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happened to your ship?”
    â€œWe plugged the holes the best we could and made quick to shore for repairs.”
    â€œIn St. Augustine?” I ask, thinking that the ship must have listed badly for the Captain to choose a Spanish port.
    â€œAre you daft? Use your noggin, lad! Had we sailed into St. Augustine flying the Queen’s flag, the governor would have finished us off with one shot across the bow.”
    â€œThen where?”
    â€œA place what is known only to me and the Captain.”
    â€œAn island?” I ask.
    â€œYour nose is too long, boy. Pay attention to what I’m teaching you now, and perhaps you’ll die an old man with two eyes.” He turns back to his pots, talking to himself as he fills each one. He directs me to add handfuls of the nails and glass, yelling when I add too much or too little. By the time the moon appears, we have finished dozens of pots.
    Finally, Peep stands and wipes his hands on his breeches. “We’ve done a good job,” he says, looking up at the night sky.“Perhaps in the morning we’ll make a few more just to be sure.”
    â€œTo be sure of what?” I ask, stifling a yawn.
    â€œTo be sure of whatever we need to be sure of,” Solitaire Peep says, waving his hands. “Now get below. I’m too tired to teach you anything else this day.”
    He squats down and begins counting his pots. A frown crosses his face. “Aye,” he says. “Methinks a few more will do no harm.”
    He speaks to himself, for I have already reached the hatch and don’t reply.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    I t is hard to believe more than a month has passed since I was taken from Charles Towne. I have noted each day with a scratch on the corner of parchment that I took from my father’s shop. I make the mark and then roll the parchment up quickly. I cannot bring myself to read what I wrote on my last night in jail, for I do not want to remember my fears. The desire to write or sketch strikes me often, for my father’s last words are strong in my head, but my body craves sleep more than anything when I return to this room. Someday, perhaps, I shall write of these days, but for now I tuck away each memory.
    Morning is the time I like best, when the ship is quiet and no one is shouting my name or ordering me about. I have grown fond of this room, though it is always chilled because it sits so deep in the ocean. The temperature helps to keep the food stored in the crates and in the barrels fresh. The animals and I have become great friends, and sometimes on rainy nights they leave their straw beds and gather near me. I let them stay, for the goat’s fur is as warm as any blanket, and the sound of the piglets snoring near my head helps to drown out the rain beating upon the deck.
    Today, the bright sunlight shows me how filthy the room has become. Looking around, I flush guiltily. It is my job toclean up after the animals; though I try to keep up, there are many more of them than there are of me. Last night, I stumbled down the stairs exhausted and ignored the stink that greeted me when I entered the room. Too tired to clean, I tossed around some scraps Cook saved from the day’s meals and ladled dippers of fresh water from the barrel where it is stored into the single trough the animals share, not bothering to dump out the dirty water. The mess and smells that surround me now make my stomach churn. Scratching a piglet’s smooth pink head, I murmur, “Did you come to sleep with me last night because your bed was too soiled?”
    Sighing, I toss off the old sail that Cook gave me to use as covering. I grab the metal spade that hangs on the back of the door, quickly scoop up three piles of goat dung, and drop them into the night bucket. A wide yellow puddle has seeped into the cracks between the planking, and I blot the floor dry with a rag that I keep in the corner. I pause when I reach the piglets’ barrel and stare with