Free On a Lee Shore by Elin Gregory Page B

him the charts. Don’t leave him alone for one moment. I don’t trust him as far as I can spit. And that’s not far.” To illustrate he hawked and deposited a glob of phlegm between Wigram’s feet. “Wigram, clear that up. The rest of you go and do something useful. Valliere, put up the pennant for the Garnet. Someone might see it, if anyone’s sober.” With a final contemptuous flick of the eyes in Kit’s direction, he stepped up onto the railing and began to climb the ratlines.
    Kit watched him until a nudge from O’Neill brought his attention back to the deck. He and Wigram exchanged the kind of look that promised that the matter would be taken further, then they parted—Wigram to fetch a bucket and mop and Kit to follow O’Neill below.
    The chartroom was a cupboard with a fold down shelf and a lantern. Kit hadn’t expected even that much, so he was pleased and impressed at the quality of the other equipment. They were mismatched, of varying materials, and bore makers names from Bristol, Zeebrugge, and Lisbon, but all were well kept and functioning.
    The charts were a mixed bunch as well. Most were Spanish, beautiful, well-made things with careful annotations and corrections in a legible hand. But there was a standard set of British naval charts, water stained down one edge, and several homemade ones drawn on a section of a larger map that Kit assumed was Dutch.
    On an upper shelf a package wrapped in oilskin proved to contain books. Kit read the titles with a surprised lift of the eyebrows.
    “Is the captain a scholar?” he asked. “A mathematician?”
    O’Neill snorted. “He was an Oxford man. Get him on the numbers, young Kit, and he can prove you’re not a pirate but a spinster aunt with two cats running a tannery business in Sligo.”
    Kit rewrapped the books carefully. Hakluyt, Waghenaer, and Bourne were to be expected, but there had been works by Heriot and Wright as well, plus a package of pamphlets that Kit’s fingers had itched to open.
    “Mathematics can do that,” he agreed. “So what should I call this Oxford man?”
    “Sir, if you’re wise,” O’Neill warned. “He has no liking and little patience for your sort.”
    Kit’s lips tightened. “My sort,” he said. “What do you mean by that?”
    O’Neill held up his hands, grinning. “Steady—I meant English. What did you think I meant?”
    “Nothing,” Kit replied, maybe a little too quickly because O’Neill grinned again. “English—half the bloody crew is English. I’ve heard voices of Padstow and Penzance and Bristol.”
    “Different sort of English, isn’t it?” O’Neill pointed out. “Now, if you’re satisfied with your tools, I’m guessing the old man’ll want to see you’re up to the job before he trusts you on your own.”
    “The old man, the captain, the Oxford man.” Kit sighed. “Doesn’t he have a bloody name?”
    “Not that you’ve earned the right to put tongue to,” O’Neill said. “Do your job well and willingly, and if you please him you’ll be told. For the moment—don’t you have some cringles to finish?”
    Back on deck the sail, the palm, and Davy were exactly where he had left them, but Saunders was on an upturned bucket nearby with a book and a bottle.
    “Ah there you are. I was told Wigram was eating you alive with mustard and came to watch him choke.” Saunders waved the book. “Now listen to this and tell me what you think. Is this not the most appalling translation of Homer you ever heard?”
    Davy grinned at Kit as he took up his work again, perfectly happy to listen to the story, bad translation or no. Kit too felt happier as he argued with Saunders.
    “It may not be accurate, but it certainly makes the story romp along,” he said. “Much better than the Ogilby, anyway.”
    “Youth.” Saunders sniffed. “Remind me to make you a draft to balance your humors. Too much excitement is bad for a man.”
    That evening the company assembled for their evening