Chapter Ten
Ten
If only Digby Hale could see me now.
We are well into summer, and I, Christopher-Henry Mortimer Davenport, have become a new man. (Well, very nearly a man, at least according to the calendar.) I’m a genuine sailor now. My transformation to “Mr. Kit” Mortimer is complete—and I must say, I rather like this dashing new me.
While I have yet to win over every man on the crew, the gift of new bedding and occasional fresh eggs has significantly decreased the odds of me getting my nose broken or being thrown overboard.
(It has also made a marginal improvement on the stink in the fo’c’sle, though in truth, I think I may simply be desensitized to it now.) I still hate the feeling of going too long without washing, however, and on a few occasions have bribed Tristan to bring a bucket of warmed seawater to the hold for me to wash up as best I can while he stands guard.
He’s a good chap, Tristan. He’s held fast to his role as my favorite person on the ship.
Trevor has warmed up to me too, though he is still far less sweet than Tristan.
I enjoy every moment I spend with them, and they have made a point to spend as much time with me as they can.
They have even taught me to play dice—and I have taught them to play cards in turn. One of the two still has my deck.
Captain Sharpe remains as enamored with me as always.
I might go as far as to say he finds me irresistible, but that would be a flagrant lie.
In fact, I think he rather delights in the act of resisting me—which is delicious fun.
He always finds a way to change the subject when I mention how much more appealing his new bedding is, though I can tell by the twinkle in those exquisite brown eyes of his that he agrees.
We’ve begun to take elevenses together. Mr. Tydes hates this new habit, though I have invited him on more than one occasion to join us. Captain Sharpe simply sits back and smiles as he watches me try my damnedest to win over that curmudgeonly old coot.
At least the rest of the crew has been more susceptible to my inexorable charm.
Not long after my successful stunt with the bedding, the men began to knock on Captain Sharpe’s door to make requests of me for whenever we next reached port.
Quickly it became clear that I could no longer work on his settee every day.
Now, after I take elevenses with the captain, the twins set up a table for me just outside his door and take turns sitting with me as I do my work, pausing to take said requests.
Some I can manage, some I have yet to procure.
Others are less feasible. I cannot smuggle a harem of girls onto the ship, but I do hope to find Billy his plantains someday.
As I take requests, I teach Tristan or Trevor—whoever is sitting with me at the time—to read and write. Can you believe it? Me, a tutor! My classmates at Eton would simply die if they knew. I even enjoy doing it!
This morning it is Tristan at my side. I’ve pulled a novel from my trunk, an item I don’t even remember packing.
(The damned thing must have fallen off a shelf and landed in my pile of clothes or something.) It’s absolutely filthy, and I’m thoroughly enjoying the way Tristan’s face goes red each time he comes to a naughty bit and has to read it out loud to me—which, by the way, he insists upon.
Out of pride or sheer stubbornness, I’m not quite sure.
I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed something quite as much as this.
I’ve also allowed my hair to grow out. Originally, it was merely because I had no idea how to cut it myself.
Then, as it got longer and more annoying, I wasn’t sure whom I could ask to cut it for me.
Cook offered once, but the way he held up his hatchet with a wild-eyed expression made me decide then and there that I would simply grow it out.
Now it looks rather dashing… when I am indoors and can keep it contained with a bit of ribbon. At the moment, as I sit at my table out on deck, it is far removed from anything resembling tame.
As the wind whips my curls loose from their queue, I tug the ribbon free and begin the work of smoothing it back once more—not an easy task in the warm Caribbean wind.
I’ve yet to learn how to pull it back properly, as I’ve never allowed it to grow this long before.
I am still struggling to smooth my hair when I hear Tristan make a strangled sound beside me.
I turn to him as I wrap the ribbon around the hair at the base of my neck and tie it into a tight bow. “All right there, Tris?”
He hesitates, and I am sure he’s about to ask me how to pronounce “fornication” or something similar, when Mr. Tydes comes barging past my table to pound on the captain’s door.
“Captain! Sail ho!”
Tristan is on his feet in an instant. He runs towards the port bow, and I am left staring after him as the captain’s cabin door swings open behind me.
“Where?” he booms.
“Off the port bow,” Mr. Tydes says.
They pass me, but the captain pauses to look back with a frown. “Bring the ledgers inside and lock them in my top drawer, Kit.”
There is a ship on the horizon; I can understand why he’d want the books locked away. The ship’s finances are no one’s business but his. I gather the ledgers and my ink and quill and carry them into his cabin to lock them all in the top drawer of his desk, which he has emptied for my personal use.
Before I can step back out on deck, Captain Sharpe is pushing into the cabin. He makes his way across the room in a few long strides and grabs a sword down from his weapons wall. He hesitates, then grabs a gun as well.
My heart sinks into my gut as I watch him. Something is wrong.
“Captain?”
“Kit, go belowdecks and keep out of sight,” Sharpe says as he makes his way back to the door. “Don’t come out, no matter what you hear.”
I intercept him, setting a hand on his chest, before he can push past me. “What’s going on?”
“Do as I say, Kitten.”
He sounds so serious that now I am genuinely afraid. I swallow back the hard lump forming in my throat and follow him out on deck. The ship is nearer than I expected, and it’s large. Nothing about it looks particularly menacing, but I am terrified all the same.
“Are we about to be attacked by pirates?” I ask.
I can sense the sudden stillness that falls over the men around us, though I am staring at Captain Sharpe as his face makes a fascinating journey from amusement to disbelief and lands on something I can only describe as bewildered horror.
I hear someone laugh, and then my ears begin to ring as I watch Captain Sharpe’s perfect mouth form the words: “Lad—we are the pirates.”