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Susan had noticed some odd things in her days in Mr. Vesco’s bedroom. It was hard not to, in such proximity to a man’s most personal space. The time she had spent aboard Adam’s tiny tin can and the time she had spent in the cramped prison of sailor’s bunks below had taught her what the space of a working man looked like. Mr. Vesco’s did not line up in quite the same way. It was messy in some places, but never dirty. A pile of clothes here and a tented book there did not a mess make. He kept himself the same way, a bit salty and sunburned but never unclean. He washed and brushed and shaved and coiffed. It finally came to Susan when she had a look through the books keeping watch over the bed, flipping through them by candlelight for some bedtime reading. First of all, and most plainly, they were books. Bound in leather and printed by professionals. She knew Adam could read, but had never seen him do so for pleasure. Like most working men she knew, he did not own a book that was not mostly diagrams on how to fix things. Mr. Vesco’s books were of poetry. Classical tales, from civilizations ancient, far-off, or both. Tracts on philosophy, theology, sciences. The most telling thing was the style of the script that had written ‘A. Vesco’ inside the cover of each book. It had style that could only be learned in a school, after years of regular practice. Educated, thought Susan, and not on the sea.
She looked up from her reading as she heard a knock on the door. Mr. Vesco was always careful to knock, though only to warn. She didn’t reply, didn’t call him to come in. She closed the book of philosophy she’d been on around her finger to mark her place.
Mr. Vesco slipped in without a sound. He closed the door behind him, and slouched back against it. He seemed tired, distracted, not quite looking her in the eyes. His hands opened and closed at his sides. She waited for him to speak.
“We’re only one more night from our next port,” he said quietly. “I’m goin’ to put you off there.”
She had known it would happen eventually. She still felt her stomach turn as it was said out loud, set in stone. After another pause, Mr. Vesco willed himself to look at her, his eyes steely and bright.
“And,” he continued, “if the fates are good to me, I’m puttin’ your son off with you.”
The next day was a lovely one. Sunny and cloudless, as far as the eye could see. Windy, naturally, else the ship would not be moving much, but it was a pleasant breeze instead of a gale. Mornings such as this were perfect for tea on deck. Today, Mr. Airedale stood at the stern railing, overlooking the wake of the ship. In the distance, only a dot riding the waves of the galleon, was the tugboat. Mr. Airedale watched it carefully, and sipped his tea.
“Still there?” asked the captain, appearing beside him. Weatherdecker felt infinitely annoyed when Airedale did not so much as blink at his sudden intrusion. He kept staring out over the waves.
“Still there,” agreed the first mate. He sipped his tea. Weatherdecker stared at him for a moment; realizing he would not be stared at in return, he turned his attention to the tugboat.
“Think they’ll catch up?” asked the captain offhandedly.
“I could not say,” said Airedale.
“They shouldn’ be able to,” said Weatherdecker. “Them, just a tiny tug. Us, a huge galleon with the wind behind us. Determined little bugger, that Cartleblat.”
Airedale did not have anything to say to this. He didn’t even nod.
“S’funny, though,” continued the captain. “Just this mornin’, I found out somethin’ - or someone - had been at the riggin’. Ropes cut. Gashes in some o’ the sails. A pulley or two just flat out missin’.”
“My word,” said Airedale, as if nothing in the world could be less exciting.
“An’ no accident, I’m sure,” said the captain. “Cuts are too clean. Ropes pulled right out, whole. Not tryin’a stop us, just to slow us down. An’ you know what’s funny, Tim? Our speed’s toppin’ out just below the average of an ocean-goin’ tug.”
“Is it,” said Airedale. “What a strange coincidence.”
“Oh? Coincidence, you think?”
“What else could it be, Captain?”
“Well, maybe someone did it deliberate. Someone who wanted to make sure Cartleblat din’t fall behind.”
“I cannot imagine who.”
The captain was staring at the first mate again. Studying every inch of his face. Airedale was aware of this. He turned his head, looking his Captain right in the eye. He sipped his tea, and set the cup back down on the saucer. A few seconds passed. Then he turned back to the ocean. His expression had not moved once. He had not even blinked.
Mr. Airedale could out-wait a glacier, but he had been enjoying his solitude in the sunshine and wished to return to it. He gave the captain a few more minutes to glare at him in silence.
“If you suspect wrongdoing, Richard, we could place another watch or two in the rigging. Failing that, perhaps we could find a willing barmaid to keep an eye on things around the table.”
The glare’s intensity did not fade, but the captain’s eyes widened.
“What did you say?” he demanded.
“I said that we could perhaps revise our watch schedule, Richard. Was that unclear?”
The captain’s hand tightened on the railing. Mr. Airedale met his angry stare with an innocent one of his own devising. The glare turned into a scowl.
“No,” muttered the captain. “No, it’s all clear.”
Mr. Airedale let him stalk away with the last word. It was the least he could do.
None of the crew had asked Mr. Vesco why he had been leaving the galley lately with two of everything. Most hadn’t noticed, and the ones that had knew it wasn’t their business to question the quartermaster. Technically speaking, there was only one man who could and that was captain, who also hadn’t noticed. He didn’t notice even as he cornered Vesco at the bottom of the mess hall stairs that he had a bowl of porridge in each hand.
He swung his arm out like a bear catching a leaping fish, corralling Vesco against the wall as the quartermaster tried to move past him with only a nod. They remained largely alone in their dark corner beside the stairs.
“Been chatty, ain’cha?” said the captain without introduction. Vesco was not quite as good at Mr. Airedale at stony faces, but could still hold his own.
“Have I?” said Vesco. “What about?”
The captain leaned in, bending the arm against the wall, and lowered his voice.
“I thought it went without sayin’, Vesco, that when you agree to a swindle you keep your mouth shut about it. You really that thick, to need remindin’?”
“Don’t need no such thing, cap’n,” Vesco returned in a low murmur. “I know how it is. But, I agreed to a swindle, not a kidnapping. Not puttin’ the whole ship at risk with watchmen aboard. Wouldn’t’ve said nothin’ if you’d been smart enough to quit when you could.”
“This ain’t on me,” said the captain. “Cartleblat’s the one that shoulda been smart enough to pay up.”
“To pay up what he don’t owe you?”
“He don’t know that, does he?” snapped Weatherdecker. “He knew he was skippin’ out on a debt. He knew he was tryin’a fuck me over. I don’t care ‘bout the money anymore, Vesco. What I want now is for him to understand that that don’t happen. Nobody pulls one over on me and gets away with it.”
The captain relaxed slightly, straightening his arm.
“Speakin’ o’which, I’ll forgive your little slip if you help me make an example outta Cartleblat.”
Mr. Vesco cast a skeptical sideways glance at him.
“Meanin’ what?”
“Meanin’ we pay him a visit when we reach port. He’s still right behind us. I know he’ll be there. We can rough him up like we should’ve back in Port Victor. No money in it, but we’ll be even all the same. We could finally put him behind us.”
Weatherdecker’s smile at this prospect set off a flare of anger inside Vesco. It was worse than anything he’d felt before, worse than anything even when the captain had been drunkenly kicking his door down.
“He was behind us,” growled Vesco sharply. “That whole fuckin’ fiasco was behind us before you decided to trawl it all up again. This is your problem and your fault and you can deal with it yourself. I ain’t goin’ anywhere with you. Keep my cut and leave me out of it. If you can do that for me, I’ll forgive YOUR little slip. Hell, I’ll even keep your stupid secret.”
The smile had broken down under this tirade. It had been replaced by a chilly thin-lipped grimace. The captain kept staring, much as he’d stared at Mr. Airedale, trying to intimidate. It used to be so easy. What had happened? He’d been surrounded by these jackasses that used words instead of fists, that’s what.
“Can I go now, sir?” said Vesco icily.
The captain let his hand fall to his side, freeing Mr. Vesco’s path, but neither moved.
“I thought you were a friend,” said Weatherdecker.
“Once upon a time, Richard, I thought so too.”
He sidled past his silent captain without another glance in his direction. Weatherdecker still had not noticed the bowls of porridge in his hands.
Tiller did not know about the swindle, the barmaid, any of it. He only knew that he was disobeying his captain on an unforgivable scale. It was possible to stay, perhaps. He could probably think up an excuse as to how the boy had disappeared, one that wouldn’t get him beaten too badly. Staying on the ship was not the worst outcome for him; being separated from Damian, was.
He did not like the idea of being branded a deserter. A traitor. He liked even less the idea of living out his life as a fugitive from Captain Weatherdecker. He could never feel safe again. He would have to watch corners and shadows for knives and pistols. None of these visions, however, could compare to the one where he had to say goodbye to the boy. He would not hesitate to become a fugitive if it meant he could delay that moment. He liked The Ship, but he loved Damian, and would see him all the way back to Port Victor if that’s what felt right.
He packed a small rucksack for himself and a larger one for the boy. Toys, diapers, and clothes for Damian, a few beloved trinkets and pairs of socks for Jeremy. Damian, oblivious as always, clacked his toys together on the rug as the boatswain bustled around him, gathering supplies.
