by Seven Jane
Once he seemed satisfied that all was in good order and returned command of such matters to his officers, Winters made his way to Rabbie, the navigator, and took up residence on the quarter deck. For the past several days the pair, sometimes joined by Mister Dunn, had been locked in private conference at the ship’s helm. With pages of parchment and maps unfurled between them and bottles of various liquor used as paperweights throughout all of it, they endlessly examined charts and other instruments of navigation as they made small but important changes in our course at the captain’s direction. It was a curious sight to behold—the reedy Dunn locked in a perpetual, sour grimace, the much larger Scotsman towering above all with the same heavy bulk as a highland bear, and the captain, slighter than them both but his presence still by far the largest of the trio.
Such was the view on one beautiful, cloudless day as I watched the three men speak in hushed voices for the space of a few moments before turning my attention back to my task at hand. The captain was holding a scrap of parchment that I had noticed a handful of times hidden alongside Evangeline’s portrait. I had guessed a hundred times over what was written on it, and though I never found out for sure, I had a mostly clear idea—and it was not good. I wondered how the other two men would react when he opened it. For now, the secret was clenched in the captain’s fist, as safe a place as any. It was the last remaining bit of knowledge from his years of research, and he had kept it for himself until now.
The completion of our long study of every book and map aboard the ship, and the captain’s exodus from his quarters, had marked another change, although it affected none but me. Not only had he abandoned his quarters, but he had expelled me from them as well, refusing to allow anyone to exist unwatched around his valuables. He had turned me out onto the decks, and as he had no further use for me, had left me in the employ of Mister Tom Birch, an assignment that had delighted and frustrated me. So far, however, with the ship in top condition, the boatswain had left me largely unbothered and I had been free to be idle about the ship, accompanied only by my thoughts.
Just as I was considering this, his lanky shadow appeared on the deck beside me. His shadow was stretched even longer in the setting sunlight so that it announced his arrival before his feet reached me.
“Oi, ’ho there, Rivers,” he said now in his usual way, joining me against the deck where I sat on an upturned crate, preserving what I could recall of Captain Winters’ texts in my leather-bound journal. When he wasn’t working he was eating, this mast of a man, and he offered me a piece of bread with one hand while he held his own pinched between his teeth. The long, spindly fingers of his free hand reached out and tugged gently at the top of the book, pulling its pages downward so that he could have a look. I paid no concern as my secrets were spilled into Tom’s view; I had learned weeks before that he—like most of the men onboard save Winters, Dunn, Rabbie, and myself—could not read. He had asked me three times to teach him, but time had not yet permitted, nor had I been eager to spend so much time alone with him.
“Nothing of interest really,” I answered, which wasn’t completely true but close enough. I closed the book and returned it safely to my pocket, then accepted the proffered bread. It took a moment of biting and tearing, but eventually I freed a chunk of the stale stuff into my mouth. It was barely edible, but at least with my mouth occupied with chewing I didn’t have to say more. Talking to Tom was dangerous; more than once I had already almost confided things to him that I shouldn’t.
Tom’s blond head bobbed good-naturedly, reflecting streaks of golden sunlight as it did. “It’s not as dry yet as it will be,” he mumbled around a mouthful of hard bread. “Think Jomo’s been mixing it with bone broth to loosen the dough. Figured I’d get my lot while it’s still worth eating, try to fatten up a bit so it doesn’t hurt so bloody bad when all we’ve left to eat is seaweed. By the looks of it,” he stopped to inspect the rock that resembled bread, “it ain’t too far off from now.”
He patted his hand reassuringly against the solid granite of his stomach and I tried not to look as he did. Nothing good had yet to come from me gawking at that man’s skin, not that it ever would.
The freshly stocked stores of the ship’s galley I had seen on my first trip below deck had diminished over the passing weeks. The goat had died, as had the chicken Winters had paid for. What hadn’t been already had by the rats, Jomo had used in the pot, although it had not gone far on a ship of hungry and usually inebriated men. Now, when they weren’t busy drinking, or sleeping off their rum, the men spent their time fishing to provide fresh meat for Jomo’s use. A dish called salmagundi, a highly seasoned stew which was made from any meat available—currently mostly fish and a few remaining scraps of goat—pickled herrings, hard boiled eggs, vegetables, and liberal additions of wine, oil, vinegar, and salt, had been our new staple. It was not delicious, but it was filling, and more palatable than turtle meat (a muddy, mushy affair) when those poor ancient creatures had been caught and hauled up from the water. The rest of chickens would soon be next for the plate, once their eggs ran sour from lack of decent feed.
“That what you’re trying to do, then?” I teased, waving the half-eaten chunk of ship biscuit in my hand at Tom. “Fatten me up to, is it? So’s you’re not the only one with a lump living in his stomach?”
Tom had the decency to look embarrassed, but only for a second before he laughed loudly and pushed his boot against the edge of my crate. It wobbled easily and he laughed harder. “Someone’s got to do it, mate. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to waste away to skin and bones. Eager to join ole Bullet’s sea ghosts, are you?”
His eyes swept across my figure, causing his previous look of embarrassment to return. Tom diverted his eyes as he reached my chest, and I watched his cheeks turn ruddy with a color not caused by the sun.
Such behavior marked the third change that had recently passed over the men of the Riptide. At first I had thought it a figment of my own imagination, perhaps a result of reading one too many myths of beautiful women of the sea who could command the hearts of wanton sailors, but I had noticed recently that everyone seemed to look at me a bit differently—Tom Birch, Mister Dunn, and Jomo included—though none had yet to say anything to me directly. Even Domingo had reduced his deadly sneer to a more hostile frown, which was, somehow, a more frightening adjustment because on no less than four occasions I had seen lust behind his eyes. My own eyes had not been immune to the sudden transformation of my appearance, although I hardly thought the change striking enough to warrant such attention, which was not of the variety I had hoped to earn. Yet, it was undeniable, though I could not put my finger on exactly what it was. I had never been a homely girl, but neither had I been beautiful. Still, the past several weeks had seen my hair become a richer shade of coffee brown, the waves fuller and the whole of it longer and thicker so that I’d had to find a longer piece of ribbon to tie it back. My lips were larger and more red—rosebud, Claudette would have called them, and the type that needed no rouge to define them. The curves of my figure, too, were now more distinctly womanly than they had ever been before. This last I noticed perhaps more than anything, as had the men around me. Claudette and Mrs. Emery had often teased me about my boyish figure though its narrow frame was the impetus for my disguise as a sailor. Still, it was too slender and flat for their liking, and both women had encouraged me to wear one of those troublesome corsets to mold the skin of my chest into something round and full that might resemble breasts and pinch my waist so that my hips would swell out beneath it. Now, such a device was hardly necessary. Instead, I had to wrap bandaging around the plump devils to try and flatten them back into place, and I’d had to readjust the placement of my belt, as I could no longer wear a knife as low as I had before. If I did it simply swung about like a seductive pendulum and drew too much attention. I had also taken to rubbing gunpowder and pitch on my face to downplay the shine of my skin, and I’d stopped bathing all together.
None of it seemed a suitable fix, however, as when I’d cured one area another become more apparent, like this odd transformation simply insisted upon itself. I could think of no reason for it. I was far past the ripeness of early womanhood when most girls’ bodies swayed and transformed. It must have been all the fresh air breathing life into a husk of a girl who’d spent years locked away in the kitchens of a brothel. Luckily, while it had brought a certain degree of new, unwanted attention from the men onboard, none had challenged me on it, and I kept more to myself than ever, hoping to fade from their interest—particularly Tom’s.
A rush of angry words stole my attention away from Tom Birch, our rocklike lunch, and my newfound femininity and to the quarterdeck, where Captain Winters and Rabbie were locked in heated debate.
The captain had not raised his voice, nor did his body language give any indication that anything was amiss. He simply stood with the same predatory poise that he always did, leaning placidly backward against the ship’s railing with his arms crossed rightly over his chest and a piercing look in his eye as he stared at the Scot. Rabbie, quite the contrary, was neigh on belligerent—waving and flailing his arms about his head. He was yelling loudly, swearing I presumed, although the words were all smashed together in an incoherent jumble and may not have even been English. It was a foolish thing to do, in my opinion, to so openly challenge such a man as Erik Winters, who was studying the hysterical man with a look that said he was not at all concerned about dispatching the rare and valuable commodity that was a navigator. Winters, I was quite sure, could helm his ship. The navigator had only been a convenience, and, I suspected, since the captain wasn’t keen on sharing his plans with anyone, perhaps even an expendable one.
“What’s that about then?” Tom wondered out loud, only barely interested as he ripped another chunk of bread into his mouth and began chewing again. He swiveled on his crate to watch the men behind him, and I promptly ignored the way the movement pulled at the muscles in his back.
“I’m sure I have no idea,” I answered, although I did. I stole a furtive glance over Tom’s shoulder, and when I did I noticed the telltale slip of paper was no longer in the captain’s fist.
Beyond Winters, and now Rabbie, I alone could guess at the heading to which the captain was instructing the ship’s navigator to make way, even if I didn’t know the full details of it. If Dunn—now missing from the quarterdeck—had been aware, his reaction might have been similar, although he was wise and cautious enough to have voiced his concerns in private. My own insight was a result of careful cobbling. I had studiously kept note of the passages of deciphered texts that captured the captain’s attention, and stolen swift glances at his personal maps. Sometimes, when he was in heavy, rum-deepened sleep and I was sure he would not wake, I’d dared to lift the cover of his log slightly and try to memorize his writing.
My knowledge, however, was incomplete and biased greatly by the myths I had read and what I had gleaned from Dunn’s chatter when he spoke to me. Still, were such a place as had been described real, and had I not cared for my own life, then quite probably I, too, would have flailed my arms about the sky and cursed. Instead, I was eager to change course and sail straight for it.
“I’ll nae risk life an’ limb tae sail intae th’ heart ay th’ sea. It can’t be dain,” Rabbie was ranting in surprisingly clear words. “Yoo’ve tint yer min’, Winters, ye hae! We’ll aw be th’ bottom ay th’ brine if ye hae yer way, an’ fur some damned hen at that. Yoo’re bludy radge!”
I saw a sharp glint in Winters’ eye as Rabbie insulted Evangeline. In one single motion and without so much as a sound, he pulled a knife from the folds of his belt and slid it hilt-deep into the other man’s heart. An expression of shock flooded Rabbie’s features and then his face froze, locked in its final stare—one of shock more so than pain. Without bothering to look at him, Winters stood, as still and silent as a statue, as the much larger man fell forward, dead, to the deck. Then, with a quick survey of the crew, some of which were stunned while others didn’t seem to notice, he removed the knife from the fallen man and let it hang in his hands. He clasped a bloody hand on a handle of the ship’s wheel, and as he turned to face the crew his eyes landed on me, staring wide-eyed back at him.
“Rivers, man the wheel,” he commanded, vastly overestimating my capacity at navigation. Then, “Hoist the sails,” he called to the men at the rigging. Finally, he nodded at Mister Dunn, who returned the action, as if the nod were code for something more. “We sail for the heart of the ocean.”
Part II
VIII
For the next several days and several nights, life aboard the ship was quiet.
Before Rabbie’s body had grown cold, Mister Clarke had attended to it, wrapping the heavy, leftover husk in mostly rotted linens, and then binding it tightly with ropes weighted with smooth stones. Together with the aid of a few other men who had assisted with the task as though it were a common chore, the doctor hoisted the body over the railings and committed it unceremoniously to the ocean deep. It bobbed for a moment or two, a strange mummified buoy drifting alone amongst the current, and then sank beneath the tide. Someone had been dispatched by Tom Birch to scrub the deck where the corpse had lay to prevent the spread of stench and disease, and then the matter was done.
No one seemed to have known the navigator well, and thus no one seemed to mourn his death terribly. In fact, most seemed to barely notice it at all. The few who had been friendly with the man had claimed his few meager belongings for their own with Tom Birch and Mister Dunn presiding over the affair. Later, the quartermaster had gathered up all of Rabbie’s navigational instruments and relocated them to the captain’s quarters where they had since been stored amongst the other charts and maps in his library. Meanwhile, word had spread below deck that the crew had been relieved of its navigator and that the captain was not in a state to be trifled with. Then, someone opened a new keg of rum and life moved on.
Death was not uncommon or unexpected in the life of a pirate. Even on the sunniest of days it was a shadow over their shoulders. Most of these seafaring men could enjoy only short, violent lives before they found their inevitable finish at the end of a sword or a rope, or at the bottom of the unforgiving sea. As such, so normal was death that it did not arouse the need for much attention or discussion. For the most part, the unspoken consensus amongst the men was that the whole thing had been justified, although normally such disputes were addressed on land—a practical matter meant to avoid the spread of corpse plagues while at sea. Being that there was no land in sight, however, the captain had been well within his rights to slay the man where he stood. Some were even of the opinion that had the captain let such a thing go unpunished, then he would have appeared weak and unworthy to lead. Rabbie had not only refused a direct edict during a time the men agreed the captain’s orders were absolute, but he had also insulted both the captain’s command and Mistress Dahl’s honor—a woman that the crew unanimously either respected or adored or both—and had sealed his own fate. This had left Winters with only one avenue of recourse, and he had carried it out dutifully. Jomo had muttered something violent under his breath, noting that the captain had been too merciful on doling out the other man’s end and suggesting with his fanged teeth and galley knives what he might have done instead, all of which Dunn had nodded in furious agreement. I had expected at least Tom Birch, who was typically grounded in fairness, to show some sign of upset at what had occurred, but he also seemed unperturbed that his captain had just sliced a man through the heart and spilled his life on the deck.
“I suppose it had to be done,” the boatswain had said dismissively when I’d inquired on the subject. Taking notice of my chagrin, he’d finished tying a monkey fist in a length of rope and draped his palm amiably over the curve of my shoulder. I tried to appear indifferent to the gesture, but my heart raced inside of me. “We take to a code, Westley, though it ain’t perfect that’s for sure,” he said gently and familiarly, using a name I did
n’t recognize at first and then remembered was supposed to be mine. The men onboard referred to me so often by my false surname that I’d forgotten I had given a proper name as well. “Honor is the most important part of that code. We live by it, and sometimes we die by it, too. Aye?”
For my part, my naivety had left me shocked that death could be handed out so casually. I should have—and did—know this myself, of course, having resided in a place as wild as Isla Perla. There I had seen man and beast alike perish more times than I could count on both my hands four times over. Still, I was surprised to find that beyond a morbid sort of curiosity about the whole thing I felt nothing for the navigator’s loss. Nor did the evidence that my captain was capable of such dispassionate slaughter distress me. The whole episode faded into memory so quickly that it seemed that the lumbering Scot had never been there at all. On the rare occasion it did reenter my mind I, like the rest of my new brothers, also felt that the captain had been justified in his actions, no matter how I tried to reason it out. Still, I did wish that I had allowed the big brute to tell me the story of Cygnus, the man who had been transformed into a swan and sent to live among the stars. Perhaps Rabbie joined him there now.