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Captain,” he lulled in his genteel Scottish accent.
    When Bristol brought the warm-squeezed milk he was told to balance on the window bench opposite—I assume to make me feel safer—and together we listened to the sailor’s oft-spent tale of ascension through the ranks to his command of the profitable Argyll . When his monologue finished, his tongue ran on into Bristol’s story—revealing how Mack had been sent to sea under Bristol’s father (a worthy mentor called Captain Jude Armstrong) and how he owed all of his skills to this fine tutelage. Apparently, Bristol was the youngest of five sons and when his father was lost in battle against the Spanish, Mack felt obliged to recruit him as cabin boy to pass on the family trade. I listened to the mellow words and kindly intent, and gradually my toes uncurled and my fingers stopped clenching. Bristol also seemed relaxed and comfortable now, so I wondered why the ship’s surgeon was able to give him so much grief. The captain then turned to me and said, “It’ll soon be time for the bells. But come here tomorrow, straight after breakfast, and we’ll see if we can find you some dancing clothes.” I swallowed hard, wondering how to respond. By the time the clapper rang its final strike I’d already jumped to my feet in time with Bristol’s own swift movement for the door and, anxious to be dismissed, bobbed a curtsey at the square-shaped man. Then I joined the other girls to pass on my seeming good fortune.
    The pitchy hold was still damp so the women were bickering for space on the dryer planks. I sat back to back against Maude, nestled between Violet and Dollie, who spread out the width of their shifts in a rough kind of sheet to keep off the salty slime. Maude twisted her neck round and asked, “Where did you get to, Lola?” When I’d explained in rapid whispers what had occurred in the captain’s cabin Violet muttered something to Dollie I didn’t catch, then she squeezed my leg and said, “Best get some sleep, duckie”—so I rested my head on her shoulder and allowed the bouncing waves to rock me to elsewhere.
    Next morning began nippy and brisk. When I looked over the netted bulwarks the sea was puckered in peaks like the endless coils of an inky dragon. I tiptoed shyly across the quarterdeck and knocked on the cabin door, dismayed I couldn’t see Bristol nowhere about. A voice yelled, “Come you in!” so I timidly entered the carved-out room. Captain Mack was eating breakfast at his small table. He motioned for me to sit on the other chair and passed me a jug of frothy milk to pour for myself. Then he carefully shared some bread and cheese—the most delicious things I’d tasted in weeks—before pointing to an open sea chest. I wiped my mouth on the back of my sleeve and followed his eyes. “Take your pick,” he said. Then he settled back to watch my greed. I lifted the lid and saw a dazzling collection of frivolous cloth. There were gossamer sheets that flowed like silk, ribbons of every brightness imaginable, velvets and calicoes and lacy scarves. I wasn’t sure what he wanted me to do with them so I stood gawking until he clarified, “For your dancing.” I ain’t never touched nothing so fine in all my life so I gulped and said “They’re lovely,” and started pulling the items out, each one more splendid than the last, until I eventually found a silver filigree belt small enough for my waist. I could loop strands of ribbon through the holes and attach a lace-edged scarf to make a skirt—and use a similar piece of brocade work as a bodice. The captain sucked on a lidded clay pipe that he wouldn’t ever light belowdecks on account of the fire risk, while I busied myself for my evening performance. A short while later Bristol arrived with the fiddler who’d played that first night, and we talked over some songs we both knew. Then suddenly the lookout spat an urgent alarm and everyone rushed from the cabin. I heard “Sail ho! Starboard