Yiddish for Pirates Read Online Free PDF

crack as of lightning splitting a great tree. A moment only and then rivers of blood seeped from the raised banks of the boy’s flesh.
    “Hogshead,” Moishe cried, bursting open his meagre word horde in desperation. “Rumfustian.”
    The bo’sun struck again.
    “ In nomine Patris, et Filii et Spiritus Sancti, ” Moishe wailed.
    At this the bo’sun paused. Who could flog man or boy who was saying prayers? And in Latin.
    At least what man who feared offending the captain? The bo’sun would have flogged Jesus himself since it gave opportunity to sear flesh with the lash and draw a rich red city map of fresh blood on the mortal canvas of his Lord’s bare back.
    “He knows his Mass, Cap’n,” he said. “What should I do?”
    “We’ve drawn the Christian out,” the captain said. “It’s like tenderizing meat. Perhaps we have saved the boy.”
    No one, except for the master, knew what they’d saved the boy for. He’d be sold soon as they anchored.
    They untied Moishe, who could hardly stand, though he’d received thirty-seven lashes less than Moses’ law, the usual prescription. Salt water was poured from a waiting bucket to stave off infection. He could walk no more than an eel and so, frogmarched below deck, he was deposited wet and sloppy into his hammock.
    Sleep. Silence save for a few moans.
    Nightfall.
    Moishe woke and covered himself with an abundant and foamy tide of his own puke.

Chapter Five
    By the next morning, the dawn sun was but a pallid cue ball beside the raging red rising on Moishe’s back.
    “Get your dog’s body out of bed, boy,” the master shouted. “Unless you seek another lashing?”
    Moishe staggered to his feet. Soon he was struggling to lug an enormous piss bucket up a ladder, stale urine sloshing over his cross-hatched flesh.
    “Over the larboard side, you thieving piss monkey,” the master said. “Into the wind.”
    There were no chains binding him. The ship was restriction enough. If he jumped overboard, the waves would snatch him in their wet paws, Moishe their plaything while it pleased them. Then— mazel tov! —he would be pulled down into the lair of blind fish and luminescent cucumbers, where the contents of his lungs would find their way to the surface while he died.
    And like most sailors, he couldn’t swim.
    Did the captain provide him vittles for a sultan’s nosh? Feh. He was fed only enough to keep the bones around his marrow. Who needs such decoration as that provided by the ostentatious hoo-hah of flesh and blood?
    One doesn’t re-shoe a horse that is to be glue.
    The bucket emptied, he collapsed on the deck. He was roused, made to return down the ladder, then haul up another bucket offarshtunkeneh bladder-rum squeezed from the syphilitic shmeckels of his bunkmates.
    “Lad, the spume of the sea be cruel, but spurn the sailor’s code and we be crueller.”
    All morning Moishe was compelled to toil. By afternoon he collapsed on the deck and fried like a side of Yiddish bacon under the griddling sun.
    The dog’s watch bells rang.
    As if conjured from the silken sleeve of the duplicitous ocean, three ships appeared close behind, moving quickly. They flew the red St. George’s cross.
    A shout from the crow’s nest. “Caravels. At seven o’ the clock.”
    The master and the captain appeared on deck.
    “English, I’s reckon,” the mate drawled. “They fly the Genoese ensign and pay the doge for the privilege.”
    “Unless in truth they hail from Genoa,” the captain said.
    “Then curse their devilled privates fo’ it’s like then they be privateers.” All able-bodied seamen—and Moishe, the Cain-bodied—were called to prepare. The ship’s few four-pounders were rolled by the gunners into position. The powder was readied in the orlop. The crew made busy adjusting sails and preparing smaller arms.
    Before long, the caravels were arrayed broadside and close. Their guns fired into rigging and across decks.
    Gevalt. They were Genoese. It wasn’t