I take the end of the net that he holds out to me, watching as he ties iron weights to each end. “Lift it high over the railing,” he says when he has finished, “then let it drop. The weights will hold it in the water.”
We lift the net over the railing and cast it away from the side of the ship. It sits for a minute on the surface and then vanishes beneath the water.
“’Twill take a while, but we’ll have a catch come midday.”
A spirited wind blows across the deck of the ship and fills the sails. The crew is busy at work. Ratty Tom is on the lines. Jabbart hammers new bottoms on several barrels of flour that have been chewed through by mice. I made the discovery two nights earlier. The mice had stepped in the flour and tracked it over the storage room floor.
I mop around the barrels, dragging the swabbing stick along the bottom of the railing and around the piles of ropes. After several buckets of seawater, the deck glistens. Untying the cloth from the stick, I rinse it in the bucket and place it on the deck to dry. I go to a pile of tangled ropes in the corner and begin unknotting them, stretching them out straight on the deck. I work quickly, pulling and rolling until five neat piles lie before me. Careful not to let them uncoil, I hang them on the pegs that jut from the wall. I am about to ask Jabbart if he needs help mending the barrels when Cook calls to me. He points excitedly at the water. “We have caught us a bounty,” he says, leaning over the railing. “We shall feast on fish this night. Help me, lad!”
I grab the net and scrunch it together in my hands, trapping the fish. Together, we haul the net over the side of the ship. When we let it fall, the fish flop around, spraying us with salt water. I feel a twinge of sadness watching them flip up into the air and then come back down onto the hard deck. The poor creatures are looking for water that is not there. They lie in the net, stunned.
“I’ll cook some for tonight and salt the rest,” he says. “’Tis good we can save the food below, for I counted too many empty barrels in storage last night.”
The fish are a curiosity to be sure. Some have long, razor-sharp noses, which seem to please Cook. “Ferdie will make quick use of these snouts,” he says. “I heard him complain to the Captain yesterday that he needed more needles to mend his sails.”
I frown. “How do you thread a fish snout?”
“First you must poke a hole in the tip,” Cook says. “Then you pull the thread through. Fish snouts work good as any needle. You’ll see.”
Above my head, a large gray and white gull screams loudly. She swoops low and deposits her droppings onto the newly scrubbed deck. I stare at the mess in disgust, and then snatch up the stick just as Solitaire Peep and the Captain come through the hatch. They glance at the gull’s droppings and then at me.
“You must learn speed,” the Captain says. “It should not take all morning to swab a deck.”
“I scrubbed it clean earlier, sir,” I reply, not bothering to hide the annoyance in my voice. “And then another gull flew across.”
Solitaire Peep peers up at the sky, shielding his eye with a cupped hand. “From what direction did the gull come?” he asks.
I stare up at the empty sky. “I didn’t notice until it was upon us.”
“Which way did it fly off, then?” Solitaire Peep asks.
I bite my lip, suddenly remembering what Peep had said about a gull signaling that an enemy ship may be nearby. I cross my arms defensively and shrug. “Who knows?” I say.
The Captain’s voice is hard. “Answer a question properly when it is put to you, Jameson. Did the gull fly north, south, east, or west?”
“I answered the best I could, sir,” I say, flinging the dirty water over the ship’s side. “And what does it matter where it came from. It’s just a stupid gull!”
“’Tis not the gull who is stupid,” Solitaire Peep says. “For he knows which way he flew and you do not.”
The Captain glances out over the water. “I must keep reminding myself that you have never sailed before. However, one day I am likely to forget, so you would do well to learn how this ship works and why it is important that you watch for birds and other signs that ships are nearby.”
“We are days from land. A bird this far out means we are not alone,” Solitaire Peep says. “We cannot see our enemies, but they are near. A gull is proof of that.”
“A gull is a bird and nothing more,” I say, unable to stop myself from answering back. “Where it flies matters not.”
“There you are wrong, boy,” Solitaire Peep says. “For a gull that comes upon us suddenly in the middle of this great ocean has found a resting perch nearby.”
“Perhaps the gull rested on a log floating in the water,” I say.
“Perhaps not,” Solitaire Peep snaps. “Perhaps his perch is a galleon carrying gold for King Philip or King Louis. Perhaps he roosts on a ship filled with Frenchmen or Spaniards who would be glad to burn the Queen’s property and take you prisoner.”
“Am I not a prisoner now?” I demand. “Being a prisoner of Spain or France would be no worse!” The words are out before I can take them back. I brace myself, waiting for the Captain’s wrath to fall upon me. But he speaks calmly. There is no need for him to yell, for his words send shivers down my back.
“The captains who sail under Louis and Philip take few prisoners and only the rich ones at that. You, a poor English boy unworthy of ransom, would find yourself bobbing in the water, most likely without your English head.”
I swallow hard. “Surely they would understand that I am here against my will and allow me to return to Charles Towne.”
The Captain laughs, but there is no joy in the sound. “They would run you through with their polished swords before you could open your mouth. You sail on an English ship and therefore you are the enemy of all others.”
I look again at the sky. I know the Captain speaks the truth, for I saw how those in Charles Town treated the Huguenots who had fled France. It mattered not that they disagreed with King Louis; the blood that filled their bodies was French and that could never change.
I strain my eyes across the vast sea. Can it be true that a Spanish or French ship lurks nearby? “Tell me how the gulls carry clues,” I say.
The Captain points across the bow. “If the gull flies from the south, our enemy lies ahead. From the north means we are pursued.”
“And suppose there are two more gulls, one that flies from the east and the other the west?” I ask.
“Then we are surrounded,” the Captain says. “And most likely we will be dead come sunup. So use your head whilst you still have it, and watch for gulls that carry warnings.”
“But if they warn us of our enemies, won’t they warn our enemies of us?”
The Captain smiles and nods. “That’s the smartest thing you’ve said since you came on board. You’re right. The sight of a gull is a message to all that a battle nears.”
I look out over the water feeling uneasy. Could an enemy ship lie beyond the horizon? Though Queen Anne’s War has waged for almost my entire life, the ocean between the Old World and Charles Towne has always eased my fears.
For the rest of the afternoon I help Cook clean and salt the fish. Cook teaches me how to grasp the needle fish tightly around its belly and then twist the snout from its head with a quick wrench of my wrist; I learn quick enough, but the popping sound when the snout comes off and the spray of blood upon my face makes me sick to my stomach. I work steadily, scraping the innards from each of the fish and then salting the cavity. I place the fish in a small rum barrel that Cook rinsed out, salting each layer as I go along. As I work, my mind travels elsewhere, following the gull across the water to a Spanish or French ship that sails toward us.
When the last layer is salted and the lid nailed down, Cook leaves me to roll the barrel down to the storage room. I turn the barrel on its side awkwardly, wincing as it bangs hard against the deck. I hear snickering and when I look up, I see Ferdie staring at me. His laughter is cut short, though, when another gull appear
s suddenly from the south. I watch the bird come off the horizon, a small gray dot that takes shape as it grows closer. The gull flies overhead, circles the ship twice, and then flies off without landing. Two more gulls appear from the south. Solitaire Peep sees them and frowns. He spits upon the deck and then wipes his hand across his mouth. Calling for Ferdie to man the tiller, Peep goes below.
Ferdie gives me a great gaping smile that displays all his blackened teeth, and makes a sweeping motion across his neck with one finger. “I’m thinking your head will be the first lost,” he says. “For the flaxen color of your hair screams out that you are the Queen’s subject.”
“And I think I have nothing to fear.” I roll the barrel toward the hatch. “Your head is so ugly the enemy will surely die of fright when they look at you.”
“You’d best ask Cook if he can find some squid ink to blacken your hair,” Ferdie calls after me. “Ain’t that right, Gunther?”
Gunther leans against the largest of four cannons that sit on a raised platform near the bow of the ship. His job is to maintain the ship’s weapons. Barely a day passes that I do not see him polishing the ship’s cannons or laying the muskets out on deck for inspection. He has spent the last two days melting silver blocks and pouring the steaming metal into a mold for making musket balls. Since my first day on board, Gunther has ignored me, other than to order me out of the way. Now, he glares at me and scratches his belly. His white breeches appear too small for his girth; the material strains from waist to ankle. His belt has been replaced with a piece of frayed rope. “Have you brought the devil’s luck upon us, brat?” he says. “’Tis a bad sign to have spotted gulls out this far.”
“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.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Though 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.”
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