The Cabin Boy

John, Duke of Bowsprit

Author's note: if my Norwegian is off here, feel free to correct it. I had help from my semi-fluent Norwegian friend, but she makes no promises that it's correct...the translation for it is at the very end of this chapter.

"Tromso," said Henry, gesturing to the city that sat like the most beautiful of ink smudges upon the lovely landscape around it.

John and he were standing on the deck, staring out at Tromso. Henry never ceased to marvel at the loveliness of the city, located on the island Tromsoya. He doubted that the sailors, who were all busy on the deck, shared his appreciation for the beauty of the place. They were happy to be in a port for another reason all together. Henry disliked thinking what they got into in the city.

"It's amazing! It's so beautiful," said John, his eyes wide as he took in the island-city. Then he shivered. "But it's so cold!"

Henry chuckled. "Yes, it is. But it'll be be much colder further north," he remarked, clapping the boy on the back.

John flinched away and Henry remembered the boy's sad story about his father. However, this remembrance came with the curious observation Henry made. As his hand thumped John's narrow back, he was able to feel something curious beneath his shirt. It seemed as though John was wearing a piece of cloth beneath his shirt. Based on the fact that it did not show beneath the fabric, it must have been wrapped tightly around the boy's entire torso.

Henry said nothing, however, but stared down at the boy with intrigue - and suspicion. He wondered what the cloth's purpose was.

However, his attention was quickly called away by the sailors as the Resolution elegantly drew level with a pier and a few men sprang off the ship to secure her with giant, knotted ropes. As he descended from the stern to the midships, he heard the Norwegians at the pier calling to them and the sailors calling back, neither party understanding a word the other was saying.

"Oh, damn," growled Henry as he heard the Norwegians begin to put up a fuss. "John, go get Mr. Hawking, and tell him to bring his pistols."

John was off like a shot and Henry continued to grumble. He'd been expecting Jacobsen, the man he'd been told would be his liaison in Norway, to be waiting for them. Growling in frustration, he went to the side of the ship and hollered over at them, using what smatterings of Norwegian he knew:

"Vi er engelsk! Vi snakker ikke norsk! Hvor er Jacobsen?"

"What did you tell them, sir?" asked a sailor - Henry recognized him as young chap named Fielding - with a bemused, but nonetheless impressed expression.

"Told them we were english and didn't speak a bloody word of their language. And I asked them where Jacobsen is," returned Henry coolly.

Fielding nodded, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment at having addressed his captain in such a familiar way. Henry pitied the poor man for the snappish rebuff he'd given him, but as he had learned with the last expedition and from his years as a captain in the Royal Navy, it was important to keep up a good, strong reputation with them. Else, they were likely to mutiny.

"Jacobsen?" asked one Norwegian, a tall, burly man with tiny, cruel eyes.

"Ja!" confirmed Henry.

"Jacobsen? Jeg skal finne ham. Vent," said the man, and he trotted off with a lightness of step that was incongruous with his brawny build.

"What did he say, sir?" inquired John, who had rejoined him, bringing Hawking. It had become commonplace that John followed Henry. After all, as the cabin boy, it was his duty to wait on Henry. Not to mention the fact that Henry quite enjoyed John's pleasant company.