"Delicious, as always, ma'am," said Will. He stood and out of
long-standing habit reached for the dishes, to carry them off for
washing.
Mistress Rackham frowned at him, her twinkling eyes belying the stern expression. "Sit, Will. Today you're not to do a lick of work. We are celebrating the end of your apprenticeship!"
Will glanced quickly at the half-recumbent figure of his employer drowsing across the table. "Ah, the work does not cease, only that I will be paid for it, now that Master Brown has agreed that I have the skills necessary to move from apprentice to journeyman. But I thank you, mistress, as I thank Master Brown for letting me close the shop today in honor of the occasion." He sat back down and lifted his mug again.
Not surprisingly, Master Brown had held him to every day of the seven-year apprenticeship contract, though they both knew that Will had mastered every skill two twelvemonths since. It was Will who produced almost all of their stock-in-trade in blades, and shoed the few horses brought to boot, while Brown limited himself to simple items that he could manage with shaking hands and bloodshot eyes. Common courtesy demanded that Brown be acknowledged as the maker of all, though, so Will held his tongue when his work was praised by a customer and Brown accepted the compliments as his own due.
He could not complain too much about Master Brown, who had recently been giving him more free time to work at what he wanted – practicing the technique of inlaying filigree, for instance, while Brown "quenched his thirst," as he put it. Privately Will considered that such a thirst could only be completely quenched if there were a second Flood like Noah's, but he kept that thought to himself. He would have liked to be released early, of course, but there was no legal obligation on Brown's part to do so, and naturally he wished to retain the service of such a skilled apprentice.
In any event he had had no better place to go, even if Brown had released him early. He might have crossed the bay to Kingston, or perhaps gone further afield to St. Kitts or New Providence, although the latter island was, he knew, greatly troubled by pirates. Leaving Port Royal, though, would mean leaving behind the few ties he had, and he was strangely reluctant to do so. Elizabeth Swann might be far above his aspirations, kind as she had always been to him, but his Sunday glimpses of her and her rare visits to the smithy lent meaning to his life. Then too he had his friends: Mistress Rackham treated him like a favorite nephew, and he had comrades enough among the other apprentices of the town. Over the years he had even grown to know some of the sailors who made regular stops in Port Royal.
Today was Saturday, and after a comfortable afternoon spent with Mistress Rackham drinking tea and listening to her good-natured gossip about her neighbors, Will decided to go to the tavern for the evening. He still frequented the Copper Groat, finding it more to his liking than the Bell &Whistle where Brown spent most of his days. The Groat attracted a younger crowd, leavened by a good sprinkling of sailors. Even after seven years, Will asked on occasion if anyone had ever heard of the Yancy and of her fate, though by now he knew it was unlikely he would learn anything. But tonight there were a number of strange faces to be seen, so Will began the familiar ritual of insinuating himself into conversations, perhaps buying the man a drink, and then making his inquiries.
To his very great surprise, tonight his questions received an answer.
Davy Maddox – that was the fellow's name, so he said. He had a grizzled head of hair that had once been red and was now faded by sun and age, and his nose appeared to have been broken several times, probably in brawls, Will thought. But he was less surly than Will would have guessed at first, and became quite voluble after Will offered him a glass of rum.
"The Yancy? Aye, I recollect the old Yancy. Merchant ship, wasn't she. Used to be in the rum trade, sometimes slaves, sometimes sugar. Sad, what happened to her."
"What did happen?" asked Will eagerly.
"Ah, now, that must have been nigh on eight years ago. I'd shipped out on the Turtledove. Foolish name for a slaving ship, but the ship's owner insisted. Or perhaps it was his wife, I heard the money was all hers. 'T any rate, we were carrying a cargo from the Ivory Coast, intending to sell to the Portuguese for their sugar plantations. We'd crossed the Atlantic wi' no sign of trouble, when we caught sight of a ship before us.
"Near to foundering, she was. Could hardly believe she was still afloat. It was the Yancy, as we saw when we came closer. Our cap'n ordered the longboats out, sent some of us over to see what had happened."
To see what you could salvage, Will thought, listening.
Maddox continued, "When we reached her and went aboard, it was clear she'd been attacked by pirates. Bodies sprawled across the deck, half her rigging shot away, hold emptied of anything valuable. What surprised me most was that they hadn't taken her as a prize. Torn up, she was, but she would've been sound enough to get to a port for repairs. Strange, that.
"Judging from the number of corpses we found, I think that crew and cargo alike were all present and accounted for. No survivors. Or if the pirates had taken any living from the ship, we wouldn't've known. They might have taken a slave woman or two. There were some empty sets of manacles. But that could've been from losses on the crossing.
"I'm sorry to have to tell you that," he finished, "but if your father was on the Yancy, then ye'd best acquaint yourself wi' grief, for he won't be coming back."
Will was nodding slowly, absorbing the tale. He had held on to so little hope that William Turner might return that the shift from "little hope" to "no hope" was a relief more than anything. "Can I buy you another drink?" he offered. "The least I can do for the man who could tell me what must have happened to my father."
"If ye insist, boy," said Maddox. "I'll never turn down a drink kindly offered."
Will waited politely until Maddox had finished and one of his shipmates had joined them and begun speculating on where they would be off to next. Then he slipped away, back to the smithy, where he could think matters over.
For a day that had started off so well, it had ended with – not failure, exactly, but grief. He had found his father, only to lose him again forever. It could make no difference to him, really, but nonetheless he mourned anew for the loss of that half-remembered handsome face, the clasp of a strong hand on his shoulder, the voice saying proudly, "That's my boy," when Will had shown him how well he could read in his primer.
He sat near the forge, banked now for the night but still giving off heat in great waves. Will contemplated his future. He could stay here at Master Brown's indefinitely, perhaps, but did he really wish to? He shook his head, certain that Brown would prefer to keep him as journeyman, despite having to pay him a wage, for even in his drunkenness Brown was sharp enough to know he could no longer take and train a new apprentice.
Until he made a decision about the course his future would take, Will resolved, he would take advantage of his situation to hone his skills both in smithcraft and in swordplay. Brown might think him a fool or worse to spend three hours a day with the sword, but Will thought Brown the bigger fool, and heavy though the sword was, it was lighter by far than a smith's hammer. Will did wish he could find a partner to practice with regularly, as he had once trained with Rhys Jones, but working alone was better than nothing.
Will stood again and stretched. As he went to close the shutters over the one glassed window near the door, he thought for an instance that he saw the shade of William Turner outside, looking in at him and smiling – then he realized that it was only his own reflection in the night-darkened glass.
Mistress Rackham frowned at him, her twinkling eyes belying the stern expression. "Sit, Will. Today you're not to do a lick of work. We are celebrating the end of your apprenticeship!"
Will glanced quickly at the half-recumbent figure of his employer drowsing across the table. "Ah, the work does not cease, only that I will be paid for it, now that Master Brown has agreed that I have the skills necessary to move from apprentice to journeyman. But I thank you, mistress, as I thank Master Brown for letting me close the shop today in honor of the occasion." He sat back down and lifted his mug again.
Not surprisingly, Master Brown had held him to every day of the seven-year apprenticeship contract, though they both knew that Will had mastered every skill two twelvemonths since. It was Will who produced almost all of their stock-in-trade in blades, and shoed the few horses brought to boot, while Brown limited himself to simple items that he could manage with shaking hands and bloodshot eyes. Common courtesy demanded that Brown be acknowledged as the maker of all, though, so Will held his tongue when his work was praised by a customer and Brown accepted the compliments as his own due.
He could not complain too much about Master Brown, who had recently been giving him more free time to work at what he wanted – practicing the technique of inlaying filigree, for instance, while Brown "quenched his thirst," as he put it. Privately Will considered that such a thirst could only be completely quenched if there were a second Flood like Noah's, but he kept that thought to himself. He would have liked to be released early, of course, but there was no legal obligation on Brown's part to do so, and naturally he wished to retain the service of such a skilled apprentice.
In any event he had had no better place to go, even if Brown had released him early. He might have crossed the bay to Kingston, or perhaps gone further afield to St. Kitts or New Providence, although the latter island was, he knew, greatly troubled by pirates. Leaving Port Royal, though, would mean leaving behind the few ties he had, and he was strangely reluctant to do so. Elizabeth Swann might be far above his aspirations, kind as she had always been to him, but his Sunday glimpses of her and her rare visits to the smithy lent meaning to his life. Then too he had his friends: Mistress Rackham treated him like a favorite nephew, and he had comrades enough among the other apprentices of the town. Over the years he had even grown to know some of the sailors who made regular stops in Port Royal.
Today was Saturday, and after a comfortable afternoon spent with Mistress Rackham drinking tea and listening to her good-natured gossip about her neighbors, Will decided to go to the tavern for the evening. He still frequented the Copper Groat, finding it more to his liking than the Bell &Whistle where Brown spent most of his days. The Groat attracted a younger crowd, leavened by a good sprinkling of sailors. Even after seven years, Will asked on occasion if anyone had ever heard of the Yancy and of her fate, though by now he knew it was unlikely he would learn anything. But tonight there were a number of strange faces to be seen, so Will began the familiar ritual of insinuating himself into conversations, perhaps buying the man a drink, and then making his inquiries.
To his very great surprise, tonight his questions received an answer.
Davy Maddox – that was the fellow's name, so he said. He had a grizzled head of hair that had once been red and was now faded by sun and age, and his nose appeared to have been broken several times, probably in brawls, Will thought. But he was less surly than Will would have guessed at first, and became quite voluble after Will offered him a glass of rum.
"The Yancy? Aye, I recollect the old Yancy. Merchant ship, wasn't she. Used to be in the rum trade, sometimes slaves, sometimes sugar. Sad, what happened to her."
"What did happen?" asked Will eagerly.
"Ah, now, that must have been nigh on eight years ago. I'd shipped out on the Turtledove. Foolish name for a slaving ship, but the ship's owner insisted. Or perhaps it was his wife, I heard the money was all hers. 'T any rate, we were carrying a cargo from the Ivory Coast, intending to sell to the Portuguese for their sugar plantations. We'd crossed the Atlantic wi' no sign of trouble, when we caught sight of a ship before us.
"Near to foundering, she was. Could hardly believe she was still afloat. It was the Yancy, as we saw when we came closer. Our cap'n ordered the longboats out, sent some of us over to see what had happened."
To see what you could salvage, Will thought, listening.
Maddox continued, "When we reached her and went aboard, it was clear she'd been attacked by pirates. Bodies sprawled across the deck, half her rigging shot away, hold emptied of anything valuable. What surprised me most was that they hadn't taken her as a prize. Torn up, she was, but she would've been sound enough to get to a port for repairs. Strange, that.
"Judging from the number of corpses we found, I think that crew and cargo alike were all present and accounted for. No survivors. Or if the pirates had taken any living from the ship, we wouldn't've known. They might have taken a slave woman or two. There were some empty sets of manacles. But that could've been from losses on the crossing.
"I'm sorry to have to tell you that," he finished, "but if your father was on the Yancy, then ye'd best acquaint yourself wi' grief, for he won't be coming back."
Will was nodding slowly, absorbing the tale. He had held on to so little hope that William Turner might return that the shift from "little hope" to "no hope" was a relief more than anything. "Can I buy you another drink?" he offered. "The least I can do for the man who could tell me what must have happened to my father."
"If ye insist, boy," said Maddox. "I'll never turn down a drink kindly offered."
Will waited politely until Maddox had finished and one of his shipmates had joined them and begun speculating on where they would be off to next. Then he slipped away, back to the smithy, where he could think matters over.
For a day that had started off so well, it had ended with – not failure, exactly, but grief. He had found his father, only to lose him again forever. It could make no difference to him, really, but nonetheless he mourned anew for the loss of that half-remembered handsome face, the clasp of a strong hand on his shoulder, the voice saying proudly, "That's my boy," when Will had shown him how well he could read in his primer.
He sat near the forge, banked now for the night but still giving off heat in great waves. Will contemplated his future. He could stay here at Master Brown's indefinitely, perhaps, but did he really wish to? He shook his head, certain that Brown would prefer to keep him as journeyman, despite having to pay him a wage, for even in his drunkenness Brown was sharp enough to know he could no longer take and train a new apprentice.
Until he made a decision about the course his future would take, Will resolved, he would take advantage of his situation to hone his skills both in smithcraft and in swordplay. Brown might think him a fool or worse to spend three hours a day with the sword, but Will thought Brown the bigger fool, and heavy though the sword was, it was lighter by far than a smith's hammer. Will did wish he could find a partner to practice with regularly, as he had once trained with Rhys Jones, but working alone was better than nothing.
Will stood again and stretched. As he went to close the shutters over the one glassed window near the door, he thought for an instance that he saw the shade of William Turner outside, looking in at him and smiling – then he realized that it was only his own reflection in the night-darkened glass.