~ ~ ~
The sea around The Prodigal is a glittery turquoise in the noon sun. On the deck the crew is milling about around the main mast.
“Anvil!” Patience’s loud voice calls out. A short and stout man with rosy cheeks and a peg leg limps over.
“This is Mateo,” Patience says. “Captain wants him fed and put to work. You show him the ropes.”
“Aye,” Anvil says as Patience leaves.
“Where you from, boy?” Anvil asks.
“Ah, Port Aurelia,” I say.
“Ah, Wharf Rat. Well, Ratty, let’s get you some grub.”
By the main mast a grey-haired man with weathered skin stands beside a wooden cask.
“Ratty here is joining our crew,” Anvil says. The grey-haired man hands me a roughly shaped cup with a dark brown liquid, and a wooden plate with a grey biscuit and some bright red mush beside it.
“What is it?” I ask.
“It’s Cook’s specialty, isn’t that right, Weevil?” The grey-haired pirate chuckles.
I push some of the red mush onto the unappealing biscuit and take a bite. The food is delicious. The biscuits have a saltiness to them that cuts into the smokiness of the red paste. I decide it’s some kind of meat and pepper.
As I savour the food, I’m met by a rising heat. “Water,” I gasp, taking a swig of the brown liquid in the cup. It’s sweet, tasty, citrusy, and something else that burns my tongue even more.
“More of the biscuit!” Weevil says. I break off a chunk of the grey biscuit and bite down. There’s something salty, savoury, and nutty about the biscuit. It cools the heat in my mouth, and I exhale.
“What’s in the biscuit?” I ask.
“Ah, Ratty, that’s Weevil’s secret ingredient, the one he’s known for,” says Anvil.
“Oh,” I say, absentmindedly putting the biscuit in my mouth. As I chew, I think about one of the books I’d read on the history of pirates. Little bugs called weevils would often get into the food stores, and the crews would tap the hardtack biscuits to knock them out before eating.
“AHH,” I say, spitting out the biscuit. “This has bugs in it!?”
The crew around me lets out a big hearty laugh.
“You should see your face, boy,” Anvil says between laughs, clapping me on the shoulder.
“There ain’t no bugs in my food, that’s for sure,” Weevil says. “The crew just like to have their laughs.”
“ENOUGH!” Patience’s loud voice booms out. “We’ve had our fun, now finish up and get back to work. Captain wants the ship ready to make port before nightfall.”
“Finish it up, Ratty, you’ll need your strength,” Anvil says.
I look down at the half-eaten biscuit. I don’t see anything crawling in it. Still, I give it a solid tap before eating another bite.
The crew disperses around the deck. One group is off to the bow with a set of ropes and hammers. Another lowers a ladder off the side.
“Up the rigging with you, Ratty,” Anvil says, pointing to some ropes that run up the main mast.
I look up. The mast is tall, and as I stand on the deck I can see it swaying back and forth in the wind. Growing up on the prairie there was never much reason to climb anything tall. “It’s not that tall,” I try to tell myself. “Besides, this is the first step to earning back the compass and finding Dad.” I grab the ropes and start to climb.
I’m about halfway up when the rocking of the ship makes me start to feel a bit woozy. I stop for a second, taking a deep breath.
“Aye, Ratty, hurry up and fetch that Jolly Roger,” Anvil urges me on from below.
I think about what Inés would say, seeing me halfway up the rigging on a pirate ship – me, the grandson of the Great Pirate Esteban Delmar, following in his footsteps, in a way. I clench my teeth and keep climbing.
At the top of the mast I swing my leg over a cross spur and sit. All around me the turquoise blue sea stretches out to meet the horizon. Under the high sun it shimmers like a gem. Past the bow I can make out a few distant sails. Inés said Port Aurelia was the largest port on the sea. I suppose the other boats are heading that way too.
Tied to the top of the mast is a black flag with a white skull emblazoned on it and the letter P made from bones beside it. The Prodigal’s Jolly Roger. I remember reading that all pirate ships had their own, not always the skull and crossbones we associate with pirates these days.
From my perch I reach out and tug at the flag. The lines holding it tighten. I try to remember the big index of knots I’d seen at the beginning of one of the more technical sailing books, but I’d never spent much time on it, always more interested in the actual sailing. Scooching forward, I’m able to get my fingers into the knots. I pick and pull for a minute before one of them comes half-untied, enough to get it free of the mast. I manage to do the same with the other. Bunching up the flag and tucking it under my arm, I swing my leg back over and onto the ladder.
The way down is easier than the way up, one step at a time, just keep moving, the swaying of the boat getting gentler and gentler. At the bottom I hand Anvil the flag victoriously.
Anvil takes one look at the balled-up flag, lines still hanging from it, then looks at me.
“You don’t know your knots, Ratty?” he says. Dejectedly, I watch as he pulls gently on a loose bit of the line and the whole knot comes undone.
“No,” I say, feeling suddenly useless.
Anvil scans the deck for a moment and then shouts out, “Splinters!” I follow his gaze and see one of the men who had been working on the bow turn his head. The group is carrying the figurehead, a man with outturned pockets. Splinters confers with his group for a second and then steps away.
Splinters crosses the deck to us. “What’s the matter, Anvil?” he asks.
“Ratty here don’t know his knots,” Anvil says gruffly. “He’s no good to me for any work. Hoping you could use him?”
Splinters nods. “I’ve got just the job,” he says with a smile.
Anvil walks off, tossing a “He’s your problem now” over his shoulder as Splinters leads me to the stern of the boat.
“So, Ratty, is it?” Splinters asks.
“I guess?” I say. “That’s what Anvil was calling me. I guess because I was a Wharf Rat in Port Aurelia.”
“I’m not sure,” Splinters says, then asks, “What’s your name, Wharf Rat?”
“Mateo,” I answer.
Splinters nods. “I’ll give it some thought. And don’t you mind Anvil. He’s always trying to be the one to make decisions shouldn’t be his to make.” At the stern Splinters points out a bucket filled with a thick black liquid and what I recognize as a bosun’s seat – basically a plank you sit on with some ropes to either side.
“If we sail into Port Aurelia with our pirate flag, figurehead, and the name of a known pirate boat, they’ll be like to slap us in irons,” Splinters tells me.
“That’s why you took out the figurehead?” I ask. Splinters nods.
“And why you took down the flag,” he adds, then gestures at the bosun’s seat. “Now we just need to deal with the name.”
I lean over the rail at the stern. There, just a bit below the deck, is a large wooden board with the name “PRODIGAL” carved into it and carefully painted with inlaid gold.
“What am I supposed to paint over it?” I ask.
“Sink me if I know, just cover it up,” he says. “Now hop on!”
Splinters lowers me over the back of the boat, the bucket of black paint sitting beside me on the bosun’s seat.
“Stop, that’s good!” I call up as the name of the boat reaches my eye level.
What should I paint over it to cover up the carving? Whatever it is won’t hold up close; anyone looking will still see the letters carved into the back of the ship. Still, a long enough name should at least be able to cover the gold bits. Suddenly I get an idea and start painting.
It’s slow work. I try to be careful with the letters, making them look like they’ve been put on by a professional shipwright and not an eleven-year-old dangling off the back of a pirate ship. At last I’m done and call out to Splinters, who’s been manning the lines from the deck. As I’m pulled up I see Patience coming up to the stern rail.
He looks down at the letters and then looks at me, confused.
“You can write, Wharf Rat?” Patience asks.
My stomach goes into a knot. I remember what Captain Corvino had said: I should hide that I can read and write. “I remember some letters from a boat I saw once,” I say.
“Hmm,” Patience grunts, seemingly unconvinced, then barks, “It’s good work, but no more dilly-dallying.” With that he turns on his heel and walks off.
“Bit of a pain, that one,” Splinters says to me.
“Is he always so demanding?” I ask.
Splinters nods, adding, “He’s fair, the best mate a crew could ask for, and he treats us well when the work’s done.”
Splinters motions for me to follow him as we head towards the hold.
“Patience there, he’s not like you or me. He’s one of those Wakers, you know the ones.”
I don’t have a chance to say anything as Splinters continues, “Got kicked off his boat, something his father did, I hear – fell in with the Flensers or some sort. Now Patience can’t go back.”
I have so many questions. Who are the Wakers? What is a Flenser? But before I can ask them, we’re in the hold, standing next to a large contraption of barrels and ropes.
“If you’re going to be on this boat, you’re going to need to know some knots,” Splinters tells me. “This one’s a sheepshank,” he says, and starts taking me through how to tie and untie it.
It feels like hours have passed, and my hands are sore from tying knots, when a head pokes down from the deck. “We’re here. Capt’n wants us all up on the deck.”
“Let’s go,” Splinters says. “Good job with these,” he tells me.
On the deck the crew is assembled in a neat line. I glance around. It’s nearly dusk, but all around us are boats of every shape and size, moored, their sails furled. Beyond the boats I can see the large wharfs, still busy with people loading and unloading barges, and beyond the wharfs, lines of big blocky buildings. The city of Port Aurelia rises above them, illuminated in lamplight. I can see the mismatched collection of buildings all jostling with each other along its skyline. In the centre of it all is a building larger and more grand than any I’ve ever seen. It seems to be built from stones of every colour, all blended into a yellow shade by the lamplight. At its top a huge golden dome catches the last of the sunlight as it sets behind us.
“Stand to!” Patience barks from his place in line, and Splinters and I join the rest of the crew.
Captain Corvino walks the length of the line once, nodding, then turns and faces the side of the ship expectantly.
After a minute a small man wearing a maroon sash climbs up over the edge of the railing. He pulls a small leather book and pen from his pocket.
“Well, good,” the man says, and then turns to Corvino. “You’re the captain?”
“Yes. Captain Cornando!” he says with a bow and a flourish.
There’s no hesitation in his lie. I think about how I fumbled with a simple question about my name. It’s no wonder he knew I was lying.
“Captain Cornando,” the man says, making a note in his book. “And your ship is?”
Corvino pauses a moment and looks to Patience, who in turn looks to Splinters. I feel a nudge on my foot as Splinters gives me a kick. “The Hispaniola?” I say in a hushed voice.
“Could you speak up?” the man in the sash says, looking at me. Corvino looks to me directly now.
“The Hispaniola!” I say, louder.
“Ah! Thank you.”
“Captain Cornando,” the man says, letting the words hang. “Is it normal that your cabin boy is the only one who knows the name of your ship?”
“Just testing them,” Corvino says, and then leans over the man, whispering something and leading him over to the rail.
“We’re good here!” the man announces suddenly, putting away his logbook and climbing over the rail and down the ladder.
Corvino turns and quickly walks away to his cabin.
“All right, you all, look lively. It’s time to eat before we disembark,” Patience’s voice barks out.
“The Hispaniola, eh, Ratty?” Anvil says, limping up to me. “Where did you come up with that?”
I shrug. Trying to explain Treasure Island and all its adaptations seems like the sort of thing that a Wharf Rat shouldn’t do. Still, as I climb below deck, I can’t help but hum a few bars of “Professional Pirate.”
Below deck a large table is set, and the crew is gathering around. Weevil is setting out bowls of brown stew and cups of something. I sit beside an older woman. She looks a bit like Inés, and I hope maybe she’ll be kind and not tease me like the others.
“I’m Mags,” she says as I sit. “Anvil’s been calling you Ratty – got a real name?”
“Mateo,” I tell her. She nods. “Well, Mateo, welcome aboard the Hispaniola,” she says with a grin. I smile back.
Reaching out, I grab the bowl and scoop up a spoonful of the stew.
“Oy, not yet,” Mags says, slapping my hand.
“What?” I ask.
“We don’t eat till the Admiral eats!” Mags says.
I look around the table. I recognize Patience, Anvil, Splinters, and Weevil. Corvino isn’t here, but I’m not sure who the Admiral is.
A large cat with long, flowing chestnut-brown fur, striped with lines of black, jumps up on the table. Weevil delivers a small dish of something milky and ruddy, placing it in front of the cat, who bends over and starts to lick at it.
All of a sudden a cheer of “AYE!” goes up around the table and everyone starts to eat.
“Is that the Admiral?” I ask Mags.
She nods. “That’s Admiral. Patience over there may say that the captain’s word is law on a boat, but even Captain can’t give orders to Admiral.” She laughs and goes back to eating her stew.
The cat looks up at me for a moment and then goes back to its meal. I decide I should eat too.
The crew eats and drinks fast and then starts to tell stories. A man they call Old Sums starts on the time that they were on their way to a drop, when they lost the wind.
“Three days we were dead in the water,” he’s saying.
“CAPTAIN ON DECK!” Patience shouts out, interrupting Old Sums. Corvino has strode into the hold and looks over the crew. He gives a little nod.
“Patience, Splinters, Mags, Gull, and Mateo, it’s time to go,” he says, and then leaves.
“You heard the captain,” Patience barks. “Let’s go.”
Hurriedly I eat another bite of stew as Mags, Splinters, and a plain-looking man with a hooked nose who I assume is Gull all get up and follow Patience up to the deck. I race to join them, whatever it is we’re doing.
~ ~ ~