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my job to count the sheep out to pasture. Then I had to count them when they came back to see if any were missing. So I know my addition and my subtraction. But all this counting was before my daddy died and I came to sea.”
    Aha. Counting, although a valuable skill to keep in one’s pouch, was my downfall. It wasn’t taught in school, and I had never developed the knack of it. I would run out of numbers the moment I ran out of fingers. Fence could definitely prove useful, I decided. I had obtained my own partner in crime, though I still wasn’t sure that I entirely trusted him. After all, hadn’t I told Scratcher I couldn’t read when I could? Mayhap Fence had done the same kind of lying with me, though true it is he said he’d never lied before. But that could be a lie also; however, I could tell Fence as much or as little as I chose to, and thus make him into my servant, just as Scratcher thought he had made me into his.
    We still had weeks or even months at sea. I could take my time about sniffing out Scratcher’s “business.” That way I’d be more likely to succeed. And I’d find the treasure before Scratcher did or die in the attempt. My beating him to the trove would pay him back for his filthy treatment of me. As to what I would do with the treasure when I got it, that was another matter entirely, one that I couldn’t figure out till I knew what it was.

C HAPTER 6

D AMN THAT F LY!
    Days passed and I was careful to be careful. I didn’t gainsay Scratcher. I didn’t question him. And I had no opportunity to open the chest or hunt through his clothes, which he wore to bed, like most of the passengers. So I didn’t get myself into further trouble. Instead, I managed to keep my wickedness at bay while gaining, or mayhap regaining, Scratcher’s trust. I plied him with whatever food and drink was available, though he was the most disgusting eater I’d ever seen, taking huge mouthfuls, gagging, and spitting biscuit mixed with saliva and weevils far and wide. Otherwise, I tried to act as if I wasn’t there, and so he seemed more at ease that I was. In fact, he took me with him when he next visited Boors. It was steaming. We could have fried eggs on the cabin floor had we possessed any. And the boat was heaving up and down with each huge wave, heaving my insides up and down too. The sickness kept growing in me. But Scratcher and Boors hardly noticed. They were too busy.
    â€œIn the event that the ships are separated in a simple storm or hurricano,” dictated Boors, with much prompting from Scratcher, “All captains are to sail their craft to the Baruadas in the West Indies. We shall meet up there.” Scratcher was writing the words down, his eyes almost crossed.
    â€œWhy did you tell me to tell them to go there?” asked Boors, the supposed author of the note.
    â€œBecause although we’ll soon be south of Virginia, no one in his right mind would sail to the Isle of Devils, even if told to. The seas are high, the rocks are terribly dangerous, and it’s full of shipwrecks, mostly Spanish, which have foundered there. We’ll send the other ships elsewhere. We don’t want them. We’ll try for the Isle of Devils alone.”
    â€œWhy would we do that?”
    â€œThe Golden Prize, Sir Thomas, the Golden Prize.
    Remember?”
    â€œOh, er, yes.” Boors clearly didn’t.
    I listened intently while sharpening the quills. That was my job. Scratcher’s plan didn’t sound very sensible to me.
    â€œNow copy that out five more times, Rat Catcher,” ordered Boors, who was still under the mistaken impression that he was in charge.
    â€œThe name is Thatcher, Sir Thomas. Not Rat Catcher. And I would appreciate it if you would remember that. This should work like a charm.” Scratcher dipped his quill. “Whoever heard of crossing the great sea without encountering at least one tempest? In fact,