“I can’t do nuffin with this poxy wood, mate” the cook waved a whitish branch of wood in front of Dogger Scatt. “Tain’t burnable! “
“Ye cannot cook, and now it’s proven ye cannot even burn wood – ye useless bagfish! Let me have that ere piece of kindling.”
Dogger took hold of the stick of whitish wood, hefting it in his hand.
“Tis right heavy, near to a stone’s weight” he said more to himself than to the cook. “Ye say it cannot be made to kindle?”
“Not if I was to blow my barmy cheeks out would it ever see flame!”
“Fie on it, then use something else in yon kitchen to cook our blasted soup. Soup! Soup! That’s all you feed us is blasted soup! The lady Jemsabel says the holds are fat with provisions; why do we have to starve, cuddy?”
“Tis strange food; I’ve no liking for it nor any handiness in cooking it” the cook grumbled; then a look of self pity spread across his ugly face. He gently massaged his right arm. “Me arm pains me something fierce, it do, and it’s hard enough for a body to make soup, so it is . . . “
Scatt was all too familiar with this self-serving lament.
“Get the soup on, ye blubbering fool! No one gives a rat’s eye about yer arm.”
Dogger walked off with the heavy piece of wood. Had he turned, he would have caught the cook making a slow, satisfied wiping motion with his extended thumb under his chin from jowl to jowl; indicating that he had unpleasant plans for Dogger Scatt.
Bill was at the wheel for a few more turns of the sand wheel. Since leaving the Island of Hairy Potters the crew had found the Moonfire to handle well and true. Doorways and hatches were a problem for those of generous proportions such as Master Jernigan and Pothouse Annie. It was even a tight squeeze for Bonnie Sally. And the rigging of the sails was entirely new to everyone on board; but under Jemsabel’s gentle tutelage Dogger had puzzled it out and trained the crew thoroughly on how to manage the ropes. Dogger went now to seek the lady Jemsabel, to discover what was this whitish, heavy wood. He found her on the pops’cle with Bonnie Sally.
“ . . .And if you kick a man or manikin there he will never trouble you again!” exclaimed Bonnie Sally with relish.
“Will it hurt them all that much, my great one?” asked Jemsabel in sweet wonder.
“Aye, give me leave and I’ll demonstrate on yon varlet, Dogger Scatt. One good kick and he won’t get up again for many a long moment.”
“You’ll kick me where, you great brazen?” demanded Scatt as he came up to them.
“In the throat, cuddy. Kick a man in the throat, crush his little voice bump, and he’s no good to anyone for a long while after. I be teaching the little lady how to take care of herself in case the likes of you gets evil-minded.”
Dogger Scatt gave her his deepest scowl. He revered the lady Jemsabel; she was the first person since Dogger was a cabin boy to treat him unfailingly with courtesy and gentleness. He knew in his very bones he would never let anyone harm the little Jemsabel; Dogger’s knife would search the ribs of anyone who tried to molest her.
“Hush your bazoo, now” he said shortly, but would say no more, fearing that his rude language would offend the little Jemsabel.
“I beg pardon, lady. But the cook came to hand with some strange sort of a heavy wood that he says won’t be burnt at all, the scoundrel. There be heaps of it in the hold, lady, and if we can’t burn it what is it we do with it?”
