Page 118 of Storm over the Caribbean
“All right, you louts!” The first mate barked from the other end of the deck, interrupting the moment. “Enough wasting time on scuttlebutt! Get back to work! And you, Fat Freddy, get back into the galley and warm up another pot of stew!”
I took a deep breath, eyes flicking to the discarded bowls of food still scattered across the deck. “Aye aye, Sir! Straight away, Sir!”
Over the next few hours, I slaved away in the galley. I swear, if they threw away my hard work one more time, the redcoats wouldn’t be the only ones who would be swimming with the fishes tonight!
Hm…
I just realized…was it weird that I didn’t feel particularly guilty about having shot what was, to all intents and purposes, an innocent man? More than that, an officer of the British Royal Navy?
Well, look at it like this: you know what the British police do to suffragists back home, because they can get away with it. What do you think the army and navy get up to in the colonies? Especially with women and children?
All right, suddenly I felt a lot less guilty. Long live the pirates, harbingers of justice!
Finally, I was finished and, huffing and puffing under the weight, grabbed hold of the pot and wobbled out of the galley. Dang those ravenous sons of bachelors—!
“Need some help?”
Blinking, I looked down—and found a small, thin figure standing beside me, gazing up at me with eyes that seemed far too large in his face. His thin, almost emaciated face.
I made a decision.
“Yes. This thing is far too heavy. Here.” Putting the pot down with athunk, I pulled my personal bowl from my apron pocket, filled it to the brim with steaming hot stew, and handed it to the little fellow. “You can help me carry that.”
Then, picking up the pot that suddenly felt significantly lighter, I started down the passageway and towards the sailors who were waiting to help me lift the pot up the ladder. The moment I reached the deck, I was set upon by a pack of hungry wolves, also known as my dear fellow crew members. The last in line for food was Mr Ambrose, who had been diligently doing repair work till the very last minute
“Here you go.” With a sweet smile, I handed him a bowl of stew, to which I hadnotadded quite a bit of extra salt. Nope, not at all. And if any had found its way in there accidentally, it was purely his fault for bloody risking his neck earlier!
“Hm.”
Would itkillhim to say thank you?
Well, all things considered, most likely.
Lifting the bowl, he reached for the spoon—then stopped his hand, and instead dipped his finger into the stew, carefully tasting it. Dang it!
“Hm…quite adequate.”
Wait,what?
“Um…really?”
“Indeed.” Cocking his head, he licked his finger again. “Your cooking is getting better. Marginally.”
I felt heat rise to my cheeks. I was blushing! Why the hell was I blushing? I shouldn’t feel good about being complimented about my cooking! Was I turning into a good little housewife whiledressed as a man on a pirate ship?
“Ehem, well, thank you, I—”
I stopped, my eyes suddenly narrowing in suspicion. No, that couldn’t be, right? Surely, not even Mr Rikkard Ambrose would go so far as to join a pirate crew to teach me how to cook, right?
I scrutinized him for a moment longer—then shook my head. Nah. I must be imagining things.
***
Three days later…
That bloody bastard! He had gotten us to join a pirate crew to teach me how to cook! And the worst thing? It was working! I had moved on from stew (alternately tasteless or overspiced) to omelettes and various examples of seafood. Seafood which actuallytasted good. Gah! The eternal shame!
“Freddy, my mate!” An arm appeared around my shoulder, squeezing heartily. “Those little crispy things are bloody marvellous!”
