Privateer's Apprentice by Susan Verrico Page A

properly organized. The memory feels wonderful, and I stop struggling in the water, eager for more memories to come.
    I slip beneath the surface just as the sea explodes. Geysers of water shoot into the air. Shaken from my dream, I push myself toward the surface. A second firepot explodes beside me, spraying nails and bits of glass. Pain knifes through my shoulder and leg. I feel a fierce tugging on my shirt. I am certain a shark has me. With all the strength I have left, I lash out. My fist connects with flesh.
    â€œDon’t fight me, Jameson,” the Captain commands in a voice that is low and calm. “We’ll both drown if you do.” With one arm looped around my chest, he swims with me toward
Destiny
. Exhausted and unable to use my arm or leg, I allow myself to be pulled along. When we reach the ship, Solitaire Peep tosses a grappling hook into the water. The Captain grabs the hook and pulls us toward the ship.
    On deck, I kneel, retching up the water I swallowed.
    â€œAye, spit it out, boy,” Solitaire Peep says, pounding me on the back. “You’ve gulped down half the sea.”
    Gunther bends low. “We should’ve left you there,” he hisses. “The Captain risked his life and we ours. We wasted precious firepots trying to save your worthless hide.”
    â€œLeave him and watch his body be torn to pieces?” The Captain unbuttons his dripping shirt. “I would have done the same for any of my men.”
    â€œHe brings nothing to this ship but trouble,” Gunther says angrily. “Can’t even climb down the ratlines properly.”
    â€œHe wouldn’t have fallen had you tied a proper knot.” The Captain’s voice is hard and accusing. “I could lay this at your feet.”
    Gunther draws back quickly. His eyes narrow into thin slits. “Surely you don’t blame me for the brat’s bumbling. I tied a proper knot; could be the boy fiddled with it during the night and loosened it up.”
    â€œPerhaps,” the Captain says. “That is a question I’ll ask Jameson later. Now go summon Cook and tell him to bring needle and thread before I put you in irons for your loose tongue.”
    â€œAye, tell him he’ll need a yard of thread this time,” Solitaire Peep says, yanking his dagger from its sheath. With a quick flip of his wrist, he slices open my sleeve. “The lad’s arm looks like a pincushion and the kicking part of his leg is bent bad.”
    When Cook sees the blood running down my arm, he clucks his tongue and gets to work quickly. He has brought a bottle of rum up from storage, and he yanks the plug with his teeth and splashes the golden liquid over my shoulder. I gasp as he spreads the skin of my arm apart and places small metal tongs around the head of the nail from the firepot. I feel cold metal against my skin and then fire as he yanks upward, pulling the nail from my wound.
    â€œGive it here,” Solitaire Peep says, putting out his hand. “The boy’s English blood will mix with the enemy’s next time these are used.”
    The sun is fully risen by the time Cook removes the last nail. I moan as he lifts my arm close to his face and examines it in the sunlight. His hands are slick with blood.
    â€œAre you done?” I whisper.
    He shakes his head. “The nails are gone, but I’ve got to unbury the glass and clay and then stitch you up.” He pulls from his pocket the thin-bladed knife he used to pluck the hens. Tiny white feathers and bits of greasy skin cling to the blade. He wipes it quickly across his breeches. “Best I heat the tip to help sear the wound,” he says.
    Solitaire Peep shakes his head. “We cain’t chance a spark will blow into the sails in this wind.”
    Nodding, Cook splashes more rum on my arm. I yelp as the fire spreads to my shoulder.
    â€œYou wouldn’t be wailing if we had a cow’s tongue to lay across your wounds to