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the suddenness of the chopper’s blow. The poor wreck of a finger, no bigger than a chicken bone, fell with a chime into the basin.

Chapter 15
    After this vivid adventure in medicine, I was surprised to see that we were still snugly in port, having voyaged nowhere.
    I glanced around for a glimpse of our famous admiral. Everywhere I saw shipboard bustle, but no sign of the legendary Drake.
    I had never seen any city except London, and had expected Plymouth to be a sleepy port, with peaked roofs in a row. But even from the wharf it was plain that this was a town with taverns of the rougher sort, dung heaps up and down the meandering streets, lean cats scrambling out of the way of staggering sailors.
    The Golden Lion had arrived at last, nosing her way toward the wharf, and every seaman and officer knew that this was a night to drink and sport, because at the next ebb tide the fleet might take us to sea.
    â€œAre you hungry, Thomas?” asked my master as I followed him. He surveyed the crowded, muddy by-ways of this port, wondering aloud which doubtful, smoky lane promised the best food. A dust-colored torn cat observed me from a coil of hemp rope, but when I reached to scratch his head the cat hissed.
    We had left Davy Wyott at peace with the world because of the drink he had swallowed, a ship’s boy in attendance, spirit-flask nearby. I was very hungry, and thirsty, too. But when I saw two seamen wrestling each other in a puddle, surrounded by cheering crewmates, I asked my master’s leave. I hurried back to the ship, into our cabin for my sword, and my master’s blade, too.
    â€œOnly a seaman dare sup or drink in Plymouth,” said Jack with a wink, sitting on the deck of the ship. He was pulling on his boots, and had put on a new cap, with a red feather. Such feathers are pretty, but dyed. A golden fighting cock’s plume—a color ordained by nature—angled from my own hat.
    â€œA gentleman like you,” said Jack with a laugh, “even with a sword, will be a fawn among lions, if you’ll forgive me.”
    I offered Jack our protection in return, with what I thought was a manly laugh. “So if you find yourself in rough company, we can save your skin.”
    â€œA rapier is not a cleaver, by God,” said Jack. “Or a surgeon’s mallet, either.”
    I had noticed glances of interest and, I thought, respect from our shipmates. Talk of our capable treatment of Davy Wyott’s injury had evidently spread.
    My master and I found an inn called the Mitre and Parrot.
    We dined there on mutton, hearty slices of it, hot and served on slabs of brown bread. We drank a thick, sweet beer, and were soon content.
    We sat with our feet before the fire, and my master told me in detail of the mermaid again. It was a story I had come to love, if only for the mood that came over my master when he spun the tale. Sometimes called meermaids or merewives , these sea-sirens showed themselves as a special favor to men of character. To see one was a sign of great good luck, and to hear one speak a rare wonder.
    â€œShe had long, streaming tresses,” he reminisced, as often before, “and dazzling green skin.”
    He paused, no doubt seeing her again in his mind. “She looked right at me, Tom, as sure as I’m a Christian. She parted her lips and she spoke.” He shook his head. “By the time I called to the boatswain—a good fellow, but slow-footed—she was gone.”
    It was my part, now, to ask the question I always did at this point in the tale. “What did she say to you, my lord?”
    He gave a thoughtful laugh.
    My master’s mind was a quilt, skepticism and critical reason stitched neatly within seemly faith and prayer. He had taught me that the representations of eyeballs and hearts in the expensively printed books were “fanciful, no more like real organs than a puppet is like a man.” The only way to learn, he had taught me,