In an instant, I realize his intent. As I turn to cry out a warning, the Spanish captain brings his arm down and the cannons explode.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The shot from the enemy’s cannon slams into the water several feet in front of Destiny. The force of the explosion shakes the ship from bow to stern and hurls me backward. Scrambling to my feet, I raise the eyeglass, moving it from side to side until the smoke clears and I can see. “They’ve turned their cannons toward us!” I shout. “They’re loading all of them!”
I am knocked aside as the crew rushes past me to their posts. Jabbart runs to the side cannons and begins helping Gunther shove gunpowder sacks into them.
“Turn!” Solitaire Peep screams, instructing the rowers to move the ship away from the merchant to avoid a direct hit.
The Captain grabs the eyeglass from me. “Help Gunther and Jabbart!”
Gunther tosses me an iron pike. I grab it with both hands, feeling the stitches in my injured arm rip loose as I lift the heavy pike and turn it sideways. “Follow us!” he shouts at me. “Ram it in hard or we’ll be blown to bits when I fire the charge!”
I follow behind them, ramming each sack deep into the muzzle with the pike, with no time to wonder if I’m doing it right or to think about the pain that is surging into my shoulder. I stumble back as Gunther lights the charge on the first cannon and flames burst from its mouth. The cannonball tears across the water. Gunther’s mark is true, and the metal ball rips through the Spanish merchant’s sail. When the smoke clears, all that remains are shreds of canvas.
“Reload!” Gunther shouts as he ignites the next cannon. The second shot misses entirely and hits the water to the left of the Spanish ship’s bow. Before Gunther can fire another, the Spanish merchant fires back. Had Peep not given the command to turn the ship away, the ball would have ripped into the side of our vessel. Instead, it hits a corner of the ship’s railing near the stern, causing the wood to explode into pieces. The rowers scream and curse as splinters tear into their backs and arms.
“Stay your post and row!” Solitaire Peep yells at the injured men, a few of whom have dropped their oars and look ready to bolt.
Thick clouds of gray smoke rise in wide plumes, making it impossible to see clearly between the two vessels. My lungs feel as if they will burst from breathing in the hot air that is thick with particles of black gunpowder.
“We are moving out of range,” Gunther yells to Solitaire Peep. “I cannot hit it from this distance.”
“Aye, and they cannot hit us!” Peep calls back. He paces back and forth across the deck.
The words have barely escaped his lips when the Spanish ship fires off two more shots. One falls short, but the other tears into Destiny’s mainmast. There is a great cracking sound and then a loud snap. I watch in horror as the top half of the mast slowly leans starboard and then slams into the ocean. The crew runs to the other side of the ship to try to balance the vessel as our ship tilts dangerously toward the water. For a moment, all activity on deck stops as everyone gapes at the chunks of wood and pieces of sail floating in the sea.
“Row out!” the Captain shouts from over his shoulder. He turns the tiller hard to the left, but the loss of the mast and the absence of rowers at their posts have left the ship powerless.
Gunther snatches the pike from me and shoves me aside. He begins moving between the cannons, ramming gunpowder sacks into the heavy guns as if a demon possesses him. He lights one charge and then another, firing shots across the water haphazardly, without any attempt to aim. Not one finds its target. As if satisfied the battle has been won with the destruction of Destiny’s mainmast, the Spanish merchant begins to pull away.
“Hold fire!” the Captain yells.
“’Twill be death to stop now,” Gunther says, panting. “We are at her mercy with a broken mast.”
“She has no need to fire upon us,” the Captain replies. “We are too damaged to pursue her. She fought only to protect the treasure she carries for Spain.”
“We should have destroyed her and taken the treasure,” Gunther says. “We waited too long to fire.”
“Aye, we might have succeeded with this one, but what if there are others nearby? Ships that carry treasure rarely sail without protection.” He raises the eyeglass. “But perhaps this one does. Her rowers are at their post, and she is at full sail. The Spanish captain leaves quickly to avoid another battle.”
“And we must do the same,” Solitaire Peep says. “We cannot sail farther with a crippled mast.” He nods at Jabbart. “Take the boy below to storage and see what can be found to fix it. We’ll need a repair that will last four or five days sail from here.”
“We’ll have to beach for repairs soon,” Jabbart says. “I’ll need fresh timber to rebuild the mast properly.”
“And you shall have it,” the Captain says. “Each day the winds blow stronger and the air grows cooler. ‘Twould be a good time to careen the ship as well.” He turns to me. “Your arm needs tending. When you go below, have Cook find bandages and wrap it.”
I look down at my arm, surprised to see blood dripping from the wounds. “During the battle, I forgot about the pain.”
“That is often the way when it is a fight for life or death. You do not remember what is not important.” The Captain pauses. “You fought without complaint and without a child’s fear. I am pleased by what I saw.”
Peep snorts loudly. “Do not make his head swell so that it will not fit through the hatch. Methinks he could have loaded the guns faster.”
“Perhaps,” the Captain says. “And he could have stayed below and rightly claimed his injuries, but he did not.”
Solitaire Peep’s mouth twists, but he nods in agreement.
Gunther throws the pike onto the floor. “Had the brat not given us away, we would not be retreating.” He stares hard at me. “And why would he show a child’s fear if he is sixteen as he claims?”
My heart begins to pound. My age has not been mentioned since the first day on the ship. Now the words stick in my throat.
The Captain laughs. “It is not age alone that determines a man. I have seen grown men hide when the fighting began.”
Peep cuts in. “Aye, remember the fool we took on four summers ago after we left Panama? He was white in the hair, but he shivered at the talk of battle.”
My head shot up. “Where is this man now?”
Ferdie snorts. “His bones float from here to Port Royal,” he says. “A terrible storm blew in one night. The sea washed over the railing and claimed the poor oaf.”
“Aye,” Gunther says. “He couldn’t even tack down a sail the right way. ‘Twas our luck a storm blew up and carried him away.”
“You have made that remark often, Gunther,” the Captain says in a voice that holds questions. “I still do not know why the man was up on deck when I had given orders for everyone to go below.”
Gunther shrugs. “He was a fool the day he came aboard, and stayed a fool ‘til the sea took him. It’s like I told the brat—accidents are commonplace on a sailing ship.”
I draw a sharp breath. There is no mistaking Gunther’s meaning. I glance at the Captain, but he and Solitaire Peep have turned their attention to Ratty Tom, who is scurrying up the battered lines to survey the damage to the mast. My eyes meet Gunther’s. “Too bad for him,” I say. “But the same will not happen to me.”
Gunther leans close until his breath blows hot into my face. “’Twill if I say so,” he whispers.
Sensing trouble, Solitaire Peep turns toward us. “What are you saying to the lad, Gunther?” he asks, “What is so important that you neglect the guns?”
Gunther hawks loudly and spits a thick gray glob over the busted railing. “I was telling him to push the pike in a bit harder next time. Teaching him like his poor dead papa would have.”
My face flames in anger. “You soil my father’s memory by mention of him.”
Gunther swipes his hand over his mouth and grins. Before he can re
ply, Solitaire Peep steps between us. He places his hand on my back, pressing hard with bony fingers to silence me. “Do as the Captain said; go below and tend your wounds.
With Cook’s help, I bandage my arm. Then, I join with two others who are helping Jabbart fashion a makeshift mast out of two beams he has pulled down from the ceiling of the storage room. We saw and hack at the solid oak beam until Jabbart is satisfied that the thickness is right. Finally, Jabbart declares the task to be finished. “’Tis as good as we can make it for now,” he says.
I stand and brush the sawdust from my hands. “Will it take us to where we will beach?”
“Aye, unless we do battle again.” Jabbart grabs one end of the beam. “Take the other,” he says to us. “’Twill be hard to get this up with night winds, but get it up we must.”
It takes most of the crew to hoist the new beam up to the broken mast. I stand beneath the lines and help feed it up to the ratmen as they climb the lines. Strong gusts push the beam from side to side, and the men struggle to maintain their grip. At the top, they secure the new mast to what is left of the old with several yards of thick hemp roping, tying knots atop one another until it stands upright.
When the sails are once again full, Peep sends me below to the Captain’s cabin. “Ask him for the Yellow Jack,” he says.
I find the Captain standing before his mirror, shaving. Turning slightly, he nods toward his desk. “What you have come for is on my desk.”
I pick up the plain yellow flag and run my hand over the smooth silk. “Do you plan another ruse?” I ask, thinking yellow is one of King Philip’s colors.
The Captain wipes his mouth and drops the soiled rag next to his razor cup. “When the other ships see we fly the Yellow Jack, they will not come near. We are assured a safe journey.”
“No disrespect intended, sir, but you said the same when we raised King Philip’s flag.”
“Aye, but this is different,” the Captain says. “I raised the Spanish flag so that we could sail into Spanish territory. But now that we sail away, the Yellow Jack will serve our purpose well.” He sits behind his desk. “Do you remember when the plague came to Charles Towne last spring … how your neighbors reacted when the boils appeared?”
“Yes sir. I remember clearly. My father went to the neighbor’s wife and begged her to come and help tend my mother.”
“Did she?”
I shake my head. When I speak, I cannot keep the bitterness from my tone. “She turned my father away at her door and would not let him enter.”
“And rightly so,” the Captain says, “for plagues are passed from hand to hand, breath to breath.” He holds out his hand, and I place the flag in it. With a snap of his wrist, the Captain unfurls the bright yellow flag. “This banner tells all who see it that yellow fever has taken hold of the ship. It is a powerful warning to stay away.”
My eyes widen. “Who has fallen sick?”
“No one. You miss the point. This flag guarantees that we will sail unmolested out of Spanish waters. It ensures our safety.”
“How is that, sir?” I ask.
The Captain smiles. “When the enemy sees the Yellow Jack unfurled above the Destiny, they will turn their ships away and pray for full sails. Now take the flag to Peep and then get some sleep. Come morning, you are to resume your sketching; we are still in Spanish waters and there is much to record.”
The next morning, I begin my sea-artist duties as soon as I come up on deck. While we move through the water, I record the ship’s position on my compass and then write it on the parchment. At midday, Cook brings the goat up on deck and lets her roam free. Her bleating breaks the silence, and I stop and pat her on the head when she comes near.
I have cut the other sleeve from my shirt, leaving both arms bare to the sun. The heat feels good against my wounds and already scabs are beginning to form. During our first weeks at sea, the sun burned and peeled my skin, but in time the redness disappeared, leaving my arms the color of faded walnuts. Now, my arms are streaked with dirt and specks of gunpowder. I’ll bathe tonight, I think, remembering an extra uniform in one of the crates; perhaps the Captain will allow me to wear it. I feel a pang of guilt at the thought. I have no desire to be a sailor for long. But as each day passes, returning to Charles Towne seems more and more unlikely. Looking up, I squint into the sun. “I shall be a printer some day,” I murmur to myself. “I will not forget my father’s trade.” Having said the words aloud, I feel better. I resolve that later I will ask the Captain if I can wear the Queen’s colors. I sail on her ship and I risk my life to defend it. Why shouldn’t I wear a proper uniform?
That night, Cook serves a supper that sets the crew to grumbling. Steam rises from the cauldron and wafts over to where I sit taking apart a barrel that is black with rot. When I have tied together the good pieces that can be reused, I brush the wood dust from my trousers and go to eat. I peer over Cook’s shoulder into his pot. The eyeballs looking back at me cause me to recoil. Floating on top of a thick gray broth is a monstrous creature with two milky eyes that bulge from the top of its head. Surrounding its head are many legs that curl around each other and float atop the liquid. I grimace and swallow hard to push down the bile that has filled my throat.
Cook scowls when he sees my face. “Don’t turn up your nose at my stew,” he says, “for ’Tis as good a meal as you’re likely to get until we beach. Lucky for us, the poor thing got tangled in me net this morning.” He reaches into the pot and hacks off a portion of one of the creature’s legs and scoops it into my bowl.
I consider dumping the bowl over the railing when Cook isn’t looking, but he watches me, eyes narrowed. I spear the leg with my fork and bite into it. Satisfied, Cook turns back to his cauldron.
The meat is so chewy, I’m afraid to swallow for fear I might choke. I chew and chew, and then finally, I swallow hard and follow it up with a long swig of ale. The taste in my mouth is sour and fishy, and I hold my breath until I have eaten it all.
After supper, I fill Cook’s scalding tub with seawater for my bath. I no longer feel shy about stripping in front of the others. On a ship the size of Destiny, privacy is impossible. I pull off my shirt and am standing in my breeches when the Captain appears.
“A bath feels good after a day’s battle,” he says. “You have earned the right to a soak.”
I nod, wondering how to ask for the uniform. Taking a deep breath, I say, “Sir, there is a crate below that holds two uniforms of the Royal Navy. I thought … I thought perhaps …” Suddenly, asking seems impudent. I am a boy from Charles Towne, not a royal sailor.
“You thought what, Jameson?”
I raise my head. “I thought I might wear one, that is, until you take on new men and need it back.”
The Captain rubs his chin. “The uniform you speak of is to be worn only by those who serve Queen Anne gladly—those who will risk their lives for her good.”
“It is true that I did not want to serve at first,” I say. “But I have done as commanded.”
“I can see that your heart remains in Charles Towne,” the Captain says. “You would return tomorrow given the chance. Isn’t that also true?”
I shake my head. “I will return only when I can follow my father’s trade … when I can return as a free man and not as a servant to a baker.”
“So the baker’s trade is no longer fit for you?” he asks. “Three months at sea and you have forgotten the debt you owe?”
“I’ve forgotten nothing,” I say. “But lately I have thought about that day in the bakery. I was starving, but I never would have left the shop with the bread. The baker took advantage of me.”
“How so?” the Captain asks.
“It makes no sense that the baker would purchase the term of the thief who stole from him. Did he not worry that I would steal his coins when his head was turned?”
“Perhaps he thought to redeem you.”
“No,” I say, scowling. “The baker accused me falsely and then saw an opportunity t
o purchase my term cheaply at the auction. He is of low character, for sure.”
The Captain smiles. “You will do well in this world, Jameson. You do not look for the bad that exists, but you recognize it when you see it. Life often sends us hard lessons, but you have learned this one well. It is not likely you will be caught off guard again.”
A breeze blows across the deck and gently ripples the water in the tub. I pick up my shirt from the deck and move it away from the tub so that it will not get wet. “Tell Peep to issue you a uniform,” the Captain says. “You fought like a loyal subject this morning, Jameson. You have earned the right to wear Her Majesty’s colors.”
I lift my chin. “I will wear Queen Anne’s colors and fight for her good. But I must tell you honestly that someday I will follow in my father’s steps and put the skills he taught me to good use.”
“Aye, Jameson. Someday, but not too soon. Destiny needs a sea artist.”
“Then I shall serve as one until the time comes that I can go safely home to Charles Towne.” With those words, I grab my tattered shirt from the deck and fling it over the railing, smiling as the shirt floats slowly away.
CHAPTER TWELVE
After my bath, I go below to feed and water the animals. Then I pull on the clean sleeping shirt that Cook gave me from one of the crates. The pain that shoots through my arm as I dress reminds me that much has changed since the sun rose in the morning sky.
The sleeves of the nightshirt are long, with cuffs that have two rows of silver stitching sewn in loops around the edge. The soft ivory cloth feels cold against my skin. I rub my finger gently over the threads. Cook told me that the shirt came from the Orient where magical worms weave the fabric day and night. He said ‘twas likely I would find myself curled up like a grub in the morning if I wore it to bed.
For the first time since leaving Charles Towne, I am excited for morning to come. Solitaire Peep wouldn’t tell me a lot about the island to which we sail, only that it is crossed, much like the St. George’s Cross that adorns Her Majesty’s flag. Jabbart said he hoped it was the same island they had sailed to several seasons ago, as the trees were plentiful and he would be sure to find what he needed for the new mast.
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