The boatswain’s right leg was shorter than his left and René doubted anyone
brought that fact to his attention without regret.
“You walk funny.” René called out loud and clear. There was no profit to him if
he got beat up and no one knew why.
All work within the sound of René’s voice stopped. Silence reigned. René had
guessed right, and now he needed to survive his insight.
The boatswain froze, disbelief written on his face. The disbelief changed to
rage. “What did you say?” Spittle flew from his mouth.
Even the captain had turned to watch. René counted
on the fact that Gaspard’s agent had given the captain a great deal of money
along with explicit instructions that did not include throwing a dead boy
overboard. What he could not know was how close to dead the agent
considered acceptable.
“I said you walk funny,” René said— louder this time, so there was no mistake in
his words.
“Do you know what a cat is, boy?” The veins in the man’s neck pulsed. His eyes
were shot red with blood.
“A small animal?” René asked.
There was a laugh from the men standing around the mast. The boatswain’s
gaze turned like a snake seeking prey. The laugh died. Only the sea continued
to speak. In the presence of death, the men remained silent.
“You, James, bring me the cat. I don’t think this boy has ever seen a real one.
Your education has been sadly incomplete, boy. You’ll be thankin’ me for this. I
promise you.” The man’s voice was a rough whisper.
“Gob, there’s no need to add harm to the kid. ’Twill find him soon enough,” said
James.
“Bring me the damn cat, Bailey.”
James walked over and handed the boatswain the cat-o-nine- tails. He caught
René’s eye and shook his head. The cat had nine sinuous thongs of blood-
encrusted leather dangling from a well-worn wooden handle.