Minerva's Voyage Read Free

empty, though my mouth tasted bitter as aloe and the dizziness remained. And the blasted chest still needed to go down to the hold. No one would shift it except me, and I must have walked it damn near five miles this day, in and around Plymouth. I would best Scratcher for taking me to sea, I swore silently. And for making me carry his vile heavy chest crammed with maps and poems all around the town. It might take five days. It might take fifty. But I would best him.

C HAPTER 3

I N THE B ELLY OF THE B OAT
    We were sailing southerly and somewhat westerly. Or so Piggsley had told me. It was hot as hellfire below and stank of mold and filth and foot-rotted boots. The smell would surely choke us by the time July arrived, that’s if we were still alive then.
    â€œHello again.” The dark-haired boy I’d seen on deck was speaking to me. The heat didn’t seem to inconvenience him. “Who are you?”
    â€œRobin Starveling.” I carefully parcelled out my words so as not to sound too friendly. Besides, though they too stank, I had boots and he had none. It placed me a notch up in the world.
    â€œPeter Fence,” he returned. “I’m the cabin boy.”
    As if I wanted to know. “I’m the servant of Master Will Thatcher.” I threw my shoulders back to show my importance. Uncomfortable in that position, they soon slumped forward again.
    â€œScratcher’s servant? You look right greenish and that’s a fact. But redheads often do, even on land, and besides, you’ll get your sea legs soon enough, never fear.
    â€œI’m employed by Admiral Winters.” He held his hand out, the one with the glove, and I shook it. But I kept my nose in the air as I did so, to one-up him a little and let him know I didn’t usually shake hands with cabin boys — not even the cabin boy of an admiral. I was making a special exception for him.
    â€œPleased to make your acquaintance,” I said. “Why do you wear that glove?”
    He ignored the question. “I have to report to Admiral Winters.” He saluted with his ungloved hand and raced up the ladder, two rungs at a time.
    A few moments later, Scratcher lurched out of his hammock, buttoning his jerkin with one hand while scratching his private bits through his hose with the other. “Shake a leg,” he told the heap of red that had been lying next to him.
    It was Mary.
    A couple of sailors nudged each other and whispered something as she strolled away, picking up her stockings and shoes as she went. “I bin doin’ his washing,” she said. She winked.
    â€œStop smirking, Starveling.”
    â€œI’m not smirking, Master Thatcher. I’m imagining.”
    â€œStop imagining, then. I don’t pay you to imagine.”
    â€œHell’s Bells and little fishes. You don’t pay me at all, sir.” I felt this needed to be said.
    Scratcher ignored me. His eyes were glassy as he stared after Mary, and no wonder. They’d been entertaining each other for hours. The hammock had jiggled most fearfully. I’d hoped it would collapse, but was unlucky. Maybe tomorrow, if he entertained her again.
    â€œStop rubbing yourself and get your bony backside off my coffer. I need to find something.”
    â€œImportant, is it, Master Thatcher?”
    â€œImportant? Everything of mine is important. Can you read, you little weasel?”
    â€œNo, sir. Not the smallest squiggle. I haven’t been taught,” I lied. My tongue explored a painful hole in my tooth. Pain was an apt punishment for falsehoods. Or so that bitch Oldham always said when she whipped me.
    â€œYour talk is amazingly genteel for an illiterate.”
    â€œNevertheless, sir, I cannot read. Not even my own name. I expect that’s why I forgot it. My mother was a gentlewoman, I believe, but she disappeared too soon to teach me.”
    â€œAh. So you’re an ever speaker but a never writer.”
    â€œI