Cast Off (12 page)

Falling, falling, then a shock of cold.

And then, for a few moments, nothing. No sound, no sight. Just a rush of water and the drip of bitter oil down the back of my throat while the cannonball pulled me toward the ocean floor.

I covered my face with my arms, opened my eyes. Dark green. Falling, falling.

A snap on the rope around my waist nearly forced out the precious air I was holding. Up above, the men had started pulling. The plunge downward ceased. I lurched sideways. The
Lion
's bottom loomed in the shadows, black and growing larger until it was all I could see.

My right leg hit the hull first. Barnacles shredded trousers and skin like paper. I ground my teeth into the sponge, desperate to scream, desperate not to open my mouth. Sliding down the side of the ship, I bounced to my back, and pain sprung afresh. I rolled onto my arms, still covering my face, still sliding down, down, and the pain bloomed.

A low fire burned in my chest, feeding on the little air I had left. I was under the ship now and could see the keel hurtling near. Too fast. At this rate, at this angle, I'd crash into it head-on.

Now, out of the corner of my eye, I saw another dark shape emerge, a long black shadow cutting through the water. I knew that sharks always followed ships, lured by the garbage left in their wake. This one must have scented my blood. Others wouldn't be far behind.

The keel was just a few feet away, but the shark would reach me first. I closed my eyes—

A hand took hold of my wrist. Bram's hand!
He
was the dark shape. He grabbed my other wrist and put both my hands on his shoulders, then twisted so I clung to his back. Bram dove, leading us down and away from the keel. How he swam against the pull of the rope, against the weight of the iron ball, I shall never know, but somehow Bram's legs were strong enough to keep us both away from the barnacles. We passed under the keel by inches and then passed the rest of the bottom of the hull with room to spare. The fire raged in my lungs, and at last we rose up, toward the light, toward air. Just before we broke the surface of the water, Bram twisted away from me and disappeared.

“Cut him down!”

“Is he dead?”

“Make way!”

As all eyes was on Petra, I climbed up the aft portside rigging without getting smoked. She hung from the starboard yard, limp as a fish. With all the blood dripping off her, she looked dead but for her chest, which was pumping up and down. The Gos twins was working to cut her loose. I hung back where no one was looking. Soon as I saw Petra was fit, I'd go below and get dry.

Clockert was at her now. He tore open one of her sleeves. Seemed like there was more blood than skin left. Me, I didn't have a scratch. Once I had a hold of Petra, 'twas simple enough to keep us both off the barnacles. 'Twasn't anything to crow about. Most sailors couldn't swim—they figured it's better to meet your maker quick than float around waiting to be shark supper. But I'd grown up fishing and could swim as easy as I could walk. And I could hold my breath for three minutes, which was, now that I think of it, maybe something to crow about.

Clockert must've not liked the look of Petra, because he was having the Gos boys carry her down to the sick bay. I couldn't tell if she was passed out or awake. Her eyes was shut and her skin was a queer gray color. She'd kept her face off the barnacles and all her parts seemed to be attached, but anyone could tell she was badly done in just the same.

I headed down an aft hatch, away from the crowds, to change into some dry duds in the carpenter's cabin. I was just tying the strings on my trousers when Pa came in.

“Didn't see you at the boy's keelhauling,” he said.

“I don't much go in for that kind of thing,” I told him.

He eyed me. Reached out a hand and picked up my braid, which was dripping down my back.

“Why's your hair wet, Bram?”

'Twas no use lying. He'd know it. “I helped Jochims over the keel.”

Pa nodded like he thought it was a good idea I made sure a boy got to keep his head on. “You hurt?”

“Nah,” I said.

“Anyone see you?”

“No, Pa. I was careful.”

“All right then.”

I said something about paintwork and instead went aft to Clockert's cabin. He was in there with Petra, alone except for Barometer Piet, who was snoring behind the curtain.

She was slumped over in a chair. Her shirt was pushed off one shoulder, which was scraped up pretty bad, as was both arms and one leg.

“Not now, Broen,” Clockert said.

“I thought maybe you could use a hand, master,” I said.

“Now that you mention it, my assistant seems to have disappeared yet again, and I could benefit from your services. Bring me that pot of ointment from the table, please, whilst I cut away Mister Jochims's clothes.” Clockert held up a pair of scissors.

“No, don't! You can't do that!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Only it's just—see how he's squirming? Those are probably his only clothes, him being a stowaway and all. If you cut 'em off, what'll he wear?”

“Please, master,” Petra croaked. “He's right.”

Clockert looked back and forth at me and Petra like we was a couple of lunatics, but he shrugged.

“As you wish. If you prefer to convalesce in wet rags, far be it from me to stop you, Mister Jochims.”

Petra slumped over again while Clockert rolled up her trousers and I brought over the pot of ointment.

“Mister Jochims, may I present Bram Broen, carpenter's mate. He's going to hold your hand steady whilst I sew your arm. Mister Broen, may I present Albert Jochims.”

I picked up Petra's hand like 'twas made of china. “How now, Jochims?”

Petra lifted her head an inch. “Fair to middling, all things considered, Broen.”

We stayed like that for some time, me holding parts of Petra steady while Clockert sewed or smeared on some of his medicines. Every so often, Clockert'd give her some brandy. After the first few sips, she swigged it like a sailor. When he was done, Clockert bandaged her arms and legs so's they looked like cocoons.

“Well, Jochims, you bore your punishment like a man,” Clockert said, helping her to her feet. “Go have a rest next to Barometer Piet.”

I woke in daylight, but I knew not the time. Behind the curtain in Clockert's office, I lay on a cot next to Barometer Piet, who was sleeping, though his color looked a shade less gray than it had on the surgeon's table. As for me, I felt surprisingly well. My clothes were dry, and my head, limbs, and nose were all in their proper places. So long as I kept perfectly still, the pain from my wounds was tolerable, if only just.

Moving was another matter. When I sat up it felt as though my bandaged shoulder brushed hot coals instead of canvas. I rolled the torn leg of my trousers over my knee so it wouldn't rub against the bandage on my leg, and did the same with my sleeves. Clockert must have changed my dressings while I slept, for they were fresh.

Slowly, I stood. I was reminded of our neighbor Ewout Tchoe. At ninety-two, he was the oldest man in Amsterdam, the oldest man anyone could remember. Ancient Ewout Tchoe moved faster than I.

To my surprise, standing felt more comfortable than sitting or lying down, with nothing chafing my raw skin. I shuffled past the curtain. Clockert was at his desk with three books open. There was no sign of the unfortunate Krause.

“Pardon me, master, may I come in?”

“Ah! It's our very own Lazarus. Welcome back to the living, sir. You've been away for two nights and a day. It's Saturday morning.”

“Have I really been asleep all that time?”

“You have. Barometer Piet was most impressed. By your wounds and by your slumber. Unlike you, he seems to prefer being awake during the night watches.”

Which accounted for the dark shadows under Clockert's eyes.

“Thank you for looking after me, master. And for the fresh dressing,” I said, gently lifting an arm.

“Your leg bled for quite some time, but it's stopped now.”

My leg? Had the surgeon noticed anything else about me when he changed my bandages? His manner toward me seemed natural enough, but how could I be certain?

“You look tolerably well now, young man. Off you go to your cabin or your work or whatever it is you plan to do with yourself.” With a wave of dismissal, Clockert returned to his reading. But I remained standing in his doorway for a rather long awkward minute.

“Yes, well, about that.” I cleared my throat. “About working—”

Clockert slammed one of his books shut. “Exactly how much of my spirits have you drunk?”

“Me, sir? Not a drop!”

“Stolen, then. To sell off for your own selfish profit.”

“Not a bottle. On my honor.”

Clockert lifted an eyebrow.

“I know as a stowaway I appear to have no honor whatsoever, sir—”
Mind your speech, Petra! Talk like a common boy.
“But I got some, and I swear I never touched your spirits. Never once.”

“I have counted the bottles and four have been taken.”

“Not by me, sir.” I'd seen Krause take the storeroom key from Clockert's drawer and steal the bottles, but I'd not be an informer.

“In that case, why do you remain here, if not to confess your crimes?”

“I just thought, master, maybe you needed help in the sick bay?”

“Help from whom?”

“From me, sir. I been watching you these last months, and—”

“No.” Clockert returned to one of his remaining open books.

“No?”

“I already have one useless boy in my service. I've no need of two.”

“I can read, sir. And write.”

“In Latin?” Clockert challenged.

“Only Dutch. And a little English,” I admitted. “But I can sew. I can cook too, if you need some medicine brewed up.”

“An interesting assortment of skills for an ordinary young man,” Clockert observed.

“Yes—
aye,
well, my mother was a housekeeper, sir, and I was with her when she did her work.”

“A housekeeper with a son who reads and writes in two languages?”

I felt my face flush. My story was fast becoming as ridiculous as my grammar. I was no play actor. Better to stay close to the truth.

“I meant a
fine
housekeeper,” I said in my usual accent. “My mother was an English housewife with fine skills in the house.”

“I see,” Clockert said. And I was very much afraid that he did. But he dropped the line of questioning and surprised me instead. “Very well. Go check on Pietersen. Help him with the chamber pot if he needs it. Change his bandage and apply the proper plaster on the wound, which, if you've been spying on me as much as you claim, you should know how to make by now. Then cut new bandages from fresh linen. Tidy my sick room and sharpen the knives I left on the table. I noticed during the surgery my scalpel was dull—more's the pity for poor Pietersen. When you've finished those tasks, you may bring me my dinner.”

“As you wish, sir.”

I felt an unfamiliar smile break across my face, though the thought of helping Barometer Piet with the chamber pot gave me pause. But Tina had never shied away from such things, not when patients, male or female, needed her help. I resolved to follow her example.

Slowly, painfully, I crept my way through each of the tasks Clockert had assigned me. The surgeon dismissed me at the end of the afternoon watch, by which time I was thoroughly exhausted. But with the taste of happiness fresh on my tongue, the chance to see blue sky in the remaining hour before twilight was irresistible.

I stood amidships with my back to the rail and pulled off my cap, then untied my hair so the gentle breeze could blow the strands from my face. The air blew in puffs and the sea had a swell to it that propelled the ship in long, heaving rolls, but the men went about their work as comfortably as if they were on dry land. They swarmed the deck like a colony of spiders preparing for an onslaught of flies. There were men touching up paintwork, men splicing and weaving rope, men repairing sails, their needles moving as fast as Albertina's in the years before her fingers stiffened. A few enjoyed moments of leisure in the fading sunlight, which they spent scrawling in journals or whittling scraps of wood into exotic animals. Goats roamed and chickens staggered, while aft on the poop deck a black-and-white sow gulped slops from a trough. Behind me in the waist, Kosnik the giant smith was roasting iron in the forge, while next to him Jaya the cooper hammered strips of bent wood into a barrel. The captain was on the quarterdeck with Oak by his side. Even seated, the great dog's head reached past De Ridder's waist. The beast seemed to relish the sea spray that doused his face. He shook salt water from his furry cheeks along with long strands of drool from his black lips.

And there it was at last: the crow's nest. High up in the clouds, a lookout rested his elbows on the rail and scanned the horizon with a spyglass.

Every line was in its place, but the sails flapped in the light wind. Across from me, a sailor leaned over the rail, measuring the speed of the ship under Van Plaes's supervision. He unspooled a length of knotted rope from a wooden reel and let it trail in the water, counting the number of knots that passed during the time it took for sand to run from one end of a minute glass to the other. The first mate recorded the speed in the ship's log.

“Just two knots, Captain!” Van Plaes reported.

“Thank you, Mister Van Plaes.” The captain turned his weather-beaten face to the bosun. “Mister Grof, the wind here is not what we would wish it to be. Tell the men to prepare to jibe.” Before Grof had begun to repeat the order to change course, the men were already scrambling up the rigging to trim the sails.

A shadow fell over me. “Bram Broen,” said a slender black-eyed boy. “We met earlier in Clockert's cabin.”

“Albert Jochims,” I said solemnly. “I believe we met even earlier than that, somewhere between the rail and the keel, if I'm not mistaken.”

“You must have me mixed up with someone else, mate. I never go swimming in August.”

I squeezed Bram's hand in thanks and he squeezed mine back.

“We was all quite
surprised
by your arrival in sick bay,” he said.

“No more than I,” I assured him.

Bram leaned down and spoke into my ear. “All of it. Now, please.”

I relayed all that had happened from the moment I entered the captain's cabin—leaving out the keelhauling, which he knew as well as I. When I described how I convinced Clockert to take me on, Bram whistled.

“So you're all set then,” he said. “And since you're a boy, you can land in Batavia with the rest of us and sail somewheres else, as you please.”

“Nay.” I frowned. “The captain says I must disembark for good in Cape Town.”

“That won't do,” Bram said. “Cape Town's nothing but a few tents and hovels. If Hottentots don't skin you alive, wild animals will. And if the wild animals leave you alone, a sickness'll carry you off. It's right unhealthful and no place to live.”

I pictured dark men with big machetes and pointed teeth like Happy Jan's. “Then I shall board the very next ship that stops there and go where it takes me.”

“Even if it takes you to Holland?”

I wouldn't let it come to that. Just as Bram was proving himself with hard work, I would prove myself indispensable as surgeon's mate so that De Ridder would allow young Albert Jochims to stay on.

As if he could see into my mind, Bram said, “Did the captain say anything about me when you was in
his cabin?
”

“Not a word,” I assured him. “He said only that he guessed I was the demon who repaired sails and whipped lines in the night, and I admitted as much. But he didn't ask about the oakum or the staves and I expect he still believes it all came from you.”

“I hope you're right. I'll have to make the stuff myself now so no one'll catch on.”

“I'll help you. We can do it at night.”

A sailor dumped a bucket over the rail and Bram and I stood in unhappy silence watching the sharks devour the slops.

“Everyone's talking about how you saved Barometer Piet's life,” he said at last.

“I don't know what I was thinking. One minute I was behind the wall, quiet as you please, and the next I was
over and
out.”

“You're lucky 'twas Piet you saved.”

“Why is that?”

“Piet's a favorite on board. He knows the sea as well as any man alive and he can always tell when a storm's coming. That's a rare valuable talent on a ship.”

And it explained the nickname, a barometer being the instrument that measures the changes in air pressure that precede a storm. “How can he tell a storm is coming?” I asked.

Bram shrugged. “He says he can feel it in the fingers of his left hand.”

I was familiar with Barometer Piet's left hand, having washed it that afternoon. It had a thumb and an index finger. The other digits were missing.

“My pa says you can bunk and mess with us,” Bram said. “He cleared it with the captain.”

I hadn't considered that I would no longer have to steal food or sleep in the hold. Joining Bram and Paulus's mess sounded like dear luxury.

“Al!”

The Gos brothers joined us. Gos raised his hand to slap me on the back but stopped himself when I flinched.

“Good to thee you up and about,” Goth said. “How're you coming along?”

“Well enough,” I said. “Thank you for your help with the ke-keelhauling.”

“ 'Twas the least we could do after treating you so rough before.” The twins had sheepish looks on their spotted faces. “Me and my brother were a couple of louts to tell it real. But we've come to say sorry. After what you did for Barometer Piet, we got together with some of the crew and rounded up some gear. Seeing as how you're a stowaway and all, we figured you could use a few things. No offense meant, of course.”

“None taken,” I said, making an effort to add what I hoped was a masculine heft to my voice.

Gos handed me a tarred canvas ditty bag, and I untied the drawstring. Inside was a wood cup and spoon, some sewing supplies, a watertight pouch of tobacco, and a stone bottle of gin.