Hardship on the Waves

1588-01-17
Western Sea

The days after the raid blurred into grey skies and creaking timber.
The wind turned contrary and the Westward Trader crawled.
Barrels of fresh water ran low; biscuits went hard and weeviled.
Sickness crept among the men like a silent boarding party.

I rationed my cup and shared tunes at dusk to steady hands and hearts, tapping a slow beat on the deck until the coughing eased.
Still, hunger breeds anger.
Whispers of unfair shares and hidden casks circled with the rats.
Faces that had grinned when they called me “Master” grew hollow and watchful.

One noon the water line in the scuttle-butt fell short of the mark.
Pietro swore it had been dipped early; Niall swore just as hot that the sun stole more than any ladle.
Knuckles whitened on staves and knives.
I set my heel as if on the eight-pointed star and asked them for measure:
step back, breathe, count the strokes.
We parcelled the remainder by the captain’s ledger, slow as a funeral bell, while I sang under my breath to give their anger somewhere to go.

The fever took two and laid three more in the shade of the mainmast.
I gave up my share to wet their lips and taught the healthy to move even when their bellies were empty: small steps, tidy guards, economy in all things.
“Save your strength the way you save your water,” I told them.
“Spend neither without a purpose.”

The ship began to feel like a weapon drawn and held too long: edge quivering, arm burning, no safe recovery in sight.
The ropes thrummed like strings tuned a quarter turn too tight.
We were on a line we could not yet release, and I feared that when it finally slackened it would not be by choice.