Privateer's Apprentice (5 page)

By midafternoon, smoky clouds roll across the sky and the sun disappears. A strong damp wind fills the sails and mists the deck. I welcome the cooling sprays. My back burns through
my shirt, and the blisters on my hands have burst, causing the oar to slip in my hand. The pain in my shoulders is almost unbearable. Lightheaded with fatigue, I sway so far to one side that I almost fall off the bench. Just when I'm sure I can take no more, Solitaire Peep hands the tiller off to another mate and crosses the deck.

“You're done here, lad,” he says. “The wind blows strong enough now.”

Unable to speak, I release the oar. My eyes fill and I blink quickly. Turning my palms upward, I grimace when I see my hands streaked with blood.

“Wash your hands in yonder bucket and tell Cook to give you supper,” Peep says gruffly. “When you're finished, come and find me.”

Obeying, I dip my sore hands into the bucket of seawater, breathing heavily as the blood from my hands swirls atop the water. My body hurts so much, I barely notice the stinging from the saltwater.

I feel no pride that I rowed almost the whole day with the others, only a dull ache so deep in my chest that it hurts to swallow. I keep my hands in the bucket until my breathing has returned to normal and I have blinked my eyes dry. As the wind billows the sails, the rowers drift away from their benches to seek their supper. After filling their trenchers, they lean against the railing or sit cross-legged on the deck, eating thick strips of salted beef boiled with pepper and spices that float atop the broth, along with the biscuits Cook has prepared. The sun has faded and though the moon has not yet appeared, the day's work appears to be over.

Cook is squatting on the deck, plucking the eyes from a small pile of fish that lie before him. I watch as he flicks one out with the tip of his knife and then pops it into his mouth and quickly swallows it. When he sees me staring, he plucks
another and holds it up to me on the tip of his dagger. “Fish eyes help you see beneath the water, lad,” he says.

Shaking my head, I back away. “I cannot eat such a thing,” I reply.

Sighing, he wipes his hands on his breeches and fills a trencher with salted beef for me. I take the wooden platter and lean against a barrel. I do not attempt to join in the conversation, and though the others cast looks my way, no one speaks to me. I eat silently, staring out across the water and toward the horizon, where beyond lies Charles Towne. When I am finished, I go in search of Solitaire Peep.

I find him under the hull surrounded by a number of clay pots of varying sizes, a length of rope, and a bucket of boiling tar. “Take a seat and watch, lad,” Peep says, plunging a wooden paddle into the bucket of pitch and stirring vigorously. Steam from the bubbling tar rises from the bucket. My eyes water, and I cough.

“You'll get used to it soon enough,” Solitaire Peep says. “Pitch fumes are a good tonic for the lung mucus.” Using a small wooden spoon, he ladles the pitch into a small clay pot. Then he adds bits of broken glass and a handful of bent and rusted nails. He finishes it off with a pinch of gunpowder. Afterwards, he seals the jar with a cork that holds a long wick.

“This,” he says, holding up the clay jar, “is a firepot.”

“For what?” I ask. I have never seen such a thing.

“For fighting,” Solitaire Peep replies. “Raise this up for the enemy to see, and they'll not draw closer without permission.”

I frown. “How so? It is only a pot.”

“Toss one onto the deck, and the crew will scurry like rats for cover,” Peep says.

I pick up a pot and turn it in my hands. “Do you jest? Who would fear a small thing such as this?”

He grabs my hand to silence me. I cry out as his nails slice into my blisters. “If you doubt my word, here be the proof,” he says, yanking down the jeweled patch covering his eye. “Take a good look, and don't forget what you see.”

I look away from the shriveled black hole where his eye had once been.

“Lost me eye in a battle near St. Augustine,” Solitaire Peep says, releasing his grip on my hand. “A firepot smaller than this one smacked the deck where I stood manning the guns. I grabbed it to hurl it back, and the pot exploded in me hand. Took a nail right here,” he says, pointing to the black socket. “When they pulled it out, me eye was stuck on the end. ‘Twas lucky I lost only the one eye.”

My eyes widen at the picture he has drawn in my mind. “What happened to your ship?”

“We plugged the holes the best we could and made quick to shore for repairs.”

“In St. Augustine?” I ask, thinking that the ship must have listed badly for the Captain to choose a Spanish port.

“Are you daft? Use your noggin, lad! Had we sailed into St. Augustine flying the Queen's flag, the governor would have finished us off with one shot across the bow.”

“Then where?”

“A place what is known only to me and the Captain.”

“An island?” I ask.

“Your nose is too long, boy. Pay attention to what I'm teaching you now, and perhaps you'll die an old man with two eyes.” He turns back to his pots, talking to himself as he fills each one. He directs me to add handfuls of the nails and glass, yelling when I add too much or too little. By the time the moon appears, we have finished dozens of pots.

Finally, Peep stands and wipes his hands on his breeches. “We've done a good job,” he says, looking up at the night sky.
“Perhaps in the morning we'll make a few more just to be sure.”

“To be sure of what?” I ask, stifling a yawn.

“To be sure of whatever we need to be sure of,” Solitaire Peep says, waving his hands. “Now get below. I'm too tired to teach you anything else this day.”

He squats down and begins counting his pots. A frown crosses his face. “Aye,” he says. “Methinks a few more will do no harm.”

He speaks to himself, for I have already reached the hatch and don't reply.

I
t is hard to believe more than a month has passed since I was taken from Charles Towne. I have noted each day with a scratch on the corner of parchment that I took from my father's shop. I make the mark and then roll the parchment up quickly. I cannot bring myself to read what I wrote on my last night in jail, for I do not want to remember my fears. The desire to write or sketch strikes me often, for my father's last words are strong in my head, but my body craves sleep more than anything when I return to this room. Someday, perhaps, I shall write of these days, but for now I tuck away each memory.

Morning is the time I like best, when the ship is quiet and no one is shouting my name or ordering me about. I have grown fond of this room, though it is always chilled because it sits so deep in the ocean. The temperature helps to keep the food stored in the crates and in the barrels fresh. The animals and I have become great friends, and sometimes on rainy nights they leave their straw beds and gather near me. I let them stay, for the goat's fur is as warm as any blanket, and the sound of the piglets snoring near my head helps to drown out the rain beating upon the deck.

Today, the bright sunlight shows me how filthy the room has become. Looking around, I flush guiltily. It is my job to
clean up after the animals; though I try to keep up, there are many more of them than there are of me. Last night, I stumbled down the stairs exhausted and ignored the stink that greeted me when I entered the room. Too tired to clean, I tossed around some scraps Cook saved from the day's meals and ladled dippers of fresh water from the barrel where it is stored into the single trough the animals share, not bothering to dump out the dirty water. The mess and smells that surround me now make my stomach churn. Scratching a piglet's smooth pink head, I murmur, “Did you come to sleep with me last night because your bed was too soiled?”

Sighing, I toss off the old sail that Cook gave me to use as covering. I grab the metal spade that hangs on the back of the door, quickly scoop up three piles of goat dung, and drop them into the night bucket. A wide yellow puddle has seeped into the cracks between the planking, and I blot the floor dry with a rag that I keep in the corner. I pause when I reach the piglets' barrel and stare with dismay at the matted brown straw. Holding my breath, I dig out the sodden clumps with the spade. When the barrel is empty, I pull handfuls of fresh straw from a bale that sits in the corner and tuck it tightly inside. I resolve to bring down a fresh bucket of salt water later and scrub the floor.

I take my time dressing, my fingers fumbling over the shirt's buttons. Barely have I finished knotting my belt when Cook hobbles in. “Hurry up on deck,” he says. “Peep is in a foul mood this day.”

“Shall I first gather the eggs?” I ask.

Cook waves me away. “Best that I do it meself from here on. Yesterday, one had the black rot. You must have used both hands to pick them up. Eggs spoil when two hands touch them,” he declares. “Boils the yolks in the shell.”

I raise an eyebrow. “I often gathered the eggs with my mother. The yolks never boiled in their shells.”

“Did you use your right hand and your mum her left?” Cook asks.

“I don't remember.” I shrug. “I just gathered them.”

“There you go, now,” Cook replies. “You must have used different hands or you would've found out about the boiling yolks.”

I shake my head and turn away. I don't believe such foolishness, but arguing with Cook is pointless. He is the most superstitious person I've ever met.

Picking up the night bucket, I grab the goat's leash and head for the door. “Get your oats from the pot,” Cook says, holding a cracked egg up to the light coming through the porthole.

Solitaire Peep meets me at the hatch. “'Tis time you showed,” he says. “A storm blows in from the north. There's work to be done before it hits.”

I look up at the blue sky. The clouds are few and white. Surely Solitaire Peep imagines things. I dump the contents of the night bucket over the side of the ship and then tie a rope onto the handle and lower the bucket again, letting it drag through the strong current. When it is sufficiently clean, I set it to dry in the sun. I eat my oats quickly, feeling a tension on deck I don't understand. I am scraping up the last spoonful of my meal when Solitaire Peep pushes a stick toward me with a rag tied to the end.

“Swab off the deck. 'Tis splattered with mud and we cain't be slipping and sliding around like a bunch of fools.”

I take the stick, grateful for the simple chore. I have scarcely started mopping when Cook comes up on deck. He is holding a large net with tightly sewn threads. “Leave that for now and help me cast the nets. A school of fish follows us. We will catch our dinner tonight and save what's in the crates.”

I take the end of the net that he holds out to me, watching as he ties iron weights to each end. “Lift it high over the railing,” he says when he has finished, “then let it drop. The weights will hold it in the water.”

We lift the net over the railing and cast it away from the side of the ship. It sits for a minute on the surface and then vanishes beneath the water.

“'Twill take a while, but we'll have a catch come midday.”

A spirited wind blows across the deck of the ship and fills the sails. The crew is busy at work. Ratty Tom is on the lines. Jabbart hammers new bottoms on several barrels of flour that have been chewed through by mice. I made the discovery two nights earlier. The mice had stepped in the flour and tracked it over the storage room floor.

I mop around the barrels, dragging the swabbing stick along the bottom of the railing and around the piles of ropes. After several buckets of seawater, the deck glistens. Untying the cloth from the stick, I rinse it in the bucket and place it on the deck to dry. I go to a pile of tangled ropes in the corner and begin unknotting them, stretching them out straight on the deck. I work quickly, pulling and rolling until five neat piles lie before me. Careful not to let them uncoil, I hang them on the pegs that jut from the wall. I am about to ask Jabbart if he needs help mending the barrels when Cook calls to me. He points excitedly at the water. “We have caught us a bounty,” he says, leaning over the railing. “We shall feast on fish this night. Help me, lad!”

I grab the net and scrunch it together in my hands, trapping the fish. Together, we haul the net over the side of the ship. When we let it fall, the fish flop around, spraying us with salt water. I feel a twinge of sadness watching them flip up into the air and then come back down onto the hard deck. The poor creatures are looking for water that is not there. They lie in the net, stunned.

“I'll cook some for tonight and salt the rest,” he says. “'Tis good we can save the food below, for I counted too many empty barrels in storage last night.”

The fish are a curiosity to be sure. Some have long, razor-sharp noses, which seem to please Cook. “Ferdie will make quick use of these snouts,” he says. “I heard him complain to the Captain yesterday that he needed more needles to mend his sails.”

I frown. “How do you thread a fish snout?”

“First you must poke a hole in the tip,” Cook says. “Then you pull the thread through. Fish snouts work good as any needle. You'll see.”

Above my head, a large gray and white gull screams loudly. She swoops low and deposits her droppings onto the newly scrubbed deck. I stare at the mess in disgust, and then snatch up the stick just as Solitaire Peep and the Captain come through the hatch. They glance at the gull's droppings and then at me.

“You must learn speed,” the Captain says. “It should not take all morning to swab a deck.”

“I scrubbed it clean earlier, sir,” I reply, not bothering to hide the annoyance in my voice. “And then another gull flew across.”

Solitaire Peep peers up at the sky, shielding his eye with a cupped hand. “From what direction did the gull come?” he asks.

I stare up at the empty sky. “I didn't notice until it was upon us.”

“Which way did it fly off, then?” Solitaire Peep asks.

I bite my lip, suddenly remembering what Peep had said about a gull signaling that an enemy ship may be nearby. I cross my arms defensively and shrug. “Who knows?” I say.

The Captain's voice is hard. “Answer a question properly when it is put to you, Jameson. Did the gull fly north, south, east, or west?”

“I answered the best I could, sir,” I say, flinging the dirty
water over the ship's side. “And what does it matter where it came from. It's just a stupid gull!”

“'Tis not the gull who is stupid,” Solitaire Peep says. “For he knows which way he flew and you do not.”

The Captain glances out over the water. “I must keep reminding myself that you have never sailed before. However, one day I am likely to forget, so you would do well to learn how this ship works and why it is important that you watch for birds and other signs that ships are nearby.”

“We are days from land. A bird this far out means we are not alone,” Solitaire Peep says. “We cannot see our enemies, but they are near. A gull is proof of that.”

“A gull is a bird and nothing more,” I say, unable to stop myself from answering back. “Where it flies matters not.”

“There you are wrong, boy,” Solitaire Peep says. “For a gull that comes upon us suddenly in the middle of this great ocean has found a resting perch nearby.”

“Perhaps the gull rested on a log floating in the water,” I say.

“Perhaps not,” Solitaire Peep snaps. “Perhaps his perch is a galleon carrying gold for King Philip or King Louis. Perhaps he roosts on a ship filled with Frenchmen or Spaniards who would be glad to burn the Queen's property and take you prisoner.”

“Am I not a prisoner now?” I demand. “Being a prisoner of Spain or France would be no worse!” The words are out before I can take them back. I brace myself, waiting for the Captain's wrath to fall upon me. But he speaks calmly. There is no need for him to yell, for his words send shivers down my back.

“The captains who sail under Louis and Philip take few prisoners and only the rich ones at that. You, a poor English boy unworthy of ransom, would find yourself bobbing in the water, most likely without your English head.”

I swallow hard. “Surely they would understand that I am here against my will and allow me to return to Charles Towne.”

The Captain laughs, but there is no joy in the sound. “They would run you through with their polished swords before you could open your mouth. You sail on an English ship and therefore you are the enemy of all others.”

I look again at the sky. I know the Captain speaks the truth, for I saw how those in Charles Town treated the Huguenots who had fled France. It mattered not that they disagreed with King Louis; the blood that filled their bodies was French and that could never change.

I strain my eyes across the vast sea. Can it be true that a Spanish or French ship lurks nearby? “Tell me how the gulls carry clues,” I say.

The Captain points across the bow. “If the gull flies from the south, our enemy lies ahead. From the north means we are pursued.”

“And suppose there are two more gulls, one that flies from the east and the other the west?” I ask.

“Then we are surrounded,” the Captain says. “And most likely we will be dead come sunup. So use your head whilst you still have it, and watch for gulls that carry warnings.”

“But if they warn us of our enemies, won't they warn our enemies of us?”

The Captain smiles and nods. “That's the smartest thing you've said since you came on board. You're right. The sight of a gull is a message to all that a battle nears.”

I look out over the water feeling uneasy. Could an enemy ship lie beyond the horizon? Though Queen Anne's War has waged for almost my entire life, the ocean between the Old World and Charles Towne has always eased my fears.

For the rest of the afternoon I help Cook clean and salt the fish. Cook teaches me how to grasp the needle fish tightly
around its belly and then twist the snout from its head with a quick wrench of my wrist; I learn quick enough, but the popping sound when the snout comes off and the spray of blood upon my face makes me sick to my stomach. I work steadily, scraping the innards from each of the fish and then salting the cavity. I place the fish in a small rum barrel that Cook rinsed out, salting each layer as I go along. As I work, my mind travels elsewhere, following the gull across the water to a Spanish or French ship that sails toward us.

When the last layer is salted and the lid nailed down, Cook leaves me to roll the barrel down to the storage room. I turn the barrel on its side awkwardly, wincing as it bangs hard against the deck. I hear snickering and when I look up, I see Ferdie staring at me. His laughter is cut short, though, when another gull appears suddenly from the south. I watch the bird come off the horizon, a small gray dot that takes shape as it grows closer. The gull flies overhead, circles the ship twice, and then flies off without landing. Two more gulls appear from the south. Solitaire Peep sees them and frowns. He spits upon the deck and then wipes his hand across his mouth. Calling for Ferdie to man the tiller, Peep goes below.

Ferdie gives me a great gaping smile that displays all his blackened teeth, and makes a sweeping motion across his neck with one finger. “I'm thinking your head will be the first lost,” he says. “For the flaxen color of your hair screams out that you are the Queen's subject.”

“And I think I have nothing to fear.” I roll the barrel toward the hatch. “Your head is so ugly the enemy will surely die of fright when they look at you.”

“You'd best ask Cook if he can find some squid ink to blacken your hair,” Ferdie calls after me. “Ain't that right, Gunther?”

Gunther leans against the largest of four cannons that sit on a raised platform near the bow of the ship. His job is to
maintain the ship's weapons. Barely a day passes that I do not see him polishing the ship's cannons or laying the muskets out on deck for inspection. He has spent the last two days melting silver blocks and pouring the steaming metal into a mold for making musket balls. Since my first day on board, Gunther has ignored me, other than to order me out of the way. Now, he glares at me and scratches his belly. His white breeches appear too small for his girth; the material strains from waist to ankle. His belt has been replaced with a piece of frayed rope. “Have you brought the devil's luck upon us, brat?” he says. “'Tis a bad sign to have spotted gulls out this far.”