Chapter Thirteen
Thirteen
I can’t say for sure why I throw myself so passionately into my work after Billy’s words.
But a fire has lit within me. I want nothing more than to prove my worth to Captain Sharpe and his crew.
I want to earn their respect and goodwill, not demand it, like my father might.
I can’t turn into the sort of man who takes what he wants, no matter whom he hurts.
After logging yesterday’s raid and spending half the afternoon doing inventory with both of the twins, I return to Sharpe’s cabin to find it empty.
I suppose now is as good a time as any to try my hand once more at following the money in Jeffrey Reuter’s old ledgers.
I pull them out with a sigh and attempt a new method of tracking them, jotting down notes on a page I ripped out of the back of one. Finally I start to see a pattern.
My pulse quickens as I throw myself into the work before me. Each small revelation paints a larger and more detailed picture, until my blood is rushing in my ears and I’ve lost all track of time.
“What are you doing sitting here in the dark?”
Captain Sharpe’s voice startles me out of my focus, and I spin around to face him. How long has it been? My eyes have adjusted to the dark, and it takes me a moment to recognize it is sunset. “I hadn’t realized…”
He chuckles and takes a candle from the sconce by the door, then carries it over to the desk to light all three wicks of his silver candelabra. “Hiding from my crew again?”
“No,” I say quickly, and my face warms. “I just… was finally starting to work out this old ledger.”
Sharpe’s brows draw together as he takes a seat on the edge of his desk. “I thought you’d given up on those.”
“I did… but I got to thinking about them again today. It never occurred to me before that Mr. Reuter’s arithmetic might not have been as terrible as I thought.”
“Meaning?”
“Well… I hadn’t considered that he might just have been dishonest.” I regret my words immediately, because I know how they sound—but before Sharpe can be offended, I slide the book to him and point to it. “See here?” I ask. “Read this.”
“Read it to me.”
I sigh and shake my head. “It’s too complicated to read a maths equation out loud. Go on.”
“Just explain it to me,” he insists.
I am getting a little annoyed now. “Captain. Please humor me. Just read this page, and I’ll—”
“I can’t read, lad,” Sharpe snaps at me as he gets to his feet.
My whole body goes perfectly still. I stare at the book instead of him, trying to sort out how it’s possible that the captain of a ship is unable to read.
Then I think back on all those times Mr. Tydes made a point of reading something aloud in an almost playfully dramatic way, to divert interest from the captain to himself. I think back on how Sharpe would admire my writing but never comment on the content of the page.
“I didn’t know,” I say finally, keeping my voice soft. Once more I have made an ass of myself.
“Let’s call it a night, Kitten. I’m tired.”
I frown down at the page and pull the book close to me once again. I’m not ready to call it a night. “I think Mr. Reuter was stealing from you.”
That gets Sharpe’s attention. He whirls to face me. “He what?”
I point to the page, though I immediately realize my error and carefully do not tell him to look where I’m pointing.
“The numbers always add up when there’s food or livestock or even drink accounted for…
but when there are small items of value, like jewels, banknotes, cloth, or rare spices…
the numbers become less and less reliable, especially as you get nearer to port cities. ”
Sharpe comes around the desk to kneel beside me and stare at the book as if he can read it. “That son of a bitch,” he whispers. “How much?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“How much did he take?” Sharpe asks.
I blink as I glance back at the notes. “I can’t be sure quite yet. I’d need more time to go over the books.”
“How much time?”
“A day or two?” I suggest.
Sharpe nods and his expression shifts into something pleased. “Kitten… you may have solved more than one mystery tonight.”
“What do you mean?”
He turns to me, his lips curling back into a wicked grin. “You’ll see soon enough. We’re changing course. Stay here and put the books away. We’re celebrating. There’s a case at the foot of my bed, behind your trunk. Choose a bottle and open it for us. I’ll be right back.”
He claps me on the shoulder and hauls himself to his feet. “Mr. Tydes!” he calls as he strides over to his cabin door and yanks it open. “Tydes, change course!” He slams the door behind him, and his footfalls are heavy on the stairs leading up to the helm overhead.
I make my way over to the crate, kneel before it, and lift the lid easily enough. I reach in and wrap my fingers around the cool glass of a bottle, pulling it from the hay batting.
It’s port. It must be the port from the first raid after I joined the crew, now bottled.
I can already taste it on my lips as I pull myself to my feet and admire the color of the liquid inside.
It has been an age since I had such a fine liquor.
Already my mouth is watering at the thought of how much better it will taste as a toast to something I have achieved.
There is something to be said about a drink well earned.
Captain Sharpe is right—we are certainly going to celebrate tonight.
Out on deck in the morning, or whatever bloody hour it is that the sun shines directly overhead with absolutely no regard for common decency, my head is throbbing and my stomach is in a relentless state of distress.
I woke once again on Captain Sharpe’s settee, but this time with no recollection of falling asleep there and without his disapproving stare looming over me.
In fact, I’m fairly certain he allowed me to sleep there, which is ludicrous.
No, it’s not that ludicrous. It is his fault I’m in this morning fog, since we drank through dinnertime without a bite to eat.
I can’t even remember what we were celebrating.
I do remember the thrill of that first clink of glass against glass, and the warm, fluttering loop in my belly at the way Captain Sharpe smiled at me as I drank to our toast. Like I meant something—like I had done something worthwhile.
The memory of that feeling alone is enough to make the ensuing bottle ache well worth it.
“Aren’t ye lookin’ fancy this mornin’?”
The skin at the back of my neck ripples into gooseflesh at the voice grating on my skull.
I groan a little and rub at my temples. “Am I?” I grumble as I turn to Renard, who is standing in front of my work table with his arms crossed, peering at me with a look on his face I am not sober enough to translate.
“Ye weren’t at dinner, er in yer bunk last night. An’ again at breakfast, missin’.”
“I wasn’t missing; I knew exactly where I was.” That’s only partly a lie.
Renard snorts and waves away whichever twin is sitting next to me to take his spot.
A guilty pang tugs at my chest. I can’t even remember which twin joined me today.
A glance at the loose queue at the back of his head as he hurries away reminds me it was Tristan.
Poor Tristan. I’ll have to apologize to him once I don’t feel like hitting the first thing that annoys me.
“Ye drunk?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
Renard pulls his flask from his pocket and pushes it into my hand. I groan a little in appreciation as I untwist the cap and bring it to my lips. The liquid inside burns going down, but a few swallows later I do feel a little better. I cough as I hand the flask back.
“What is that?”
“Rum.”
“My ass.”
Renard laughs and pockets his flask. “It’s no’ expensive rum.”
I squint at him and he grins back at me. “I appreciate the hair of the dog anyway,” I say.
“What got ye so crawsick, anyway? Ye barely touched the—what d’ye call it?—swill from the galley.”
I click my tongue in amusement and rub at my face. “I worked late on the books, and the captain shared a bottle or three with me.”
“Did he, now?” Renard asks, brows rising slowly. “Why’d he go an’ do that?”
I wrinkle up my nose and sit back as I try to recall. “You know,” I say finally, “I can’t remember. Or maybe he didn’t tell me… I can’t remember that, either.”
“What’s the matter, rich boys can’t hold their liquor?”
I chuckle, though in truth, I’m not amused by his comment. “I can hold it just fine, and I’m not rich anymore.”
“Nae?” he asks, and I can tell by his expression he’s assessing my clothes.
I look down at myself and frown. I’ve dressed in my cravat, waistcoat, and jacket again this morning without truly intending to do so.
I must have dressed using nothing but muscle memory, for my waistcoat isn’t quite the correct shade of green for the brown trousers I’m wearing. What was I thinking?
“Damnation…,” I mutter, adjusting my jacket. “I thought it felt unreasonably hot today.”
“Yer still pissed.”
“I most certainly am not,” I insist, then groan as I rub once again at my temples. “Though skipping dinner was probably unwise.”
“Mmm… drinkin’ weth the cap’n maybe wasn’t all that wise either. Especially if ye cannae even remember anythin’ from it. Did he tell ye why we’ve changed course?”
I blink, for that sounds familiar. “Have we?”
“Oh aye, last night as we were messin’ belowdecks. We all felt the shift.”
“Where are we headed now?”
“Due south.”
As if that means anything to me. I frown at him. “I assume we were not headed in that direction before?”
Renard shakes his head at me and closes his eyes as if I am trying his patience. “How did ye survive this long, Kit?”
“At the behest of others,” I mutter as I slouch in my rickety chair. “Which way were we headed before?”
“Southwest, towards St. Augustine.”
“And what’s south of us now?” I ask.
“A few places.”
I don’t have to ask again, because the look I give him is enough to make him grin and answer me properly.
“Cuba… an’ Jamaica.”