I press on. “For if you could not recognize it, then your worth as a printer could come into question. You might even be called a fake.”
The man draws back. “No one would dare call me a fake.” His eyes meet mine and hold them. “Only one willing to die would do so.”
I let the silence grow between us. When I finally speak, my words hold a challenge. “You must tell the magistrate if this document bears our Queen’s signature. If you cannot say yes or no with certainty, then we must ask how such an unskilled man has joined so noble a trade.”
Reaching for the Letter of Marque, the printer makes a show of looking closely at the document. He grimaces in concentration and holds the document up as if he is trying to see through the parchment. Finally he says, “Aye, ’Tis the Queen’s signature for sure. Only she writes in such a fashion.”
The magistrate leaps up. “Only a minute ago, you could not say. Now you speak as if there is no doubt!”
“With a closer look, I can say for certain that Queen Anne, and only Queen Anne, penned this document.” Turning to face the onlookers, the printer says, “Such is valid proof of the accused’s innocence.”
Without waiting for the magistrate to speak, the Captain steps forward and addresses him. “The Queen’s work has been delayed long enough. Perhaps, sir, if you are quick to undo the wrongs here, I shall speak more favorably of you when I visit her court.”
The magistrate forces a smile. “My apologies for the troubles placed upon you my good sir. I will secure the proper papers and see that you are released upon the morrow.”
“My duties to our Queen have been delayed long enough by this court’s error,” the Captain says. “I think it would be wise to expedite this matter.”
There is a long silence while the magistrate considers what action to take. I find it hard to hold my tongue, but I wait.
Finally, the magistrate sinks back into his chair and places his gavel on the table. “Very well,” he says. “I will ask my guard to unfasten your irons and escort you to the wharves immediately.”
I hold my breath until the shackles fall from the Captain’s wrists. Then, with my eyes straight ahead, I fall into step behind Jabbart and follow the two of them toward the door.
After the guard who has seen us onto the ship turns away, the Captain claps me on the back. “You are to be congratulated on carrying out the finest of all ruses,” he says. “After we pull anchor, you must tell me all.”
I smile. “There’s not that much to tell, sir.”
Jabbart laughs. “At sea and on land the lad has proved himself worthy to be called a royal sailor. Were it not for his printing skills, we would not wake to see the morning’s sun.”
I hear him, but I don’t answer, for I am looking back toward Charles Towne, watching until those on the wharves become invisible. A gull flies overhead, swoops low, and then heads off across the sea.
Aye, I think. A royal sailor perhaps, but for sure a printer’s son.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The moon has already appeared when I drag the net back over the railing. The lightness of it tells me that once again the sea has refused to share with us. Sighing with disappointment, I kick it open to see if there is anything to fill Cook’s pot. Three fish, two that are as still as night, lie before me. Cook, who is waiting impatiently at my side, grabs the fish that is flopping around and tosses it into the bucket. Frowning, he stares at the other two that still have not moved. I pick both of them up by their tails and am about to fling them into the sea when Cook grabs my arm. “Keep them, lad,” he says. “My pot is almost empty.”
I stare at him incredulously. “Surely you cannot think we will eat dead fish?” I say. “We will all be bent over the railing before nightfall, spilling our guts into the sea.”
“’Tis only stunned they are,” Cook says, pulling the fish from my hand. “You dropped them too hard onto the deck.”
“No,” I reply. “They are as dead as those that rot on Charles Towne’s shores after a summer storm. It would be foul to eat them.”
Frowning, Cook pushes his thumb into the belly of one of the fish, drawing back quickly as it bursts open and shoots forth a thin green liquid with a smell so rank that I clamp my hand over my nose and mouth. Hesitating only a second, Cook tosses both fish over the railing. “Throw out the nets again, lad,” he growls as he hobbles toward the hatch.
Obeying him, I hurl out the nets and watch as they float beneath the water. Then I grab the swabbing stick to clean the mess from the deck. As I work, I try hard not to think of my empty stomach, for I have not had a full meal since the evening at Carver’s Tavern. When I think of the food that once filled our storage room, it is hard to believe we have come so low. Though we had not yet filled our hold with food, we pulled anchor on the night of the trial and sailed quickly away beneath a crescent moon. The Captain did not push for a Letter of Credit from Queen Anne, for he said it was best not to linger and flaunt our victory over the magistrate and provoke him to make inquiries.
After we were safely at sea, Cook brought ale to the Captain’s cabin, and Jabbart and I spent most of the night there, telling the Captain how we came to save his life. He gazed upon the new Letter of Marque with amazement, unable to distinguish between the old and the new, except for the dates. Cook said ‘twas good luck the old woman fed us chicken on a night of rain, for had she served us pig or cow, the Captain’s neck would now be stretched long and thin.
The Captain has set us on a course back to Crossed Island, a safe place, he says, to make plans for the future. With Queen Anne’s War ended and Peep dead, I sense he feels a loss that cannot be put into words. When we beach, Cook says we must go deep into the woods to hunt more wild pigs and to search for wild onions and fungus stalks to flavor the food. For now, we are on quarter rations, which is barely enough to keep the hunger pangs at bay. This morning, breakfast was two biscuits and a small piece of cheese per man. The flour is alive with weevils, but Cook does a good job at picking out most of them, and only twice at breakfast did I feel their crunch beneath my teeth.
My second net yields one large fish with a wide gray body that resembles a horseshoe. Its tail is long and pointed, with a tip as sharp as a needle. The fish flops around on deck, swishing its tail back and forth until Cook spears it with his dagger and it lies still. Cook lifts the fish up by its tail and holds it up for all on deck to see, grinning as if the sea has yielded a piece of gold.
There are a few grumbles at supper, but not many, for the Captain commands Cook to bring forth a small barrel of rum. Cups are passed all around as the fish is ladled into our trenchers. By the time the moon appears, most of the crew is snoring upon the deck, their cups still in their hands. My stomach rejects the sour taste of the brew. A fire spreads between my ribs after I swallow, so I drink only a few sips. Not ready to go below, I stay up on deck to watch the moon rise. Cook says that sometimes the man who lives within will appear, and the one who is first to see him is granted one wish.
It is peaceful now that Gunther is gone. The Captain says it is likely that he learned of the piracy charge, and fearing that he too would be accused, ran off to seek another port where he might find work. His gunnery skills are known far and wide, so he will not be without a ship for long. From time to time, I catch Ferdie throwing looks my way, but without his friend to back him, he leaves me alone.
Tonight, my mind drifts back to the cave on Crossed Island, and the moment when Peep was swept away. A wet breeze blows off the water, and I shiver hard, for it reminds me of the sea spilling over me inside the cave and the look on Peep’s face when the water pulled him away. I cannot help but think that had I gripped his hand harder, Peep would be with us today. The Captain says I must not dwell on the past, but instead, look to the future. I hear his words, but as one who was trained to record my memories, I cannot always abide by his advice. Before I head below to sleep, I steal one more glance at the moon. I am startled to see a dark form in the middle. Leaning over the
railing, I lift my face to the sky and whisper only two words into the wind to be carried upward to the man who watches me.
“Solitaire Peep.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
It is not quite noon the next day when I see a large shadow looming ahead. I lean far over the railing with the eyeglass tight against my face. A thick fog rises off the water, blurring the lens. Rubbing the glass against my shirt, I lift it for another look. When the cliff that conceals the cave appears, I lower the glass quickly and turn away. I have no desire to look upon the place that took Peep’s life.
Ratty Tom calls out land, and Jabbart clangs the bell to signal all men to come on deck. Soon the deck is swarming with crew. Two men drag forth the anchor, while others climb the rigging to adjust the sails so that the ship does not go into shore too fast. Jabbart is at the tiller, yelling at Ferdie that it is too soon to bring out the longboats. A few minutes later, the Captain comes through the hatch. Seeing the cave in the distance, he smiles. “It is always a good sight to see when we first approach Crossed Island.”
“Still?” I ask. “Even since the storm?”
The Captain nods. “You do not know this, lad, but it was Peep who first discovered the cave. Only once have I been inside.”
I can’t hide my surprise. “And yet you let him take the maps there?”
“Aye, there was no safer place.”
I don’t answer. How could the Captain think the cave was safe? Had it been truly safe, Peep would not have died.
The Captain moves closer and leans low so that no one else can hear. “When we beach, Jameson, you must lead me to the maps.”
I shake my head quickly. “I cannot remember the way, sir. All that day has become a blur in my mind.”
“Then you must clear your head and think hard. We cannot tarry long on Crossed Island. The winter winds push hard at our backs, and we must set sail for England before ice forms in the water. It is a long journey.”
“England!” I exclaim, shocked that the Captain would even consider such a voyage after what just happened in Charles Towne.
“Aye,” he says. “I will seek an audience with Queen Anne and learn what my future holds.”
“Begging your pardon, sir, but surely you cannot be thinking clearly,” I say. “By then, she will have learned that you fired on the Spanish merchant without permission, and she will call for your head on a pike.”
“Then you think me a pirate, too?” the Captain asks, raising a brow.
“No, but you have broken the Treaty of Utrecht, and I have forged the Queen’s name to lie for you. When word reaches our Queen, I fear for your life … and mine.”
“That is why we must take her the maps,” the Captain says. “Queen Anne has penned her name to the treaty, but her thirst for new shores will not die. When she sees all that the New World offers, she will quickly forgive us.”
“England,” I repeat. I had never imagined making such a journey. For the rest of the morning, until the order comes to drop anchor, I go about my work repeating the word in my head. England!
By nightfall we have cast anchor close to shore and set up camp on Crossed Island. When dusk falls, I gather dried willows for Cook’s fire. I stroll along the beach thinking about all that has occurred since my parents’ deaths and the day I walked onto the auction block. It is hard to believe that so much has happened to me in so little time.
Cook feeds us a meager meal. The Captain makes light of it, saying that come morning he and I will go deep into the woods to hunt more wild pig, while the rest of the crew cast nets from the shore and scrape the rocky shoals along the beach for shelled fish.
As the night deepens, I pull my pallet close to the fire, remembering the mosquitoes that plagued me before. I take out my artist’s kit and begin to draw a picture of us, a ragged and hungry crew sitting around a roaring fire with our cups filled with ale. I sketch our humpbacked Cook poking at the fire to bring it to life. I gently splatter ink upon the page to resemble the embers that float upon the air. I dip my quill deep into the black ink and let the pen flow lightly across the paper, sketching the Captain’s hair in long wisps so that anyone who gazes upon my drawing will know that a strong wind blew off the sea this night. I dip again for Ratty Tom and Ferdie, who huddle shoulder to shoulder, each clasping his cup with two hands, silently staring into the fire. I do not show it to anyone when the ink is dry; instead, I carefully roll up the parchment and place it with my things that I brought from the ship. While no words fill my page, I am content that I have captured one moment that I can look upon someday. In my mind, I will be able to travel back to this place where the stars glitter against a black sky and willows sway in the wind.
As the fire dies and the crew drifts away, I unroll my mat. The cool breeze and the crackling fire make it easy to fall asleep. But soon I am dreaming of Charles Towne. I am tied to the end of Strabo’s line, heading to auction. Then suddenly, I am clinging to the ratlines while sharks circle beneath me. The wind blows so hard, my fingers won’t hold the lines. I clutch tighter, but I begin to slip, and there is nothing I can do. As I fall into the ocean, I bolt upward. Gasping for breath, I look about. The crew sleeps soundly beside Cook’s fire.
“Only a dream,” I whisper, running my fingers through my hair. A strong wind blows off the water, and I shiver and wrap my arms around my knees. The visions had seemed so real.
I sleep again, this time deeply. Before I know it, I hear a commotion around me. Morning has dawned and I am surprised to see that I am the last to rise.
“Good that you slept late,” Cook says, prying open one of the oysters from a bucket that someone has already brought to him. “I watched you toss and turn half the night.”
I nod, but say nothing.
He pokes me gently with his stick. “Look alive, boy, for today we will hunt the wild pig.”
“We?” I ask, surprised to learn that Cook would accompany us.
“Aye,” Cook replies nonchalantly. “The Captain says everyone is needed to fish and trap food. The others are already out with the nets. Using the tip of his knife, he scoops three oysters from their shells into a trencher and hands it to me. “Eat them raw, lad, for you’ll need the strength they’ll bring.”
Remembering the taste of the wild boar on my tongue, I tilt my trencher and quickly slurp up the oysters, not minding their fishy flavor. I am wiping my mouth on my sleeve when the Captain comes up behind me. “Are you both ready?” he says. He pulls out two muskets he has tucked into his belt and hands them to Cook and me. I take mine gladly, for I have no desire to fight another wild boar by hand. When Cook turns away to toss sand on the fire, I whisper to the Captain, “Will Cook come with us to the cave?”
He nods. “With Peep gone, I will need someone to help you get the maps to Queen Anne if something happens to me. Cook has promised me to do that.”
“What might happen to you?” I ask, my voice rising in alarm.
He lifts his hand to calm me. “I only mean that it is good to prepare.”
I am surprised when the Captain says we will take one of the longboats to the other side of the island and get the maps before we begin hunting. I want to ask why we wouldn’t first hunt for food, but the Captain seems lost in his thoughts this morning. I imagine that his mind will not rest until he knows that the maps survived the storm and that he will be able to prove his worth to Queen Anne.
The Captain steers the boat, and Cook and I row out to just above where the waves break so that we are not tossed back to shore. Every now and then, Cook stops rowing and bends low over the side, whispering to the fish to come to the surface. The Captain says nothing about the delay he causes, and I am beginning to think that he believes there is some truth in Cook’s superstitions.
Before midmorning, we are within sight of the cliff. When I see it ahead, I take a deep breath. The Captain turns to me and, seeing my face, places his hand on my shoulder and squeezes lightly. “Look not to the past, for you can change nothing there; it is only
the future you can mold.” Nodding, I push the oar harder into the water and direct the bow of the boat toward the massive gray rock.
We tie the boat loosely in a thicket of reeds on the shore. I wade out as I remember Peep doing, grabbing a handful of the vines that dangle over the opening of the cave. The Captain follows behind me, turning every now and then to check on Cook. The water is up to Cook’s neck, and for once he is silent as he struggles to keep his mouth above the waves. I wonder if he thinks that perhaps there is something inside the cave that could fill his pot, for surely not even duty to the Queen would make him risk drowning himself.
The inside of the cave is dark, but there are no shadows dancing upon the walls as there were the night of the storm nor is there the sound of the rushing sea that filled my head to near bursting. Instead, I hear only the faint drip of water from places beyond where I can see. The smell of slime fills my nostrils. Cook complains that he cannot take time to scrape some from the walls to take with him. The slime found in caves, he says, is good to rub upon aching gums.
We have not walked far when the cave splits into two paths. The Captain stops and turns to me. “Which way to the maps, Jameson?”
Uncertain, I look around, struggling to remember which way Peep and I went on the night of the storm. Had he gone straight, or had he veered off to one side? When we walked out, had we turned left before the water rushed through, or had we turned right?
“I can’t be sure of the way,” I whisper, embarrassed. “The walls all look the same to me. Peep led the way in; I just followed.” It had not occurred to me to pay attention to where I was going. Peep had been the one in charge, the one who knew the way. I had simply followed along like a child on a walk, not bothering to take note of our path.
“You must try to recognize something,” the Captain says. “This cave stretches for a great distance. If you can’t remember the way, the maps will be lost forever.”
Privateer's Apprentice Page 17