Free Scalpdancers by Kerry Newcomb Page A

across from him. “What say you, Tim Britchetto? Do you and Jocko plan to cut your losses and jump ship?”
    Anger flashed like distant lightning in the young man’s eyes. He drew himself up, hooked his thumbs in his belt, and assumed a defiant stance, planting his feet firmly on the deck as if daring any man to try and move him.
    â€œI’m Penmerry’s man. So is my brother,” he stated.
    To Tim’s surprise, Temp laughed in his face and clapped him on the shoulder.
    â€œGood lad,” Temp said. “My doubts was all pretend. You might not know salt pork from saltpeter, but you’ll do.” He waved toward the wagon at the foot of the gangplank. “Now get this barrel back where it come from and I’ll see Don Rodrigo.”
    Temp started down the gangplank as Tim refitted the lid to the pork barrel and hoisted it to his shoulders. The afternoon was drawing on. Though the captain’s business was none of his concern, Tim voiced the question anyway.
    â€œMr. Rawlins, just where is Captain Penmerry?”
    Temp turned sharply as if to admonish the youth. Instead, he shrugged. The question was plaguing him as well.
    Not that there was anything for the captain to do. It was Temp Rawlins’s job to see that the Hotspur was ready to take to sea. The first mate had an uneasy feeling that Morgan had gotten into trouble—not with Chiang Lu though. Worse. Morgan had left that morning to look over the crew of the reverend’s bark in hopes of finding some of the Hotspur’ s crew. If he had found the missionary’s daughter instead …
    â€œYou worry about your duties and don’t be frettin’ over the welfare of Captain Penmerry. He can take care of himself and you and me as well.” Temp tugged a wool cap onto his almost hairless skull and continued down the walkway and onto shore.
    A burly seaman named Gude and Jocko Britchetto, under the watchful gaze of the wagon driver, a slim, sullen-faced Chinese in the employ of Don Rodrigo, had begun to inspect the pork barrels, pronouncing the contents of one spoiled and another just beginning to turn.
    The Hotspur’s first mate strode toward the warehouse. A mongrel hound nipped at the man’s heels. Temp sent the animal baying with a well-placed kick to the side. A local merchant named Chi Do spied Temp from a nearby stall and managed to intercept him.
    â€œOut of my way,” Temp growled at the Oriental man.
    â€œIndeed. As you wish. But I have prepared three baskets of smoked fish, my honorable friend,” the merchant declared. “I refused to sell them to any other ship until I visit my good friend Captain Penmerry and my good friend Mr. Rawlins.” Chi Do had to hurry to keep abreast of the long-legged old seaman.
    â€œName your price, Chi,” Temp said without breaking stride.
    â€œOne thousand patacas will lift me from poverty,” Chi Do proposed. Today he wore a threadbare brown silk coat, but Temp had seen him in finery and parading among the rum houses and taverns with an entourage of courtesans.
    â€œTwo hundred and fifty,” Temp countered without pity. “If you wish to rise high, why not climb the Thousand Buddha Cliffs?”
    â€œSeven hundred and I will still be able to marry off my daughters with handsome dowry,” Chi Do appealed. “And may Buddha bless you.”
    â€œFive hundred,” Temp said. “I know your daughters. One of them is already married. As for the other, there’s not enough gold in Macao to see her wedded or bedded.”
    â€œAgreed.” Chi Do shrugged and bowed. “I fear you have spoken the truth. My eldest is an arguesome child with all the appeal of a goat. But all is not lost. I know a blind farmer just beyond the China gate….” Chi Do bowed again as Temp paid him; then the merchant hurried back to his stall to attend to the baskets, the smallest of which stood five feet tall and was heavy with a