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sleep, Peep. ’Twill go easier.” He dips the rag into the bucket. “Twist his head around.”
    Solitaire Peep grabs my chin and turns it to the side. Cook presses the dripping rag against the gash on my head and wipes at the dried blood. The overpowering odor from the ragfills my nostrils. “Th-that smell!” I stammer, suddenly wide awake. “It’s awful!”
    â€œGoat pee,” Cook answers proudly. “The best thing for scouring wounds.”
    Solitaire Peep nods at a goat tied to the deck’s railing. “Lucky for you we ain’t ate her yet. Cook took her on in Charles Towne for milk.”
    â€œTurn him over and hold him still,” Cook says. Fishing in his pocket, he pulls out a long silver needle that flashes in the sunlight. Before I realize what is happening, Solitaire Peep’s knee is pressed hard against my back so that I can’t move. A sweaty hand covers my mouth as the needle pierces my scalp. Streaks of fire shoot through my head, and I struggle against Solitaire Peep’s hand, but it’s pressed so hard against my mouth that I can I taste the salt from his palm. “Bite me, boy,” he says with a grimace as he tries to hold me still, “and I’ll yank the teeth from your head when this is done.”
    Cook works fast, moving the needle in and out until the wound closes. He chews the thread through and carefully knots the two ends. “Only six stitches,” he says, patting the wound with the wet rag. “Ferdie captured a man from Port Royal once who needed more stitches than I knew how to count. Never was the same, that one,” he says. “Jumped overboard one night and tried to swim to shore.”
    â€œAye,” Solitaire Peep says, scowling. “Waste of a strong man.”
    â€œYou’ll be good as new come morning,” Cook says. Pressing his palms against the deck, he pushes himself to his feet. He waddles over to the goat. “Come along,” he says, untying the rope. “Too much sun’ll sour your milk.” At the hatch, the animal refuses to go below. She strains against her leash, pawing the deck with her hoofs. Cook gives a hard yank, and the goat reluctantly moves forward, bleating loudly.
    I lie on the deck for the rest of the afternoon, drifting in and out of sleep. Late in the afternoon, I wake to find Solitaire Peep staring down at me. “Day’s growing old,” he says. “Best get washed before the sun’s gone.” He grabs the back of my shirt and helps me to my feet. “You’ll wash in that,” he says, pointing to a wooden tub that has been dragged into the center of the deck. “’Tis where we scald the hogs and dry the fish come smoking time, but ’Twill do.”
    I frown. At home I had taken my weekly bath in a large iron tub in the back of the shop, behind a sheet hung for privacy. I glance around. The deck is filled with sailors. A tall man whose long hair is twisted into knots sits nearby, coiling a pile of tangled ropes. A few feet away, Jabbart is scrubbing the deck with buckets of seawater. Above my head, two lookouts cling to the ship’s ratlines, scanning the water for other ships. No one, except the oarsmen who occasionally glance my way, pays me any attention. Still, I don’t want to bathe in front of them.
    â€œI have nothing clean to put on,” I argue. “What use is washing if I must wear dirty clothes?”
    â€œThere’s a crate of garments below deck that’s to be sold in the next port. The Captain told me to give you what you need.” He takes a bucket hanging on the side of the ship and threads the handle onto a long wooden pole. Bending low over the ship’s railing, he drags the bucket through the water until it is filled and then hoists it onto the deck. “Watch, boy,” he says, pouring the water into the tub. “For you’ll fill your own tub next month.” I lean