Oceanswept (5 page)

I
had been in the brig for four days when someone quietly approached with another loaf of hardtack. I was sitting on the floor, knees pulled up to my chest, with my back to the approaching man. As usual, I didn’t move a muscle or acknowledge his presence. It would be Nicholas, I thought. It was not enough for him to leave me to my misery. He would insist on degrading me more. He was just waiting for my moment of weakness when I would beg him for mercy. He would wait forever.

As I continued to brood in the silence, I realized I had not heard the man retreat. Angrily, I turned my head, prepared to confront Nicholas, but to my surprise I saw a pitiful pirate standing behind me wringing his tar-covered hat in his hands. It was the ruddy pirate with the straw hair who had come down with Nicholas the first day.

I stared directly at him, challenging him for existing in my space. He looked down at his busy hands, then motioned awkwardly to the growing pile of hardtack.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, miss, but you’ll lose yer strength if ye don’t eat,” he said meekly.

I turned my head back around and stared at my knees. My pantaloons were covered in filth. Ignoring him was harder than I thought. “That’s the idea.”

“If’n I sneaked ye a bit o’ meat, would you eat that?”

“No,” I said flatly. As if on cue, my stomach grumbled audibly in protest.

“You’re Miss Monroe, aye?” he asked.

I said nothing.

“Me name’s Skidmore.”

I traced a black stain on the knee of my drawers. The silence lasted a long time. I thought he must have left when I heard a labored sigh and a soft scuffling noise. I looked over my shoulder at him again. He had hardly moved at all.

“What?” I demanded.

He met my eyes, pleased that he had elicited a response from me. “Pardon the idea, miss, but maybe ye could use a friend.”

This was too much. Too weak to stand, I shifted around so I could to face him. “I am a prisoner in the custody of
pirates
,” I spat out the word like dirty water. “I have no need of friends.”

His eyes wide, he shuffled uncomfortably, still not leaving.

Suddenly, an idea came to me. “There
is
something you could do for me,” I stated, trying to keep the malice in my voice to a minimum.

Skidmore’s expression lifted.

“I would like to speak to the captain.”

Skidmore stepped back, shaking his head almost imperceptibly.

“I demand to see the captain!”

“That can’t be done, miss,” Skidmore said under his breath.

“Of course not,” I said snidely, “Mr. Holladay would never allow that. A prisoner would never be allowed to plead his case with someone who actually might help. Does the captain even know I am here? He would never allow this. And Mr. Holladay knows that. He knows that the captain would never stand for his second-in-command to usurp power the way Mr. Holladay has. It’s despicable.”

The pirate continued to stand before me self-consciously, wringing his hands. He didn’t want to be here, and I didn’t know why he was.

“Take your leave. Some friend you are. You’re completely useless.”

* * * * *

The next day the man called Skidmore returned. He carried a large wooden crate and set it on the floor within my reach. He pulled a flat, wooden plate from the crate and set it next to the pile of hardtack. Next he pulled an orange and a small piece of salted meat from the crate and set them on the plate.

The excitement of seeing the plump, fresh orange overtook my vow of starvation. I grabbed it and hungrily tore into the rind. I sunk my teeth into its moist flesh before I had even finished peeling it, letting the juice dribble down my chin.

Skidmore smiled triumphantly.

He gestured to the crate he had brought with him. “Ye can have anything in there ya like.” He was so soft-spoken I strained to hear every word he said.

Inquisitively, I peered into the crate. In the dim light of the ship’s underbelly, I couldn’t see what the box contained. Just a mass of black.

“Mostly clothes. But you’ll find a book and a candle, too.”

The past five days had been miserable, sitting for endless hours with nothing but my hatred to entertain me. I was as determined as ever to die in this forsaken pit, but I did not see how passing the time with a book would interfere. I reached a shaky hand into the crate and fumbled around.

Skidmore knelt by the box. Frightened, I instantly pulled my hand back. He fished out a tallow candle and a small tin box. He opened it to reveal flint and steel and showed me how to use them to light the candle.

“Open flames aren’t generally allowed below deck, what with the risk of fire and all. But seein’ how you’re not a drunkard like the lot of us, I reckon you’ll handle it fine. Mind it carefully. A toppled flame will send us all to the devil.”

I nodded, tempted to light the
Banshee
on fire right then.

When I held the lighted candle, Skidmore stepped back, giving me the freedom to search the box myself. I pulled a silken dress of Wedgwood blue through the bars. I stood, lifting it with me. It was an elegant day dress, something I would have wished to own in my past life. With little ornamentation, the dress was exquisite simply because of quality workmanship and luxurious fabric. I knew just how this color of blue would complement my chestnut hair and brown eyes. Still grasping the candle in one hand, I held the dress against my frame and was pleased to see it would fit. It would be a bit long—it had been meant for someone taller than I—but that was workable.

I draped the dress across my chair in the corner, making sure it would not touch the damp ground or rusty bars. Reaching again into the box I pulled out a book of Shakespearean plays. My heart leapt. Familiar stories would be so welcome during the long days ahead.

Next, I pulled out a black quilted dressing robe. It was always damp in the brig and my clothes were constantly wet. I had refused to touch Nicholas’s coat since my first day down here when I’d torn it off. This would be welcome during the cool, drafty nights.

The box contained a lumpy pillow and a tattered brown blanket—it suspiciously resembled the blanket from Nicholas’s cabin, though all blankets on board were probably quite similar. I could spread it on the floor to keep the wetness away. There was another dress; a fancy ball gown of canary yellow taffeta. It looked as though it would fit as well, although I did not have the petticoats needed to fill out the skirt. My fingers lingered on the intricate lace that edged the sleeves and the black satin sash tied around the waist. How strange it was to be holding such a lovely gown in the brig of a pirate ship. I smiled at the irony as I draped the dress across the blue one on the chair in the corner.

The last items I fished out of the crate were a hairbrush and a handheld looking glass. Holding the candle in one hand, I lifted the mirror and looked at my reflection. A tiny gasp escaped my lips.

“I look half dead,” I muttered to myself in amazement.

Skidmore laughed quietly, “No offense, Miss Monroe, but I must agree.”

I flashed an impertinent glare at him before examining my reflection more closely. My face was thin and pinched. My large brown eyes—normally flashing with intelligence and good humor—were sunken into gaping sockets. Purple moons underlined my eyes. I examined my face closer, hoping it was just shadows from the candle light I was seeing. No. The dark rings were truly there. My normally fair skin was sallow and grey. My reddish-brown hair hung limply, dull and tangled.

Why was I surprised? I had hardly eaten anything for a week and sleeping was next to impossible. Besides, I was a prisoner on my way to death. It was only fair that I look the part. I could not expect myself to look rosy and charming.

I set down the mirror gently, no longer able to look at the corpse who stared back at me. “Where did you find these things?” I wondered aloud. On a ship full of ferocious men, it seemed impossible that such lovely female fineries were just lying about.

Skidmore fidgeted, avoiding my peering gaze.

“Oh.”

The sweetness of the orange I had devoured churned in my stomach and I rushed to the pail. The candle slipped from my grasp and the light extinguished. I retched into the pail, tears squeezing from the corners of my eyes. When I was done, I quietly folded the exquisite dresses, the warm dressing gown, and the blanket. With the stack in my arms, I slowly turned to face Skidmore.

“How could you?”

He blanched at my words, his face falling. I could see he was confused and it was difficult to be angry at his attempted kindness. His cruelty had been unintentional.

“These things…they came from that ship you ransacked last week, didn’t they?” I held out the stack of items in question.

He shuffled uncomfortably. It was all the answer I needed.

I gently placed each item back into the crate, including the candle. When I was done, I carefully pushed the crate out of my reach.

“Please take these back. I do not want them.”

“But, miss,” he argued, “they are of no use to anyone but you.”

“No,” I insisted, my voice growing stern. “I will have nothing to do with your contemptible raids.”

I crossed my arms and stared at Skidmore. He continued to look at his feet.

“Did
he
send these things?” I asked with contempt. “Did he think it would be funny?”

Skidmore didn’t answer.

I crossed the brig and retrieved Nicholas’s coat from the corner. I tossed it through the bars to Skidmore. He caught it smartly.

“Give that to your first mate with my regards,” I said icily.

“He’s no first mate, miss,” Skidmore corrected.

I scoffed. “Surprise, surprise. He lied about that too.”

“No, but he is the quartermaster.”

“Quartermaster?”

“In ships such as this—”

“Pirate ships,” I corrected.

“Aye, pirate ships. You see, us pirates don’t take kindly to the notion of an all-powerful captain like you see in navies and on merchant ships, seein’ as we’re not fond of the law and all. A quartermaster is appointed by the crew to represent the crew and holds nearly as much power as the captain himself. He leads boardin’ parties, pays the crew, delegates work, lays on punishment, and the like. Can veto much of the cap’n’s commands too. Except in times of battle. He’s a lot more important than a first mate.”

“It makes no difference to me,” I retorted. “Please return his coat to him. And do not bring me any more
gifts
.”

In a single swift movement, I spun around and sat with my back to the pirate. He shuffled quietly away, leaving the crate of goods and the ghosts that came with it.

E
very day I expected Nicholas to come to the brig. I expected him to gloat over me, to torture me, to attempt to win my affections…something. I knew the time would come when I would have to confront him. I looked forward to that moment with equal parts of dread and welcome. I deserved answers. He was the only one who had them. But each day passed without an appearance.

Skidmore returned several times each day. We engaged in brief conversation, and although I loathed admitting it, I liked his visits. I began eating again. Hardtack was the usual fare, but occasionally salted meat or dried beans made their way onto the menu. I would eat these small luxuries, knowing they had come from the
Banshee
’s galley and not from the pillaged ship.

When I asked Skidmore to remove the crate a second time, he informed me that he had been ordered to leave it within my reach.

“Mr. Skidmore, what am I doing here?”

“On the
Banshee
?”

“In this brig. Will I ever be let out?”

Skidmore hitched his breath. “I cannot say.”

“You cannot say or you do not know?” I watched the pirate closely to see if I had uncovered the truth. It was difficult to tell with Skidmore. He always seemed nervous no matter what I said.

He didn’t answer.

“Please, Mr. Skidmore, I deserve to know my sentence. How long will I be imprisoned? What happens next? Will I be killed? Trained to work the ship?”

Skidmore’s blue eyes crinkled with a pleasant smile. “There be no plans for your death, Miss Monroe.”

“I suppose that’s a relief. Still…tell me something.”

I wanted to ask about Nicholas and his intentions with me, but my pride would not allow it.

Skidmore nervously mussed his hair, his eyes darting around the hold. “I’m just following orders, miss.”

“Please, Skidmore,” my fingers grasped the bars in desperation, “can’t you ask…someone?” I couldn’t bring myself to mention the quartermaster’s name. “I can’t stay in here forever.”

I could tell that I would get nowhere with Skidmore. He bumbled uneasily, too kind to be cruel to me, yet too loyal to offer me anything relevant.

Finally, Skidmore stopped his shuffling long enough to look at me. “You ought to be content where you’re at.”

I wasn’t sure whether it was a threat or a reassurance. Either way, Skidmore offered me no more information and was as unsettled as ever.

* * * * *

On a particularly cold night, a storm tossed the ship to and fro and the eerie creaking of reluctant wood filled the air. I huddled into a corner of the brig, supporting myself against the bars. The brig’s few furnishings tumbled back and forth across the floor as the ship rocked in the strong gale. More water than usual dripped down the iron bars, soaking my clothing and hair. When I was shivering so severely that I could I hardly move, I remembered the blanket in the crate.

I peered through the blackness and reached towards the crate. It wasn’t there. The ship rolled, and I rolled with it, tumbling into the back corner of the brig. The chair and bucket rolled with me. I heard the crate bump into the bars. Before I could reach it, the ship rocked again, tossing me headfirst into the bars I was headed for. The pail and the chair knocked into me and I heard the crate slide away.

This time I anticipated the ship’s bucking and clung to the bars as the ship rocked in the opposite direction. I heard the crate skidding towards me and grabbed its edge as it banged into the brig. With one arm securing the crate and myself, I used my free hand to rifle through the contents. I pulled out the pillow and the scratchy blanket. As the ship rocked again, a puddle of water splashed on me, causing my teeth to chatter even more ferociously. Without a second thought, I pulled the quilted dressing robe through the bars.

I removed my wet clothing and put the robe on. I was instantly warmer, though I felt strangely vulnerable without my usual undergarments. I knotted them around the bars of the brig to keep them off the floor. Placing the blanket between the wet floor and my bottom, I huddled back into the corner of the brig to brace myself against the ship’s movement, bunching the pillow behind my head for comfort.

With the warm robe wrapped around me, my shivering finally subsided and I was able to rest, though I was frequently jolted awake by the sound of the scooting chair. When I did sleep, my dreams were as tumultuous as the restless ocean.

After that night, I found the contents of the crate more and more tempting. I lit the candle and read
Hamlet
, my favorite. The idea of putting my undergarments back on—grey with filth—repulsed me, so I continued to wear the black robe. Skidmore was happy to see that I had made use of the items. Once, he caught me brushing my hair and offered to bring me a bucket of seawater and a lump of soap so I could wash myself and my underclothes. He made good on his word and brought a bucket the next day.

Bathing was more than a bit awkward with only a small bucket, especially since I had never bathed myself in my life. I managed somehow, even kneeling over and dunking my head to wash my hair. It felt wonderful to scrub out the weeks of filth. It took me over an hour to brush through all the tangles in my hair. At times I wondered if I had pulled out more hair than remained on my head, but finally it was smooth and tangle-free. Once I was clean, I scrubbed my undergarments. Even in the dim light I could see the grime floating off the clothing.

Once my undergarments were dry, I was tempted to put them back and try on one of the beautiful dresses in the crate. But every time I thought of the dresses, I imagined their previous owner and how she must have died. Did it happen when the ship exploded? Was she ruthlessly hewn down to a bloody corpse by a relentless pirate? Did she perhaps throw herself into the sea as a last resort as I had hoped to do? When I thought of her, I had no desire to wear those dresses.

Skidmore supplied me with extra candles as needed. With his gentle nature, I had difficulty thinking of him as a pirate. I came to recognize him as a friend, and I valued him for that.

I wished to ask him about Nicholas, but persuaded myself not to. Why should I care about Nicholas anyway? Judging by the amount of time I spent thinking about him, it was clear that I did. There was something about him. It was more than the way my heart had fluttered every time I saw him or the way I had lost all words when his eyes found mine. He had meant something to me, after all. As counterfeit as it had been, Nicholas had been my protector. My rescuer. My friend. I thought by now Nicholas would have come to see me, even if in mocking derision. But with Skidmore looking after me now, apparently Nicholas was done with me. And that bothered me more than I liked.

* * * * *

Searing wax spattered across the pages of my book. I tried to wipe the droplets away but only succeeded in spreading a fine film of wax across “Sonnet 29.” I scraped at the wax, my fingernail rasping against the paper.

I heard the creak of the hatch door opening and the rhythm of slow footsteps.  

“Morning watch already? It feels too early for that.”

No one answered, but the footsteps grew nearer.

“Skidmore?”

I strained to remember the last bell I heard. I could have sworn it was still midnight watch. Skidmore worked the midnight watch and only came down after he was off duty. A visit from him this time of night was unprecedented.

I put the book down and stood, stretching the candle out beyond the bars and squinted into the blackness. I could see nothing. For a moment I thought to blow out the flame in order to see better, but decided against it. It would take my eyes minutes to adjust. Besides, I wanted to see who my strange visitor was.

He was nimble. Nearly silent. I remembered the way Nicholas moved with such easy grace. My heart thudded. It had to be him. His ridicule was past due.

“Mr. Holladay?”

All that answered me was a dim echo.

“If you’re here to humiliate me, let’s get on with it.”

Still no answer.

My palms grew damp. A sour rot spread in my stomach.

I tried to provoke a response. “If you’re not here to mock me, then you must be here to apologize. Well, I accept. No hard feelings. In fact, don’t even bother to say you are sorry. Let’s forget the whole sordid incident and enjoy a lovely conversation over a cup of rum.”

Still no answer. There was something unnerving in the sly, steady approach of the stranger.

“I know you are there. Show yourself.”

I was now positive that whoever was approaching was not Nicholas. He would have answered me. I was sure of that. The air grew thicker, heavier somehow. It felt wet in my lungs as if it were drowning me. My eyes widened as they stared into the darkness, my ears strained to hear every small noise.

A sharp jingle of metal sounded just beyond the pool of my candlelight. My brave façade faltered. I had not forgotten that I was locked on a ship with a hundred lawless barbarians.

Footsteps shuffled towards me and a figure materialized. A bald head ringed by a mop of stringy grey hair. Scraggly grey brows over sunken eyes. A hooked nose, crooked from some past damage. A spattering of pock marks. A thin, silver scar marking the man’s forehead. Thin, cracked lips turned up in a smile.

With a sudden intake of breath, I recognized him as the small, wiry pirate that had threatened me on the deck during the attack. He couldn’t get at me then, with Nicholas pointing a sword at his throat, but now, in the stillness of the night, this man had come for what he wanted.