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shift.
    â€œLook up there, boy,” Boors continued now, staring at the ceiling. “No, not there. There. For heaven’s sake, swat that blasted fly for me.”
    â€œYes, sir.” I waved my arms violently in the air. “I got it,” I cried, clutching an invisible bluebottle.
    Scratcher, meanwhile, was instructing Proule on what he wanted done with the notes. Boors thanked me and I grinned. Though it was now clear as glass that Scratcher was the boss in this enterprise, I needed to be in the good books of both of them. And Proule too, if I didn’t want to find myself in the bottom of the sea with pearls for eyes. He was scary. Mary mattered less than the shit pail in the hold. When we reached land I would be done with her. Or so I thought.

C HAPTER 7

S CRATCHER’S A MBITIONS
    Two days later, the wind was blowing strong but friendly, pushing us along quite handily. The storm hadn’t materialized. I had heard Piggsley say we would reach Virginia within the fortnight, and so no longer feared every moment that we would soon all be drowned dead. But I still felt greenish, as Fence would have put it.
    â€œYou s’ll soon get your sea legs, lad,” Piggsley assured me, every time he saw me.
    I was waiting for them to be delivered.
    Scratcher was ignoring me today. He was scratching his leg and his threepenny bits. I’d faded into the woodwork, in a manner of speaking, into the timbers of the ship, too familiar or contemptible to be taken into account. At least, he and Proule were talking as if I wasn’t there, and that was fine with me. I still had to bend forward to hear them, though. The racket below hatches was appalling. It seemed to grow louder with each passing day. People arguing, children skriking, and beasts, those that weren’t yet eaten, lowing or squawking for all they were worth. The din, together with the heat, was even getting to Proule and Scratcher.
    â€œWe sail too far south, man,” complained Proule. “We’ll never get where we’re going this way.”
    â€œNot so,” replied Scratcher, looking dangerous. He stopped scratching and stroked his knife hilt.
    â€œThe other ships is burning up with fever. I couldn’t get away fast enough when I delivered them letters from Boors. I was afeard for my life and health.” Proule was sitting on a hogshead of ale and picking at what remained of his teeth with a large splinter.
    â€œThere’s no helping it.” Scratcher countered.
    â€œThe wind blew fair for a while, but now we’re tacking in the wrong direction.”
    â€œWe have to go south, you dithering numbskull, or we’ll be blown all the way back to England. But it is to our advantage. Let the simpletons on the other ships think we’ll come up the coast to Virginia after we’ve crossed.”
    â€œDon’t yer call me a numbskull.” Proule wiped the splinter on his jerkin, leaving a long smear.
    â€œNo, Proule, my fine handsome fellow, you’re quite right. I forgot myself. I’m too used to speaking to that jelly-livered drudge over there.” He pointed in my direction. “But all we need is a spot of rain and lightning and we’ll look like we’re making for the Baruadas, as stipulated on those letters you delivered. In truth we’ll make for the Isle of Devils.”
    Proule hiccupped.
    â€œI know what I’m doing. I’ve been much employed, had jobs in high places,” confided Scratcher, who had been drinking gallons more ale since our water had gone stale, and was talking too freely, as usual.
    â€œAnd yer’ve been thrown out of most of ’em, as I’ve heard.” Proule, too, had been tippling, but unlike me, he hadn’t learned when to hold his yap.
    Scratcher bent down and thrust his face into Proule’s, eyes popping. “Who told you that?” A few men turned to stare at him before going on with their business, such as it