By some twisted stroke of fortune, I’ve been plucked from the clutches of death by none other than a merchant whaling ship. It’s a strange thing, being saved by those I’d once considered nothing more than prey. I’ve raided dozens of merchant vessels in me days, but now their lot has become my saviors. There’s irony in it—enough to make a man laugh if it weren’t so damned uncomfortable.
The crew looks at me with unease, and I can’t rightly blame ‘em. I’ve got the bearing of a pirate, and they know it. There’s no hiding the scars, the roughness in me voice, the stories etched into every crease of me face. They don’t say it outright, but I see the way they glance at me when they think I’m not looking. A few of ‘em probably wonder if I’ve got a dagger tucked away, waiting for the right moment to slit their throats and make off with their goods. I don’t—but the thought did cross my mind. Old habits die hard, I suppose.
Once the worst of the dehydration passed, and I could stand on me own two legs again—wooden though they may be—I knew I’d have to earn me keep. There’s no room for freeloaders at sea, and I’ve no interest in being cast off like driftwood. I took to the deck, working alongside the crew. The skipper, an old sea dog himself, keeps his eye on me, but it’s the greenhorn that’s taken a liking to me. Lad’s young—barely grown—but eager, and he’s got the same fire in his belly that I had when I was his age. Had it not been for the Captain all those years ago, pulling me from the gutters, I reckon I’d have ended up just like him—an honest man working the decks. Funny how life twists and turns.
The food, though—aye, it’s leagues better than what I had on the Anthurium. Back there, the galley churned out the same greasy slop twice a day. You ate because you had to, not because you wanted to. But on this whaler, the meals are hearty—fresh fish, salted meats, and bread that doesn’t crack your teeth. Last night, I even helped myself to seconds, something I’d not done in years. Still, I keep my guard up. I eat my fill, but I’m counting the days until we make port.
The skipper says we’ll hit land in a month, and until then, I’ll keep pulling my weight. Every day that passes brings me closer to what I need: dry land and a way off this ship. I’ve got no plans to stay with this crew longer than I have to.
I’ll bide my time, take what comfort I can in this cot and these meals, but mark my words—this isn’t the end of my story.
