Minerva's Voyage (3 page)
“Stop gawking, boy.” He chanted the verse to himself then snorted, “Terrible rhyme.”
“You could change it, Master Thatcher.”
“Change it? Change it? I didn't write it, you ignorant buffoon. Master Plumsell did.”
I was none the wiser, and said so politely.
“This is an emblem from Master Henricus Plumsell himself.”
“What's an emblem, sir?
“Always a bloody question. I'll soon teach you to shut up.” He thrust his face into mine. It was horrible, being so close, all warts and pimples.
I closed my eyes. “I'm anxious to learn sir, to do you better service.”
Scratcher fell for my ruse. “Oh, very well. It's as you see: a picture with a verse or two under it, a diversion for the rich, who don't have much to do with themselves except play with emblems and complicos.”
I wanted to ask him what a complico might be, but let it pass.
“The more you see and read an emblem,” he went on, “the more it is supposed to tell you.”
“How does it do that?”
“It just does. The verses and pictures reveal things.”
“What sort of things?”
“Nothing a jolthead fool like you would understand.”
I pressed on. “Where's it from?”
“Another apish question. If it's any of your business, I came by this one by, er, unconventional means.”
He had pinched it, in other words.
“You nicked it, sir?” I just couldn't stop my mouth, which seemed to be forming words without benefit of brain.
“No. Nothing illegal, you absysmal apology for a cretin. I was visiting Master Plumsell to enquire after employment. He left it out on his desk with some other emblems. I'm sure he meant for me to see them. I didn't have the leisure to look them over while I was there, so I took them away with me.” He coughed and scratched and seemed to gloat at what he'd done, as I might myself, had I done the same. But he also had a loose mouth, likely from drinking too much. This didn't bode well for me. He would ditch me when done with me, to keep his secrets intact. Or worse.
Stupidly, I pressed on. “Do you mean, Master Thatcher, that he didn't give you a job but you took your payment anyway?”
He cuffed me on the jaw, so that my own mouth got payment for being too loose. I cringed. “Sorry, sir. You did right, no doubt about it.”
He stopped talking for a moment, as if deciding how to proceed. Should he trust me or shouldn't he? And did it matter anyway, as I was disposable? “Of course, I have every intention of returning them to him.”
That was a lie, if ever I heard one, but I wouldn't let on that I knew. “Of course. I am on your side, Master Thatcher. No doubt about that either. I'm here to be your loyal servant and do your bidding.” As I bowed, I was thrown off balance by a large wave and ended up sprawled on the floor.
“Look sharp if you wish to accompany me. Having a servant may increase my stature in Sir Thomas Boors' eyes, so I'll take you with me to him. If you behave. That's where I'm headed. We must carry the emblem to him right now.”
“But we're at sea, sir,” said I, wondering for a moment whether he meant us to walk on water. He was so full of himself I wouldn't put it past him.
“So is he. Don't you know a bloody thing?”
“Not much, Master Thatcher, I'm sorry to say. I am new to the shipping business, although I'm most willing to learn if you will teach me.” I bowed again, this time without falling.
“Boors is in charge of the voyage,” Scratcher said slowly and clearly, as if talking to an idiot. “He is in charge of the
Valentine
, and all the other ships in our fleet, although Sir George Winters is our admiral and better versed in sea mat
ters. Sir Thomas Boors is blue blood, nobility, the servant of the King. He will be governor of Virginia â that's if we don't end up elsewhere. And don't blow your nose into your fingers in front of him, for the love of Heaven.”
“Yes, sir.”
He hit me around the head hard. It was a wonder I had any brains left at all.
“I mean no, sir.”
But he was already gone. So I followed. And up above hatches we went.
Sir Thomas Boors was sitting in his cramped quarters at a desk strewn with papers and scrolls of various shapes and sizes. I could see maps and writing, more maps and more writing. He seemed oblivious to them. His small head, which protruded from his large ruff, seemed detached from the rest of his body as it bobbed up and down with every roll of the waves. His pointed beard made his face look as long and lean as a yardstick.
“Is there a fly in the room?” he asked, squinting at us through bloodshot eyes.
“That's just my boy Starveling, Sir Thomas.” Scratcher shoved me into a corner.
“No, man. A fly. Of the insect variety. I thought I heard one buzzing.”
Scratcher gazed around while scratching his threepenny bits, as I now called his private parts. “I don't see one, Sir Thomas.”
“Ah, good. The little blighters are very dangerous to one's wellbeing, God knows.” He blinked several times.
“Yes, sir.” Scratcher fidgeted with the Plumsell emblem he was carrying. Although Boors didn't invite him to sit down, he eventually edged himself, crab-like, into a chair. I stayed where I was and tried to keep my balance.
“Especially if one swallows them. They tickle as they go down. And 'tis said they cause the plague.” Boors' beard waggled when he talked. It was stained with old food and saliva, and he had a wild-eyed stare. Perchance he was mad.
I was beginning to feel rather queasy again, mostly at the thought that this man, blue-blooded and servant of the King though he might be, was likely also a total lunatic who was in charge of our well-being in the dangerous Virginia venture. Scratcher was a villain, but I'd choose evil over insanity any day. For one thing, I understood it better.
“Yes, sir,” replied Scratcher. “It's very likely that they do, in my opinion.” He bowed and scraped as well as he was able to while sitting.
“What? Did you want something, Thatcher ⦠Scratcher ⦠whatever your name is?” asked Boors, who had perchance forgotten that we were there.
“Thatcher, sir. It's very confidential, Sir Thomas. For your ears only.” Scratcher leaned towards him.
“Aha.” Boors looked interested at last. “Shouldn't you send your boy out then?”
“Don't worry. He's deaf as a post to important business. A real bumble brain to boot. Yet he certainly knows which side his bread is buttered on. Even though he's an illiterate lout. Isn't that so, Starveling?”
“Yes, Master Thatcher.” I nodded vigorously though it made me feel more seasick. “I definitely know which side my bread is buttered on. It's buttered on your side.”
Scratcher snorted. “Look at this, sir.” He threw the emblem down on the desk.
I bent as far forward as I could, but Scratcher sat between me and the object of my attention. Meanwhile Boors mumbled over it as if casting a spell. There was a moment's pause. I needed a bath. My back was itching like it was covered in centipedes, but I didn't dare scratch it. Watching my new slave-master's scratching had mostly put me off the habit anyhow. I sat down on a pile of books and rubbed my back against the wall instead. At that moment Scratcher leaned back, and I could see. It was almost impossible to read the words on the emblem from my angle, but Boors was giving me time by tracing around the picture of the ship with a long crooked finger. I could just make out:
Go to the Isle of Devils, Truth doth urge.
We should avoid
â¦
What should we avoid? There were more words above and beneath. The inscription was
Mente Videbor
. Latin, but I couldn't remember what it meant.
“Very interesting,” Boors said suddenly, and Scratcher snatched the emblem picture with its accompanying verse off the table before I could figure out much more of anything.
“I agree, sir,” said Scratcher. “I thought you ought to know. It was written by Master Plumsell, the well-known emblem maker and a dear friend of mine.”
“Plumsell's a good man. Has he written about insects?”
“No, sir. Or at least, possibly bees. No flies so far. He was wrecked near the Isle of Devils some years ago.”
The Isle of Devils? There it was again, just like in the verse. Where was it? What was it? One thing I knew for sure, it couldn't be Virginia. As the ship rolled, Scratcher grabbed the desk to steady himself, and the emblem flapped in his hand. Two words on the sheet leapt out at me. “Ignoble Cowardice.” That's what we should avoid: ignoble cowardice. Whatever that meant.
“Ah yes, I remember,” Boors said slowly. “All home safe in the end.”
“All men home safe, most of them Frenchmen, but maybe not all
cargo
home safe. Plumsell is trying to tell us something,” Scratcher said. My ears pricked up.
“Indubitably. I should inform Admiral Winters, though damn me, the man hardly listens to me, arrogant nobody that he is. Bad family, you know. Atrocious manners.”
“Don't take it to the admiral yet, sir, if you don't mind. We must figure it out for ourselves. It may be to our advantage. The emblem is mayhap from Plumsell's new manuscript, soon to be published,
Minerva Anglica
.” Scratcher tucked the paper into his jerkin. “It will show us the way. We must somehow get to the Isle of Devils.”
“The Isle of Devils?” asked Boors, who seemed to have forgotten what they were talking about. “But we're going to Virginia.”
“Yes, sir,” Scratcher said patiently. “But we have to get to Devils' Isle before anyone else does. To claim the Golden Prize.”
“The Golden Prize. Hmm. What would that be, man?”
“I'm not sure yet, sir, but it must be something richly extravagant. A treasure of some kind. Mayhap Spanish. Or Portuguese. In any case, I need a partner.”
In crime, I thought, mentally rubbing my hands together.
“You, with your intelligence and wit, are the perfect person,” Scratcher went on, inching towards Boors. “And it's the King's business.” This was his second outright lie. Or at least, I thought it must be. But I needed to stop counting his untruths before I ran out of fingers.
“The King?” It was like a password. “Ah, yes, I see. Of course. God save his majesty!” Boors hoorahed, blinked, glared, and stood up.
Scratcher stood up too. The two men bent their heads together and spoke low. I couldn't hear four words in five, and the one I
could
make out was useless. “The other ships,” I finally heard Scratcher say. The other ships
what
?
“You may go now, Starveling.” Scratcher said, as if sud
denly remembering I was there and at the same time mea
suring me for a coffin.
A beam creaked in the wind, and I jumped.
“Go line up for rations, boy.”
“I'm not hungry, Master Scratcher.” I shielded my head with my hands lest the creaking beam fall on me. And lest he hit me again.
“Why would I care whether you're hungry? I'm hungered enough to eat a piebald horse, so go line up, rumble fart. And fetch some ale. Take it down to the hold and await me there. The water is rank already. It stinks of horse piss. Get going.”
Hell's Bells. That meant stumbling across the deck and queueing for at least half an hour in a crush of other would-be colonists, much bigger and stronger than me, all trying to push to the front. Where I couldn't miss the beery foam atop the waves, or the stench of cow meat, or my nauseating dizziness as I staggered around trying to keep my footing. I tried to delay. I clung to my corner. I blew my nose into my fingers and wiped my thumb and forefinger on my jerkin, contrary to instructions. But Scratcher again ordered me out. This time his hand furled into a fist.
He whispered again to Boors, though Boors didn't seem to be listening, busy as he was swatting his imaginary fly. Where and what was the Isle of Devils? And what was the Golden Prize? And why had Scratcher chosen Boors, of all people, to be his co-conspirator?
“Now we've rid ourselves of him, Sir Thomas, let's get down to some real business,” I heard Scratcher say as I shut the door of Boors' cabin. Whatever the business was, and whatever Scratcher thought, I decided I would be, at the very least, a partner in it.
Back in the hold my wickedness was reasserting itself. In fact, it had an absolute passion to open the chest to find out more about the “business,” and was using me as its instrument. But although I was the most willing servant in the world, the chest stayed most obstinately shut. I tried it, pried it, banged it, kicked it, but nothing helped. I knew there had to be a secret button or clasp on it somewhere, and started to search for it, running my fingers swiftly across its top and sides. But after a minute or two I noticed Mary Fish-Finney hanging around and stopped abruptly, shoving my hands behind my back and adopting an innocent air.
