and headings and how to judge direction from the position of the sun. Over Margaret’s right shoulder the sun finally rose clear of the eastern horizon and illuminated the far shore of the lake. Though it was still miles away, she could see the morning fog lurking around the trunks of the trees, and straggling snakes of vapor retreating from the surface of the lake into the shade of the–
She paused in her thoughts and tried to remember the word Miss Rose had used.
“Bayuk,” she said out loud, surprising herself. She looked around to see if anyone had heard, but she was still alone in the bow.
Before they had cast off, she had asked the officer in charge of Puncher how long their trip would be. In the process she made the mistake of calling him “Captain”.
He had let forth a loud, raucous laugh, and she had slumped and started to turn away. He had put a big, dirty hand on her shoulder to stop her. “Don’t be glum, lass,” he had said. “It’s a common enough mistake you’re making. It might even be considered a compliment,” he added, though his expression had shown that he was not one who considered it such. “Do you think a noble captain of His Majesty’s Navy would be commanding a peppy little boat like Puncher ?” He had leaned over the side and spat into the dirty water of the docks. “But do you know what?” he had asked, squatting on his heels so their eyes met. “The joke’s on them.” He gave her a lopsided smile and a wink. “’Cause little Puncher can run circles around those big, beautiful ships with their high airs captains and their prissy first mates.”
Margaret had giggled. He had looked so funny, and so proud of his Puncher . He reminded her of Da when he was at home and not wearing his uniform. She had liked him immediately.
The man had then told her, “On board Puncher , lass, I am Master Ezekiel Gallows. A bella bambina like yourself, though, may call me Mister Zeek and I will proudly answer. And speaking of answers,” he went on, “we will be arriving on the far side before the noon sun reaches its zenith.”
Margaret hoped the trip would take longer. She did not want to leave Puncher or Mister Zeek any sooner than she had to. She liked the way the boat moved over the surface of the lake, just as she had enjoyed the motions of the Maryanna Rose . Unlike Janett, who had spent the first days out of Bristol miserable and hungry. But this was different. Like the ocean in miniature.
“You like being on the waters?”
Margaret jumped at the sound of a woman’s voice and turned to see the native girl, Rose’s friend, stood beside her. She tried to remember the girl’s name.
The girl smiled, displaying straight, white teeth. “You may call me Chal.”
“Yes,” Margaret said, still surprised. She had heard no footsteps. And now it seemed like Chal had read her thoughts. Twice. “Yes,” she again. “I do. I mean, I like being on the water.” She remembered her manners then–or Janett’s manners, anyway–and gave a quick curtsy, pulling at her skirt just enough to display the cuffs of her trousers before letting it settle back into place. “A pleasure to meet you–Miss Chal. I’m–my name is–Margaret. Margaret Laxton.”
Chal nodded. “You may call me Chal, Margaret Laxton.”
Margaret had never really looked at the girl before. The girl had a darker skin tone than the other natives she had seen in New Venezia. Not the black of the slaves, though. Just a deep, rich red-brown. Her eyes were brown, nearly as dark as the braids of her hair that framed her face. And, Margaret noticed, the girl was young. At most only a year or two older than Janett’s seventeen years. And pretty too. Maybe, in her own way, as pretty as Janett.
Chal laughed, a sound like fountain, then said, “My years under the sun have been kind to me.”
Margaret’s look became an open stare.
“Do not be astonished, Margaret Laxton.” Chal smiled. “Your questions are plain on
She paused in her thoughts and tried to remember the word Miss Rose had used.
“Bayuk,” she said out loud, surprising herself. She looked around to see if anyone had heard, but she was still alone in the bow.
Before they had cast off, she had asked the officer in charge of Puncher how long their trip would be. In the process she made the mistake of calling him “Captain”.
He had let forth a loud, raucous laugh, and she had slumped and started to turn away. He had put a big, dirty hand on her shoulder to stop her. “Don’t be glum, lass,” he had said. “It’s a common enough mistake you’re making. It might even be considered a compliment,” he added, though his expression had shown that he was not one who considered it such. “Do you think a noble captain of His Majesty’s Navy would be commanding a peppy little boat like Puncher ?” He had leaned over the side and spat into the dirty water of the docks. “But do you know what?” he had asked, squatting on his heels so their eyes met. “The joke’s on them.” He gave her a lopsided smile and a wink. “’Cause little Puncher can run circles around those big, beautiful ships with their high airs captains and their prissy first mates.”
Margaret had giggled. He had looked so funny, and so proud of his Puncher . He reminded her of Da when he was at home and not wearing his uniform. She had liked him immediately.
The man had then told her, “On board Puncher , lass, I am Master Ezekiel Gallows. A bella bambina like yourself, though, may call me Mister Zeek and I will proudly answer. And speaking of answers,” he went on, “we will be arriving on the far side before the noon sun reaches its zenith.”
Margaret hoped the trip would take longer. She did not want to leave Puncher or Mister Zeek any sooner than she had to. She liked the way the boat moved over the surface of the lake, just as she had enjoyed the motions of the Maryanna Rose . Unlike Janett, who had spent the first days out of Bristol miserable and hungry. But this was different. Like the ocean in miniature.
“You like being on the waters?”
Margaret jumped at the sound of a woman’s voice and turned to see the native girl, Rose’s friend, stood beside her. She tried to remember the girl’s name.
The girl smiled, displaying straight, white teeth. “You may call me Chal.”
“Yes,” Margaret said, still surprised. She had heard no footsteps. And now it seemed like Chal had read her thoughts. Twice. “Yes,” she again. “I do. I mean, I like being on the water.” She remembered her manners then–or Janett’s manners, anyway–and gave a quick curtsy, pulling at her skirt just enough to display the cuffs of her trousers before letting it settle back into place. “A pleasure to meet you–Miss Chal. I’m–my name is–Margaret. Margaret Laxton.”
Chal nodded. “You may call me Chal, Margaret Laxton.”
Margaret had never really looked at the girl before. The girl had a darker skin tone than the other natives she had seen in New Venezia. Not the black of the slaves, though. Just a deep, rich red-brown. Her eyes were brown, nearly as dark as the braids of her hair that framed her face. And, Margaret noticed, the girl was young. At most only a year or two older than Janett’s seventeen years. And pretty too. Maybe, in her own way, as pretty as Janett.
Chal laughed, a sound like fountain, then said, “My years under the sun have been kind to me.”
Margaret’s look became an open stare.
“Do not be astonished, Margaret Laxton.” Chal smiled. “Your questions are plain on
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