Free Cast Off by Eve Yohalem

hold and not in cabin where you make them,” Jaya said, shaking his head. “That is why I come down here. Maybe you have some food, bottle of gin, maybe some tobacco. But no. You have guns. Why you do this, my brother? You think you sell guns when we are in Batavia? You think you make big big money that way? VOC pay is so small that you—and me—we are like coolies. Slaves. Is that why you do this?”
    What was worse? Slipping Petra or letting Jaya think I was a thief? Men got hanged for a lot less than filching guns. If I said nothing, I’d swing for sure. But if I slipped Petra, Jaya would think she was the thief and she’d swing for me.
    Before I could answer him, Jaya raised his arm and I set my teeth against the blow. But the slap landed on my back, not my face.
    â€œI understand, my brother.”
    â€œYou do?”
    â€œ Ya . But this is not the way. You are too small and too lonely to steal guns. Put them back now.”
    Before Jaya could change his mind, I scooped up an armful of muskets and loaded ’em into a crate.
    â€œYou are quick boy. Very smart. Very hard work,” Jaya said, watching me. “You should have money. But this is not the way, my brother.”
    My brother. ’Twas the first time he’d said the words like he meant ’em.

14
    â€œMiss Petra, I brought you a treat!”
    After a month at sea, everyone’d eaten most of what they brought with ’em, and treats was rarer than a blue moon. I came down the ladder and stuck my candlestick in the wall. Petra was standing stock-stiff next to her bed, looking like I’d caught her at something.
    â€œA treat?” she said.
    â€œAye, look and see.”
    I handed her a small jar. Petra pried off the top and looked inside.
    â€œIs it—?”
    â€œAye. Honey. A cove gave it to Pa after he fixed his sea trunk for him, and Pa gave some to me. Here’s a biscuit to go with it.”
    But Petra didn’t take the biscuit. She just stood there with her nose in the jar.
    â€œMiss Petra?”
    â€œHmm? Oh! Forgive me. Th-thank you, Bram. Thank you very much for sharing your treat with me.”
    Petra looked odd. Her eyes was all puffy like she’d been crying, and her hands shook a little.
    â€œThe honey’s meant for eating, not for sniffing,” I said, trying a joke.
    She might’ve gone red. I couldn’t tell in the dim light.
    â€œYes, I know. It’s just that the honey smells so good, and, well . . .”
    I knew what she meant. The honey smelled like honey, and the hold stank of dirty water and dead rats.
    We ate ship’s biscuits and honey and talked for a bit, and Petra’s hands stopped shaking and her face started looking more regular.
    â€œDid you bring more oakum for me?” she asked.
    â€œNot today. You picked all a cove could possibly do twice over yesterday. It’d seem off if I showed up with more.”
    Her face was grim, like she was sorry she didn’t have more neck-cricking, finger-pricking work to do. It must be dull as doors down here. I looked round her quarters. The boxes was stacked so each one lined up just so with the next. And they was grouped in size order with—I counted—exactly six boxes in every stack. The barrels was grouped in fours—four together on the bottom, four on top—lined up like the boxes so no edge hung over another. I bet if I wiped the floor, my hand would come away clean.
    This was what Petra did when there was nothing else to do. And when she ran out of stuff to straighten, I bet she did it all over again.
    â€œPretty dull down here?” I asked.
    â€œOh, I make do,” she said, her hands shaking again. “There are always rats to chase, and I make up stories for myself . . . poems . . . that sort of thing. It’s quite nice, actually, no one telling me what to do. I can sleep as much as I want! I’ve grown quite lazy.”
    Sweep,