When Ynen came out, he was wishing the same, though all he said was “No land yet?”
All Mitt said was “No. I reckon that storm blew us a good long way out.” But he could see Ynen knew how he felt.
Al emerged from the cabin at last, rubbing his smooth chin and looking satisfied. He climbed on the cabin roof and stretched. He was square and stocky. His face, now they could see it properly, was square, too, and unremarkable except for some bitter creases round the mouth and a general look of being well pleased with itself. His clothes, in spite of being faded and creased by the sea, were better than Mitt had realized, and he had a well-nourished look that made Mitt think he must have been mate or perhaps bosun on Sevenfold II.
“What are you staring at?” Al demanded. Hildy was looking at him resentfully. Ynen was puzzled because he had a feeling he had seen Al before somewhere. Al laughed and looked round Wind’s Road. “Lucky ship, eh?” he said, nodding from Old Ammet to the little Libby Beer. Then he nodded at Mitt. “Hand that tiller over, and let’s have some thing to eat.”
“I’ll do it,” Ynen said, opening the locker where the second sack of pies still lay untouched.
“Don’t you, guvnor,” said Al. “Let him.”
“It’s still Mitt’s watch,” said Ynen.
“Yes, but it’s his station,” said Al. “It’s not your place to cook.”
“Nobody’s cooking,” said Mitt. “And what do you take me for?”
Al shrugged his wide shoulders. “Servant. Body guard, by the look of that gun you got there.”
Mitt looked down in annoyance, wishing he had buttoned his coat over Hobin’s gun. “I’m no servant,” he said.
“Don’t tell me!” Al said, laughing loudly. “I suppose you come aboard and held the guvnor and the little lady up at gunpoint!”
Mitt could not look at anyone. Hildy seized the sack out of Ynen’s hands and dumped it on the cabin roof. “Help yourself,” she said. “That’s what every body else is doing on this boat.”
“Thank you kindly, little lady,” said Al. “After you. After the guvnor.” He would not touch a pie until Hildy and Ynen had each taken one. Then he took one himself, remarking that Mitt could eat when he came off duty. Ynen promptly passed Mitt his own pie and took another. But Al was clearly not a man to pick up hints. He waved a piece of oyster patty at Ynen and asked with his mouth full, “And where, may one ask, is this boat bound, guvnor?”
They munched in uneasy silence. They all realized that they had forgotten to invent a story to tell him. “Kinghaven,” Ynen said at last, in a haughty way he hoped would shut Al up.
Al ducked his head respectfully. “Sorry I spoke. Sorry I spoke, guvnor. Never wish to offend the gently born. Friends in the North, have you? Not many Holanders could say the same. I mean, I know you’ll pardon me for mentioning it, but I can see this boat’s from Holand by the images back and front. Not a deep-water boat, either, is she? Pleasure vessel, more like.”
Hildy drew herself up, as her aunts did when they were displeased. “Yours was hardly even that, was it?”
Al shut his eyes and muttered things. “Oh, it was horrible! Filthy little tub. Never been so sea-sick in my life!” That surprised them, in a sailor, but Al’s other remarks had so alarmed them that they all tried to look sympathetic. Al grinned. “I lay down in the bottom and let it all happen. Only thing I knew how to do. That was after I lost my gun. Damned wave took it off me. I regret that gun. It was as good as the one you got there.” Mitt found Al’s eyes open again, staring at Hobin’s gun in his belt. “Mind if I have a look?” said Al.
“Sorry,” said Mitt. “It’s got sentimental value. I never let anyone else touch it.”
“Fair enough,” said Al, to Mitt’s considerable relief.
Mitt finished his pie, handed the tiller to Hildy, and retired to the cabin, sick of Al already and hoping heartily that it would not prove far now to Kinghaven. They must all make sure to give Al the slip there. Mitt did not trust Al. He disliked his elaborate deference to Hildy and Ynen, his plain intention of not doing a hand’s turn, and, above all, his smug and prying manner.
Above him, Mitt could hear Al asking if they had anything to eat but pies. He added discontentedly that it seemed rather a rich diet. Yes, let’s have you seasick again, Mitt thought, and went up the cabin to the rosy bucket.
When he came out, Al’s voice was in the well, saying, “Oh, no offense, little lady. It’s not my place to question the provisions. I just thought you could get that lazy boy to catch a few fish now and then. His kind get above themselves if they’re let stay idle.”
“You can fish if you want,” Ynen said. “We don’t want you idle either.”
“That’s right, guvnor,” Al agreed heartily. “I’ll go and set him to it, shall I?”
There was a frustrated silence in the well. Al bent down and entered the cabin. Mitt braced himself against the remaining half of the cupboard door, ready to whisk past Al and out on deck. Al would soon find Mitt was nobody’s servant. Al advanced. Mitt waited his moment and shot forward. But instead of sliding by under Al’s elbow, Mitt found himself hurtling into Al’s solid body and grunting with the impact. He was seized in a punishingly strong grip. Al laughed in his ear. “No, you don’t!”
Nothing like this had happened to Mitt for years. He was as humiliated as he was angry. He struggled hard. They bashed against the cupboard, a bunk, and the cupboard again. “Let go of me!” panted Mitt as they bounced against the gilded door.
Al, by this time, had both Mitt’s hands helpless under one brawny arm. “Right you are,” he said. He plucked the gun out of Mitt’s belt and let go of Mitt the same instant. Mitt was flung against the bunk again.
“How dare you!” said Hildy.
“Give that back, please,” said Ynen.
Both of them had come into the cabin, too, which explained why Wind’s Road was tipping about so, Mitt realized, as he was rolled onto the floor.
Al raised the gun. “You see to the boat, guvnor,” he said, and walked toward the cabin door. Ynen, Hildy, and Mitt, too, backed out in front of him in a dismayed cluster, treading on one another along the tipping floor. Ynen seized the tiller and set Wind’s Road to rights again, while the other two crammed themselves beside him, as far as they could get from Al in the cabin doorway.
“That’s right,” said Al. “Now this is much more comfortable. I didn’t feel safe with this gun where it was. Went off once already, didn’t it?” he said, pointing to the splintered groove beside the well. He turned the gun over admiringly. “Where did you pinch this?” he asked Mitt. “This is one of Hobin’s—one of his specials.”
Mitt set his face sullenly. He was not going to discuss Hobin with Al.
“Well, it’s in good hands now,” Al remarked. “Five shots in it. Got any more?”
“No,” said Mitt.
In rippling, rope-creaking silence, Al swung himself up to sit facing them on the cabin roof, with his legs dangling and the gun laid across one knee. Mitt watched his square, smug face and was almost shamed enough to cry. He knew he was having a very vivid experience of exactly how Ynen and Hildy felt when he first came out of the cabin himself, and it made him feel sick. It seemed hard on Ynen and Hildy to be having it again.