the ship's bastard

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The Ship’s Bastard

Nom de Plume

Seagulls screamed in the blinding heat of the morning sun reflecting off the sails as the Fortune’s crew eased her slowly away from the quay. A woman drew the eye as she ran, stumbling, towards the end of the dock. Her skirts, flipping in her haste, wrapping themselves around her long legs, hampered her as much as the bundle she carried. The woman would have remained unnoticed by the busy crew if it weren’t for her breathless shouts.

She threw quick looks over her shoulder as she hurried along, her intensity as heavy as the tropical heat and as out of place as her overshadowing bonnet and dull woolen dress.

At the end of the dock she didn’t stop, but flung a bundle over the widening stretch of water towards the Fortune’s deck. All attention centered on the arcing bundle as it fell short of the deck rail, hitting the side of the ship, snagging, unfurling down the wooden side before landing in the calm water with a dark plop.

The woman threw another glance back; turned again to stare down at the floating mess she’d created, and then, pulling a long-bladed knife from one sleeve, sliced her own throat.

All activity stopped in stunned silence as she collapsed into a blood sodden heap. Even the gulls went silent, leaving only the small rhythmic splashes of water against wood.

Captain Gerard, alert to changes on his ship, looked up. Folding his papers, he went to investigate. Some of his crew was bent over the side, others stared at the dock. They began to whisper. What had he missed? He called John to him.

“What’s toward?” The captain’s keen gaze scanned the area.

“Don’t know. That heap o’ cloth on the dock is a woman as what jist slit ‘er own throat.”

“‘er…, her own throat?” Had he heard correctly? He glanced at the ‘heap’ on the dock with renewed interest. No one had yet approached it. “Aye, Capt’n. Right after she tossed a wad ‘o rags at us.” The mate nodded.

“Rags?”

“Aye.”

“Anyone know her?”

“None as what’s admittin’ to it.”

“Anything in the rags?”

“Willy be fishn’ ‘em out now.”

The Captain joined the rest of the crew in watching Willy use a boathook, stabbing and twisting, trying to snag a firm hold on the slippery, floating mess. None of the soggy cloths appeared to be much of anything to him. The ship continued to ease away from the end of the dock, putting several more feet of water between it and the fallen woman.

He glanced towards the quay. Even yet, no one approached the woman. He squinted. It looked like the knife hilt was still near her hand. No one had stolen it. Men on the dock started to speak among themselves but left the woman alone, untouched, to bleed out into her clothes.

No alarm. No one shouting for authorities.

Odd behavior anywhere, but in a small island sea port very odd. Did they know something about this? Violent business was something he tried very hard to avoid. It wasn’t profitable and caused hell with shipping schedules.

Since nothing more appeared to be happening on the dock for the moment, he turned back to look at the water. A motion caught the corner of his eye. He stared at the broken wavelets back under the dock, trying to get another glimpse. Had it come from the bundle? Squinting a little, he thought he saw a gleam. Quietly he ordered John over the side to fetch whatever it was, warning him to be wary. There had to be more to this mess than first appeared and what there was so far was pretty damned vicious. He considered himself an experienced man of the world, but what was the world coming to when women were driven to publicly slice their own throats?

It didn’t take too long before John returned, calling for help to board. He hollered that with Willy on the boat hook, he’d just as soon bring up the rags in his own arms as worry over being spit like a wild goat at Christmas. As he came over the side he thrust the rags he’d collected at one of the men. Passing, dripping, by the captain, he grunted out under his breath, “Capt’n I’ve somthin’ ta show ya. Now. Below.”

With a searching look, the captain glanced back to the dock and made a decision. Quietly he directed Lem to keep watch on the dock while the crew finished collecting the rags. Then he gave orders to make way to sea, attracting as little additional notice as possible. He didn’t want his ship any more involved than it already was in this tragedy. Things like this could get complicated. The simpler life was kept, the better for all, especially aboard a ship. His ship in particular. Thoughtfully, he followed John below.

Entering his cabin, he turned to ask John to report. John locked the door before answering. As he swiveled back around, the captain saw movement in John’s wet shirt.

John reached in and pulled out a naked infant, holding it in the air by one arm, dark-headed and dripping. For some odd reason it just stared at them both with large blue eyes as it dangled between them. Then it stuck its free thumb in its mouth.

“That’s what you found under the dock?” The captain knew the answer, but needed it confirmed while he took some time to think about it.

“Aye, capt’n. It was the damnedest thing, just a bobb’n and swish’n. Didn’t seem to be go’n no where fast.” A beat of confused silence, then, “Why didn’t it drown capt’n?”

“I don’t know. But this is trouble. Send cook in here and don’t speak of this to anyone”

“Aye, but capt’n. We got ’nuther problem.”

“What?”

“It’s.” He hesitated to say, but it had to be said. “Well, it ain’t no boy, sir.”

Both men watched as the dangling, naked infant kicked and stretched its dainty little toes. There was no doubt. It wasn’t a boy.

A female. On their ship.

“Cap’n?”

“There was no doubt it was swimming?” He’d have to squelch any superstitious nonsense now. If he could. Things were bad enough. He felt a shiver pass down his own back. Why would anyone throw an infant at a ship?

“None sir.”

“Well, then it must be meant for the sea. Any creature that can swim before it can walk can’t be bad luck for a ship. Here, hand it to me while you get the mate.”

It pissed all over his lap and then laughed up at him. He might have made a mistake—taking it with them, but it did have an affinity for water.

It was also a good reason to avoid ports with newly dredged docks. This situation would never have arisen if he had stayed with their usual ports where the cargo was rowed in by tenders.

Chapter 2

“Captain, ya gotta do somethin’.”

The look in John’s pleading eyes was echoed around the group gathering close.

“About what?” As if he wasn’t fairly certain.

“Cook’s a burnin’ everythin’!”

It wasn’t just the sorrowful tone of voice or the look that had replaced the pleading. It was the pitiful growl echoing up out of his own stomach that put the message across.

“I’ll look into it. Go back to tasks.” He hated to talk to the cook. A captain was supposed to keep a grip of three cable tows on his emotions at all times. But to himself he acknowledged—he hated to talk to the cook. The man had found more ways to appear to legitimately ruin all the food they’d had—for weeks. If he weren’t such a good cook—when he wanted to be—and such a good man with a needle—when he needed to be, he’d have let the men hang him years ago. The poachy man wouldn’t even die and make the decision easy on everyone.

He’d put it off long enough. Another growl from his gut and he stiffened his spine. He’d go find out what the problem was, but he had an idea he already knew.

Cook’s grizzled hair stood spiked on end instead of lying lank as usual. He had his back to the door. The cadence of muttering and swearing could be heard before the stench and heat of the room rolled over one—like a miasmic fog. The captain took a step back. It was worse than he expected. He took another step back, gathered his breath, and stepped forward into the bowels of hell.

“Mr. Cawd!”

The cook jerked his head up and turned to cast a malevolent look over his shoulder in the captain’s direction.

“What’s that smell?” He’d tried to wait to ask, but his next breath demanded an answer. The stench was worse than any he’d ever encountered.

“That!” Cook jabbed a thumb in the direction of the corner.

The captain hoped it wasn’t something intended for them to eat. He’d take burnt over this. He gave up and pushed his nose into his sleeve, hoping for a bit of respite.

“Does it have anything to do with the condition of the rations lately?”

“Aye, sir.”

Taken aback at the first bit of respect he’d had from the cook in over five years, the captain rapped out, “Explain.”

“I don’t ‘ave time to cook! If I don’t feed it, it screams. If I unties it, it wets everywhere and puts everythin’ in its mouth.” Cook rolled his eyes back towards the fire, banked safely. Both of them saw the curls of smoke beginning to rise. He stepped towards the smoke.

The captain turned his eyes from the evidence of another ruined meal to the sound of a bleat from a dark corner. A sorrowful head with flapping ears looked back. That explained some of the odor—the goat.

“What’s the goat doing in here instead of the hold?”

The cook straightened up and with a disgusted look said, “The bastard eats all the time. When it isn’t eatin’, it’s screamin’, when it isn’t screamin’ it’s shittin’, when it isn’t shittin’, it’s chewin’ on somethin’. I can’t get anythin’ done unless it’s tied in there!”

“The goat?”

All he got for an answer was a glare and a box with a malodorous bundle of rags in it thrust towards him. He took it instinctively. The rags had a set of blue eyes. The smell made his eyes water.

He tried to talk while holding his breath, “I’ll call a meeting,” and shoved the box back in the place from whence it had come.

It wasn’t long until darkness would drape over the ship. He’d call general meeting just before then. If this were to be the last ruined meal, then every man would have to help. It wouldn’t be for long. From the smell coming off that box, the infant was probably already close to death. It had been three weeks since they’d left the pier of San Piero.

At the time he’d thought the cook would be the most natural person to take care of the problem of the infant. The cook dealt with the care and feeding of the rest of the animals. Now everyone would have to share the duty of taking care of the little bastard until it did succumb. He took another turn around the deck, thinking hard. A bastard watch? Aye, that’s what it’d be all right. He remembered the eye-watering smell of that box and gave a weak laugh, thinking no good deed goes unpunished.

Perhaps the best way to take care of the situation would be a new duty added to the regular duty roster. The bastard watch would change at the same intervals as the other duties. Everyone would take their turn at having total responsibility for the bastard as long as it lived. That would disrupt the ship the least. He’d manage a turn himself. His gorge rose at the thought.

He’d inform the entire crew of their new orders at the meeting—after he let them figure out it was in their own best interests. No reason to dawdle, he decided, leaving the cabin and going to give the cook the good news; someone else would be watching the bastard—as soon as it was cleaned up. The captain pulled his watch from his breast pocket and checked the time in the waning light streaming through the windows. The cook would have an hour to get the bastard cleaned, supplied, and on deck. Remembering the look in his eye, he would wager the cook would have it ready—on time.

“Whut o’ we know o’ babes?”

It wasn’t the first question or the first complaint. As one of the partners owning the ship, he was forced to approach the captaining of his ship a little differently than most but it had paid off by having a crew with enough experience to make sure they all lived and prospered. The lesser crew came and went but these men were his partners as well as the senior crew. At the moment they were all circled in a complaining group. The bastard in its box at his feet didn’t make a noise.

It looked different and smelled worlds better than the last time he saw it. A measure of cook’s despair and hope of deliverance he supposed. It was time to bring this meeting to its logical end.

“So, you all liked the food lately?”

Dark mutters answered.

“None of us know much about really young ones, but will it matter? It was given to us.” That’s one way of interpreting the fact it was thrown at the ship. He looked around and could see that everyone realized the reality of that last moment on the dock. Not a one of them wanted to involve themselves in the trouble that the dead woman’s actions could have thrust them into. Even after all of this time, he believed them when all said none knew ought about her—or her grievance.

“The bastard won’t live. How it has lasted this long is a mystery. However, since it is guilty only of the crime of life, I can’t really see tossing it overboard—can any of you?” The captain looked at each one in turn. He had known the answer he’d find before he asked the question. None of these men took life so lightly that they would toss it away.

“I will take the first watch, John the second. Whoever has bastard watch is entirely responsible for it. You can trade if you can get someone to trade with you. Get food from cook. Each watch will end with the bastard clean and fed before it is passed to the next watch.” He could swear he saw a vengeful smirk form on cook’s face just before he disappeared below.

Chapter 3

Months passed with disaster after disaster. They never went back to San Piero. They didn’t need to run into trouble. They’d taken it with them. It was always small things. Like the time Giles had decided that a girl child needed skirts. Giles had purchased a small dress, made perfectly, and on his turn at bastard watch had dressed the bastard in it. He’d been a little distracted when someone mentioned it didn’t look quite so fine without shoes. In less than a moment the bastard had tripped on the skirt and gone overboard. Giles had lost one of his new shoes going over the side after her. The next time they reached shallow water, Giles had started teaching it to swim. Somehow it had forgotten….

Then there was the time the bastard had developed an unnatural interest in what a man does at the rail first thing after waking. Complaints had almost deafened the captain, but the real decision had reached a critical point when the bastard had attempted balancing up on the rail and trying it herself. Now they had an extra privy. Probably the only ship on the water with two, but circumstances change with the times and tides.

There were other sides to the bastard. Lem devised a way to keep it out of the wet paint while on his watch. He’d tied it in a swing at the end of the lower foremost boom. Its shrieks of laughter were a treat for everyone…except those trying to sleep. Odd duck that the bastard was, quite often it would laugh till it fell asleep, swinging out there, over the waves.

Chapter 4

Another martyred sigh came from the corner. The captain looked out of the edge of his eye to make damned sure there wasn’t anything within three feet of the originator of that sigh that could be scratched, broken, or marred. All was safe. The bastard had her arms wrapped around her scuffed knees as she sat in the corner; her small head leaned against the bulkhead.

Looking down at the mess on the papers that he was laboriously recopying, he knew he was justified in his punishment. The bastard had written symbols of unknown meaning all over them. A ship’s log had to be neat and orderly. He knew it, and now, by God, the bastard knew it.

Another gusty sigh.

“We don’t need any more wind on this vessel. There isn’t a sail in sight. Shut your trap unless you have something to say.”

“Aye, Capnin.” The little figure slumped further into the corner.

The silence lasted less than a minute before a small voice interrupted the scratching of the pen on paper.

“Capnin?”

“Bastard.”

“I wus he’ping.”

“Helping what?” The captain had a shiver of fear run down his spine. What else had the bastard been up to?

“Yer log, I wus he’ping.”

Knowing from experience that he had better find out all of the details, he asked the next question. Bastards didn’t seem to take orders quite like other sailors. There always seemed to be an interpretation problem.

“How?” seemed a safe question to start with.

“Yer tode me yer had tuh kep an ac’ruite recurd. Right Capnin?”

“Yes.”

“I wus only he’ping.”

“How?” was the only question that seemed to fit.

“Tree-eyed Jack, sur. I had tuh make sure the recurd wuz ac’ruite.”

“How?” again seemed the safest. He put down his pen and watched the small face in fascination to see what words would come out of it next.

“Tree-eyed Jack ain’t got tree eyes!” The small voice indignant. The eyes earnest. “He lied!” The small voice changed to outrage.

Choking back a laugh, the captain queried, trying to sound firm, “How do you know this?”

“He tole me he ‘ad eyes in the back ‘o ‘is ‘ead!”

“He did?”

“Capnin,” she explained as if he were dense, “’e tole ev’ry budy! Dats why ‘e’s Tree-eyed Jack!

“What does Three-eyed Jack have to do with the mess you made of my log?”

“I wuz ritin down whut I found!”

“What you found?” the Captain asked, at a loss to make the connection.

“He lied! Capnin! Tree-eyed Jack ain’t got but two!”

“How do you know?”

“I ‘neaked up on ‘im slow-like whilst ‘e wuz sleepin’ and caref’ly pok’t ma finger ‘round in ‘is ‘air. ‘e ain’t got no tird eye!”

The captain had watched the little person indignantly tell the story. How was he going to explain a lie isn’t a lie if every one knows the truth…but her? He had evidently gotten the information into her little head that lies aren’t to be told to the captain. This problem was probably going to require some thought. As usual he didn’t get much of a chance to do so. The intent bastard stare was demanding an answer.

He wasn’t the captain for nothing. A stroke of genius blazed through him. He would sidestep the question.

“A person’s name is just what they are called. A name doesn’t mean anything except to the people involved in the naming.”

A horrified little voice pointed out the error in his thinking, sounding as if she were trying to explain some very important fact to him that he should have been able to see for himself, “Capnin. Stumpy ‘as a peg leg.”

“True, but that isn’t his real name. Stumpy is the name that we use.”

“Why?” Doubting eyes looked up at him.

He thought fast, Stumpy didn’t want anyone knowing his name was Clarence. “We call him Stumpy because he likes it.” Suspicious bastard blue eyes bored into him.

“Tree-eyed Jack ‘as a ‘nutter name?”

He nodded.

“What?”

The captain closed his eyes and wanted to get out the brandy, but knew better. Since the small fire she had set on the deck to warm up the crew on a cool night last week, he had denied anyone strong drink while on bastard watch. That, unfortunately, included him.

“Jack.”

“Oh.”

He hoped that information would soak through the bastard’s head for a while and let him get on with the copying. He knew better.

“Do I ‘ave ‘nutter one?”

Why did the bastard always have questions? Answering them was like stepping in fresh tar. The more a person tried to get out, the messier things got. The only thing worse was not answering them. Everyone had found that out.

“Not yet.” It surprised him to realize that she had lived so long. They hadn’t bothered to name something they didn’t think would make it and the little bastard certainly had. Quick calculations told him they’d had the bastard for four years. It seemed like forever.

“ ‘ow do ya git one?”

Hoping to put her mind to doing something constructive, he told her. “You can pick one.”

Her eyes went wide, but she stayed silent. The ship’s bell sounded. Thank God, his turn at bastard watch was over.

He’d hoped that would be the end of it. He should have known better.

The next time is was his turn for bastard watch he discovered, again, just how fertile of an imagination the bastard had. She called herself John.

“You can’t be a John.”

“Ah can’t?”

“No.”

“Capnin?”

“Bastard.”

“Why?”

He lifted his head from his work to stare at the bastard. Good question that. He’d have to have a good answer. One that didn’t open up any awkward areas that he didn’t want to delve into.

“We’ve already two Johns on board. We don’t need a third.” That should do it.

“Oh.”

“Find another name.”

Three days later he had a mutiny on his hands. A bastard meeting was called.

“Captain, you gotta do sumthin’ ‘bout the bastard.”

Earnest faces ringed him. Mr. Cawd spat. That wasn’t a good sign.

“What is it doing now that grown men such as you can’t handle?”

“Captain, we’re bringin’ this to yer ‘tention now. We could’ve waited ‘til it was yer turn.”

John was right, whatever the problem was, his being surly about it wouldn’t help. He gave John a nod to acknowledge it.

“What’s the bastard done?”

“Is doin’ don’t you mean?” growled Giles.

John spoke up, “It keeps a changin’ its name. We understand you gave it permission ta seek a name?”

The captain nodded.

John gave a quick look around and after receiving encouraging nods from everyone, continued, “It keeps changing it. As soon as it picks another, it isn’t answerin’ ta the last. It’s changin’ it sometimes three times a watch! It’s runnin’ and laughin’ and now it has a new game ta torcher us with.”

That explained the mutinous looks from everyone.

“I’ll take care of it.” What else was he to do but his chief duty, bring order to the running of the Fortune? “Bring the bastard to me.”

The door to the captain’s cabin squeaked a long slow squawk. Captain Gerard kept writing, reading what he wrote, and then writing more. The door squawked a closing squeak and slow footsteps that made no sound measured themselves towards him. He counted to eleven before a set of tiny, grubby toes appeared in his vision. Someone knew they were in deep trouble.

“Bastard.”

“Aye, Capnin.”

“Have you selected a name?”

Silence strengthened and became like a living thing—engulfing the room and then lingering like a very bad smell.

“Hmmnn.”

“Your answer?” He used his strong voice as a tool to cut to the middle of the bastard’s brain.

“No.”

Captain Gerard sat back in his chair and gave the bastard a straight look.

“Why not?”

The bastard wriggled and put one foot upon the other. As the captain’s eyebrow rose the wriggling stopped.

“Evryone is usin’ thir’s.”

Whew. He could take care of this problem in no time. An easy one.

“I have one you can use.”

“Ya do?” Confusion in every line of the little body, the bastard’s eyes grew round.

“Yes. Here, I’ll show you.” He pulled out his official papers and motioned for the bastard to approach and look.

“Here, see where these letters are? This is my middle name. I don’t use it, you can have it. Leslie. What do you think of it?”

“Lessee,” the bastard tried it.

“No, Leslie,” the captain smeared his ‘s’ as he showed the bastard slowly how the name should be pronounced.

“Leslie, Leslie, Leslie, Leslie.”

“That’s enough.”

The bastard looked back at the paper. “’re th’re iny more?”

“No, that’s the only one I’m not using.”

“’er reelly loikes John.”

“How about using it as a last name. Only how about making it a lucky last name by adding Saint to it. Like St. John.”

“I ‘ave ter ‘ave uh last name?”

“Yes.”

“That’s tha onliest way I can be John?”

“Yes.”

“Th’n, done!” The bastard held out a hand to shake on the deal.

A solemn shake and the captain expected this to be one of the easiest bastard problems ever solved. And it was—almost.

On his regular bastard watch two days later, he discovered exactly what the seed in her mind had germinated and become—she rattled off a list of all the names that no one was using—Leslie Allan Marcus Kenneth Linford Benjamin Gail Lee Teal Harriford Tallison Orm Alfred Milon Francis St. John. It was enough names to satisfy even the bastard. He thought he’d have a mutiny on his hands when he told her that usually people only told other people their first and last names. She settled on Leslie Allan St. John, but only after he entered her sixteen names officially in the ship’s log and gave her a paper listing them. He’d tried to interest her in Leslie Francis St. John, but she didn’t like it as well as the Allan. He gave up. The bastard finally answered to any combination of Leslie Allan St. John or ‘bastard’, but fell to singing her entire list whenever the mood seemed to strike her.

They managed a few more years before trouble of this nature rolled around again.

“Captain?”

“Leslie.”

He looked over at where the bastard was carefully copying sentences on her board. The look on her face was a bit solemn. He sighed. Always, it seemed, he got the hard questions.

“My name is Leslie….” The bastard rolled the entire list off her tongue.

“Yes.”

“But, I’m also the ‘bastard’.”

“Yes.”

“But what does it mean?”

He cleared his throat and prepared to begin an explanation. Then he changed his mind, thinking it through again. He could lie. He could tell the truth. Or, he could avoid unnecessary complications. He chose to keep his life as uncomplicated as possible, starting with, “My position on this vessel is as the captain, right?”

“Yes.”

“But my name is Henderson Leslie Gerard.”

The bastard nodded.

“You are Leslie Allan St. John,” as she opened her mouth, he held up a hand. “Yes, I know you’ve more. But your position on the Fortune is as the ‘Ship’s Bastard’.”

Her gap-toothed smile bathed the room in a satisfied glow that ran up around his heart and set it to fire too. Somehow this tiny person had become something important to all of them. He knew it, no matter how much complaining was done by everyone.

“I’m the ‘Ship’s Bastard’?” Her voice rose in excitement and then, “I’m the ‘Ship’s Bastard’,” gleeful at understanding the honor of position.

“Yes,” he nodded. The captain sighed. He had narrowly avoided disaster again.

Chapter ?

Years later…

She was thrown heavily into the dark fetid hole, still mindlessly fighting them with every tool at her command, teeth, boots, and squirming body. Her furied, grieved screams had long since diminished to croaks and heaving breaths. The clanging boom of the barred door being slammed shut, accompanied by the comments of the men as they left, blended with the ringing in her ears left from a cuff on the head.

Silence descended. And dark.

She entered consciousness hearing a pitiful moan. It had come from herself. Gaining full thought was painful as her memories started afresh, slamming through her mind. She started to sob for what she had lost.

Then she heard a small shuffle and tiny clinks of metal upon metal. The same sound a chain makes when climbed by a…rat! With a swiftly in-drawn breath, she stayed as still as possible to try to locate, in the murky gloom, the exact location of the rodent.

“Thank God, you’ve finally shut up.” A deep masculine voice rolled out from the corner she was watching.

Straining her eyes, she could see a partial outline of something propped against the stone wall. She heard another slight metal clink as the outline moved. Then a heartfelt masculine sigh.

The silence lengthened.

“I’ve a reason for what I do.” Leslie said belligerently. Quiet unchecked tears fell until her nose started to run and she gave a big watery sniff.

Sebastian heard the noise and decided the only way he was going to get any peace and quiet was to lend a little sympathy and then maybe the wench would be calmed enough to quit making those disgusting sounds. He’d had little time to sleep for quite a while.

Surviving the various notions of entertainment his previous cellmates had thought up to use on a man chained to a wall wasn’t conducive to relaxation. They had become inventive as they learned to fear his fists. To figure a way out of his present predicament was going to take some serious thought and he needed sleep so badly he was sick with it.

“What’s your reason?”

The resigned sound of the dark voice wasn’t all that encouraging, but her anguish sought comfort. She started to scoot towards a wall to sit back against, before she answered, when the voice spoke again.

“I wouldn’t sit in that location if I were you.” Sebastian didn’t know why he bothered to warn the slattern, but he couldn’t let any human not know they were about to sit in what passed for a latrine in this hell hole.

Leslie didn’t question the advice. She understood completely when her nose cleared with the last queen-sized sniff. The man had done her a kindness. That was all it took to start the deep sobbing.

Good God, Sebastian thought, how can I get her to shut up? He tried yelling, “SHUT THE BLOODY HELL UP!”

“NO!” Leslie’s voice cracked from her screaming and shouting.

“Then tell me about it.” Sebastian knew he would go to sleep if her voice stayed on an even tone. He hoped her voice would give out soon. It already sounded as if she had tried to eat live cats and they had fought it, scratching all the way down. If he wasn’t chained to the wall, he would already have choked her to death himself.

“My ship is gone, my captain dead, knifed and found …” She gave another sob and great sniff.

Goaded beyond endurance, Sebastian yelled, “BLOW YOUR BLOODY NOSE ON YOUR SKIRT!”

“I CAN’T!”

“WHY IN THE HELL CAN’T YOU?” He couldn’t believe he was having an argument over snot.

“My skirt is filthy.” The reluctant voice said.

The comment and tone of the woman’s voice broke through his fatigue. Why would a slattern thrown in a prison be so particular? He couldn’t believe he was about to give nose-blowing lessons while chained to a wall in prison. Life could be peculiar at times.

A firm voice out of the darkened corner proceeded to explain exactly how to blow one’s nose without benefit of hankie or other suitable wiping materials. It was disgusting, but it worked. Leslie would have been undone again by the kindness, but the unlikely lesson had kept her mind from jumping back to dwell on her desolation.

Silence and shadows reigned for a few minutes. Then she remembered her manners.

“Thank you.”

“Please, will you be silent for only a little while?”

The sound of the man’s exhaustion finally becoming apparent to her, she answered, “Yes.”

Last modified: April 30, 2005