Steel

“You look it, with your hair cut. It’s what we all thought.”

“I—I’m not sure what happened.”

“Lost your memory, then?”

“Yeah, I guess I did,” she murmured. It seemed as good an explanation as any.

By the end of the day, the ship had lost sight of land. No chance of swimming for it now.

She must have worked ten straight hours that day. Henry was called away on another chore, something to do with the sails, but Jill couldn’t stop working because someone was always around, climbing rigging, mending sails, keeping lookout, or doing one of the other mysterious jobs on a boat like this. She scrubbed, and her hands and arms grew cramped, her fingers sore and cracked, and the sun beat down on her. She’d never worked so hard and could feel herself getting sunburned, despite the long sleeves and pants. Her nose, ears, and the back of her neck stung.

As they sailed on, the view never changed, and she had no indication that time was passing except for the sun moving overhead.

It was almost at the horizon when Henry returned and took the stone from her, grabbing it right out of her hands. She stared at her empty hands a moment, then looked at him, almost hurt. She wasn’t done yet—at least she didn’t think she was. But she might have gone around the whole deck twice for all she knew.

“Come on then, time for supper,” he said, and gestured her toward the middle of the deck.

She needed a long moment to stand, straightening the kinks out of her back. She’d thought she was in good shape.

The crew, thirty or forty people, gathered in the widest, most open part of the ship and made a rowdy line in front of two men, who carried what looked like a cast iron pot and a small wooden barrel: dinner.

Jill was starving, but she hung back, not wanting to get caught in a brawl. She couldn’t tell if the yelling and jostling was in earnest or in fun. But no fighting broke out among them—just like the articles said.

Abe stood near the men with the food, facing out, supervising. Abe was the quartermaster and almost as important as the captain on a ship like this. He was in charge of supplies, rations, and treasure, and of ensuring that everyone got an equal share and that no one tried to take more behind the others’ backs. This position was, like the captain’s, elected, and the quartermaster was the one everyone trusted. When he saw Jill, he smiled, but like with Henry she couldn’t tell if he was laughing at her or honestly trying to be friendly. After all his talk, Henry hadn’t seemed to hold the grudge against her. She looked at every member of the crew, searching for the hostility they’d shown when she first came on board. Mostly, they ignored her.

At sunset, lanterns were hung about the deck, from hooks on the masts and railings, and the cook—a thin, bearded man who didn’t look anywhere near clean enough to be serving food—distributed supper under Abe’s watchful gaze. Henry found Jill a tin cup and a dented metal bowl. She waited at the end of the line because she didn’t want anyone staring over her shoulder. And no one could give her a hard time if she put herself at the end. She wanted to hide, mouselike. But she also wanted to eat.

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nbsp; Then she got a look at what the cook was serving, smelled it—and it didn’t smell like food. Overcooked, vaguely rotten, vaguely stale. She wasn’t hungry anymore.

When she reached the cook, Abe handed her a plate, already filled with a spoonful of cooked potatoes, dried meat, and a roll that was so hard it rattled. “Take that to the prisoner, belowdecks and aft.”

She frowned. “Another job for the rookie?” she said. Abe only shrugged.

She went to the hatch and down the steps below. Steps—it was almost a ladder, they were so steep and narrow. As she eased herself down, she kept a grip on the side.

While she still didn’t know her way around the ship, she figured it couldn’t be that hard to find someone. The ship wasn’t that large. But she suddenly couldn’t remember which way was aft. After looking back and forth for a moment, into the creaking shadows, she gave up and called out, “Is there a prisoner down here?” She walked along the center of the hold, calling, feeling ridiculous.

“Here.” A muffled voice came from farther back. Jill quickened her pace, moving among hammocks, crates, bundles of ropes, and barrels of who knew what.

In the very rear of the ship was a small room, no bigger than a closet, with an iron latch on the outside. This must be it. She slid the latch back and opened the wooden door.

Some lantern light came through a row of holes in the roof that must have led up to the deck; Jill could make out a few details. A man was sitting on a plain bench. He wore a grungy shirt that might have been white once, open at the collar; tan-colored trousers; and worn boots. His sandy hair was tied in a short ponytail. He was older, middle aged maybe, with a cynical glare in his eyes. He leaned back against the wall and regarded her.

“New recruit?” he asked, a wry quirk to his lips.

She stared fishlike for a moment before handing him the plate. “Here.”

“Ah. I’m overjoyed,” he said flatly, but he took the platter and dug in, scooping the potatoes with his fingers.

“So what do you have to do to get locked up on a pirate ship?” she asked.

“I didn’t sign the articles. Not like you did, I wager.”

She felt herself blush; but she was also relieved that she had signed and wasn’t locked up here with him.

“If I may make an observation, you don’t seem much like the pirating type. What was it, you thought you didn’t have a choice?” he said. “So where’d they find you? They’re so desperate now they’re taking girls? You should be in a kitchen somewhere, wearing a skirt and apron and baking bread. Instead you’ve found yourself among true heathens.”