PORT ROYAL, JAMAICA
1720
SLAP!
A meaty hand cracked across the boy's cheek. The force sent him stumbling into the mud outside the small portside bakery. The man who'd struck him, a thick-necked baker with flour caked up to his elbows, glared down like he'd just caught a rat in his pantry.
"Ye filthy little whelp! Lemme catch sight o' ye again, I'll have ye swinging from the gallows, mark me words!"
"By the devil's beard," he growled, snatching up the loaf from the ground, "ye've gone and ruined the bread! Blasted urchin-bah!" He hurled the loaf back into the muck, the crust splitting open with a wet thwack. "Worthless now!". Steam still rose from it, mixing with the humid salt air.
For the fourth time that week, the baker had beaten him.
And for the fourth time, Vikram pretended it didn't sting. He always pretended.
Bruises faded. But the hollow feeling in his chest, that stayed.
This was Vikram Rao, ten years old, barefoot, hair tangled like dock rope, and as stubborn as barnacles on a hull, and as ragged as the old sails hanging over Port Royal.
He crouched, dizzy, cheeks burning. His stomach gave a loud growl, rude and loud, like it was mocking him.
"Shut up," he whispered, half to his belly, half to himself.
He brushed off the bread, dirt crumbling between his fingers. It still smelled like warmth and kindness, the sort of smell that made you forget people could be cruel.
He tore off a muddy edge, wiped it on his sleeve.
Still counts as food, he thought, Bit of mud just adds spice, and shoved the loaf under his shirt.
The loaf squished as he pressed it against his chest. Warm still. His heartbeat thudded beneath it, quick and nervous.
That was his trick. He'd learned it after the fifth beating from the bakers, make the bread dirty. The rich folk wouldn't buy it, the baker wouldn't sell it, and no one wanted to chase him for something already ruined.
And to Vikram, tearing off the wet, muddy parts was a small price to pay for a full belly.
Out of ten thefts, he got caught eight times. But the two he managed to keep? Those nights, he ate like a king. A filthy, shivering, alley-dwelling king.
Sometimes, he even gave a piece to the dock cat before he ate his own.
At least the cat said thank you, with a bite.
Getting up, he spat a little blood, muttered, "Aye, aye, I'll swing when you learn to bake bread that don't taste like my foot," and ducked just in time to avoid the man's second swing.
"GET BACK HERE!" the baker roared. But Vikram was already gone.
He bolted through the narrow street, bare feet slapping puddles, mud splattering up his legs. The smell of yeast and seawater chased him all the way to the market square.
Behind him, voices rang out.
"Oi! There goes the rat again!"
"Catch the brat!"
"Guard! Guard!"
Vikram shot a look over his shoulder. "You all sure talk louder than you run!"
He darted left, straight into a hanging laundry line.
"Ah-!"
A shirt tangled round his head; he stumbled, arms flailing, knocking over a crate of apples.
"Sorry! Borrowin' your fruit!" he called, grabbing one mid-run and biting it. Sour. Still good.
Two red-coated port guards turned the corner ahead, muskets slung, tricorns tipped low.
"Halt there, boy!" barked one. "Name yer business!"
"Just passin' through, good sirs!" Vikram called, skidding to a halt, then grinned, pointed behind them. "Think I saw a man pissin' on the Governor's statue!"
Both guards spun around.
"What- WHERE?!"
By the time they looked back, Vikram was gone, slipping behind a rum cart, vanishing into a side alley. The guards swore loudly.
"Bloody street rats breed like roaches, they do."
Vikram, panting and grinning, whispered, "Aye. Fast roaches."
He wiped sweat from his brow, cheeks flushed with triumph and leftover fear. "Still alive," he murmured, half proud, half amazed. "Still got the bread. I call that a win."
Vikram chuckled under his breath, darting toward the docks. The smell hit him first, salt, tar, and rum mixed with the sweetness of rotting mangos. The sea shimmered gold beneath the afternoon sun.
Sailors cursed cheerfully as they rolled barrels of spice and sugar ashore. Somewhere, a fiddler played a crooked tune.
Vikram slipped between the legs of a mule cart, ducked behind a fish crate as a pair of guards strolled past, yawning, their muskets slung lazily over their shoulders. Timing it perfectly, he darted through the shadows, ducked once again behind a stack of rope coils, and finally dropped to his knees beside the wharf, his secret spot.
A big barrel, wedged beneath the dock beams. Half-dry, half-hidden, and all his.
He ducked inside- bumped his head.
"Fuck! uhmm...sorry," he muttered to the barrel, just in case it was cursed too.
Heart still pounding, he pulled out the loaf from under his shirt. Mud-stained, half-flattened… but still bread. He tore off the filthy crust, sniffed it, and grinned.
"Good as new," he whispered, chewing.
From inside his barrel, he could see everything, the Caribbean sun shimmered on the waves.
*
Ships drifted lazily in and out of port, sloops, merchant brigs, and the occasional warship flying a proud flag. The busy sailors, even the Navy officer barking orders up the pier. This was his lookout post, his hunting ground.
Everyone in the port knew Vikram by now.
The boy who always ran around trying to steal things. Which meant every shopkeeper, sailor, and drunkard kept a hand on their coin pouch when he passed. He couldn't steal there, not anymore, not without risking another beating.
So he watched. Waited. The newcomers were always best, men who didn't know to guard their pockets yet.
"Let's see what the tide drags in today…" he murmured, mouth full of bread.
The sea shimmered gold beneath the bright sun, calm, lazy, and smelling faintly of salt and tar. But from the horizon, something strange drifted in.
He froze mid-bite.
His eyes went wide.
At first, he thought it was driftwood, a broken mast, maybe.
But no. It was a boat. A wreck of one, half-sunk already, wobbling in the tide like a drunk crab. And standing right on top of it, stood a lone man, utterly unbothered by the fact his craft was taking on water, and as calm as if he were sailing a royal parade.
(Image)
A man! Just calmly swaying there, coat flapping, as if the sea were his front porch.
Vikram blinked. Then blinked again, in case his eyes were lying.
"They're not," he whispered. "That fella's really ridin' a drownin' boat."
The man bailed water with a tiny bucket, humming a little tune like the whole thing was a game.
He looked up as he passed the gallows, three skeletons creaking in the wind. Instead of getting scared like normal people, he tipped his hat at them. Polite as anything.
"Bold bastard," Vikram breathed, then bit his lip. "Er-sorry," he added quickly to no one in particular. Just in case heaven was listening.
By some miracle, the little boat reached the dock just as it began to go under. The man stepped neatly onto the pier, neat as a cat hopping off a fence boots barely getting wet, and without even glancing back, the dinghy sank out of sight behind him.
(Image)
Vikram's mouth fell open. "He planned that," he whispered. "He meant to sink the boat. Who does that?"
The man strode down the dock like he owned it, and the dockmaster called him over. Vikram leaned so far out of his hiding barrel that he almost tipped himself into the water trying to hear.
The man talked with a smile, all teeth and twinkle. He gave the dockmaster some coins, said something smooth Vikram couldn't catch, and then, right when the man turned to leave, his hand moved quick as a gull snatching fish.
The coins disappeared again. Back in his pocket.
Vikram's eyes went huge. "He took back the bribe!"
He clapped a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing out loud.
When the man swaggered off toward the town, the sunlight caught his beads and trinkets, and Vikram thought he looked a bit like the sea had decided to become a person for a while, loud, shiny, and a little bit mad.
He forgot about the bread. Forgot about his hiding place.
All he could think was how that man had smiled, easy and free, like he'd never once been hungry or scared.
Vikram whispered to the waves, as if they could keep a secret,
"I'm gonna steal from him."
Then, softer, and he wasn't sure if it was a joke or a wish-
"Maybe he'd let me."