Chapter Nine
Nine
I spend the next fortnight carefully cultivating friendships with the crew.
Though the men are largely still suspicious of me, for some reason they remain in high spirits as we make our way south to a place called the Fortunate Islands.
It sounds a bit made up to me, and as I peruse the map on Captain Sharpe’s desk, noting where his compass lies, I deduce that we must be planning to make port on the Canaries of Spain.
My Spanish is passable, at least.
I have managed to convince Captain Sharpe to allow me to trade three of the fifteen casks of port when we arrive. I’m not sure whether it was my pretty green eyes or his morbid curiosity that convinced him, but I’m grateful all the same.
Though… I like to think it was the green eyes that did him in.
I pull my ledger out of the top drawer of Captain Sharpe’s desk and flip through it as I walk back out on deck.
It took about three pages of scribbles, but I figured out the maths on my planned trade.
So long as I am able to haggle for what I deem to be fair prices, I will have more than enough to pay for new pillows and blankets for every man aboard.
Armed with that knowledge, and with land in sight, I make my way down below to the galley to chat with Cook.
I don’t know the man’s given name—everyone seems to just call him Cook. I swear, he’s got to be at least fourscore and five, but he’s sturdy for an older man. Not like my father or Prince Henry.
His black hair is long, though he keeps it tied back with a strip of softened leather.
His skin is bronze like mine, and he has a coarse beard and mustache, which he keeps surprisingly tidy for a seafarer.
He wears his shirtsleeves rolled up from the heat of the fire, exposing numerous tattoos along his forearms that seem to extend up under his shirt.
I dare not ask to see them in full, but I can’t resist the urge to stare at them whenever he isn’t looking my way.
“Whatcha want, lordling?”
I wince as I lean against a support post by the hanging pots and pans, which rattle as they sway against one another. “Ah, I do love that nickname.”
“Until ya’ve earned another’n, it’ll stick.”
“So it would seem.”
“Get out, I’m busy.”
His tone is mild enough that I decide to be unconcerned with how busy he is. “When we reach port, I plan to do a bit of haggling for some extras on board the ship.”
“That so?”
I smile at him. “It is indeed.”
“Best take Rodriguez with ya.”
My smile falters. “My Spanish is perfectly adequate,” I insist.
“Maybe so, but yer a foppish-lookin’ little shit, and they won’t care how well ya speak Spanish if yer lookin’ down yer nose at ’em.”
“Rodriguez doesn’t much like me.” At that, he laughs but offers no further advice, so I decide to press on. “Anyway… I know you have your usual allotment, but is there anything extra I can find for you that isn’t on whatever arrangement you’re used to?”
Cook raises one brow at me and gives me a slow once-over. “Campaignin’ fer head boy, are ya?”
Head boy. Very cute. I smile again and open my ledger. “I could ask Martel instead. I have it on good authority that Frenchmen have exquisite taste when it comes to fine dining.”
“Yer a right shit,” Cook says, and motions towards my ledger. “Get me some chickens.”
“Chickens?” I ask. “As in… live ones?”
“We used ta keep ’em below with goats fer fresh eggs and milk.”
“Is there a particular reason we no longer do?” I ask warily.
“Got caught in the doldrums too long year past,” he explains, as if any of that means anything to me. “Never replaced ’em.”
“Right—how many do you want?”
He considers. “Near on two hundred’n forty men… Forty. Fifty if ya can.”
“Fifty—my God. Have we a place to keep them?”
Cook nods. “I can get the lads to clean it up right smart again.”
By “the lads,” I assume he means Tristan and Trevor. I nod and set my ink on a shelf, then open it to dip my quill so I might take notes. “I assume we’ll need feed for them as well… I should have enough for it. I’ll do my best.”
“See thatcha do, lad.”
Lad. I much prefer that to “lordling.” I snap my ledger shut and wink at Cook—which I realize is a step too far when he swings his spatula at me, but I laugh as I snatch up my inkpot and scurry out of the galley.
I think I will take Rodriguez with me after all.
I have no interest in handling livestock with my own two hands.
The very thought of it is almost too much to bear.
When we make landfall, it’s well into the afternoon, and it is hot. I’m so concerned with fanning myself with my ledger that somehow my legs forget how to work, and as I make my way off the dock and onto land, I lose my footing entirely and go stumbling off to the side.
Rodriguez catches me by the arm and hauls me back to my feet. “Watch it. Barely a month and you’ve already forgotten your land legs?”
“I must have tripped on something,” I say, freeing myself from his grasp. I hardly make it another step before my legs are wobbling again. It’s Tristan this time who hooks his arm with mine, and I lean on him as I try to wrap my head around what is happening.
“It’s all right, Mr. Kit. Ye just need to get used to solid ground again.”
“That makes no sense. The ground must be moving.”
Rodriguez laughs again and pats me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Mr. Kit,” he says in a mocking lilt. “You’ll figure it out.”
I’m fairly alarmed, to be honest. My legs don’t seem to be working correctly at all.
But Tristan is smiling, and Trevor is grinning at me as if he placed a bet on whether I’d fall over once my feet touched the ground.
I scowl at him and allow Tristan to help me walk as we make our way into the crowd.
Fortunately, it doesn’t take me long to regain my “land legs.” Tristan returns to helping Trevor and one of the new men—I never did get his name—drag the wagon with the three casks of port on it. I ruffle my hair a bit; it has gone wild and curly on me in the still, humid air.
When Rodriguez finally stops to speak to someone, I take a moment to look around.
I’ve never seen a place quite like this—the beach is nothing like the ones in Falmouth, which are mostly shells, rock, and seaweed.
This beach is white and nearly too bright to look at.
The water is the most stunning shade of turquoise where it overlaps the shore, and beyond it, there is an incredible display of cliffs and palm trees, which I have never seen in real life.
How unusual to see them in person, rather than in a work of art. I wonder if they really do have coconuts hanging from them.
“Think the cap’n will let us go swimmin’?” Trevor asks as he follows my gaze.
“Doubt it,” Tristan says with a sigh. “He doesn’t want to be here long.”
“Pity,” Trevor grumbles.
I grimace. I, for one, am glad Captain Sharpe has us on a tight schedule. I have no interest in humiliating myself on the beach.
My attention is torn from the shoreline when a tattooed hand appears in my line of vision, fingers snapping rudely. “Nino!”
I jerk my head around to look at the man. “Boy”? I can’t hide my indignation, which makes Rodriguez laugh.
“?Cuánto por todos?”
I stare at him for a moment longer, trying to decide if I want to address the utter lack of respect. Ah—this is what Cook meant. I shake my head and motion to the three casks behind me. “Tengo tres barriles de vino de Oporto,” I explain. “Mil cien reales de a ocho.”
“Mil cien reales,” the tattooed man repeats, and whistles, then looks over to Rodriguez, who’s openly grinning now. I can’t tell if they’re mocking me or not.
“It’s a fair price,” I say in English, because I won’t be toyed with. “You know it is. They’re worth more than eleven hundred.”
The man chuckles good-naturedly and pats my shoulder. “Sí, sí,” he agrees. He motions to his men and turns to Rodriguez. They talk too quickly for me to follow word for word—and this man speaks with a dialect I’m not familiar with. His consonants are softer than I’m used to, his pronouns informal.
I understand well enough that Rodriguez is explaining our desire for bedding for the ship. I decide to let him handle it as I watch two men turn one cask upright and fuss with the spigot. Alarmed, I hold a hand up and step forward to stop them, but Trevor yanks me back and shakes his head.
They open the spigot and, to my horror, allow some of the port to spill out onto the ground.
(I could simply faint.) They stick a flask under the flow, not soon enough, and I quietly mourn the bloodred stain soaking into the earth below.
When they get the flask full, they close the spigot, then hand the flask to the tattooed man.
He sips and hands it back, then nods and smiles at me.
I smile back, though I know I must look more horrified than pleased. He doesn’t seem to care, though. He points at me. “Almohadas y mantas,” he says, then holds up two fingers, then four, and a fist.
I nod. “Sí,” I say. Two hundred forty is plenty.
The tattooed man nods and waves a hand for me to follow him. I look at Rodriguez, who motions for me to go on ahead. I do, and thankfully, he follows, while Trevor and Tristan hang back.
Regretfully, the remainder of the daylight hours on land are spent following this man in and out of various buildings while Rodriguez does most of the negotiating, though he allows me to make the decisions.
In the end we acquire 240 blankets and pillows of acceptable quality, and I make a special request for one set of bedding that is of significantly higher quality than the rest. I ask the man to wrap that set in canvas.
There is some confusion about the balance owed to us, but I allow Rodriguez to handle it, and we leave with our pillows, blankets, and two hundred pieces of eight.
The sky is a riot of autumnal colors as we return to the docks.
I regret somewhat that I didn’t get to spend any time exploring the island, but I’m sure there will be time for that at a different port.
“I have one more thing I need to buy,” I say to the twins. “Can you two handle getting all this onto the ship?”
Trevor nods. “Tris can go ahead ’n’ get some of the crew to help.”
“Good.” I smile and pat Trevor on the shoulder, then turn back to Rodriguez, who nods and waves a hand for me to follow him.
“Your daddy a man of business or something?” he asks as we make our way through the thinning crowds.
“Should we have brought someone to help us?” I reply, ignoring the question.
“Chickens don’t weigh much. You’ll be fine,” Rodriguez says with a grin.
I shoot him a withering glare—or at least my best attempt at one. I rather think, based on his laughter and what I know to be my very charming good looks, that it was likely more of a sulky pout than anything.
“They’ll have a wagon,” he says, slapping me on the shoulder in a way that is so masculine and friendly, it disarms me.
I daresay Rodriguez may not hate me quite so much as I thought he did.
Then he looks me over and frowns like he’s assessing me.
“You know, you ought to be careful who you’re makin’ friends with. ”
Where did that come from? What an odd thing to say. I frown back at him, but before I can ask him to elucidate, he nods towards the gate we are approaching and holds a hand up to call a greeting to the property’s owner.
Buying the chickens is a chaotic blur of language barriers.
The owner’s Spanish is so unusual to my ears, I have to leave Rodriguez to the negotiations.
In the end he hands the man the full two hundred Spanish dollars just not to have to deal with him anymore, and the man happily loads forty chickens and enough grain to feed them for a few months into a wagon.
We ride back to the dock with them, and I don’t complain that we overpaid for fewer chickens than I wanted, because I am too exhausted to care at this point, and because I accomplished more today than I ever have in such a short amount of time.
When we board the ship again, I am greeted with grinning men who all take turns slapping me on the back or shoulder.
This is an entirely new experience. While I was used to being well liked among my peers—at least my single peers—at Eton, I’m not used to being greeted with praise and camaraderie of this sort, and certainly not from a group of over two hundred men who, until today, thought very little of me. If they thought of me at all.
There is a strange swelling in my chest as I watch the crew gather their new blankets and pillows.
They’ve queued up, and Billy hands the bedding off one by one from the pallet they used to raise the parcel onto the ship.
I don’t have time to see the chickens taken belowdecks, or to really talk to anyone, before Tristan is grabbing me by the wrist and pulling me towards the stairs.
“Cook wants to see ye,” he yells over the commotion. “Got somethin’ special for supper.”
I follow, tired and satisfied from the day’s work.
I glance around one last time as I start down the stairs—and just before my head disappears belowdecks, I catch Captain Sharpe’s eye for the briefest of moments.
He’s staring at me strangely, one brow raised, a smirk tugging at his mouth.
My belly does a strange little flip as I realize that this may be the first time in my life anyone has ever looked at me in such a way.
It’s something I’ve never allowed myself to openly want…
but it’s something I know I’ve always yearned for.
His eyes crinkle in the corners when he catches my gaze, his smile widening, and I could vomit from the way my insides turn to butterflies.
I swallow back the urge as I duck my head belowdecks, wondering if this is what my classmates at Eton felt when their families looked at them at our graduation ceremony.
Thankfully, I haven’t time to linger on why no one ever had that sort of smile for me before I am greeted with a chorus of warm welcomes, and a bowl of hot stew and fresh bread are pushed into my shaking hands.