Gibbs didn't understand why they had to put up with a fancified rich man forever poking about their work. They were headed for the Caribbean, for pirates and heathens and hurricanes, and this journey seemed a mite tame for such a grand new ship of the fleet.
Even more than he objected to the governor's presence, he objected to the wee girl. Women onboard were bad luck, every sailor worth his salt knew that. What was more, this one was curious and clever and disinclined to do what she was told. With the wide-set eyes and the dark hair, without the silk dresses and petticoats, he could almost mistake her for his own Molly. But Molly was gone now, and Mary with her – any strength she might have had to fight the consumption left her the day they buried their child. The doctor had said she might have a chance if they could get her out of the cold and damp, but February in England left little chance of that.
As they sailed farther south and the sun gained in power, he imagined it leeching away the rot in Mary's lungs, the mold from Molly's grave. If they were here. Except, of course, if they were here, he would not be. He'd sooner have deserted than gone so far from his family.
He gazed at Miss Swann across the deck and took another surreptitious swig from his flask. There was no place farther than death, but Jamaica came damn near, and he could not wait to be rid of this fog.