The pleasant thoughts weren't working. Jack was cold, wet, and more than a little unhappy. With a sigh, he leaned back and glowered at his surroundings. For a man who had vowed the day he left Bristol to never be a prisoner again, he seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time chained up, tied down, or knocked out. Sometimes all three at once.
Bristol. Jack's lips twisted. Now that was a place he hadn't thought of in…a long time. A very long time. Dear old dreary Bristol. Too damned wet to be hell on Earth, but the next best thing. Actually, his present soggy situation reminded him more than a little of that benighted city. Jack's eyes drifted shut, blotting out his prison and the water around him…but the memories refused to fade.
Bristol…
It was one of those rare cloudless summer days, when the sun shone gloriously over Bristol and the river Avon. Everything looked fresh and new; the birds singing ecstatically. The moored ships swayed gently, their sails neatly furled and the water beneath them so vivid a blue as to be blinding, while overhead, seagulls soared and banked in the summer sky. The sounds of the docks carried on the air – men shouting to each other as they loaded their ships, the creak of windlasses, and the song of the breeze through the riggings…and most of all, the waves lapping at the hulls. It was a siren song, and it called to Jack, carrying with it a promise for the future. His future.
His hand moved unconsciously to the pocket that held the letter he had received that day and sorrow lanced through him yet again, followed by disbelief. His mother was dead. He had read the letter more than a dozen times, but somehow it didn't seem quite real. Not yet.
At least it had been quick. She hadn't suffered, according to the letter from the parish priest. Her heart had simply stopped. There was no reason for it, and nothing Jack could have done to save her, even if he had been there. She hadn't even been exerting herself – merely walking home from the market, her basket no heavier than usual. One moment alive, the next…
He had loved her. Beside his uncle and two younger cousins, his mother was all the family he had left in the world. And now she was gone. It hurt. Quite a lot actually, when he allowed himself to think about it. And yet…
And yet it also meant that he was free. Free from the promise he had made all those years ago, free to make his own decisions and lead his own life now. A sense of relief shivered within him, followed by guilt. His mother was dead. He shouldn't be feeling like this. And yet…
'Don't think about it,' Jack told himself firmly. No, he had other worries just now – namely, how to evade the pursuit that would surely be coming after him. He would have been missed by now, Jack knew – the remnants of his hasty packing in his room a clear sign as to his intent.
He had promised his mother he would stay in Bristol, that black day, five years ago. He had promised her he would obey his uncle, Edward Nelson, and he had promised to lead a respectable life. And for five years, he had tried. But now the reason for his promise was gone, and Jack was free. At least, he would be if he could avoid capture long enough to make sail. Uncle Edward might not care that much for him personally, but he too had made a promise to Jack's mother…and stubbornness was a trait that seemed to run in abundance on both sides of Jack's family.
Jack paused and leaned one hip against a nearby barrel, despite the sense of urgency that was gnawing at him, and ran a practiced eye over the ships spread out before him. He might not be a sailor – 'yet', a voice within him supplied – but he hadn't spent his every free moment here, watching the ships and talking to the men who sailed them, for nothing. Over the past few years, when he hadn't been learning the fine art of cartography, he had been learning the art of the sea. Now he could identify every ship before him with just a glance. Here was a Barque, fore and aft rigged on the mizzenmast. Just beyond it, a Brigantine, followed by another Barque, a Schooner, and a Brig. One part of Jack's mind automatically began to list the Brig's sails – inner jib, outer jib, flying jib, foresail, fore topsail, and so on. It was a soothing litany, one that focused his thoughts and calmed his nerves.
He was really going to do this. He was going to climb on board one of these ships and sail away – from Bristol, from England, and from the life he hated. Jack eased his satchel from his shoulder for a moment then paused, the black stains on his fingertips catching his gaze. Ink. The mark of a cartographer - literally. It would be a long time before the stains would wear off, he knew. It was almost like being branded. Branded a cartographer's apprentice, and, in these past few months, a cartographer itself. It felt like a sentence of death.
Jack didn't blame his mother. She had done the best for him that she could, after that awful night when the excise men had come. No, he didn't blame her for sending him away. She had just lost her husband. To lose her only son as well would have been devastating. He understood that, though it hadn't made his life in Bristol any easier to stomach. He had loved Cornwall, had loved its endless coastlines and the song of the sea. But this? A cartographer's apprentice? Jack's stained fingers clenched. He knew why she had done it – out of a desperate desire to give her son a future. Security. Respectability. Jack snorted inwardly. Well, that part certainly hadn't worked. There was too much of his father in him. At least, that's what his uncle was always saying. Still, he gave his mother points for trying.
Another pang shot through him. God, he was going to miss her. Even if she had sent him to her brother, who had in turn sentenced him to sit in a dry and dusty office with a doddery old man, drawing the world instead of going out and seeing it, he was still going to miss her. Life for Jack seemed to consist of one loss after another –his father, his home, and finally his freedom itself. And now his mother. Jack's gaze narrowed. Well, he had lost quite enough, thank you very much. It was high time he started taking something back. Starting with his liberty. His uncle might still want him to be a cartographer for his mother's sake, but that was never going to happen. With a swift, economic movement Jack stood and shouldered his pack.
Jack ruled out the first few ships he came across. The Barque was too tattered and grimy, the Brigantine too clean. The crew of the second Barque looked a bit too dangerous – not that Jack had many qualms in that direction, being the son of a smuggler, but he didn't intend to have his throat cut the first night out. He was tempted by the Schooner, but it looked like she already had a full complement of crew, and besides, the ship seemed a mite ungainly. If he were going to leave, he might as well do it in style. The two-masted Brig though…. Once again, Jack ran his eyes over her, taking in her clean lines. True, she was getting on a bit, and was a little worse for wear, but she had the air of an aging aristocrat, or an elderly racehorse that might have one last good gallop in her. Abruptly Jack smiled, the first time he had done so since the news of his mother's death. "I like you," he told the ship silently.
Her name was the Mary Ellen, he found as he drew nearer. Upon closer inspection his first impressions were borne out. Her paint was flaking and her sails were worn, but everything that could be patched had been, and her canvas was tidily mended. Somebody definitely cared about this ship. Best of all though, she seemed to be short-handed. A number of sailors were struggling to get the water and rum barrels on board, while a few others were lashing down the boats. A large man with a red beard, probably about forty or so, stood on the dock, directing the crew as they loaded the cargo onto the ship. A flicker of recognition went through Jack at the man's accent.
Cornish.
"Gussenup angitten or I'll skat 'ee," the man shouted to one sailor, who glowered at him before heading down the gangplank to fetch two sacks of flour, which he hoisted over his shoulder.
"Deeth daa," Jack said, dredging up the little Cornish that he actually remembered. Then he lapsed back into English, though purposely broadening his vowels. He had always been good at accents, tending to pick up whatever was spoken around him. The master cartographer he had served under hailed from East London, so his own accent was currently an odd mixture of Cornish, Somerset, and Londoner. Now though, he let his childhood intonation return. "Where 'ee bound?"
The bearded man paused and cast him a look. Jack had a feeling that he might have been told to bugger off, in no uncertain terms, if it hadn't been for the recognition of one Cornishman to another.
"Ceylon," Redbeard replied briefly, before turning to shout at another sailor.
Good enough. "Takin' on any crew?" Jack asked.
Redbeard turned and gave him a long slow look. Jack smiled back hopefully. The man's eyes narrowed.
"How old be 'ee?"
"Seventeen."
Redbeard looked doubtful and not for the first time Jack cursed his youthful looks. He was seventeen, though he looked younger. He wasn't particularly tall or powerfully built, and probably never would be unless he put on a late growth spurt - although the scar over his right eyebrow did help a little. 'Maybe I should grow a beard,' Jack thought randomly. It couldn't hurt.
"'Ave 'ee sailed afore, lad?" Redbeard was asking.
Again, Jack was tempted to lie, but decided against it. Besides, if they did take him on they'd soon know he was a novice. Learning and talking about sailing was a far cry from actually doing it.
"No," he said. "But I can read any chart, I know a bowsprit from a gaff, and I'm strong. I learn fast."
The man turned away. "Don't have no time for beginners. Get away home wi'ee." Then he walked away, leaving Jack staring at the man's back.
Damn. Now what? Jack hesitated, torn between going after Redbeard again and giving the Schooner a try instead. He shifted his weight, his fingers toying with the satchel – and a large brawny hand came out of nowhere and clamped around his shoulder. Jack yelped and turned his head. The hand was attached to an even larger, brawnier body. Madsen. Hell's bells.
Madsen was his uncle's man. Driver, groom, and general dogs-body. And he was roughly the size of an elephant. A very large elephant. Jack jerked backwards, trying to break the man's grip, but he might as well have tried to hold back the tide. If Madsen had a hold of something, then that something stayed held until Madsen decided otherwise.
"Your uncle sent me," the man said calmly. Madsen was always calm.
"So I gathered. Let go."
"Sorry, boy." The large man shook his head. "Can't do that. I'm ordered to bring you back home."
"Well, that makes it difficult for both of us, doesn't it?" Jack said a little breathlessly as his shoulder began to go numb, "because I'm not going back."
"Yes you are."
Yes, he was, Jack realized glumly. Madsen could sling him over his shoulder like a sack of flour and carry him back to his uncle without even breaking a sweat. It wouldn't be the first time, either. 'Keep the boy out of trouble,' Edward Nelson had instructed his man when Jack had first arrived in Bristol. And Madsen had proceeded to do just that. In five years, Jack had never once succeeded in eluding or outwitting the groom.
Except this time he must. This time it was too important. For a moment Jack could almost see his future stretching out before him. Drawing maps. Earning a respectable but meagre living. Probably settling down with a local woman and having a bevy of brats. And every evening after work, coming to the docks to watch the ships set sail. Without him. The bleakness of it took his breath away. 'I can't do it,' Jack thought desperately. 'I won't.'
'So don't,' something inside him seemed to say. 'Fight back.'
But how? There was no way Jack could take Madsen in a fair fight, even if he had been several inches taller and a stone or two heavier. So maybe it was time to stop fighting fair…
Jack relaxed in Madsen's grip, allowing his shoulders – well, the one that was free, anyway – to slump as if in defeat. "Don't take on so," Jack said, pitching his voice so it carried across the docks, loudly and clearly. "I haven't told a soul your name. And none of the other lads would turn you in to the revenuers for the reward, I'll wager."
Around him, he could almost see the sailors pricking up their ears, shooting quick glances at the two of them. Madsen looked confused. "Eh? What're you on about?"
"'Twas someone else gave them your name." Jack forged gamely onward. "I swear on a stack of bibles it wasn't me. I know a hundred pound is a handsome sum, but I wouldn't turn you in, even for twice that. Wouldn't dare, would I?"
He almost had them now. Out of the corner of his eye, Jack could see men putting down their loads, beginning to move closer.
"Lad…" Madsen began warningly.
"Besides," Jack continued, his voice just a shade louder, "the cargo we took off that French ship down the coast is worth a fortune. I'd be a fool to turn you in for a measly hundred quid, and risk losing my share. 'Sides, nobody would be mad enough to take on someone like you, just for that."
As if on cue, a hand clamped down on Madsen's shoulder. Jack swallowed his grin. A sailor, almost as large as Madsen, looked menacingly at the groom.
"Maybe you should be letting the lad go," he growled.
"And maybe you should be minding your own business."
Another man had circled around to their left. "And maybe a hundred pound makes it my business."
Madsen swore at him…then staggered backwards as the man's fist collided with his nose. The groom had to release his captive in order to hit the sailor back – and just like that Jack was free. Tightening his grip on his satchel, he dove between two sailors who were moving towards what was, by the sound of it, fast becoming an all-out brawl, skirted another man wielding a knife, then strolled nonchalantly down the dock, a faint spring in his step.
"Lad!" The voice was sharp. Jack froze then turned to meet the stern gaze of the red-bearded man he had spoken to earlier. The man's eyes narrowed.
"There b'ain't no reward, be there?"
Jack swallowed. "Ah…no. Not really. But I'm sure Madsen is worth a hundred pounds to somebody."
A long moment passed, then Redbeard laughed. "Right little heller 'ee are." He rubbed his beard. "Are 'ee still looking to make sail?"
Jack glanced over his shoulder, to see Madsen disappear briefly beneath a flurry of bodies before coming back up, throwing punches right and left. "Aye," he replied. Preferably soon.
"Be 'ee in any trouble with the law?"
"Not yet," Jack grinned at him. Redbeard laughed again and stuck out his hand.
"A'right then. I'm Captain Penhallow. We lost half the crew to pirates last trip out. If 'ee work hard I'll see 'ee get an equal share of the profits, same as any other. If 'ee give us any trouble like I just saw, I'll tip 'ee over the side meself. Savvy?"
Jack took his hand and shook it firmly. "Savvy."
Penhallow nodded. "Right. Get on up there, introduce yourself to the bosun and do what he tells 'ee."
Unable to contain his smile, Jack turned and began to climb the gangplank.
"Lad!" The Captain shouted.
Jack turned. "Yes?"
"Yer name."
"Jack. Jack White."
Penhallow nodded. "Welcome aboard the Mary Ellen, Jack White."
Jack closed his eyes as a wave of nostalgia swept over him. The Mary Ellen had been a good ship, and Captain Penhallow's sailors a good crew. Between them, they had turned Jack into a sailor. He had learned to caulk decks, keep watch, and mend canvas. He had seen more of the world in eighteen months than he had in his entire life. Of course, it had all come to an end when Penhallow had died of a fever near Madagascar. The Mary Ellen herself had followed him soon after, going down in a tropical storm off the coast of India. Jack had barely escaped with his life. Nevertheless, they were good times. He had certainly never regretted leaving behind the respectable life of a cartographer. Even now, tired, aching and trapped in a filthy bilge, Jack wouldn't change a single thing.
Well, maybe just one. He would have killed Harry Covenant when he had the chance.