Davy and Tink are bright enough but both are scamps what can't sit still. They've each of 'em already been stretched bare-assed over a cannon and switched for devilment, where they cried and howled like babies and promised never to do it again, which ain't likely. They are beyond the alphabet and on to simple words.
Jaimy doesn't really need any help in reading, but I tutor him, anyway, just 'cause it makes him mad, and 'cause I like to be around him, mad or not. He can write a fairer hand than me and can talk better, so I'm learning from him, too, and that makes it better for his precious pride.
After the boys and Tilly leave, I set up the table for the midshipmen. It ain't my favorite part of the day, since I'll have to be around when the awful Mr. Bliffil bullies the others and makes them hate themselves. I can see the shame in their faces and I don't like it. Bliffil is one of those blokes who can be happy only when he's making someone else miserable.
The midshipmen straggle in and grumpily sit down and toss their books on the table in front of them. I try to stay out of sight back in the shadows, wishing Tilly would get here soon. I want this to be over so I can get back outside and practice my flute and my sewing and be with my mates.
Bliffil saunters in last, cuffs the backs of a few heads, pushes Mr. Eakins out of his chair and sits down in it. He looks blearily around the table, his hair uncombed, his shirt open and dirty. I wouldn't be surprised if he was stealing the rum ration from some of the smaller midshipmen and then terrorizing them into silence. As if he knows what I'm thinking, his gaze falls upon me.
"Come here, boy," Bliffil says to me.
"Sir?" I says, fearfully. I go over to the table. I know that this is not going to turn out well and I starts tremblin'.
He opens one of the books in front of him and says, "Read this." He shoves the book over in front of me, and hope rises in me breast. Maybe he's heard I can help with readin' and maybe I can help him and maybe this'll soften his hard heart.
"'Of arms and the man I sing,'" reads I, "'Who, forced by fate, and haughty Juno's unrelenting hate..."'
I don't get to go on 'cause Bliffil's hand whips out and the back of it catches me across the mouth. Shocked, I raises me hand t' me lips. He warn't lookin' for help, I knows now, he just wanted to shame me. I can tell by the look in his eye that he despises me for knowin' the words.
"Don't you raise your hand to me!" he hisses, and I puts me hands down to me side.
"I ... I'm sorry, Sir," I whispers. "I just sounds 'em out. I don't know what they means. It's a trick, like."
"What does this mean?" he says, pointing to another passage.
"I don't know, Sir."
The inside of my lip is cut and I can taste the blood.
"And this?"
"I don't know, Sir."
"You insolent little snot," he hisses, and he leans out to hit me again. I closes my eyes and waits for it with me arms held down tight to my sides.
His next blow catches me on my ear and it knocks me down.
"Get up," he orders. I get up, me ear ringin' and the room spinnin' around.
"What does this mean?"
"I don't know, Sir."
"Going to cry, snot?"
"No, Sir," even though I already am.
"We'll see about that." His hand cocks back again. I squeezes me eyes shut and cringes.
"Ma ... ma ... maybe the boy has had enough, Mr. Bliffil."
I pops open a cautious eyelid. It was Mr. Jenkins what spoke.
Bliffil slowly turns to face Mr. Jenkins, the look on his face that of total amazement. "Wot!" cries Bliffil. Mr. Jenkins has now gone white in the face and stares down at his tablet. "The Jellyfish opens its noise hole and tells me when enough is enough! Bloody cheek I call it and I won't have it, by God!"
Bliffil grabs Mr. Jenkins by the neck and forces his head down to the tablet and rubs his face on it. When he lets go and Mr. Jenkins raises his head, his face is splotched with the white of the chalk and the red of the shame. There is no fight in his eyes, nothing but humiliation. He looks to be fighting back tears.
Then Tilly finally comes roaring in with, "Gentlemen, gentlemen, compose yourselves! We continue today with..." And I am able to fall back into the shadows and nurse my lip.
I decides then and there to never go into the midshipmen class again without Tilly being there.
Chapter 12
We have long since gone through the Strait of Gibraltar, which was the most amazing thing with the great rock itself and the salutes from the port and the gay dolphins playing at our bows. I wish we could have gone into the port to look about, but, no, we are off to the coast of North Africa, where we will search for pirates. It's getting really hot. We have been having nearly daily drills with the big guns, and the boys get worked right hard as they run the sacks of powder to the gun crews. They doff their shirts, and their chests fairly gleam with sweat. I doff my shirt and pound my drum and sweat with the rest of them.
My shirt, however, is not my problem as you could still play a tune on my ribs had you the proper hammers and musical training. No, the problem is with my pants. They are getting tight across the rear. When first I put on poor Charlie's pants, there was room enough to spare and I had to roll up the cuffs several times to keep them from flopping around my feet. What with the three full meals a day that I've been getting and what we've been cajoling out of the cook, my haunches have filled out and are getting right round, which is not good in the furthering of The Deception. I've got a little taller, too. I only roll up the cuffs once now.
But I am some skilled in the sewing now and I resolve to make new pants. Baggy ones. I go to see Liam and he tells me I'm to go see the clerk, Deacon Dunne, down in ship's stores, and draw some cloth and thread against my wages, and off I go.
Deacon Dunne casts a wary eye on me. "Jack Faber, is it?"
"Aye, Sir."
"Two yards of white duck?"
"Aye, Sir."
"This essentially uses up your pay so far. What with the mess kit you were issued when you came on board lacking one. That's charged against your name, too."
"I know, Sir," says I, still marveling that I get paid at all.
Deacon Dunne nods to his assistant clerk who goes to get the cloth and thread. "Have you been reading your Bible, Jack?" he asks, drilling me with his gaze.
"Oh yes, Sir," say I, and put on a face of all honest innocence, "and I find it a great consolation and solace. A balm, even."
He looks at me doubtfully, but he delivers the goods.
I am good at the sewing and I am prideful about it. I can sew a straight seam and I can cut the shapes out of the whole cloth and see how it's all going to come together and and how it's going to fit and hang. The boys are not good at the sewing. Willy is too clumsy with the needle and Davy and Tink and Benjy lack the patience and Jaimy considers it beneath him. We'll see when his clothes turn to rags on him just how far beneath him it is, the snob.
Within a day and a half I have a new pair of trousers. They have a drawstring at the waist, lots of room in the butt, and wide cuffs so I can roll the legs up above my knees for the deck washing and such.
I also have some cloth left over, so I make myself a pair of underdrawers, the first I've had since That Dark Day. Then an idea comes to me, an idea so wonderful in its cunning and boldness that I am grinning and giggling as I carry it out. I take a piece of the remaining scraps of cloth and roll it up into a sort of soft tube. Then I fold another piece up to make a soft round pad. I sew the tube onto the pad and then take the two of them together and sew them in the front of my drawers, so that if anyone is ever checking out the front of my pants for evidence of male equipment, I won't be found lacking.