4. What’s All the Comm-Ocean About?
What’s All the Comm-Ocean About?
I grind my teeth as he turns away, leaving me to the mercy of the crew. And by the gleeful looks of these gritty pirates, they must be altogether worse than their captain.
Without another word, hands grab at me, and I’m dragged from the deck, down the stairs, and into the captain’s cabin, tripping over my own feet in the process.
It’s strange to recognize this ship. To see the walls and the floors and the trivial details that George and the historians got correct in the replica— but I don’t have long to ogle them to see just how accurate George was before I’m shoved through the door.
As I stumble into the space, catching myself on the desk, I finally get a good look at some of the pirates.
Hollywood makes pirates out to be far too clean, because these ones reek—their shirts are yellowed by sweat, and their skin is oily from weeks, or possibly months, of going unwashed.
They’re missing teeth and fingers, and scars shine across their sun-browned and pinkened skin.
I take in their clothes, suddenly aware of the way I’m dressed, of the way my dark-wash skinny jeans hug my long, thin legs and how the V-neck sweater I’m wearing is bright and in pristine condition, a vast contrast to their grungier garb.
The long captain’s jacket had done much to cover up my far-too-modern dress, but now that the jacket is gone and my clothes are on full display, the pirates are gawking at me, clearly perplexed by my … well, everything.
Scratching the back of my neck, I look out over the cabin, noting the way there’s a slight haze in the air from smoking tobacco. My eyes stray behind me to the ink I spilled ten minutes ago. The puddle has spread, reaching its inky fingers across the wood, seeping into the floor.
So much for hoping no one would notice.
A string of black paw prints trails from the ink, disappearing behind the desk … wait, paw prints? It’s made the mess of spilled ink that much worse.
Talk about a terrible first impression, I think, gritting my teeth.
As if he can read my thoughts, the man to the right of the door frowns at me as I spin on my heel, bracing myself against the desk. He cranes his neck to see past me, but I shift over to block it from view with a cheeky smile.
“You seem like fun,” I say brightly. They say nothing in response, expressions blank. I wave my hand at their clothes. “Very authentic, by the by. You two are most definitely pirates.”
Their frowns deepen impossibly, but they stand, unmoved. Silent. Damn, tough crowd.
The one on the left steps toward me, mouth open and attention going to my pants as though to ask about them, but the door bursts open behind him and the captain appears, motioning the two men out. He slams the door on their retreating forms before rounding on me.
I flinch and take a step back.
There’s an almost knowing dread in my stomach as the captain strides toward me.
The same feeling as when he pressed his blade to my throat bubbles to the surface.
My hands grip the edge of the desk—his desk—for dear life as he surges toward me, eyes cold and steely.
He stops mere inches away, fury rolling off him as he scans me from head to toe.
“You have to understand,” he starts, eyes narrowing, “as captain of this ship, I must be extra cautious.”
I swallow and nod, leaning away from him. “O-of course.”
The captain smiles, but he does not move, still so very close.
My eyes trail the facial hair along his jaw, the way his full lips seem to spill out of the salt-and-pepper scruff.
“We lost several men in a recent raid, and I am in need of a new crew.” He raises a brow and leans back on his heels. “Today, you are in luck.”
I chew on the inside of my cheek to keep from speaking. “Luck” is not the word I’d use to describe my current predicament.
“As you can imagine,” he says when I don’t respond, “not one soul on this ship sails freely. Every single one of this crew works. There is a matter of duties, of course.” He eyes me, his heated gaze trailing down my face and neck before landing on my hands.
I feel undressed and naked before him, stripped bare so my lies are on full display.
The captain reaches out and pries one of my hands from the desk, lifting it to his face.
I don’t resist, just tamp down on the butterflies in my stomach at the feel of his rough, calloused hands on mine.
My eyes linger on his fingers. I trace the brilliant blue stone set into the ring on his right pinky before I find the one on his left index finger, a slim, simple band with a flattened surface engraved with what appear to be paw prints.
Is there a dog on this ship? Is that what the paw prints belong to? I want to ask him, but when I glance up, the stern expression on his face stops me.
“Have you ever worked a day in your life?” he asks quietly as he flexes my fingers. It is increasingly difficult to focus with my hand in his. I weigh the truth and decide I’d much rather confront that than face his wrath were I to lie. Clearing my throat, I shake my head. “I thought as much.”
He lets go, and I wish, rather strangely, that he’d touch me with that hand somewhere else, that he’d hold me, cradle my face in his hands, lean in and … and—
God, what is wrong with me? I could die, and here I am, ogling the fucking captain of this ship. What would Louise do? Damn it all, Louise is no better. Hell, she’d probably encourage me.
“I’m in need of a cabin boy,” the captain says as he steps back.
The distance calms something in me, and I want to raise my hand and point out that “boy” is not exactly a fitting title for a man in his thirties, but the look on his face quickly shuts me up.
“I know you’re a grown man, but it’s just a role.
While it’s usually held by a young apprentice, it’s not unusual to have a man or woman step in as a cabin boy, particularly when we’re as short of people who can read or write.
Now, you obviously have no working knowledge of ships—”
“I have some,” I interrupt. I think back on all the research I’ve done, the historical walking tours I’ve taken, even that pirate-themed tourist trap I went to. It’s not a lot, admittedly, but it’s something, at least.
He meets my gaze steadily. “Do you, now?” He steps closer until there is only a hair’s breadth of distance between us, and despite the pure animosity in those deep brown depths, I’m inescapably drawn toward him, as if magnetized. I have to stop myself from moving forward. “Can you write?”
“Yes,” I say breathlessly.
“Ah, but can you hoist sails, prep cannons, raid ships, or kill someone when the time calls for it?” He inches closer, his eyes flicking over my face.
When I don’t respond, he grins, shifting back and holding out a hand for me.
There is space between us now, and without that scent suffocating the air around me or the heat rolling off his body, I can breathe once more.
“Welcome to She Deceitful. I’ll be your captain, Captain Silas Night.”
His arm brushes past me as he grabs what appears to be a logbook and a quill pen.
His fingers skim mine for the briefest of moments before he shoves them both into my hands.
I look between them, running the feather through my fingers.
It’s probably best I don’t tell him I have no clue how to use quill pens or ink.
“Welcome to the crew, Laszlo.”
I deflate, my entire body relaxing as he makes to leave. But then he pauses and spins on his heel, squinting. Oh. Oh no.
“Did you spill my ink, Laszlo?”
“It was a complete accident.”
A small meow stops me short, and I lurch back, bumping into Captain Night as a gargantuan, fluffy orange cat leaps up onto the desk. It looks between us with large, green eyes before lifting one meaty paw and licking it.
The entire pad of its paw is stained black.
From the ink.
You’ve really done it now, Laszlo.
I turn back to Captain Night, forcing a smile. My eyes flick from the ring on his finger to his face. “You … have a cat.”
“Sir eats the mice.”
“S-sir?”
Captain Night nods. “That’s his name. And he’s the ship’s cat, not mine.” Your ring would beg to differ, I think, finding the little paw prints again.
He scratches Sir behind the ears, eliciting a deep, rumbling purr, and annoyance creases Captain Night’s brow as he does so. “Just be sure to clean it up before the day’s end, Laszlo.”
Sir leaps down, padding toward the closed door before plopping his butt on the floor and meowing at the ceiling.
“So you’re not going to kill me?” I venture, taking a step toward the door.
“For spilled ink?” Captain Night shakes his head. “I’m not so cruel.”
I clutch the logbook awkwardly to my chest, mouth going dry.
“I don’t understand,” I say, following Captain Night and a chipper Sir out of the cabin and up the stairs to the main deck, stopping just short of the quarterdeck.
Sir wanders off, pausing every now and then to rub against the crew’s legs, demanding the occasional pet.
I refocus on Captain Night. “Don’t pirates normally vote on this kind of thing? Am I really just ‘part of the crew’?”
I grip the logbook tighter. This must be a mistake.
I think back to every show, movie, and book about pirates I’ve ever read and watched.
As far as I’m aware, I’m to be vetted—pulled through the ropes, so to speak—before I can be trusted with something like a logbook.
The raids, the supplies, the secrets of this entire ship lie within these pages, and I’m a stranger, expected to protect them with his life?
Not that I know what a cabin boy even does, but it must be important enough of a role to have access to this, surely?
Captain Night turns toward me, his brow arched, and it’s only now that I notice a faint silver scar cutting through it.
“For someone who has never stepped aboard a pirate ship, you seem to know an awful lot about pirates, Laszlo.” He moves closer, eyes narrowing into slits.
“My last cabin boy was slaughtered, and my last quartermaster along with half my crew were killed because one of our crew—my crew—betrayed us. We take betrayal very seriously aboard this ship. So I ask you, Laszlo, the man who appeared out of thin air, do you plan to betray us?”
“No?”
I see a flicker of emotion flash across his features.
Anger, guilt? But it’s gone just as quickly.
He waves his hands in the direction of the deck, and it’s now that I notice it’s full of crew, and they are all working, eyes carefully trained away from us as if they haven’t been watching us and listening in.
I wonder what they think of me, what they see in this lanky, awkward man who is only alive by the grace of their captain.
If it were them, if they’d had the power, would they have killed me?
“Not one of my crew can read, write, or do basic maths, and right now you are my last resort. I do not trust you, my crew does not trust you, but you are all we have, and for whatever wicked game the Fates are playing, you are fulfilling a position I am in dire need of, whether you are a boy or a man.”
Captain Night shoves me and the logbook, and I lurch backward into the railing, my hands tightening around the book. My roaring heartbeat is in my throat as my eyes flick to the pirates behind him.
“Do not make me regret this decision.” His tone is dark, and there is no way to misread it. He nods to the logbook. “See that you listen to everything Jack tells you.”
With a curt nod, he turns on his heel and crosses the main deck, stopping beside an older man at the helm.
I breathe deeply and lean against the railing, watching him silently.
This is all so unreal. I picture Louise’s face, the excitement stretching across her lips when she showed me She Deceitful.
What would she do if she were in my situation?
What would she say? She probably would go so far as tugging on facial hair to see if these pirates were real.
Louise might start a fight just to see what they would do.
But me? I feel impossibly lost. Here I am, on a pirate ship in the middle of nowhere, with a captain who hates me and a crew who look on with hostility and distrust. I have no way to get home, no clue what to do other than find a way to fit in here. Find a way to survive.
Pirates have always been fun and games to me.
Stories from a far-off time, legends from another world, people I intended to write fiction about.
Drunken crews sailing ships as they laughingly shot cannonballs at oncoming man-of-wars while they danced with Death.
They hunted for treasure, slept around, drank their fill, and fought for the sake of fighting.
Like most people in modern times, I’ve had this certain vision of pirates for so long that I was not prepared for the truth.
Not prepared for the gritty crew with death in their eyes as I turn and meet their haunted gazes, or the thrill I felt as the captain pressed a knife to my throat, his hardened stare making me question … everything.
I am not prepared for any of this.
I look out over the ship and its crew, the logbook clutched tightly to my chest as I scramble for memories of any cabin boys I’ve ever seen, any hint of what my job entails.
What does a cabin boy even do? Writing, math …
I’m lost, and I need to convince Captain Night and his crew to keep me alive. I need to become irreplaceable.
“Don’t worry ’bout ’im,” someone says, sidling up next to me.
I blink and swivel toward a short white man with a bald head.
The sun-pinkened skin of his scalp is tattooed with a compass rose in intricate detail.
His blue eyes shimmer welcomingly as he grins up at me.
He holds out a wounded hand, the bandages wrapped around his palm and wrist dirty and bloodstained.
“The name’s Jack,” he says, winking. “I’m the first mate.”