Free Privateer's Apprentice by Susan Verrico Page B

heavy, I move my hand into the moonlight, and with perfect penmanship, I sign my name in bold, sweeping letters so that it is splayed across the heavens for them to see.
Jameson Martin Cooper
. I know they will glance at each other and smile when they see I have not forgotten my father’s craft. In the darkness, I smile back at them.

    The next morning the goat nuzzles me awake. I open my eyes slowly, startled to see day pouring through the porthole above my head. My morning rituals go quickly, since last night I cleaned the crates and filled the animals’ trough with fresh water. Giving the goat’s head a quick pat, I pull on my breeches and shirt and hurry into the hall. I notice immediately that the ship is strangely quiet. I don’t hear Solitaire Peep shouting out the day’s assignments, something he does each morning. I think Peep does it simply to remind those on board that he is next in command behind the Captain.
    In the galley, I see no sign of Cook and the firebox is cold and filled with yesterday’s ash. As I pass the crew’s quarters,
Destiny
lurches suddenly to the side, tossing me hard against the wall. It is then I notice that the ship moves faster than usual. I wonder if a storm draws close. Rubbing my shoulder, I sprint up the steps.
    A blast of wet wind hits me as soon as I come through the hatch. The Captain stands at the tiller with Solitaire Peep. His presence on deck so early in the morning surprises me, for he rarely makes an appearance until after the noon meal. The rowers’ benches are empty. The sails billow.
    When the Captain sees me, he steps down from the tiller and waves his arm toward the hatch. “Come below, Jameson.”
    â€œAye, sir.” I wonder if I am in trouble for sleeping past the time when I should have been up and at work. I glance at Solitaire Peep, but there is nothing in his face that indicates what the summons is about.
    â€œMove quickly, boy,” Solitaire Peep says through the wind. “The season of storms is upon us. When you’re finished below, you can help to furl the sails before we’re turned upside down.”
    I follow the Captain to his cabin at the end of the passageway. A candle burns low on his desk, filling the small room with a hazy light and sour smell. He opens a drawer and brings out a gold box. Lifting the lid, he hands the open box to me. I look down at a set of gold tools. Lined up across a length of red velvet are an ivory quill with a gold nib, a gold ruler, a quadrant and compass, a small bottle of black ink, and a new roll of parchment.
    â€œI’m sure you’ve seen a sea artist’s kit before,” the Captain says.
    â€œOnly once, sir,” I reply. “A nobleman requested my father to order him one from England. It was not as fine as this.”
    â€œThe one you hold was a gift to me from Queen Anne. She intends that I mark the waters we travel and the shores we find and claim them in her name. England must claim what is rightfully hers.”
    â€œAnd what is rightfully hers?” I ask. My words must have sounded mocking, for the Captain’s eyes narrow.
    â€œWhatever Queen Anne decides she wants in the NewWorld. It is our duty to record where we go and what we see so that she can make that decision.”
    â€œAnd what if King Louis or King Philip have already claimed what we see?” I ask. Almost before I utter the last words, I wish to recall them, for I have no desire to spar with the man who holds my life in his hand.
    â€œWhat if?” The Captain seems amused at the suggestion. “Of course Philip and Louis have already laid claim. Philip believes that because he holds Havana and La Florida, all in the New World belongs to Spain. And given the chance, Louis would claim the entire world for France.”
    â€œQueen Anne would not?”
    â€œQueen Anne claims what God has deemed rightfully hers as the head of the greatest kingdom on God’s