The Cabin Boy

Rosalind

Henry and Curie, the sailing master, were standing side-by-side at Henry's desk, both examining a heavily-annotated map. Curie looked increasingly nervous as Henry's scowl deepened, his expression growing darker than the night outside. Though they were sailing north and the days were long, night had still fallen and it was very dark. They had departed from Tromso only  three days earlier, and already the temperatures were plummeting to well below seasonal.

That, combined with the fact that Henry, for reasons unknown to the crew, was in a foul temper, made Curie edge around Henry cautiously, evidently wary of irking his captain.

"Shift our course north north-east," said Henry. "Make sure it's not north-east. For the love of God, don't sail us into Greenland."

Curie nodded, concurred, and departed. His head was hanging in submissiveness, his cold-reddened hands nervously twisting the brim of his hat. Henry slammed his fist on the table with a growl. Then he sat down, still growling wordlessly.

 So when there was a delicate tap on the door, Henry snarled:

"Come."

John crept in. Despite his demure appearance, Henry could still see gaiety sparkling in his eyes.

"Sir. You called me," he said. In a gesture he had learned from the sailors, he clicked his heels together and stood straight. Buried in a thick jumper, he still looked fragile and soft.

"I did. Where's my damn supper, boy?" he growled.

"In the mess, sir. The cook is not quite finished preparing it," said John.

"Oh? And what sort of excellent supper is it, that it takes so long to prepare?" snapped Henry.

John grinned viciously. "It is the most excellent of dishes, sir," he said. "First, a course of the absolute worst wine anywhere in the world has to offer, and then a course of the cook's least appetizing boiled carrots, and then, of course, for the main course, salt pork and beans."

Henry, despite his temper, smiled at the boy. "Dear God, preserve us. If I have to eat much more of this, I will shoot myself before we even reach the ice."

John laughed his mockingbird's trill as he bowed his head. "Shall I tell the cook that you are most impatient for your supper, sir?"

"Do," laughed Henry. "Then tell the bloody man to boil himself next time for all the good he does on this ship."

John laughed too. "Aye aye, sir," he said and Henry took note of the fact that the sailor's affirmative had slipped into the boy's vocabulary. He moved to leave, but Henry stopped him.

"Oh, and John?" called Henry.

"Yes, sir?" asked John. Henry was surprised to see the boy's face arranged into a hopeful expression as he turned about, the movement as graceful as a young lady dancing.

"Dine with Mr. Hawking and I when supper is ready, won't you?" he asked.

"I would be honoured, sir," said John, bowing his head.

"There's a good lad. Now off you run," said Henry, gesturing that John should leave.

John obeyed, off and light-footed, nimble and elegant and utterly unlike the lumbering sailors. Henry shook his head and sat down at his desk. Pulling a small journal from the drawer, he dipped a quill in ink and paused.

This was not his ordinary journal, the one in which he kept the details of their voyage, the captain's log that detailed weather, supplies, the morale of the men.

This was a personal journal, and one he had never used.

But now he had someone to write about, as much as he barely wanted to admit it.