The Crafters Book Two

by Christopher Stasheff

  Davy laughed sourly for reply, took the thick, warmed mug and gratefully inhaled steam. “As likely Father will have a partner in either of us to hand him nails.”

  “A pity,” John said quietly. “All the same, I learned a good deal from both of them, things I can use now I’ve been a year or so away from the constant arguings. This house and all its furnishings are my work, and I make enough from the sale of my tables and the like that next year I’ll be able to wed my young woman and build her a better and larger house.” He sipped at his own ale, set it aside. “You might have gone to join our uncle out West, you know; the sea isn’t precisely a safe profession just now.”

  “But, that’s the entire point, isn’t it?” Davy rested his mug on his knee and leaned forward. “To teach the English and the French a lesson, that we won’t be pushed about. And the sea wasn’t safe when Uncle Jeb went against the Barbary pirates, was it? Or don’t you remember the things he told us of that war?”

  John smiled, shook his head and reached for the mug, which he set in his younger brother’s hands once again. “I’ll not argue politics with so avid a supporter of the Young War Hawks. I know better. Your mind’s clearly made up, and you’re old enough to have a right to your own choice.”

  Davy heaved a quiet sigh and drained his cup. “Thank you, John. I knew you’d be sensible.”

  “I’m not so certain that’s what I’m being; still, it’s your decision. I’ll go down to the docks with you tomorrow if you like, and see if I can be of any use. They say the Constitution is in port just now. No doubt her berths are full but—well, perhaps not. And I do know her captain.”

  Davy’s fingers tightened on the mug and he bent over his empty cup to hide the sudden grin. The Constitution! Stephen Decatur no longer sailed her, but she’d been his flagship when the great Captain defeated the Barbary pirates in their own harbor! He brought his head up, blinking; John had been speaking and he’d missed a good deal of what his elder brother had said.

  “Never mind.” John laughed briefly and waved a hand. “I can see your thoughts are all for a frigate and sails and cannon. I would not trade with you for the world and all in it. But I do worry that you will have no contact with any of us—myself, the sprite, Mother.” As Davy scowled and shifted, John waved his hand again. “No, don’t say it. I know you will have it the family Talent never found a seat in you.”

  “More fool he,” came a faint, whispery voice from somewhere along the shadowy mantel. Davy transferred the scowl to the least greenish light there; it faded. “Happen he’s wrong,” the voice added in the tone of one getting in the last word.

  “I am not,” Davy snarled. He managed a rueful grin and shrugged then as John caught his eye and winked. “John, I’m sorry; I’m tired from so long a day and night, and truly, didn’t I try to learn from Mother? You know I did. And what did I accomplish, save to break her favorite alembic, and to spill something that made a hellish smoke and roused Father’s displeasure to a fever pitch?”

  “That you cannot work with Mother means nothing,” John said. “Didn’t I say? I broke enough things, trying to deal with her, and it was purely impossible. Fortunately, I was sensible enough to bring a copy of the book with me, and I did have the additional sense to try certain things for myself once I left home. You cannot think how much simpler it all was.” He tossed the still dark mantel a grin. “I did have help, of course.”

  “Happen you had Talent as well.”

  “Thank you, my sweet.”

  “Yes, but what is it good for?” Davy demanded irritably.

  “It seems to accomplish nothing save to band witch hunters into vicious packs, or to create dreadful smells and suspicious neighbors, or to anger people like Father, who want none of it.”

  John sighed. “I know. I felt that way once. I still wonder why he wed Mother; doubtless he thought she would give it all over once he had her safely in his house and bed.”

  “I wonder one hasn’t murdered the other,” Davy grumbled into his empty mug. John took it from him, refilled it and handed it back.

  “A mystery not discoverable by science,” he agreed. “I often wonder why the sprite remains with Mother—”

  A low growl came from the mantel. “Happen I have no choice,” it said.

  Davy considered this, sipped gingerly at the hot, spicy ale.

  “Oh,” he said finally. And, after another long, thoughtful pause, “I’m sorry.”

  “Happen I take enough pleasure with others in Family. Amanda can be borne.”

  “Don’t get involved in a discussion with the sprite,” John suggested. “Or you’ll be the rest of the night trying to sort it all out, and you’ll come out feeling confused, to say the least. And sleepless.”

  “And I do need to be alert.” Davy drained his mug, set it aside and impulsively held out his hands. “John. Thank you—”

  “Don’t say it,” John broke in. “Give me a real proof of your gratitude, why don’t you?” He got to his feet and beckoned as he moved into shadow. Davy followed cautiously, shuffling his feet in case of furniture hiding in the gloom. John was a darker shadow against a small window; then the window was blocked and a moment later he struck a light. He beckoned again; Davy came up to lean against a woodworker’s bench, with tools neatly placed on the far end and two half-turned chair legs placed across them. The rest of the surface was neat and barren, not so much as a speck of sawdust or a wooden peg anywhere in sight. All along the back of the bench were closed cabinets, many of them locked. John tugged one cabinet door open, bringing out several glass containers and a burner. The cabinet next to it held bottles and boxes of chemicals, neatly marked, with John’s heavy, leather-bound copy of the family notes set into a niche above them, which he pulled out and began to page through. Davy repressed a sigh, rolled his eyes ceilingward, and clasped his hands behind his back, watching in silence as his elder brother apparently found the page he wanted. He studied it for several moments, then lit the small burner and began mixing certain powders and poured them into a long glass tube. When he added liquid to this, it began bubbling even before he moved it above the flame. Davy eyed it warily and took a step back. John saw that and cast him a quick glance and a smile.

  “It’s safe enough—or will be. Can you spare me a drop of your blood for it, though? There’s a clean pin stuck in the inside of the cabinet door—there, pushed into the wood. Just one drop—careful!” he added as the younger man jabbed the end of his smallest finger and pressed, forcing a thick red blob to the surface.

  “What is it?” Davy asked nervously. The bubbling liquid was now hissing and spitting, and the smell, though faint, was unpleasant. “I hope you don’t intend that I drink that!”

  John laughed. “Don’t worry. No, it’s a charm of sorts, a protective thing. Something to do with the notion of your blood being protected from harm; at least, Uncle Jeb has used this one before. He had one aboard ship when they went against Tripoli, or so he says, and he claims it turned a sword or two pointed his way.”

  “What, did he rub it on?” Davy’s nose wrinkled. “I can readily see it would turn away the ladies.”

  John laughed again and shook his head. “You must have paid less attention to Mother than I did. When was there ever such a spell in this book? Silly, it goes into a little brass bottle with a spoonful of whale oil atop the liquid, and you wear it, either about your throat or in a pocket. A stoppered bottle, before you ask. The bottle gets a coating of whale oil. You’ll have to rub it in well, repeat it now and again. The drop of blood is in a watery liquid, the brass and oil surround it. And oil and water don’t mix, so your blood is doubly protected—and, therefore, so are you,” John finished cheerfully.

  Davy’s forehead puckered and he shook his head. “I’m sorry. That’s not making any sense at all, John.”

  “Wait.” John closed the book and returned it to its niche before he reached for a sm
all brass bottle, a larger bottle filled with liquid, a copper funnel and a soft rag. He closed and locked the cabinet on the book, then transferred the spell-stuff into the little brass container, added a little liquid from the large bottle before stoppering the brass one. He set it aside, poured liquid from the large bottle onto the cloth and handed cloth and brass bottle to his younger brother. “Here. Rub that in well. You won’t want it all over your clothing.” Davy’s nose wrinkled involuntarily; the oil was particularly fishy-smelling, not a particularly well-rendered batch of blubber. “Come now,” John went on. “Don’t you remember one of the first things Mother taught us? The symbol is the referent.” And as Davy shook his head he added, “You must remember, surely. You create a symbol—the liquid with your blood in it, representing you—then you do something to it—protect it in a hard shell, like this brass bottle—and so long as the symbol is safe, so is the referent. Simple, yes?”

  “Bah,” Davy said. “But it won’t work at sea—will it?”

  “Uncle Jeb said his did. Though nothing else of the family knowledge did, try as much as he might.”

  “Well.” Davy continued rubbing. The small bottle shone nicely now. He could wish it didn’t smell quite so awful, but perhaps John had a purpose to using what had to be badly rendered whale oil. “At least this is small enough no one will notice it. As to the rest, how would Uncle Jeb have managed something like this” —a sweep of Davy’s hand took in John’s laboratory— “aboard a ship, where a man has the space of his hammock and not much else to call his own? Of course he had no recourse to the family Talent!”

  “There are ways; you haven’t read enough of the book, have you?”

  “As little as possible, John. As you well know. All the same, I don’t remember any way for one of us to set up a laboratory in the midst of outsiders. And if it is there, it is knowledge I will not need, John. Any more than I will need our mutual small friend. Besides, it’s already warned me often enough the past hours that it can’t come to my rescue once I’m at sea, or even talk to me.”

  “Do not look so pleased,” came a small, peevish voice from somewhere above the bench. John took the bottle, examined it briefly, then bent down to rinse his funnel and the glass tube in a bucket under the bench. He dried them on an unoiled comer of Davy’s cloth before returning everything to its proper place. When the wooden doors were closed once more, he turned and handed Davy the bottle and a long leather thong to tie around his neck.

  “Here. Return my favor at the docks tomorrow by swearing you will keep this on you at all times.”

  “I—well.” Davy turned it over thoughtfully. “Well, all right, I swear.”

  “There are odd things on and under the sea,” John went on. “Remember some of Uncle Jeb’s stranger tales. Not so much the fighting at Tripoli, but some of what he swore he saw not so far off our own coast.”

  Davy stuffed the bottle inside his shirt—he could always stuff it in his bag later, he decided—and grinned. “He’d had a sight too much grog, John. Must have. Sea serpents and mermaids ?”

  “You deny they might exist, knowing the companions our family has?”

  “When no one else saw them?” Davy retorted. “Too much grog.”

  “Well—remember what he said. It’s a curious world, after all. Come, though; we’d better be abed if you intend to go abroad early tomorrow.” Davy merely nodded. But once he’d settled into an old spare comforter before the fire, John paused on his way to his own bed. “Do keep an open mind, will you? And I know all about the limited space aboard a ship; I’ve been asea once, you know—if only to Boston. I also know you’ve the Talent if you choose to use it, little brother. There may come a time you want to bespeak family, or our small friend here, or even possibly desperately need to. Don’t ask why; I don’t know why. I just see there might be a possibility. A ghost of a hint of a mere chance. I don’t know how any of us could help, either; before you ask that. Just—think about it. Honestly, Davy, I don’t think that’s too much to ask, is it?”

  Davy gazed up at him for a very long moment. It was an odd request, coming as it did from a man who never exercised an open mind in either his alchemy or his furniture-making, however well he performed in both fields. Finally, he nodded. “If you feel so strongly about it.”

  “As strongly as you feel about this mad venture,” John said, but he said it so solemnly, Davy couldn’t bring himself to argue his brother’s choice of words.

  * * *

  John had him up and on the way as the sun was just beginning to cast early golden light over woods and fields. There was dew on the bushes lining the lane; a thin coating of it kept down the dust on the main road. Davy’s ears were buzzing and he had to stuff his hands into his pockets so John would not see how they trembled. His heart was pattering rapidly against his waistcoat as they came onto a broad cobbled avenue and walked down it for some distance. There were gulls everywhere, white against blue sky, raucous voices cutting through the noises of wooden cart-wheels against stone; two women arguing with a street peddler; the distant calls of merchants and customers down a narrow side-street where he could see the high-piled tables of an open-air harvest market. And then the tangy, unmistakable odor of the wharf: a compounding of fish, gulls, pitch and kerosene, salt water, something that had gone well past ripe, exotic odors he couldn’t begin to identify.

  John led him down a shaded, narrow alley and once more into brilliant sunlight; Davy blinked rapidly, slowing as his eyes adjusted. Sun reflected off the water to his left; to his right were stone and wooden buildings, barefoot and barelegged men everywhere—men in blue-and-white-striped shirts and pale, short breeches carrying bags and parcels from buildings, across wooden planking that rattled and echoed underfoot. They all had one destination. Davy stopped short, eyes wide, mouth agape. Just before him, rocking gently, stood what must surely be a frigate: a long, graceful ship, larger than any he’d seen before. Three great masts rose to an astonishing height. John nudged him and he pulled his mouth closed with an effort. If anyone of those men had seen him, staring like a bumpkin! Apparently they were one and all too busy, though. He schooled his face to what he hoped was casual interest as they walked on, but he could feel the blood warming his face as he stepped past the bow and was able to read the lettering there: Constitution. In something of a daze he followed his elder brother through the door of one of the buildings.

  * * *

  Midday. Davy’s admiration for his brother had gone up considerably when Captain Hull greeted him by name—John’s chairs and table graced the captain’s cabin, it seemed. He had felt exceedingly inadequate when, pleasantries done with, the Captain turned to study him. Davy sat up straight, hoping he didn’t look half the fool he felt. The Captain finally shrugged. “In such times, I ordinarily would prefer not to accept a green boy aboard my ship—the British want her badly, you know; it’s not sense for her to carry any but highly skilled and experienced sailors. But he’s got a look about the eyes, and I lost a man two days past, broke a leg as he came ashore. Not such a problem, save that I’m already short three others this past month. Think you want to join the Navy, eh, boy?”

  Davy nodded, swallowed. “Yes, sir.” He flushed as the older man laughed, but it didn’t sound like a malicious laugh.

  “Aye, well. I like enthusiasm. It might carry as much as experience, unless the man in question is a gunner. We’ll keep you from the guns though, shall we?”

  “I—yes, sir. I’ve—I know carpentry, I’ve apprenticed under my father, I have my own tools—some of them ... .” Davy’s voice faded to nothing, and he bit his lip to keep from stammering on. To himself he sounded like a prattling babe. Captain Hull merely nodded.

  “Carpenter, is it? Well, I’ve a full carpenter, but a ship can always use another man with a knowledge of hammer and nails.” Somehow, it was all done: A clerk was brought in from a back room, papers produced. Davy and Captain Hull both signed, wi
th John a witness to his brother’s character and willingness to join the American Navy for a period of two years, during a time of declared war against the British, for a pay of $13 a month. Another hour, and he was issued two changes of rough, slightly too-large clothes and blankets. Most of his bag was left in John’s hands, but he’d another, smaller canvas bag for his tools, and the Captain had been pleased to see his sketching materials. “Perhaps we’ll come one over the British,” the Captain had said cheerfully, “and you’ll record it all for me.” He was gone then, leaving Davy and John alone together. Later, Davy could remember nothing of his last conversation with his brother. There had been a half-dozen men his own age and a Marine Lieutenant Bush to bring him aboard ship, to show him his hammock and where to stow his few personal things.

  There had been an odd-tasting, extremely hard biscuit to chew on while several of the younger men showed him around the ship, from the storage and the powder magazines to the galley and the messes, all around the decks. At the Lieutenant’s suggestion, they didn’t try to take him into the rigging, even though the ship was still at port.

  By early evening, though, she no longer was: Her hull thoroughly scraped and cleansed of barnacles, her thirty-seven new sails unfurled, new guns in place and a full load of powder below decks, the Constitution sailed slowly out into Chesapeake Bay.

  Davy was given simple chores—helping to tighten lines; clearing spare ropes from the deck; checking that the boats were all properly fastened into their locks, that the colors had been folded neatly, where they could be quickly retrieved and flown if the Captain so ordered. In the meantime, after the British fashion, the frigate would show no colors at all in hopes of luring an unsuspecting enemy ship into range of its 24-pounders.