5. Can I Kelp You?
Can I Kelp You?
Jack looks every bit the image of a first mate; I don’t know how I missed him before.
“Laszlo,” I offer, taking his other hand. It is sweaty and slick with god knows what, so I keep it short, taking my hand back with a grimace and sneakily wiping it on my pants.
Jack eyes the logbook, seemingly unmoved by my awkwardness.
“Cap’ain’s been doing all that on ’is own for some time,” he says with a nod toward it, his voice deep and gruff.
I tighten my grip, frowning. He laughs. “It’s nothing to worry ’bout.
We lost ’alf our crew in a raid, so’s we all been doing extra work ’ere and there.
” He grins when I say nothing. “You look a bit lost, Laszlo.”
You could say that again.
I clear my throat, taking a beat to sort through everything he’s said.
The accent is admittedly more difficult to follow than I’d have thought, certainly British, but rougher than anything I’ve heard.
I can’t quite place it, but it’s jagged.
His words are incomplete, entire sounds cut off, skimmed over.
I take a mental note of this for later. It could admittedly come in handy for a character in my book.
“I didn’t realize what I was getting myself caught up in, I’m afraid.” I tilt my head at him, mouth dry. “The captain said something about helping you with this?” I ask, patting the logbook for emphasis.
Jack crosses his arms as he pushes off the railing, flashing me a set of crooked yellow teeth. “We’ll ’ave you doing all sorts of things in no time, Laszlo.”
Sliding the logbook under my arm, I scan the ship. I don’t even know where to start. “Would you mind showing me the ropes, so to speak?”
“Oh, gladly.” He motions me forward, pausing to hold up a hand, eyes sparkling.
“First things first, we call ’em lines, not ropes.
Rope is jus’ the material used—lines ’ave a purpose.
There’s certain terminology on board ships, boy, but you’ll get a ’ang of it in no time.
” He winks, crossing away, and I make another mental note.
Lines, not rope.
“And if the rope doesn’t have a purpose? Do I still call them lines?”
“No,” Jack says, grinning, “tha’s jus’ rope.”
“Even these?” I ask, pointing to the ladders of rope that stretch all the way to the top of the masts.
“No,” Jack says, outright laughing now, “those are ratlines.”
“Grand,” I mutter.
Someone calls out over the ship what sounds like, “Ready about!”
“Ready!” several other call out toward the bow.
“Star Wars tracks!” the person at the wheel yells.
Star Wars tracks? I must be hearing it wrong. Other people echo it back, their words even more garbled than the first. Great. It’s like the fucking Tube. Good luck understanding anything they’re saying.
“What does that mean?” I ask, dropping my voice to a whisper and leaning toward Jack.
He motions ahead of us as three people haul rope—lines—hand over hand, adjusting the angle of the foresail. “In order to catch the wind, you have to turn the bow through it and then—”
“Trim the jib!”
Echoing the call, another crew member rushes forward, untying a rope—line, damn it—from a hook.
As they ease up on the rope, the triangular sail in front of the foremast—the jib, I’m assuming—slackens.
The person on the other side of the capstan, a round, rotating axis at the bow used to move and raise the anchor—look at me, I know one term—yanks on a rope—Jesus fuck, line—making the jib taut once more as the wind catches in it.
Jack grins, jamming his thumb at it. “Like tha’.”
He leads me along the narrow path of the main deck and toward the foremast, where a tall Black man is standing.
The man wears a red scrap of fabric tied over his head, knotted in the front.
His shirt, which I’m assuming used to be white, is in no better condition than that of any of the other crew aboard, holes and stitched scraps of fabric holding it together over his broad chest. His skin is glistening with sweat, faint pink scars crisscrossing over his muscled arms and the bit of chest exposed by a wide, open collar.
“This is Mick,” Jack says, motioning to him as he hauls rope in large, knowing hands.
Lines, I mentally correct myself.
“Mick’s our master rigger,” Jack explains.
My gaze follows the lines up to the mast and back down to the knots Mick has tied expertly, veins and muscles bulging as he reaches up, teeth gritted with each heave.
He works with his whole being; in the stance, the spread of his legs, and even the way he holds the rope in his hands.
Each maneuver, each pull is purposeful. Strong.
He grunts as he grips the rope—no, line—with two hands and yanks on it before knotting it on a metal hook thing in a line of six or seven of them along the railing, all of which I don’t know the name of. Okay, so perhaps I know even less than I let on, but it can’t be that hard.
Yet, as I try to picture myself doing the same, working as expertly at these lines as Mick does, I almost laugh. Back in Boy Scouts, however long ago that was, I failed miserably at the knot badge. I can’t fudge my way through everything.
Mick eyes me up and down as he wipes his palms on his pants, readjusting his belt.
“You’re that strange man from earlier, I take it?
” he asks as he leans against a mast. He has kind features, and his almost-smile makes his eyes crinkle at the corners as he stares down at me.
Something seems to have caught his eye, and I frown down to where my pale arms are turning an alarming shade of pink from where I’ve rolled up my sleeves.
Right. No sunscreen. I am, without a doubt, screwed.
I tug the sleeves down despite the heat of the pressing sun, wincing as the fabric rubs over the pink skin.
Mick squints at me, waiting.
“Ehrm, yes, I am. Laszlo,” I clarify.
I’m not ready for the questions. I have a feeling the crew aboard this ship doesn’t take too kindly to strangers, let alone one who snuck aboard their ship and stayed hidden for … God, who knows how long. How long would I have been hiding? How long has it been since they last docked?
Mick straightens, hooking his thumbs through his belt as he looks me up and down. Damn it, I need to get new clothes as soon as possible. Sucking in a lungful of air, he angles away and squints out over the ship.
“Haven’t had a cabin boy in some time, right, Jack?
In fact, we haven’t had a full crew in some time.
Do you know what happened to our last quartermaster?
” he asks, lowering his voice to a whisper.
Mick slides closer when I shake my head.
“He was run through,” he says, jabbing a thumb in my gut, “right here.”
He points to the space between our feet, and I suddenly feel a bit faint. If I look close enough, I swear I can see the faded outline of a bloodstain in an oddly shaped blotch in the grains. Does that mean a man bled out right where I’m standing? Did someone die right here?
I grip the logbook tightly to my chest, knuckles going white and breath coming in great gasps. My head feels dizzy, my vision growing fuzzy as I sway. Perhaps pirating isn’t for me after all.
You know who could survive as a pirate, blend in without even trying?
Louise. Louise would hold up better in this kind of situation.
Louise is the brave one, has always been the brave one.
She’s the one who’s always known how to take life by the reins and make of it what she can.
She can find an adventure in anything, but me?
For years I have been dreaming about pirates, devoting months to trying to pull together a draft, scrabbling for research, and here I am, living the history of it, in this very striking moment aboard a ship captained by a serious—and handsome—man, and my first instinct is to run away.
What kind of person, let alone author, would look this opportunity in the face and say no?
As I shift back a step, I feel the small notebook in my pocket digging into my thigh, feel the empty pages like a weight dragging me down.
I’ve been handed the opportunity of a lifetime here.
And the more I learn, the more I’ll have for my book.
Say goodbye to an empty notebook, and hello to all the research I ever could have needed.
Mick laughs, full and boisterous. It’s the type of laugh you feel in your feet, a rumble more than anything. He claps Jack on the shoulder, and Jack breaks out into laughter.
“Glad you two think that’s funny,” I say.
“We’re just jokin’,” Mick insists, shaking his head as he grips my shoulder.
“You should’ve seen the look on your face.
Looked like you might blow, if you catch my meaning.
” He sighs, pulling his arm back and wiping the corners of his eyes, expression turning serious once more.
“But he did get run through.” He points to the quarterdeck by the wheel, and I squint at the space where Captain Night and who I assume is a navigator stand at the helm. “Just over there.”
“Poor Tom’s ’ands were cut clean off,” Jack says with a sigh.
Mick nods solemnly. “While they were still gripping the wheel, too.” He tilts his head toward me, leaning in conspiratorially. “He was trying to get us free, you know, steer us away before we could be raided.”
I can’t stop the flash of images going through my mind, blood spouting, hands sliced through, still gripping the wheel.
The ship lurches, a wave crashing against it and reminding me of where I am.
I stumble, my stomach roiling. Oh god, I’m going to be sick.
I gape down at my hands, my vision unsteady, pulse roaring.
Breathe in, breathe out. And again. I much prefer all my appendages where they are—still attached to my body.
I shiver at the mere thought of my hands being sliced off, becoming the butt of a joke.