Page 12 of If I Go Down with This Ship

Captain Night shoves me and the logbook, and I lurch backward into the railing, my hands tightening around thebook.My roaring heartbeat is in my throat as my eyes flick to the pirates behind him.

“Do not make me regret this decision.”His tone is dark, and there is no way to misread it.He nods to the logbook.“See that you listen to everything Jack tells you.”

With a curt nod, he turns on his heel and crosses the main deck, stopping beside an older man at the helm.I breathe deeply and lean against the railing, watching him silently.This is all so unreal.I picture Louise’s face, the excitement stretching across her lips when she showed meShe Deceitful.What would she do if she were in my situation?What would she say?She probably would go so far as tugging on facial hair to see if these pirates were real.Louise might start a fight just to see what they would do.

But me?I feel impossibly lost.Here I am, on a pirate ship in the middle of nowhere, with a captain who hates me and a crew who look on with hostility and distrust.I have no way to get home, no clue what to do other than find a way to fit in here.Find a way to survive.

Pirates have always been fun and games to me.Stories from a far-off time, legends from another world, people I intended to write fiction about.Drunken crews sailing ships as they laughingly shot cannonballs at oncoming man-of-wars while they danced with Death.They hunted for treasure, slept around, drank their fill, and fought for the sake of fighting.

Like most people in modern times, I’ve had this certain vision of pirates for so long that I was not prepared for the truth.Not prepared for the gritty crew with death in their eyes as I turn and meet their haunted gazes, or the thrill I felt as the captain pressed a knife to my throat, his hardened stare making me question…everything.

I am not prepared for any of this.

I look out over the ship and its crew, the logbook clutched tightly to my chest as I scramble for memories of any cabin boys I’ve ever seen, any hint of what my job entails.What does a cabin boy even do?Writing, math… I’m lost, and I need to convince Captain Night and his crew to keep me alive.I need to become irreplaceable.

“Don’t worry ’bout ’im,” someone says, sidling up next to me.

I blink and swivel toward a short white man with a bald head.The sun-pinkened skin of his scalp is tattooed with a compass rose in intricate detail.His blue eyes shimmer welcomingly as he grins up at me.He holds out a wounded hand, the bandages wrapped around his palm and wrist dirty and bloodstained.

“The name’s Jack,” he says, winking.“I’m the first mate.”

5Can I Kelp You?

Jacklooks every bit the image of a first mate; I don’t know how I missed him before.

“Laszlo,” I offer, taking his other hand.It is sweaty and slick with god knows what, so I keep it short, taking my hand back with a grimace and sneakily wiping it on my pants.

Jack eyes the logbook, seemingly unmoved by my awkwardness.“Cap’ain’s been doing all that on ’is own for some time,” he says with a nod toward it, his voice deep and gruff.I tighten my grip, frowning.He laughs.“It’s nothing to worry ’bout.We lost ’alf our crew in a raid, so’s we all been doing extra work ’ere and there.”He grins when I say nothing.“You look a bit lost, Laszlo.”

You could say that again.

I clear my throat, taking a beat to sort through everything he’s said.The accent is admittedly more difficult to follow than I’d have thought, certainly British, but rougher than anythingI’ve heard.I can’t quite place it, but it’s jagged.His words are incomplete, entire sounds cut off, skimmed over.I take a mental note of this for later.It could admittedly come in handy for a character in my book.

“I didn’t realize what I was getting myself caught up in, I’m afraid.”I tilt my head at him, mouth dry.“The captain said something about helping you with this?”I ask, patting the logbook for emphasis.

Jack crosses his arms as he pushes off the railing, flashing me a set of crooked yellow teeth.“We’ll ’ave you doing all sorts of things in no time, Laszlo.”

Sliding the logbook under my arm, I scan the ship.I don’t even know where to start.“Would you mind showing me the ropes, so to speak?”

“Oh, gladly.”He motions me forward, pausing to hold up a hand, eyes sparkling.“First things first, we call ’em lines, not ropes.Rope is jus’ the material used—lines ’ave a purpose.There’s certain terminology on board ships, boy, but you’ll get a ’ang of it in no time.”He winks, crossing away, and I make another mental note.

Lines, not rope.

“And if the rope doesn’t have a purpose?Do I still call them lines?”

“No,” Jack says, grinning, “tha’s jus’ rope.”

“Even these?”I ask, pointing to the ladders of rope that stretch all the way to the top of the masts.

“No,” Jack says, outright laughing now, “those are ratlines.”

“Grand,” I mutter.

Someone calls out over the ship what sounds like, “Ready about!”

“Ready!”several other call out toward the bow.

“Star Wars tracks!”the person at the wheel yells.