Twists

Delph dove at Lucky as he made his way down South Water Street.

“Stop fooling,” Lucky yelled up at him. “I’ve work to do.”

But the gull did not let up. She flitted up and down, darting and pecking at Lucky’s cap. Finally, he settled on a ship chandlery sign, and let out a long line of cries.

Lucky gazed up at the bird. “Have you lost your senses?”

Delph shifted from one foot to the other. Lucky shook his head and, catching his own reflection in the shop window, turned to look.

His breath caught.

There, in the middle of a display of sextants, chronometers, and compasses, sat Pa’s rigger’s knife.

He gazed at it in disbelief.

It was Pa’s knife, all right. He could see the finely etched rendering of the Nightbird, her bowsprit riding far above the surf.

That dirty dog Fortuna. He’d gone and sold the contents of Lucky’s duffle.

He stepped into the shop.

“Where’d the rigger’s knife in the window come from?” he asked the bespectacled shopkeeper.

“Just came in today,” he said.

“Was it a tall dark fella who sold it?”

“That’s the one.” The man glanced up from his ledger. “Would you like to purchase it?”

“Purchase? It’s mine!”

“Not unless you can pay. And I don’t offer credit, young man.”

“I’ll be back,” Lucky said and left the shop. A cold fury rose from his gut like Arctic dark. He’d find that no-account, thieving bootlicker and make him pay.

His fury gave him speed. In no time he was at the tavern where the mulespinners usually stopped on their way home from the mill. Sure enough, Fortuna was inside, his tiny teeth showing as he laughed at something Antone said.

Lucky pushed past the others to stand before him.

“You sold my things,” he practically spat. “You had no right!”

Fortuna appeared bored.

“I’m your guardian,” he said. “I’ve every right.”

Lucky glared at him.

“You see what I was telling you?” Fortuna said to Antone. “Hey, half-pint,” he said, grabbing Lucky by the collar. “The boys and I were just talking about the sorry behavior of the youths of this city. And your name came up.”

Lucky eyed him warily. He’d been drinking, that was sure. He could smell it on his breath and hear it in his words, which had gone all fuzzy at the edges.

He should have waited for his anger to cool before confronting Fortuna. Lucky’s gut tensed. He didn’t have anything against drinking, as a matter of course. Whaleman’s commandment #7 was “drink as much as you can hold.” The problem was, as he knew well enough from life with Pa, the Valeras couldn’t hold much. Not without getting dangerous.

“I’ve got chores to do for Mrs. Cabral,” Lucky said and tried to shake free of Fortuna’s grip.

“They’ll keep, this won’t. Let’s discuss this outside.” Fortuna leered toward his friends for encouragement as he pushed Lucky out the tavern door.

“Gaspar, here, says he should’ve whupped you for the sass you gave him at the mill. Said you could use taking down a few pegs and he’d like to be the one to do the deed.” He checked behind him but the boy was nowhere to be seen. “Gaspar, come face your opponent.”

A group of sailors leaning against the tavern wall laughed. Lucky searched their faces, hoping he’d see one of his shipmates, but it was no use. The Nightbird would be almost to the Azores by now.

In a moment, Gaspar pushed out of the crowd and staggered forward, a maniacal grin on his face.

“Leave it to me, Fortuna,” he said. “He won’t give you any more trouble after today.”

“You’re not to maim him too severely,” Fortuna admonished. “Remember, he’s in my employ and I’ll want those wages.” He pulled Lucky forward and pointed to his head. “No going for the eyes, hands, or legs, understand?”

Gaspar nodded.

“I need him to be able to sweep and pick up thread, see?”

“I won’t hurt him too bad, Fortuna. Just teach him a lesson,” Gaspar took another step forward.

Lucky bristled and shook free of Fortuna’s grip. “It’s you who’ll be getting the schooling, landlubber.”

“Listen to me, lads, the boy’s been before the mast,” one of the sailors called to his companions. “My money’s on the sailor.”

“Mine, too.”

Lucky eyed Gaspar speculatively. He had the advantage of temperance, for one. Gaspar wore his condition on his spotted face and in his boastful swagger. He was like Mrs. Cabral’s rooster. And like the rooster, he could catch a man unawares. Lucky mustn’t let that happen. He already knew Gaspar had a mean streak; chances were he didn’t fight fair, either.

“You’re wasting your money betting against a mulespinner,” Fortuna said.

“Let’s see yours, you pasty-faced pieceworker,” one of the sailors called.

Gaspar started toward him and Lucky moved to the side. They circled each other, dredging up the dust of the tavern yard. Lucky was sure the mulespinner’d try to get in a few cheap shots and finish him off quickly. But he’d probably not have the endurance or balance to carry on for very long.

“Let me show you how fast a spinner can move,” Gaspar said and lunged.

Lucky jumped to the side, easily dodging the blow.

“I’ll teach you to show some respect.” Gaspar came at him again, sending a wild punch whizzing by his right temple.

“Not that way, you won’t.” Lucky laughed, though his voice sounded, at least to him, less than sure.

“No use trying to get the jump on a lad who rides the waves,” one of the sailors taunted, while the others cheered.

Lucky stole a quick glance at Fortuna. His face was unreadable. A grim mask.

“Oh yeah?” Gaspar said and lunged again, this time catching Lucky by a shirttail. He pulled it hard and spun Lucky around, delivering a blow to the ribs with his elbow.

Lucky felt the wind knocked out of him. He tried not to panic as he doubled over, trying to breathe. Gaspar danced around him, slapping at his head. Lucky drew up quickly and knocked his opponent in the chin.

Gaspar winced, trying to smile. “Seems you’ve been in some fights,” he said. “Too bad they were with little girls.”

He charged again but Lucky dodged easily. The mulespinner must be feeling the effects of the drink, Lucky thought. His red face showed not only his anger, but also the direction of his next attack. Lucky could read it in his glance.

“You’re the one who fights like a girl, pieceworker,” one of the sailors called.

“You wharf rats better keep your blowholes shut,” Antone said, and coughed into his hand. “’Less you want to fight, too.”

The insults and threats flew back and forth like sharks circling a whale’s carcass. Lucky tried not to pay any heed to the banter, focusing instead on his opponent.

When Gaspar tried to get in a blow to his side, Lucky jumped, extending his foot.

The older boy tripped and fell to the street.

“Huzzah!” the sailors called.

Gaspar jumped to his feet, charging blindly.

Lucky was ready with a fake to the right and a fist to the nose.

The bloodied Gaspar glared at him with the wild eyes of a wounded animal. He came at Lucky again. Lucky ducked and dodged. Gaspar lost his balance and fell to the street.

“The spinner’s in his cups,” one of the sailors cheered.

“Fin out,” another taunted, as Lucky took a deep breath and nodded toward his supporters.

Antone stepped forward, shaking his head, but the fallen boy waved him away.

The white flash of a gull’s wing near Gaspar’s head brought Lucky’s attention back to his opponent. Just in time, he saw Gaspar reach down with a sweeping motion and draw a knife from a holder at his ankle.

Delph cried out, as if in protest.

Another voice called, “That’s not fair, pox-face.”

Lucky had no knife. Whaleman’s commandment #5 came into his head like a flash of summer lightning: “cheat before you get cheated.” Well, Gaspar’d already cheated, he reckoned. He’d just even the score. Lucky remembered a stratagem he’d seen employed in a street fight in Manila.

“All right, you’ve won,” he conceded. “I’ve no weapon.”

The sailors’ protests filled the street as Lucky moved toward Gaspar, hand out, as though to shake.

Gaspar appeared at a loss. Dazed, drunken, and stupid.

While he gaped at Lucky’s extended right hand, wondering what to do, Lucky reached out with his left, seizing his opponent’s wrist. He came in hard with his right elbow, catching Gaspar square on the Adam’s apple. The knife clattered to the cobbles, and Lucky scrambled for it. Gaspar could only stand there, gasping for breath, as Lucky jumped to his feet, weapon in hand.

“Hurray!” the sailors cheered.

Gaspar favored Lucky with a nod of grudging respect before turning, shamefaced, toward his friends, who would not meet his eye.

Lucky felt the heavy weight in his hand. The knife, though not like Pa’s, was substantial and well-crafted. But it wasn’t a rigger’s knife. Turning its handle so the sharp edge pointed toward him, he threw it at the wall of the tavern. The blade slid neatly into the weathered plank siding and stuck.

“Aye, mates, from his spout, ye shall know him,” one of the sailors cried. “That one’s a true right whale.”

The sailors and spinners joined to exchange coin, each protesting the dirty dealings of the other. Lucky scanned the street for Fortuna, but he’d slipped away.

He stood for a moment, feeling suddenly unsteady. Not sure he could trust his legs to carry him.

Awk, awk, awk, Delph called from his perch on the tavern’s roof. Lucky nodded up at him in thanks, turned, and started down South Water Street.

“Wait,” a voice cried behind him. One of the sailors strode toward him with a gait that betrayed him as being newly aground. “The lads want you to have a share.”

He dropped some coins into Lucky’s hand, winked, and headed back to his friends. “Hope to ship with you someday,” he said over his shoulder.

Lucky checked to see if the mulespinners had witnessed the exchange but they had already headed into the tavern for another drink. He counted the money.

He turned back to the shops of South Water Street, walking quickly at first, then breaking into a run.

But when he arrived at the Ship Chandler’s window, there was an empty space where Pa’s knife had been. A “closed” sign hung on the door but Lucky could see movement inside. He rapped on the glass. In a moment, the shopkeeper peered out at him, pointing to the sign.

“Please,” Lucky begged. “It’s important.”

The man glanced heavenward and unlatched the door. “I’ll be late for my evening meal,” he said. “Be quick, boy.”

“I was in earlier,” Lucky said. “Remember?”

“I remember. The rigger’s knife.”

“Have you sold it?”

The shopkeeper squinted down at him over the rims of his gold spectacles. “Why do you want to know?”

Lucky held out the handful of coins. “I want to buy it.”

Taking a calculating glance at the coins, the shopkeeper smiled jovially. “Why didn’t you say so?”

He placed the knife on the counter.

“Its handle is very finely worked,” he said. “I don’t think the fellow who brought it in appreciated such first-rate craftsmanship.”

“I do,” Lucky said, putting his money on the counter.

“Good,” the shopkeeper started to separate the coins, “because you’re a bit short of my asking price.”

Lucky’s breath caught.

“But I’d like to see it go to someone who knows quality.” He tapped a long finger against his lip. “And I have a feeling you’ll put it to good use.”

“I’m grateful to you, sir.”

“Want me to wrap it?”

“No need,” Lucky said. He rubbed his fingers reverently over the ivory handle, then stuck the knife in the back of his breeches, the way riggers did.

The shopkeeper opened the door. “Hope you don’t run into the former owner,” he said, letting Lucky out onto the street. “I didn’t much like the looks of him.”