Page 12 of A Prince Among Pirates
Tristan laughs again and takes my hand in an alarmingly familiar way. I don’t argue. I’d rather the crew like me, and he seems harmless.
Plus, I truly am famished.
I allow him to guide me through the twists and turns of the ship, too impressed by how well he has memorized this dark maze to remember any of it myself. I think we must benearing the galley, for I can smell the lingering olfactory remains of breakfast, and my stomach whines again. Tristan either doesn’t hear or chooses to ignore it. My dignity appreciates his discretion either way.
“There y’are!” I hear a familiar voice say. Tristan goes rigid, and I turn to see Renard just behind us. “Ye missed breakfast.”
I pout at him as Tristan releases my hand and bows his head in some show of respect. Or maybe he’s just afraid of him? I recall now that Renard is the officer in charge of the crew, whatever that means. Am I meant to show him some kind of deference?
I’m too hungry to bother. “I see that,” I say with a sigh. “I am not used to waking so early.”
“It’s no’ that early,” Renard counters, and I could swear he rolls his eyes at me. “But I saved ye a plate. C’mon.Tristanis s’posed ta be doin’ stock.”
Tristan makes a startled sound that is somehow adorable. He scurries off, and I follow Renard into the galley, where a handful of men are busy cleaning the pots from breakfast. I stand in the doorway as Renard speaks to a man who must be the cook, then takes a plate from him. They laugh together before Renard comes my way and takes my shoulder, spinning me about and leading me from the galley.
“I’ll letcha eat in the salon, nae one’s in there now.”
“I appreciate that,” I say, though in truth I am annoyed I haven’t a proper place to dine. I make a note to complain to Captain Sharpe about my abysmal accommodations so far.
Renard leads me into the salon, which is naught but a smallroom with two tables and various bags of produce hanging from the ceiling, along with a large cabinet that I suspect houses some sort of liquor meant only for the officers. I take a seat, and Renard sets my plate down and sits across from me. “Enjoy it, lad. In a few days we’ll be eatin’ hardtack an’ dried meat.”
It is an immense effort to keep from wrinkling my nose at the plate before me. It must be some kind of fish, along with a potato and an apple. It’s a strange combination, but I am too hungry to refuse it, so I start on the fish first, deciding to use the apple as a palate cleanser at the end of my meal.
“Thank you for saving this for me,” I say once I’ve eaten a few bites and my thoughts become marginally less jumbled. The fish isn’t too terrible. It’s cold, and seasoned with things I can’t identify, which are almost pleasant. The potato is also cold, but soft enough to cut into with my fork, though it ends up a bit smashed in the process.
Apparently, it is very amusing to watch me eat, for Renard snorts and sits back with his arms crossed. “Never eaten weth yer hands b’fore?”
“Why would I do something like that?” I ask, aghast.
“Why, indeed,” Renard mutters. “Yer gonna have ta start gettin’ yerself up in the mornin’ if ye wanna eat. I cannae be savin’ ye meals every day.”
“Mm. So, what does it mean that you are in charge of the crew?” I ask. I hate being scolded or told what to do. I’d much rather change the subject.
“I assign the men their work, make sure the decks’re keptclean, an’ unofficially let the men take their grievances ta me so I can handle ’em wethout causin’ a ruckus.”
“What sort of grievances?”
Renard shrugs. “Anythin’ really. Arguments amongst ’emselves, complaints against other officers er the distribution of rations. Squabbles ’bout workload an’ the like. Mostly, I keep ’em busy weth work, so they will nae cause me any trouble.”
“Rather like a governess, it seems,” I point out after swallowing a bite of potato. Renard grunts, and I cannot help but smile at his annoyance. He doesn’t like the comparison—I can tell by the way his brow twitches. “I’ll do my best to wake early enough in the morning.”
“See that ye do. An’ dinnae go causin’ problems fer me. I will nae have ye stirrin’ up trouble on my ship. Try ta make friends weth the crew where ye can,” he says. “If they like ye, they’ll look out fer ye. Tristan an’ Trevor are a good start. They’re bairns, but they fit in well weth the crew, an’ nae one’s got complaints ’bout ’em.”
“Yes, I thought Tristan seemed quite young.”
“Six an’ ten, both of ’em. But they’ve been on theDeliverancesince they were wee.”
“And you?”
“Four years at sea. Pressed at eighteen, joined theDeliverancea year later.”
Pressed at eighteen. I try not to think about the fact that my own eighteenth birthday was mere months ago. I can’t imagine being pressed into service and forced to live at sea. Nor do I wantto be on this ship for the next four years of my life. I am realizing now how absurd I was to come aboard in the first place. A lump forms in my throat and I sit back, looking around for something to drink.
Renard must read my mind, for he stands and goes to the cabinet on the far wall. Moments later he returns with a mug of ale for me. It is too early to be drinking ale, even for me… but I take the mug anyway and down half the liquid inside. This must be for the officers. It could be better, but I can stomach it, at least.
“Thank you,” I manage when the lump in my throat has settled firmly into my belly once more. What on earth am I doing here? I have no plan. I don’t even know where this ship is going, much less what I am going to do when we get there. What if we sail to the colonies? Did I pack enough brown to live among Puritans? Do I evenwantto live among Puritans? Oh God, what have Idone?
“Ye all right there, lad?”
