Page 26 of A Prince Among Pirates
Trevor nods. “Tris can go ahead ’n’ get some of the crew to help.”
“Good.” I smile and pat Trevor on the shoulder, then turn back to Rodriguez, who nods and waves a hand for me to follow him.
“Your daddy a man of business or something?” he asks as we make our way through the thinning crowds.
“Should we have brought someone to help us?” I reply, ignoring the question.
“Chickens don’t weigh much. You’ll be fine,” Rodriguez says with a grin.
I shoot him a withering glare—or at least my best attempt at one. I rather think, based on his laughter and what I know to bemy very charming good looks, that it was likely more of a sulky pout than anything.
“They’ll have a wagon,” he says, slapping me on the shoulder in a way that is so masculine and friendly, it disarms me. I daresay Rodriguez may not hate me quite so much as I thought he did. Then he looks me over and frowns like he’s assessing me. “You know, you ought to be careful who you’re makin’ friends with.”
Where did that come from? What an odd thing to say. I frown back at him, but before I can ask him to elucidate, he nods towards the gate we are approaching and holds a hand up to call a greeting to the property’s owner.
Buying the chickens is a chaotic blur of language barriers. The owner’s Spanish is so unusual to my ears, I have to leave Rodriguez to the negotiations. In the end he hands the man the full two hundred Spanish dollars just not to have to deal with him anymore, and the man happily loads forty chickens and enough grain to feed them for a few months into a wagon.
We ride back to the dock with them, and I don’t complain that we overpaid for fewer chickens than I wanted, because I am too exhausted to care at this point, and because I accomplished more today than I ever have in such a short amount of time. When we board the ship again, I am greeted with grinning men who all take turns slapping me on the back or shoulder.
This is an entirely new experience. While I was used to being well liked among my peers—at least mysinglepeers—at Eton, I’m not used to being greeted with praise and camaraderie of this sort, and certainly not from a group of over two hundred men who,until today, thought very little of me. If they thought of me at all.
There is a strange swelling in my chest as I watch the crew gather their new blankets and pillows. They’ve queued up, and Billy hands the bedding off one by one from the pallet they used to raise the parcel onto the ship. I don’t have time to see the chickens taken belowdecks, or to really talk to anyone, before Tristan is grabbing me by the wrist and pulling me towards the stairs.
“Cook wants to see ye,” he yells over the commotion. “Got somethin’ special for supper.”
I follow, tired and satisfied from the day’s work. I glance around one last time as I start down the stairs—and just before my head disappears belowdecks, I catch Captain Sharpe’s eye for the briefest of moments. He’s staring at me strangely, one brow raised, a smirk tugging at his mouth. My belly does a strange little flip as I realize that this may be the first time in my life anyone has ever looked at me in such a way. It’s something I’ve never allowed myself to openly want… but it’s something I know I’ve always yearned for.
His eyes crinkle in the corners when he catches my gaze, his smile widening, and I could vomit from the way my insides turn to butterflies. I swallow back the urge as I duck my head belowdecks, wondering if this is what my classmates at Eton felt when their families looked at them at our graduation ceremony.
Thankfully, I haven’t time to linger on why no one ever had that sort of smile for me before I am greeted with a chorus of warm welcomes, and a bowl of hot stew andfreshbread are pushed into my shaking hands.
Part II
Ten
JULY 1700(ISH)
If only Digby Hale could see me now.
We are well into summer, and I, Christopher-Henry Mortimer Davenport, have become a new man. (Well, verynearlya man, at least according to the calendar.) I’m a genuine sailor now. My transformation to “Mr. Kit” Mortimer is complete—and I must say, I rather like this dashing new me.
While I have yet to win over every man on the crew, the gift of new bedding and occasional fresh eggs has significantly decreased the odds of me getting my nose broken or being thrown overboard. (It has also made a marginal improvement on the stink in the fo’c’sle, though in truth, I think I may simply be desensitized to it now.) I still hate the feeling of going too long without washing, however, and on a few occasions have bribed Tristan to bring a bucket of warmed seawater to the hold for me to wash up as best I can while he stands guard.
He’s a good chap, Tristan. He’s held fast to his role as my favorite person on the ship. Trevor has warmed up to me too, though he is still far less sweet than Tristan. I enjoy every moment I spend with them, and they have made a point to spend as much time with me as they can. They have even taught me to play dice—and I have taught them to play cards in turn. One of the two still has my deck.
Captain Sharpe remains as enamored with me as always. I might go as far as to say he finds me irresistible, but that would be a flagrant lie. In fact, I think he rather delights in the actofresisting me—which is delicious fun. He always finds a way to change the subject when I mention how much more appealing his new bedding is, though I can tell by the twinkle in those exquisite brown eyes of his that he agrees.
We’ve begun to take elevenses together. Mr. Tydes hates this new habit, though I have invited him on more than one occasion to join us. Captain Sharpe simply sits back and smiles as he watches me try my damnedest to win over that curmudgeonly old coot.
At least the rest of the crew has been more susceptible to my inexorable charm. Not long after my successful stunt with the bedding, the men began to knock on Captain Sharpe’s door to make requests of me for whenever we next reached port. Quickly it became clear that I could no longer work on his settee every day. Now, after I take elevenses with the captain, the twins set up a table for me just outside his door and take turns sitting with me as I do my work, pausing to take said requests. Some I canmanage, some I have yet to procure. Others are less feasible. I cannot smuggle a harem of girls onto the ship, but I do hope to find Billy his plantains someday.
As I take requests, I teach Tristan or Trevor—whoever is sitting with me at the time—to read and write. Can you believe it? Me, a tutor! My classmates at Eton would simply die if they knew. I even enjoy doing it!
This morning it is Tristan at my side. I’ve pulled a novel from my trunk, an item I don’t even remember packing. (The damned thing must have fallen off a shelf and landed in my pile of clothes or something.) It’s absolutely filthy, and I’m thoroughly enjoying the way Tristan’s face goes red each time he comes to a naughty bit and has to read it out loud to me—which, by the way,heinsists upon. Out of pride or sheer stubbornness, I’m not quite sure. I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed something quite as much as this.
I’ve also allowed my hair to grow out. Originally, it was merely because I had no idea how to cut it myself. Then, as it got longer and more annoying, I wasn’t sure whom I could ask to cut it for me. Cook offered once, but the way he held up his hatchet with a wild-eyed expression made me decide then and there that I would simply grow it out.
Now it looks rather dashing… when I am indoors and can keep it contained with a bit of ribbon. At the moment, as I sit at my table out on deck, it is far removed from anything resembling tame.
