Minerva's Voyage Read Online Free PDF

it’s getting rough already.”
    Indeed. The ship pitched. I staggered across the cabin. Ink splattered on the floor. Blue blood, I thought.
    â€œYou, you tripe-visaged rascal, come back here,” admonished my master. “Mop up that spill. Then roll up each note that I write and stick it with wax.”
    I did as he commanded. “So Baruada is actually not the Isle of Devils?” I asked. I already knew the answer to this. It was merely my opening gambit in what I hoped would be a long game of verbal chess.
    â€œNo, boy, it’s the Isle of Goats,” said Boors. He bleated twice, much to my astonishment. “You see…”
    â€œDon’t grace that saucy fellow with further information, Sir Thomas, if you have any. Best to leave his head as empty when he goes out as it was when he came in.”
    â€œAh, yes, of course.” Boors bent the ring on his finger to the warm wax to impress his seal on it. “Sorry, boy.” He bleated again. And truth be told, he did rather resemble a goat, with his long bony face and sparse beard.
    â€œWe should now give your notes to Proule, Sir Thomas,” said Scratcher, “and order him to take the small boat and row out to give them to the captains of the other ships. That way, Admiral Winters won’t be involved.” Sweat cascaded down his skinny cheeks.
    â€œProule?”
    â€œOne of the mariners. Bald. Beer-stained moustache. Broken teeth.”
    â€œRight. Of course. Send Proule in,” said Sir Thomas.
    Scratcher slipped out and returned with him in less than half a minute. Proule must have been waiting right outside the door. This didn’t particularly surprise me. It did seem to surprise Boors, however.
    â€œWhat are you doing here, Proule?” he asked.
    â€œYou sent for me, sir.”
    â€œAh, yes, so I did. Why was that?” Boors blinked twice, unhappily.
    â€œDunno, sir.” Proule looked confused.
    â€œThe notes, Sir Thomas,” hinted Scratcher in a loud whisper.
    Now I realized. He chose Boors to confide in because Boors’ power was useful, but five minutes later he wouldn’t remember a single word that Scratcher had said. Who could keep a secret safer than that?
    â€œYes, yes, the notes. Take the notes, Proule.”
    â€œAye, aye, sir,” said Proule. Unknown to Boors, he and Scratcher often stood in corners of the hold and muttered to each other, meanwhile throwing meaningful glances at Scratcher’s tightly closed chest.
    While Boors was simply being used, Proule was doubtless Scratcher’s real partner. He smelled of something nasty. Cat pee and stinking sweat, with other putrid smells hovering around his person but unidentifiable. Not that a soul on board smelled clean, we all had a rottenness about us lately, but his stench was especially loathsome. It erupted from his pores and became even more disgusting when he opened his mouth, whether to speak or sneeze. His breath could slay dragons, his teeth were mere stumps. They looked like black gravestones.
    His friendship with Scratcher, which was peppered with insult on both sides, drove Mary to distraction. She’d been banished from the hammock permanently, but still wanted Scratcher to herself for reasons I could easily imagine. She didn’t want interference from Proule or anyone else. But Scratcher had said to her, as he sent her off, “Get away from me or you’ll be sorry. You are my great sin.” He tossed her what looked to be a penny or two. She blamed anyone she could think of for her loss of him and his apparently new found religious fervour. But her hatred for me — she now pinched me hard whenever she could get hold of me — was only a puny shadow of her hatred for Proule. When he came within her sights she bared her teeth and flared her nostrils like a beserk horse. Proule, not to be outdone, thumped her arm or backside — whatever was available — to force her to