Privateer's Apprentice (6 page)

“If the devil's luck is upon us, it is no doing of mine.”

“'Twould be no one else's,” Gunther replies. “Mayhap be best if you left this ship.”

“We are weeks from port,” I say, “so that is not likely.”

Gunther looks at Ferdie, and they both laugh. “Cain't you swim?” Gunther asks.

I lift my chin. Gunther's meaning is clear. “I have no fear of you,” I say. “The Captain will see to my safety.”

“'Twould be a pity if you have an accident,” Gunther says, pressing his lips into a thin smile. “An experienced sailor such as yourself would be a real loss.”

My heart pounds. I know if I try to speak, my voice will betray me, and so I let him have the last word. The sound of the hatch banging shut is my only reply.

T
hough my bones ache from the day's work, I remember my vow to clean the storage room floor. It takes several trips to fill my bucket and I'm grateful that the deck is full and Gunther and Ferdie do not look my way.

When the floor is clean and the animals bedded for the night, I unroll my pallet and pull it near the porthole so that the moon's light is just above my head. I close my eyes and try to sleep, for tomorrow will bring chores from sunup to sundown. Gunther's threats fill my head, and no matter which way I turn, sleep will not come.

My father would tell me to make note of what Gunther and Ferdie said, to pull their words from my thoughts and put them onto parchment; perhaps then I might sleep in peace. But I have no desire to record hateful words from those who would harm me. Instead, I imagine that I am penning a letter to my parents. I raise my hand into the darkness and bend my fingers just so, as if a quill were between them. Then I let my hand swoop above my pallet as I form the words that fill my heart. Closing my eyes, I envision my letters sprinkled amongst the stars, splatters of silver ink against a black sky. I write of my new life aboard this sailing vessel, a two-masted brigantine named
Destiny
, placed under the Captain's command by King William, God rest his soul. In my letter, I share only the good
things that have happened since leaving Charles Towne, how I learned to coil ropes, row, and net fish. I tell them about Solitaire Peep's firepots, but I leave out the part about him losing his eye from one, for I don't want them to worry about me. I write about how I take good care of the animals, and how they sometimes curl up near me when I sleep. I imagine the surprise on my mother's face when I explain to her that one can make a sewing needle from the snout of a fish. When my eyes grow heavy, I move my hand into the moonlight, and with perfect penmanship, I sign my name in bold, sweeping letters so that it is splayed across the heavens for them to see.
Jameson Martin Cooper
. I know they will glance at each other and smile when they see I have not forgotten my father's craft. In the darkness, I smile back at them.

The next morning the goat nuzzles me awake. I open my eyes slowly, startled to see day pouring through the porthole above my head. My morning rituals go quickly, since last night I cleaned the crates and filled the animals' trough with fresh water. Giving the goat's head a quick pat, I pull on my breeches and shirt and hurry into the hall. I notice immediately that the ship is strangely quiet. I don't hear Solitaire Peep shouting out the day's assignments, something he does each morning. I think Peep does it simply to remind those on board that he is next in command behind the Captain.

In the galley, I see no sign of Cook and the firebox is cold and filled with yesterday's ash. As I pass the crew's quarters,
Destiny
lurches suddenly to the side, tossing me hard against the wall. It is then I notice that the ship moves faster than usual. I wonder if a storm draws close. Rubbing my shoulder, I sprint up the steps.

A blast of wet wind hits me as soon as I come through the hatch. The Captain stands at the tiller with Solitaire Peep. His presence on deck so early in the morning surprises me, for he rarely makes an appearance until after the noon meal. The rowers' benches are empty. The sails billow.

When the Captain sees me, he steps down from the tiller and waves his arm toward the hatch. “Come below, Jameson.”

“Aye, sir.” I wonder if I am in trouble for sleeping past the time when I should have been up and at work. I glance at Solitaire Peep, but there is nothing in his face that indicates what the summons is about.

“Move quickly, boy,” Solitaire Peep says through the wind. “The season of storms is upon us. When you're finished below, you can help to furl the sails before we're turned upside down.”

I follow the Captain to his cabin at the end of the passageway. A candle burns low on his desk, filling the small room with a hazy light and sour smell. He opens a drawer and brings out a gold box. Lifting the lid, he hands the open box to me. I look down at a set of gold tools. Lined up across a length of red velvet are an ivory quill with a gold nib, a gold ruler, a quadrant and compass, a small bottle of black ink, and a new roll of parchment.

“I'm sure you've seen a sea artist's kit before,” the Captain says.

“Only once, sir,” I reply. “A nobleman requested my father to order him one from England. It was not as fine as this.”

“The one you hold was a gift to me from Queen Anne. She intends that I mark the waters we travel and the shores we find and claim them in her name. England must claim what is rightfully hers.”

“And what is rightfully hers?” I ask. My words must have sounded mocking, for the Captain's eyes narrow.

“Whatever Queen Anne decides she wants in the New
World. It is our duty to record where we go and what we see so that she can make that decision.”

“And what if King Louis or King Philip have already claimed what we see?” I ask. Almost before I utter the last words, I wish to recall them, for I have no desire to spar with the man who holds my life in his hand.

“What if?” The Captain seems amused at the suggestion. “Of course Philip and Louis have already laid claim. Philip believes that because he holds Havana and La Florida, all in the New World belongs to Spain. And given the chance, Louis would claim the entire world for France.”

“Queen Anne would not?”

“Queen Anne claims what God has deemed rightfully hers as the head of the greatest kingdom on God's earth.” He waves his hand in the air. “The Spanish and French are simply gnats buzzing here and there. But do not worry; we will soon conquer them once and for all.”

“My father thought Queen Anne's war would end quickly,” I say. “It has stretched many years.”

“Aye, but Philip and Louis are growing weary of fighting. They will soon realize they will never be able to unite their thrones against England.”

I carefully lift the gold quill and consider reminding the Captain that the Royal Navy's fifty-day siege of the Castillo de San Marcos at St. Augustine ended in failure. The fort held and the Queen's navy succeeded only in burning the town. When the news reached Charles Towne, many feared that the Spanish would seek revenge. Lookouts were posted at the harbor, but nothing came of it.

The Captain gestures toward a map that hangs beside the porthole. “Can you read a map, lad?” he asks.

“Yes sir. My father copied many such maps for the sea captains who moored in Charles Towne. He trained me to help
him. I know the markings as well as I know the letters of the Queen's language.”

“Your father did well to teach you his trade. A man desires a son for that reason.”

“I would have been the finest recorder and printer Charles Towne ever saw,” I say. “After my father, that is.” A lump forms in my throat, and I duck my head.

“My first mate tells me that you are quite the artist, that you sketched a picture of your jailer that looks as if it could breathe. If that is true, then perhaps you will become England's finest sea artist,” the Captain says. “Perhaps when this war ends, you will be feted at Queen Anne's court and spend your days charming her ladies with your stories of travel upon the seas.”

“When this war ends, I shall return to Charles Towne and prove that I'm not a thief,” I say. “Afterwards, I shall open a print shop and regain all that my family has lost.”

The Captain looks at me. “Perhaps you shall do just that, lad. For I see a fighting spirit within you from time to time. It is a pity you don't show it more often.”

“How so?” I ask.

“You do your duties well enough, but there is no spirit in your steps. Too often, your backbone is bent from self-pity. A whole new world awaits you, yet you wish only to gaze back at Charles Towne.”

I feel my face growing hot. “What are you saying, sir?”

“I'm saying that you claim to be a man. Sixteen, is it? You must feast your eyes on a man's future. Only children spend time crying over lost toys.”

“I have lost more than toys,” I say quietly. “I have lost my future.”

“Your future is yours to take, Jameson, once you recognize what it is. But enough of that for now.” He taps the map. “We are in our enemy's midst. Given heavy winds, we are two days sail from Tortuga.”

I draw a sharp breath. Tortuga was held by Spain. “We must turn then, sir. Surely it is a death sentence for us to sail into enemy waters.”

“Are you afraid, Jameson?” the Captain asks.

I hesitate. How can I not be afraid? Didn't the Captain himself warn of the dangers of being caught by the enemy? Yet, I do not want to appear a coward. I remain silent.

He presses for an answer. “Be truthful, lad. Are you afraid?”

“Aye,” I say softly. “I cannot truthfully say else.”

The Captain snatches the map off the wall and quickly rolls it up. “Good!”

“Good?”

“Sailors who know fear fight the hardest. Had you said you were not afraid, I would have thought you a fool—or worse, a liar—and tossed you overboard. There is no shame in feeling fear, Jameson. It is an honest feeling.”

“Will we be fighting soon, then?” I ask. My throat suddenly feels dry, and I swallow hard.

“We will likely not advance many more days without encountering a Spanish ship. Havana and the islands surrounding her are well protected.” He holds up the golden nib so that the light reflects off it. “With a shortage of crew, I have been unable to find a sea-artist for
Destiny
, and I have neglected my duties to Queen Anne. So, I am turning this kit over to you, Jameson. From here on, you will serve as
Destiny's
sea artist.”

“And what shall I draw?” I ask.

“Land,” the Captain says. “We must bring Queen Anne maps of all we survey from here to the Carolinas. From these maps, she will select where she wants to establish a hold. We will sail as close to the shore as possible over the next few days. You are to sit on the deck and sketch what you see. Read the compass and record the markings.”

“And if I see signs that the Spanish are nearby?” I ask.

The Captain laughs. “You will not have to look hard to see
that. They will see us before we see them. Do not worry, though. They will let us pass.” He places the lid back on the box. “I'm entrusting you with this, Jameson. Watch over it well.”

My head swirls with questions. I want to ask why we are deliberately sailing into enemy territory. If the Captain knows a Spanish ship lies ahead, why does he not order
Destiny
turned? And why would King Philip's sailors not attack
Destiny
? Frustrated, I sigh. Nothing the Captain has said makes any sense.

I spend the rest of the morning with him as he shows me how to read the compass and how to record what I see. When I make a mistake, he simply shakes his head and tells me to look at the compass again. From time to time he smiles, and I know he is pleased by the way I learn so quickly. Finally, he says, “Go above now and tell Peep that we have spoken and that he will need to assign another to furl the sails; you are to begin your new duties immediately.” He turns away, and I realize I have been dismissed.

Up on deck, I find the first mate and tell him what the Captain said. Peep nods. “You'll serve as another lookout, boy. Were the ship full crew, we would have lookouts at every point, but we must make do with what we have. Cook is working with Jabbart and Gunther to prepare the weapons and shot. Ferdie is checking the rigging and sails. The rest of the crew will keep their eyes and ears alert as they perform their jobs. We must be ready!”

“Where shall I sit?” I ask.

Peep looks around. “Start at port,” he replies. “When the sun begins to wane, shift to starboard. If you see anything that raises your hair, sound an alarm.”

My stomach rumbles loudly. Solitaire Peep lifts an eyebrow. “You've not yet broken your fast?”