I suppose that I should've waited for a passenger ship to fly me to my new
home of America, but my strong head seems to act before I can get a chance
to think most times and instead, I signed on as a spare hand aboard a ship
carrying mostly furniture and pianos going to new citizens of America.
Most of my days aboard the ship were spent below deck crying like a nursed
boy between a large grandfather clock and a bookshelf or over the side of
the ship getting sick. Boats don't exactly tickle my fancy the way teaching
or singing did. During my journey, I had vowed myself to silence and for
weeks all anyone ever heard from my mouth were my squeaking sobs or my
sleeping gibberish talk. A full month of such reclusion passed. I was sure
that if I simply closed my eyes long enough, I would be placed in the hands
of God...or perhaps the Reaper of Death. Either way, each sway of the ship
and each beat of my heart shook my soul. Each step I took along the deck
creaked her name. Elyse...Elyse...Elyse...and then they would seem to
whisper not yours...not yours...not yours.
Every day, I would hear the words in my step all the way to the stern where I would watch the sea rush past and close my eyes, waiting for my death. Upon my sixth day of doing so, I actually leaned over the edge, contemplating a jump when I heard a voice. "Care fer a ginga-ale?" Groggily, I pulled myself up to view however was speaking to me. Instead of seeing anything at all, I felt my stomach lurch and my insides turn. My guts began to rise in my throat as I sent my head back over the end of the ship to watch my breakfast float down to Davey Jones's locker. A large soft hand rubbed my back lightly as I vomited before I heard chuckling, "I s'pose I shed get ye one, then, eh?" Regaining composure, I stood erect and faced away from the water (which is a fantastic feat when one is aboard a ship). "Who...," the word slipped from my chapped lips. It had been my first word in the past few weeks. What I saw before me was a boy of about thirteen or fourteen making him a good year or perhaps year and a half younger than myself. The lad wasn't nearly as tall as I was, on the contrary, he seemed to have stopped growing vertically quite a time ago and was instead growing horizontally for the boy was a bit large. Perhaps I wouldn't say he was exceedingly fat, but certainly he looked well fed. White blonde hair and sky blue eyes contrasted against my own dark redish brown hair and hazel green and grey eyes. "Peter," he stuck a plump hand out to shake mine. "Peter Bolswally." I took his hand politely in mine and shook, introducing myself as Samuel Henders. I hadn't realized the toll that being sick had just taken. Before managing to take my hand back, I collapsed unconscious to the ground.
Every day, I would hear the words in my step all the way to the stern where I would watch the sea rush past and close my eyes, waiting for my death. Upon my sixth day of doing so, I actually leaned over the edge, contemplating a jump when I heard a voice. "Care fer a ginga-ale?" Groggily, I pulled myself up to view however was speaking to me. Instead of seeing anything at all, I felt my stomach lurch and my insides turn. My guts began to rise in my throat as I sent my head back over the end of the ship to watch my breakfast float down to Davey Jones's locker. A large soft hand rubbed my back lightly as I vomited before I heard chuckling, "I s'pose I shed get ye one, then, eh?" Regaining composure, I stood erect and faced away from the water (which is a fantastic feat when one is aboard a ship). "Who...," the word slipped from my chapped lips. It had been my first word in the past few weeks. What I saw before me was a boy of about thirteen or fourteen making him a good year or perhaps year and a half younger than myself. The lad wasn't nearly as tall as I was, on the contrary, he seemed to have stopped growing vertically quite a time ago and was instead growing horizontally for the boy was a bit large. Perhaps I wouldn't say he was exceedingly fat, but certainly he looked well fed. White blonde hair and sky blue eyes contrasted against my own dark redish brown hair and hazel green and grey eyes. "Peter," he stuck a plump hand out to shake mine. "Peter Bolswally." I took his hand politely in mine and shook, introducing myself as Samuel Henders. I hadn't realized the toll that being sick had just taken. Before managing to take my hand back, I collapsed unconscious to the ground.
