Chapter Five
Five
I wake to the sound of footsteps and loud voices around me—which means I have somehow slept.
My neck is stiff, and the muscles of my back and shoulders complain as I struggle out of my hammock as gracefully as I can manage.
I am not used to sleeping in my clothes, and the wrinkled state of them annoys me.
Still, wearing nothing but a nightshirt in a room full of strange and rough men feels unwise.
They have mostly ignored me thus far, but I would rather not draw unwanted attention to myself.
I was the only one still abed, made evident by the rows of empty hammocks.
Few men remain, sitting upright in their hammocks or on the floor, chatting among themselves with plates of food balanced in their laps.
My stomach gives an unhappy whine as I attempt to smooth out my shirt and trousers.
But my efforts are in vain, and with a sigh I heed my stomach and turn to find my way to the mess for something to eat.
It is offensively early. I haven’t a pocket watch to tell the time, but I know by how irritable I am that I should not be awake yet. I try not to think about how much I am regretting my spontaneous and rather dramatic departure from home, impending nuptials or no.
I get turned around twice in the unfamiliar hallways and rickety, steep staircases of the ship before finding one of the young men I first glimpsed on deck yesterday morning.
“You there!” I call to him, then mentally scold myself.
If I am a member of the crew, I ought to be speaking to these men as my peers.
But how does one address a person whose name you do not know?
There must be some trick to it. People like me are forced to endure formal introductions and the listing of titles when we first meet, but I am quite sure regular men do no such thing.
The lad turns and I realize he must be very close to my own age, or perhaps even younger—it is so hard to tell with these sailors.
His eyes widen a little, his thick, ruddy brows rising as if he is shocked to be addressed by me.
I smile and approach him. “Yes,” I assure him.
“You. Forgive me, we haven’t been formally introduced.
My name is Kit—I wonder if you might point me in the direction of breakfast? ”
“Yer that fancy man we saw on deck yesterday,” he replies, eyeing me with cautious curiosity. “Heard you’d joined the crew. Trev ’n’ I got bets on whether yer a runaway er not.”
Charming. I have no clue who Trev is, and I don’t ask. “Ah, very entertaining. Forgive me, I am quite famished.”
“Sorry,” the lad says, dipping his head in a way that tells me he is either shy or lacking in confidence.
I almost feel bad for avoiding conversation with him, but I haven’t eaten since the stolen pastry yesterday morning, and now that my stomach is no longer in knots, it is crying out for sustenance.
“Breakfast is over by now, most like, but I’ll bring ye to the galley ’n’ ask the cook to muster up something for ye. If he’s in a good mood, he might.”
Shit. How early do these men eat? I groan and rub my face. “If… you could just point me in that direction, I am sure I can manage on my own. No need to trouble yourself… um…” I hold a hand out to him inquisitively, and he stares blankly back at me. “Your name?”
He laughs and taps himself on the forehead, which I suppose is kind of cute. “Right, sorry. Name’s Tristan.”
“Tristan. Charmed,” I say with as pleasant a smile as I can muster at ass o’clock in the morning with no food in my belly.
“The men mess in the fo’c’sle; only officers eat in the salon. Yer new, though, so maybe Cook’ll take pity on ye. The galley’s direct below the cap’n’s quarters.”
“Forgive me, Tristan… I haven’t a clue where I am right now, let alone where the captain’s cabin is.”
Tristan laughs again and takes my hand in an alarmingly familiar way. I don’t argue. I’d rather the crew like me, and he seems harmless.
Plus, I truly am famished.
I allow him to guide me through the twists and turns of the ship, too impressed by how well he has memorized this dark maze to remember any of it myself.
I think we must be nearing the galley, for I can smell the lingering olfactory remains of breakfast, and my stomach whines again.
Tristan either doesn’t hear or chooses to ignore it.
My dignity appreciates his discretion either way.
“There y’are!” I hear a familiar voice say. Tristan goes rigid, and I turn to see Renard just behind us. “Ye missed breakfast.”
I pout at him as Tristan releases my hand and bows his head in some show of respect. Or maybe he’s just afraid of him? I recall now that Renard is the officer in charge of the crew, whatever that means. Am I meant to show him some kind of deference?
I’m too hungry to bother. “I see that,” I say with a sigh. “I am not used to waking so early.”
“It’s no’ that early,” Renard counters, and I could swear he rolls his eyes at me. “But I saved ye a plate. C’mon. Tristan is s’posed ta be doin’ stock.”
Tristan makes a startled sound that is somehow adorable.
He scurries off, and I follow Renard into the galley, where a handful of men are busy cleaning the pots from breakfast. I stand in the doorway as Renard speaks to a man who must be the cook, then takes a plate from him.
They laugh together before Renard comes my way and takes my shoulder, spinning me about and leading me from the galley.
“I’ll letcha eat in the salon, nae one’s in there now.”
“I appreciate that,” I say, though in truth I am annoyed I haven’t a proper place to dine. I make a note to complain to Captain Sharpe about my abysmal accommodations so far.
Renard leads me into the salon, which is naught but a small room with two tables and various bags of produce hanging from the ceiling, along with a large cabinet that I suspect houses some sort of liquor meant only for the officers.
I take a seat, and Renard sets my plate down and sits across from me.
“Enjoy it, lad. In a few days we’ll be eatin’ hardtack an’ dried meat. ”
It is an immense effort to keep from wrinkling my nose at the plate before me.
It must be some kind of fish, along with a potato and an apple.
It’s a strange combination, but I am too hungry to refuse it, so I start on the fish first, deciding to use the apple as a palate cleanser at the end of my meal.
“Thank you for saving this for me,” I say once I’ve eaten a few bites and my thoughts become marginally less jumbled.
The fish isn’t too terrible. It’s cold, and seasoned with things I can’t identify, which are almost pleasant.
The potato is also cold, but soft enough to cut into with my fork, though it ends up a bit smashed in the process.
Apparently, it is very amusing to watch me eat, for Renard snorts and sits back with his arms crossed. “Never eaten weth yer hands b’fore?”
“Why would I do something like that?” I ask, aghast.
“Why, indeed,” Renard mutters. “Yer gonna have ta start gettin’ yerself up in the mornin’ if ye wanna eat. I cannae be savin’ ye meals every day.”
“Mm. So, what does it mean that you are in charge of the crew?” I ask. I hate being scolded or told what to do. I’d much rather change the subject.
“I assign the men their work, make sure the decks’re kept clean, an’ unofficially let the men take their grievances ta me so I can handle ’em wethout causin’ a ruckus.”
“What sort of grievances?”
Renard shrugs. “Anythin’ really. Arguments amongst ’emselves, complaints against other officers er the distribution of rations. Squabbles ’bout workload an’ the like. Mostly, I keep ’em busy weth work, so they will nae cause me any trouble.”
“Rather like a governess, it seems,” I point out after swallowing a bite of potato. Renard grunts, and I cannot help but smile at his annoyance. He doesn’t like the comparison—I can tell by the way his brow twitches. “I’ll do my best to wake early enough in the morning.”
“See that ye do. An’ dinnae go causin’ problems fer me.
I will nae have ye stirrin’ up trouble on my ship.
Try ta make friends weth the crew where ye can,” he says.
“If they like ye, they’ll look out fer ye.
Tristan an’ Trevor are a good start. They’re bairns, but they fit in well weth the crew, an’ nae one’s got complaints ’bout ’em. ”
“Yes, I thought Tristan seemed quite young.”
“Six an’ ten, both of ’em. But they’ve been on the Deliverance since they were wee.”
“And you?”
“Four years at sea. Pressed at eighteen, joined the Deliverance a year later.”
Pressed at eighteen. I try not to think about the fact that my own eighteenth birthday was mere months ago.
I can’t imagine being pressed into service and forced to live at sea.
Nor do I want to be on this ship for the next four years of my life.
I am realizing now how absurd I was to come aboard in the first place.
A lump forms in my throat and I sit back, looking around for something to drink.
Renard must read my mind, for he stands and goes to the cabinet on the far wall.
Moments later he returns with a mug of ale for me.
It is too early to be drinking ale, even for me…
but I take the mug anyway and down half the liquid inside.
This must be for the officers. It could be better, but I can stomach it, at least.
“Thank you,” I manage when the lump in my throat has settled firmly into my belly once more.
What on earth am I doing here? I have no plan.
I don’t even know where this ship is going, much less what I am going to do when we get there.
What if we sail to the colonies? Did I pack enough brown to live among Puritans?
Do I even want to live among Puritans? Oh God, what have I done?
“Ye all right there, lad?”