"Next time," Edward said to Herbert over the side to the hold through a few laboured breaths, "we leave the chair."
Herbert chuckled as he began his climb. "Aye, Ca… Aye, Ed," Herbert amended quickly. This was the Black Blood, and Edward was not his captain.
Herbert's journey up the ladder was nearly as laborious as Edward's, as Herbert could only rely on his hands for stability, leaving his legs dangling beneath him and swinging with each advance up the rungs. Once on the other deck, Edward held Herbert's chair steady for him as he climbed into in and got comfortable again, placing a small blanket over his emaciated limbs to hide them from sight.
Edward recalled that Herbert had once said the act was meant more for others than himself, as he had already come to terms with his circumstances. Hiding his legs did nothing for him—they were a part of him—but for others, it stopped the staring and the shrinking that came after they realized they were staring.
After Herbert settled, they went the short distance to the crew's quarters, now adjusted for dining. The hammocks, usually stacked three high in rows along the hull with a mere inch or two of clearance for each row's swinging arc, had been put away. The accessible area was now filled with crewmates in clusters sitting flush on the deck as they ate from large soup bowls.
This ship, unlike the Queen Anne's Revenge, had no designated dining area, no tables, no benches, no segregation between living and eating space. And no privacy. By the time each man had their bowls, Edward could tell that the dining space would be shoulder-to-shoulder with bodies. The thought of having to sit shoulder to bloody shoulder with these men in an already oppressively humid environment rankled Edward more than the rigorous work above deck had.
Close to the stern, near the cut-off to the hold but centred between port and starboard, was a large iron stove in the middle of a pit of sand held in by sturdy wooden planks covered in more iron. The stove was an older design than in Edward's ship and had far less utility. The meals it could supply were limited to the standard stews common on long voyages made in pots as big and broad as Edward was.
Near the stove, hanging from the rafters of the ship in twine, were a variety of dried spices swaying with the bobbing of the waves. From a distance Edward couldn't recognize many of the spices, save basil and parsley. They still looked fresh from what Edward could see; given that they were just in port they may have been bought the day before, or they could have been stolen from a merchant ship before that for all Edward knew.
Mixed in with the heavy and thick air of sweat, shit, and salt from the sea, Edward could smell the distinct aroma of boiling potatoes, but that was about it. None of the spices hanging in the air, nor those in the stew, made it to his nose. All else was lost in the pot, but Edward surmised it was some meat salted heavily enough to dry the throat, and some other vegetables that fared well over long voyages, hearty vegetables that on their own could be tasty and healthful, if only one joined it with complementary foods. The problem was that most complementary foods were impossible to keep aboard a ship.
And after months on board, that was when the scurvy came in. Edward was fortunate enough to never have been that far from shore when he was younger, and after Alexandre joined, he claimed to have knowledge of a concoction that helped in prevention over long voyages, though Edward wasn't privy to the ingredients. It helped his crew avoid the bleeding gums, the loss of teeth, and the bone weariness and pain that came before the fever, the tremors, and the death.
Thinking about the sickness, Edward thought back to the crewmates he'd had the displeasure of meeting over the day. Many had lost teeth, but not one man had the signs of the disease, or if they had, it seemed it was long behind them. He wondered what was their secret, as they certainly couldn't have another Alexandre aboard.
As Edward took in the surroundings of the ship and how small it was, it felt as though the Queen Anne's Revenge were a castle in comparison. The economy of space in the Black Blood seemed to be taken to an extreme, and the best way to describe it would be with one word: cramped.
Edward felt cramped in the small quarters and the mass of controlled clutter around the ship. Each deck, and each section of each deck, was more compact and efficiently used. Even on Bartholomew Roberts' small ship, it felt more open, as though he could move and breathe freely. Here, the confined spaces boxed him in, the weight on his chest bending him inward like wood bowed from stress. Edward was trapped in a tinderbox with over one hundred enemies in the middle of the sea, and he was on the edge of sparking.
But not all was dire. As Edward had been taking stock of the scene before him, he noticed John, the same John with the cup of water, walking towards Edward and Herbert with three bowls cradled precariously in the crook of his arms. John carried the food, as important as a child in this exhausting work aboard a ship, with the same delicacy and mannerism of carrying his own baby.
Edward stepped forward and took two of the bowls from John's arms and handed one to Herbert. Before Edward or Herbert could give their thanks, John spoke up.
"If you men would enjoy a bit of privacy, I happen to know just such a location," he said with a genial smile bordering on a youth's naïveté.
Edward glanced at Herbert for a moment. "Lead the way."
John took them away from the crew's quarters and towards the bow of the ship. They passed by some other men late in getting below deck for their share of food, drawing long, covetous stares at the bowls in the three men's hands.
Midships Edward noticed the surgeon's room, slightly off-centre with the rest of the ship, thick walls of hard timber on all sides save for the open doorway with no door running down the middle on both ends. It looked hardly big enough for two men to lie out on a table, and as they approached, Edward could see just that: two cots side by side with two men lying in them and a third empty one happening to be poking out on the starboard side, while on the port side, Edward could just make out closed shelves and storage for a surgeon's instruments.
On the starboard side there was a small space just barely wide enough to walk through that John was leading Edward and Herbert towards. It had evidently been a design flaw in the construction of the ship, as the surgeon's room could have been centred to allow ample room on both sides for any and all types of cargo to head towards the hold. As it stood, the port side was open enough for three to walk shoulder to shoulder, but the starboard could barely fit Herbert's chair, if that.
For that reason, it seemed, the walkway had been blocked with a barrel and a makeshift curtain. John placed his bowl on top of the barrel and gently slid the wooden keg over, allowing access to the alcove beside the surgeon's room. He moved the curtain aside and motioned Edward and Herbert inside.
"I don't think I'm going to fit," Herbert said, with a slight frown quickly forced into a smile when John looked over at him. Before John was able to respond, Herbert spoke again. "I'll manage, you two go on."
Edward took the lead and entered the alcove without another word on the subject. He didn't want John to dwell and mutter useless platitudes on the subject, as he knew Herbert wouldn't want that either.
Edward and John entered the alcove and sat down, Edward on top of a barrel at the other end of the cramped space, and John leaning into the bowed shape of the ship's starboard planks. Herbert positioned himself where the barrel had been previously, side-faced to the opening with his legs touching the corner of the surgeon's room. Herbert locked himself into place and then turned in his chair to better see the other men.
"There," Herbert said, a small smile on his face, "this should do."
John handed out two cloth sacks to Edward and Herbert, holding biscuits, four each, for the day's rations. The ship's biscuits were hard as rocks and would break the teeth if eaten as they were, but they were necessary after the hard day's work.
As though on some stage cue, the three men took a biscuit each from their bags, knocked them on a plank of the ship once, and dropped them into their stew. The ritual was so common amongst s
ailors, none typically gave it a second thought as the biscuit soaked and softened in the thick broth.
Edward did give it a second thought, as the memory of where and when he'd learned of the ritual came to mind. It was his father who had taught him, as it was his father who had taught him most everything he knew about ships.
He was brought back to his younger years, brought on by a now tainted nostalgia, to a time when his father had brought him on a short fishing trip with his friends. The small boat had had only one sail, and a single deck to store provisions and their haul.
"Salt pork again, is it?" Edward's father said with a wry smile.
Edward remembered looking up at his father; so enormous and imposing was his frame in those days he could think of nothing but awe at the form he wished he could attain someday.
"Er'y day is salt pork," one of the shipmates said. Edward couldn't remember his face or name, but he remembered those words. "Afternoon, salt pork, evening, salt pork, 'morrow'll be salt pork, and the day affer that too. Every bloody day salt pork."
"Now, now, gents," the cook said, "that's just not true. We've got salted beef too."
The group of them laughed at the comment as ship's biscuits were handed out. The men got four each, but Edward's father only handed him two. Edward remembered wanting to object and ask for more, but he didn't want to make a fuss in front of his father's men.
Edward's father took a biscuit in hand, held it up and gave his son a glance to see if he was following along. Edward had already been mimicking his father and looked more towards him than at the bowl or biscuit, despite his hunger.
His father smacked the biscuit against the wood of the ship at his feet, then dropped it into the stew. A half step behind, Edward did the same. His father smiled at him, and Edward smiled back.
The memory was a curious but arresting look back at the father of his younger years. It was so far removed from the father he'd met just a few moons back, the one who now called himself Calico Jack, that it felt like a different person. His father had never been cold to him, had never scolded him without reason, and had only been hard when he'd needed to be. Edward had never known his father to do vile things to both women and men, let alone all the other horrible stories he had heard told about Calico Jack over the years.
Edward would be lying to himself if he thought it didn't make what they were about to do easier. Calico Jack wasn't his father now, not really, and the more he thought it over, the more Edward thought there was no way to avoid giving his father exactly what he seemed to want.
Edward pushed aside the dark thoughts and focussed on the hunger in his belly. The other two were already well into their stew, and Edward needed to catch up.
As Edward had suspected, the stew had been saturated in an ungodly amount of salt, the results of curing and storing aboard a ship. There was almost no way to rinse the salt away, and so it ended up in the stew. This was on a whole other level from what he experienced aboard the Queen Anne's Revenge, and it made Edward's toes curl.
Sensing another cue, John produced three cups from his own cloth holding his biscuits and filled them with the laced water from a waterskin.
The three men, so focussed on their food, neglected each other's company until they had halved their stews and thrown another biscuit into the mix. Edward was first to take pause and speak.
"How does your crew manage the scurvy? I notice few have the signs."
John smiled. "See the red bits in the stew?"
Edward took closer note of the broth, leaning to catch the light coming from grated rafters above them. Just as John had said, there were bits of some red vegetables in the stew. Edward isolated the vegetable and chewed on it. After a moment, his tongue felt as though it were on fire.
"Hoo, I think I've had this before. Some type of pepper, is it not?" Edward managed through painful breaths. He took a drink of water, but it only made the pain worse.
John chuckled. "Yes, it helps ward off the disease, and if it's properly dried, it can last quite some time. And the rats don't seem to like 'em, so we have no fear of losing them on a long voyage."
"Clever," Edward said as he held his hand over his mouth. The heat was dissipating slowly, but at that moment it was nearly unbearable.
"Interesting that it becomes so masked in the stew," Herbert commented as he stirred his spoon and peered into his bowl.
"Not much is needed, from what I'm told."
"I'll have to remember this, though I don't know if I want to," Edward sputtered, the heat now starting to simmer down.
The three men chuckled at Edward's misfortune and continued eating for a bit in their small private space on the ship.
A noise at Edward's back sent pricks down his neck and arms. He got up and turned around, some combination of his senses telling him he should be on alert.
Sure enough, a hand pulled away the curtain on Edward's side of the secluded spot. The hand belonged to Edward's chief tormentor and his reason for staying so wary despite their making it aboard the Black Blood. Nigel's pock-marked face came into view, a broad, wicked grin pulling at his cheeks.
"What 'ave we here?" he said. "Couple'a babes ready for the slaughter?"
Edward heard footsteps behind him, and one of Nigel's friends was on Herbert, a knife at his throat. It was the man whom Edward had knocked down during his trial to join the crew, though Edward could not recall his name.
Herbert's eyes were wide. Edward saw his hands inching to the secret compartment of weapons in his wheelchair, and it made him painfully aware of his own lack of arms.
Edward turned back when the sound of wood scraping across floorboards sounded from Nigel's direction. He'd moved the barrel aside during Edward's distraction, and held a long knife in his hands. Behind Nigel was another man, blocking any chance of escape.
"Let's finish wut we started earlier."
Edward raised his hands in a defensive position, his years of training and conditioning working without thought. He assessed the length of the knife, his distance from Nigel, and Nigel's reach. Edward generally had the advantage in height, but it meant nothing in the confined, trapped space beside the surgeon's room.
At least they can patch me up quickly, Edward mused, a soft, dark chuckle escaping under his breath.
"Nigel, stop this madness!" John shouted, but he hadn't moved from his near supine position against the starboard wall.
"I'm jus' giving the greenhorn what's coming to him."
"What should he have done? Laid down and died? The captain told him to fight you, and so he did."
Nigel gritted his teeth and glanced over at John. "He shouldn'a tried to join in the first—"
Edward sprang, his hand darting down and then up towards Nigel's wrist. Nigel's eyes—anyone's eyes, for that matter—were too slow for the smooth and efficient motion. Like a viper, Edward snapped at Nigel's wrist, striking it smartly. The swiftness took Nigel by surprise, and the knife flew from his grip and lodged itself into the wooden wall of the surgeon's room with a thunk and a twang.
Behind him, Edward heard a scuffle that he hoped Herbert was in control of. Edward couldn't afford to look away from Nigel now, even if it meant getting stabbed in the back again.
A voice broke through the small din of the fight, taking the wind out of everyone's sails. "By these copper legs o' mine, if you all don't stop yer fighting, I'll dump the lot of you overboard." The words came from behind Nigel, a simple, almost soft, declaration that carried with it a queer kind of weight.
The tension was cut at once, a sharp contrast to the still swaying blade in the plank of the surgeon's room.
"Get out here, all of ye."
Nigel gave Edward and John a harsh look before turning around and exiting the alcove. Edward gave himself a moment to glance over his shoulder at Herbert, who had gotten the better of his opponent and looked unharmed. He gestured to Edward, signalling everything was all right before he headed the long way around the surgeon's room along with Nigel's friend.
Edward and John were the last to leave the small space.
Nigel and his friends all lined up in front of Grace and the other men, while Herbert stayed off to the side away from Edward. John pulled Edward back, and the two stayed a few paces from the three who had just attacked them.
"Want ta try and explain just what you were about to do?" Grace asked.
"Jus' a little welcoming party for the new recruits, ma'am," Nigel responded, with a bit too much cockiness by Edward's estimation.
Grace grinned as though she enjoyed the joke Nigel made, then kneed him in his nether regions more swiftly than Edward had knocked the knife from his hands.
Too much cockiness by far.
Nigel doubled over in pain, grabbing his ballocks in both hands. He fell to his knees with a gasp of pain.
Grace bent down slowly to Nigel's pain-postured level. "You would'a killed him if I hadn't come along. Just admit it, for both our sakes." Her words were soft, but they carried the same measured, even, and cold words of command. This was not the kind of tone that could be taught, only the kind learned over a lifetime of experience.
Nigel, still whimpering, protested at first, before lapsing into begging. Edward understood the protesting, but not the begging. Why was he begging?
Grace rose to her feet in that same measured, even, and slow way she had moved when she'd knelt. "I don't permit liars on my ship," she said, "nor those who kill a crewmate."
In one motion, Grace pulled a pistol from her belt and fired it at the back of Nigel's head, his last supplication brought short by a lead ball through the brain. His pulpy mass exploded onto the deck below as the loud crack rang across the ship and took all other noises with it if but for a brief moment.
When the other noises returned, although stunted by the crew recognizing the sound of gunfire, Edward was able to process what had just happened.
Edward felt pressure on his sleeve and noticed John had gripped his shoulder and a part of his clothes. When Edward looked over, he let go.
"Ugh, got blood on me boots!" Grace lamented. "Get this mess off my ship," she commanded. The senior officers leapt into action and dragged the bloody body of Nigel away.
Blackbeard's Family Page 9
