Chapter 24: Trials and Confessions
Water. Sand. Blood.
Scrape. Clean. Mend.
Pummel. Beat. Salt.
Heal a broken Friend.
Water. Sand. Blood.
Sever. Cut. Heal.
Bruise. Bleed. Cry.
Please, this isn't real.
Water. Water. Water.
Rope. Rope. Rope.
Lies. Lies. Lies.
Will end this desperate hope.
Sick Bay was deluged with the wounded and the dead, the entire deck sinking under swelling pools of blood. My shoes were saturated with the thick, lukewarm fluid, and my uniform was smeared with splattered crimson handprints, drying slowly in the suffocating atmosphere. Lanterns hung everywhere, brightening the deck in an aggravating light and increasing the amount of sweat pouring from my creased brow.
More water, I thought, More water. More sand. More blood.
Grimacing, I yanked the retractor out of its targeted bloody flesh and unveiled a small, spherical mass trapped within its rusted metal jaws, dripping with blood as profusely as sweat trickled down my face.
"Rum. Bandage," I ordered tonelessly, my throat tight and aching from the constant yelling of orders from before.
A bottle was placed in my open hand, and I popped off the cork and dumped a good deal of the alcohol over my patient's bullet wound. He jerked violently as the liquid touched his mutilated skin, and his jaw stiffened considerably as his teeth dug deeper into the cloth wedged in his mouth to muffle his screams.
"You're his mates," I observed bluntly, glancing at the few sailors gathered around the operating table. "Take 'im to a hammock." I wrapped the disabled man's side with the bandage and wiped my face with the back of my hand, painting a wide streak of red across my forehead.
Leaning against the operating table and sucking in a breath through clenched teeth, I regained my bearings and ignored the persistent throb in my side before take a glimpse ahead of me.
"Anymore?" I breathed, stifling the release of a hiss with a bite of my tongue. Salt water invaded my tired eyes and succeeded in leaking out at the corners, despite my efforts to keep my tears contained.
No one came forward, but I heard footsteps behind me, approaching with caution but also at a steady, confident pace.
"No, Jack," he said, laying a hand on my quaking shoulder. "Cavanaugh's taken care of it."
"Thank God," I murmured softly, sniffling and attempting to relax myself.
"Are you all right, brother?" asked Roland, my rigidity passing to him as his hand refused to free my shoulder from his protective grasp.
"I'm fine," I answered, shoving his hand away. "Don't worry 'bout me, Roland."
I deserted him then, weaving my way through the countless rows of operating tables in which some recently treated sailors and officers lay, red and feverish from their wounds and from the uncomfortable heat. As I walked, the pain in my side increased and my left eye twitched at the pang, happening so impeccably just as I passed by Cavanaugh's crowded surgeon's pit.
I could feel his eyes dart towards me instantly.
"Jack," he beckoned, summoning me to him with a gesture of his bloodied hand.
"Aye, sir?" I responded, remaining in my spot and looking at him with squinted eyes. The blinding light of the seemingly overly abundant lanterns was becoming a greater and greater menace to my sensitive vision.
"You seem to be walking with a limp. Are you sure you have checked yourself for wounds? If I recall, Lieutenant Johnson informed me, as he brought you to sick bay, that you suffered quite a few burns on your calves." Natural instinct moved me to grin at the truth of Cavanaugh's observations.
"I did indeed, sir. But they are minor burns. Easily treatable with some oil, liniment and a bandage. I can manage. Honestly. My eye twitched solely from the candlelight and I appear to be limping because the wetness in my shoes has become overwhelmingly disturbing." The doctor's initial response was a mere raise of an eyebrow and a mistrusting look in his brown eyes, but after some thought, he turned around and called the next wounded sailor to him.
"Carry on then, Barlow," he said, some five minutes later and well after I had begun to teeter on the balls of my feet as I waited for him to speak. Raising my knuckle to my brow, I saluted him before hurrying away from sick bay, away from the men, away from any ship activity and to the head. There, I locked myself in the foul chamber and quickly doffed my jacket and shirt and examined my ribs and torso.
I winced as my hand grazed against a deep gash cut into my right side. It stretched to the far side of my back, narrowly missing slicing the flesh above my spine by a hair or two, and I heaved a sigh that begged to become a sob at the discovery. Such a gash would need to be stitched carefully, and I alone would be unable to perform a sufficient job on myself. But I could not afford to get exposed as a woman now. Everything was going my way. I was a midshipman. I had power, esteem, respect. I didn't want the appreciation to be drained from me just because of a stupid injury.
My mind was made up and reinforced with firm resolution as I pulled my shirt back over my head and made myself proper to return to Man's world. I would treat my wounds as best as I could and rely on God to save me or condemn me should my wounds fail to heal. But I hoped to God that my plan would work. Most of my plans had worked out just fine, and I didn't want my luck to run out now, if I even had any luck to begin with.
After all, I still hadn't found Jack, and all I had found were clues that did not tie together at all.
With my self-inspection over, I returned to sick bay in the orlop deck, wary of where I stepped, for each square inch of the floor would be used to house the injured victims. I did my best to walk properly, to present myself as if I were not harmed in any serious way from the battle, but never had I felt such pain before. The only thing that would ease it temporarily would be some liniment, and I'd have to face Cavanaugh in order to get it.
Perhaps my objective to abscond from any meeting with the dear ship's surgeon only drew Cavanaugh to pay more attention to me. He might have not been open about it, but he succeeded plenty well in keeping me under his eye.
"Barlow," he addressed, as soon as I passed by him again. "Help the men sew up the dead in their hammocks. Prepare them on the starboard side, near the hatchway to the gun deck above."
"Aye, sir," I answered, changing course and shuffling to the growing pile of dead men, and my eyelid flinched again at the sight of them.
I called over a few sailors who were just ambling about and ordered them to find the hammocks of the dead sailors. Most of us knew the faces of the deceased, and so we easily retrieved the hammocks to their corresponding owners. Working in pairs, we lifted each heavy, listless body onto a hammock and commenced to sew them up inside from head to toe. Silence appeared to be the only companion we had as we worked, for there was nothing to say that would keep our faces rigidly indifferent.
As we came to sewing up one of the last men, I noticed a group of figures sitting apart from us as we worked, and I turned and faced them, shocked to see the worn, bleary-eyed visages of my dear ship's boys.
"John?" I asked, dropping my needle and thread and approaching him. He turned away from me and wrapped his arms around his knees, and my eyes followed his stare, and there in the middle of their group lay Charley, looking blankly at me with dulled grey eyes.
The boy's death overwhelmed me and I crumbled to my knees, pressing my clenched fists to my eyes to keep myself from crying, and my teeth piercing my tongue to stay any wail waiting to be released. Oh God, Charley… Oh, God…
My mind was swarmed with questions. Why did he die? I rescued him. He was supposed to live. He was saved. He was saved. By God, he was saved, dammit! Innocent boys don't deserve to die. He never even got the chance to wash away the soot from his face. Not one chance for him. Not one.
The sting in my wounds augmented, and I rose with a scowl, my aggravation overrunning my despair, and I walked to Cavanaugh, with anger begging to burst into tears.
"Why?" I screamed, nearing him and stopping at the operating table, not even paying heed to the wounded man on it.
"Jack, I am in the middle of business, and you could very well give this man infection if you do not leave this area promptly."
"Why, Cavanaugh?" I repeated, never lifting my glare off of him, and he faced my savagery with complacence beyond any I had ever had and could ever conquer.
"I know the boy was dear to you ship's boys, Barlow. I did what I could. Do not ask me why again with a raised voice."
"But he was a child, Cavanaugh!" I wailed. "How could you have not saved him? That's your job! That's your duty!"
"Jack!" he bellowed, his dark eyes chilling from lack of understanding. "Do not tell me what is my duty. I know what it is, boy, and if I could have done more to save the lad, I would have!"
"No, you wouldn't!" I sobbed, raising my arm to swat him, but a hand caught me from behind and pulled me back.
"What the hell are you doing, Jack?" it demanded, and I only continued to push forward.
"You didn't save him! You didn't want to save him! He wasn't worth your time, now was he?"
"Jack, shut up!" ordered Roland, as he struggled to keep me restrained. "You shut up now, or I swear Thorne will have you switched!"
"No! No! I won't. I won't! Charley's dead, Roland! He's dead! He's dead!" He managed to spin me around and shake me good in order to drive sense back into my delusional head and he was only confronted with my sobs, and dear brother though he was, he refused to comfort me.
"Come, Jack," he said softly, ushering me out of sick bay. "I think you need to rest, brother."
The beat of a heart was all I could perceive in my drained agony. It pulsed slowly… thump, thump… and the sound pounded in my skull, echoing from ear to ear. I almost thought that I could feel my fresh, hot blood flowing through my veins, imagining that I was hearing the rush of blood swishing to my head, but swamped over by the throbbing of my heart.
I exhaled, stretching out my release of breath as I reacquainted myself with my surroundings. My fingertips distinguished the coarse fabric of my hammock, and I remembered where I was immediately and opened my eyes.
"Roland?" I croaked, lifting my head a bit. The midshipmen's berth was dimly lit, a lone lantern hanging from the ceiling, its light faded and warm, but not strong enough to expose the dark corners of the berth.
From within the shadows I saw a figure move and murmur a few words. "Yes, A—" He coughed and attempted to speak again. "Yes, Jack?"
"How long have I been out?" I sat up and realized that Roland had taken off my blood-soused shoes and so I scanned the floor for them as I waited for his reply.
"A few hours. Sick bay has quieted. There are few operations going on, if there are any at all, and many of the dead have been sewed up. A church service will be held tomorrow in their memory."
I found my shoes and slipped them on, finding them still wet. But I nodded in accordance to Roland's words and stood up. "Any news as to where we're headed?"
"To Cyprus," he answered, rising up from his chair. "Although we're closer to Egypt, we wouldn't be able to dock there. Too many enemies."
I asked him how long it would take us to get there, for I began to wonder how long I'd be able to keep my wounds hidden from Cavanaugh. If we reached land and he didn't know, I'd probably be able to tend to my wounds better, but if not, I'd be doomed.
"A week maybe. Maybe less if the wind loves us. Maybe longer if the ocean hates us."
"Why do I have a feeling it will be the latter?" I moaned miserably, stepping out of the berth.
"Because you are a depressed fool, that's why," joked Roland as he gently nudged me forward. His remark only had me smiling for less than a second before I became flooded with the sorrows of war.
"Have ye seen Andy?" I asked, as we walked back to sick bay. He ran a hand through his sweaty hair and looked up at the ceiling as he thought.
"Yes, I have. He's doin' fine if yer wonderin'. Just has a few cuts and bruises."
"Then how's Dobbin?"
At that, dear brother's eyes undertook that dead grayish hue again, and his steps quickened away from me, though not too swiftly as to leave me behind.
"His leg was amputated," said Roland at last. "But he ain't doin' well, Jack. He has a high fever and can't even talk. His condition is critical."
"Let's visit him then," I suggested, and so we did.
Roland's description proved real enough, and Cavanaugh forbade us to be within ten feet of the critically ill. I spotted Bennett's face among those in that area of sick bay, and my stomach churned and my heart ached. Would I lose both a dear friend and a dear love simultaneously?
Only time would tell.
A few days passed as we made our way to Cyprus. The church service was difficult to endure without crying with womanly, high-pitched wails, but Roland's consistent pat on my shoulder reminded me to grasp my mettle and to hold it as long as possible, for failure to confront my deepest fears and apprehensions would not move me forward, and I had already strayed away from my true mission long enough.
I even considered confessing to Cavanaugh and to have him report my presence to the captain. In that way, I hoped that I would not be punished too severely, but my mouth persisted to be shut, for the possibility of a hanging was too deadly to risk with a simple admission.
The wounds gouged onto my body were treated with the best of my skill, without not one soul knowing. I did not even tell Roland, for I understood immediately that he would demand a meeting with Cavanaugh, and I could not bear such a conference without collapsing into a howling human waterfall. Nature though, appeared to have the upper hand, for every day that passed, the injuries only seemed to get worse.
When the fifth day after the battle came, the pain was unbearable, and the weather had become so insufferably humid that I could scarcely breathe, let alone work properly. While on watch, my knees ached and my legs felt limper than dead fish. I was eternally grateful when Lieutenant Johnson suggested I go below, and his eyes were dimmed with some apparent concern.
My limbs carried me down to the mess hall with wobbly, uneven steps, and I was obliged to reach out with my arms in order to steady myself as I walked down there. Andre found me hobbling down and lessened my troubles with yet another alarmed countenance as he gently pulled me towards where Roland sat with a few of the other mids.
Once I arrived, Roland shot up from his seat like a bullet from a pistol and helped me onto a bench, and I nearly fell down like a lump of bones. I didn't understand my weakness. I had treated my wounds as Cavanaugh would have done. I cleansed them with water, then rum and then applied the liniment. Afterwards, I wrapped the gashes with clean bandages. I had done everything correctly, and yet I felt immensely close to dying.
"Are you all right, Jack?" I heard Roland say, his voice sounding as if it was being pushed through a barrier in which I could not hear. It was as if he voice was mingled with the blood rushing to my head. It was muffled with a constant thump.
I nodded and murmured what I thought was a yes. I honestly did not know what I was saying. My eyes burned and I could taste the sweat collecting at the corners of my mouth—salty and bitter.
"Ya need a drink, mate?" offered Andre. I attempted to pry open my eyes wider and to look at him as I searched for my response. But when I opened my eyes, my vision was blurred.
"Yes," I answered, heaving out a large sigh and sending my head back as the pain surged to a peak.
"Jack," started Roland, a tone of worry in his voice. "Brother, you're crying."
"I'm not," I mumbled, my fists clenching as invisible hammers bombarded my skull.
"Jack, listen to me!"
I ignored him and gathered my strength as I stood up and proceeded to scoot out of the booth and to my hammock.
"I'm fine, Roland. I'm fine." I repeated the words over and over again, either to myself or to him. I wasn't sure who was the one listening, and I didn't get far as soon as I stepped out of the booth in the mess hall.
I tripped over my own two feet and plummeted to the wooden deck, my body exhausted from the heat, my blood rushing madly to my head and my mind as black as Davy Jones' soul.
The nightmare arrives in vapors made of blood
The torment begins after crawling in the mud
The assault intrudes the sleeping over night
The gallows await the dreamer at first light…
For a confession has brought you
To where you wish to be
And a confession will rob you
Of your precious Ocean-Sea
Her bitterness feeds off of your success
Her anguish elevates when you don't digress
Her laughter peaks when you ache inside
Her power speaks when she wills you to die…
For a dream has brought you
To where you wish to be
And that dream has robbed you
Of your precious Ocean-Sea
Battle haunted me. The recurring images of the bones, the blood and the bile flooded my mind, and the torrent would not cease. Gunshots and screams pummeled me from all sides and I was helpless to the attacks and left shrieking in the dark.
My wounds would not heal. Every open gash bled unremittingly, leaving me pale as the moon and still crying over the combat. The ocean was angry with me and she unleashed her ire on everyone around me, and then left the blood on my hands—to frame me. And the ocean I once loved, loved me no more, and I did not understand why.
Gradually, a light dusted my eyes and the presence of voices trickled into my ears, and unlike before, I could hear more clearly. The voices were all male—speaking—but I did not know exactly what they were talking about. The words were still murmured, and so with my hearing at a fault, I willed my eyes to open.
There, beside me stood Doctor Cavanaugh and Roland, and my brother's face was awfully worried over some certain ordeal that I was unaware of, and Cavanaugh was trying his best to calm him. But for what?
"You must tell him that you are busy with him right now," pleaded Roland, and I squinted my eyes as the bewilderment rose higher.
"If he demands to come in, I must oblige, Mister Turner," replied Cavanaugh, though with great sorrow in his voice. "If he wants to see her, I have to allow it."
"I can't allow her to be exposed like that, Doctor. I can't! I won't!"
"She risked it the day she stepped on board, Turner," countered Cavanaugh, and he expelled a heavy sigh that seemed to exhaust him in one departure, for he sat himself in a chair beside my cot and leaned his forehead against his palm.
Roland stood nearby, fists clenched and his face bitter with worry.
"Make way for the captain!" shouted a man from afar, and as soon as I heard 'captain,' my eyes bolted open and a fear was awakened in me, a chaotic web of realizations surging to my head as I finally comprehended the argument.
I sprang up from the mattress and at once cried out, for a sharp pain pierced my side again. Cavanaugh and Roland rushed towards me and it was only when I felt Cavanaugh's hands on my stinging abdomen did I see that my shirt was off of me, and I was dressed in a rather large night gown.
Oh. Dear. God.
I shoved his hands away and looked frantically at myself. The cloth around my chest was gone, and was replaced with a bundle of bandages, and the fear banged against my head, pushing me into a state of denial and tears.
"Roland," I whimpered. "Roland." Brother, brother, please… He came to me and immediately, I clung to him, burying my face into his shoulder as I wept.
"Shh, Astrid. I'm sorry," he whispered soothingly, but his wavering voice moved me to think otherwise. Brother was just as scared as I was.
"I don't want them to know, Roland," I sobbed. "No, no, no!"
"I had no choice, Astrid. I had to bring you to Cavanaugh, or I thought you'd die," answered Roland, his own cheek getting wet. I pulled away and brought my knees up to my chin and hugged myself, crying like no tomorrow, for indeed, it very well could have been my last day.
"Astrid…"
I made no answer. The secret was out. I had been exposed and now the torrent would never cease to crash against me and drown me in my guilt. The pedestal had been dropped and the noose had cracked my neck.
"Miss Sparrow," began Cavanaugh, coming forward, but he was interrupted. The flap of the tent entrance was lifted and in walked Captain Carlisle, followed by his three lieutenants and the warrant officers.
I did not look at them. I did not breathe. I did not cry. For as far as I saw it, I was already as good as dead.
"What is this, Doctor?" demanded Carlisle, his voice rising grimly.
"Sir, I ask of you to please remain calm. I understa—"
"He asked you to explain," barked Thorne, and I listened as his footsteps hurried forward, and I deemed that his whole body was bristling with anger. Dear God, dear God, dear God…
Cavanaugh would not speak, and the water flowed endlessly from my eyes, running hot down my cheeks and into my hands. Roland must have felt the same unease that was rousing in my stomach, and he kept close to me, laying a hand on my shoulder as I convulsed from my muffled sobs.
"Damn you," muttered Thorne to Cavanaugh and the footsteps grew nearer, and I thought my poor heart was beating so fast that it'd explode.
"Move, Turner," he ordered, but dear brother simply stayed in his place, nailed to the ground in a strong determination to see me unharmed.
"I won't let you touch her," he defended.
"Shall I have you flogged then, Turner?" threatened Thorne, and I knew he would have continued with his threats and perhaps a physical attack if Captain Carlisle hadn't interrupted.
"Whoever you are, whether you be a ship's boy or woman, I demand to know what you are doing here, on my ship, in this navy." This navy, I thought, as if I don't belong to it despite what I've done.
His answer was my silence. I would not speak under such a daunting environment, with nearly every man in the room wanting to kill me or do worse, and I would not move one muscle until I knew it was safe to reveal my secrets, and the captain must have miraculously sensed this.
"Thorne," he dictated, his voice harsh and loud. "You're on the ship watch."
And with a few seething glares and ungrateful huffs, the white-wigged man left, leaving me with men who I trusted far more.
"Now speak, girl," said Carlisle.
I slowly lifted my head, weary of the crying, weary of battle, and weary of everything. Roland handed me a handkerchief to wipe my tears and with a dry, quivering face, I faced my interrogators and gulped.
"My name is Astrid Jacqueline Turner Sparrow," I began. "And I'm here because I love my father, and I have come to look for him…"
The questioning was complete, and the men had finally left me in peace. Carlisle called Roland to him, and although insubordinate he had been to Thorne, he could not afford a refusal to the captain, and so he left, but not without a few hopeful words towards my fate.
With him gone, I lay on my side and looked up at Cavanaugh, who was occupied preparing something in a bowl for me.
"I'm a dead man, aren't I?" I asked dully, knowing that the answer was a certain 'yes.'
"No, I wouldn't say that," replied the doctor, glimpsing back at me. "You'd be a dead woman, but a man? I think not." I smirked weakly at that and breathed in, feeling the bandages around my upper body stretching because they were bound so tightly.
"Drink this, my God, Miss, you would have died of infection if your brother had not brought you to me in time." He gave me the bowl he had and I took a sip of the liquid in it. It tasted like… lemon juice mixed with sugar-water.
"Why? I sewed up my wounds correctly and applied the liniment."
"You were deprived of citrus," scorned Cavanaugh, taking a seat beside the cot I rested on. "I'm guessing you must have had sore limbs and a sore mouth, correct?"
"No," I denied, and Cavanaugh took the bowl away from me and motioned for me to open my mouth. He then stuck a finger in and pushed hard on my gums.
"Ow!" I yelped, and he pulled his finger away and on its tip was a wet splotch of blood.
"Ever heard of those sea stories about men getting sick because they wouldn't eat their fruits?" He raised an eyebrow at me, and I felt terribly sheepish. Maybe I should have eaten that fruit when last we were on land. No wonder I felt so exhausted. "You'll need to be in bed for at least a week, and you'll have to drink this mixture I've made for you constantly. Every few hours at least, to get your body replenished."
"So I am guaranteed at least another week to live?" I questioned solemnly, and Cavanaugh sighed at my pessimism.
"If you must see it that way, Miss, then you do. Though, I must tell you this: a perspective such as that will not get you far, even if you feel as if a noose is already tightening around your neck." I frowned and rolled over to the other side, so that my back faced the doctor and I could stare at the other side of the tent I was in.
"Stubborn as a boy and still stubborn as a girl," I heard Cavanaugh sigh, and his generalization moved me to turn back over and glare at him. I felt much more comfortable expressing my faces towards him now that he knew who I really was.
"How…" I paused and bit my lip, tasting the lemon juice still there. "How did you find out? Did Roland tell you?"
The doctor eased back into his chair, pushing his spectacles back up his nose before looking back at me and sighing again. Sweat was collecting in small droplets across his wrinkled forehead and his brown eyes showed off a fatherly glint to them. I knew as I looked at him that I owed much to him. He taught me well, watched over me, healed me. Why, he was just as good a fatherly-figure as I had ever had in my life.
"Well, where to begin?" he started, scratching his head. "Your brother and a few of his mates barged into my office, with you lying like a doll in his arms. Your face was red, your hair matted and sticky with perspiration, and at once I knew something was wrong. I directed your brother and your friends to the operating area, but Mister Turner would not let me take you out of his arms and onto the table. The lad told me that he wanted to say something before I began and that the information was confidential. As a doctor, I am obliged to take that request. And within the safety of my office, with no one but your brother and myself, he told me your true identity."
My lips remained closed, and I just released a soft snort at the story. Roland did what he had to do in order to keep me alive, but I still wished that he didn't have to fret so much. But then I reevaluated the story and figured that without such an interruption, I probably would have died. I was the luckiest sister in the world to have such a good brother. I got him out of the water when he almost drowned, and well… he got me out of a boiling fever and mortal wounds.
"And then once you found out, you ordered all other men out of the area and did your operation," I replied, anticipating his word of agreement. Cavanaugh nodded and brought his hands together as he leaned forward. He pressed his lips together and looked away again.
"You must understand, Miss Sparrow, that I wasn't terribly disturbed by the news your brother told me." His comment sparked my attention, and I sat up and narrowed my eyes on him.
"Really? How?"
"I have a daughter, Astrid. She's five. And I also have a wife, and as a doctor, I tend to take note of trends among the sexes." I chuckled lightly and rested my chin in the palm of my hand as I listened to the rest of his story. "The way you work," he continued, "reminded me of how my wife conducts her own household activities: focused, stern, quick. It took a while to get you to focus, but once it became routine, your eyes rarely left your duty. And then there was the matter of hands…" He reached forward and took my free hand and turned it over so that it was palm up. I noticed some of the scars still nicked onto the fingertips from the days of peeling damn potatoes for Mister Cooke.
"What about me hands?" I wondered.
"They're small, thin, and miraculously not as calloused as a sailor's. Shall we compare hands?" He brought his own hand out and placed it beside mine. His was larger, tanner, and rougher, and my fingers seemed as if they belonged to a little girl's rather than a fifteen-year-old ship boy's.
"I suppose you make a point, Doctor," I said, not quite sure of myself.
"Don't be uncertain, Miss. It was no wonder that your patients screamed far less than mine. Your hands were less… grazing."
The mentioning of "patients" caused me to think of my sailors, and that in turned reminded me of a possible trial. I moaned at the likelihood and rubbed my eyes vigorously.
"Any patient I saved will probably want to condemn me to the gallows as soon as he finds out I'm a woman," I growled, kicking at the blankets that covered my feet on the cot.
"Not necessarily. There are plenty of men out there who will gladly support you. It might help though, if you tell them why you are here. Many will assume you snuck on board to…" His voice trailed off and I quirked an eyebrow at him, waiting for what he had to say.
"To what?"
"To fool around with the boys. That's the simplest way I can put it," he mumbled hurriedly, obviously not wanting to anger me with the likely thoughts of my fellow brothers on board.
"But I'd never—"
"Exactly. Anyway, I should be tending to my other patients. You have a tent all to yourself on the beach so don't be too worried."
"The beach?" I echoed. "But I thought we…" I stopped myself and looked around. I leaned over the edge of my cot and looked at the floor and saw that I was not looking at a bunch of creaky wooden ship planks. I was looking at a square of natural, rocky earth. "We're in Cyprus?" I asked, and the doctor bobbed his head a few times in response. "When did we arrive?"
"Yesterday, Miss. But I really ought to go. There are still many critically wounded." He got up from his seat and exited the tent, leaving the entrance flap waving weakly in the flowing air. Critically wounded... I repeated in my head, and I thought back to my dear Bennett and Dobbin.
I reached over to grab the bowl of lemon juice sitting on a small stand beside me and brought it back to my lips. The action suddenly felt primeval. I did not drink because I was thirsty, nor did I drink because I actually thought it would heal me (although Cavanaugh said it would and he was, more or less, correct all the time), but I drank because I was drawn to drinking, as if my mind had taken on a stance in which I could not understand what I was doing. It was manual.
With that thought, I brought the drink away from my lips and decided that my slow brain was probably due to my lack of citrus. Perhaps no fruit in your diet for months also affected your mind. Slurping up the rest of the juice, I set the bowl aside and wiped my mouth with the sleeve of my large nightgown and then pursed my lips. There was no doubt that I was a dead man—woman, but I promised myself and Mum and Dad that I would not die until I found my Captain Jack Sparrow. But to defy the whole navy would be a tricky task. Would they sympathize with me? Of course not; they're men. They'd rather see you dangling like a boned fish than fraternizing more with the officers and sailors.
"How am I going to get out of this mess?" I asked myself, beginning to pull at my hair. "How am I—"
My sentence was shortened as someone walked into the tent, and my heart nearly stopped when I saw his face. I gulped and felt fear escalating up my spine, and I desperately wished that Cavanaugh had not left me.
"Hello, Astrid," he said, expelling a sinister chuckle. He ran a hand through his sleek black hair as he grinned at me and my stomach churned with uneasiness. If I hadn't had such an empty stomach, I would have vomited.
"Get out, bastard!" I shouted, but he kept moving forward, calmly, with his hideous smirk still glued to his lips. I scooted further back on my cot so that I almost ran into the flimsy tent wall. However, I stopped myself from toppling over.
"I knew there was something funny about you, Jack," he mocked. "I began to wonder why I kept thinking about you, even though you were a boy. For a while I thought I was a damn sodomite." He laughed and walked right up to my cot, and I could not get away. I wouldn't get far if I got out and ran because my abdomen still ached like no tomorrow. His hand reached out and smoothed out a corner of the blanket that covered my feet, but being who he was, I knew he wouldn't have done that out of the goodness of his heart and I was right. He rounded about the corner of my cot, his hand still lying flat on the sheets and then gliding smoothly, closer to my foot.
With a squeal, I kicked his hand away and he stepped back, amused and raising both his hands up in the air in a feigned surrender.
"Funny little Astrid," he cooed, returning to me. I had become so frantic that I scurried further away from him and forgot about the fact that the cot ended at some point or another and I fell off, landing hard on my bum and causing Victor Griffith to continue to chortle.
"Leave me alone. I'll call for Roland. I will!" I threatened.
"Whatever happened to your strong-willed self, hmm?" he asked, coming closer to me and bending down to pick me up. I didn't want him to touch me, but he was too quick and before I knew it, he had lifted me up and set me back on my cot, his flickering eyes never leaving mine. My throat tightened.
"You were so ready for a fight, Astrid. Now why do you suddenly cower from me in fear?"
Because I know why you're here, you sick bastard.
"I'm not a fool anymore, Griffith. If you touch me again, I'll yell for Cavanaugh and Roland and Andy. They'll beat your ass right back to—"
"Oh, I see. Being on a ship has gotten you your manly guards, Astrid? And I always thought you could take care of yourself. And no, I did not come here to toy with you if that's what you were thinking…" He lowered his head close to mine, so close that I could feel his breath on my nose. With a whisper, he said, "I'm here to tell you news about Bennett…"
"What's happened to him?" I screamed, but Griffith seized my mouth with his hand and shut up any more of my screams. I tried to jerk my face free, but he looked at me fiercely.
"We need to keep our voices low, Astrid," he whispered before releasing my throbbing lips.
"What's happened to him?" I asked again, my voice small and weak.
Griffith grinned and rested the side of his face against mine so that he could speak directly into my ear. My heart was pounding madly and my mind was wandering like a fool in a dark whirlpool of apprehensions.
"How about you do me a small favor before I tell you?"
"I won't do anything for you, you damn—"
"Let me finish," he interrupted. "I just want a kiss. That's all, Astrid. I still remember when you kissed me at your fifteenth birthday celebration. I still remember the taste of your lips…" My eyes widened as my gut twisted with an enormous weight of fear.
"Just that?" I questioned warily and he said yes. "And you'll tell me what's happened to Bennett?"
"Everything, my dear. Everything." I closed my eyes and swallowed another lump in my throat before nodding subtly to his terms. He lifted his head and looked down at me, his thumb rubbing my chin and then moving up to my lips.
Oh Dear God, help me…
I didn't understand why my eyes had suddenly watered, and I scolded myself for being such a whore, but I was doing this for Bennett. What if he was dying and I wouldn't know until the day he died because I said no to Griffith? Could this possibly be a good thing?
He parted my mouth before kissing me, his lips unexpectedly hot, and I braced myself should he do anything else, but he remained true to his word, shockingly, and when the filthy embrace was complete, he smiled and said, "Bennett's… just fine," before he stood upright, winked at me and exited the tent with a new and sickeningly excited air about his steps.
As soon as he left, I wiped my mouth repeatedly with the sleeve of my gown, rubbing harder with every stroke. But even if I had mopped his saliva off of my lips, some of it would still remain inside my mouth, and there would be no way of getting rid of. For there was no way to distinguish between his spit from mine.
The sun and moon exchanged positions seven times before Cavanaugh found my health restored, and thus able to amble about the encampment. If there was any walking I would do, it would be to sick bay, or wherever Bennett and Dobbin were. It was best if I kept a low profile since I wasn't sure if the news had leaked out all over the crew that Midshipman Jack Barlow was indeed a Midshipwench Astrid Sparrow. But the doctor was no fool to let me wander around by myself in the horrid nightgown that I was stuck in for a week. He made sure that I got my clothes back, and I decided to wear my mid uniform, perhaps settling on that piece of attire with the faintest hope that the men would still respect me.
But I knew I wasn't that fortunate.
Cavanaugh forbade me to wear that constricting little vest across my chest again, saying that it was probably one of the reasons I passed out. It restricted my breathing. And, knowing Cavanaugh, I knew he would decline my wish to see Bennett and Dobbin if I did not agree, so I did. I did feel a puncture in my pride by having to take orders and be a good, obedient dainty girl again, but I was doing this for Bennett and Dobbin, and one could only hope that they'd be alive to pay me back, only in jest though.
Roland escorted me to where my dear friends were, and he still called me 'Jack.' Was there any point in saying that name anymore? For as far as I could see, many a man sent me odd looks when we passed by them.They know, Roland, you idiot. They know. They know. They know…
I jabbed him in the side with my elbow when he called me 'Jack' for the umpteenth time, and quick as he was, he got it and rolled his eyes at me.
"Some don't know, Jack," he said softly. "However, most do. The captain is debating whether or not to have a trial. He is still investigating your story, but you must be warned, dear sister, that Thorne is incredibly determined to give you the noose, and he is, sadly, second in command. God be with you if a trial takes place."
"Thank you for telling me I'm going to die," I murmured angrily and he shot a look at me.
"I didn't confirm anything, Astrid. Just… keep your mind off it. C'mon. Andy's wavin' to ye."
I lifted my head and stared ahead and there was my dear ship's boy companion beckoning us over. I took it that Roland told him that we were coming for Bennett and Dobbin.
I managed a smile and waved back, hurrying my steps.
"Ahoy, Andy," I greeted, using my true voice, and he came forward grinning.
"Hullo, there, Jack," he said. "Ye know, I should 'ave known it was you all this time. When Roland tol' me it was you, well, I was shocked beyon' belief, but then I thought 'bout it an' I tied yer face to the lass Lieutenant Locke was with and whaddya know? It fit."
Andy always managed to make me laugh. He thought so simply, and he didn't care if he wasn't as smart as Roland or Bennett or Dobbin. I believed he liked his simple way of life and thinking.
"I thought ye'd hate me when you'd find out," I replied. "'Cause well, I didn't tell ye anythin' 'bout it."
"No, it's awright. Hey, if ye think about it, I slept with ye for nearly half a year!"
"Newton," warned Roland, punching Andre lightly on the arm, while I stood there bemused and smirking at the joke.
"It's jus' a bit o' fun, Roland. C'mon, there's a few people who want to see ya, Miss Sparrow." He mimicked a prim gentleman and stepped out of my way, his arm extended and directing me to where I should be heading. I went and Roland followed, but not after he sent another playful punch to my crazy seaman.
Andre led us to a large tent, and I was wary to enter it, fearing the worst. "Bennett's all right, isn't he?" I asked, though I wondered why I did. Griffith had told me he'd be fine, and if he wanted a kiss from me, he shouldhave told the truth, the bastard.
"See for yerself," said Andre, and he opened the tent flap at the entrance and held it up for me as I walked through.
The tent inside was not as dark as I thought it would be. It was actually well lit, and it wasn't full of ailing patients. The majority of them were sitting up in bed and chatting with one another. My eyes searched slowly for the faces of my comrades in case either of them didn't see me standing there motionless beside Andre and Roland.
From the midst of the prattling and chatter, I heard a voice shout, "Jack!" and my heart almost stopped at the sound.
"Bennett?" I shrilled, sprinting forward.
I saw him leap out of his cot and rush towards me, and as soon as he was within arm's reach, I latched myself to him in a tight embrace.
And my first reaction was a deafening, "Ow!"
"Sorry," I mumbled, loosening my grip on him. His face was grimacing from the pain of my loving, but constricting, hug, but the joy he felt was still highly blatant in his shining blue eyes.
"It's all right," he said, looking down at his side; it was the side he was shot at and I patted the tender spot gently. "Now it feels better," he teased and I giggled behind my closed, curving lips.
"Bennett," I started softly, craning my head back so that I could look at him. "Do all these men know about me?"
I could feel him take in a breath as his eyes wandered for an answer. "Y-Yes… they do. You have your friend to thank for that." He nodded at someone behind us and I turned my head around and saw Andre waving back at us, giving us a cheeky smile.
"Newton…" I scowled, and he just shrugged his shoulders at me with a look on his face that seemed to say, 'You'll thank me later.'
Right my arse, I'll thank you, you dastardly dog.
Reading my glare, Bennett slid his hand under my jaw and made me face him, leaning down and kissing me delicately, causing a great deal of whoops and hoots from the men in the tent. Oh, Bennett, must you embarrass me in this way?
"What a show, Jack-a-roe!" yelled someone, and Roland figured out who had spoken before I did.
"Dob!" cried my brother and into the tent hobbled in Dobbin, waving his top hat around like a flag as he signaled his great entrance. Despite leaning on some crutches with a missing left leg from the knee down, he still was truly himself. My dear, insane Robert Lester.
Tagging Bennett along, I skipped over to Dobbin and met him with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. "Nice to see ye all right, Dobby," I said, my womanish heart forcing water to my eyes, but I bit my lip so that I would not end up crying in front of all these men. True, they knew I was a girl, but I still largely desired for them to take me seriously as an equal.
"You too, Astrid," answered Dobbin, giving me a few pats on the back. "Don't worry. Every man in this tent has got yer back, mate." And it was that remark that sent the tears falling, for it made me all the more certain that my life was, and would remain, in jeopardy.
The first time I had ever given myself the opportunity to actually look at Cyprus was, unfortunately, when I was being led back to the ship. It was shortly after I had spent some time with Dobbin, Bennett, Roland and Andre in that tent in sick bay. My laughs were slaughtered and my joy stolen as all three lieutenants marched into the tent, silent, grim, and with coldness in their eyes. Thorne had in his hands a pair of irons.
Immediately, my mates stood up in front of me, creating a human barrier between our superiors and my inferior woman self. But as quick as a whip, one bark from Thorne forced my mates to stand aside, for this was the navy, God dammit, and any quandary was to be fixed by all means possible.
Roland led me to them, his grip on my arm tight, but yielding as well. It was easy to observe the indecision in his eyes, for although grey they looked, the sunlight seeping through the tent entrance returned the hopeful hazel hue. And his face was the last thing I saw before Kempe's hands held my shoulders and pushed me out of the tent.
In the open air, I was told to extend my arms, wrists side by side, and so I did, frantically worrying about what they would do to me. Was I going to get hanged? Beaten? Dismissed?
The irons clasped together in a heavy 'clank' and its chains dangled lifelessly, giving off a whispering chime. "Astrid Sparrow, otherwise known as Jack Barlow," said Thorne, glowering at me. "You are hereby confined to the brig of His Majesty's ship, the Resolve, until the verdict of your trial."
A long breathed leaked out of me as I heard the words… verdict of your trial. They were going to view my disturbance of the ship as a crime.
I bit my tongue as my lips quivered and saltwater surged to my blurring eyes. And Lieutenant Johnson gently prodded me forward, but I could not. I could not. My feet skidded across the rocky earth and the irons locked around my wrists suddenly felt immensely heavy. All I could see ahead of me was a blue sea and sky vanishing into the air and Thorne's figure leading the way back to the ship.
"Hold fast, Miss," I heard someone say. Was it Kempe? I wasn't quite sure. Sound had been deadened in my aching ears. "It's not over yet."
Something white appeared before my weeping face and after blinking a few times, I realized it was a handkerchief, and it was being offered to me by Johnson. "Thank you," I croaked, wiping my eyes.
"Keep your eyes clear," he said, pointing to several areas around me. "Focus on the land. It'll keep your mind off of things."
So I accepted his advice and examined the terrain of Cyprus. And I noticed the white, rocky beaches, bright green shrubs dotting the rocky earth, and a limpidness in the sea. Further inland stood a few trees, small and crooked—"Lemon trees," said Kempe—and I veered my vision up towards the sky and saw the thin traces of cloud, mixed with the atmosphere.
A bird flew overhead, small and with a mighty song.
"Would you look at that, Miss." Johnson's voice was suddenly full of calm surprise. "Kempe, look at that."
"Why, isn't that something, sir," laughed Kempe. He tapped my shoulder and I looked back up at the bird, confused over the excitement. "Have you ever seen such a sparrow, Miss?"
I paused and followed the flight of the bird with my eyes, and after some thought to myself and after making some silly wishes about Jack, I turned back to my bird-watching lieutenants and said:
"No, I haven't."
The nightmares began on the first night of my time in the brig. The hold of the ship was dark, dank and cool, and if one listened closely, a horde of tiny little feet could constantly be heard patting across the wooden floor. So my companions will be rats and bilge water…
A flimsy small cot was allowed in my cell for sleeping and resting purposes. It took up nearly half of the area's space, but it was better than sleeping on a rickety old bench—or worse, the wet, moldy floor. The sheets that covered it felt more like burlap and it was so kindly decorated with numerous holes. And to make things even better: it didn't even cover me all the way. My feet hung out in the cold.
Right above the cot was strewn a lantern, swinging from a hook in the ceiling. It shed a poor light, but it was enough to let me see my surroundings properly, and to also see the red-colored uniform of my guarding marine a few feet by, which meant that I was able to locate an essential part of my safety with ease.
My marine's name was Sergeant Vaughn, a man of thirty or so with a bad temper and a silence that was severely overbearing. Thorne was indeed very determined to give me the noose as to appoint the grumpiest marine out of the whole brigade as my guard. I even doubted that Sergeant Vaughn would guard me, for I was certain he'd rather have me lectured, beaten and punished for sneaking aboard a ship of men's territory.
Well, damn you, Sergeant Vaughn.
Though, stupid as I was, I didn't consider that cursing and complaining would not do me any damn good. In fact, Sergeant Vaughn had damned good hearing and probably heard nearly every damn word I said about him behind his back, which would account for the reason why he treated me no better than a damn dog, and I was certain he didn't think of me as simply and directly as a dog. He probably used the other word in his head.
His dislike of me proved true when he had to speak to me for the first time, and what he said was, "Hey, tramp. Ye have a visitor, so get up off your bum and make yourself presentable." He released a muffled snarl at me, kicking my cell gate with his boot and causing a sequence of clamorous bangs to echo in my aching head. I knew I had not healed enough yet, for after just a few days in the brig, I began to feel even weaker than before.
I obeyed his command and stood up and dusted some dirt off of my trousers and tried to smooth out my hair. Though, I knew I still looked like a bawd from Tortuga. Plus, I doubted appearance would help me by now.
As I met the eyes of my visitor, I felt my heart twinge a bit, for I suddenly felt incredibly convinced that I had been pushed closer to my doom.
"Hello, Roland," I squeaked, coming closer to the bars of my cell gate.
"Hello, Astrid," he replied, seemingly just as worried as I was but was trying his best to hide his concern. "I, um, I have… some news about your case."
I gave him a nod, signaling that it was all right for him to go on with whatever he was having difficulty saying.
"Well, we're going to be leaving pretty soon and the captain's thought long and hard about whether or not he should have a trial for you, and…" He paused for such a long time that I thought my knees would give way and my legs would crumble before he opened his closed mouth again.
"Brother, please tell me what is going on." I swallowed, trying to keep myself from choking mid-sentence and attempting to speak as firmly and calmly as possible.
"Sister," he said, looking down and reaching through the gate and taking my hand.
"That's prohibited!" warned Sergeant Vaughn, rushing forward and about to rip Roland's hand from mine, but with a muttered curse, Roland withdrew his hand away before Vaughn got to it first.
"Sister," he began again, looking me in the eye. "He's decided to take your case as a crime. You will be tried just like any other criminal, and the ultimate result will either be deportation or the noose."
"What?" I gaped, feeling my worn face begin to contort and shudder uncontrollably. "No matter what they will get rid of me? I can't stay on the ship?"
"I'm sorry, sister… that's what I was told to tell you."
The tears had fallen fast from my eyes and the drops splattered to the ground, soaking the already damp wood. Roland tried to reach for my hand again, to comfort me in some way, but Vaughn hissed like a snake at him and so he could only stand and watch me wail until I was reduced to a rocking ball, sitting on the floor. Then, obviously unable to bear my cries, Roland left the brig hurriedly, brushing past Vaughn with a loud snort and slight shove.
Everything is gone, Astrid… Gone, gone, gone. You're a dead man. And what about Jack?
The realization that I had failed my mission so bluntly was like a dagger sent flying into my heart and I screamed all the more. I would lose everything I had gained. No ship. No friends. No brother. No Jack.
No… freedom.
I heard the boots of my marine echo towards my cell, and my fuzzy vision saw the vague shapes of his legs in front of my cell.
"Serves you right, whore," he spat. And then he turned around and marched back to his spot, standing so that I had nothing to look at but his pompous ass. But despite my anger and frustration, I knew that more men would follow his action and turn their backs on me.
My marine woke me with the clamor of a tray on the floor beside my brig cell. Distantly, I heard the ring of eight bells and so I concluded that it was noon or near to it and that most sailors were getting their meals at this hour.
Wearily, I lifted my head from my cot and stumbled over to the cell gate where the marine unlocked it and kicked my tray of food in before quickly locking me up again. I didn't look at his face. I didn't want to see the expression he gave me, for surely by his behavior he had the greatest disdain for my whorish self and without a doubt he should have looked upon me with such revulsion, for I had disgraced him, his rank, and his country with my presence.
My eyes stared dully at the bowl of burgoo seated on my tray. Accompanying it was a bottle of what I presumed to be ale, ale that had probably gone bad. But my mouth was numb and silent, afraid to utter a complaint. I had been shamed enough and these men were through with my requests. I'd get what I deserved.
"Eat," commanded Vaughn, and the authority I once felt as a midshipman, even a ship's boy, was now gone. I was a woman again, bound to the world through orders and directions issued by men, and to return to it—something I had tried so hard to escape from—was mortifying to me.
With shaking fingers, I grasped the spoon sticking out of the bowl of burgoo and plunged a lump of the porridge into my mouth. The slop was cold and tasteless, sticking like paste to the inside of my mouth and it thickly coated my throat as I swallowed with much reluctance.
Seeing that I had cooperated and commenced finishing my meal, my marine turned around and returned to his post, which was right below the hatch that led into the brig, making him a good deal away from me; a distance which I presumed he was happy to be at. After all, I was a woman, and no dignified man would want to interact with a conniving wench who belittled them all by bringing herself to equality with one of their peers. I would never understand the pride of men, and I would never accept their pride as an excuse for anything anymore.
The bottle happened to contain a very strong quantity of grog, and I took it that new rations were made now that we had captured another French ship and the Captain had most likely agreed to a larger part of rum as opposed to water in the new batch. Nonetheless, I drank it down to the last drop. There was no telling when I would be fed again, and I needed to take into consideration that I might not even live for another fortnight. In fact, I could be dead within two days' time, depending on how fast things went, and how eager the captain and his officers were to deal with my case.
And I was certain they were very ready to sentence me to death.
When I had eaten my fill, I took a rest back on my small cot and looked at the cold, crisscrossed iron bars of my cell. My marine said not a word, and I spoke not a word to him, for he wouldn't listen to me even if I spoke. I ran a finger over the rough edge of the metal and absorbed some of the chill from the bars and as I stared with blank, listless eyes at my finger scratching the post, I felt my prospects and expectations collapsing in a torrent of worries.
I had hit the bottom of the dark ocean again, trapped myself in the crushing black water that I had once loved with all my heart. I was lost again, not knowing who I was or what I'd be, or if I'd ever be of any good use. I had fought so hard, did my duty to the point where it became routine, and searched for every possible clue that could bring me to him. To Jack. But all my efforts were done in vain, for the fears I had hid away in the back of my head and gilded over in the sweetness of liberty had returned with new fire and spark that burned me inside. I thought I could make it through by disguising myself as a man. I thought no one would know. But I was a stupid girl when I thought up such a plot, and I was still stupid to think that it would last long enough for me to find my father. I did this all for him. Just to find him. Just to let him know that I loved him and loved the sea he loved more than me. But the freedom provided as soon as I donned men's clothing and assumed a masculine name proved too great for my small, simple mind to comprehend and use wisely. I relished the sweet taste of independence too much, and soon took advantage of what it had to offer me. I forgot why I had really come to sea, and I had gotten carried away with enchanting men and the possibility of gaining recognition as an officer in a Navy that now had only one wish for me—to kill me.
My body gradually tensed into a curled ball on the cot and my eye squeezed out a dirty tear from my glazed eye. I hadn't even found Jack. I would never be able to find him. He would forever remain lost from me, and if lost he remained, then I would never discover my own abilities. For his blood was my blood. His destiny was the same as mine. We both would die at sea, for we shared the same home as well. Only, the daughter he never knew would hang and die from the noose first.
I promised Will and Elizabeth that I would come back, and I wanted to return with Jack and a ship full of treasure and be able to run up to them and tell them that I did it. I made it. I reached Jack. I fulfilled my dreams. And they would be proud of me. I wouldn't disappoint them with my mistakes. I'd show them the golden glory of my achievements and we'd celebrate with much dancing and drinking, but no. No. None of that would ever happen now. Such imagined situations were cast away and lost to sea to become forgotten and laughed at.
I heaved a sob, which came out mixed with a cough and another tear dripped from my tightly closed eyes. I didn't want to see where I was at the moment. Not anymore. They had shamed me enough. They had torn away everything I had and called me a disgrace, a whore, a bitch, a temptress—any insult that their arrogant mouths could utter, and I was tired of it all. I had admitted to it all. I was a disgrace, a whore, a bitch, a temptress. I was full of vices and I knew no good would come out of me. I was a bastard child to begin with and would remain one. Born from a mistake and prone to make them all my life with rarely any opportunity for redemption. And if deliverance was offered, others would swiftly find a way to crush me to the ground and take it for themselves.
My lungs racked another cry and I did my best to suppress it with a closed mouth, but it blubbered out anyway. Vaughn probably despised me more for crying like a woman was expected to, and probably contented himself by ignoring my echoing sobs. But some things were unstoppable. I couldn't stop the tears from falling. So hard. So hard. So hard. I had tried so damn hard to get where I was and they had the nerve to take it away from me!
I expelled a choke as I inhaled the reeking air that stank of bilge water, and snot soon ran from my nose as I wept for the wrongdoing and punishment I had placed upon myself. I would never get to see Jack. Never. The father who never was would never be. Such beautiful dreams I had for my future. So many… and they were all thrown away.
I'm so sorry, Jack. I'm so sorry, Daddy. I should have never been bad. You wouldn't have had to leave me in Port Royal and I wouldn't be in this situation, Daddy. I'd be with you. But now no. No, no, no. I'll never get to see you again. I'm sorry I couldn't find you. I tried so hard, Daddy. I really did. If only I had been more careful… oh to hell with it! Damn everything! Everything I had is gone, Daddy. All I wanted was to find you. Just to be back on the sea with you, but no. No one can understand that. No one.
And Roland… oh God, dear brother. I'm so sorry I pulled you into this stupid adventure of mine. You have always looked out for me and gotten me out of my tight spots but dear brother, this one you can't help me with. I'm so sorry for getting angry with you, for not trusting you more, and I should have. I should have. Dammit, I bloody should have! And now look at me, Roland. Look at where I am now, and dear brother isn't here beside me anymore to guide me. Don't tell Mum and Dad what happened, Roland. They'd be heartbroken and I don't want to cause anymore trouble, dear brother. No, no, no. No more. Tell Mum and Dad I'm sorry for not coming back and for abandoning them. I never meant to. I thought I could find Jack, Roland, but no. It will never be, dear brother. No it won't. Never… never…
I wept hysterically now, tears running down my face and smearing the dirt on my skin, and I could taste the saltiness of the water as the tears I shed leaked into the corners of my quivering mouth. My whole body convulsed from my sobs and my head swirled with hatred, shame, fear and memories that were vanishing into the air as everything I had worked for, everything I had loved was dimming into a dark oblivion, and I had tried desperately to cling to all of them and to clutch them with an iron grasp, but my strength was superficial and surreal. And these men who had trapped me in the dirtiest of places, with an atmosphere empty of care and sympathy, had reminded me of who I was and what I would forever be.
A disgrace, a whore, a bitch, a temptress, and the disappointment of all society.
Shame had sucked me dry, their expectations had left me boneless and ignorant, and now they had shoved a wall in my face and swung a rope around my neck to end the destruction I brought along with me and into their perfect world.
With a scream I kicked at the bars surrounding me and shrieked my frustration out of me, beating my fists at the cot and letting my tears dribble down my miserable face. Dammit! Why can't you stubborn men listen! Listen, damn you! Listen!
The deep thuds of Vaughn's boots echoed in the brig and he came to my cell and unlocked the gate before stomping in and ordering me to stop. I would not.
"This is for your own good, tramp," I heard him say before he knocked me unconscious with the back of his musket and locked me up in the darkness of my cell once again.
I shifted in my slumber as I gradually returned to the tangible world and away from the state of sleep my marine had forced me into. My eyelids pried open, flaking away the crust surrounding my eyes and I came face to face with an immense, close feeling darkness.
The room rang heavily with silence and I looked around, unable to see anything in the thick black, not even my own hands. My lantern had been blown out and I couldn't hear any sign of my marine. All I could take notice of was the soft steady sound of my breathing, but a feeling of anxiety and panic was tingling at my fingertips, and the suffocating darkness was elevating my fear and intimidation.
My instinct told me to sit up and feel my way around the cell and perhaps give a call out to my marine. Perhaps Vaughn was asleep and the lantern had blown out by a passing wind. But neither of my thoughts made sense. I would have heard Vaughn sleeping because I knew he snored as he dozed. And I was in the lowest level of the ship. Air could hardly move here, except in and out of one's nose. Someone had blown out my candle, and the fact that someone was in here with me sent a shock of panic through me.
My body jerked forward as I tried to sit up, but I was pulled back down immediately, for my hands were tied to the bars of my cell and were positioned over my head. As soon as I tried to sit up, the ropes strained my wrists and I was inclined to fall back, flat on my back to let my eyes wander with a sickeningly great amount of apprehension.
"Who's there?" I yelled, trying to wrench my wrists from the ropes, but whoever was in here was a clever bastard and tied them tightly. Sailors' knots. I tugged harder on the cords, pulling repeatedly with all my strength and causing the bars to shake a bit and rattle as I attempted to free myself, but the harder I pulled, the more the lines burned against my wrists. "Dammit," I breathed, trying to roll around on the cot so that I could sit up without breaking my arms.
But I didn't even get to move one muscle before a voice echoed in the frustrating dim.
"Funny, little Astrid," it snickered.
My body froze and the blood flowing in my body seemed to stop altogether and ice over, draining any warmth from my face. The provoking silence followed once again and my breathing faded from my ears and was slowly replaced with the fast pace of my beating heart. Cold sweat gathered around the edges of my forehead and dripped down my grey face as my mind raced to escape and free myself, for I was no longer safe in my current location.
Struggling now, I yanked viciously at the ropes, letting out exasperated cries and curses with every failed try. Dammit. Get me out!
There was the scrape of a foot against the dank floor, moving closer to me and without another word, I thought I heard something flop to the floor. Perhaps a discarded jacket or some other article of clothing. And now the fear I was experiencing was getting the better of me. My eyes were stinging with tears of worry and the muscles in my body tensed as if they prepared for some physical attack from an unseen foe.
The footsteps got louder and they reverberated in the empty brig, amplifying the fact the I was alone all the better, and suddenly, the footsteps stopped. In my futile effort to save myself I screamed into the blackness.
"Get out, bastard!" I wailed, still hopelessly heaving at the ropes to release me, but I was trapped in the dark; stuck in a cage underwater with a shark who was dangerously hungry for some prey, for the smell of blood coming from its victim's injures had whetted his appetite.
A shiver twisted up my spine and I shook violently at the touch of a hand on the side of my face, his thumb gently rubbing my jaw with growing heat. "Funny, little Astrid," he repeated, still chuckling. "The wild, beautiful wench who enchanted me with her presence three years ago. Has it been so long, Astrid?" His hot breath smeared my cheek with perspiration as I felt his nose chafe against my temple.
I jerked my head away from him, ripping my face from his grimy fingers and resumed trying to pry apart my wrists from the ropes, but my intruder was far from finished with me. Before my disgruntled visage appeared his own, and the only reason why I knew he stood right in front of me was because of the white flicker that I thought I saw spark in his savage blue eyes, and even in such dense blackness his eyes continued to attain that eerie glow.
As if unleashed from his bonds, his hand launched out and snatched my chin, heaving it towards his face and stopping my face from colliding into his by less than a hair. "Lie down, Astrid," he commanded, his breath coming short and shallow, but I wasn't so stupid as to fall for such a trick and I persisted onward with my sitting for barely a second before he pushed me back on the cot and crawled on top of me, hovering above me as his arms kept his body a good foot away from mine.
"Get off me, ye bastard," I growled, trying to sit up, but my arms were once again positioned over my head and I couldn't sit up without rolling onto my side.
"You should be enjoying this, Astrid," he chuckled, lowering himself just slightly onto me, supporting himself on one arm as his other wandered to my neck.
His fingers were clammy with sweat as they stuck to my neck, and for all his cruelty and indestructible pride, his hand was not as coarse and dry as I expected it to be. And his touch made me gulp down my fear, for one thing continued to blink in my mind. I was scared to death of what he was going to do to me.
He seemed to sigh with content as his hand felt my gulp travel down my throat and he must have been intoxicated with the internal movement of my body, for he lowered himself completely on me, digging his face into my neck as he sucked in breath after breath now that he had caught the scent of his prey.
I squirmed under his weight, trying desperately to move my knee in between his legs so I could ram it straight into him, but his legs were circling around mine, grazing against me with excited force.
My arms moved wildly above my head, my elbows trying to aim for his head in an attempt to get him off, but nothing was working, and I was growing sicker to my stomach with every finger he laid on my body.
"Stop it, Griffith!" I screamed, mustering my strength to push him off, but I was too weak. I was so stupid to have strained my arms and wasted some of my energy by trying to pull myself free of the ropes. Now, I was trapped under Victor Griffith's gruesome person.
"I think not, Astrid," he grinned, lifting his head from my neck and looking directly at me, his hand wandering from my neck down to my breastbone, where it lingered and impatiently clawed at any exposed skin. "You're mine for a night."
That phrase ruptured my patience and I thrashed madly beneath him, screaming my lungs out, but my strength was no match for his unconquerable wanton desire. His legs pressed against mine with such might, that he had pushed me into the cot, and his arms had grabbed hold of my own in an iron clutch and shoved them over my head.
"Roland!" I cried, craning my neck away from his face as I found myself completely vulnerable to his advances. "Ben—" His mouth crashed into mine and he nearly swallowed my lips as he kissed me, a hungry groan vibrating from his throat. Screams were let out of my mouth but they were crushed and left to clog up my throat as his tongue delved deeper in.
He finally allowed me to breath, breaking the kiss and looking at me as water leaked out of my eyes with no will to stop. I could feel my lips throbbing and grow hot from the abuse inflicted upon them and caught in between sobs I managed to speak to him. "Please, Griffith, stop. Don't do this to me. Don't hurt me."
"Relax," he sang tauntingly, licking his already slimy lips, "I'm not going to hurt you." I shook my head at him but he only smirked and I knew he wasn't listening to me.
He lowered his head beside mine, and he moaned with satisfaction into the side of my face, his tongue slithering down my cheek.
There was the same shuffle of steps before, though this time, they were considerably faster, perhaps even excited. And same as before, a hand went to touch my face. Only, this time, it was accompanied by a kiss on my cold, dead cheek.
But unlike before, there was no eager snicker or moan. There was a relieved, content sigh that escaped into the air. My hands had been released, my wrists bleeding from incessant burn of the rope and still he stood beside my cot, looking at me with a sickening smile on his face.
He bent over and ran his fingers down my face, and then stood upright again, pleased with whatever he had observed from that last touch.
And then silently, Victor Griffith left, fully garbed and poised as if nothing had happened.
Yet, I lay on my cot, paralyzed and numb, with salt water dried at the corners of my eyes and my heartbeat slowing. There, in that position, in the darkness of my cell, my nightmares replayed repeatedly in my mind. And after staring blankly at the cell bars, I curled up into a tight ball again and looked down at myself.
Then I cried.
Dear caged bird, why do you weep?
What villain has locked you in there to keep?
How is it that your wings are broken so?
Why is it that you, dear bird, didn't know?
Dear caged bird, what sorrows do you sing?
What villain has ruined your precious wing?
How is it that darkness covers your eyes?
Why is it that you, dear bird, sing of lies?
Dear caged bird, oh why do you weep?
What villain has tarnished your peaceful sleep?
How is it that you can no longer defend?
Why is it that you, dear bird, are… broken…?