Cast Off (4 page)

“Heave ho!”

The sailors Piet and Lobo lifted the pallet with me on it and moved toward the wharf's edge. All the while, the hideous goose gnawed my knuckles. I ground my teeth and ran through recipes in my mind: orange goose, goose with pistachios, stuffed goose with prunes.

“Oh, misery is the lot of man!”
sang Piet.

“Oh, misery man
,
”
sang Lobo.

“He drinks his gin whenever he can!”

“Oh, misery man
.
”

My arms ached. The ropes around the stacks dug into my belly. The goose grew tired of my knuckles and moved on to my hair.

The pallet stopped.

“Steady now, mate, lay her down easy,” Piet said.

The cloth had slipped a few inches, and I couldn't see out the hole. I heard water slapping against pilings, the scrape of oars against wood, a shoe landing heavily in a boat. I determined that their ship was moored out in the harbor and we were about to row to it.

“On three. One . . . two . . .”

The pallet wobbled in a nauseating fashion and the birds squawked and flapped. I couldn't blame them. Somewhere deep in their birdie brains they must have known they were headed for the pot. Was I as well?

“Handsomely, there! Steady as you go!” Piet urged. “You want we should load 'em one by one?”

“I have it,” grunted Lobo. “Just give me a minute.”

Stuck in the black, I held my breath while the sailors found their balance and got the boat under way. I fumbled with the sailcloth. Where was that hole?

“Mind the buoy,” Piet murmured.

“You're worse than my old grandmother, you know that?”

“I'm just sayin', a young newbie like you, you might miss—”

“I may be but sixteen years and new to the
Lion,
Piet, but trust me,
amigo,
I've eyes like a fat hawk.”

“Easy now, hawk,” Piet said. “Bring her under the mizzenmast.”

I found the hole. Through it I could see Lobo's back and the side of a ship, blackened with tar.

“Hoay, O'Brian! You ready for us?” Piet called.

“Ready and waiting on you, mate, since two bells,” answered a boyish voice from above. “Where you been? The taverns—”

“I ain't been dogging it, if that's what you mean to say. Heave her over, mate!”

A heavy rope landed in the boat, followed by a lot of jostling and orders from Piet as he and Lobo tied the pallet to some kind of pulley.

“It's made!” Piet called out. “Hoist away!”

The pallet jerked up and hovered. For a long, sickening moment, it tilted heavily to one side, and only the ropes around the sailcloth kept me from sliding out. If I'd had any dinner, it would have baptized Piet and Lobo.

“Piet!” the sailor O'Brian shouted. “D'you let the newbie stow this lot?”

I realized it was my weight that had unbalanced the load. Quickly, I jammed myself between the two middle stacks of cages.

“Nothing wrong with our stowin', mate. Must be your rigging,” Piet shouted back.

Level now, the pallet rose, and me with it, slow and unsteady. I was wedged so tightly I couldn't take a full breath. The birds shrieked and flapped. Minutes crawled by and we climbed higher, until finally we swung hard over.

“Ease her down nicely now,” O'Brian said to another sailor.

The pallet thudded heavily onto the deck of the
Lion,
and O'Brian and the other sailor untied it from the pulley. Would they remove the sailcloth too? Had I been chewed and pecked and risked breaking my neck only to be sent back to Father?

The cloth began to slip off.

“Leave it, mate,” O'Brian said to his companion. “Them biddies is already in a fit.”

I listened to the sound of their footsteps fade before I wriggled out from the cages and lifted the sailcloth over my head.

Oh.

Below, a harbor full of boats rocked in the water, aglow by their lanterns, whilst above, the
Lion
's three masts stretched until their tops vanished into the dark sky. Ropes webbed the whole of the ship, and her sails were tightly rolled, ready to unfurl at the captain's command. From my place at the highest point at the very back of the ship, I could see deck upon deck upon deck laid out before me, five in all. Even I knew a vessel this size was no local cat ship meant to ferry Delft cheese to Rotterdam. Nor a frigate carrying goods to ports in Hamburg and Bruges. Nay, this great ship was headed across oceans and around continents to one of dozens of ports in the Indies and beyond.

She'd be gone for years.

I needed a place to hide forthwith.

I ran down the decks toward the front of the ship and opened the first hatch I saw. Finding no one, I climbed down the ladder into a large cabin strung with hammocks. Cannons lined the outside walls and small sea chests covered the floors. No place for me here. A door at the end of the room led to a cabin that must have belonged to the carpenter—pieces of wood, tools, and sawdust were strewn about. It looked as though someone had left mid-task and could return any moment. Unwise to stay, then. I pressed my ear to the door at the far end of the cabin. Hearing nothing, I lifted the latch and went inside.

This cabin had a bunk built into one wall and a porthole in another. A storage locker and a seaman's chest nearly filled the space. Whoever lived here was good with a whittling knife. Some dice and a little whale lay on the bed.

Footsteps behind me and the scrape of a chair. The carpenter had returned, and me with no way out, nothing to hide under, nowhere to go. I was too big for the seaman's chest, and, even if I could fit through the porthole, I'd no wish to drown.

That left the storage locker. I lifted the top and found it half full of neatly coiled rope. I looked down at my quilted robe, my layers of skirts and petticoats. Was there room enough?

I lowered myself on top of the rope and pulled my legs into the locker. It was like sitting on a bed of hairy snakes. Even through all my clothes, I felt the prick of sharp fibers. But I'd have to live with the itch if I was to live at all. I stuffed my skirts around my legs, wedging them into corners. Tucked in tight, I couldn't move my legs more than an inch or two.

I lay down and closed the top of the locker, shutting out even the merest scrap of light. My head and feet just touched the ends; my nose was perhaps three inches from the lid.

It was like being buried alive.

I waited, listening for footsteps, for the opening of a door. My heart grew louder and louder until I could feel it beating in my ears.

My chest grew tight. I couldn't take a full breath. I panted small quick puffs of hot air. I had to get out!

But just as I pressed my hands on the lid, I heard voices. I froze. Suddenly the prospect of hiding on a pile of rope in a storage locker didn't seem as bad as the prospect of being found.

I lifted the lid an inch and wadded a corner of my robe in the crack to let in some air. Out of the corner of my eye I could even see the porthole.

The voices were singing.

The locker might do for a short while, but I couldn't stay here for the journey. Whoever lived in this cabin would want his rope, and I'd want things like food and water.

Food. When had I last eaten? Some bread and cheese for a midday meal. My stomach groaned loud enough to be heard in the cabin, had anyone been there.

I yawned. The voices were growing fainter. When they faded altogether, I'd find a better place to hide.

I slept.

How could I have slept?
I slept through the dark, quiet portion of the night when I might have saved myself from starvation or discovery, and woke when it was light and what sounded like a thousand men were hammering every inch of the ship.

A thousand men or no, I couldn't ignore my bladder a minute longer. The sailor who lived in this cabin had come and gone. Perhaps I could do the same.

I climbed out of the locker and made use of my host's slop bucket, emptying the contents out the porthole. Then I pressed my ear to the door. Not a sound. Cracked it open—and found a red-haired man with his back to me tying on a belt strung with tools. No way out now.

I peeled my sweat-sticky shift from my back, eyed the locker with dread.

It occurred to me that were I a twelve-year-old boy instead of a twelve-year-old girl, I could simply lie about being an orphan and join the ship as crew. Instead, I sealed myself away again and waited for night to fall.

“Looks nice and smooth, Pa.”

'Twas morning and we was in our cabin, me cutting legs and Pa sanding the frame for a new grindstone for the gunroom—the old one got busted the night before when the midshipmen played at bowling with cannonballs and handspikes. Pa'd polished the same spot for so long, I started to think there'd be nothing left to hold the stone.

“Pa?”

“Hmm?” he answered. A curl of pinewood was stuck in his red hair. It looked like a horn, but I didn't think he'd appreciate me saying it.

“Everything all right?”

He stopped and looked at me. “Sit down, son.”

I pulled up a chair, and he pulled up another.

“There's something you should know.”

In my experience, nothing good ever came after those words. “Your papa's leaving.” “Your ma is dead.” “
Mestizos
stay on the ship.” What now?

“Last time we was in Amsterdam, I applied for a certificate of legitimacy for you.”

“A certificate—?”

“Certificate of legitimacy. If it passes, you'll be legally known as my son. You'd be Dutch.”

You'd be Dutch
. Hope caught fire in me. With this certificate, I could walk the streets of Amsterdam. I could get married. Own a house. I'd be
free
. 'Twas the first time good news had come after those words. So why did Pa look like there was bad news coming?

“There's more, isn't there?”

“Saw the lawyer last night. We got turned down.”

So much for hope.

“But there may be something we can do.”

“What's that, Pa?” I was asking 'cause I knew he wanted me to, not because I thought anything we did would make a difference, 'cause I didn't.

“The lawyer—Boone's his name—he said we can try again, and if we got a letter from someone important to the VOC, it would maybe carry weight with the courts.”

“What kind of letter?”

“One that says this important fellow knows us and thinks it's a good idea for you to be my lawful son.”

“You have someone in mind?”

“Aye. Captain De Ridder.”

Just like I thought. Pa was going to ask for help from the cove who hadn't said a word to me since “Make sure you don't get off this ship north of Africa.” I wasn't even sure he knew my name.

“You think he'll say yes?” I asked.

“Not if we ask him now, no,” Pa admitted. “You'll have to prove yourself to him, Brammetje. Do the work of two men, day and night. You do that and he'll write the letter.”

I wasn't so sure Pa was right, but that hope was still in me. So small I could hardly feel it, but there. If work was the only way to fan that flame, I'd work.

I started in right off. Me and Pa finished the frame, and then I delivered the chair I'd stayed up all night for to Van Plaes. After that I stocked the room under the fo'c'sle with wood, going down to the hold and carrying up each load on my back. Truth told, I felt pretty done in by then, but 'twas only midday and there was repairs to be made to the bilge pump. On my way back up from that, I ran into the sword keep and asked him if any of his blades needed sharpening. He was only too glad to let me at 'em while he had his midday meal with his mates. I ate my codfish and beans in between swipes of the whetstone.

We was set to sail at first light on the morrow, and the
Lion
had to be shipshape by then. I touched up paintwork on her transom where De Ridder could see me do it, stripping off the chipped stuff and freshening it with new 'til dark fell.

Pa went with his mates again for a last night out, and I tidied up the cabin and had gin and leftovers for
supper. I
needed cordage to tie bundles of staves for the cooper, but
I didn't
want to go back down to the hold for it. The bosun kept plenty in his locker, though, and I knew he wouldn't mind me taking some if I put it back on the morrow.

The bosun's cabin was next to ours, and his locker was set against the bulkhead. I put my lantern on the floor and opened the lid.

Inside was a girl.