The Acquisitions Bureau; Mandatory Invitation

Chapter 7 In which we Meet the PIRATES

"Goddamn, skinny, where do ya put it all?" Joe exclaimed upon turning to find the plate he had filled with tinned fish only moments ago, emptied for the fourth time that morning. His confusion was compounded by the fact that the cold fish always disappeared in the time it took for him to open another sardine tin in order to serve himself. The first time it had happened he had suspected his guest of discarding it in the waste bin, but a quick searching glance proved the breakfast to be, in fact, eaten, as there were not many places one could hide unwanted fish in a galley of that size.

Sparks had not yet risen from the spare bunk the two had been forced to share, and was still wrapped in the old pilled blanket that just barely kept night's chill at bay.

The quarters had been tight that night, but not unbearable, though to say it was not plagued by all the typical discomforts of having a bedfellow would be a lie.

It was not until three more cans of sardines had met their fate that Sparks shuffled into the ship's galley

"Where's mine?" he queried sleepily on seeing Thatch's generous portion of what some would call breakfast.

"You missed it, princess." Martin teased, tossing his plate like a discus into the basin where it landed with a clatter and a splash. "Ted here's got the last can of sardines!"

"Got some Chikin gizzards for ya, VanWinkle!" Joe joined in, pounding a jar of preserves that could believably be called meat onto the tabletop and sliding it toward the loafer.

Sparks gazed dolefully at the 'meal' and made a spectacle of himself as he struggled to remove the lid. It occurred to him that he might trade his share for the marginally more appealing sardines, but as he went to make the trade, he found his offering returned to him, having been opened with the use of a handy rag, and the object of his envy consumed.

Joe and Martin shared a nod, first between themselves, then with Mr. Thatch. Thatch thought it best to return the gesture, though he knew not to what end. It seemed now he belonged to some sort of secret and mischievous fellowship.

"Come on bud, we'll get them sails up, and be to Newcastle by the end of today."

"I wish we could have taken the train." Sparks remarked as he fished a morsel from the jar and subtly retched when the smell reached his nose.

Once they had finished breakfast, the men stepped out onto the upper decks of Annabel-Lee to greet the cool, damp dawn. The skies were somewhat hazy that day, and the morning sun could be seen peeking through the thin cirrus on the horizon to the east, though westward there gathered patches of grey spreading drizzle over the heathery moorland that lay in their shadow.

The early hours were spent costing on the northbound winds, and sharing knowledge on the rigging and sails. There was the fore and aft rigs, the gaffe, and the oarsails, all of which answered to ropes tied with varied and complex knots, which one had to learn the ins and outs of before they were at all useful.

Sparks feigned interest as he was instructed, though Old Joe soon lost his patience with his student's continued ignorance and threatened relegation to the boiler should his advice be ignored further, quoting many a gruesome anecdote of limb loss resultant of such witlessness. Should Sparks grip a rope for support, Joe would scold him with "Watch yourself or lose your arm!". Should Sparks stand beside the anchor chain, Joe would reproach him with "Don't stand there if ya plan to keep your feet on!" and so on. It was not until Sparks had tripped over the anchor-chain, and taken a winch-peg to the gut as it unwound that he paid proper heed to Joe's warnings, though he was wont to groan about how sore he was from his minor disaster.