The ship dips hard tonight, and I can hear the waves beating into its sides. Cook says that the lack of stars in the sky means that come morning, we will be in the midst of a battle between the gods of the sea and wind. He claims a starless night means the gods have all taken cover so they will not be pulled down from the heavens or washed away by the sea. Already the ship rocks, and each dip causes my stomach to roll. I lie back down and try to settle in, but the pains are so sharp that they force me up a few minutes later. Holding my stomach, I belch loudly several times, but the ache does not subside. The spasms spread from my naval to my ribs, and each throb flushes my body with heat. The goat nudges me, bleating softly. I shake my head and gently push her away. “It was that awful sea creature,” I mutter, wondering why Cook didn’t toss it back into the sea. The storage room is filled with food; eating such a beast makes no sense. I curl up on my mat and hope the pain will pass so I do not have to go in search of the night bucket. Instead the throbbing grows worse. Finally, I throw off my sheet. Morning is hours away, and I cannot wait.
The ship tilts abruptly and I stumble down the unlit hall, pressing my palms against the wall for support. The ship heaves and lurches as if in a game of tug-of-war. The night bucket is nowhere to be found, so I am forced to go up on deck.
A chilly blast of wet air envelopes me as I ease open the hatch. Rain cascades across the deck, and I regret that I did not wrap a tarp around myself before coming up. I glance uneasily toward the back of the ship, my eyes finding the flat board that hangs beyond the railing, high above the water. A round hole has been cut in the middle of the board. I have seen others use the contraption, but I have never dared try, preferring the bucket instead. The thought of balancing upon a board that dangles over the sea terrifies me. Tonight though, I have no choice; the bucket is not in its usual place, and I cannot wait a minute longer.
Jabbart, on lookout near the cannons, shakes his head when he sees my predicament. “You’re not the only one sick from Cook’s feast,” he says. “Half the ship has been up here since supper.”
I double over as another spasm hits. “The creature squeezes my gut something awful.”
“There are rags beneath the steps,” Jabbart says. “Take a few and leave some for the others. I will have more company this night, I’m sure.”
Climbing atop the board turns out to be easier than I imagined. Two crates serve as steps, and I need only to reach out and grab the ropes to bring the board to me so that I can climb atop. Staying seated, however, proves more difficult. The heavy wind causes the board to swing from side to side. More than once I must push away from the railing so that I do not bang into the ship’s side, all the while hoping that I don’t fall into the sea. A steady rain beats upon my back as I clutch the ropes, and I try not to think of the churning water below me and the sharks that I saw earlier.
When I drop back onto the deck a few minutes later, I say to Jabbart, “I will starve before I eat anything with legs from this sea again.”
Jabbart sighs, his eyes upon the water, “’Twould surprise you what you might eat if you’re starving,” he says. “I’ve seen men boil boot leather to fill their bellies.”
I remember the hunger I felt after being turned out of my father’s shop. For days I wandered through Charles Towne’s streets without a shilling to buy a rotting apple. I recall how good the fish stew tasted on my first day aboard ship. For the few minutes I spent eating that meal, I forgot my fears. The Captain’s words about hunger come back to me and I repeat them to Jabbart.
“Aye,” he agrees as I lift the hatch to go below. “Hunger is indeed a powerful master.”
The hall seems darker as I make my way back below deck; not a speck of light filters through the planking. When I open the door to the storage room, the goat bleats loudly. “Quiet,” I whisper. “If you wake Peep, ’Twill be my skin he takes.” She cries louder still, and I reach out to rub her side.
“What’s this?” I murmur when I feel her wet fur. “How did you get soaked?” Too tired to worry, I sink down onto my pallet, only to bolt up again when I feel water seeping through my clothing. Patting the floor with my palms, I follow the water to where the floorboard meets the side of the ship. Water spurts through the seams. Large puddles have pooled beneath the hens’ crates. This is bad, I think, hurrying toward the door. Whatever caused the leak must be fixed—and quick.
Solitaire Peep’s hammock swings next to Cook’s in a narrow room off the galley. Both men lie sleeping beneath a tightly woven fishing net that shields them from the flies and mosquitoes that terrorize the ship at night.
I give Solitaire Peep a shake. “Wake up! There’s a leak in the storage room!”
Peep’s head is tilted back and his breath comes in loud drawn-out snorts.
“Wake up!” I shout again.
He springs up wide-eyed and grabs my wrist. “What are you doing to me whilst I sleep?” he snarls.
I try to wrench my arm away, but Solitaire Peep holds fast and pulls me closer. “Did you think to steal my patch?”
“For what reason?” I ask, turning my face from Peep’s breath, which is fouled by the creature he ate earlier.
“Lucky for you I can think of no answer,” Peep says, releasing me. “Why then do you wake me from my sleep?”
I rub my wrist. “The storage room leaks. Already the animals’ crates are soaked and puddles run along the sides.”
“Does it leak from the ceiling?”
I shake my head. “On the floor where the barrels are stacked.”
Adjusting his eye patch, Solitaire Peep swings out of the hammock. “Wake Cook and have him heat some tar. The crack will need sealing.”
Cook and I are in the galley stirring a small cauldron of bubbling hot tar when we hear Solitaire Peep yell. We leave the cauldron and hurry to the storage room. I freeze in the doorway. Water sprays out like a fountain from the side of the wall. The floor is flooded. “Clang the bell, lad,” Solitaire Peep shouts. “We’re taking on water!”
“I’ll heat more pitch,” Cook says, hobbling back toward the galley.
Up on deck, I grab the gong and slam it twice against the bell.
Jabbart raises his head in alarm. “Where’s it coming in?”
“Storage,” I say, pausing to catch my breath. “Water is shooting through the sides.” From below I can hear the Captain rousing the crew from their sleep. When I return to the storage room, the men have gathered. Cook and Peep are on their knees packing the leaking crevices with strips of hemp and steaming hot tar. It seems as if the ship’s entire side has split open. Whenever they seal a spot, a new gush of water erupts nearby. The smoke from the pitch burns my eyes and fills my lungs.
“Tell Jabbart to get down here,” the Captain snaps. “We need a carpenter to repair this leak, not a cook.” He motions to Ferdie. “Go up and take over as lookout.”
Startled by the commotion around them, the hens cackle loudly and flap their wings hard, sending white feathers into the air. I grab their crates and carry them into the hall.
A few minutes later, Jabbart shoves past me and goes to where Cook and Peep still work at sealing the leaks. Kneeling down, he runs his hands along the side, shoving his fingers into the crevice to determine the damage. After a few moments, he stands and wipes his hands on his pants. “We can’t properly fix a hole this size while we’re under sail,” he says. “We can plug it now, but these boards will need to be replaced when she is careened on the island.”
“What has caused this?” the Captain asks.
Jabbart shrugs. “Could be the new mast is unbalanced and is putting too much pressure on this side of the ship. Mayhap we hit something beneath the water that ripped a hole in the outer plankings. Can’t say whilst she’s in the water.”
“We’re five days sail to a safe beach. Can she make it?”
Jabbart hesitates before speaking. “If we lighten her load and the weather’s good, mayhap we can.”
“How much weight can she take?
”
“The crew and the guns and a couple of barrels of food, but not much more than that,” Jabbart says. “She needs to sit higher in the water.”
I draw a deep breath and survey the crates and barrels in the room, most still full of food.
The Captain turns to Cook. “Keep a barrel of meat, a sack of flour, all the cheese and salt, some ale, and the tea. Everything else goes into the water.”
His words draw a gasp from me and others in the room. A low murmuring begins.
“You cain’t mean to throw out our food,” Gunther objects.
“We have no choice,” the Captain responds. “We toss it or risk sinking.”
“We can turn back and sail to a closer beach,” Ferdie says.
Solitaire Peep snorts. “Beach in Spanish waters? The enemy will sneak up on us whilst the ship’s careened.”
The Captain holds up his hand and the room grows quiet. “Where we head is a week’s sail from Charles Towne. Once the ship is repaired, we’ll sail back there and refill the hold.”
The Captain’s words startle me. Sail to Charles Towne. A few days ago I would have been thrilled to hear such news. But now … Things are different. I need time to think about what going back to Charles Towne would mean. The thinking will have to wait, though. Solitaire Peep shouts at us to get moving. I grab a sack of barley near my feet and drag it down the hall and up to the deck. I throw it over the side and head back to the storage room. There is little talk amongst the crew, but I hear much grumbling as we toss overboard dozens of sacks of barley and flour, two barrels of dried red beans, three kegs of dried beef, and all the other food that was taken on back in Charles Towne. Cook stands guard beside the barrel of salted beef, a sack of flour, the cheese wheels, and the half-dozen small kegs of ale he has been allowed to keep. When the last sack of barley hits the water, I grip the railing and stare out over the sea. The moon’s bright light upon the black water taunts me as I watch Destiny’s food supply disappear beneath the waves. My thoughts turn back to the morning when I awoke in the alley and saw the yellow-striped cat nibbling a shiny sliver of pig fat. The hollowness in my stomach had driven me to try to snatch the fat from the cat’s claws. I hoped never to feel such hunger again.
Disheartened, I return to the storage room. A gray haze from the hot pitch fills the room. The hens wander about freely, their crates having been tossed overboard with the rest of the supplies. My pallet has been kicked to the side of the room, and cornhusks poke through holes made when it was trampled. I bite my lip as I look around the room, which has become a home to me in the weeks since my capture, a place where I can shut the door at night and sleep or call back the memories of my life before the plague. Now it looks as if the Queen’s army has galloped through. I gather up the straw that was dumped out of the hen’s crates and form a mound in a dry corner for them to nest in. Old sails that were used to mop the water lie all around. They are heavy, but I manage to drag them into a sodden heap by the door. Tomorrow, I will hang them over the railing to dry.
As I work, I think about what lies ahead. Without the barrels and sacks, there is more space in the room for the animals to roam. I can help Cook net fish every day, and that will help make our food supplies last longer. Though the Captain has said he will refill the hold as soon as Destiny has been repaired, something gnaws at me, a feeling of unease that won’t go away. That is because it’s night, I think. Everything appears worse in the dark. Tomorrow, when the sun glistens on the deck and Destiny sails toward English waters, I will feel better.
Yawning loudly, I find a dry sail atop a barrel. I fold it several times and place it over my wet pallet. I close my eyes and try to sleep, but images of water pouring through the sides and barrels of food being tossed into the dark sea fill my head. Though the room is stifling hot, a chill runs through me, and I shiver. A long while passes before I finally drift off.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The storm leaves behind strong winds that fill our sails for the next three days. Solitaire Peep is pleased, for the crew is relieved from rowing, and they do not grumble so much over the half rations the Captain has ordered. Though we are still in Spanish waters, the sea has changed from a blue as bright as a robin’s egg to a brown deeper than brewed tea. Peep says that as we sail closer to La Florida, the water will begin to look like new spring grass. On the parchment, I make note of such things, for Peep says changes in the sea’s color are almost as useful as the markings of a map.
Yesterday, Ratty Tom called a Spanish ship on the horizon. By the Captain’s orders we stood ready, our pistols filled with shot and our daggers sharpened. Gunther moved the cannons into place, and Peep ordered the firepots uncovered, but the enemy suddenly turned and sailed quickly away. He said that the sun’s glint off the Yellow Jack is a powerful warning; even those who are tempted to fire upon the Queen’s ship will not sail near.
I have worn my new uniform since the morning after the storm. When I came through the hatch that first day, some of the crew looked my way, but no one said anything, not even Gunther. The jacket’s sleeves are long, so I fold the material back at the wrist so I don’t stain it with ink when I sketch. The pants droop low at the waist, but I have tied them with a length of rigging, and they stay up well enough.
The Captain seems pleased with my work. I have used the compass as he showed me, filling almost two whole sheets of parchment with small drawings that one day can be copied into a whole map. Sometimes, I sketch pictures of the ocean and place in the middle a tall wave upon which sits a ship with two masts and billowing sails. I long for colored ink to capture the shades of the sea. Lately, I have wished for a bottle of white ink, too, so that I could add a drop to make the gray wings of the gulls that are now common overhead. They bring to mind the birds that stand one-legged on the posts in Charles Towne’s harbor; they watch the ships arriving, their heads turning ever so slightly as if they are soldiers guarding the town. Though my heart longs to return, the thought fills my belly with fear. I am a posted runaway. The best I can hope for is a lashing, but men have been hanged for less.
Today, I must wait to begin my sketching. It takes me most of the morning to clean up after the animals. Fresh straw is now scarce, so I sort the clean pieces from those that are clumped together with pig dung, onion skins that have floated from the rafters, and dead flies. The goat does not stray from my side as I work. She follows me about the room, rubbing her head against my sleeve and snorting. The garment smells of the cloves and mint that Cook packed around it to ward off the moths, and I think our little goat is reminded of a field that she once roamed.
I am further distracted from my duties this morning by the growling beast inside my stomach. I vow to save something from my supper tonight, no matter how much I want to eat it. We are on half rations now by the Captain’s orders; breakfast today was three biscuits and a bit of cheese that was tainted with mold, but not enough to spoil the taste. Yesterday, Cook’s net came up empty except for a few crabs and two fish with long black whiskers that sprung from each side of the mouth. He says the storm scared the fish away from the surface. The stew he boiled from the whiskered fish tasted good, but too many small bones floated in my bowl. I feared choking every time I swallowed.
I am concentrating on drawing a straight line that does not go jaggedly into another when Ratty Tom cries out, “Land ahead! Land straight ahead!”
My eyes widen when I lift my head. An island looms before us, a jagged mass that reminds me of the way spilled ink spreads on a sheet of parchment. One corner of the island stretches east and the other west. A strong wind propels Destiny toward the middle, and I hear Peep command the rowers to take to their benches so they can control the ship as she heads toward the island.
I long to stand over the railing as we draw closer, but instead I begin to outline the shape of the island. Suddenly Solitaire Peep is at my side. “Put the paper away, boy,” he says. “There’s no need to draw Crossed Island.”
I look at him curiously.
“The Captain said I should sketch everything I see.”
“Aye, but not the island,” Peep insists. “’Tis too risky.”
“Why?” I ask absentmindedly, studying the compass.
“Didn’t you hear me?” Peep snaps. Bending down, he covers the compass with his hand so that I cannot record the island’s location. “Stop your marking!”
Sighing, I lay down the quill. “Fine by me,” I say, glad for an excuse to go stand by the railing. It is easy to understand how the island got its name; from a distance, it looks like a cross lying flat against the ground.
“You said sketching was too risky. What did you mean?” I ask.
Peep moves closer and whispers, “We cain’t risk your recordings falling into the hands of our enemies.”
I laugh and wave my arm over the rail. “Our enemies would be blind not to glimpse the island from the sea. It is as wide as Charles Towne’s harbor.”
“Aye, they can no doubt see it,” Solitaire Peep replies, smiling. “But why would they venture to beach here? There is nothing of use except timber to repair a ship, and there are other islands closer to Spanish ports if that is what they desire. Put a mark upon my word, the enemy ships may pass by, but they will not stay long.”
I look at Peep in dismay. If the enemy spotted us here, crippled with a broken mast, wouldn’t we be in terrible danger?
He claps his hand down on my shoulder and laughs, as if he can read my mind. “When we’ve rowed ashore, step lively through the sand, lest the scorpions have time to nibble on your flesh.”
I leave the railing and begin packing away my kit and rolling up the parchment. “Will we go ashore today, then?”
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