Page 6 of Captive of the Pirate King
Soon I make a game of it, to see if I can get the skins off in one long curl with as little waste of the starchy flesh as possible. It’s a distraction from the other images that keep flashing into my mind—my possessions, plopping into the sea. The merchant captain’s chest, gaping bloody and broken.
When I’m about halfway through the basket, a boy shuffles into the galley. He’s fourteen or so, if I had to guess—round-faced and narrow-eyed. He peers at me, frowning. “Who’s that?”
“That’s Nick,” says Cook. “He’ll be helping in the kitchen. That doesn’t mean you can slack off, you lug. Just because you’re the captain’s cousin doesn’t mean I’ll allow you to play the layabout.”
“But he’ll do the serving, right?” The other boy looks pleased. “He’ll be the one trotting back and forth with the food. I rank higher than him, because he’s new. How old are you, boy?”
The abrupt question drives every logical thought from my head. I’m twenty as a woman, but as a beardless boy—I should probably be about—“Sixteen,” I say.
“Right. I’m Dez. Cousin to Captain Neelan. I outrank you.”
“Whatever you say,” I mutter, focusing on my potato peels.
For the next hour or so—as nearly as I can guess by the light of the narrow galley windows—I peel and chop potatoes, cut up carrots, and stir the stew pot. At last Cook gives me a wide rectangular basket with a broad strap that fits over my shoulder. He wedges stew bowls into the basket, their rims bracing each other.
“Take that up to the men,” he says. “They’ll be hungry after the day’s work.”
Right. The day’s work of slaughtering the crew of theWending Willow. Of stealing all the goods bound for other lands, goods that won’t ever reach their intended destination.
This pirate captain may think himself justified in taking from the rich. He may view himself as some bold buccaneer, a hero of the high seas. I see him for what he is—a common thief.
But I can’t let my opinion show. I have to conceal it, along with everything else about myself.
It’s a more difficult chore than I expect, because when I emerge on deck and start handing out the food, the Captain heads straight for me.
5
“I want to speak with you, cabin boy,” says the captain in a low voice. “Finish handing out those bowls to the men, and then bring my share to my cabin.”
My stomach twists, but the only acceptable answer is, “Yes, Captain.”
He nods and strides off.
After a few more trips to the galley and back, nearly all the bowls have been delivered. Last of all, I deliver a share to the captives from theWending Willow. They’ve all agreed to serve aboard the pirate vessel. I don’t blame them for wanting to live—few have the courage to take a stand against piracy when it means a dip in a shark-infested ocean.
Cauley, the first mate on the merchant ship, accepts the bowl without looking at me, as do the other sailors—except for Jinks, the navigator. He looks up at me, mouthing the ends of his sandy mustache. The calculation in his eyes unnerves me. His fingertips trail slowly over my wrist when he takes his bowl, and I move on from him as quickly as I can, my heart pounding.
When I return to the galley, I approach Cook. “The captain wants me to take his share to his cabin.”
Cook nods, dishing up a more generous portion of stew and garnishing it with herbs. He adds a large chunk of bread, a slice of cheese, and a tankard of something that smells sharply alcoholic.
The other cabin boy, Dez, shoulders me aside. “I’ll take this to the captain.”
“He said that I was to go,” I venture. “He wants to speak to me.”
Dez frowns, dark as a thundercloud, but he moves aside.
“You’ll fetch the empty bowls, Dez,” orders Cook. “Hurry. There’s foul weather on the way.”
Carefully I balance the captain’s dinner tray on my hip, climbing the ladder one-handed until I reach the deck. The sky roils with thick, dark clouds, and the ship rises and dips on the choppy sea. A blast of sea spray and rain speckles my face, and I squint against it, trying to shield the captain’s meal with my hand.
There’s a brittle energy on deck, a tight-mouthed purpose to each pirate’s movements. They ignore me completely, intent on whatever preparations they’re making—tying things down, adjusting sail, fiddling with ropes whose purpose I haven’t learned.
I’ve been lucky so far—I haven’t had to endure any storms at sea. TheWending Willowhad smooth sailing from our port city. But if Cook is right, I may soon be in for my first experience of violent sea weather.
When I reach the captain’s cabin, I rap tentatively at the door. Then I think better of the anemic tap and knock harder.
“Enter,” calls a voice.
