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I ain’t. I’m Cockney!”
    “Good.” Then he added, “I bet you cannot guess where I am from. . . .”
    I stifled a giggle and said, “I reckon I can!” We shifted ourselves into more comfortable positions before I inquired, “Who’s after you then?”
    Bristol sniffed and then said quietly, “That bastard surgeon . . . Dr. Simpson.”
    “What’s he want you for?”
    The young voice quivered and confided, “Vile things.” He paused and added, “You know. . . .” I didn’t really, but I said nothing further. Then the four bells boomed in the background and the surrounding deck responded with a swift change of movement. Bristol slithered under the rim and was gone. I peered cautiously out and quickly wormed into the center of a group of women being steered back down the hold. The grate was locked above us and the darkness of another night descended.
    The rain began sometime before dawn and saturated those sleeping nearest the grid if they failed to rouse and roll away quick enough. After several persistent hours we were all drenched by the rising puddle that slopped and pitched, sloshing from edge to side and basting us all ankle deep. The crew (now all hands on deck) battled to steer against the torrent to keep the wayward craft stable, and after some jack-tar fell off the ratlines and broke his back on the capstan, the few who responded to our shouts made it pretty obvious we wasn’t getting no food until everything returned back to normal. We shivered and voiced our own briny complaints until late midmorning, when the waves became ripples and the clouds eventually stopped shedding. The late sun peeked out, drawing everything steamy, and we were finally finally finally allowed up above. I deliberately chose to sit in a shaded corner right below the quarterdeck so I’d be harder to spot, because much as I love to dance I didn’t want no one paying any more undue attention. But before I’d even settled my arse Bristol appeared at my arm and said, “The captain wants to see you.”
    Up close, I could see Bristol was taller than me and was obviously more well-to-do. He’d a curly halo of bright red hair and keen green eyes that were lost in a starburst of freckles. I’d spent several of the previous wet hours puzzling over his appearance on this ship but at that precise moment my own dilemma was more pressing. “What’s he want?” I asked. The boy shrugged his bony shoulders and indicated that I was to follow him past the boatswain to the cabin door. I looked furtively around to signal one of my friends what was happening but all the girls were now otherwise engaged in their own affairs. A gruff voice barked to enter and Bristol nudged me forward, then shut the door. I was alone with Captain James Mack.
    I stared down at the hem of my soggy dress because I didn’t want to acknowledge such a formidable enemy. I’d no idea what I’d done wrong—but instinctively dreaded the unknown reprisal. The captain’s long stare bored into the top of my skull and I started shuddering. He lumbered toward me, lifted my chin so he could study my face, and muttered, “Mmmm . . .” He rotated my neck to observe each profile and added, “So you’re our wee dancer, eh?” I didn’t utter no sound but stood and let him take in his fill. At last his grip released me and he ordered, “Look at me, lassie.” I immediately obeyed and beheld a beefy, squat man with gray curly whiskers, peppery beard, white thinning hair, and flint-specked eyes. He was heavily scarred in the creases across his forehead and over his nose. And he was missing the tips of three fingers from his furry left hand.
    “My boy says your name’s Lola.” I nodded. “What will you drink? Wine? Rum? Ale? Water?” I said nothing. “Milk?” he tried.
    I looked at my toes and stuttered, “If . . . If you please, sir.”
    He strode to the door and sent out instruction, then sat on the tilting bunk and bid me perch alongside. “Address me as