Chapter 4

If I thought this was gonna be over quick, I was wrong. We rode in that damned cart for over an hour, and I felt every rock or cobblestone it bounced over. If I didn’t have that slimy rag stuffed in my mouth, I swear my teeth would’ve been shaken loose long before now. I’ve about put a cramp in my tongue tryin’ to work out the damned gag, but it just ain’t no use.

Finally the rig stops and my feet are untied and a hand is put on my neck and I’m shoved up a gangway and pushed down on some sort of bench, as far as I can make out. I can smell the sea and hear the lapping of waves and it gives me cheer. Soon this will be over and I’ll go back to collect Judy and we’ll . . .

But it doesn’t happen. My feet are tied again and I hear some bloke say, “Cast off,” and I feel us heel over as a sail is set and takes the wind. Uh-oh. This ain’t any big ship, this is a small boat, by the feel of it, no more than twenty feet long. It’s plain that they’re taking us out to a ship lying off the coast.

 

Trouble is, it’s been hours and hours. Where are they taking us? The waves have been making up higher and higher, and some of the pressed landsmen are moaning with seasickness. And I don’t feel so good myself. Lord, what would happen if you threw up with a gag in your mouth? Why, you’d choke and die for sure, and for sure this is a cruel press-gang as they don’t have to keep us hooded and gagged by now, but still they do, and I curse them to the deepest pit of Hell for it.

 

More hours go by and I’ve got to go real bad now and I doubt if I can hold it much longer. From the smell of things in this boat, some of the men have already given up. I don’t want to mess my silk britches, but I might have to soon and maybe it would be best to do it so I’ll be less appetizing to whatever male I’m presented to. I’m speculating on this when I hear a hail and then a bump as we come up alongside something. Something big.

More shouts and a net is lowered and someone picks me up and throws me in it and a few others are tossed in on top of me and we are lifted up all tangled together and then dumped on a hard deck.

The net is jerked from one side and I am tumbled out of the net and rolled over the deck. I feel my feet being untied and then the hood is whipped off and the sudden light blinds me for a moment. I’m blinkin’ away and after my sight clears, I find I’m looking into the face of the man lyin’ next to me, not six inches away, and I gasp in recognition. To me, it is the very face of Horror, itself—the horror of my younger life, the face of Muck, Cornelius Muck, Muck the Corpse Seller, right here, right now, lying beside me, tied and gagged and eyes rollin’ around, just like me! I’m taken back, back to when I was a little girl and Muck was slingin’ my dead baby sister over his shoulder right after my mum had died on That Dark Day when my whole world fell apart. It’s Muck, all right, bearded now, with longer hair, but still the accursed Muck and that little girl in me is kickin’ and screamin’ in terror. Don’t let him get me! Don’t let him take me!

I twist away from Muck and look up to see a seedy-lookin’ cove dealin’ out coins to what my reeling mind sees to be the head of the press-gang, who then bows to this cove and ties the purse around his waist and turns to leave. He goes down to his boat, the boat that brought us here, and casts off.

Wait! You can’t leave yet! Wait for me—

“MMMMMmmmmmpfff!” I try to yell through the gag. Desperate, I hunch over and manage to pinch twixt my knees a piece of the gag stickin’ out of my mouth. I jerk back my head and the spit-soaked rag comes out of my mouth and I get to my knees and I shout, “Stop that boat, you fool, and let me go! I’m a girl!”

There is a sudden dead silence. I look about and see that I am on some sort of ship, and I look over the starboard side and see land about a half mile off. I try to struggle to my feet, despairing to see the boat pull farther and farther away, but I can’t with my hands tied behind me. I can only remain on my knees.

The seedy-lookin’ man peers down at me and smiles. His shirttail is out and his trousers are stained and dirty. He is unshaven and his hair is unruly and uncut. He opens his mouth and says, “Girl, eh? We’ll see.” He comes up to me and he grabs me by the arm and yanks me to my feet. With his other hand he pulls off my cap and my hair spills out onto my shoulders, but that ain’t proof enough for this cove, no it ain’t. He grunts and puts that same grubby hand on my chest. I recoil but think, Better this than having to drop my pants in front of the whole ship’s company for proof.

The man smiles and makes a mock bow. “Welcome to His Majesty’s Ship Wolverine, girl. I know you’re going to enjoy your stay,” he says, looking me up and down. His teeth are worn gray stubs and his puffy face bristles with several days’ growth of beard. “But if you ever again call your Captain a fool, I will hang you from that yardarm there. Do you understand, girl?”

Captain? This man is the Captain?

He is a large man and he has a prominent hooked nose and full, almost womanish lips. There is a whitish residue on the lower of those lips and I’m amazed to see a tic tighten in a neck muscle and suddenly pull down the left side of his mouth. Then, incredibly, his left eye takes off on its own, independent of the right one, and appears to be looking up into the rigging while the right eye stays on me. What kind of creature is this?

An officer, a lieutenant, has come up next to the Captain. He, at least, is dressed as a naval officer and he says, very respectfully, and very cautiously, “Begging your pardon, Sir, but might it not be best to call back the . . .”

The tic relaxes its grip on the Captain’s face and he turns to look at the officer. “Mr. Pinkham,” he says with undisguised contempt, “shut up. If I wanted your opinion, I’d ask for it.” He turns again to me. “I paid for eight bodies, Mr. Pinkham, and I shall have eight bodies. And hers will do just fine.”

The Captain looms over me, legs wide, hands on hips. “How came you to be dressed like this?” he demands.

“It was for sport,” I says. “Now . . .”

“For sport, eh? Well, you shall certainly find some sport here, my girl. Yes, you shall, and very quickly, too,” he says, winkin’ at me so I can’t mistake his meaning. “This is turning into a really fine day. Yes, it is.” He turns and faces up into the sky. “I got up this morning thinking all I had to look forward to was bad whisky and the worst crew ever assembled on a British warship. And now this. Thank you, Lord.” He comes face-to-face with me and I can smell the whisky on him. Whisky and something else, I can’t tell what. “Untie her hands and take her to my cabin.”

Oh, Lord, this doesn’t look good at all.

As my hands are being untied, I look about me and see that I am on a Brig-of-War—two masts, probably eighteen guns. There is land over the horizon and from the position of the sun, I figure it to be the coast of France and this ship is on the blockade. There are men looking on from the rigging and on deck, but they are strangely quiet, as if they are afraid to do or say anything about my arrival, which one would think would be cause for great uproar and hilarity. I’m thinkin’ they’re deathly afraid of the Captain. I am, too.

The press-gang boat is too far gone to be called back, I see with a sinking heart. Looking toward the land, I see that we are quite close, not more than a quarter mile from a rocky peninsula jutting out into the Channel.

I pretend to be resigned to my fate, and I stand there with my head down and shoulders slumped, but as my bonds are being loosened, I toe off my boots and the instant my hands are free, I bolt across the deck and dive over the side. I ain’t stayin’ here, that’s for sure.

There are shouts as I fly over the rail. Better France than this, I’m thinkin’ as the water comes up to meet me.

I hit clean and come up pullin’ for the shore. I gasp, but the water has kept some of its warmth from the summer and the seas are calm, with gentle swells and no chop, so I’m hopin’ I’ll be all right.

As I’m strokin’ away, I’m figurin’ I’ll tell the Froggies that I’m American and ask would they please direct me to the nearest port where I can book passage back there. I have my money belt on and my French is good enough to get along.

Whew! That was a close one, I reflect. Lord, that crazy Captain was gonna keep me as his miss, he was. Yes, and Muck on board as well! Keep pullin away, girl, keep strokin’. Sorry to lose those boots, though.

I strike out for the shore, getting into a nice even rhythm. I swim for a while and then pause to let the sea take care of that still nagging call of nature. I gratefully relax and feel a warm gush around my loins for a bit, and then the cool ocean sweeps it away. Ahhh.

I learned, back when I was marooned on that beach in South America and practicing my swimming, that when I got tired swimming frontwards, I could turn over on my back and take a little rest, like, floating and just paddling along. I do that now to pace myself and relax a bit—at least I don’t have to worry about sharks here and . . .

Uh-oh.

I look back at the ship and see that they have put in a boat to chase me down. Damn! And they’ve got an alongshore breeze so they’ll be on a beam reach and able to come at me right quick! I turn back over and stretch out, really digging into the water for all the speed I can get, my eyes on the shore.

That lunatic Captain don’t know me, he don’t know that all I do is spread discord and havoc and destruction wherever I go and he’d be better off without me. But it looks like he ain’t gonna listen. No, he ain’t!

The shore doesn’t look like it’s any closer, but I know it is, and if I can just keep going—Pull! Pull! Pull! Dig deep! Faster! Faster!

But I can hear the lap of the bow wave on the boat and I can hear the shouts of the crew as they draw near. “There she is! Get her! Get her!”

I jerk my head back and see they are a scant twenty feet behind me.

“You there!” calls out a man in the bow of the boat. He’s got a coil of rope in his hand and he flings it toward me. “Give it up and grab that line!”

But I don’t give it up and I don’t take the rope. What I do is dive down deep and look up at the bottom of the boat as it surges over me. I kick with my legs and shoot back up and come to the surface oh-so-quiet at the stern of the boat, right next to the rudder.

I see that they are all looking forward to the last place they saw me. Close to the boat and with just my eyes out of the water, I keep an eye on the coxswain’s back, and when I see him lean forward and loosen his grip on the tiller, I grab the rudder and give it a quick jerk straight up. The pintles slip out of the gudgeons and the rudder comes off in my hands and I let it sink down into the depths.

“Let’s see you sail without a rudder, mates!” I shout and then go under again and get out in front of them and come up and start strokin’ for the shore again, and it looks closer! I can hear the waves beatin’ on the shore!

“Like tryin’ to catch a bleedin’ mermaid!” I hear behind me, but then I hear oars being shoved in oarlocks so I know they’re still after me, and I pull and I pull, making my aching arms and legs push on and on. Their oars dip into the water and start their rhythm, and I know they’ll be up on me again real soon. That Captain must have threatened them with some awful punishment to get them to chase me like this.

They’re gettin’ close again, I know, ’cause I can hear ’em puffin’ and gruntin, and I figure this time they’ll try to whack me with an oar to stun me and get me that way, so I try to keep low down in the water so’s the water’ll take the impact instead of my poor back.

But when they come up on me again, what I feel instead is something hard against the small of my back, which then runs down the crack of my bum and I feel a tug on my britches as they are pulled down to my knees. A boat hook’s got my pants! I reach back and slip the hook off and yank the pants back up. Christ! I can’t go into France without pants! I get it done, but I’m losin’ ground, too. Back up for another breath.

“I’ve a harpoon here, and I’ll use it!” I hear the shout, and I look up and sure enough this hard-eyed bloke in the bow of the boat has got a real sharp-looking harpoon in his fist and I quick dive back down. I don’t believe him, but I ain’t takin’ no chances. For sure, I know now how those poor whales felt.

Looking up at the bottom of the boat, I see the paddles dipping down into the water, and then, as they don’t know where I am, they lie still, their blades just sitting there, barely cutting the surface. Desperate, I kick up and grab an oar and pull down as hard as I can.

Sure enough, the boat rocks violently, her balance upset, and then, wonder of wonders, a sailor plunges into the water next to me. He must have been on that oar I pulled. Well, that oughta keep ’em. . . . busy, rescuing their mate while I push on to freedom.

But it doesn’t happen that way. I pop up on the other side of the boat, and they’re all lookin’ off the other side and sayin’ things like Poor Billy, drownding over a stupid girl, and Woe, oh woe, he was such a friend to me!

Christ! None of the lubbers can swim! Typical bleedin’ British sailors! I dive down once again, and, sure enough, there’s Billy down there, slippin’ down into the murk, bubbles comin’ out of his nose and mouth. I dart down and grab him by the hair that floats out about his head and kick and dart back to the surface. I lift his head out of the water and he coughs, water pouring out of his mouth and nose, and hands reach out and grab him. I twist away, but not fast enough ’cause another rascally hand reaches out and gets a fistful of my own hair, and I am hauled to the side of the boat and held fast there while they get soggy Billy aboard.

Damn! If I had my shiv I could cut the hair by which I am held and escape, but I don’t have my shiv! I remember, only this morning, thinkin’ about whether or not to take it with me. Stupid!

Then I am pulled aboard and I kick and twist and fight my way to the side and look out toward France and there’s the shore right there! I am so close! I can hear the breakers! I can smell the spray! Damn!

“Hold her, dammit! Goddamn slippery eel, she is! Hold her, for Chris’sakes! Look out! Hold her! Watch out, she’ll bite! Ow! Damn!”

I put a heel in one bloke’s crotch and my elbows wherever I can and I get Oooofs! and Arrrgghhhs! but I don’t get loose. Eventually there’re three sets of arms around me and a pair of hands gripping my ankles and one hand still entangled in my hair so I give it up and lie there panting.

The grizzled old seaman who has me around the neck puts his rough lips against my ear and whispers, “Ye would’ve gotten clean away from this Hell Ship, girl, if’n you hadn’t stopped to save poor Billy, and me mates and me ain’t gonna be forgettin’ that.”

Well, at the very least I shall have a few friends aboard.

 

“Do you know that desertion is a hanging offense, girl?” roars the Captain when I am taken back aboard.

The unfortunate Billy is stretched out over a barrel and his mates are rolling him back and forth to pump out the water. It looks like he will live, if only just.

“How can I desert from something that I don’t belong to?” says I to the Captain. I stick my chin in the air and put on the Look, which probably looks right stupid on me standing there dripping in my clinging wet silks, which have gone all transparent, leaving no doubt in anyone’s mind as to what exactly I am in the way of gender, but I do it, anyway. I know that Mistress Pimm would have wanted me to, so I stick my nose high in the air, eyes hooded, lips together, teeth apart. Though that last bit is gettin’ kinda hard to do as I’m beginning to shiver and my teeth are chattering.

“Belong? Ah, well, then let’s have you belong for sure,” says the Captain, and he turns to the officer I had seen before. “Mr. Pinkham, have her read into the ship’s company log as an Ordinary Seaman. Then take the ship another half mile offshore so she doesn’t get the notion to try to swim for it again.”

“But, begging your pardon, Sir,” says the obviously distressed Mr. Pinkham, “you can’t—”

“Where does it say that I can’t? I’m Captain of this goddamned ship and I can do whatever I goddamn well want! Now do what I goddamn tell you.”

Pinkham doesn’t answer. While this is going on, I’m shivering and forcing myself to think, Girl, you are in a lot of trouble here! What’s best to do? and then I decide.

“If you are going to do that, Captain,” I pipe up and say, “then you must enter me as a Midshipman, as that is my true rank. My name is Jacky Faber, and I was commissioned by Captain Locke of HMS Dolphin on July the twentieth, eighteen hundred and three.”

Now that finally gets a murmur out of the crew.

The Captain barks out, “Do any of you here know that to be true?” He looks around at the men silent in the rigging.

Finally a voice says, “Aye, Sir, that’s Jacky Faber, all right. I was on the Dolphin with her.”

I look around for the owner of the voice, but I can single no one out. I shall have to find out. Perhaps it will be another friend, and I know I will need all the friends I can muster.

“A Midshipman, hey?” He looks amused. “Then let’s see what you know, Midshipman. What is the procedure for getting under way and standing before the wind?”

Well, ain’t I seen that done a hundred times, standing on the quarterdeck with my drum? Ain’t I heard the Dolphin’s middies recite this a hundred times for Captain Locke, the sweat pouring out from under their caps as they squirmed under his gaze? I put my hands behind me in Parade Rest and I start:

“Sir. Make all preparations for getting under way, heave in, and make sail as before. Lay the main and mizzen topsails square aback; the fore one sharp aback, according to the side it is intended to cast—heave in, cant her the right way with the helm before tripping, and as soon as the velocity of the stern board is greater than that of the tide, shift the helm, grapple the buoy, run up the jib as soon as it will take, and haul aft the weather sheet. While falling off, cat and fish the anchor, as she gathers headway, shift the helm: When before the wind, right it, square the head yards, and brail up the jib—set topgallant sails, royals, and foresail—haul taut the lifts, trusses, and backstay falls, and, if necessary, set the scudding sails.”

Then I pause. Then, in conclusion, I say, “Sir.”

The Captain sneers off in the direction of four boys of various ages standing off to the side dressed as midshipmen and looking confused and abashed.

“Hear that, my fine midshipmen?” They don’t say anything, they just look at their feet or straight ahead, depending on how old they are. The Captain turns his attention back to me.

“So you are that one, then, that one who is the talk of the fleet?” asks the Captain, beaming. “Yes, Midshipman would definitely be better. No problem with fraternization with the lower decks then. Good, good,” he says, nodding. “Mr. Pinkham! Write her in as Midshipman Jack Faber. If Locke could do it, so can I, by God!”

Then, suddenly, as if all this shouting had broken something inside him, he groans and grabs his side. “Send for Earweg,” he wheezes, doubling over. “I need my medicine! Now!”

He staggers to the hatchway, which must lead to his cabin, but before he goes down, he turns and gasps, “Take her below, fit her out, and mark me, every last one of you dogs—nobody lays a hand on her, d’ye hear? Captain Abraham Scroggs will not have soiled goods!” The silence on this ship is such that all hear his words very plain.

 

In a few moments, I’m taken down a ladder and into the midshipmen’s berth and the four of them stand there lookin’ at me standing there shivering in my silks.

“Date of rank,” I say, lookin’ about the dim interior for something to cover myself with.

They are confused. “What? We . . .”

“When were you made midshipmen is what I mean.” I’m losing patience. I’m cold and getting very cranky.

The oldest of the lot, a likely looking boy of about sixteen, clears his throat and nervously says, “We were all brought aboard about a month ago and—”

“So that makes me Senior Midshipman, then,” I says, cutting him off cruelly. “So get me a blanket and be quick about it, boy. And where’s my bunk?” Sorry, lad, but I’ve got to establish myself right off.

He is startled by my rudeness, but he stifles his anger and says, “Here.” He goes over and opens a door to a closet-sized room, and he stands back and I go in and look about. A bed, with drawers underneath. A dry sink and basin. Some hooks on the wall. That’s it, but I’ve seen worse, and tired as I am, it looks like home to me.

A knock on the side of the cabin and a hand holds out a blanket to me. I take it, close the door behind me, and strip off my poor silks. I hang them on the hooks in hopes they’ll dry in some sort of shape. I towel off with the blanket and rub myself briskly to take out some of the cold. After a little while my skin starts to pink up and I stop shivering so violently.

Then I wrap the blanket about me and step back out into the midshipmen’s berth. There is a table and some chairs and an open hatch overhead letting in the air. At least we shan’t suffocate on days when it ain’t raining.

“What have you got for me to wear?” I say, sitting down at the table. I know I must present a comely sight, my hair plastered to my head, made thick with the salt water, and my nose red and running, my feet all veiny and blue. “Is there any hot tea?” Then I sneeze a fine spray of mist all over the table.

The older boy jerks his head at the littlest boy, who ducks his head and scurries out. The rest of them stare at me. Aside from the older boy, there are two who seem to be of the same age, that being about twelve.

“I’ll need drawers, a shirt, trousers, and a jacket. And stockings. My boots will serve me for shoes. A cap, if one can be found,” I say. “And the loan of a comb and some ribbon to tie back my hair.”

The younger ones scurry into their cubbyholes and come out with the drawers, shirt, pants, stockings, and other items. The older boy goes into his room and comes out with a black midshipman’s jacket. “I have grown out of it, and I will take great pleasure if you will accept it. We will have to share the comb.”

Hmmm. Courtly. Has manners. Here’s a likely one, maybe.

“And what is your name, Sir?” I ask.

He bows and says, “Robin. Robin Raeburne, at your service, Miss, and I am sorry for your recent troubles.” He has dark, curly, reddish brown hair, and a fine straight nose, good chin, with a high, clear, and intelligent forehead. He’s probably a Scot with that name and that hair.

I give a slight dip by way of an answer to his bow and say, “Don’t be. I brought it on myself, as usual.”

The small boy comes back in, bearing a mug of steaming tea. He seems to be all of eight years old, his black midshipman’s jacket hanging rather loosely on him. Comically loose. He hands the cup to me with both hands, slightly shaking so that some of the tea sloshes out over his hands.

I take the cup and gratefully bring it to my lips. “Ahhh.” I breathe as the hot liquid goes down my throat, warming me. “And you, young sir. What is your name?” He is short, round in the face, and blond. His ice blue eyes are open in unabashed wonder.

“Georgie Piggott, Miss,” he pipes. “And are you really the girl in the book?”

Oh, Lord.

I sigh and say that I suppose I am, but you shouldn’t believe everything you read. The other two squeakers are looking at me in wonder, too. I raise my eyebrows in question at them and one says, “Ned Barrows, Mum,” and the other says, “Tom Wheeler.”

Ned is a dark-haired boy, with thick curls close to his head, and an open face—cheerful, honest, and slightly pug-nosed. Tom is blondish, with his hair hanging to his shoulders, and he has blue eyes, and a foxy, inquisitive face. Ned is sturdy, while Tom is slight. Again, I place them both at the age of twelve and it is plain that they are close friends.

“Fine. What’s for dinner?”

Dinner turns out to be simple seamen’s rations—salt pork, biscuit, and pease porridge—brought on a tray by a sullen sailor who dumps the stuff on the table without a word. As he leaves, I give the sailor a look that says, We’ll be taking care of that attitude in the future, mark me, man.

We turn to and I tap my biscuit and sure enough several weevils fall out. I brush them off the table and take a bite of the biscuit, taking care to see what the bite exposed in the way of further bugs. Not too bad, I notice. Then I tuck into the salt pork, using my fingers, as I have no knife. Not yet I don’t. The three younger ones regard me with unwavering stares. Robin, however, just looks quiet and withdrawn. Sullen, even. You’d think he’d be delighted by being presented with the close company of what has already proved to be a frolicsome young dame, but he ain’t. Maybe he’s just shy, or maybe I just look too ratty.

“Best tuck in, Mates,” I say, “never can tell when next you’ll eat again.” That bowl of pease porridge—I ain’t shy about putting that away, either. Nothing like a brisk swim for the appetite. “So who’s got what watch? Are we One-in-Three, then?”

Robin shakes his head. “We don’t stand watches. We don’t know enough yet. And we haven’t been taught anything.” His face flames in humiliation. And now, in addition to his previous unhappiness, he is being replaced as Senior Midshipman by a girl.

“Aye, Miss, it’s horrible here!” blurts out Georgie. “The Captain . . .”

But Robin flashes him a warning look and puts his finger to his lips and looks up to the open hatch, where I almost hear the ears flapping. There are no secrets on a ship, and Robin, at least, knows that.

“Good advice, young George,” I say, and remove my hand from beneath my blanket and place my hand on his sleeve. “Don’t worry, Georgie, I’ll find the way of things around here right quick.” A bare female shoulder and arm probably ain’t the best thing to be presenting to these boys and this young man right now, so I pull my arm back and clutch the blanket around my neck once more.

I signal for a rag to wipe my hands and Ned and Tom trip over each other in finding me one. “Well, we shall see about the watches and the education, too,” I say, and rise. “Where’s the Watch, Quarter, and Station Bill?”

“I believe Mr. Pelham keeps it, Miss,” says Robin. “He’s the Second Mate.”

“Then we’ll have a look at it come morning, Mr. Raeburne,” I say. He nods. I look up through the hatch and see that it has gotten quite dark. That bed in there calls me.

“Well, I thank you gentlemen for the use of your clothes. If you’ll excuse me . . .” With that I scoop up the pile of clothing and pad back to my room. “Oh, and I’ll need several pitchers of water. Hot water.”

 

I’ve wiped the salt off me as best I can with a cloth dipped in the hot water and I’ve stuck my head down into the basin and rinsed my hair. It’s still a tangled mess, but at least it’s clean. I work at it with Robin’s comb, after I wash it off—it’s tough, but I get it done.

Robin had also given me one of his old shirts to use as a nightdress and I put it on and lace it up. It will serve, though it only comes down to just above my knees.

Sticking my head out the door, I call out, “Mr. Barrows. Mr. Wheeler. Go back up on deck and see if you can find my boots.” I hear them scurrying out, eager to please. It’s nice being senior, and it’s well that I assert my authority right off, no matter what else is going to happen to me.

I’m considering curling up in bed and allowing myself a few tears of self-pity as I sit back down and think about things. . . . What’s going to happen to me? I mean, it sure doesn’t look good for my future as a maiden, that’s for certain. What will I do if the Captain has me taken into his cabin and just orders me to strip down and climb in his bed? He’s the Captain—no one would stop him. What if the order comes right now? What could I do? The ship’s too far out now for me to swim to shore—and it’s dark, too, and getting cold.

Plus, there’s something in me, and I know it’s stupid, but there’s something in me that doesn’t want to desert after bein’ signed on official-like.

I know I’m in deep trouble here, but maybe, just maybe, as I am now read in as a member of the ship’s company, that fact will accord me some rights. Especially if I act like I really am a member of the crew, instead of the way they expect me to act, which is like a whining, scared girl. Scared I am, and certainly given to whining, cajoling, wailing, begging, pleading, anything to get out of a fix. But somehow I don’t think all that’s gonna work here. All I can do is start acting like I belong here, like it’s natural. I must start acting like the ranking Midshipman. Starting first thing in the morning. I resolve to get up early to embark on this plan. Very early.

They expect me to hide, so I shall not hide. I shall make myself very visible. It is not much of a plan, but it is a plan, and, as usual, I feel a little better for having one. I turn on my side and, bringing my knees to my chin and hugging my legs to my chest, I go to sleep.