The Stowaway

XXXIII

"She took a step and didn't want to take any more, but she did." Markus Zusak, The Book Thief

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XXXIII.

Tom had never experienced a darker, or bleaker, period in all his life. In all his life.

Leaving Eliza had been the worst thing he had ever had to do, and what made it exponentially worse was that he had hurt her in the process. What sort of man could ever do such a thing to a beautiful woman, both inside and out? He had allowed himself to fall in love with her, and what was worse? He had acted on it. He had given her hope and expectations, and then had dashed them like a cruel, villainous cad.

His only consolation, he supposed, was that he had dashed his own hopes as well.

Tom had to leave Plymouth. He could not spend several months in the same town as Eliza, even if there was only a minute possibility of running into her. He could not have the temptation of her being in his proximity. What would stop him from eventually running to her, falling to his knees, and begging her to live her life in poverty just so that he could have her?

By leaving, he knew he was giving the both of them their best chance at a future.

Eliza would meet and marry someone more suitable to her needs. That was the way of the world. In ordinary society, Eliza and Tom would never have met. She was a lady, destined for greater things.

And Tom?

Tom would work until he died, no richer then than he had been as a child. Alone. He would never be good enough to provide the sort of life that Eliza deserved.

Tom had sailed the Atlantis south from Ireland, making port in Portugal. He would never travel to the West Africa coast, but this route allowed his ship to sail through warmer waters, even if it did take longer to reach the West Indies. It was the necessary precautions he had to take to avoid sailing through dangerous, icy Atlantic waters.

Only a few of his crew members elected to remain behind in England. The promise of additional wages without the need to spend hard earned coin at port was incentive enough.

"Captain?"

A knock on the door turned Tom's head from his map and compass. He struggled to concentrate in his cabin, and he could rarely sleep in it.

Jackie stood at the door tentatively.

"What?" snapped Tom.

Tom had always had a reputation for being a cold but fair captain. But his mood since departing Plymouth nearly a month earlier had been completely foul. His temper was short and fiery, and he could not hold a conversation with anyone without tearing their head off. The crew had quickly learned to keep all communications short and to the point, and, much to Tom's humiliation, they all knew the cause.

Tom could barely eat, and his lack of sleep was evident in his eyes. He was miserable, and he did not know what on earth he could feasibly do to stop it.

"It's about that time," Jackie informed him. "Jonesy has the needle ready if you're wanting your additions."

Tom's eyes quickly focused on the bandages that he could see that were wrapped around Jackie's torso, visible from the collar of his shirt.

Jonesy was always the one responsible for administering the next round of tattoos to the crew. He had the steadiest hand and took great care in this role.

His thoughts suddenly went to Eliza, as they often did, and he was quietly thankful that Jonesy had not taken care enough to notice that Eliza had been stowing away in that rum barrel.