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men on deck were shoeless.
    It was only then that William realized his own feet were bare. His footwear had been removed while he had lain unconscious. He glanced down at himself. Although the trousers were his own, he was embarrassed to see that he still wore his nightshirt which hung lopsidedly over the front of his pants. Attempting to tuck it in, William discovered that the large pocket sewn into the front of his trousers still contained something. The only thing in the world that was truly his. It was so trivial, yet here, having been wrenched away from anything familiar in his life, it was a desperate talisman, connecting him with his memories of home. His hand carved flute.
    Where are my shoes? They left me my tunic? In the middle of his thoughts, William spied a young boy polishing the glass on the ship’s cabin windows. The child appeared to be about seven or eight years old and was painfully thin. Smith noticed William staring and explained.
    “That’s young Tommy. He was brought on board only two sails ago. He be the powder monkey.”
    “The what? Whose son is he?” William was appalled that any father would let so young a son on board.
    “He be the monkey. The one what delivers the powder to the gunners when we be in battle. An’ he’s no one’s boy. Picked him off the street, they did.”
    “Stolen?”
    “Nah. Rescued.” Smith saw William’s questioning look. “He’d a’ died anyways, left on his own, he would. Starved or beaten dead by someone, just fer fun maybe. On board, he gets fed and beaten no more than he deserves.”
    “But his parents–”
    “Probably don’t have none. None what he knows of anyway. He don’t even know his last name no more.” Smith grinned and continued, “So’s he just goes by Jones. Tommy Jones. That’s ‘cause one day he’ll go back to Davy Jones, which is the only thing what’ll take him back. Ya’ see,” he said thoughtfully, “Davy Jones’s is likely to take us all to the depths sooner or later.”
    Their appearance on deck gave cause to the men to pause in their chores as they stared at the two arrivals. Some openly leered and shouted obscenities about what they would do with the boys’ mothers. William had never been the centre of attention for anything. The only person who had ever stared at him for more than a few seconds at a time had been Maggie–dear, sweet Maggie–and William wished with all of his heart that he was back at his family’s hut, back with his dull and repetitive daily tasks. He felt the eyes of the sailors boring into him.
    I feel like a sow taken to town and put in the sale pen. You got your eyeful, you friggin’ fish eaters, now go to hell!
    As if reading his thoughts, Smith placed a hand on William’s shoulder and yelled, “Ahoy! Listen up you slimy bastards! This be Cook’s help and a lander, Mr. Taylor!” As if in response to this news, William heard low grumblings and words of acknowledgment coming from the crew members nearest to him. He glared back at them in defiance, his fingers curled into tight fists at his sides–a reflexive action in self defense, but it also hid the nervous shaking he felt.
    “Back to work, ya’ farkin’ toads!” a voice louder than all the others bellowed, and the command was punctuated by the sharp crack of a whip on the wet decking. The voice belonged to a huge man, a man who towered over the rest and whose massive biceps rippled as he slowly and deliberately coiled up the strands of his whip.
    “That’s First Mate Rogers!” Smith gasped, his voice quivering, as the giant of a man advanced upon them. “Fer God’s sake!” he pleaded in a whisper, “Taylor! Don’t be lookin’ him in the eye!”
    Smith’s warning came too late.

 
    “What have we here?” the giant bellowed. William stared up at the mountain of flesh approaching him. He had never seen so large a man. With skin the color of darkened wood, and thick greasy strands of hair as black as coal streaming from