Lying in the shade of a palm tree on a bed of lush green seagrape, Matthew Roving squinted down the beach. In the foreground was a wiry little man in short pants, white knee stockings, and a blue tricornered hat who was trying, not very successfully, to chop up a coconut with a sword. Beyond him was bright stunning sunshine on white sand and blue water—hard on the eyes, but Matthew kept staring, searching the choppy blue sea for a ship. They desperately needed a ship.
The little man with the sword was named John Paul—"Master Paul," he'd insisted they call him. Master Paul would've seemed ridiculous to Matthew but for the fact that he'd seen him thrust the same sword into a man's chest only a few hours before. It made him sick just to think of it.
I've seen my first dead man. His stomach lurched, and he quickly reminded himself that Master Paul could soon be his second, if the packet-boat didn't come. Not only that, but he and Abby would be headed for seven years of slavery on a sugarcane plantation.
"Eat! Keep up your strength!" Master Paul said, skewering a chunk of white coconut meat with the sword's tip and poking it in Matthew's face. Matthew closed his eyes and groaned.
Only yesterday he'd been hanging out in Newport in the year 2000, ice cream cone in hand. If he hadn't spotted their landlady, Wydontia Gaway, ducking into a funky old bookstore, he'd still be in Newport.
Not that things in Newport were all that great. How could they be, with the news that Dad's ship had been seized? His ship, the USS Vineland, had been surrounded by mysterious rebels off Venezuela. But at least in Newport he'd be hearing from the Navy as soon as Dad was released. Besides, Mom suddenly was handing out plenty of money for the video game arcade, the movies, and ice cream—nothing wrong with that!
But then he and Abby had to go and follow Wydontia Gaway into the bookstore. And while Wydontia and the owner were in the back, Matthew had sidled up to the cash register to see what she was buying. Nothing special, just some old charts: the islands of Barbados, Tobago, and Trinidad, from 1773. He didn't think anything of it—until he glanced into Wydontia's canvas book-bag and saw The Log. Then he knew. He had no doubt that when he compared The Log's entries for 1773 to the islands mentioned in the charts he would find a match. And although he really didn't want to—he had most of a Cookie Dough and Heath Crunch ice cream cone left—as soon as he saw the word "Tobago" he set The Log on the floor, took Abby's hand in his own, and pulled, trying to get her to step on the open page.
"Are you nuts?" she shrieked. Peeling loose his fingers, she pushed him backwards. And then he was standing on the foredeck of a square-rigged ship on a bright blue sea. Instead of the ice cream cone, he had a section of succulent green sugarcane between his teeth. Beside him, Abby was sitting on a barrel, pale and tired, looking every inch a colonial Abigail in her patchwork skirt and blouse.
A little wiry man in a dark blue jacket with gold buttons, knee-length trousers, and white stockings glared at them. He was no taller than Matthew, perhaps even shorter, but seemed to radiate energy. "I am John Paul, master of the Betsy. How in the devil did you stay hidden for so long?"
"That's easy," said a nearby sailor, extremely large and well-muscled, with a shocking sour smell. He reached out and gave Matty's arm a painful twist. "They'd made a sort of rat's nest in the aft hold and was eating biscuit and sugarcane like regular little lords."
"If you please, kind Captain Paul," began Abigail.
"You must call me Master Paul. Captain is a term reserved properly for command in His Majesty's Navy." Master Paul adjusted the sword at his belt, looked up. "Go on, I'm listening."
"'Twas our misfortune to have our father's ship go missing at sea," she said meekly.
"My sympathies," said Master Paul, coolly. "I, too, lost my father at an early age. His untimely demise was the cause of my leaving home—fair Kirkcudbright, in bonny Scotland. But although I was but ten years of age, I left as a sailor earning his bread." He added: "A stowaway is no better than a thief."
Matty felt Master John Paul's sharp black eyes studying him, and gritted his teeth: "I can work to pay for our passage."
"I can't imagine how. The wind is fair, and we reach Tobago in a day. Once there, my man Mountjoy who discovered you can sell you both into service on the plantations."
"Ay!" The sailor shook Matty's arm. "We'll all take shares."
Matty cleared his throat nervously. "Please, sir. Our father—there's reason to believe—well, to hope—that he might still be alive, held captive, perhaps marooned. Off the coast of Venezuela."
"That's enough for now," said Master Paul. Abby gave Matty a despairing look, saying, "Now look what you have done, you with your tricks. Indentured servants for the next seven years! At least in America we were free!"
Master Paul seemed to find this amusing. "When I was in Virginia, that's all they talked about. Mountjoy, put them to work—we'll see if they can buy their freedom!"
The next 24 hours were full of cleaning and polishing and scouring. Matty spent most of the time down in the hold and bilges of the Betsy—stinky work that left the fingers raw and full of splinters. In the afternoon of the following day they sighted and coasted along the shore of a low tropical island—Tobago. The work ceased, and for a few hours it was all very peaceful, except for occasional outbursts between Master Paul and Mountjoy the sailor, who seemed to always be complaining about something.
They anchored in a bend of a sandy point. Suddenly a door in the aft cabin opened and a tall stranger emerged, face covered by a fine net that hung off his or her hat like a black cloud. Mountjoy swaggered up to the passenger and, after a muttered conversation, turned to announce to all: "He agrees we should take tha' stowaways and sell 'em off to the Tobago plantations to pay for their passage. Everybody gets a share of the price!" Several sailors cheered.
"We've got a wee bit of cargo to deliver first," said Master Paul. Rebuffed, the sailor Mountjoy retreated, cursing, to the afterdeck, where he consulted the mosquito-netted stranger again. He turned and announced to everyone who might care to listen: "He says that seeing as he's a gentleman who's bought and paid for his passage rightfully it's only fair and proper that he should take responsibility for selling these stowaways himself—an' he'll pay us ten shillings silver!"
Master Paul shook his head no. "And if these poor children's tale should be true and their father should be marooned on Isla Margarita or Tortuga, 'twoud be a foul deed I would have done." He paused. "As a fatherless son myself I could never be satisfied seeing them treated as slaves for the next seven years—why, the fever would probably kill them."
"Serve 'em right," Mountjoy said. "I'm takin' 'em ashore myself, then!" He turned to Abigail. "Get into tha' boat, lassie."
"I'll remind you who the master is of this ship!" barked Master Paul. Mountjoy grabbed a wooden stave and hefted it threateningly, saying, "And I'll remind you—Tobago is my home, not yours, and you'll find no friend here if you cross me." He advanced; Master Paul retreated, until his foot reaching backwards found an open hatchway, at which point he slowly drew his sword. The standoff lasted only a few seconds, before the sailor swung his stave. A moment later the brute was staring in disbelief at the sword buried to its hilt in his chest.
"You have killed me!" he exclaimed and, true to his word, died.
Master Paul glanced down at the body and then at Matty and Abigail. "You'll accompany me to the local Justice and make a deposition?" Matty nodded, and a minute later they were heading ashore in a boat rowed by Master Paul, who was whistling a spirited tune. "This should only take an hour," he said cheerily. "I acted in self-defense and under provocation."
At the country cottage where they stopped, the Justice heard them out. A dozen cats prowled his bookshelves and furniture, and a bespectacled male secretary at his side wrote down all they said.
"With these children as witnesses you can clear the writs in court," the Justice announced. "But it may take a year, and in Barbados, not here in Tobago. In the meantime Mountjoy's family will have your head and have it this evening, if you're not quick in getting away."
He dipped a quill pen in an inkpot and began to write in an easy, flowing style. "Don't return to your ship; they'll impound it and sell it to pay damages." The Justice blotted the paper and handed it to Master Paul. "Go straight across the island to Fat Hog Bay, where the Falmouth Packet is due. This note should arrange passage with no questions."
Master Paul looked at the note. "I'm to lose my ship?"
"That or lose your life. Hurry and go!" urged the Judge, directing his secretary to show them to a goat-path over the mountains to the other coast.
"A sail!" cried Abigail, running past Matty and scattering sand over him. She stood up to her ankles in the surf and waved her shawl over her head. Master Paul pulled a small spyglass from his coat pocket. "The Falmouth Packet, indeed," he said.
An hour later they were on board a small schooner. Master Paul presented the Judge's letter to her skipper, a Captain Jones, who read it, stared at them with obvious distaste and suspicion, then turned to his mate. "It seems we shall not be tarrying in Tobago, Mister Clewes. Make sail for Barbados."
Master Paul nudged Matty, and nodded back toward the beach. A swarm of tiny figures were running back and forth on the sand. "Looks as if they've missed the boat, eh?" He chuckled. "Missed the boat—get it?"
And with that one pretty awful joke they were away, tearing along at a fast clip, the schooner's rigging singing in the breeze as she heeled over until her starboard rail was underwater and Matty and Abigail had to hang on or fall over the side. Matty could hardly take his eyes off the sea—there were so many colors of blue and green and turquoise. Dolphins swam in pairs in the bow-wave; gulls hovered above, calling for fishguts from the tunny the sailors hooked with a hand-line. Something inside him said, I could do this forever!
After sailing all day and all night, they hove to in the port of Bridgetown. A swarm of canoes and boats came out, bags of mail and small parcels were tossed to and from eager hands; and all the while Master Paul examined the docks through his spyglass.
"There's several rude types loitering about I don't like the looks of," he confided to Matty. "Hey! You there, sailor!" he shouted down to a withered old salt in a rowboat. "Have you heard of this business in Tobago with a devil called Mountjoy?"
"Ay, I've heard the word murder," cried the old salt, "and it's the same John Paul who flogged Mungo Malcolm to death in '69."
"'Tis not true," whispered Master Paul to Matty. "The scoundrel died of fever, with the scars well healed on his back." He turned and addressed Master Jones. "Sir, with your permission we'll stay aboard 'till the next port."
Although the captain didn't hide his unhappiness, he said nothing and gave orders to prepare to leave. As they hauled anchor, a sailor pointed at an approaching longboat: "One more load, sir." Matty watched apprehensively as the boat pulled alongside, sure the cloaked figure crouched in the stern carried orders to arrest Master Paul and detain Abigail and him. But the crew just tossed aboard a last bit of cargo—a seaman's chest decorated in painted panels on the sides, and a strange bundle of dirty blankets, while the cloaked figure watched, face hidden under a wide hat wrapped in fine mesh.
Then they were off again, on another dash across a dazzling tropical sea, heading due west to St. Vincent. Exhausted from having hardly slept during the flight from Tobago, Matty found a corner of the hold to curl up in and sleep. His last sight was of Abigail wrapping herself in her shawl and curling up on the bundle of dirty blankets.
"Place him aft! You, boy, clear out!" shouted an urgent voice. Matty opened his eyes, instantly aware that something was wrong: the schooner's progress had halted, her sails flapped aimlessly, waves thudded against her side. Two sailors loomed over the hatchway, the body of a third slung between them in a blanket.
Scrambling on deck, Matty was greeted by the sight of the crew lying on their backs, or propped against the rails, faces pale and drawn, with looks of either stoic resignation or sweaty terror. Only Master Paul was standing, apparently untroubled. Catching sight of Matty, he gave a close inspection.
"You're not sick? There's no pox on you."
"Pox?" echoed Matty. Then he saw the red dots blooming on Master Paul's neck. "Hey, those look like the measles!"
"Those blankets that came aboard in Bridgetown were infected," said Master Paul, wiping sweat from his brow. "I wonder what fool did that! The whole crew's sick, Master Jones too, and I expect I shall be of little use within the hour."
"Then who's going to steer the ship?" Matty watched the change of expression that came over Master Paul's face. "Me?"
But there was no answer. Master Paul had slumped down to join the sick on the deck.