The Crafters Book Two (24 page)

A cheer went up, a round of grog passed around the deck, and three-fourths of the men, including Davy’s mess, sent down for their first real sleep in three days.

By morning, they could still see the British, but barely.

An hour later, another cheer went up as someone high in the mainmast called down the welcome news: All five ships turning away.

“We did it!” Men hugged each other and there was pandemonium on the main deck. The euphoric mood lasted all the way to Boston Harbor.

Davy felt it; too. But his joy was tempered by worry—that sense of someone on the other side, working magic against them. He wasn’t doubting his own feelings by now, though he didn’t know what he could do about them. All the same, he had a nagging feeling that someone was going to have to do something to counter the British. A good ship, good men—it might not be enough, if someone was compounding spells against them. But who could he tell? Who could—or more correctly, would—do something about it? His brother John—but he could almost see John shake his head, assure him that there was nothing in the book for a situation like this, and no one could use Crafter magic aboard a ship, hadn’t he paid attention?

Boston—they were going to Boston to replace the drinking water that had been pumped out to lighten the ship. He had family in Boston, of course. Perhaps someone there could do something for him.

“Someone
will have to,” Davy murmured into the gun shackle he was repairing. “Because I certainly cannot.”

* * *

He learned with the rest of his mess that the stay in Boston Harbor was to be an extremely short one. “Captain doesn’t want to chance being caught by orders telling him to stay there, I’d wager,” one of the older men said. The others laughed. “But I wonder how he’ll fund provisions and water,” someone else murmured. “Wasn’t I in Boston, not so long ago, either? There’s no money in the Navy’s purse there.”

“Captain won’t be slowed by such a triviality,” the older man replied. “Wager he knows a dozen men who can fund fresh water and a few more barrels of meat, anyway. Be grateful, all of you, we’ve only been a few days out; we might otherwise have wound up stranded in Boston Harbor for certain.”

All I would need,
Davy thought grimly. In spite of the past few days, the British still looked better to him than a return to his family. All the same ... He caught Andrew’s attention and bent close to speak with him privately. “What chance he’s right, we’ll only have a little time in port?”

Andrew considered this. “Good, I’d say. Especially if we must borrow for food and drink, the Captain will be careful not to trespass on his friend’s bounty. And they’re all too right about orders; Washington’s still run by old men and they don’t want to risk their investment in wood and copper and canvas.”

“More importantly,” Henry Clay added from the other side of the little round table, “the British must know where we’re going; five ships might be enough to blockade the harbor. Didn’t we leave Annapolis as quickly as we did in order to avoid that, after all?”

“I’d heard as much,” Andrew admitted. He turned back to Davy. “Whether they will let us have any time ashore, beyond letting us set foot on the docks to load food and water, I don’t know.”

“It was what I wanted to know,” Davy said. “I’ve kin there. One or two I wouldn’t mind seeing, but several I’d feel better if—” He shrugged, smiled briefly. “You know.”

“Quite well,” Henry replied. “Though it’s unlikely any of
my
kin would be as far north as Boston. But if we put in anywhere my father might come—” He sighed gustily. “Never mind.” He chewed, swallowed and suddenly looked much happier. “You know, if we sail into Boston, I’11 wager we do it proper. You know, all brasses shining, flags in place, everything in full polish.” Davy groaned; his mess-mates laughed. “I know, it sounds like work, and after the past three days, too! Don’t let them tell you otherwise, Davy, that was
not
an ordinary bit of work. This, though. When we sail into Boston Harbor, you’ll see it was worth it.”

It
was
hard work; but as Henry had said, when they found themselves surrounded by small boats and cheering folk, with more cheering folk on the docks awaiting them, it truly was all worth it.

Andrew had been right also; the men weren’t allowed full leave. But the Captain did permit six-hour excursions by those not actively working to shift powder or load supplies. Davy, uncertain of what welcome he could expect from his Boston uncle, sent a message instead of simply going to visit, and very much to his surprise, found an open carriage waiting upon the dock when he was freed from duty.

James Crafter Greene looked older than Davy’s father, but it was difficult to tell; David Holywell’ s dark hair was half gray, Uncle James’s heavily powdered. He was a rather distant but polite man, something Davy appreciated after the hysteria of his own household. He listened as they rode across town, made no comment until Davy had finished his tale—a tale he’d tried to hone into neatness the past two nights. To his own ears, he sounded too young, excitable—and his heart slowly sank as they rode on in silence. Uncle James—who called himself Jeb—rested his chin on the handle of his cane, staring straight ahead.

He roused himself just as his nephew was about to begin stammering out an apology for having bothered him. “Mmmm ... Well, yes. Haven’t ever been to sea myself, simply watching boats in the harbor makes me ill. I have heard things, though—men I know, a couple of fellows who serve me now, spent a year or so in involuntary service to the British. Impressed, you know. One has aided me in my research now and again. What you say about something underwater, something ill-humored. Possible, very much so. Captain should’ve re-oiled the hull, eh?”

“Well, sir, I can see his point,” Davy allowed cautiously. One never
did
know what might get back to the person being discussed. “He hadn’t the time, the British have been trying to set blockade—”

“Aye, mmm. The British. That’s another thing entirely, isn’t it? Too bad you don’t know more about this fellow aboard the
Little Belt,
eh? Think it’s one of ours?”

“I thought you might know better than I, sir, who among family that went back to England might—if there’s anyone male and of the right age.”

James rubbed his jaw against the cane. “Don’t know. Doubt it, though. There are rules about what we do, all in the book—didn’t your mother show you? Should’ve given you a chance to make your own copy, if she hadn’t the time. Hear your father keeps her busy.” James cast his nephew a rather malicious grin, and Davy found himself liking the man.

“Well—she did. I’m not—I haven’t—”

“I heard you weren’t confident about your Talent. It’ll come, boy, it’ll come. About your ship. What do you want of me? You know anything we do won’t be effective once the ship’s asea. That’s why I doubt your wizard is a Crafter; none of us could work anything in a ship’s cabin, you know.”

“I know.” Davy managed that much; he had to turn away as though to gaze at the city around him so his uncle wouldn’t see his irritation. Narrow-minded—He sighed quietly. It wouldn’t work. It wouldn’t be any use whatsoever. His only other hope had just slid right from under his feet. “Sir. What I’d like, if you can provide it—”

Uncle James returned to the docks two evenings later, this time in a closed carriage. Davy found a shipmate to trade excursion time with, and came down the gangway just as it drove up. His uncle’s driver pulled the carriage off next to a quiet wall, closed the door snugly on the two men and wandered off to gaze at the ship and speak with one of the officers. Inside, James tugged curtains hard across the windows, then tied long, blue ribbons that ran from each comer, across the sides, across front and back. Only then did he relax. “They’re treated; no one will hear or see anything. Brought everything you asked for.”

“Thank you, sir. I—”

“Don’t know what you’ll accomplish—”

“Happen,” came a small, prim voice from a dark comer, “he might accomplish good things.” And, as Davy sat openmouthed, staring into the comer, it added, “Think the distance between Annapolis and Boston so great I do not cross it?”

“I should have known better.” Davy sighed, glanced at his uncle. “Did you send for it, or did it come of its own, knowing I was here to annoy?”

“Annoy!” A small, vexed sound like a smothered sneeze followed the single word.

James looked from one to another, mildly perplexed. Davy shook his head. “Never mind, sir. This is not a thing I’d have chosen to do; it may take all the time we have for me to do it right. Right,” he added as he saw and sensed the other two stir, “as I see it, at least.”

“I won’t argue that with you,” James said mildly. “After all, Great-great grandsire Amer had to start somewhere, too, didn’t he?”

“Begin,” the sprite added softly. “Happen you need assistance—happen I am here to give it.”

It should not have been as complex as he made it; Davy was certain of that. Protection for the
Constitution,
that came first. With, if he had worked it out properly, communication of some kind—at least a sense of connection—between himself and the sprite. Though if the former precluded the latter, he scarcely cared, so long as his ship had its former guard between itself and the depths.

And so, a very small model of a frigate, one Uncle James had bought from a craftsman that very afternoon. It had been in a bottle that, according to Uncle James, lay in shards in his own workroom. The box Uncle James set in his lap contained several different kinds of oil and a number of other liquids. Davy sorted through them, finally separated out witch hazel, a lotion that smelled strongly of rosemary, and a bottle of cottonseed oil. His uncle peered at it, shook his head. “Sea spell, any kind of water spell, you want the whale oil, boy.”

Davy shook his head in turn. “No, sir. At least—not at first. Not if I’m to try and preserve communication with our small friend there.”

“Small. Huh.”

“For that, I want a land-base oil. I—here. Can you hold this out for me? By the ends of the masts, please.” He pulled a broad painter’s brush from his shirt, mixed oils, poured the result into a small tin cup and began painting the mixture all along the ship. His uncle watched, turning the little model when one side was completed, turning it back so Davy could make certain he’d covered all the hull, including the massive rudder and each of the two small boats hanging from the sides. Davy shook his head. “We’ve three boats—ah well, it’s the best one can do; we’ll simply have to hope.” He set aside brush and tin, examined the model closely and finally took it and set it atop the box. “Nearly dry. Uncle, you brought the other—?”

James held up a small brown bottle, the bottom of which was covered in paper and heavily waxed. “Far-sight spell. Won’t work out there; of course you know that.”

“It’s all right.”
It will if I have anything to say or do about it,
Davy promised himself grimly, but he wisely kept that to himself. He was becoming increasingly tired of the stick-in-mud attitudes of his family—at least, those of whom he knew. “The box of tobacco, you did that for me?” It was a long and narrow hand-carved smoking box, such as a fond uncle might give his nephew; inside was a clay pipe, a bag of tobacco—and underneath, a false bottom, and within the small space that provided, a finger-sized bamboo tube that held liquid. Similar to the liquid John had brewed to fit in a brass bottle, altered by Davy to—he hoped—fit new circumstances.

“You see? It’s all ready but the binding matter. I brought a pin.” Davy watched in silence as the older man pricked the end of Davy’s thumb and let two drops fall into the liquid, then James jabbed his own smallest finger and pressed it to spill two drops of blood into the tube. Davy didn’t feel any different; he didn’t know if he should, and James clearly thought poorly of his alterations to a written spell. Davy ignored that and went on. “And the powder—?”

“Here. Doesn’t take much.”

“It must not.” Davy stared at the ball James handed him.

It was small enough to fit inside his shirt unnoticed; strung as it was on a fine plaited blue thong, it might have been a keepsake. James showed him the catch that opened it, showed him how to slide the covers from the halves once it was opened, to give him access to the powder. Stuff that could supposedly stop a full-powered, Devil-sanctioned witch in his or her tracks, could nullify all but the most carefully crafted spells.
Magic do-everything dust,
Davy thought irreverently. There was a drawback to it, of course; the user had to be near enough the enemy, or the source of the spell, to actually touch it. Well, one never knew, did one?

Hadn’t his brother John asked him to keep an open mind, after all?
John, I wonder if you ever thought I would take you this way?
Davy thought. He nearly dropped the little ball when the answer came immediately:
No, Davy, but you always were one to chart your own course, weren’t you?

He folded up the ball and draped the cord around his neck before turning to glare into the corner where the least hint of pale green light gave away the inhabitant of that cushion. “Did you do that?” he asked severely.

A sigh out of proportion with its maker’s size answered him. “Happen,” the sprite said at last, “I did no such thing. Happen you asked your brother a question; as a polite man, he answered.”

Davy closed his eyes. “Tell me that didn’t just happen,” he begged. “Tell me my mother won’t be harping at me next.”

“Happen Amanda might not know. She’s sealed her workroom to keep your father’s shouting from breaking her concentration. You amaze me,” it added acerbically. “First time in all your years, you bespeak someone and
this
is all your reaction ?”

“Oh, come,” James said quietly. He’d been following the conversation with difficulty, but the sprite’s last words seemed to make sense of it for him. “Don’t you know how to block Amanda—or anyone else you’d rather keep out of your mind?”

Davy shrugged. “Until just now, it wasn’t important. Is there time left, that you can show me, sir?”