6. A Nervous Wreck
A Nervous Wreck
I try not to express any of the torrents of emotions whirling through me as Jack leads me through the galley to the cargo hold.
It’s claustrophobic as we squeeze through the dark, narrow halls, and though the path is similar if not identical to the one I followed George through only hours earlier, the scents and the dimness and the creaking sound of the ship rocking with each crashing wave are all too real.
Scowling pirates file past us, and we fit ourselves against the sides of the narrow passages to let them by.
“Hi,” I say with a nod to a small, angry man shoving his way through. “Yes, nice to meet you, too!” Each one grunts in response, never caring to acknowledge me. “What a lovely bunch they are,” I mutter under my breath.
“Are you tryin’ to get yourself killed?” Jack asks as he tugs me past an open door.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I talk when I’m nervous.”
“Then stop being nervous,” he says and gestures me on.
Easy to say, harder to do. I can feel my anxiety building up like a bundle of nerves in my stomach, acid bitter on the back of my tongue as I try to swallow it all down.
Chest out, head up, eyes narrowed as Louise does when she’s trying to prove a point, but either I’m doing something wrong or the crew can’t take me seriously, because they only seem to avoid me further.
Which, fair. Considering how I came to be here and how I’m dressed, I wouldn’t take me too seriously, either.
I think over the slight differences between this ship and the replica. Although they did an outstanding job with the replica ship, it was lacking the feeling of being lived in, missing the smell of a crew at sea, the sounds of feet shuffling on deck, of voices rising over the crashing waves.
The smell, though, is … distinct. Frankly, I could have gone my whole life without knowing what a pirate ship smells like.
“I’m beginning to think I have a death wish,” I admit as I peer past Jack. A few crew members are leaning lazily down the hall, their voices low, heads bent.
He raises a brow. “I noticed.”
More people shuffle past, and I hold out a hand.
“Hello!” I exclaim. They grumble and push, ignoring my outstretched hand, and I trip backward, falling through an open door and into what looks to be ammunition stores.
Muttering to himself, Jack holds out a hand for me and helps me up.
“I’d be surprised if you make it a week. Come on, Laszlo, ’aven’t got all day.”
Rubbing the spot on my hip where I fell, I let Jack lead me past swinging tables to a small kitchen in the back corner.
It smells surprisingly good here. Freshly steamed vegetables and seasoning linger in the air, and it’s the first time I’ve smelled something pleasant on this ship—besides our captain, of course.
An older man stands in the makeshift kitchen, working with his hands, his back turned to us and his face hidden from view.
“Pip, this is Laszlo,” Jack says, sweeping his arm to me.
I step around the entry and peer in, inhaling.
“This smells delicious,” I say.
Pip grunts in response.
Clearing my throat, I reach out to shake the man’s hand, but he finally turns to me and holds them up with an amused expression, hazel eyes gleaming, salt and seasoning clinging to his weathered hands.
He has lightly tanned skin, the color darker in the dim light, but unlike many of the other crew, he’s not nearly as sun-weathered or battle worn.
“Oh, right,” I say, dropping my hand.
“Pip is our cook,” Jack says. “Pip, Laszlo will be working with you. ’E’s our new … cabin boy. ’E can write and read,” Jack says by way of explanation.
Pip grunts in answer.
“I look forward to working with you,” I say with a smile before Jack gently shoves me out of the kitchen.
Pip doesn’t say anything else, and I hurry ahead, shooting a look of annoyance at Jack as he nudges me a second time. We pass several doors along the way, and I clutch the logbook like a buoy, trying to ignore the glowers thrown in my direction.
“Is there something on my face? Or do they just not trust me?” I ask.
“You did appear out of nowhere wearing Cap’ain’s coat. And being able to read and write, well, it’s a bit…’oity-toity, if you asked them.”
“I just know how to read and write. What’s so hoity-toity about that?”
“A lot. Most of this crew can’t even spell their names. You introduced yourself to Pip like this.” He stands on his tiptoes, places his hands on his hips, straightens his back, and in his best impression of me with my American accent, announces, “‘I look forward to working with you.’”
“Is that so wrong?”
“You’re a proper man, hmm?” Jack laughs. “Some lord in a castle with fancy cloth napkins and spoons?”
Do they not have spoons?
“I’m just trying my best not to get killed.”
“That will get you killed.” He grabs my arm and stops me. “Bit of advice, Laszlo. Just try to blend in, hmm? More you stand out, the more dangerous it is for a fella like you.”
I sigh and clamp my lips together, deciding silence is my only assurance.
Jack takes me to the remaining stores in the hold.
Like on George’s replica, the hold is cramped.
I can’t stand up straight and am forced to hunker down, tiptoeing around loose rope and other items in the dark, a lantern our only light.
The ship sways, and I press my hand holding the quill to the wall for support, biting down on my tongue and trying to think of anything but the ocean.
Of all the things to happen to me, I had to be sent back in time aboard a pirate ship actively sailing in the middle of the ocean.
Completely unbothered by the rocking of the ship, Jack motions for me to open the logbook.
I rush to do so, fumbling with the quill pen. My hands are shaking, the ink already blotting the page and staining my fingers. Jack’s eyes glitter as he watches me, lips pressed together as though holding laughter at bay.
“Is there something I can do to get them to trust me?” I whisper.
Ignoring me, Jack begins counting. Most of the crew has been snickering nonstop, bending close to whisper to each other, their eyes tracking my every movement. I swear I can hear them from down here.
I’m not entirely sure why I’m even whispering, but it feels as if, even with the activity on the ship and the roar of the ocean beyond, they can hear everything.
When Jack doesn’t respond, keeping his head angled away as his lips move silently, I lean back against a beam, alarmed to feel the weight of my phone pressing into my thigh. Right. Phone. I forgot I have a phone in my pocket aboard a pirate ship three hundred years before cell phones are invented.
With Jack’s back turned, I balance the open logbook in one hand and slip my phone discreetly out of my pocket before holding down the power button through the clear bag Louise gave me and clumsily typing in my passcode.
The icon appears on my screen right as Jack pauses his counting to grin at me over his shoulder.
I jump in surprise, hiding my phone behind my back, hoping he doesn’t notice.
“I—I thought no one else could count,” I say, trying to distract him.
“I can count up to twenty and no further,” he says, scratching his chin. “You really don’ know what you’re ’ere to do, do you, Laszlo?”
I shake my head, surveying the dark, narrow space as if he didn’t just catch me, a time-traveling fool, with technology from the future.
Scanning the dim hold seems to do the trick.
It’s eerie, being down this deep in the ship, uncomfortable knowing that water surrounds us even now, slashing the sides of the ship, sending us teetering this way and that.
My legs feel wobbly, my shoes slipping over the damp floor, unable to find purchase.
Jack returns his attention to the stores, and I quickly slip my phone into my pocket.
“Cabin boys,” Jack says as he shifts a barrel, dragging it between his legs, “are essentially assistants, apprentices. You do what the crew needs you to. What Captain Night needs you to.” He wipes an arm across his forehead before returning to the counting.
I frown, setting aside the logbook to stoop and help him lift another barrel. On the way up, I bang my head against the ceiling, and, hissing, I rub the spot.
“Is this even that important of a role?” I ask as he reaches for another barrel.
“Ah, but it is, and you’re a stranger, that’s why the crew doesn’t trust you.” He claps me on the shoulder. “It’ll take time, but they’ll come to trust you. We all ’ave to start somewhere, and you ’ave a bit more to learn than most.”
But Captain Night had known. He’d let me live, sure, but if they don’t even trust me, what’s the point?
I don’t know how Captain Night feels about me, not truly, but right now, down in this cargo hold, I feel so alone. But I’m not here to make friends; I’m here to survive and find a way off this ship and back to my time.
And perhaps gather a bit of research in the meantime.
When Jack and I finish counting the supplies and storage, jotted down in my sloppy script, Jack sequesters the logbook. He pauses in the mess as he checks over my work. Though he can’t read, I can tell that he sees the dots of ink splattering the page, the way my letters stop and stutter.
“Your ’andwriting is terrible,” he says as he abandons me to Pip.
Presumably having overheard us, Pip cackles.
He slaps me on the shoulder almost affectionately as I move to join him.
With a mop of curling salt-and-pepper hair pulled back into a matted bun, Pip reminds me a bit of my uncle Ralph.
He wears a leather apron over his loose, stained shirt, his brown boots the worse for wear.
And as I sidle up next to him and begin peeling the last of the potatoes, I come to realize that Pip smells far better than anyone else aboard.
I didn’t notice it before. It’s so faint that at first, I think I’m imagining it, but when I lean past him to grab a potato from the pile, I take a big whiff, and I smell it.