“Well, and so ye should be,” Roger had said to him. “But sorry’s no going to help much, is it?”
Jemmy shook his head, mute, and tears welled in his eyes.
Roger cleared his throat, with a noise of gruff menace.
“Well, here it is, then. If ye’re old enough to be trusted with a job, ye’re old enough to take the consequences of breaking that trust. D’ye understand me?”
It was rather obvious that he didn’t, but he bobbed his head earnestly, sniffling.
Roger took in a deep breath through his nose.
“I mean,” he said, “I’m going to whip you.”
Jem’s small, round face went quite blank. He blinked and looked at his mother, openmouthed.
Brianna made a small movement toward him, but Jamie’s hand closed on her arm, stopping her.
Without looking at Bree, Roger put a hand on Jem’s shoulder and turned him firmly toward the door.
“Right, mate. Out.” He pointed toward the door. “Up to the stable and wait for me.”
Jemmy gulped audibly. He’d gone a sickly gray when Mrs. Bug brought in the first feathery corpse, and subsequent events had not improved his color.
I thought he might throw up, but he didn’t. He’d stopped crying and didn’t start again, but seemed to shrink into himself, shoulders hunching.
“Go,” said Roger, and he went.
As Jemmy trudged out, head hanging, he looked so exactly like a prisoner headed for execution that I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. I caught Brianna’s eye and saw that she was struggling with a similar feeling; she looked distressed, but her mouth twitched at the corner, and she looked hastily away.
Roger heaved an explosive sigh and made to follow, squaring his shoulders.
“Christ,” he muttered.
Jamie had been standing silent in the corner, watching the exchange, though not without sympathy. He moved just slightly, and Roger glanced at him. He coughed.
“Mmphm. I ken it’s the first time—but I think ye’d best make it hard,” he said softly. “The poor wee lad feels terrible.”
Brianna cut her eyes at him, surprised, but Roger nodded, the grim line of his mouth relaxing a little. He followed Jem out, unbuckling his belt as he left.
The three of us stood awkwardly round the kitchen, not quite sure what to do next. Brianna drew herself up with a sigh rather like Roger’s, shook herself like a dog, and reached for one of the dead chickens.
“Can we eat them?”
I prodded one of the hens experimentally; the flesh moved under the skin, limp and wobbly, but the skin hadn’t yet begun to separate. I picked the rooster up and sniffed; there was a sharp tang of dried blood and the musty scent of dribbled feces, but no sweet smell of rot.
“I think so, if they’re thoroughly cooked. The feathers won’t be much good, but we can stew some, and boil the rest for broth and fricassee.”
Jamie went to fetch onions, garlic, and carrots from the root cellar, while Mrs. Bug retired to lie down and Brianna and I began the messy job of plucking and gutting the victims. We didn’t say much, beyond brief murmured queries and answers about the job at hand. When Jamie came back, though, Bree looked up at him as he set the basket of vegetables on the table beside her.
“It will help?” she asked seriously. “Really?”
He’d nodded. “Ye feel badly when ye’ve done something wrong, and want to put it right, aye? But there’s no means to put something like that right again.” He gestured toward the pile of dead chickens. Flies were beginning to gather, crawling over the soft feathers.
“The best ye can do is feel ye’ve paid for it.”
A faint shriek reached us through the window. Brianna had started instinctively at the sound, but then shook her head slightly and reached for a chicken, waving away the flies.
“I remember,” I now said softly. “So does Jemmy, I’m sure.”
Jamie made a small sound of amusement, then lapsed into silence. I could feel his heart beating against my back, slow and steady.
WE KEPT WATCH AT two-hour intervals all night, making sure that either Jamie, Ian, or myself was awake. John Smith seemed solid—but there was always the possibility that someone from the Teal might take it into his head to liberate the sailors in the hold, thinking that might save them from being hanged as pirates later.
I managed the midnight watch well enough, but rousing at dawn was a struggle. I fought my way up out of a deep well lined with soft black wool, an aching fatigue clinging to my bruised and creaking limbs.
Jamie had promptly fallen into the blanket-lined hammock, directly I was out of it, and despite the urgent reflexive desire to tip him out and climb back in myself, I smiled a little. Either he had complete trust in my ability to keep watch, or he was about to die from fatigue and seasickness. Or both, I reflected, picking up the sea officer’s cloak he’d just discarded. That was one thing gained from the present situation: I’d left the horrid dead leper’s cloak aboard the Teal. This one was a vast improvement, being made of new dark-blue thick wool, lined with scarlet silk, and still holding a good deal of Jamie’s body heat.
I pulled it close around me, stroked his head to see if he would smile in his sleep—he did, just a twitch of the mouth—and made my way to the galley, yawning.
Another small benefit: a canister of good Darjeeling tea in the cupboard. I’d built up the fire under the cauldron of water when I came to bed; it was hot clear through now, and I dipped out a cup, using what was obviously the captain’s private china, painted with violets.
I carried this above, and after an official stroll round the decks, eyeing the two hands on duty—Mr. Smith had the helm—I stood by the rail to drink my fragrant booty, watching the dawn come up out of the sea.
If one were in the mood to count blessings—and, oddly enough, I seemed to be—here was another one. I had seen dawnings in warm seas that came like the bloom of some tremendous flower, a great, slow unfurling of heat and light. This was a northern sunrise, like the slow opening of a bivalve’s shell—cold and delicate, the sky shimmering nacre over a soft gray sea. There was something intimate about it, I thought, as though it presaged a day of secrets.
Just as I was getting well stuck into the poetic thoughts, they were interrupted by a shout of “Sail, ho!” from directly above me. Captain Stebbings’s violet-painted china cup shattered on the deck, and I whirled to see the tip of a white triangle on the horizon behind us, growing larger by the second.
THE NEXT FEW MOMENTS were filled with low comedy, as I rushed into the captain’s cabin so flustered and out of breath that I was unable to do more than gasp, “Ho!… s’l… Ho!” like a demented Santa Claus. Jamie, who could spring to instant wakefulness out of a deep sleep, did so. He also attempted to spring out of bed, forgetting in the stress of the moment that he was in a hammock. By the time he picked himself up, swearing, from the floor, feet were thundering on the deck as the rest of the Teal’s hands sprang more adroitly from their own hammocks and ran to see what was up.
“Is it the Teal?” I asked John Smith, straining my eyes to see. “Can you tell?”
“Yes,” he said absently, squinting at the sail. “Or no, rather. I can tell, and she isn’t. She’s got three masts.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” At this distance, the approaching ship looked like a wavering cloud scudding toward us over the water; I couldn’t make out her hull at all yet.
“We don’t need to run from her, do we?” I asked Jamie, who had rooted out a spyglass from Stebbings’s desk and was examining our pursuer with a deep frown. He lowered the glass at this, shaking his head.
“It doesna matter whether we need to or not; we’d no stand a chance.” He passed the glass to Smith, who clapped it to his eye, muttering, “Colors… she’s got no colors flying—”
Jamie’s head jerked sharply up and around at that, and I realized abruptly that the Pitt was still flying the Union Jack.
“That’s good, don’t you think?” I asked. “They won’t trouble a naval ship, surely.”
Jamie and John Smith both looked exceedingly dubious at this piece of logic.
“If they come within hailing distance, they’ll likely notice something’s fishy and it ain’t a whale,” Smith said. He glanced sideways at Jamie. “Still… would you maybe think of puttin’ on the captain’s coat? It might help—at a distance.”
“If they get close enough for it to matter, it willna matter anyway,” Jamie said, looking grim.
Still, he disappeared, pausing briefly to retch over the rail, and returned moments later looking splendid—if you stood well back and squinted—in Captain Stebbings’s uniform. As Stebbings was perhaps a foot shorter than Jamie and a good deal larger round the middle, the coat strained across the shoulders and flapped around the waist, both sleeves and breeches showed a much greater expanse of shirtsleeve and stocking than was usual, and the breeches had been cinched up in folds with Jamie’s sword belt in order not to fall off. He was now sporting the captain’s sword, I saw, and a pair of loaded pistols, as well as his own dirk.
Ian’s brows went up at sight of his uncle thus attired, but Jamie glared at him, and Ian said nothing, though his expression lightened for the first time since we had met the Pitt.
“Not so bad,” Mr. Smith said, encouraging. “Might’s well try to brass it out, eh? Nothing to be lost, after all.”
“Mmphm.”
“ The boy stood on the burning deck, whence all but he had fled,” I said, causing Jamie to switch the glare to me.
Having seen Guinea Dick, I wasn’t worried about Ian’s passing muster as a hand in the royal navy, tattoos and all. The rest of the Teal’s hands were fairly unexceptionable. We might just get away with it.
The oncoming ship was close enough now for me to see her figurehead, a black-haired female who seemed to be clutching a—
“Is that really a snake she’s holding?” I asked dubiously. Ian leaned forward, squinting over my shoulder.
“It’s got fangs.”
“So’s the ship, lad.” John Smith nodded at the vessel, and at this point I saw that indeed it did: the long snouts of two small brass guns protruded from the bow, and as the wind drove her toward us at a slight angle, I could also see that she had gunports. They might or might not be real; merchantmen sometimes painted their sides with false gunports, to discourage interference.
The bow chasers were real, though. One of them fired, a puff of white smoke and a small ball that splashed into the water near us.
“Is that courteous?” Jamie asked dubiously. “Does he mean to signal us?”
Evidently not; both bow chasers spoke together, and a ball tore through one of the sails overhead, leaving a large hole with singed edges. We gaped at it.
“What does he think he’s about, firing on a King’s ship?” Smith demanded indignantly.
“He thinks he’s a bloody privateer, and he means to take us, is what,” Jamie said, recovering from his shock and hastily disrobing. “Strike the colors, for God’s sake!”