Minerva's Voyage (6 page)

“Tomorrow,” I mouthed to Fence, tucking the cipher away. “Tomorrow we will talk.”

He nodded, and lay down right on the spot to sleep, one arm curled around a rung of the ladder, the hand of the other holding his candle stub. He looked amazingly peaceful, considering all that had happened.

For the first time in my miserable joke of a life I knew that I had a true and gallant friend. It was a strange feeling, not entirely comfortable, like the prickly sensation I once got from an old woolen jerkin when I had no shirt to wear under it. But the jerkin, though itchy, had been warm. And the thought of having a real ally was both itchy and warmish too.

I found a place in the wooden skeleton of the ship, two curved ribs with a narrow gap between them, in which to stow the cipher key. The next night, when the hold was dark and as quiet as it could be with its gaggle of voyagers, littler voyagers, and beasts, Fence and I took it out and examined it until the candle he was holding melted down and scorched his fingers. But I was a quick study and by then I knew the pattern of it off by heart. We still didn't have the meaning, though, which it refused, quite obstinately, to yield to us.

“There is a meaning to it, though, I'm sure,” I whispered to Fence at noontide, knocking as many maggots as I could off a bloated piece of salt meat with an iron nail I'd found. Some of them held on tight, but I couldn't bear to actually touch them.

“Right you are.”

“Each letter is represented by five x's or y's, or a mix of them. It must stand for something.”

“If we could get some of the other papers in the chest, it's likely they'd give us clues,” said Fence, who had scarfed down his foul meat and biscuit, worms and weevils and all.

“I've learned the cipher key down to the last x and y. It's burnt on my brain.”

“Good on you,” Fence grinned at me. A last shred of beef was visible on his tooth.

“But we should return the damn thing. We're lucky Scratcher hasn't noticed it's missing, but he will, true it is, if we hold on to it much longer.”

I shut my eyes tight, shoved the meat into my mouth, and swallowed it quick, barely chewing. I had to eat. My rags were so hanging off me that I had tied my long hose on with string purloined from one of the crew. But my gorge rose at the thought and certainty of the worms, which had gone down my gullet hanging onto the meat like sailors clinging to a barrel after a shipwreck. I felt a feathery movement in my throat. My mouth filled with grease, vomit, and drowning maggots.

I pushed by Fence, by chickens and voyagers and lumpy fardels, and sped up the ladder to the deck, spewing the meager contents of my belly over the side.

“Sorry you're sick. But cheer up. It's raining. That should cool us down,” Fence announced as he joined me.

Raining it was. After days and days of burning weather. Still hot as Hades, despite what Fence said, but raining. Mist obscured the hot eye of the sun and the other ships as the warm and welcome drops fell on my upturned face. The relief, however, didn't last long as the sea was beginning to roil. During the night, feeling sickish for a second time as the sea grew rougher, I stole a last look at the cipher by can
dlelight, making sure I knew every x and y of it. The small guttering flame went out as we hit a large wave. I tucked the cipher under my shirt to return it to the chest, but could not for the moment, as there was too much hurly-burly in the hold. The sea quietened some at last, and the voyagers qui
eted also. Too tired to move, I drifted to sleep where I was, every so often waking as damp entered through crevices in the deck above, cramping my knees.

“I couldn't return the bloody thing,” I told Fence the next day. I was rubbing my calves and trying to stretch my legs back out to normal. The wind was rising again. “I'll put it back between the timbers.”

“Between the timbers?”

“Isn't that what I said?”

Fence could have his annoying moments too.

“No, Robin, don't do that. Keep everything important to you right close about. A huge storm is coming. I feel it here.” He pressed the front of his head. There was a pinched look to him, as if the devil had caught his nose and twisted it around and around.

“Keep everything important to you right close about,” mocked Mary. I hadn't realized she was standing behind us. “Keep everything important to you close about, young cow
ards, lest we sink.” She tweaked my ear. “Ha ha ha. Skin and bones toad like you will drown in the blink of an eye if the ship goes down.”

“Fat fish like you will sink to the bottom of the sea and drown first.” But I shuddered.

“Fishes don't drown.” Mary stalked away.

“No more do toads,” I yelled after her, trying to be brave.

C
HAPTER 10
P
ELTED BY
M
ARY AND
R
AIN

The rain continued. The ship reared up to the roof of heaven and down to the depths of hell.

“Don't worry, this be'ant dangerous,” Piggsley said, as he went upstairs to the deck. “I'm to my bed. I'll take the dog with me so he don't go overboor.” This was the ship's dog, who had of late been following me around like I was a meat bone. Even hard shoving didn't deter him. He could stand his ground without so much as a baring of teeth.

I loved animals for the most part but I hated dogs, filthy, wormy creatures. They'd taken a bite out of my rear end often enough in Plymouth, and they were notorious for pinching food from barrows that could have gone into my own belly. Ma Oldham had two hugely fat, bad-tempered lapdogs whose names were Trusty and Ruffles, or Rusty and Truffles, I could never remember which. Neither of them was averse to taking a nip out of my ankle, too short they were to reach my bum. So I was glad to see this one disappear, at least for the moment, especially as he did his business wherever he happened to be. And I kept stepping in it.

I was still thinking about tempests, about dogs and their villainous ways and their confusion of names, when something sharp sped through the air and hit me on the head. It bounced away before I could see what it was. I thought at first it had come out of the hammock, which swung alarmingly. My forehead must be bleeding. I clapped my hand to it. I felt a sticky wetness and a hard pain. I staggered up with a loud cry. It was Mary, and the witch was laughing. Her hand reared above her shoulder, her fingers still splayed open. She'd cut me. A small cut, but a cut nevertheless. Soon, if I wasn't careful, I'd be as brainless as Boors.

“A stone. I meant it for your better,” she cackled. “Scratcher, I mean. Pig that he is. Shame it missed him. Lucky it hit you.” Incredible! She was more interested in revenge than safety, even with us jouncing up and down in the hold as if on wayward horses.

She cackled again. “I've been through this before. I'll go through it again in the future. This ain't nothing to what I've seen. I ain't afraid of a rogue wave or two.”

Scratcher had been sleeping most of the day and evening, between bouts of drinking. He snorted and woke now, gripping the sides of his hammock. His knuckles were stretched taut. He took one hand off the canvas and fumbled in his clothing. After a moment he pissed in a huge arc onto the floor. He was worse than the bloody dog. His eyes were glaring, first at Mary, then at me. His face was grey and menacing in the half dark.

“She cut me, Master Thatcher, with a stone.”

“Shut up or I'll cut you worse.” The two deep lines run
ning down his cheeks looked in the dimness as if they'd been painted on. He lay back down.

The ship rolled. He suddenly sat bolt upright. “I must go see Boors immediately.” He sounded stone cold sober, and was struggling to put on his jerkin as his hammock rocked precariously. “I must get to his cabin. Starveling, you bone bag, my boots have slid away. Find my goddamn boots.” Boots on, with no little help from me, he rushed up to the first deck. I went after him.

“Stay below,” he commanded. “Who told you to follow me, carrytale that you are?”

“Carrytale, sir? Not I, on my life. Merely your servant, here to aid you in all your endeavours.” We were under the top deck. Heedless sailors lay in hammocks, covered by the deck above. But it still rained in at the sides, and the sea was high and ominous. I tried to assure myself of our safety. After all, the mariners seemed unperturbed by the storm; they had doubtless been through rougher waters in the past. But true it is that one careless move, one slight push, could pitch me or anyone else into the water.

Scratcher moved among the crew and across the deck. I took his silence as assent and followed close upon him. He was already knocking on one of the doors of the middle rooms. No response. He banged harder. Boors appeared, in nightgown and cap.

“What is it? Is there a fly? I thought I had them quite cleared out despite the hot weather.”

“No Sir Thomas. It is merely I, William Thatcher, come to remind you to keep your promise.”

“Promise, promise. What promise is that?” He took off his nightcap and scratched his head in bewilderment.

“In the event of a storm, Sir Thomas … you remember, surely?”

“Of course I remember.” He paused. “What is it I remember, exactly?”

“Make for the Isle of Devils.”

“Of course, of course.” He neighed.

“Tell Sir George Winters to do so,” prompted Scratcher.

“Sir George…?” Boors was, if anything, getting worse.

“Winters. The admiral.”

“Oh, yes, of course. I'll tell Sir George Winters right away, sure as shipshape.”

“That's if there can be any making for anywhere in this weather,” muttered Scratcher, water running down the deep lines in his face as if they were trenches. “And that's if Winters will obey your commands.”

“Yes. Thank you. Good night,” said Boors, ever the gen
tleman. He put his cap back on.

“Good night, sir,” I replied.

“Old fool,” Scratcher said, as Boors closed the door on his own thumb and was obliged to open it again. He let out a yelp, and his straggly beard bristled.

A wall of water poured over the deck. The cannons groaned, straining against the ropes that held them in place. We scrambled for safety as the pilot was thrown off balance and fell from on high among us; he seemed unhurt, racing back to the helm to try to direct the ship. Boors, who had been following us, scurried back to his room.

That afternoon there was a lull, but later the wind grew stronger, roaring without cease, so loud that we could hear it below, despite the usual din. Rain pelted the hatch, a small stream of water leaking through it and down the ladder. Water was coming in also through gaps in the timbers. Those who had fallen asleep began to wake and moan as they tried to light lanterns. I had been cowering in a corner, legs drawn up, but now rose and pushed my body against the tilt of the boat so I could reach a wooden support and hold on.

The ship creaked as though about to split in half. Chil
dren were howling. Women and men were shouting and trying to hang onto their belongings, to one another, and to the upright supports, as I did. A memory of meat and mag
gots came back to me, and I threw up into the bilge.

“Look to my chest, you snivelling fish brain,” yelled Scratcher. The chest, like much else in the hold, was sliding across the wet floor. A barrel was sliding too, before falling on its side and rolling.

“Look to my chest, I said. And stop that keg, before it bursts and the hold is awash in beer.”

I meant not to budge, whatever Scratcher said, but lost my grip and fell over when the ship's prow reared up and out of the water. I slid like an eel along the floor as the boat lurched violently down. There was nothing for me to grab hold of. I had lost my place and the supports were few and far between, already thickly surrounded by others fighting to keep their balance; everything seemed in motion. We listed to the right. My feet hit the side and for an instant I was anchored. Then, as the boat listed the other way, I began to slide back. My shoulder hit the chest and I stumbled up and sat on it. It moved little after that, but I felt that at any second I would be hurled elsewhere. The beer barrel hit it too, coming to a sharp halt as it did so. Then it rolled again, exploding beer into the water. Everything else slithered and skidded as the ship reeled.

“Dear God, I want a dry death, any death but this. Dear God, save me from the sea,” I implored over and over. “I swear I will never listen to the whoosh and flash of wickedness again.” I clung to the chest. But the wind and rain only grew more violent.

Fence hurtled down the ladder, tripping over a rung in his haste.

“We were sleeping on deck,” he said, “until the tempest grew right wild. Then I was sent high into the rigging to help furl the sails. Another sailor up there toppled into the ocean.”

“There was no rescuing him?”

“We passed him in a second as the ship was driven on.”

“Not Piggsley?” My heart skipped. “It wasn't Piggsley?”

“I saw little. The gale lashed my face, blinding me.” He was drenched and trembling.

“Perchance, with a bit of luck, it was Proule.” As the words left my mouth, I felt shamed. I hugged Fence. “Hell's Bells and Cockle Shells, thanks be that you're safe.”