Chapter 2

Sinclair Gillette stirred in his state of unconsciousness. Slowly but surely, he was coming to. His body desperately wanted it - he was starving - but it was terribly painful. Sinclair remembered the fire and knew that he had died, but why was he in Hell? That made no sense. A mixture of colours swirled in front of his closed eyelids. He tried to open them, but couldn't. He tried to sit up, but couldn't. He tried to grab hold of something, anything, for support and found that he could move his arms, but it was too painful and he gave up.

As his arms dropped to his sides he realized he was lying on something...soft? Hmm...not soft, but made for comfort. Much like his bed back on the Valeur. Yes! The ship! Now he remembered! They...pirates?...had set the ship alight, and then....he couldn't remember anything else. But wait! If he remembered, and the bed, the sudden disappearance of the colours, yes! He was alive and-

Awake?

Sinclair opened his eyes. Ahhh....he was back aboard the Valeur. Back down in the boys' cabins. Just a nightmare, he realized. No pirates could overtake a king's ship.

Feeling a bit feverish, Sinclair lifted his hand to his brow, and winced. No! his mind whined desperately. But yes, it was true. As his arm came into focus, he saw that it was indeed wrapped in bandages. Almost the entire arm had been quite neatly tied up in a soft linen, much like the new shirt he had been given.

Then it occurred to the young boy. If he was injured, then the pirates had attacked. If they had attacked, then the Valeur had been destroyed. If the ship was destroyed, then where was he?

Another ship, of course. Well, obviously. But what kind of ship? A French ship, a Spanish ship? Or, oh no, an English ship? If so...

Sinclair, using every ounce of strength he could summon, forced himself to sit up. His head spun and he lifted a hand wearily to cover his eyes until they adjusted. He then tried to get his bearings.

Alright, I'm on another ship, that's for certain. I'm below-decks, I think. It seems to be night-time. There are, he looked around, other boys in this cabin, so I'm probably on a military ship. Damn!

The determined young Frenchman figured he had no time to waste. For all he knew, his rescuers' mercy would only last until he was able enough to answer questions.

Nobody likes us. Nobody trusts us anymore. Not since that Mary came along!

After checking the condition of his legs, only one was bandaged, he slid tentatively out of the bed to stand on a surprisingly clean and noiseless floor.

A blessing! But something doesn't feel right...

Instinctively, Sinclair reached for the back of his head with his less-bandaged arm, and pulled a black ribbon out of his hair.

Ah, no, it's gone all straight again!

No time for that now, though. Wincing every time he stood on his left leg, Sinclair managed to propel himself forwards, very, very carefully. The stairs were right in front of him, no more than 15 steps away. He had to be on a big ship, though. There were about 7 boys here, there had been only 5 on the Valeur, and she was, well, actually she wasn't all that big, now that he thought about it.

One step, two steps, no movement, three steps, a creak, a pause, no movement, four steps, five steps...

Yes, yes! No more than three steps now!

"Bunjoor!"

Sinclair knew right away he should have run, but panic made him turn instinctively.

A lanky, black-haired boy was standing in the middle of the room, grinning.

"Bunjoor!" he said again with a wave of his hand.

Well, I'm on French ship, I suppose. But I've never heard an accent like that before.

"Bonjour," replied Sinclair, "Je suis soulagé d'être sur un bateau Français. Nous sommes oú maintenant?"

The boy looked rather stunned, but only for a moment. He held up his hand, motioning for Sinclair to wait, and moved over to a bed on his right.

NOW you run! Yet something inside Sinclair told him to wait.

The black-haired boy was shaking a sleeping figure in the bed, whispering what Sinclair assumed was along the lines of 'get up'.

"James! James! Wake up! I need your help!"

The other boy, James, grumbled something unintelligible, even in English, and sat up ungracefully.

"What?" he almost hissed, "It's not morning yet!"

The first boy had abandoned his grin, but didn't look solemn. Still looking at James, he pointed straight at Sinclair, making the already worried boy, well, even more worried.

"Ah!" James sprang out of bed, "Bonjour!"

Uh-oh. I think I am on a British ship! But what's with him?

"Je m'excuse! Bienvenue sur notre bateau, le, uh, Everlasting. Il n'a pas un nom en Français."

At this point, Sinclair was backing away towards the stairs.

"Je m'appelle James Norrington," the boy continued, "Comment t'appelle-tu?

"Hold on there, James! What are you saying? Are you talking dirty about me?"

James turned to his companion.

"Of course not! I just told him where he was, my name, and asked his!"

"Seemed like an awful lot of words, though."

James shrugged, and turned back to Sinclair.

"Bien, comment t'appelle-tu?"

Hmm...they don't seem to be among the most intelligent people I've ever met. But that one there speaks French.

Sinclair drew himself up, painfully. Nonetheless, he radiated more confidence than before.

"Je suis Sinclair Thibeault Gillette! Je ne pense pas que ton ami parle Français. Mais c'est un plaisir de vous rencontrer, James."

James was at a loss. This seemed suddenly like someone important. His train of thought was cut off by his friend's absurd hand gestures. He wanted a translation.

"He just told me his name, and that it was a pleasure to meet me. Oh, and he's pretty sure you don't speak French," James added with a smirk.

"Tu as correcte, mon ami ne parle pas le Français,"

"OK, now you're talking about me!"

"Shh! Bien, il s'appelle Théodore Groves, et il est néanmoins un bon ami. There! I told him you were still a good friend!"

A couple of boys were stirring at this outburst. James ignored them and continued on.

"Alors, est-ce que tu parles l'Anglais?" James figured he knew the answer already, but was running out of conversation.

"Eu...good day, sir," replied Sinclair warily, "C'est tous que je sais."

"Hey, James! Ask him if he speaks any English!" Theodore poked James in the ribs to get his attention.

"I just did," came the irritated response.

"And?"

"Didn't you hear? He said 'good day, sir'. He says that's all he knows."

Theodore chuckled. Sinclair couldn't help repress a smile. This light-hearted bickering reminded him of the Valeur. All four of the other boys on that ship had been close friends of his. The smile disappeared. James was hissing at Theodore, who was laughing now. Sinclair bowed his head.

"Hey, shut up!"

The hiss had come from a bed against the far wall. Justin was glaring at James and Theodore and hadn't yet noticed Sinclair.

"Sorry mate," said Theodore with a wave of his hand.

"Why are you up anyways?"

Theodore opened his mouth but James shook his head. Too late. Justin would have questioned the move if he hadn't already turned his head.

"Hey! It's him!" he cried, intentionally loud.

"Shh!" James was somewhat anxious, "Don't wake anybody else!"

Justin ignored him. Scampering around, he shook several other boys' shoulders, before Theodore grabbed his arm to prevent him from doing anything else.

"Leggo of me!" Justin tried to shake him off. Theo other boys were rousing themselves at the noise, laughing at the fight, before one of them noticed Sinclair as well.

"Hey, look, look!"

Silence. The room was now awake and in what seemed like awe. Like a spirit of legend had just been awoken. James buried his face in his hands, knowing what would come next. The English boys stared at Sinclair as though he was a cornered animal. Sinclair stared back as though he was a cornered animal.

"D'you speak English?" the largest, but not oldest, boy, Robert, was approaching Sinclair slowly. The young Frenchman, impressed by Robert's height, but also wary, could obviously not understand the question. Instead he looked quickly to James for a translation. James turned to Robert right away.

"No, he doesn't speak English. I already asked him. Now stop being stupid, you're intimidating him."

"Pff. You say it like he's an animal!" Robert continued to approach Sinclair, who backed away towards the stairs, but didn't look afraid. Still, just wary.

Robert paused.

"What's wrong with him?"

Justin added his two cents.

"He's a coward, just like all the Frenchmen."

"Hey, shut up!" Theodore had never liked Justin, for reasons such as this.

"Well, it's true."

"Is not! They had a reason!"

"Everyone be quiet! You'll wake the captain!"

"We'll be flogged!"

"This is your fault Justin!"

"I don't want no Frenchman sharing this cabin!"

Out of all the boys' cries, that last one stuck out to James.

"Wait, Robert! What are you doing?"

"If we get flogged it's his fault!" yelled back the larger boy as James grabbed his arm.

"No, it's our fault for yelling!" James knew he had nothing to do with it, but one had to be careful when playing the voice of reason. Theodore and Timothy meanwhile, were getting rather frantic.

"Look, we haven't been caught yet! If we go to sleep now, nothing will happen!"

But Robert had always been quick to anger.

"I still want him out!" He tugged his arm free from James, and took a menacing step towards Sinclair.

The latter was no idiot. The moment James' grip wavered, he had bolted up the stairs for the door.

Slipping once due to his injuries, he threw the door open and dashed along the deck.

"You idiot!" James had finally lost his temper, "He's got really bad injuries! How can you do that?!"

"Whatever. He's gone now. Just shut the door, would'ya?"

James gritted his teeth and ran after Sinclair, afraid that he had run into one of the Lieutenants, or even one of the marines on duty. He got lucky, in a way.

Sinclair was only about 20 paces away, on the ground, with one leg stretched out at a rather odd angle. James approached him slowly and knelt down, resting one hand on the other's back.

Holding his more injured hand to his chest, indicating it had been used (most likely out of habit) to break his fall, and resting his weight on the uninjured leg, Sinclair breathed heavily. James worried for a moment that he was not only injured, but also ill. It struck him also that he did not know how long Sinclair had been in the water before being found by the British marines.

"Est-ce que t'es correct?" James asked quietly, more relieved than he could express at that fact that nobody else had followed him up. And yet, it probably meant another scuffle when he brought his new friend back down. Perhaps he should wake one of Lieutenants...

Sinclair turned his head and smiled at James.

Less than a second later, he whipped his head around and stared upwards in shock. James turned just as fast.

No!

"What is the meaning of this? You boys think you can do whatever you like while others are trying to sleep after a long day's work? Explain yourselves!"

The two boys were looking at the face of First Lieutenant Orfell, with several others fast approaching from behind him.

TBC

Notes:

Gillette thinks in English because it's easier on me and the reader. So there.

Justin's reference to the French being cowardly is not based on the ridiculous modern stereotype, but rather on the Battle of Sluys (1340, if memory serves). It was a naval fight between the British and the French. Reportedly, the English fired so many arrows that the French were driven from their ships into the sea.

My beta (the glorious Meletor Et Al), has informed me that there were usually no beds on these ships. Rather there were hammocks, or some form of hammocks. Although, I did not change anything in this chapter, following chapters will refer to hammocks, rather than beds.

I think that's all. If you need any other clarification, e-mail me.