Privateer's Apprentice (11 page)

T
he storm leaves behind strong winds that fill our sails for the next three days. Solitaire Peep is pleased, for the crew is relieved from rowing, and they do not grumble so much over the half rations the Captain has ordered. Though we are still in Spanish waters, the sea has changed from a blue as bright as a robin's egg to a brown deeper than brewed tea. Peep says that as we sail closer to La Florida, the water will begin to look like new spring grass. On the parchment, I make note of such things, for Peep says changes in the sea's color are almost as useful as the markings of a map.

Yesterday, Ratty Tom called a Spanish ship on the horizon. By the Captain's orders we stood ready, our pistols filled with shot and our daggers sharpened. Gunther moved the cannons into place, and Peep ordered the firepots uncovered, but the enemy suddenly turned and sailed quickly away. He said that the sun's glint off the Yellow Jack is a powerful warning; even those who are tempted to fire upon the Queen's ship will not sail near.

I have worn my new uniform since the morning after the storm. When I came through the hatch that first day, some of the crew looked my way, but no one said anything, not even Gunther. The jacket's sleeves are long, so I fold the material back at the wrist so I don't stain it with ink when I sketch. The
pants droop low at the waist, but I have tied them with a length of rigging, and they stay up well enough.

The Captain seems pleased with my work. I have used the compass as he showed me, filling almost two whole sheets of parchment with small drawings that one day can be copied into a whole map. Sometimes, I sketch pictures of the ocean and place in the middle a tall wave upon which sits a ship with two masts and billowing sails. I long for colored ink to capture the shades of the sea. Lately, I have wished for a bottle of white ink, too, so that I could add a drop to make the gray wings of the gulls that are now common overhead. They bring to mind the birds that stand one-legged on the posts in Charles Towne's harbor; they watch the ships arriving, their heads turning ever so slightly as if they are soldiers guarding the town. Though my heart longs to return, the thought fills my belly with fear. I am a posted runaway. The best I can hope for is a lashing, but men have been hanged for less.

Today, I must wait to begin my sketching. It takes me most of the morning to clean up after the animals. Fresh straw is now scarce, so I sort the clean pieces from those that are clumped together with pig dung, onion skins that have floated from the rafters, and dead flies. The goat does not stray from my side as I work. She follows me about the room, rubbing her head against my sleeve and snorting. The garment smells of the cloves and mint that Cook packed around it to ward off the moths, and I think our little goat is reminded of a field that she once roamed.

I am further distracted from my duties this morning by the growling beast inside my stomach. I vow to save something from my supper tonight, no matter how much I want to eat it. We are on half rations now by the Captain's orders; breakfast today was three biscuits and a bit of cheese that was tainted with mold, but not enough to spoil the taste. Yesterday, Cook's
net came up empty except for a few crabs and two fish with long black whiskers that sprung from each side of the mouth. He says the storm scared the fish away from the surface. The stew he boiled from the whiskered fish tasted good, but too many small bones floated in my bowl. I feared choking every time I swallowed.

I am concentrating on drawing a straight line that does not go jaggedly into another when Ratty Tom cries out, “Land ahead! Land straight ahead!”

My eyes widen when I lift my head. An island looms before us, a jagged mass that reminds me of the way spilled ink spreads on a sheet of parchment. One corner of the island stretches east and the other west. A strong wind propels
Destiny
toward the middle, and I hear Peep command the rowers to take to their benches so they can control the ship as she heads toward the island.

I long to stand over the railing as we draw closer, but instead I begin to outline the shape of the island. Suddenly Solitaire Peep is at my side. “Put the paper away, boy,” he says. “There's no need to draw Crossed Island.”

I look at him curiously. “The Captain said I should sketch everything I see.”

“Aye, but not the island,” Peep insists. “'Tis too risky.”

“Why?” I ask absentmindedly, studying the compass.

“Didn't you hear me?” Peep snaps. Bending down, he covers the compass with his hand so that I cannot record the island's location. “Stop your marking!”

Sighing, I lay down the quill. “Fine by me,” I say, glad for an excuse to go stand by the railing. It is easy to understand how the island got its name; from a distance, it looks like a cross lying flat against the ground.

“You said sketching was too risky. What did you mean?” I ask.

Peep moves closer and whispers, “We cain't risk your recordings falling into the hands of our enemies.”

I laugh and wave my arm over the rail. “Our enemies would be blind not to glimpse the island from the sea. It is as wide as Charles Towne's harbor.”

“Aye, they can no doubt see it,” Solitaire Peep replies, smiling. “But why would they venture to beach here? There is nothing of use except timber to repair a ship, and there are other islands closer to Spanish ports if that is what they desire. Put a mark upon my word, the enemy ships may pass by, but they will not stay long.”

I look at Peep in dismay. If the enemy spotted us here, crippled with a broken mast, wouldn't we be in terrible danger?

He claps his hand down on my shoulder and laughs, as if he can read my mind. “When we've rowed ashore, step lively through the sand, lest the scorpions have time to nibble on your flesh.”

I leave the railing and begin packing away my kit and rolling up the parchment. “Will we go ashore today, then?”

Peep nods. “Aye, before the stars twinkle, we'll be on Crossed Island.” He breathes deeply and I can see that he is pleased. “It has been a long time, but I've forgotten nothing,” he adds.

I snort. “What is there to forget about such a place?”

Solitaire Peep turns away. “Your nose is too long, boy,” he says. “You ask too many questions.” Halfway to the hatch, he turns back. “Remember what I said. Keep the island's markings in your noggin and off the paper.”

Though forbidden to sketch, I remain on deck, filling the hours with one chore after another. The oarsmen's benches stay full, so I polish the ship's railing with whale fat, and then wash down the deck, looking for any chore that will give me a reason to stay up on deck.

Other than climb the rigging, something I haven't tried again since my fall, I've learned most of the duties of a royal sailor. I have become what Solitaire Peep refers to as the “all-around,” filling in wherever an extra hand is needed. Most of the time, though, I sketch. And when the oarsmen look my way and smirk as if I am a child at play, I remind myself that my father served in a trade that often went unnoticed, but that did not make it less valuable than others.

As Solitaire Peep predicted, the Captain gives the order to lay anchor when the first stars appear in the sky.
Destiny's
huge iron anchor requires three men to lift it over the side. A loud cheer sounds when the anchor hits the water with a resounding splash, and the longboats are immediately lowered.

Cook brings out a handful of straw and the crew gathers around to draw lots; those who pull out the longest stalks will be in the first boats rowed to shore. I sigh, disappointed, when I hold up my straw beside the rest. I wanted to row ashore with the Captain.

Seeing my face, Jabbart laughs and ruffles my hair. “Don't fret; you'll feel the earth beneath your feet soon enough,” he says.

I shrug. At least I won't be in the same boat as Gunther and Ferdie, who have each drawn a long straw.

Those who remain on board try to keep busy, but their eyes wander across the black water. I absentmindedly cut frays from the piles of hemp roping and then retie the ends, impatiently waiting for Peep to give the command to lower another boat.

As the hour passes, there is much speculation about what the island might be like, and I realize that no one in the present crew except the Captain, Solitaire Peep, and Cook has ever been
there. An excited murmur sweeps the deck when a flash of orange appears suddenly across the water. Cook has found a dry spot to light a fire. Before leaving the ship, the Captain ordered supper to be served only when the entire crew has gathered on the beach. Cook, who left in the first boat, carried with him a bag of flour for the evening biscuits as well as a slab of cheese wrapped in cloth, a kettle, and a sackful of trenchers.

Solitaire Peep orders the last boat filled and finally it is my turn. A deep darkness spreads over the water, making it impossible to see anything except the orange glow from the beach. I start carefully down the rope ladder. We have all been instructed to take our sleep pallets and though I have rolled mine and tied it tightly with rope, it weighs awkwardly in my hands as I climb into the longboat.

Peep unknots the lines hat secure the longboat to
Destiny
, and then takes his place near the hull. “Push off,” he commands.

Using the end of my oar, I help to push away from
Destiny
. The longboat tilts sharply and cold water washes over the side, soaking us all. Muttering a curse, Solitaire Peep orders two of the men to move to the other side for balance. After careful maneuvering, the boat heads toward land.

The incoming tide carries the vessel quickly toward the beach. I grip my oar firmly and pull it through the waves. Water sprays up from the sides as the crew finds their rhythm and guides the narrow vessel toward land.

As the boat nears the island, the smell of decaying plants and muddy earth fills the air. A shrill cry comes suddenly out of the darkness, a pleading sound that causes the hair on my neck to rise. I grip the oar harder, my eyes searching through the thick blackness of the distant trees. The cry comes again, loud and angry.

“'Tis human,” I whisper.

“Nay,” Solitaire Peep replies. “'Tis only the swamp owls calling our arrival.”

“To whom?” I ask, alarmed.

“To the other creatures that live on the island, that's who,” says Solitaire Peep. “The forests are thick with wild birds and the like.”

My eyes settle on Cook's fire. Flames lick the air, setting embers adrift in the black sky. It occurs to me that such a large fire is not necessary to brown the supper biscuits. “Cook's fire will surely attract the enemy,” I say to Peep. “Why does he risk such a large one?”

“To keep the wild animals away,” Peep replies. “A fire must burn each night or we'll all awake to find our legs being carted off by the wild pigs that roam the forest. Besides, from a distance, the enemy will not be able to tell if it's a fire that burns or if it is the moon shining upon the water.”

Through the orange glow, I glimpse the crew huddled around the fire. I notice immediately that the Captain isn't among them. Before I can sort that out, the boat hits hard into a sandbar. “Get out, boy,” Peep commands, “and help bring the boat onto the beach.”

Removing my boots, I lay down my oar and leap over the side along with Ratty Tom. The water, still warm from the day's sun, laps at my waist. We jerk the rope and pull the boat toward the shore. The others still in the boat lean over the sides and push their oars along the shallow bottom to move it along. I stumble twice as my feet sink into the sand, but I catch myself before the boat can overrun me. At the beach, the others jump out and help us drag the boat high onto the sand.

Solitaire Peep points to a thick line of trees. “We'll tie it to the stump over there,” he says.

I loop the rope over my shoulder and we pull the boat toward the stump. Solitaire Peep comes up behind me. “Tie it
right or come morning 'Twill be gone with the outgoing tide. Weave the rope through the loop,” he says, pointing toward the stump's base.

When I look down, I see a gold ring protruding from the stump. I kneel in the sand and run my hand over the ring, discovering that it's not a ring at all, but rather a piece of pewter twisted into a half circle. Someone has embedded the twisted ends deep into the tree. There is no need for me to ask who has done so; of all the trees and stumps along the shoreline, Solitaire Peep had known exactly which one to head for.

As I thread the rope through the ring, I think about the island. From a distance, it seems like nothing special. But a question nags at me: with a broken mast and the daily threat of storms that could sink us, why had the Captain risked sailing to Crossed Island? Surely, we could have charted course to a closer island. Troubled, I give the rope a final tug and hurry back toward the fire, where the others have gathered to eat.

After ladling broth into the trenchers, Cook tosses dried grass into the fire. With each handful, the flames crackle loudly and roar toward the night sky. I ease in beside Jabbart. Despite the fire, the air holds a chill. My shirt and pants are soaked from wading through the surf, and they will likely stay that way until the next day's sun dries them. Others have brought along some of their belongings, and I feel a pang of regret that I did not think to do the same. Now I will have to sleep in wet clothes.