Swept Away (The Swept Away Saga, Book One)

Chapter Twenty

"Names?" The ship's record keeper didn't even look at me as he waited for an answer, his quill pen ready to scratch my name down as a member of the pirate crew. It was so hard to keep from shaking, knowing that as soon as I opened my mouth my soprano voice would give me away.

"He is mute, señor. Samuel is the name. Sam, for short." Father Torres nodded at me, a small smile on his face as he answered in my place.

"Samuel what?" the man snipped, giving the appearance of hating his job. Slumping down into his chair further, he scratched my new name onto the paper, pausing as he waited for the rest of it.

"Smith," Father Torres offered, apparently picking a name out of thin air.

"And what does Samuel Smith do on board a ship other than remain silent?"

"We are cooks, señor. Sam doesn't need his voice to make food and is therefore a most excellent chef, I assure you."

"Welcome aboard, Mr. Smith," the recorder replied in a deadpan voice. He didn't appear to care much for what I could or couldn't do. "You will be given a hammock and weapons, if ye should need them. Do yer part and no one will have any fuss about ye."

Choking back the thank you that automatically rose to my lips, I nodded, backing away from the table. Father Torres gave his name as well, looking calm and collected. I, on the other hand, was sure I appeared a cowering fool, trying to stay in corners where no one could come up behind me.

"Samuel." A hand touched my arm and I jerked away, spinning around to see who was speaking to me. A breath of relief escaped as I saw Tristan once more, still dirty and bleeding some, but he looked to have taken care of his bullet graze already. "Follow me, I'll show ye to the galley." Without glancing back he turned and headed in the direction he wanted, not even checking to see if I was following.

Hurrying to catch up, I fell in step behind him, memories of my last voyage on this ship flashing through my mind. It was a mess, having just gone through battle, but I was surprised to find some happy memories mixed in with the fearful and sickened ones. There was the spot I'd watched the sun set every evening, and over there was where the water would splash up just so, bathing whoever was standing there in a soft breeze of spray, the smell of the ocean filling them even more.

At first, I thought he was taking me somewhere to talk, but as we went down a deck to the crew quarters, I suddenly realized he was indeed taking me to the galley. There were other pirates scurrying about and I didn't dare ask him what he was doing. When we finally did reach the kitchen, which was almost identical to the one on the other ship, he pulled the flintlock pistol out of his waistband and held it out to me, handle first.

"Ye'll want to ready that before ye plan on using it," he spoke wisely. "Do ye know how to do that?"

Peering around to see if there were any other men close by, I shook my head slightly, taking the weapon from him.

"Here," he said softly, stepping closer. Pulling a small cord from around his neck, he revealed a tiny pouch that had been tucked under his shirt. With his free hand, his fingers brushed over mine, as he grasped the gun, holding it steady. "First, ye'll want to prime it, aye? That's pouring the gunpowder into its spot." As he spoke, he poured the black powder out of the bag and into the gun, all the while his head leaning towards mine. "Then ye'll close this here, and use the rod to load the bullet in, aye?" He shut the opening the powder had gone in and then pulled a small rod out of the gun, from underneath the barrel. He used it to stuff the rest of the powder bag down inside, the bullet still in the pouch. "Then ye'll aim, cock it, and fire. Mind ye, if it doesn't go off the first time, wait a few seconds and try again. Don't go pointing it at yer face, either. Savvy?"