of dirt and the thick roots of Carolina oaks that can split a cellar's floor. Perhaps I am on a farm somewhere, for hadn't I heard a goat's cry? But I feel neither dirt nor roots beneath my palm, only the coolness of smoothly polished wood. The floor seems to tilt as I crawl about, as if someone is rocking it back and forth.

I freeze at the sound of footsteps above my head. Light spills over me as a door creaks open. I grab the ropes I had kicked aside. Lacing them around my ankles, I lie back and pretend to sleep.

From beneath my eyelashes, I watch two men stomp down the narrow staircase across from where I lie. A short, bald man carries a lantern that casts a wide yellow slash across the wall. The man swings the lantern sideways until the light falls upon my face.

“By God, Ferdie, 'Tis only a lad!” the man whispers.

When Ferdie steps into the light and raises his hand, it is all I can do to remain still. A thick bandage is wrapped around his wrist. “Nasty brat almost bit me bone in half,” he says. “His teeth still mark me this morning!”

“The Captain will split your hide when he sees what you've brought,” the bald man says. “Hates children, he does.”

“Might be the lad's older than he looks,” Ferdie says. He
kicks me hard in the side. “Rise up!”

I don't move. The bald man sucks in his breath. “Methinks you've killed him, Ferdie. There's blood all over his shirt!”

“Ain't dead,” Ferdie answers. “Only gave him a rap on the noggin. Might be he needs another.” He grabs my collar and yanks me to my feet.

“Take your hands off me!” I yell, struggling to pull away.

Ferdie laughs. “I told you, Jabbart. Faking, he was.”

“Best bring him up quick,” Jabbart says, turning to go back up the steps. “The sun will appear soon.”

When the bald man disappears through the door, Ferdie pulls me close. “You're sixteen years old, boy, and not a day younger. Say else, and when I get you alone, I'll lop off your nose and use it for bait.” He pushes me toward the steps. “Get going!”

I climb the stairs slowly and try to sort out what has happened, but my mind is clouded with pain. From what the man called Jabbart said, a mistake of some sort has been made. I push open the narrow door at the top of the stairs, and a blast of wet, salty wind blows over me. As I stare at the sea, my knees buckle and I grab hold of the door for support. Never had it occurred to me that I'd been taken to sea, but the surrounding water and the ship's crew staring back at me tells me it is so.

“Go on!” Ferdie commands, shoving me with such force that I fall facedown onto the ship's deck.

I look up. Though it's still not yet light, I see a face that is strangely familiar. The man is wearing a blue hat with a scarlet feather. I rub my forehead slowly, trying to clear away the pain so that I might think. Suddenly the old woman's face flashes before me, and then I recall two figures standing on the wharf that overlooks the beach. One of the men wears a patch, and the other, the younger one … I gasp as the man's name comes
to mind. Our eyes meet, and the fury in the man's eyes brings the stale bread I'd eaten the night before back up into my throat; it spews out onto his polished black boots. Cursing loudly, he orders me to stand, but my head throbs and I can only press my face against the smooth planking and listen to the voices that float around me.

I hear someone say that I appear to be dead. Another man remarks on the blood staining my shirt. Someone yells that it looks to be French blood, and the murmurings grow loud. I lift my head to say that a mistake has been made, that I have been taken against my will. There is more shouting that I am a Frenchman, and rough hands grab my arms and my legs. I feel myself being lifted.

The crew forms a circle around me, shouting above one another in their frenzy.

“Throw him over the sides!”

“Let the sea carry him back to France!”

“The sharks will feast on a Frenchman tonight!”

The men carry me over to the railing. They hoist me to a position above their heads, but before they can fling me into the sea, another voice rings out. “Release him!”

There is a momentary pause before I am lowered to the deck. The man steps forward and lifts my chin for a better look. “As I thought,” he says with a frown. “It is the bread thief from the beach.”

I struggle to breathe as my memory floods back, and Netty's words echo in my head. When the one-eyed man with the jeweled patch steps into view, I know immediately who has taken me.

Attack Jack can barely control his rage. “A thief!” he bellows. “You've brought me a thieving boy who shakes and cowers before me like a sick mongrel!” He looks at Ferdie in disbelief. “You would have me believe this … this …”

“Petticoat clinger?” Solitaire Peep suggests, a wry smile upon his face.

Nodding, Attack Jack continues. “A dozen strong men were on that wharf! I saw them with my own eyes, and Ferdie grabs a thieving skirt clinger!”

I brush my arm against my mouth, willing my heart to slow so that I might speak without my voice cracking.

Ferdie shifts nervously. “Aye, there was strong men on the wharf, but they scurried like rats when they glimpsed you and Peep. Didn't you notice how quickly the other ships pulled anchor when we sailed into port?”

“Your orders were to find a seaman who could do a man's work! You've done nothing but bring me another mouth to feed.”

“I sent Ferdie to the stables to take the strong one who was sold before the thief,” Solitaire Peep says. “Perhaps his worthless ears should be scalded clean.”

“Aye, but ‘twas dark and hardly a moon!” Ferdie says slowly, stroking his nose. “Could be this mate's a tad slow on the grow. Could be he's older than he looks.”

My throat feels as if it is on fire, but I force out the words. “I'm sixteen, Attack Jack, sir.”

My words hang in the air. No one moves. The Captain's eyes narrow. He bends down until his face almost touches mine. “What did you say?” he whispers.

I step backward. “I-I-I'm sixteen,” I stammer. “Since the seventh of April.”

“No, what did you
call
me?”

I hesitate, confused. I had simply called him by name—the name the old woman had used.

Solitaire Peep scowls. He taps his cutlass. “Methinks he called you Attack Jack.”

A fellow with brown speckles all over his face pulls a wad
of chewing tobacco from his mouth and holds it while he speaks. “I heard him say it with me own ears, and two good ones I have!”

Ferdie raises his hand. “Go easy. What other name would the mate have heard in port? 'Tis a mistake, that's all.”

Solitaire Peep yanks up his jeweled eye patch and studies me, as if trying to decide if an insult had been intended. I force myself to stare back at the gaping black hole.

“Methinks he didn't know better,” Solitaire Peep finally says.

The Captain nods slowly. “I'll let it pass this time, but don't ever call me that again,” he says. “That is a low-down name given to me by King Louis, and I'll not hear it from the mouth of one of my own men.” He spits out the French king's name as if it is poison upon his tongue.

His casual mention of France's ruler makes my head whirl, but I do not miss that he has referred to me as one of “his men.” The remark has not escaped Solitaire Peep either. He pulls his eye patch back into place

“So we're to keep him, then?” he asks.

“For now,” the Captain says. “Let the lad prove his worth.”

A robust man with frizzled gray hair steps forward. Though he wears the uniform of a royal sailor, he appears slovenly. The buttons barely close on his shirt, leaving gaps through which his skin shows. “I'll not sail with children,” he says. “They bring bad luck.”

“Aye, Gunther, it's said they do,” the Captain agrees, scowling. “But the lad claims he's sixteen. We'll see if he can do a man's work.”

I take a deep breath as the air returns to my lungs. A few of the men mumble, and I hear the disappointment in their words. I know they had hoped blood would be spilled—my blood.

Ferdie slaps my shoulder. “A fine sailor we'll teach you to be,” he says, appearing relieved that the matter has been settled.

“The teaching can wait until I've seen the lad below in my cabin,” the Captain says. “Tell Cook to bring me a breakfast of bread and ale.” He looks at me and shakes his head as if he can't believe such a creature stands on the deck of his ship. “And tell him to bring an extra ration for the lad before a hard gust blows and we lose him.”

After the Captain leaves the deck, the men return to their work. I don't move until Solitaire Peep's hand falls upon my shoulder. “First thing you learn is to follow orders. The Captain said he'd see you in his cabin. Get moving!”

L
ight seeps through the planks above my head as I follow Solitaire Peep to the last room at the end of the passageway. The Captain is sitting in front of a small desk cleaning his boots. He finishes his task in silence, and then he gives them each a final swipe and tosses the soiled rag into a nearby bucket.

The door creaks open behind me and I turn around. In walks the shortest man I have ever seen, holding a tray that contains a wheel of cheese, a half-dozen biscuits, a pitcher of ale, and three pewter tankards. Though I have not eaten since the day before, I eye not the cheese, but the hump rising from the man's back, a protrusion so large it bends him double.

“What have you brought us, Cook?” Solitaire Peep asks, raising his patch as if to get a better look at the cheese and biscuits.

“A feast fit for Queen Anne,” Cook announces. “Roast duckling with all the trimmings, and champagne from the royal cellar.” He passes tankards of ale to the Captain and Solitaire Peep.

I almost drop the tankard offered to me; I cannot pull my eyes away from the man's back.

Without a word, Cook sets down the tray and yanks his
shirt up to his neck. I recoil at the sight of the large mound of pink flesh rising from his back, like a sea monster trapped beneath the skin.

“Aye, get a good gander at it, boy,” Cook says matter-of-factly. “I'll not have you gaping at it when me back is turned.”

I murmur an apology, but Cook waves me silent. “Me mum, God rest her soul, ate camel eggs whilst carrying me. Me pappy, a sea-fearing man, carried them back from China.” He reaches around his back and thumps his hump. “Half camel, I be,” he says proudly. He pulls his shirt back over his hump and leaves the cabin without another word.

Solitaire Peep watches him leave, a look of admiration on his face. “When the water on ship goes bad, 'Tis only Cook who don't feel the thirst,” he remarks.

The Captain picks up a wedge of cheese and offers it to me. I shake my head. The pounding in my temples has caused my appetite to disappear.

“Take it,” he says sharply. “When there is food on ship, we eat. When there's nothing, we go hungry.”

I take the cheese, along with a small biscuit, and eat as commanded, while the Captain and Solitaire Peep study the paper crossed with lines and thick slashes of brown that is spread upon the desk. When only one biscuit remains on the tray, the Captain reaches into his desk and pulls out a leather-bound book. He dips his quill into a pewter inkwell and turns his attention to me. “State your name, lad, and explain the events that brought you to my ship.”

“Jameson Martin Cooper, sir. And I think you know my story,” I say, my confidence bolstered by the dull pain in my head and two glasses of ale. “It was your man who clouted me on the head and brought me here.” The memory of the attack angers me, and I boldly add, “Maybe
you
can tell me why I'm on your ship.”

“Mind your tongue, lad,” Solitaire Peep replies sharply, “or you'll find yourself without it! When your captain asks a question, you answer it properly.”

“My mate speaks wise words,” the Captain says without a smile. “You're right, though. It was my orders, as poorly followed as they were, that brought you here. Still, I'll hear your story.”

Drawing a deep breath, I begin recalling the events of the past few months. I tell about my parents' deaths and explain how the silver-bearded man seized all that my father had left me, including the rooms above the shop. I recount the nights spent in the alley and the day I stepped into the bakery seeking work. When I reach the part about picking up the loaf, Solitaire Peep interrupts. “Methinks you're not as stupid as you look,” he says, “for only a fool would have left the bakery without the bread. And did you think to check the drawers for gold?”

I start to explain that I hadn't intended to steal the bread, but stop when I see the sparkle of admiration in Solitaire Peep's eye. Instead, I murmur “The baker came into the room; there was no time.”

“So you're not above taking what doesn't belong to you?” the Captain asks.

I hesitate, sure that such a question is a test. I choose my words carefully. “Sometimes a man must do things he wouldn't ordinarily do. Sometimes he must do the wrong thing, because it's the right thing at the time.” As I speak, the Captain scratches his quill quickly over the pages in his book. I am surprised at the refined penmanship, the letters curling, swooping, and dipping. My father would have said he wrote like a gentleman rather than a seaman.

Pushing back from his desk, the Captain walks over to a tiny porthole and stares out for a long moment. When he turns back to me, his face is clouded. “Indeed there are things that
push a man off the path he normally would have taken,” he says quietly. “Have you ever sailed before?”

I shake my head. “This is all a mistake, sir. I've never stepped foot on a ship until this day. I'm a printer's son, and for seven years hence, a baker's servant. I would be grateful if you would return me to Charles Towne so I can serve my new master and so that someday I may fight to have my father's belongings returned to me.”

“I'm your new master,” the Captain says, sitting back down. “And I have no intention of turning back.”

My stomach knots. By now, the baker will have alerted the constable, who will have tacked runaway postings along the streets. A bounty will have been placed on my head. I remember the baker's threat. If I am caught, I will be tied behind a cart and whipped. My only chance to escape such a fate is to return and explain what has happened.

I clear my throat. “No disrespect intended, sir,” I say, “but you've no right to keep me. Your man took me against my will, and I must ask that you return me to Charles Towne so that I can serve the baker.”

The Captain smiles wryly. “No right? Is this baker, your master as you say, more powerful than Her Majesty? Have I been at sea so long I'm unaware that a bread-maker now sits on England's throne instead of Queen Anne?”

“I don't understand,” I say, wondering if the man had momentarily lost his mind. Did he really believe a baker ruled England?

“Then I'll help you to understand.” The Captain rummages through his desk drawer and brings out a small roll of parchment, tied with a gold ribbon. “This Letter of Marque and Reprisal permits me to command your service. By the order of Queen Anne, I may press any man I deem fit into royal service to help protect the Crown from its enemies. Surely as a printer's son, you've heard about an order such as this?”

“I have,” I whisper, my eyes upon the letter.

“Then you see why I'll hear no more nonsense about returning to Charles Towne,” the Captain says, putting the roll of parchment back inside the drawer.

I shake my head slowly, my hopes dashed. Even I know that to refuse to serve under a Letter of Marque is an act of treason, for which the penalty is hanging and quartering.

The Captain sighs. “King Louis and King Philip are relentless. Their ships prowl dangerously close to Her Majesty's shores. I was hoping for another stout fighting man for our crew, but you're the one Ferdie has brought us. No matter how you got here, you'll do a man's work, or pay the price.” He rubs his chin and studies me carefully. “A printer's son, eh? Can you read and scribe?

“Since I was a babe.”

“Sketch straight lines and copy markings exactly as you see them?”

I nod, a burst of pride pushing my head up a little higher. Hadn't my father often boasted that I would make a better recorder than he, that I had the gift of an artist's hand and an eagle's eye for detail? “No doubt I could, sir, for my hand is steady and true to what I see.”

“Good,” the Captain says, standing up. “If you prove trustworthy, you can be useful to me.”

“Begging your pardon?” I ask. “What is it you'll be wanting?”

A guarded look passes between the Captain and Solitaire Peep. The Captain steps from behind his desk. “I'll let you know what I want in good time.” He lifts my chin and tilts my head until he can see the gash. “Ferdie almost took your head off,” he says. Turning to Solitaire Peep, he says, “Tend his wound before it festers. Then get him cleaned up. He looks like he's already been in battle.” With that, he opens the door.

I follow Solitaire Peep into the dark passageway. As we
make our way to the steps, his jeweled eye patch flickers in the light coming from the hatch. “You're a lucky lad,” he says. “The last man we took didn't last a day. Tossed overboard, he was.”

“For what reason?” I ask, wondering what horrible deed the man had committed.

“Falsehoods,” Solitaire Peep replies. “He looked the Captain right in the face and told him a bold-faced lie.”

I take a step backward. “What lie is so bad to deserve death?”

“Any lie. 'Tis not its size that matters,” Solitaire Peep adds. “A man who cain't be trusted is a danger to us all.”

“But what did he lie about?” I press, anxious to measure that Frenchman's deceitfulness against mine.

“The lazy no-good slept through his night shift, and then told the Captain he had been up on deck the whole while. Lucky for us, Gunther saw him sleeping or the Captain would have believed the man's tale. We could have been speared in our sleep by a French or Spanish bayonet. No matter what happens, boy, remember this. Never lie to the Captain.”

“Never lie to the Captain,” I repeat slowly, as if speaking the words might erase the one I have already told about my age.

“You've been truthful, haven't you?” Solitaire Peep demands.

“Yes sir,” I answer quickly, looking away so that he can't see my face. Sixteen I'd said I was, and sixteen I must be. My life depends upon it.