Page 56 of If I Go Down with This Ship

I don’t have the energy to.

“Eddie.”

I swivel on the bench to find Mick leaning against a beam, a mug of ale cradled in his hands.His shoulders are drooped forward.He was the master rigger, once, and he must be beating himself up for losing that crew, even if the fault doesn’t lie with him.

Eddie, who is sitting across from me and nursing his own ale, looks up in surprise.He has a piece of bread partway to his mouth, but he pauses, tilting his head to Mick.“Aye, Mick?”

Mick swirls his ale, not looking up.“I could use a good joke right about now.”

Eddie sets aside the bread and brushes off his hands, his expression turning serious.Until now, Mick has made itabundantly clear he cares little for Eddie’s jokes.Now, Eddie straightens in his seat.Everyone leans in, waiting to see what he’ll do, their hands tightening around their ale like Eddie’s bad joke will somehow cure the heartbreak.

“What’s a pirate’s least favorite vegetable?”Eddie asks.

There’s an excruciatingly long pause.

“What?”Mick says.

Another beat of silence, and I glance between the two men.Eddie scoots forward, and there’s a shadow of his usual smile right before the punch line.

“Leeks.”

As if we’re all following the same line of logic, we regard the water flooding the ship, the damage the storm has done to the structure and the half-assed patches we’ve made.I chuckle.It’s a silly joke, I know, but I can’t help myself.

And then Pip laughs low, a boisterous, throaty sound, and one crew member joins, and then another, until only Mick isn’t laughing.We all look to him as we wipe our eyes and throw back our heads, but he’s holding his belly, bent forward as if in pain.

Is… is hecrying?

Setting aside my ale, I grip the edge of the table as I move to stand, but Mick just shakes his head and chuckles deep.The sound settles the tension stretching between us all, and I breathe in a sigh of relief as I plop back down on the bench.

“Thanks, Eddie.”Mick raises his ale in salute with a wide smile, and the rest of us do the same.

If there’s one man aboard this ship who can mend the hurt among this crew, perhaps it’s Eddie and his terrible jokes.

Eddie beams.“Anytime.It’s what I’m here for.”

I throw back the rest of my ale, wipe my mouth on mysleeve, and stand.Slowly, almost painstakingly, I return to the deck.There will be no rest, no peace until this ship is whole again, and we have a lot of work ahead of us.

For the next two days, we take turns on the deck, clearing away the debris despite the roaring waves and scooping out the water with buckets.Just when it seems we’ve cleared away the worst of it, another large wave hits us, and we start over.

My hands and body ache impossibly more as I bend, scoop, and shuck the water over the side of the ship.We fight against each oncoming wave as it splashes over the railing and slams against us.We’re exhausted, and I know even without looking that I am covered in bruises and cuts.

But of course, I look.The skin around my ribs is sensitive as I prod it, deep purple bruises encircling me from where the rope dug in around my waist.My hands scream every time I pry them open to grip one of the buckets, but I don’t stop.

I stood on that deck along with my crewmates, muscles coiled in fear, straining in my spot against the power of the storm forhours.And even now as we swap off and on, I simply cannot sleep, not yet.

So I take my breaks up on deck.My head throbs in time with my pulse as I lie back and massage my temples.I sag in my spot leaning against the railing.Licking my dry, cracking lips, I peer out across the ship and see Silas standing at the helm.His hair is slicked back, his clothes drenched and clinging to him, but there is a steadfast determination across his features as he steers us out of the last of the storm.

Opening and closing my hands, I force them to move against their will.New scars line my palms from old blisters, but large, crude wounds stare back at me angrily from the linesof the foremast, and tears prick my eyes as I make my throbbing fingers close once more.

My skin is crusted with salt, and my throat burns from the series of waves that crashed against the ship, against me, nearly drowning me.My hands are bleeding and I have never been colder, but I am alive.

We are alive.

Jack nudges my foot as he saunters past.“Are you all right, Laszlo?”he asks.

“I will be.”

He stares silently at me for a long beat before turning on his heel and disappearing belowdecks.