The Stowaway

XII

"You know you are truly alive when you're living among lions." Isak Dinesen, Out of Africa

---- 

XII.

By the second week of her journey, Eliza had managed to get control of her seasickness, or perhaps her stomach, legs, and every other part of her body had grown used to the rocking. It had been five days in succession since she had thrown up and that was a feat in itself.

Eliza had used the time that she had not been sick to take in the garments that Captain Buckley had loaned her. She did not remove any material or put in stitches that could not be undone. She merely pulled in the fabric and sewed in stitches to ensure that the shirts were not billowing on her, and the breeches would not fall to her ankles should she not be wearing a belt.

Having clothing that fit made work a lot easier. Breeches, perhaps, were her new favourite garment. She never knew how easy climbing ladders and stairs could be without a long skirt in the way. Eliza knew that her mother would never allow her to wear breeches when she returned home, so she needed to have her fill of them now.

As she worked, Eliza continued to get to know the other crew members. Her favourites were probably the Irish brothers, Cian and Diarmuid. Eliza loved their jovial constitutions and their colloquialisms that she could not understand. They regularly brought out their instruments of a night time, and Eliza enjoyed dancing with the other sailors, only now she minded what she drank.

Eliza also got on rather well with Jonesy and Echo, both of whom were still on head duty, but were really cheerful and forgiving fellows. They both had danced with Eliza during an evening céilí.

Jackie Despard was perhaps the only crew member who had not warmed to her. He still liked to grip his rosary and utter prayers in French or Latin whenever he passed her. Eliza did not take offense. She found the practice interesting.

One could not forget the captain, though. While she was thankful that she had not been woken up again with a pail full of seawater since that morning the other week, he had been no less unpleasant since then.

Except now Eliza noticed him watching her more often. Watching her interactions, her work, her dancing, everything. It was as though he was waiting for her to make a mistake so that he could reprimand her in front of the whole crew.

He particularly hovered whenever Eliza would speak with Zacky. Eliza's memories of the first céilí were foggy. Her own fault, really, as she was the one who had underestimated her tolerance for rum. She did remember dancing with Zacky, but not much else until she was awoken abruptly the next morning by a saltwater bath.

Zacky's nose had been broken, and it was still crooked and bruised over a week later. Cookie had tried to set it for him, but it still was not straight. Zacky did not breathe a word of how it came to be. He seemed more formal than before, and did not ask to dance with her again.

Everyone knew what had happened, though. The captain had done it, he had been the one to break Zacky's nose, which to the shock of the crew, seemed out of character for him. Eliza did not know what Zacky could have done to warrant such treatment, but it only made her more frustrated, perhaps, with the close attention that she was receiving from the captain.

Had Zacky made a mistake in his work? Is that what he would do to Eliza if she made a mistake? Eliza immediately thought her bitter notion was foolish. No matter her opinion, she knew that the captain would not hurt her.

Eliza also knew that the moment she would have the captain's good opinion was the day that she was safely aboard a passenger ship home to England. She had tried to make amends, forge a friendship, or at least a cordiality, with the captain shortly after her had thrown water over her. But he was not the sort of man for friends, or cordiality ... or even civility, it seemed.