Ship of Fire by Michael Cadnum

rope, to steady myself against the bucking of our vessel. It was not strictly an untruth. I had cut off none.
    A voice called out from the helm, a husky bawl, “Hands off the sheets, sir,” someone directed me, “lest you spoil her trim.” Or words to that effect—the accent was strange to my ear and the sailing terms all but foreign.
    Jack clapped a hand on the rail.
    â€œKeep your balance,” he said, with every show of kindness, “like this.”
    With spray in my eyes, I suffered the indignity of being shown how to hang on to a rail.

Chapter 11
    The two days we spent sailing from the mouth of the Thames along the coast westward to Plymouth were celebrated by the crew of our pinnace as a speedy voyage, and well favored by the wind. Before noon on the first day we passed the Golden Lion cutting a pretty wake but slower than our vessel. Her sailors called out greetings.
    For me it was a time spent seasick, so much so that I found a place in the prow, and let the wind refresh my spirits. My master, too, looked pale as pudding, and he said this was to be expected until “like old sailors we goat-foot around the deck.”
    He was right—I was feeling hale and seaman-like by the time we reached Plymouth.
    The harbor was crowded with ships’ boats and barges, packet boats for carrying messages, and carracks for delivering freight. The warships themselves were packed close, robust, brightly painted vessels, each ship a towering web of rigging, sails tight-furled. Rumor was that privateers raked the coast, legalized pirates of several nations. Merchants and fishermen alike had hurried into harbor, grateful for the protection of the Queen’s fighting ships.
    I tried to spy our flagship—and our famous admiral—but could make out little in the crowd of shipping. I had seen Drake himself once or twice before, from a great distance. His river-boat had been pointed out to me, a long, low vessel painted red and gold, with silk pennants fluttering, carrying the famous red-whiskered mariner to Parliament, where he served. I had remarked to myself more than once that we were alike in the coloring of our hair, an unusual carrot-bright hue, and that we both hailed from the same West Country moorlands.
    Our pinnace, propelled by oars, threaded through the crowd of ships’ tenders and shallops, vessels used to carry messages from shore to ship. The harbor was at first glance haphazard, frigates nearly tangling with warships. But soon a brisk pattern emerged, and by the time we glided toward the inner harbor what had seemed chaos now looked like a well-ordered hive, ships’ provisions lined along the distant wharf, barrels being lowered into lighters—supply boats—and the sing-song of orders being called out in every anchored hull we passed.
    We approached a vessel painted a dazzling black and white, the scent of fresh paint in the air. The Elizabeth Bonaventure was a big ship. She had proud castles fore and aft, but her appearance was sleek, her newly pitched rigging hanging dark and stiff in the gray afternoon. Her masts were festooned with flags and pennons, none of them stirring—except one.
    This flag toyed with the wind, emblazoned with a red-winged dragon, its talons wrapped around the globe.
    It was the crest of Sir Francis Drake.

Chapter 12
    â€œHeave hard there,” a voice sang out, “or she’ll crush us all flat.”
    Hovering over the ship, and high above our pinnace, a wooden crane lowered a large crate. The load shuddered downward, shadow swaying. Through the slats of the crate, rows of cannon balls gave off a dull, leaden gleam.
    â€œSaker balls,” said Jack Flagg at my side. I recognized the pleasant smile he gave me, an expert showing off his special knowledge. “The saker uses smaller shot than most guns, although the falconets aboard this ship will fire the smallest shot of all, the size of pigeons’ eggs.”
    My heart