scrub the muck off I wouldn’t no way have wanted to empty the mess-tubs or scrape away the crud. Everyone got out of the hold by the time the fire pans were lit for drying, and when the chambers were smoked clean with tar, tobacco, and brimstone even the hardiest sea dog steered clear of the acrid smog.
Bristol circulated around the officers as an assistant steward to learn their various tasks and I often scuttled alongside him. First the sailing master showed how to set the sails (but I got lost in his complex explanation of tacking to beat upwind). Then we spent several hateful days shadowing quartermaster Kimble—who was vicious and harsh and relished the power he spent like a wealthy toff. I didn’t learn nothing from him for he made my head wobble with that much dread I couldn’t keep nothing inside it. The boatswain taught Bristol to fix ropes and pulleys, while his mate showed me how to club hair in a nautical braid. And the carpenter chirped cheerfully away as he went through his routine checks of the mast and hull. But best of all I enjoyed navigation—complex, artistic, skillful, technical—and always thoroughly engaging. I learned about the rise and set of the sun, the tracks of the moon through the heavens, and stars took on names with increasing importance as I opened my ears and eyes.
Then as the weeks rolled past the first month into the second . . . some of the crew began falling sick. One day the gunner woke up with Cupid’s disease and tried to blame it on Maude. She was singled out during the doctor’s inspection and roughly hauled before Captain Mack. He turned to the gunner and asked, “Is this the one?”
The sailor spat in her hair and hissed, “Aye, Cap’n. That’s the filthy doxy as gave me the Great Pox.”
Maude looked horrified and yelled, “He didn’t get that from me!” The trembling young woman was instructed to undress in front of the entire crew so the doctor could further examine for pustules, rash, or fever. Unfortunately, Maude had scraped the inside of her thighs a few days earlier when she slipped on the greasy ladder, and in the dingy hold the wound had formed tiny pimples. Despite her protests and explanations, Dr. Simpson determined she was highly infectious and had to be rendered impotent for the rest of the voyage.
The captain nodded, turned to the quartermaster, and said, “Mr. Kimble—approach if you please.” The two men determined Maude’s fate in wily whispers, then the captain ordered the young woman to kneel at their feet. The quartermaster signaled for the marlinespike a sailor was using at the base of the mizzenmast and, with one ruthless swipe, he ripped open Maude’s pretty complexion from right ear to far left cheek. Her sparkling eyes dimmed in disbelief, then the pain struck home and she clutched her gaping face that had split like an overripe plum.
“You’re a wee bit less handsome now, lassie,” he sneered as he handed back the weapon. The captain looked on with sickening approval and said, “Sew her up, Doctor. She’ll not be infecting any more of my men.”
I hadn’t never seen nothing so cruel, and I cried the grief her damaged face could not. My poor friend had been torn and brutalized and would never find tolerable work again. They’d maimed her a figure of nightmare—for even after the thick stitches healed she was left lopsided and scarred. And I never once heard her sing from that day forth. All her spirit and humor deserted her and she sat in the shadows, marooned on her own black island. That same evening I got bloodied too. The captain expected me jovial and dancing but found me a sniveling nuisance. I made the mistake of questioning his judgment, and got rewarded with a violent blow to the chest that forced me across the cabin, cracked my rib, and made me feel queasy for days. He was careful, of course, not to damage another face—and to punish me further he put Violet in charge of the entertainment, supposedly until I
Bristol circulated around the officers as an assistant steward to learn their various tasks and I often scuttled alongside him. First the sailing master showed how to set the sails (but I got lost in his complex explanation of tacking to beat upwind). Then we spent several hateful days shadowing quartermaster Kimble—who was vicious and harsh and relished the power he spent like a wealthy toff. I didn’t learn nothing from him for he made my head wobble with that much dread I couldn’t keep nothing inside it. The boatswain taught Bristol to fix ropes and pulleys, while his mate showed me how to club hair in a nautical braid. And the carpenter chirped cheerfully away as he went through his routine checks of the mast and hull. But best of all I enjoyed navigation—complex, artistic, skillful, technical—and always thoroughly engaging. I learned about the rise and set of the sun, the tracks of the moon through the heavens, and stars took on names with increasing importance as I opened my ears and eyes.
Then as the weeks rolled past the first month into the second . . . some of the crew began falling sick. One day the gunner woke up with Cupid’s disease and tried to blame it on Maude. She was singled out during the doctor’s inspection and roughly hauled before Captain Mack. He turned to the gunner and asked, “Is this the one?”
The sailor spat in her hair and hissed, “Aye, Cap’n. That’s the filthy doxy as gave me the Great Pox.”
Maude looked horrified and yelled, “He didn’t get that from me!” The trembling young woman was instructed to undress in front of the entire crew so the doctor could further examine for pustules, rash, or fever. Unfortunately, Maude had scraped the inside of her thighs a few days earlier when she slipped on the greasy ladder, and in the dingy hold the wound had formed tiny pimples. Despite her protests and explanations, Dr. Simpson determined she was highly infectious and had to be rendered impotent for the rest of the voyage.
The captain nodded, turned to the quartermaster, and said, “Mr. Kimble—approach if you please.” The two men determined Maude’s fate in wily whispers, then the captain ordered the young woman to kneel at their feet. The quartermaster signaled for the marlinespike a sailor was using at the base of the mizzenmast and, with one ruthless swipe, he ripped open Maude’s pretty complexion from right ear to far left cheek. Her sparkling eyes dimmed in disbelief, then the pain struck home and she clutched her gaping face that had split like an overripe plum.
“You’re a wee bit less handsome now, lassie,” he sneered as he handed back the weapon. The captain looked on with sickening approval and said, “Sew her up, Doctor. She’ll not be infecting any more of my men.”
I hadn’t never seen nothing so cruel, and I cried the grief her damaged face could not. My poor friend had been torn and brutalized and would never find tolerable work again. They’d maimed her a figure of nightmare—for even after the thick stitches healed she was left lopsided and scarred. And I never once heard her sing from that day forth. All her spirit and humor deserted her and she sat in the shadows, marooned on her own black island. That same evening I got bloodied too. The captain expected me jovial and dancing but found me a sniveling nuisance. I made the mistake of questioning his judgment, and got rewarded with a violent blow to the chest that forced me across the cabin, cracked my rib, and made me feel queasy for days. He was careful, of course, not to damage another face—and to punish me further he put Violet in charge of the entertainment, supposedly until I
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