As they climbed the gangplank and crossed the holystoned decks, Skeeter’s pulse kicked in at triple time, jumping savagely in anticipation of Kaederman’s violent reaction. Then they were climbing down into the ship’s dark interior, following the narrow passageway to the cramped galley. Skeeter stole his hand into his coat and gripped the butt of his Webley Green, fully expecting trouble to break out the instant “Anderson” caught sight of them.
“Hey, Anderson!” the sailor poked his head into the galley. “You got company, mate!” He then sauntered away on his own business, jingling Margo’s coins in his pocket.
“I comin’, suh, I comin’ . . . can I help you all, somehow? I got work to do . . .”
Anderson’s voice was soft, respectful, almost obsequious. And the moment Skeeter caught a glimpse, his spirits plunged toward despair. Their new galley cook was a Yank, all right. A very black one, at least sixty years old, with grizzled white hair, missing half a tooth in front. He spoke in a broad, drawling dialect that sounded like the deep South. Anderson proved to be a former plantation slave who’d signed as cook aboard the first ship out of Savannah after his manumission. Said he wanted to see something of the world, have a few stories to tell his grandchildren.
While Tanglewood thanked the cook and apologized for interrupting his work, bitter disappointment sent Skeeter striding back topside, fists clenched as he reached the rain-slick deck. A ship’s officer sporting a vulcanized rubber rain slicker was telling someone, “Your bunk’s below, stow your gear and report to the quartermaster for a uniform. Then shag your arse back topside and find the first mate, he’ll tell you what your job’s to be.”