Chapter 90: It Ain’t Much, But It Is Honest Work
Dawn of the third day.
The sun broke over the bay, uncaring that James’s back had spent the night complaining yesterday’s labor had been a terrible idea. He carefully nudged Anne’s arm off his chest, eased himself out from beneath her where she’d wandered in her sleep yet again, and climbed to his feet. Every muscle ached, and each step reminded him exactly how many lengths of timber he’d carried.
One plain breakfast later, he joined the work without complaint, a fresh pine log balanced across his shoulder. The rope burn across his palm was still raw from the day before, and apparently there were blisters a man could only earn by deciding to build a town with his own two hands.
"Mind that timber don’t get away from ye, Cap’n."
One of the Fortune’s newer hands flashed a grin broad enough to show the gap where a tooth had once been. "Wouldn’t want ye breakin’ somethin’ before we’ve even got walls to hang a door on."
"You’ll break somethin’ worse than that bloody nail if ye keep runnin’ yer mouth instead of yer legs."
James hitched the timber higher on his shoulder. "Move it, lad, or I’ll tell every lass in that brothel we haven’t built yet that you’re the reason it’s takin’ so long."
Laughter rolled down the line, and the men found just enough extra energy to quicken their pace.
He spotted Tomás at the front, showing one of the newest recruits how to notch a log so it stayed put instead of rolling over someone’s foot.
The awkward boy from Pensacola who had once needed three attempts to understand a barmaid’s flirting was gone. In his place stood a confident sailor speaking easy, fluent English as he nudged the recruit’s hands farther down the haft without raising his voice beyond what the work demanded.
"Captain." Tomás never looked up from the log. "This one thinks an axe swings itself."
"Does it not?" James kept a perfectly straight face.
"It does not."
Tomás gave the recruit’s grip one last adjustment. "Neither does luck, though half of Nassau still hasn’t learned that."
James chuckled.
Beyond them, the Rose rested on her side atop a cradle of rollers and heavy timber, her hull finally scraped clean of weed. However much work remained, the cradle itself was finished, and that was one problem they no longer had to solve.
Pete found him a short while later, perched on an overturned barrel with both hands held out as though presenting holy relics.
"Look at ’em, Cap’n."
He turned his palms upward, revealing angry white blisters across both hands. "Ruined. Fine pair of hands, gone. An’ for what? A storehouse nobody’s thanked me for."
"They’ll toughen." James barely spared them a glance. "And you get used to it."
Doyle was already rummaging through his coat. After a moment he fished out a small dark bottle that had somehow survived three near-mutinies and the rough handling of a shipwreck.
"Rub this in." He pulled the cork free with his thumb. "Works faster than prayer."
Pete eyed the bottle as though it might bite him. "Last thing ye gave me that was meant tae cure somethin’, I couldn’t feel me tongue for two days."
"Aye."
Doyle kept the bottle outstretched. "An’ yer tongue’s caused ye nothin’ but trouble ever since. I’d call that a fair bargain."
Laughing, James left them to it.
Beyond them, the newly finished cistern shimmered with water so clear he could see the bottom. Many sailors were already filling their cups without the slightest hesitation.
A little farther on, someone had hacked a rough path through the brush. At its end stood Cudjoe beside an overturned barrel where Rook and Twice had spread out a game of cards instead of hauling the stone they were supposed to be moving.
"And what is this?" Cudjoe asked, his voice as flat as ever.
"Cards," Rook answered.
"I know they’re cards. Why are they where there ought tae be stone?"
"Stone’s heavy," Twice said. "Cards ain’t."
Cudjoe stared at them for a moment.
Then he snorted, pinched Rook by the nose hairs with one hand and Twice with the other, and pulled.
Both men shot upright with matching yelps.
Cudjoe kept walking.
They had little choice but to stumble after him, bent at the waist and hopping over roots while pleading for mercy, until he dumped them beside the waiting pile of stone.
"There."
He finally let go.
"Now lift the bloody things."
James watched the pair frantically rubbing their noses before scrambling to the stone as though it had been their idea the entire time. He snickered and let his gaze wander.
The noise of axes washed through the trees where another group was felling timber. Beyond them, men strained at ropes, dragging fresh logs toward the coastline, while others rolled barrels away from the cistern. A hunting party slipped into the forest, and farther out in the bay, tiny figures still moved about the decks of both ships.
There was always another job stealing hands from the one right in front of him.
James continued on and found Hobbs sitting in the shade beside the rising frame of the storehouse, a cup resting comfortably in one hand. He seemed to be waiting for supper that stubbornly refused to arrive.
"Anybody died yet?"
"Not for lack of hopin’."
Hobbs took an unhurried drink. "For years I’ve spent puttin’ fools back together, and not one of this lot’s had the decency to lose a hand since we came ashore. Nothin’ for me to do but watch everyone else work."
Behind him, the storehouse had become something unmistakably real. Heavy posts and beams formed a sturdy skeleton, though the walls and roof still waited to be built.
Beyond that, near the bay, a group of sailors wrestled a thick length of hardwood from a cart. The pier remained little more than rows of stakes driven into the sand, but its outline had begun to emerge.
"Give it time." James smiled. "Some poor fool’ll oblige ye before month’s end."
"I live in hope, Captain."
Hobbs sounded as though he didn’t truly expect it. He didn’t seem disappointed either.
By the time the sunlight turned gold above the forest, the day’s work was winding down. Axes rested against stumps and ropes were neatly coiled for dawn to come.
James lowered the final timber he intended to carry and slowly straightened, feeling every hour of labor settle into his spine. There was no argument with that ache.
He paused to look over everything they had accomplished.
The cradle beneath the Rose was finished.
The cistern stood full of clean water.
The storehouse finally had a frame.
The pier was still little more than stakes in the sand, but it was a beginning.
"Right then."
He rolled one shoulder with a wince. "That’s enough for today. Wasn’t much, but it was honest work, and it’s ours."
He nodded toward the fires already springing to life along the beach.
"Rum’s waitin’! Any man still able to walk or crawl can follow me. I intend to drink until me back forgives me!"
A rough cheer answered him from every direction.
Grinning despite the complaints of arduous work, James fell in beside the men making their way toward the campfires, their boots heavy with exhaustion but their spirits lighter than they had ever been.