“A wrecked whaler,” Ezra Brewer signs, removing his cap.
“What happened?” I ask.
“What usually does,” he replies. “Whaling boats are sunk by injured whales trying to escape the harpoon. In some cases, the whale crashes its head into the hull of the boat, smashing it to splinters and causing it to sink with the terrified whalers struggling for their lives on the open sea.”
“Doesn’t it hurt the whale?” I ask.
“No,” he signs. “You take less damage hitting something head-on.”
I shiver, thinking of the loss of life.
Ezra Brewer changes the subject. “Better check the fish hook,” he signs. He heads toward the stern and brings back the catch of the day. An old friend has a small fish flapping in her mouth.
“Smithy!” I exclaim.
“Where else would she be?” Ezra Brewer asks. “She’s a regular one-eyed pirate. Her treasure is of the fishy variety.”
Smithy walks over to greet me, fish in mouth, her belly swinging. I stroke her thick coat while she eats her catch.
I know the rest of the journey will not be so jovial. Andrew Noble is pursuing us. I am counting on my roguish captain to vex him.
Now I need sleep.
The cabin’s basin is chipped, but the mattress is fresh hay. I pick up the blanket. It is my quilt that Mama made for my tenth birthday. She must have given it to Ezra Brewer with a clean nightgown and mobcap. I hold it to my face and inhale its familiar scent as I change clothes and snuggle into bed. Smithy keeps me warm, and the sea rocks me back and forth. I tuck the map of memories under the hay for safekeeping.
We’ve been sailing three days. I chart the Defiance’s progress with Ezra Brewer’s spyglass. We are both tense, though he shows it less than I do. Still, I feel it in his movements, the way he watches as he alternates between tasks, checking the rigging, navigating with the deftness of an old sea hand.
Though we have a lead on Andrew Noble, he is in steady pursuit.
There is little for me to do but feel as if I am in the way. I play with Smithy for a time, but she saunters off eventually to attend to her own feline affairs.
When evening approaches, I am no longer able to spy the Defiance with my bare eyes. I am relieved to think that Andrew has given up.
To keep the chill of the winter ocean at bay, Ezra Brewer gives me his thick woolen socks. I pull them up like stockings above my knees. They are large and sag on my legs.
He signs, “My apologies that I have nothing fancier to match your finery.”
I stick my tongue out at him and he cackles.
The sky looks so big when you are in the middle of the ocean on a boat. Tonight, there are red and pink streaks, stretching out for miles. I rub my eyes to stay awake a few more minutes.
Watching me, Ezra Brewer signs, “Red sky at night, sailor’s delight.”
I imagine he’s speaking to more than just the weather. Let it indeed be a good omen.
I sign, “Mama once called you a privateer.”
He signs, “Did she, indeed?”
I nod.
“Aye,” he signs, “that was a long time ago.”
“Won’t you tell me?” I ask. A bedtime tale told well in signs can reignite a flame in one’s soul.
He rubs his hands together.
“It was Captain Wemyss Orrock of London. That’s quite a name, isn’t it? His ship, the Hariot, regularly transported goods between London and Jamaica.
“But in March 1776, the Hariot was driven into the shoals between the Vineyard and Nantucket. Captain Orrock wasn’t headed to Jamaica, though; he was carrying a load of provisions to British troops in Boston.
“He ran aground, managed to get free, but then had to anchor in safe water to wait for the currents to be in his favor. While he sat, word got back to Edgartown.”
Ezra Brewer continues, quite animated. “We went out armed, in a sloop and other small boats, and demanded that Captain Orrock surrender his vessel.”
“His Majesty’s ship?” I ask, incredulous.
“More or less,” Ezra Brewer signs, with a rueful smile. “Shots were fired, and the captain was wounded. We took him and the Hariot into Edgartown Harbor as a prize of war!
“Eventually, we released Captain Orrock. We weren’t cutthroats, you know? In proper apparel, mind you. Some would tell you we stranded him without his breeches. That would be most improper, even for a band of mutineers.”
I give Ezra Brewer a sidelong glance at that last statement.
He concludes, “We weren’t commissioned, so the profit was divided among us. I can tell you it wasn’t small. The ship was taken on to Dartmouth. Whether Captain Orrock returned to England I do not know. I like to imagine him fat and happy in his ancestral home.”
“Was privateering legal at that time?” I ask.
“Not exactly,” Ezra Brewer admits. “The law had not yet been passed and letters of marque, or authority, were not yet being issued. Privateering was done in the name of piracy and patriotism. It wound up being an asset in the War for Independence.”
“Do you feel guilty about what you did?” I ask.
“Not really,” he signs, brushing cat hair off his trousers.
“You are a genuine scoundrel, sir,” I observe.
“You have it,” he signs.
Ezra Brewer makes the sign for walking downstairs with his fingers, and then pretends to fluff a pillow under his head.
I smile and nod. I follow Smithy down the wooden steps to the bunk.
My mind is filled with images of privateers searching for treasure. Finally, I drift off, like a baby in her mother’s arms.
The next two days and night pass much the same. I assist Ezra Brewer in small ways. He gives me modest tasks to keep me occupied, like rolling the slack rope for the rigging, or searching belowdecks for any leaks or pooling water.
When I wake on the sixth day, I feel the
