Read Privateer's Apprentice for Free Online Page B

closer to the railing, watching as he skims the water with the bucket again and again.
    When the tub is filled, he turns his attention back to me, glaring when he sees that I am still dressed. “Strip!” he says. “There’s work to be done.”
    The ocean air ruffles my hair, and I shiver as little bumps rise on my arms.
    Sighing loudly, I unknot the four thin pieces of leather that close my vest. As I remove the garment, the roll of parchment I’d hidden in the pocket the night before the auction tumbles onto the deck.
    â€œWhat’s this?” Solitaire Peep asks, snatching it up. The bottle of ink and the quill fall at his feet. “What are you up to, lad?” he demands, peering closely at the writing on the paper. He rubs his chin, and then the back of his head, and then his chin again. “Let’s see,” Solitaire Peep says, his bony finger running across the page. “Says here that you … that you …”
    â€œIt says nothing important,” I reply. “It’s only a note I wrote to myself.”
    Solitaire Peep snorts. “What stupidness is that?” he asks. His eye narrows as his attention falls onto the corner of the paper where I had sketched Strabo hanging his lantern on the hook. Peep holds the paper aloft and taps it with one finger. “Who is this rascal you’ve drawn?”
    â€œThe jailer,” I reply. “No one of importance to you.”
    â€œDon’t lie to me. ’Twill go bad for you if you weave a tale.”
    I reach for the parchment. “Something I wrote to help me remember, so that my memories aren’t scattered on the wind.”
    Solitaire Peep scowls and taps his head. “What you cain’t store in your noggin ain’t worth remembering.” He shoves the parchment toward me. “Get in the tub,” he commands, heading for the hatch.
    I smooth out the parchment carefully. The sight of the printed words makes my breath catch in my throat. My writing is immaculate, almost identical to my father’s. How could it not be? Night after night we sat together, my father’s hand covering mine. We spent hours practicing each letter, refining every stroke. I copied deeds and letters, drew crests, labored over whatever my father had given me for practice, carefully imitating the graceful way his hand moved across the parchment, so that I could someday help him run his shop.
    Pushing away the memory, I place the paper away from the tub where splashes of water might soil it, and pull at the wooden buttons on my breeches until they fall to my ankles. Quickly kicking them aside, I step into the oval tub. The wind blows off the sea, and I shiver as I sink deeper into the cold water. The tub has a strong odor that reminds me of the fish heads left to rot on the banks of the Ashley River. A seagull circles the ship twice, swoops low across the deck, and then flies away, leaving behind two splatters of silver white droppings.
    I watch the gull until it becomes a speck and then vanishes, blending into the clouds. I wonder if it is from Charles Towne and is flying back to one of the posts on the wharf, where everything is familiar and safe. Perhaps the gull has a mother or father waiting, someone who will worry if he doesn’t return and go looking for him. It pleases me to imagine such things, and I smile slightly, my spirit warmed by the sun.
    Solitaire Peep comes up from the hold. He tosses me a sponge and a ball of soap. “This here’s the last of the soap until we beach, so use it sparingly. If you didn’t smell like a muck pile, you’d do without.”
    I eye the sponge critically. It is nothing more than a piece of softened coral. The soap has a sharp sour smell, and the color is unusual, yellow with black streaks running throughout.
    â€œWhy are you sitting there like a lazy bag of bones?” Peep demands. “If you’re waiting for me to scrub your back, ’Twill