#froggy scribbles

You truly don’t know why you agreed to come. The bar is buzzing, stuffed to the gills with military types and people looking to fuck military types, and you’re neither. Certainly not some super secret black ops elite task force member, or however the others might describe themselves. You’re just a nobody little intel gremlin Laswell plucked from counterterrorism and plunked into the 141 for one purpose: secure actionable intel faster. The original mission was supposed to last three days, but it went tits up in less than three hours (not because of you, thank god). Everything snowballed, and you’ve been stuck here ever since, doggedly tracking leads, trying to put the final nail in AQ’s coffin.

Despite Laswell’s stamp of approval, the captain has never seemed to fully trust you. He’s constantly hovering at your periphery, barging into your office (closet, really) to inspect your work, nitpicking every mistake. At first you thought it was because he wanted to hammer home how lethal any small inaccuracy can be for the team. Your intel literally makes or breaks their missions. But now you’re convinced he just has it out for you. A forgotten paragraph break isn’t going to kill anyone. It feels juvenile to say as a grown-ass adult, but you’re really fucking good at your job, and you want him—need him—to acknowledge that and let you get on with it.

At the very least, it’d be nice if he stopped glaring at you from the moment you enter a room to the moment you leave.

Luckily, the boys have been friendly, sometimes veering toward too flirty, but never crossing the line. Not under Price’s watchful eye.

That’s why you’re here, you suppose. Because it’s been a month since you joined the team and Kyle and Johnny insisted on celebrating that milestone. They were both adamant that you had to be the one to ask the captain, not letting you in on the reason until you got to the bar: they were desperate for a night out and knew Price would relent if it was you.

Anything to get you out of his office, probably.

It’s too bad because everyone you’ve met respects him and are terrified of him in equal measure. More than once, you’ve seen others’ estimations of you visibly grow once they learn you work with the vaunted Captain John Price.

It’s also too bad because something about him really does it for you, not that you’d ever admit it. But anyone who looks that fuckable in a stupid boonie hat and cargo pants has got to be up there in your books. Though, he looks just as good in what he’s got on tonight—dark jeans and a solid gray t-shirt, drawing your eye to the width of his shoulders, the curl of his arms, the strength of his thighs. In some paradoxical way, the plainness of his outfit stands out, calm waters in a sea of loud prints and flashy jewelry.

Even in civvies, his bearing screams officer through and through, and you’re sure those women can sense it as they pout coquettishly and laugh a little too loudly. You scoff into your beer. He can be funny, but not that funny.

Guess that next round won’t be coming anytime soon.

“You’re gonna burn a ‘ole through his ‘ead if you keep starin’.”

Ghost’s voice is low, but you can hear the amused lilt. The two of you are the only ones left in the booth. You thought he’d been ignoring you, content to watch the pheromones flying around the bar. Alien observing human mating rituals or whatever. Seems like that’s not the case.

“I’m not staring,” you snip. Liar.

“Sure. And my name’s Nancy.”

“Whatever, Nancy. It’s just-” You can’t help but continue, gesturing vaguely toward the two women with your mostly-empty glass. “Is that what guys are into?”

You’re being unfair. You know. Everyone here’s looking to get laid. Hell, Gaz and Soap fucked off ages ago to god knows where with the first people that made eyes at them. Probably getting sucked off in a bathroom stall, or fucking in the alley around back. Honestly, good for them. And good for these women for knowing what they want and going for it, unlike you. Under other circumstances, you’d enjoy watching them pull, be rooting for them, even.

“Guys?”

Ghost raises an eyebrow. How you can tell with his mask on, you’re not sure, but somewhere along the line, you’ve learned to read him. When you don’t answer, he repeats:

“Guys? Or Price?”

“Shut up. Prick.”

“Ouch. Gonna ‘urt my feelings.” He downs the last of his lager. “Don’t get your knickers twisted. Old man’s bein’ polite. Wouldn’t be single if he went for just any warm ‘ole.”

Crude, but it mollifies you.

So he is single. That was something you hadn’t been able to verify. There’s not a ring on his finger, but that doesn’t mean shit. A confirmation from Ghost, though… If anyone knew about a secret lover, it would be him.

“Thought that might perk you up.”

God damn. You need to remember how perceptive they all are. Or stop being so fucking obvious. Both.

The captain returns, setting three fresh pints down and slipping into the booth beside you, leaving plenty of space. One arm stretches casually across the backrest, close enough to feel the heat coming off him but not touching you. Never touching you.

“Ghost behaving?”

“Never, sir.”

The man in question nudges you, jutting his chin toward the bar. “This could get interestin’.”

One of the women has followed Price over, sliding in on his other side. Her blonde hair looks soft and lustrous, cascading elegantly down her shoulders. She lays one impeccably manicured hand on his bicep, pushing her tits into him. A claim. He doesn’t brush her off.

“John, are you going to introduce me to your friends?”

John. Like she’s earned the right. Ghost doesn’t even call him that.

“They’re subordinates, not friends,” he grouses, but obliges her.

“A pleasure to meet you both.” She leans over the captain, giving him an eyeful under the pretense of shaking your hands. You take a too-big swig of your beer when you catch him peering appreciatively down her dress.

She’s inevitably flustered when Ghost refuses, deadpan stare sending her to you with her hand outstretched. You shake it, albeit reluctantly, dropping it quick as you can. It’s soft and warm and not clammy like yours. Her perfume lingers like a flowery miasma.

Price shifts to give her more room, settling with her pressed against his left. You’re trapped against his right, sandwiched uncomfortably between the two large men. Ghost is a brick wall on one side, Price a boulder on the other, and fuck, he smells good. Summer nights and clean laundry. Tobacco, coffee, and wood. Something to nestle yourself into.

The woman keeps up conversation, questioning Price about his most dangerous missions and responding with suitable amazement at his answers. Stroking his ego (and his arm, presumably his leg too, though you don’t dare confirm). It probably works on a lot of men.

You don’t want to stay long enough to find out if it will work on him.

“He must be an awful tough captain to keep both of you in line.”

Your knuckles are white with how tight you’re clutching the glass. Looking up, everyone’s attention is on you, expectant.

“Nope, just awful.”

The first thing that comes to mind slips out. Your eyes widen and dart to Price when your brain catches up to your mouth. There’s never banter between you and the captain, not like with the rest of the team. He keeps his distance. At best, you can hope to be ignored. At worst…

No reprimand comes, though. Instead, the captain presses further into your side, sending shivers up and down your spine when he murmurs in your ear, “gettin’ cheeky are ya?”

The woman laughs. He’s never like this. The beer must be going to both your heads. You should leave before you do something stupid.

You shove Ghost. “Move. I want some air.”

“Nah. Don’t think I will.” 

“I said, move, asshole!”

He doesn’t budge. Pretends like he can’t even feel your punches. He probably can’t.

An errant elbow catches Price in the side. “Watch it.”

“Tell Ghost to let me out!”

“What’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing!”

“Then stop bloody thrashing.”

“I just want some air. Is that too much to fucking ask?” You screech. 

You freeze at the scowl on Price’s face. Overreaction. Insubordination.

“Alright. Come on, love. Let’s have a little chat.”

“No, I- sorry- I’m fine, sir.”

“I’m not askin’. ‘Scuse us.”

Price all but shoves the woman aside and yanks you from the booth, barreling through the crowd and out the side door to the parking lot.

The door closes behind you with a resolute bang. Music and voices muffled to a dull drone. You glare at your feet as he pulls a cigar out of his pocket and lights it, cherry flaring crimson when he takes a puff. You did need some air. The breeze does you good. Clears your head a little.

“Right. What’s got you all worked up?”

“Nothing, sir.”

He repeats your denial, incredulous, bringing the cigar to his lips again. Puckering, holding for an indulgent beat, breathing out a dense cloud of coffee, chocolate, almonds. Toasty with a sweet finish.

“Well?”

You blink away from his lips to dart back to his eyes, burning a hole through you.

“It’s really nothing, sir. I’m probably just tired and drank too quickly. Won’t happen again,” you mumble. The excuse sounds weak as it leaves your lips, but you pray he’ll just accept it and go back inside. Tell you to go home and get some rest.

He can do whatever he wants with that woman for all you care. Not like you have any claim on him. Not like he owes you anything.

“You’ve had a right cob on all night.”

“I have not.” You sound petulant. Might as well huff and puff and stamp your feet too. 

“Do I need to ask Simon?”

“No.”

“Then spit it out.”

Without the hat, everything about him feels different. Short cropped hair and mutton chops peppered with gray. It should look ridiculous—and it would on anyone else—but he pulls it off somehow, gives it gravitas, makes you want.

Even the way he looks at you is different. Heavier. You feel exposed under the crystal blue of his eyes. Revealed to be a hissing, cornered kitten trying to sink its useless little claws into something.

Might as well be yourself. Rip the band-aid off. End this stupid crush here and now.

“Just- can you just tell me if that’s what you’re into?”

“Explain.”

Stupid, frustrating man. That’s the last thing you want to do. Your jaw’s clenching so hard you can barely squeeze the words out.

“That woman. Is she- is that what you’re into?” Your hands make some flimsy waving motions in the air, hoping to convey whatever it is that you apparently don’t have.

He’s silent for what feels like hours, scrutinizing you between puffs of his cigar. You’re sure it’s deliberate. Your cards are all on the table and he’s playing some kind of mind game to make you nervous, get you to fold. It’s working. Worst case, he’s contemplating how to discipline you. Best case, how to reject you. The more time passes, the more you want to flee, sprint home, beg Laswell to transfer you and never look back. You’re mulling over your transfer options when he snuffs the cigar butt under his boot, pulling your chin up to really look at you. Narrowed eyes dart between yours.

Your breathing shallows. Lips part when he ducks down.

Your body responding to him, subconsciously. And fuck if it doesn’t make him downright giddy.

“‘S that what you were worked up about, sweetheart?” Gravelly and patronizing. His lips pull into a mean grin. It sends a jolt to your core, makes you want to melt into a puddle on the concrete.

He pushes a muscled thigh between your legs, pinning you against the building. Hears your sharp intake of breath when he grinds it up into your pussy. Eyes crinkling with undisguised glee like a child finding exactly what they asked for on Christmas morning.

“That all you needed, honey? Could’ve just asked.”

He presses you down, hands like clamps around your waist (sure to leave marks) as he drags you over his thigh. Growling and grunting like a rutting animal even though you’re the one with stars in your eyes.

Your hands search for anything they can reach, tucking under his shirt to grab urgently at his stomach, firm underneath just a little pudge. Gripping the thick hair on his chest. Grounding yourself. Is this really happening? It’s more than you imagined, but still not enough. You lurch up to kiss him, tongue licking into his mouth, lips grazing the coarse hairs on his face.

Taking one of his hands, you shove it unceremoniously down your pants. A moan rips out of his chest when he feels how sticky you are.

“Suck.”

You obey, docile as a lamb when he sticks two fingers in your mouth.

Unbuttoning your jeans relieves a bit of pressure and gives him room to ease a finger into you. It’s thick, easily twice one of yours, and you go limp against him as he gently works it inside. One knuckle. Two. Gliding in and out easily with your slick. Shushing you with a kiss to your temple.

“That why you work so hard?” Your head bobbles weakly and you just about go cross-eyed when he works a second finger inside. “Look at the state of you. Could’ve asked me any time for this, sweetheart.”

He feels around until you buck, almost headbutting him when he finds it. Cooing at you like a puppy that learned a new trick. He goes slow at first, calloused fingertips dragging across that sensitive spot. Precise, metronome strokes that accelerate. The pace has you trembling on the edge, chest heaving, drool trickling down your neck, pussy squelching so loud it drowns out the noise from the bar.

He wants to commit every iota of this to memory.

His hand shifts, thumb swiping against your clit. Quickening bursts. Firecrackers popping, one after another. Nails dig into skin but he doesn’t register it, too drawn to the way your eyes are rolling into the back of your head.

“Oh my god fuck fuck fuck-”

The sensation spreads, crashing over you, waves cascading to the crown of your head, the tips of your fingers and toes and back again. Your knees buckle. Everything is silenced.

The world comes back slowly. There’s hair stuck all over your face. You’re outside. It’s cold. You’re hot, tucked against your captain. Shirt rucked up. Both of you panting. 

Languidly, he takes his fingers out of you and into his mouth, slurping up the juices with relish. He kisses you, swiping your taste across your tongue. Hungry, slick, tart. Dark chocolate from his cigar. Malt from his ale.

“Fuck. Captain. That-”

Before you can catch your breath, he’s zipped up your pants, patting your pussy over your jeans like a dog.

“Right. Let’s go.”

The abrupt command sends you reeling. Whiplash. That’s it? Sorted? Go back inside and what? Pretend nothing happened? Good enough for a parking lot and nothing more.

Your expression must betray you because his voice softens to a soothing rumble. The promise of rain on a sweltering summer’s eve. “Sweetheart, I’m not going to stick my cock in you in some piss-riddled parking lot like a randy teenager. We’re going back to base so I can fuck you on a proper bed.”

“Oh.” He’s being considerate. It’s almost old-fashioned. But, “what about-”

“Ghost will take care of it.” Reading your mind again.

“But Johnny and Kyle-”

“Ghost will take care of it.”

He cuts you off, forcing your hand to the enormous bulge in his pants, a steel rod nearly bursting the seams. Saliva pools in the corners of your mouth. You nod dumbly, the size of him rendering you speechless.

“Now get your arse in the car.”

++++

Sluggishly, you blink awake.

A sliver of light across a cluttered desk. Your mouth feels dry. You’re lying curled up on dark navy sheets that definitely aren’t yours. Whiskered lips brush along the back of your neck.

Your raspy oh is met with an answering grunt.

“Good. You’re up.”

Something prods your ass until you part your legs, letting him slip between the crease of your thighs. Big mitts splay out, digging into your thick thighs, squeezing them together as he rocks back and forth. It chafes, skin still tender from going so many rounds last night. Insatiable man.

He cups the head of his cock against your clit, catching it with every thrust. Sharp zings through your core, making you twitch and buck.

You clamp your thighs to give him more friction. 

“That’s it. Get her ready for me, sweetheart.”

You can feel the drag across your skin. His arousal and yours smearing all over his full, heavy length. Some of his cum’s probably still there too, making an even easier glide. He seems content to cradle you like this, thrusting leisurely, keeping himself on the precipice. 

Not you though. A whine builds in your throat, an unspoken ask that he answers immediately. There’s almost no resistance when he slips in with a satisfied sigh. He feels so fucking good, stuffs you so full it feels like your brain has leaked out your ears. Blissful static is all that’s left.

Unlike last night, he doesn’t go slow, pistoning into you at a lethal pace, knocking pitilessly against that spot that makes your toes curl and your pussy clench. Balls slapping against your clit. Sucks messy bruises into the back of your neck and shoulders, bristles scratching the sensitive skin there.

One hand finds yours, lacing your fingers and pressing down together into your soft stomach, and you swear to god you can feel him there. The other flips your head around to draw you into a sloppy kiss. It could almost be sweet if he weren’t being such a brute. You can’t even moan. Can barely breathe. Tongue shoved down your throat, cock shoved up your pussy.

It’s too fucking much. It’s not long before you’re close, back arching, walls tightening, attempting to scramble away as much as draw him deeper.

“Christ, honey,” he bites out, “‘s like you’re on a mission.”

How he knows your body so well already, you have no idea. He lets go of your hand, slipping thumb and forefinger into the mess between your legs to pinch your clit. It’s mean, it makes you squeal, it hurts. It sends you careening off a cliff as you cum, free falling, wind whipping, clenching so hard he has to really cram himself in to keep from being pushed out entirely.

You lay rubber-limbed in a puddle of sweat, catching your breath, brain still rebooting. Jostled about as he pounds into you with abandon now, knocking the breath out of you, probably growling something absolutely filthy if you had the presence of mind to make sense of it.

Hands tighten. One hard thrust. He lets out a final, shuddering moan as he cums, spurting white hot into your pussy with half-aborted thrusts, trying to bury himself deep in your guts.

His grip relaxes, though he doesn’t let you go. Morning sun shines bright now through the curtains. The pillows are nowhere to be found, the sheets have disappeared too. His sweaty chest presses flush against your back, hairs tickling you. Hot breaths huff against the crook of your neck.

His dick gives a valiant twitch when you shift. “Morning, John.” It feels strange to call him that. You have to make a concerted effort, but you want to test it out, see how he reacts.

“Bloody good morning, sweetheart,” he chuckles, pushing himself up, arm shaking just a little. He finally slips out of you. A month’s worth of want gushes out behind him. He crawls down to prise your legs apart and check his handiwork. It flusters you, the intensity with which he zeroes in on your pussy.

You have to look away, only to squeak in surprise to suddenly feel his tongue laving over your clit. You’re warm and pliable from your orgasm, letting him push and bend you to his whims. His beard scratches the inside of your thighs, now even more tender. His fingers delve in too, unrelenting strokes, just this side of painful, until you peak again, hard and fast.

You’re still riding high when a piercing ring cuts through the room. He doesn’t bother wiping his face before answering the phone, rasping out an affirmative with your cum and his smeared all over his beard. “Copy. Briefing in 15, room 12.”

Shit. 15 minutes. Not enough time to go home and change.

Before you can panic, Price is already half-carrying you out of bed and toward a large, private bathroom (the benefits of captaincy), turning on the water, and pulling you in behind him. It’s slow to heat, but he stands in the spray, shielding you from the worst of it. 

“Don’t have all day.” He points at a bottle of shampoo in the corner.

You fumble at first, finally squeezing some out into his outstretched hand. He tugs you toward him (apologizing when it makes you stumble), wetting your hair under the now-warm water, patiently massaging it into your scalp. It’s a welcome surprise that has you humming, eyes closed in bliss.

While he shampoos his own hair (some perfunctory swipes, at best), you decide to return the favor. Lathering the shower gel across his back and shoulders, kneading at the hard muscle. They’re tight with tension, and the groan that rumbles out of him is beyond pleased. Cleaning him feels like a treat. Plush muscle and thick fur, sudsy whorls across his stomach and chest.

He indulges too, caressing the soap over the curve of your neck, soft plush of your waist, paying particular attention to your breasts and the tender, swollen lips of your pussy.

Your fingers trail low, following the coarse hair down, down, making sure that every inch of him is lathered. Despite cumming moments ago, he’s sprung back to life. His hands shoot out to stop you, though it looks like it pains him. “Careful, love. Got no time for that.”

When he climbs out of the shower, his reluctance stands blatant between his legs.

You have to scramble to dry off and change. Now that you’re clean, the idea of wearing yesterday’s clothes again makes your nose wrinkle in disgust, though there’s not exactly a lot of options. Definitely skip the dirty underwear. The jeans will be fine. The shirt…

“Here.”

Something garishly red is tossed in your direction, unfurling to reveal a Liverpool FC jersey with Barnes 10 across the back. You frown, eyeing the other t-shirts folded in the same drawer. All dark blues and grays.

“Can’t I borrow something else?”

“You want to wear yesterday’s clothes, be my guest.”

When he uses his captain voice, you can tell there’s no point in arguing.

Ghost is already in the conference room when John herds you inside. One look at your outfit has him choking on his tea.

“Looks like someone had a good night.”

“Watch it, Simon.” Though Price’s tone is far from threatening.

Kyle and Johnny arrive next, eyebrows disappearing into their hairlines when they see the captain’s arm draped over your shoulders, him looking every bit like the cat that got the cream. They throw cheeky winks your way before sitting down, neither saying a word (something you didn’t think possible).

Kate comes in last, and you really don’t know what to think when she doesn’t comment either. Just lets out a weary sigh before starting the briefing.

She’s quick and to the point. The forensic accounting methods you’ve been experimenting with have unearthed a promising lead—a major AQ funder. That’s the gist. A lot of details go in one ear and out the other, distracted as you are by John’s thumb stroking over the purpling bruises on your neck.

“141 will roll up the HVI in Copenhagen. I’ll link up with my Russian counterpart. We’ll see where they lead us.” Laswell nods toward you. “You’ll need to be on standby to vet the intel we gather.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Rog. We’ll split up. Ghost and I’ll recce his compound in Copenhagen. Soap and Gaz secure the perimeter. Primary objective is the HVI.”

Long, verdant ramparts stretch across the skyline, looming larger as the ship nears the isles of Sumatra and Java. Between them, the entrance to the Strait of Sunda expands, the narrow gap growing from a pinky’s width on the horizon until it is wide enough to fit a dozen ships sailing abreast.

Shining yellow sand beaches rapidly hem you in on both sides as the ship nears Prince’s Island, narrowing further still past the great volcano Krakatoa. 

On the main deck, the ordinary seamen trim the sails under the direction of Ghost and Soap. The sailors obey with alacrity—the imminent restocking of provisions must buoy everyone’s spirits as they scramble to steer the Cutty safely through.

On the quarter deck, you can just see Gaz and the captain if you crane your neck. Gaz is at the wheel, guiding the ship. Captain Price stands planted with feet apart, surveying the waters ahead through a hand-held telescope, beard twitching sporadically as he relays directions.

With everyone occupied, you take the opportunity to slip away.

The officers used to let you alone for the most part. It meant you could use the officers’ head and wash yourself off in the captain’s bath while performing your duties, as long as you kept it quick and inconspicuous.

Since the raisin incident, however, if you’re out of their sightlines for more than a few minutes, it’s almost a surety that Ghost or the captain will burst in. For such large men, they are impossibly stealthy. (Ghost is the quieter of the two, materializing from below decks and blind corners where you least expect him. Astonishing, considering he’s often accompanied by loudmouthed Soap.)

It’s become so oppressive that you’ve had to sneak bowls of water to your room to use for cursory towel baths and cleaning your monthly rags. You’re likewise more mindful of your chest bindings throughout the day.

The great irony of their intensified scrutiny is that the persistent mistreatment you receive from the hands of Nichols and his mates still somehow goes undetected. It all leaves you so on edge, you’re making more blunders than when you first started. You’d overslept dawn watch and spilled their food so often in the past weeks, even mixed up Soap’s and Ghost’s shirts out of the wash, that you may well be swabbing the decks for the rest of your life.

You’ll endure it though—and bite your tongue all the while—as long as your wages are on the line.

With one last swipe, you finish your hasty bath and triple-check your chest bindings before rushing back outside.

Squinting into the sun, you step on the main deck to find Gaz at the helm, weaving the Cutty skillfully between the dangerous shoals and ships of all sizes that dot the waters. A few you recognize thanks to Gaz and Soap. Others you’ve managed to decipher from the ship’s log.

(You can’t help but inspect its contents on the rare occasions it’s left open. The entries are reminiscent of your father’s scribblings, but unlike your father’s calculations, most of the captain’s notes are unintelligible—not because of his penmanship, which is irritatingly elegant, but because you have only cursory knowledge of the winds and currents that he keeps meticulous track of.)

There’s no sign of your chief rival, the Thermopylae, but you’ve evidently made good time against the Thyatira who left London a fortnight ahead but is still here at rest in the strait. Then there’s the Doune Castle astern and to starboard, who’s caught up again since falling behind at Cape Colony.

To port side, a small town sits nestled at the base of a lushly forested mountain. A modest pier juts out into the water. Beyond it, the seas open wide and unending once again—the end of the strait—which means this must be Anjer.

“Hard aport!”

The sailors strain and pull as one, reducing sail and slowly halting the forward momentum of the ship. Like at Cape Colony, the Cutty doesn’t bother with the drawn-out process of docking, but anchors at a distance so she’s poised to depart as soon as she’s victualled.

Once the Cutty has stilled and the men are dismissed by Soap’s whistle, they swiftly attach their ropes to the bowlines and surge toward the port side railing, the topmen scurrying down to the deck quick as you like to jostle for position.

Curious, you head over to investigate.

Dozens of bum boats have peeled off from the pier and around the other ships to make their way over. Like small wooden rowboats with colored canopies stretched overhead, some look only large enough to fit two people, while others are longer and more slender, perhaps able to fit ten or twelve aboard.

As they near, you start to make out wares of all kinds, chickens and other animals, barrels of God-knows-what, basins of fish, baskets piled high with meats and eggs and other foods. But most of all—boats crowded with women. Dozens and dozens of them. Young and old, beautiful and ugly, in intricately-patterned skirts and vibrant blouses. Some of them, at least. Others are unabashedly bare-breasted, flirting openly with the men and flashing provocative peeks under their skirts.

Their boldness—and the men’s vocal appreciation—has you escaping the throng just as Rudy squeezes in.

You find yourself backing away, stopping only when the starboard railing prevents further progress.

The sailors grow bold, some practically tipping over the railing to whoop and gesticulate at the women below. It’s like liquor had mounted into their heads, each man shouting in rude and intricate detail and reaching down in a bid to pull the women aboard.

It’s not as if you have no knowledge of prostitutes, nor are you some innocent who is clueless of men and the world. It’s not as if their abuse is directed at you, and yet… You feel exposed. Deeply, uneasily aware of yourself.

From this distance (a meager boundary), Captain Price and Ghost loom over everyone from the foredeck, looking every bit the master and first mate.

Ghost aids Rudy in directing the apprentices and other officers. Soon, mounds of speckled eggs, meats, fish, and vegetables and fruits of all shapes and colors are hauled up over the side, carried above the fray and into the galley. Sufficient to refill the ship’s stores for the last leg of the journey.

The captain keeps watch over the men like a hawk. To your great relief, he holds himself aloof, and though he does not keep the men from howling, neither does he allow the women aboard. In fact, any particularly unruly crewman is leveled with a glare so withering it seems to douse what ignites in their loins.

In short order, with stores full, the crew are marched reluctantly back to their posts to take the Cutty full-sail into the Java Sea.

++++

You look on enviously as the officers and apprentices dig in to their dinner with gusto. There’s tender fish, green vegetables, and even some kind of pudding for afters—nothing salted or pickled for the first time in weeks. Rudy’s outdone himself, and you count down the minutes until you can retire to eat your own meal with him.

“What’s the harm in letting the women on, sir? Would keep the crew in high spirits,” George asks slyly, “myself included.”

“Cannae say I’d complain neither. We can even return ‘em on our way back!” Timothy chimes in, mouth still half-full of food.

“Women are bad luck on ships. My grandfather-” Henry starts, his protests quickly drowned out by the other apprentices.

You bite the inside of your cheek to trap the retort behind your teeth. Ordinarily at dinner, you can let your mind drift while serving the officers and apprentices, but the commotion at Anjer clearly remained top of mind for everyone, even despite the fresh victuals.

“What if you didn’t know a woman was aboard?”

You stumble on your way around the table, brandy coming dangerously close to sloshing out and all over Soap.

“Come off it, George,” Henry scoffs, “there’s no chance. She’d be found out straight away.”

“Aye, we’d be short on rations, for one.”

Timothy’s jest draws some laughs and meaningful glances at you.

Your grip tightens on the neck of the decanter.

The officers and apprentices rarely notice you at mealtimes, having become habituated to your attendance. (One of few moments you feel truly free from unrelenting scrutiny nowadays.) It’s only times like these when someone acknowledges your presence tableside. For once, you’re happy to be the butt of the joke if it means an end to this conversation, but it seems you’re not so lucky.

“Well, what if- she could be disguised as a man!”

The room is thrown into uproar. Are ye daft George…wouldnae have the cokum…she’d be topped for certain—the din muted as if your ears were stuffed with wool. The only sound you can hear is your own thundering heartbeat.

Do they know? Surely not. Your eyes dart around the room, breath coming in short, panicked gasps. Is anyone looking at you? Is Ghost looking at you? You have to calm down, tamp down the bile that rises in your throat, wrangle your tumultuous thoughts, relax your expression, breathe-

“Harris. Harris- Jack what are you-?”

All eyes snap to you, and down, to where the brandy you’re pouring into Alejandro’s cup has overflowed- overflowing still. You quickly jerk your hand back with a horrified curse and profuse apologies.

“I’ll go- I’ll clean this up.”

Dashing on to the main deck, you pause for a few shaky breaths. A hush falls again when you return to the dining room with a clean cloth, skirting meekly past Ghost on his way out to oversee the overnight crew.

Humiliation rolls off you in waves. You don’t dare look up to see anyone’s expression, focusing instead on cleaning your mess.

Mercifully, Alejandro breaks the silence.

“It is perhaps not as unusual as you may think. Did you not hear of James Barry?”

The attention in the room shifts toward the man beside you.

“Who?”

“James Barry, born Margaret Anne Bulkley. A celebrated surgeon in the British Army until he passed, que en paz descanse.”

“Surely not, sir!”

“And yet, it is true. I am surprised you do not know him. He was an Inspector General in your own empire.”

“But- nobody found out? She’d grow no beard!”

“Some men don’t,” Ale laughs.

You assume he’s referring to you, and resist the urge to draw more attention to it by touching your chin. Your lack of beard is a frequent subject of jests amongst the crew. Good-natured though it is, it’s something of a sore point.

“Perhaps she could disguise her appearance like Miss Bulkley did, but a woman would never be able to endure a life at sea!" Henry insists.

“That so?” Gaz says cackling, “tell that to Mary Read or Anne Bonny or Akew or the slew of women pirates!”

“What motive would any woman have for such a deception?”

“She’d be punished if she were found, I reckon.”

“Maybe the man she’s set to marry is stinkin’.”

“Naw, she’d be lookin’ for adventure on the high seas! I know I couldnae sit still as a lad,” Soap declares.

“Still can’t,” Gaz mutters.

You bring Alejandro a new cup of brandy once the spill is fully cleaned. Your gaffe seemingly already forgotten, nobody pays you any mind as you move about the dining room apprehensively, clearing plates and refilling beverages. You steal a glance at Captain Price while topping up his cup, and find him staring off, deep in thought.

It’s common for the captain to remain silent during meals, preoccupied with one or another of the constant decisions he must make to keep the Cutty along her course. Tonight, that disinterest may be your saving grace.

With no desire to loiter about any longer, you briskly take your leave for the night.

Just your luck, though, to be waylaid by none other than Thomas Nichols on your way to dinner with Rudy.

“Smells bloody good, eh Harris?”

“Can’t come up with anything new?” you retort.

At least he’s by himself tonight, wafting a bowl of food under your nose, repeating the same taunt you’ve heard half a dozen times now.

You try your best to avoid them, but he and his cronies, Nathan and Mort, take every opportunity to antagonize you behind the officers’ backs, knocking food out of your hands, pushing or tripping you, even faking injury. You’ve been reprimanded many times at this point, and it’s clear that Ghost and the captain are close to fed-up.

“Careful, or the old man might find out you haven’t stopped stealing,” he crows, flashing a palmful of raisins at you before stuffing them past his yellowed teeth. Turns out, your suspicions about him were entirely justified. Fat lot of good that knowledge does you, though.

He chews with exaggerated gusto, delighting in your visible frustration. How does he steal the raisins? When does he even find the opportunity in the first place? You still haven’t figured it out.

It seems he can be clever. On occasion.

“Thieving git.”

“What’d you say?” he snarls, lumbering toward you, puffed up to his full—not inconsiderable—height.

“Problem ‘ere?”

You’re both startled by the sudden appearance of Ghost from around the corner. He keeps living up to his moniker—silent as the grave, and twice as terrifying.

“No sir,” Thomas answers instantly.

“Tha’ righ’ Harris?”

Both of them turn, casting a threatening eye at you, though for different reasons. You wrestle with whether to tell the truth or not. You have to tell someone about Thomas at least, but without evidence… Ghost will doubtlessly think you’re lying, or trying to cast the blame on someone else for your failures.

“Ghost! Ye numpty, ye havnae-” Soap barrels out from the officers’ cabins, halting abruptly at the tense standoff between the three of you. “Wait, what’s happenin’?

In a moment of resolve, you decide to go the route of denial. For now. At least until you can gather enough evidence to actually put this to rest.

“Nothing, sir,” you say to Soap, and to Ghost you finally answer, “there’s no problem, sir.”

“Aye, well then,” Soap brightens, “Ghost, ye comin’?”

Ghost squints dubiously at you and Thomas, clearly loathe to abandon his interrogation, but Soap’s coaxing eventually wears him down. You scamper off as soon as you’re dismissed.

++++

May 16—Noon, West Hook bore east 2 miles. Winds, variable, faint airs and squalls. At daylight found ship inside of Six Islands. Must have been strong easterly current. Numerous coral shoals. Wylo and Thyatira in same position.

17—Lat. 1° 39’ S., long. 107° 18’ E. Winds, variable, faint airs and hot sultry weather. Nine vessels in company. Signalled barque Crested Wave, Cardiff to Shanghai, 108 days.

18—Lat 0° 2’N., long. 106° 58’E. Course N. 8°W. Distance 104 miles. Winds, variable and south, faint airs, calms and hot sultry weather. Signalled ship Fiery Cross, London to Hongkong. (Cutty Sark had made 10 days on the Fiery Cross.) Noon, St. Barbe Island E. By N. 3/4°N., 16 miles.

The tropical airs do you no favors.

No matter the hour, torrential downpour or blazing sun, it feels like being engulfed by the fierce breath of a hot oven.

What’s worse, it’s a Herculean effort to keep your head down both literally and figuratively when most everyone roams around maddeningly bare-chested.

Like a magnet, every time he’s on deck, you feel him pulling at your awareness. By the dozenth time, you must finally concede that he is…appealing.

Neither your punishments nor his cruelties in Crimea have been forgotten, but there’s little harm in a well-kept attraction, so long as your gaze doesn’t linger overlong. A friendly appreciation and nothing more, much like you’ve come to appreciate the mellow tones of Gaz’s voice, Soap’s exuberance, or Ale’s lopsided grin. 

(Everyone needs their little vices to help endure the hot latitudes.)

Surely many people would feel the same. He’s the veritable archetype of a mariner: hat perched in a spirited manner atop his head; perspiration plastering the dense hair to his body; arms like the trunks of the young palms ashore; silvered scars embossing his skin, gleaming over a mosaic of bronzes—lighter on his face and chest, darker on his forearms, and darkest yet on his hands.

The most infuriating days are the ones where it’s marginally cooler, when he wears his shirt unbuttoned, hairy chest peeking out coyly, a coppered beacon that draws your notice. Those nights you find yourself hardly able to sleep a wink.

You stomp down on the guilty affinity with the women at Anjer, who had eyed the men with intention, and the more shameful camaraderie that binds you to the men and their vulgar notions.

You’re no better than any of them.

Worse, you’re a hypocrite.

++++

The Cutty mostly stayed with light airs, but with Samisana Island in sight, the wind came strong from the northeast, bearing down with a fresh head gale.

A cheer goes up when the topmen sight the north end of Formosa. Opposite the strait is Foochow, where the Wylo is docking for her cargo of tea. You carry on still further north.

By the time you next awaken for dawn watch, the Cutty has arrived at the mouth of the Yangtze. Gaz draws your attention to the sea here, where the waters are the tint of pea soup. “On account of the mud flowing out from the Yangtze,” he explains, and you recall the name Yellow Sea from the captain’s maps.

The buzz of excitement among everyone on board is palpable, and looking toward the seemingly-endless expanse of land before you, you cannot help but feel an upwelling of combined excitement and fear.

At long last, you’ve arrived. After months at sea, in mere hours, you’ll finally take your first step into Shanghai—a place you’ve only read about in the newspapers. What will it be like?

Historical notes:

Bum boats are small boats that approach large ships to sell goods (and often prostitutes).

Thank you to ao3 user lilitrania for pointing me toward James Barry! It was such fun to read about him and include him in this chapter. In reality, I’m not sure how many of these characters would have actually known this at the time since James Barry passed in 1865 shortly before this fic is set, and while some people who knew him claimed they knew he was not a man, other people said they saw no evidence of that. BUT. It was too cool not to include here!

Literally everyone has facial hair, idk what to tell these dumb little apprentices. Maybe they will learn!

Mary Read and Anne Bonny were notorious English pirates from the early 1700s. They served under John Rackham attacking merchant ships in the Caribbean. Ng Akew (known under a bunch of other names as well) was a woman from Canton (now romanized as Guangdong) sold to an American opium captain in 1842 and conducted her own successful opium trading business.

The selections from the ship’s log are taken almost verbatim from the actual ship’s log of the Cutty Sark. (If you plug the latitudes and longitudes into Google Maps, you’ll see exactly where they are at that moment, just make sure to add -/+ properly for the hemispheres. This is !extremely! exciting to me!)

All that’s to say, you’re not exactly feeling bright and bubbly at the moment and the sarcasm isn’t helping.

When the doors—predictably—still don’t budge after more grunting and huffing, you finally surrender. It’s probably for the best, anyway. It could be dangerous—you never know when the elevator might start back up.

With a resigned sigh, you slump against the wall opposite him, sliding down against the cool metal surface until you’re sitting in a heap on the ground. You keep your gaze trained on the floor, tracing the diamond-patterned inlay with your eyes, refusing to look up at the I told you so smirk hiding behind his hand.

It was a bit exciting at first. An unexpected blip in your day to tell your friends and coworkers about then inevitably forget by the weekend. Not to mention, the man you’re trapped in here with is good-looking. Tall, lean, muscular, with a full head of blonde hair and black-rimmed glasses framing honey brown eyes. You’ve seen him in passing around the museum and always imagined him as quiet and kind, a gentle giant type.

Obviously, you were way off.

The minutes really drag when there’s nothing to do.

There’s no cell reception this far underground. Glasses barely responded to your earlier attempts at conversation. You’ve sat and waited, stood back up, sat down again. Pushing the floor buttons does nothing, walking around the car for the hundredth time has lost its appeal.

A loud gurgle cleaves through the silence—your stomach—as if you need another reminder that lunch was hours ago. You should be sitting at your desk, fighting drowsiness, still a little over-full from your meal. Not slouched here, fantasizing about the ten-don place around the corner.

At least the air conditioning is still running. The faint sheen of sweat on your forehead has dried now that you’ve stopped exerting yourself.

“Here.”

Two packets are tossed into your lap. He tears open a third, head tipping back against the wall as he tucks an almond between his lips, accentuating the long line of his neck and the bob of his Adam’s apple when he swallows.

You almost roll your eyes (of course this man eats plain, unsalted almonds), but not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, you tear in to the first pack with a quiet thanks.

It slowly makes you feel better, enough to make another attempt at conversation.

“What are those?” You point at him, and then at your own wrists. The details are hard to make out from across the elevator, but some kind of cufflinks glint on his wrists.

He brightens. “They’re Tambatitanis.”

At your blank look, he elaborates, “have you heard of Brachiosaurus? Brachiosaurus are sauropods like Tambatitanis.”

If you squint, you can make out the golden skeleton of some long-necked, long-tailed creature. “So it’s a….dinosaur?”

“Yes, it’s a dinosaur.”

“Oh. Cool! So you like dinosaurs then?”

The sigh that he lets out sounds long-suffering. “Yes, I do.” He doesn’t elaborate further, and you fall back into an awkward silence.

Finally, the emergency speaker crackles to life, causing you both to jolt upright.

“Maintenance has arrived. Everyone please stand back from the door. We’re going to turn the power off. We should have you out in a few minutes.”

True to their word, after a small lurch and some metallic groaning, the two of you tumble out. You gulp down the musty basement air as if you’ve been trapped for much longer than a few hours.

By the time you look up, he’s already disappeared into the stairwell, the door clicking shut softly behind him.

Thankfully, your manager is sympathetic enough to give you the rest of the afternoon and the next day off to recover. (You don’t end up doing much, but you’re happy for the opportunity to catch up on your shows, try a new cafe, and loosen up the knots in your muscles with a long, hot bath.)

Your mood is so good that you’re unfazed by your manager’s request to report to her office upon your return. You turn left, away from your cubicle and toward Ota-san’s office at the end of the hall. Muted conversation seeps out, the murmurs becoming more coherent the closer you get until you’re standing in front of the door, left slightly ajar.

Inside, you hear a man’s voice. “…could include fieldwork footage to get students excited about the paleontology summer camp.”

“That’s a great idea, Tsukishima-hakase! I’ll be sure to let our media tech know,” Ota responds.

You give a perfunctory knock before pushing open the door.

“Ah- here she is now.”

You greet Ota-san with a polite bow, and she beams back warmly, gesturing toward the other person in the room.

“Welcome back. This is Dr. Tsukishima Kei, curator of paleontology.”

The man stands up, turning as she introduces you, and you both stiffen in surprise. He’s in a completely different outfit, but the same dinosaur cufflinks gleam at his wrists and the same disapproving frown cuts across his face. For the sake of professionalism, you reach out to shake his hand, which he accepts with reluctance.

You’re not quite seated before Ota launches right in.

“As you know, the museum’s 150th anniversary is coming up…promotional videos with each department…highlight reel for the exhibit, maybe a ‘day in the life’ type video following our curators around…and then for children’s day, we were thinking…”

The details for the project barely register as you sit next to Tsukishima, already feeling the tension again in your neck and shoulders.

You can hear him now, shovel periodically burying into the dirt followed by a low grunt of exertion. It’s slow, but you can almost imagine him fucking you like this—languid and indulgent.

“Ohhhh, Mr. Price…”

Other friends growing up had crushes on their friends, friends’ siblings, classmates, celebrities… For as long as you can remember, you’ve always had a crush on Mr. Price. Nevermind that he’s more than twenty years your senior. Or maybe because of that. Because he’s Mr. Price. Because he’s your neighbor. Because he’s like a second father. Because he must be experienced and he’d probably fuck you so good you’d see god.

A familiar fantasy settles around you. In it, you are enveloped by his scent: bracing cedar body wash, earthy cigar smoke, a splash of whiskey, and something indefinably him. It’s cheesy, but you like to imagine him fucking you in missionary. It just fits him—traditional, old-fashioned. Someone straight out of those American Wild West romances your mum used to read.

Your fingers alternate between rubbing back and forth and in tight little circles around your clit, short moans and gasps falling from your lips. You dip your pointer and middle fingers in with no resistance. (Your hands aren’t anything like his. Warm, calloused, firm. Prying you open. Digging into your soft thighs. Filling you up so much better than you possibly could.) That tiny bit of pressure still feels good though, and you repeatedly stuff your fingers inside, pads brushing that sweet spot.

Thinking of him used to make you feel guilty. It still does, but it’s impossible for you to cum otherwise.

In your mind, his head is buried between your legs and the bristle of his beard scrapes the insides of your thighs. His chest is matted with sweat, pinning you to the mattress as he bears down on you.

The telltale spark flickers within minutes and you know you’re close. His name leaves your lips in a whine as your pussy clenches unsatisfied around your fingers.

A quick, cold shower to rinse away the sweat and shame and you find yourself at the fridge. There’s enough in there to whip up something for dinner tonight at least. Before you know it, it’s come together (a simple pasta with bacon, a few old courgettes from the back of the fridge, and bits and bobs from the pantry). It’s too much for just you, and, well, this is as good an excuse as any to go over.

Your spare key still works in his front door, but nobody’s home when you walk in. You leave the food on the kitchen island before slinking back to your parents’ house.

++++

“Thanks for dinner, sweetheart.”

“Mr. Price! Oh, you’re welcome!”

You startle to find him behind you the following morning.

He’s been out for a run, hair damp and sweat trickling down his neck. The dark gray compression shirt draws taut around his chest and shoulders. He’s got the same one in navy, olive, and black, too (probably multiples of each, considering how often he seems to wear them). They’ve gotten tighter around the waist over the years, and you imagine he must be an exceptional cuddle, all solid muscle cushioned by fat and fur. 

Nobody should look this good in the morning. Or ever.

“Sorry, what was that?” you ask. It takes tremendous effort to direct your eyes up to his face.

“Away with the fairies again?” He continues at your sheepish grin, “I said long time no see.”

“Ah, yeah, been busy working.”

“At the same magazine still?”

You beam, pleased that he remembers when even your parents seem to forget. “Yes! We’re working on a special issue right now on new writers. And what about you? How’ve you been?”

“Me?” He seems surprised at your question. “Solid.”

“That’s good. Have you, uh…been up to anything?” You cringe. God, why can’t you stop stumbling over your words? How do you talk like a normal human being again?

He huffs a laugh. “No time. What are you doing back here, then? Haven’t seen you in donkey’s years.”

“Mum and dad needed someone to house-sit while they’re in Italy. You know, take care of the plants and all that.”

He frowns, brows knitting together in displeasure.

“Should’ve asked me.”

“No, it’s fine, really. The timing worked out. I wanted to come home and see some friends anyway.” As if you care about seeing anyone except him.

“I see. Boyfriend with you?”

You falter at the question. It’s one you get a lot, especially now that you're no longer in your 20s (and practically running out of hope, if your parents are to be believed). But coming from him, it makes you flush with mortification. It feels like a rebuke. A condemnation of the men you’ve slept with but never dared to bring home. Big, hairy, muscled. Older men. Shadows of him.

“Uh, no, still no boyfriend.”

“No?” He hesitates, “well, Jamie’s stopping by next weekend.”

“Oh. That’s…great. It’ll be good to see him again. How’s he doing?”

Hopefully your words don’t sound too strained.

Your parents have never let go of their dream of seeing you and Jamie together, and it seems neither has Mr. Price. You understand where they’re coming from, you suppose. It could be a fairy tale romance—neighbors turned high school sweethearts, best friends who reconnected as adults. It could be easy, but it’s hard to let go of those deep, dark fantasies. Even if they’re just that—fantasy.

“Good. Busy.”

“I hear he’s traveling a lot for work.”

Last you remember, Jamie was working in sales at some tech firm that has him flying all over Europe—Zurich, Berlin, Paris. He even went to Seoul some months ago. It sounds exciting, if a little exhausting. You, on the other hand… You like your job, love it, even, but sitting at a computer all day is definitely not as glamorous.

“Off to Barcelona next month,” he responds proudly.

“Wow! Must be fun. I think the last time I was out of the country was when you chaperoned that trip to Paris.”

“The one where Mr. Hammond left everyone’s passports in his hotel room and I had to go fetch them? Lovely trip.”

“He did buy you a pint as thanks, if I recall, so I’m pretty sure you’re even.”

He chuckles, crow’s feet crinkling at the memory.

“Right. I should head to base.”

“Of course. Sorry to keep you. If you have time, do you think…” You trail off, losing confidence mid-sentence. Don’t be daft. He’s a busy man. He won't want to spend his precious little free time doing stupid-

“Movie night?”

It’s more a statement than a question, and you flush, embarrassed that he can still read you like a book.

“No, no, it’s ok, I know you’re busy…”

He leans down to look you square in the eye, hand reaching out to squeeze your shoulder.

“I’ll see what I can do, alright sweetheart?”

The next morning passes by in a fog of overturned glasses and slapdash cleaning. Half your head’s simmering with resentment toward Captain Price, and the other half’s puzzling out a solution.

With minutes to go, a tentative plan forms and you rush to your cabin to prepare. Will it work? It’s impossible to know, but it’s the only plan you have.

All too quickly, the bell is rung for forenoon watch.

You hurriedly stuff your chest bindings into the bottom of your trunk and re-dress yourself. Dozens of footsteps pound outside. The officers stand alert at the railing of the quarterdeck, having gathered what looks to be most of the crew. Rudy catches your eye, head tipping in a supportive nod. At least the men seem to be in better spirits now that the wind has picked back up, though you’re sure some are simply excited by the coming spectacle.

The captain gestures roughly to the mainmast when he spots you.

“Shirt off, arms spread.”

You stumble toward where a grating has been rigged upright against the mast. Nearby, Soap stands at a barrel, methodically untangling something with his back to you.

What’s laid out before him turns your feet to lead. Branching out from a well-worn handle are nine thin, braided hemp cords, each ending in a tight knot. Not a switch, not a birch rod, nor even a whip, but a cat-o’-nine-tails. Something you’ve only ever read about in the papers. Something designed for maximal damage.

“Today Harris,” Ghost barks impatiently. You hear a few snickers from the crew that are quickly silenced.

To save your father, you have to do this.

You will do this.

You turn your back to the crowd, unbuttoning your shirt with trembling fingers and dropping it in a heap.

A gust wafts up, giving you the perfect excuse to cling to the wool scarf wound around your neck, ends draped carefully over your breasts to shield them from view—your father’s, nicked from his closet before sneaking aboard. It’s either ironic or entirely fitting that you’d brought it for good luck. You’ll need all of it now.

Miraculously, there seems to be no objections to the scarf, and you move quickly before anyone changes their mind, leaning forward against the grate as instructed.

Soap ties your hands up and away from your body when you settle. He proffers a length of clean rope, pressing it firmly into your mouth.

“Here, lad. So ye donnae bite yer tongue clean off.” 

“Jack Harris,” the captain’s hoarse order booms out, “for stealing rations from the ship’s stores: five lashes.”

Waves slap rhythmically against the sides of the ship, and barely audible above that, you hear a creak as Soap squeezes the handle of the cat, the air whistling as he swings it over his head-

You squeeze your eyes shut and bite down hard-

CRACK

So swift it doesn’t feel real. It’s the second strike that shocks a scream out of you, the knot-ends ripping into freshly-torn flesh. The third follows quickly after.

There’s a torturous break as—you later learn—Soap runs his fingers through the tails, cleaning them of blood. You hang limply, twisting in agony as the sea breeze sears like wildfire across your back.

The cat cracks twice more. By the time it’s over, you’re in a daze. As you’re untied and hauled off to the surgery, the only thought running through your mind is the scarf—keep it on, keep your arms crossed, keep still, keep covered.

Somehow, you make it.

You drag yourself on to the wooden bed. Even your mincing movements pull painfully at what you’re sure is a mass of blood and weals.

The ship’s surgeon is already prepared by the time you lay down on your stomach. He taps the forgotten rope end still clenched between your teeth.

“Bite down, hermano. This will hurt.”

He lifts a bucket off the floor and pours its contents on your back.

You scream like the devil.

If the lashings were painful, this is excruciating. The sea water flows over the open welts and gashes, burning a path down to the floor. You barely register what he does next, head swimming and throat raw. By the time the poultices are applied, you’re practically numb. You don’t even realize you’re crying until he wrests the rope from your mouth and gently wipes your face with a clean cloth.

“It’s done. You can relax now.”

“Thank you, sir,” you rasp.

“Please, call me Alejandro. You need rest. I will be back to change the dressings later.”

As he turns to leave, Soap emerges from your periphery, the familiar cheer absent from his expression.

“Tried to go easy on ye, lad.”

You give him a weak smile. “I know, sir.”

It’s impossible to tell how much time passes once they depart. You find that as long as you keep your inhales shallow, the skin doesn’t stretch enough to pull at the wounds. So, you focus on that. Anything to take your mind off the persistent pain and your bubbling resentment.

The creak of the door wakes you from a light doze. Rudy enters, setting down a steaming bowl brimming with burgoo topped with a hefty drizzle of molasses and a fistful of raisins—a great deal richer than what you’re typically served, and conspicuously more than the half rations you’re supposed to be on. The smell alone is enough to make your stomach gurgle.

God bless him. It was probably a stupid idea to skip breakfast, but you couldn’t have kept anything down in your anxious state this morning. Tears spring to your eyes when the earthy sweetness hits your tongue.

“Good, you’re awake.”

The next spoon of burgoo freezes halfway to your mouth when Alejandro sweeps back in.

You steal a panicked glance at Rudy, who appears entirely unconcerned with the blatant violation of the captain’s orders. Alejandro doesn’t seem to care either, instead directing his attention to your wounds.

“The bleeding has slowed. Good. I will need to apply more medicine. Should I do it now, or after you finish?”

“Now, I suppose?”

“Brave man,” Alejandro remarks, sending Rudy off for some hot water to wash his hands.

Not that you’ve had much experience, but Alejandro is very different from the doctors—well, doctor—you’d met back home. Your family could certainly never afford one, but you remember Alexander falling ill once when you were young. It had been so severe that Lady Laswell called upon some renowned doctor—physician to the 4th Marquess Townshend or someone equally lofty. He was an older man, portly and severe. Certainly not so genial as Alejandro, nor had he washed his hands quite so frequently. (Alex did eventually recover, though you’re not convinced the bloodletting helped all that much.)

“You’re in good hands, amigo,” Rudy assures, setting out a clean bowl to prepare the poultice in. “Ale’s medicines are like magic. The cat always leaves scars, but you’ll barely see them when he’s done.”

He whisks out again, returning with clean cloths and more hot water before tidying the jars of compounds Alejandro opened. They work in tandem with an ease that suggests a deep familiarity.

“Have you two known each other a long time?”

Alejandro flashes a boyish grin. “Our whole lives! Grew up together in México.”

“Mexico?” That’s a surprise. You hear about Argentina sometimes in the papers, but never Mexico. “How did you get here?”

They exchange a look before Rudy answers. “We served together in the Mexican navy, but after the war- well, let’s say there isn’t much of a navy left anymore. We found work on a ship headed to France, made our way to London, met the captain, and here we are.”

You ruminate while Alejandro cleans and re-poultices your back. (He’s careful, but you still spasm with pain whenever he presses down a little too firmly.) They must have met the captain a long time ago if Rudy felt comfortable enough to stand up to him—and Captain Price even listened!

That kind of rapport with the captain and first mate might as well be a fantasy. There’s no chance they’ll trust a suspected thief. You’ve no doubt you’ll be relieved of your duties as soon as the ship reaches port. There’s nothing for it except to finish out your job and at least get paid.

When your gashes finally begin to scab over, Alejandro allows you to move out of the surgery and back to your cabin. He comes by once a day to refresh your poultices, and Rudy continues to bring you food, though he is more careful to conceal the serving size from the captain and crew.

Rudy and Alejandro love to reminisce about their wild days in Veracruz, and their visits are bright spots in the otherwise dull days confined to quarters. Soap and Gaz have also taken to barging in at all hours to talk your ear off, though some of the naval exploits they regale you with sound too far-fetched to be true.

“Don’ let his pretty mug fool ye. Gaz ‘s a wee killer. Cleared half a ship while dangling by a rope off the topmast!”

That already seemed unbelievable, but then Gaz countered with the time that Soap sank a first-rate gunship with “just his dumb luck” (“Dinnae talk pish, it was me sharp wit!” Soap had retorted). The story didn’t sound far from either, Soap setting an entire steamship ablaze by slipping into the engine room and tampering with the pressure valves. It’s incredible he even survived.

You learn Ghost got his nickname after escaping a heavily-guarded prison in the hinterlands of Russia. He endured weeks of bitter winter blizzards, somehow making it back to London while eluding his captors the whole way. And that wasn’t even the first time he’d broken out of prison. Soap was practically crackling with enthusiasm as he described each of Ghost’s makeshift weapons in extensive detail.

“And Cap’s a bloody legend,” Gaz crows, “I hardly believe the stories about him, and I was there! Got shot clean through the stomach and still outmaneuvered the lot of ‘em at Sebastopol. Bet The Right Honourable Nelson himself couldn’t even kill the old man.”

You sour at that.

Captain Price might be a peerless seaman, but he’s certainly not as fair and just a man as the others led you to believe. Scrubbing the decks, taking watches, half rations—those are reasonable punishments. Five lashes is beyond the pale, and that’s half of what he originally ordered. Even if you had stolen some raisins—men who beat their wives have received far lesser punishment.

Still, despite their near-worship of the captain, you enjoy their company immensely. The rest of your recovery time is spent reading and writing letters to your family and Alexander (omitting the part where you were punished, of course, so as not to cause them undue worry).

You’re brimming with pent up energy by the time Alejandro finally clears you for light work. 

Despite upending your sleep, you find that the addition of dawn watch isn’t nearly as miserable as you had feared. Most of the crew are asleep in their bunks, as are the apprentices, tradesmen, Gaz, and the captain—the latter awoken only in emergencies. Not everyone is resting, of course. A skeleton crew keeps the ship sailing briskly through the night with Ghost and Soap to oversee them.

The upside is the relative peace and quiet. It’s perhaps the first time you’ve really delighted in being at sea. It’s a ridiculous notion after weeks afloat, but you’ve been singleminded in your duties without concern for anything outside the confines of the ship, and you’re pleased to discover that it’s not just some vast, empty horizon out there. You breeze by islands and ports and other ships in the distance that Soap is only too happy to identify for you. (He was eager to alert you when the Cutty crossed the meridian of Greenwich, and was—along with everyone else on board—positively ecstatic when you finally victualled off of Cape Colony. You were also able to drop off letters for your family and Alex to be ferried home on one of the Royal Mail ships.)

Under Alejandro’s care, your back heals quickly with no infections and, he assures you, you’ll only have light scarring. At least the bandages are no more uncomfortable than your chest bindings were. You’re cleared for more physical labor after another few days, meaning you have to make good on the final term of your punishment—scrubbing the decks.

It’s back-breaking work, more than you realized. Every day in the morning and evening, a group of the ordinary seamen wash the teakwood decks with seawater, scrub them with sand, then dry them. Every surface of the deck is cleaned, from the ladders to the bronze moldings. Given your other duties, you only join in the evenings, after serving dinner to the officers and apprentices. The scrubbing isn’t just for show, either. Alejandro informed you that it helped keep the space hygienic and prevent disease. It also keeps the decks safe, since teakwood is extremely slippery when wet (although the captain, you begrudgingly note, excels at maintaining the stability of the ship in any weather).

Though Soap and Gaz were assigned to monitor you, they’re rarely around. Instead, it’s the captain and Ghost who seem to shadow your every move. Nevertheless, you’re determined to persevere under their scrutiny and find silver linings where you can.

One such silver lining is the chance to befriend your fellow sailors. The Cutty runs on a lean crew of only 27 men, so you already know everyone on board, but as a steward, most of your time is spent serving the officers. There have been scant opportunities to get to know your fellow sailors. Further, polite society dictated that you never had the opportunity to truly associate freely outside of your family as a young woman. The Laswells were a welcome exception, perhaps because they were American and thus less observant of such rigid conventions.

Disguised as a young man aboard the Cutty, you’re free for the first time to consort with people from all walks of life and all corners of the world. (You truthfully did not know there even were so many corners of the world.)

Most of the officers and apprentices are Scottish or English. The crew come from all over. Many among them are from England and Scotland (like William Hoscut—the kindly topman who gave you his Bicolotyne). The carpenter is an American by the name of Winston. He’s also the first black man you’ve ever laid eyes on. Lars is from Sweden. There’s another man from Wales and one from Ireland, two from China, two from India, one from Prussia, one from Persia, and one from Russia.

It’s all a bit overwhelming. During meals and leisure time, there is often a heady array of languages spoken among the crew, but everyone understands their duties, and when it’s time to work, they’re all in perfect sync.

With some ingenuity, you manage to worm your way into the good graces of some of the crew. None seem particularly bothered by your supposed thievery (“it’s practically a rite of passage,” Rudy claims). Really, all it took was the occasional offer to clean or mend their clothes. With no women aboard, they’ve all learned to do it themselves to varying degrees of success, but even your clumsy stitching is leagues neater than any of theirs. You never ask for payment, hoping it will build enough goodwill that you’ll at least have some allies should Thomas and his cronies decide to pull another nasty ploy.

It’s difficult, though, to insert yourself into the perceptible bond among the men. They laugh and joke together like old friends, but the loyalty to one other—and to the officers—runs even deeper than that.

You begin to understand why when Rudy recounts the opulent feasts he’s cooked on board the ships he used to work on: lavish spreads of roast meats and endless wine every night for the officers and apprentices, all while the crew starve on half rations of salt pork and bug-infested ship’s biscuits. It’s hard to believe, but Rudy attests that it’s the norm on every ship he’s ever been on or heard about, except one.

On the Cutty, with few exceptions, the officers all eat what the crew eat and drink what they drink. No special foods or spices for officers only. Sure, the captain has his cigars, and there are higher quality teas and a few bottles of fine liquor in the officer’s pantry, but every sailor is entitled to bring items for his personal use, and many of the crew have their own private stashes as well.

“You know, the crew of the Cutty is very special. Many of us have worked with Captain Price for years, moving from ship to ship. Ale and I have been with him for four years, Gaz and Soap for longer. Ghost has been with him the longest—close to eight years.”

“The captain seems a great sailor.” It’s a safe response, one that doesn’t reveal your resentment toward the man.

“A huevo. The captain can handle the Cutty in every kind of wind and sea that weather can breed. But it’s more than that, amigo. It’s a rare kind of captain that cares more about his crew than his rank.”

You hum, half-listening, focused on mending a small hole in Captain Price’s breeches—scorched by some cigar ash, it looks like. “You must really like him.” The fact that you don’t goes unsaid, though Rudy surely notices your careful wording because he continues:

“The officers have been together since Crimea, you know. Served on the HMS Retribution together, Black Sea fleet. They were ordered not to allow any ships to pass.”

“Oh?”

You put down your mending, curious to hear more.

“The captain was just a lieutenant then. He was outnumbered, but somehow outmaneuvered the Russians. The Russians had to scuttle their warships, but still lost many in the siege—three- and four-decker gunships, 60-gun frigates, smaller ones too. There were a lot of casualties, but the Royal Navy eventually took Sebastopol. The rest is history.”

“Right, history.” You don’t bother hiding your disdain. Everyone had been horrified by what happened in Crimea. You vividly recall the photographs of destroyed cities and wounded men, the first you’d ever seen in the papers. The men who were sacrificed, the devastating losses, the tactical failures and mismanagement of the officers—all of that is part of history too.

It fits your newfound understanding of him—ruthless. Captain Price might not have pulled the trigger, but he has blood on his hands. All the officers do. No wonder he didn’t even bat an eye when he ordered you to be whipped.

You say as much to Rudy and he just huffs. “This is your first time aboard, so you’ve got no idea what other ships are like. You’re whipped for everything. That’s the way of the sea, amigo. I’ve seen sailors get twenty lashes just for looking at an officer wrong.”

The rest doesn’t need to be said: ten lashes was lenient, five practically charitable.

“You know,” he continues, “the captain couldn’t tolerate what happened in Crimea either. That’s why he left the navy and a hefty promotion behind for merchant shipping. He may not look it, but he’s got a soft heart.” Rudy stands up to leave, lobbing one last suggestion at you before he goes. “Since you seem to know about what happened in Crimea, you should talk to him about ‘Charge of the Light Brigade.’ I think you’ll find his reaction surprising.”

You’re not sure why he keeps insisting on the captain’s integrity, but maybe their hero worship of him is just another thing you’ll never understand about the crew.

The Cutty Sark passes Christmas Island in early May. It’s the first land mass you’ve seen in ages.

She overhauled the Wylo and the Doune Castle on the way—both of which left London before you—so she must be making excellent time. The men are elated. It means you’re in the last leg of your journey, only a month or so out from Shanghai.

It also means that you’ve finally sailed into warmer climes. Not just warmer, but hot.

Most of the crew have taken to working shirtless, sweating it out under the blazing sun. Despite acclimating to being on a ship full of men, it’s still shocking to be confronted with their naked torsos every day, sunbaked to an array of mottled reds and umbers.

As if to attest to Rudy’s point, all the men bear scars on their backs. Jagged, raised ones from poorly-treated lashes. You wonder if yours will look like that too, despite Alejandro’s care. You hate to admit it, but you might have to concede that Rudy was right—maybe the captain’s punishment wasn’t as harsh as you thought. Though that doesn’t mean you have to like it. Or him.

They’re all well-muscled—it comes with the job, but Gaz and Soap are something else. The rest of Gaz is apparently as pretty as his face. Lean and toned, his skin is dark and smooth with well-healed scars. He’s easily the most dashing man on board. Soap is striking in an entirely different way. He’s built stockier than Gaz, with large, bulging muscles and a smattering of dark hair across his chest and arms.

You’ve understandably resisted the pressure to go shirtless and been the target of some merciless teasing because of it. There’s the excuse of your wounds still, though that won’t work forever.

You can’t begin to speculate about Ghost, or Captain Price, or Rudy and Alejandro, for that matter. All of them have chosen to remain fully clothed for reasons you can’t fathom. Honestly, on a blistering day like today, you wish you could take it all off. Even a smidgen of relief from the unbearable humidity would be worth it.

But, they must keep it on for propriety’s sake, you suppose. Maybe the captain just likes the air of authority it gives him, or-

Your whole body tenses when he emerges on deck.

Shirtless.

He’s covered in a thick pelt of hair, patchy in spots along his arms and back from scarring (you assume). The hair on his chest is dark brown, and it grays as it trails down to his stomach, past a large puckered scar, growing white where it…

Your face grows hot and you tear your eyes away, mentally scolding yourself.

He might be the most handsome man you’ve ever seen, but that changes nothing. He still had you whipped. He’s still got blood on his hands. He’s still the captain.

And most importantly, you’re most likely still going to get kicked to the curb as soon as you land in Shanghai. What you have to do now is keep your head down and keep your eyes on the prize—do your job, get paid, free your father.

You repeat it like a mantra.

Historical notes:

I wrestled a long time over how to have Reader hide their identity during the flogging (not flogging her was never an option lol). The concealment method that Reader uses is only lightly altered from the real experience of Hannah Snell, a woman in the 1700s who disguised herself as a man to join the British navy. Hannah’s biography is based on her own narrative of events, though it is highly embellished by the writer. (Hannah Snell could not write, and therefore dictated her life stories to someone who clearly…felt that sensationalism and a strong moral tone would make for better sales. Read the biography if you’re curious about her—it’s very short!—but just know that the writing is challenging lol)

A ship’s surgeon wasn’t typically a physician (i.e., they didn’t necessarily go to medical school), but often learned their trade as apprentices, which meant they were well-versed in certain types of medicine (for instance, treating scurvy and syphilis) and not necessarily others (for instance, germ theory, which was brand new at this time anyway). I picture Alejandro as a physician though, the kind that would certainly be much too qualified to work aboard a ship, but he and Rudy like the captain, and anyway any medical certification he received in Mexico would likely not have been officially recognized in England.

Some quick definitions: Forenoon Watch is typically from around 8am-noon. Burgoo is basically oatmeal. A ship’s surgery is a general exam room, not exclusively for performing surgery in the modern sense (although that did also happen sometimes).

Never in my life did I ever think I would ever write a single sentence about the Crimean War, but here we fucking are. Photographs of the Crimean War are the earliest examples of war photography, and certainly the earliest that were printed in newspapers, so they were a sensation. Did I have a lot of fun trying to transpose some of the boys’ MW missions back in time? Yes. Did I spend way too much time building sort-of historically-accurate backstories for everyone in my head? Also yes.

The painful truth of the matter was that without your father’s income, the three of you had been barely scraping by. Embroidery could only fetch so much money, even with your mother’s delicate hand and designer’s eye. The strain in her shoulders had become a constant, and the hunch in her back grew more pronounced each passing day. Your sister, too, had begun to suffer eye strain from helping late into the night.

At her age, you had lived a life of comparable luxury—hearty meals, passable tutors, leisure time spent trailing after your father and his apprentices in the workshop. They were happy to indulge you, and though you became more than proficient over the years, his clients never came around to letting a mere woman near their expensive timepieces.

With no patience for embroidery, your only contribution since your father’s imprisonment had been to manage the household, cleaning and maintaining the rooms, keeping atop the spending, and stretching what meager food you could afford into edible (if not tasty) meals for the three of you. On occasion, Lady Laswell hired you for an odd job or two, considerate of the close friendship between you and her son, Alexander. Those extra shillings were immediately squirreled away for your father’s bail.

Even so, it would take at least ten years of scrimping pennies to save enough to free your father. You’d done the calculations a hundred times. Who knows what might happen in ten years? He may not even…you shudder to think. But what could you do except keep trudging forward?

That’s why when the idea struck you, it had almost felt like divine intervention.

Unusually free from appointments one morning, your mother lingered over breakfast, exclaiming over yesterday’s newspaper (you remembered thinking it was kind of Mrs. Bird to keep her husband’s old papers for your mother, and that you ought to send a token of thanks).

“Oh! Perhaps she’ll set a record this time…”

“Who?”

“How have you not heard? Honestly, it’s all anyone has been talking about this week!”

Your mother turns the paper toward you with fond exasperation, tapping at a picture of a boat.

SECOND TIME’S THE CHARM? The China tea-clipper, named Cutty Sark, might be the fastest in the world, if not for bad weather and worse luck! Her maiden voyage from London to Hankow saw her travelling at an average speed of 254 miles per day, or at the rate of 12 1/4 statute miles per hour. This certainly is a most wonderful speed for a sailing vessel, and, we believe, has never been surpassed or equalled. The ship was built by Messrs Scott & Linton, Dumbarton, for John Willis & Sons of London. Considerable interest is vested this season on her second voyage, bound for Shanghai on 16th February. Ship owner Mr. John Willis puts his faith in Captain John Price to break the record this time. Thermopylae set the record last year, sailing from Shanghai to London in just 122 days! ABLE SEAMEN, experienced CARPENTERS, and STEWARDS WANTED at once for the Cutty Sark. Good wages. Must have good reference.—Apply John Willis & Sons, London.

You placate her with an interested hum as you skim the article. Your mother’s excitement over spectacle and intrigue have always been endearing.

It wasn’t until a week later that a plan clicked into place.

At breakfast again, your mum (aghast but fascinated) read aloud a report on a murder trial in the colonies.

WOMAN POSES AS MAN IN SENSATIONAL MURDER Scarcely has the shock caused by the discovery of the murdered man had time to abate, when it was discovered that the crime was committed by his wife in disguise! On Sunday, Brigid McKay was charged with causing the death of her husband, Duncan McKay, brickmaker, by the Port Macquarie courts in the Colony of New South Wales. The facts as presented to the court are these: Constable Davies was patrolling Joffre Street at a quarter to three o’clock on the morning of 5th January when he heard a shout and discovered a man between 45 and 50 years of age with a deep wound on his head. He spied another man running away from the scene and gave chase, losing him in the winding alleyways. Police later found a bloodied bundle of men’s clothing, including a cap, trousers, and jacket which Constable Davies confirmed were of a kind worn by the suspect. Upon questioning the wife at the couple’s home, police discovered a bloody brick hidden among the deceased’s wares. After the evidence was presented by the prosecution, the wife pled guilty to the brutal crime and was sentenced to death by hanging. She will be held at Port Macquarie Gaol until her execution.

Everything after that came together easily enough, though it did take a few weeks to pull off. Chest bindings and two sets of servant’s clothes were quickly procured, and though Lady Laswell initially refused, she eventually agreed (albeit with great reluctance and no small amount of cajoling from Alexander) to write a letter of reference. Considering their family’s influence, that letter alone most likely got you the job, especially considering your conspicuous lack of experience on a ship.

The hardest part had been to keep your preparations secret. It was a stroke of luck that Lady Barlow placed an unexpected order for two pairs of embroidered silk gloves. The intricate twining rose vines kept your mother and sister occupied late into the night for weeks. It would have otherwise been difficult to conceal the numerous trips you made into the city.

After gathering your bags and stopping quickly at a barber’s (whose skill at men’s hair and discretion were both well paid for), you finally stand in front of the Cutty Sark.

What a sight she is in the dawn light.

She may not be as large as most of the other ships in port, but she’s sleek—purpose-built for speed. On her prow, the figure of a woman in a white, flowing robe with breasts bare thrusts one hand forward, grasping a tuft of hair. Three gigantic masts jut up from the main deck, criss-crossed with dozens of ropes and riggings. Her dark silhouette looms menacing as a sea-beast against the pale orange sky.

The docks around her are a flurry of activity. A few men scurry around checking the cargo being pulled out of nearby warehouses. Dozens more of all races and descriptions lumber up and down the boarding ramp, ferrying crates and barrels up from the docks to secure in the hold.

“Ye boardin’ or sightseein’?”

You yelp, wincing at the shrillness of the sound.

A behemoth of a man shoves past to board the ship with a muttered daft ‘apeth under his breath, words muffled by a black cloth tied over the bottom half of his face.

You’ve barely processed the insult before a heavy hand slaps down on your shoulder. You’re greeted by another mountain of a man with a sharp grin and one of the strangest haircuts you’ve ever seen—shorn close on the sides with a stripe of hair down the middle.

“Dinnae mind him lad. He’s always up tae high doh before a launch.”

“He’s not so bad once you get to know him,” laughs a third man with a dazzling smile who follows behind Strange Hair. It’s hard not to gawk, considering he’s the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen, with eyelashes long enough to make Cléo de Mérode jealous.

“First day, I take it? Come on then.”

They make their way aboard and you scuttle after them.

The pace on the main deck is just as frenetic. Perhaps it’s your heightened nerves, but even the gentle rocking of the ship in harbor unsettles your stomach. The bindings pinch uncomfortably with every step and you long to adjust them.

You clutch your belongings close, squeezing into an out-of-the-way corner while you figure out who to report to. That’s when it really hits you: this is the worst idea you’ve ever had.

You would have wagered on your life that you’d never get a chance as good as this to free your father, but now that it’s here, it’s hard not to have second thoughts. Could you actually pull this off? If (or more likely, when) you’re discovered out in the open ocean, there would be nowhere to run. What kind of punishment would you receive for disguising yourself? Getting this job under false pretenses? A hefty fine and prison time would probably be the best case scenario, but it’s not the most likely one…

Lost in your thoughts, it takes a few moments to realize Strange Hair is beckoning you.

“Lad! Here, lad! Ye look lost,” he observes when you hasten to where he stands with Eyelashes and Face Covering.

“That obvious?” Embarrassment floods you, but you quickly tamp it down. “I’ve been hired by Mr. Willis as the officer’s steward, but I’m not sure who to report to.”

“‘S tha’ righ’? A steward with no manners?” Face Covering snarls.

You stagger back, unnerved by his sudden hostility. Strange Hair steps in quickly, straining with the effort of holding the larger man back, lips moving a mile a minute with words too quiet for you to catch. Eyelashes, meanwhile, stands relaxed at their side, as if the scene brooks no concern. It eases you just enough to take in the three men in front of you—white buttoned shirts under double-breasted frock coats, trousers, bicorne hats tucked under their arms. For some reason, they’re dressed much more genteelly than the sailors hauling cargo.

A whispered shite leaves your lips when you finally realize: they’re officers.

Eyelashes waves off your panicked apologies with another easy smile. “No harm done. So, you’re our new steward?”

“Yes, sir.”

He claps you hard on the arm. “We’ll be seeing a lot of each other then. I’m Garrick, Second Mate. Everyone calls me Gaz. The one with the hair is Soap. He’s Third Mate. And this huge bloke is our First Mate, Ghost.”

Ghost (no longer visibly murderous but still intimidating) doesn’t deign to acknowledge you. Instead, his eyes flick to Gaz. “The Captain’s in ‘is quarters.”

Heeding his unspoken order, Gaz dutifully leads you toward the officers’ cabins near the aft of the deck.

Your room is the first on the right upon entering the cabin. It’s small, about what you’d expect for ship’s quarters, and it looks to be half storage as well. A tiny bed is attached to the far wall, and the rest of the room is taken up by a narrow cabinet stacked with serving ware. You’re delighted to see there’s only one bed—you’ll have some privacy, thank God.

“That’s my room. Soap and I share.”

Gaz points to the room across from yours. It’s bigger, though the space is filled by a large bunk bed and two small trunks.

He then gestures at the open door of the room beside yours.

“Your neighbor’s Ghost.”

You peek in furtively. It’s the same size as Gaz and Soap’s room, but with only one bed (even larger, though it’s still difficult to imagine Ghost fitting into it). The rest of the space is filled with what seems to be casks of liquor.

“And finally, the captain’s quarters.” 

Gaz knocks on the door at the back of the officers’ cabins, waiting patiently for a gruff “come in” before leading you inside. It’s not as sumptuous as you imagined, but it’s certainly better appointed than the other rooms. A wash basin stands just inside the door with a small mirror affixed above it and a shaving set placed neatly to its right (you balk at the straight razor—surely only a lunatic would dare to use anything but a safety razor on a ship). The bed is anchored to the far wall next to a modest dresser-slash-end table. The middle of the room is dominated by a large desk where the captain sits illuminated by lantern light, poring over a stack of maps.

“The new steward for you, Cap.”

You recognize him the instant he turns—Captain John Price. Newspaper photos don’t do him justice. His dark brown hair is cropped short—much shorter than the prevailing style—though his facial hair is styled in fashionable mutton chops, trimmed and neat. Shrewd aquamarine eyes appraise you from beneath furrowed brows. He’s not as massive as Ghost, but somehow exudes a more commanding presence, even while seated.

“That’ll be all, Garrick. Go keep an eye on the cargo.”

“Aye, sir.”

It’s silent for a long minute after Gaz closes the door.

“Name, lad?”

“Harris, sir. Jack Harris.”

“Right.” He draws up to his full height, head grazing the ceiling joists of the small room. “Harris. What the hell kind of idiot do you think I am? You haven’t got a lick of experience on a ship. And come to look at you—me mam’s got fingers thicker than your arms! You wouldn’t last a bloody week. I don’t give a rat’s arse what Willis said, I’ve a mind to sack you ri-”

“No! Please, Captain! I can do it! I have experience! I- I have excellent references, sir!”

His lips thin—definitely a man who’s not used to being interrupted—and his voice lowers to an ominous growl. “So I’m told. But here’s what I don’t understand: Why would a servant with a cushy little domestic job want to up and join a merchant ship, huh? You runnin’ from somethin’, lad?”

“No, please, sir! I just- it pays more. I need the money.”

“Money? For what?”

“My mother, sir. She’s ill and her treatments are expensive.” The lie rolls off your tongue, just like you practiced. Alexander was actually the one who came up with it—close enough to the truth to be believable. It had taken ages for him to convince his mother to go along with it, but Lady Laswell eventually caved on that as well.

Captain Price peers down his nose at you, and you do your best to emote the sincere worry you feel for your mother’s health.

“And the Laswells? They refuse to help?”

“Quite the opposite, sir. I don’t want to take advantage of their generosity.”

After another strained moment, he finally draws back.

“Fine. Consider this trip a test. If you pass, I will consider keeping you on. If you fail, you’ll fend for yourself at the next port.”

“Thank you, you won’t regret it, sir!”

“We’ll see about that,” he grumbles. “Fetch us an ale then. And tell Ghost to report to my quarters.”

“Right away, sir!”

You pushed through as best you could, trying to learn your duties swiftly. Everything was new, in a certain sense. The first and most important task was to familiarize yourself with the layout of the ship—where the galley was, and the officers’ pantry, where to find the carpenter (in his workshop) and the sailmaker (with the carpenter, most of the time), where the tradesmen and crew quarters were located, how to get up and down between decks (not that you had many occasions to go below deck). The basics.

The second task was to figure out your daily responsibilities. Cleaning and maintaining the officers’ quarters, preparing and serving meals, doing laundry, relaying messages, and whatever else they might need. Growing up in a small, tradesman’s home and shouldering much of the housework since your father’s imprisonment meant you were well-accustomed to these duties, though the choppy waters made everything that much more difficult.

Every task was punctuated by frequent sprints to the nearest railing to retch over the side. You don’t consider yourself particularly nimble, but you became adept at dodging ropes and sailors on the main deck. The occasional wafting stench of the chickens and goats didn’t help, and neither did the crew’s taunts nor their questionable hygiene. More than once, Ghost threatened to throw you overboard, arguing you weren’t that far from land. The captain offered no objections, and it was only the intervention of Gaz and Soap that saved you from what you were sure was a genuine threat.

In retrospect, those first few days were child’s play.

Having gotten accustomed to the swaying of the ship—or so you thought—the fair wind shifted and a trade wind picked up from the northeast, pitching her to and fro. For days, you’ve lain breathless and speechless, with scarcely the strength to move.

The gale howls outside, punctuated by the captain’s barked orders and the accompanying shriek of the boatswain’s whistle. Everything swims before your eyes, but closing them is even worse. Your limbs feel jellied and weak, a result of being unable to keep any food down or sleep more than a few minutes at a time. You must really be in a state because the crew stop teasing you, and even Ghost’s threats taper off, though you’re sure he’s kicking himself for not dispatching you when he had the chance.

For some reason, Captain Price gives you a reprieve from your duties. However, rather than relief, you mostly feel frustration. You’re collapsed here, exactly as useless as he predicted. If you want to keep this position, you’re going to need to do a lot better than elicit his pity.

The cook, Rodolfo, is the most sympathetic.

“Does that work?”

He sets down a bucket—the one you’ve been emptying your stomach into all day—and gestures at the bottle in your hand.

“Thank you, sir.”

“I told you, amigo—no sirs here, just Rudy. Did you bring that with you?”

Your bloodshot eyes drift to the Bicolotyne. If only you’d had the foresight to bring some yourself. The bottle is already one-third empty after only two days, and at this point, you would do almost anything for more.

“No, s- no. Hoscut- William took pity on me. To be honest, it mostly puts me to sleep, but that’s better than the alternative…”

He laughs, warm. “The Scot? Makes sense. Many of them swear by the stuff.” You give a weak nod and sip another mouthful. Seeing you still green around the gills, he continues, “I’ve heard many cures for sea-sickness in my time. Different people swear by different things. Some say vermouth with wine—that’ll be hard to find on this ship. Others say fasting, but you’re still sick even with all your heaving. Me? I say ginger root. It always works.”

He reaches into his apron, pulling out a small tin and pressing it into your hand.

“Try these. Chew a piece when you feel sick.”

Its contents rattle as you inspect it. The tin is white, with bright red lanterns painted across and the words Crystallized Canton Ginger written in flowery script. Candied ginger is a luxury, especially on a cook’s pay, and yet here he is offering you the entire tin.

“This is too much. I can’t possibly accept.”

“Take it, amigo. It will keep el fantasma off your back, ah?”

“El fantasma?”

“Ghost.” He smiles again, patting your arm. “Take one and get some rest.”

“Thank you, Rudy,” you whisper, throat tightening with what you hope he’ll think is just nausea.

You pop a piece into your mouth. It’s hard but chewy, the spicy-sweet flavor zipping across your tongue, finally tamping down the queasiness enough for you to drift off into a dreamless sleep.

As the Cutty rounds Teneriffe and the first week passes into the second, you finally gain those famous sea legs and find your rhythm aboard.

Mornings consist of rousing at morning watch, filling the wash basins, and cleaning the officers’ saloon. They typically spend evenings there unwinding after dinner, leaving cups, glasses, and ashtrays for you to tidy. Then, it’s off to the galley to fetch breakfast and wait on the officers and apprentices while they eat. After clearing their dishes, you eat your own breakfast in the galley while helping Rudy with the dishes. That leaves enough time to clean the officers’ cabins before lunch. They sleep in shifts—the Captain and Gaz, and Ghost and Soap—so you make sure not to disturb them when they’re resting. Often, that leaves time to help Rudy prepare lunch before waiting on the officers and apprentices once more and then tucking in to your own lunch.

Afternoons are variable. If it’s not raining, you strip the officers’ bedding to air out, and once a week, try to wash it along with their clothing. Laundry you can do, but laundry on a ship is a new and uniquely unpleasant experience. Most of the time, everything remains dreadfully damp. When it’s sunny out, you can hang things out to dry, though that causes a different problem—salt from the seawater crusts and stiffens the fabric, meaning you must beat out as much as you can after it dries. The lanolin that Alexander insisted you bring for the voyage spares your hands from the cheap soap and harsh seawater, for the most part. Even so, you don’t dare use the short supply of drinking water. Gaz assures you that their clothes have never been cleaner. That’s hard to believe, but no one has complained, so in the end you can only take him at his word.

When the weather is poor, you spend the afternoons cleaning the officers’ privy and the captain’s private bathing room. It’s the least pleasant of your duties, but you are at least grateful there are no chamberpots to empty. Contrary to your expectations, none of the officers have any particularly disgusting habits, so you suppose it’s as painless as it could be.

You’re also immensely relieved to be able to have the luxury of a private head—as long as you keep it fast and discreet. It’s cramped and not quite comfortable, but you would never complain given the alternative. (When you first caught sight of one of the sailors using the ship’s head, fear and revulsion curdled in your gut. The piss-dale is disgusting enough—a horrid metal funnel attached to the ladder near the quarterdeck—but the head itself—a minuscule platform built over the base of the bowsprit—is terrifying. How anyone can relieve themselves while holding their clothes with one hand and hanging on for dear life with the other…it’s unthinkable!) You can even sneak a very fast towel bath in the captain’s bathing room while scrubbing the tub (just because everyone else on this ship reeks doesn’t mean you have to). Not to mention how helpful it will be for changing and washing soiled rags for your monthlies.

In calm seas, Captain Price allows the crew to relax on the main deck. Two of the apprentices, Henry and George, are both excellent fiddlers, meaning there’s usually lively music and high spirits. The men appreciate the time to lounge and skylark, play cards or dice with their mess-mates. You never join in, opting to devote the time to your work so as not to give the captain or his first mate more reasons to find you unfit for duty.

The nights are when you have a few moments to yourself. After waiting on the officers and apprentices again at dinner and tidying the dishes, you retreat to eat your own meal. You’re so tired by then, you might have enough energy left to pen a brief letter or make it through a few pages of a book by dim candlelight before collapsing into bed.

Rinse and repeat the next day, and the following one, and before you know it, the Cutty passes Ascension Island (nothing but a bump on the horizon that grows then fades from view before nightfall).

By that point, you’re well-attuned to each officer’s quirks. Soap is the messiest, though he and Gaz are also the easiest to please. They seem genuinely delighted with any cleaning and mending you do and don’t ask any more of you.

Unsurprisingly, Gaz is the first officer to warm up to you. He’s amiable and kind, taking you under his wing immediately, and it’s with no small amount of astonishment that you suddenly find yourself able to differentiate between a topsail, topgallant sail, and skysail, not that that information is particularly useful for your day-to-day.

Soap isn’t far behind. He’s the most gregarious of the bunch. You can usually tell where he is by sound alone, whether he’s telling a joke (loudly), or laughing at someone else’s joke (also loudly). He’s a favorite among the crew—a wonder, considering as acting boatswain he’s tasked with maintaining discipline on board.

Captain Price is demanding but fair, and that’s honestly better than you’d hoped for. He often asks you to relay messages or pitch in on tasks here and there, and you learned quickly that he doesn’t like to be kept waiting. No matter what you’re in the middle of, you drop it to attend to his orders immediately. Aside from that, he only seems to have one other cardinal rule—never touch anything on his desk, especially not his cigars. Unlike the crew, who puff on their cheap tobacco morning, noon, and night, the captain indulges in a cigar only occasionally. On those evenings, he likes to savor it alongside a dram of whisky from his personal stash. On other nights, he opts for brandy or tea before retiring to his quarters early to update the ship’s log or pore over maps. 

You don’t interact with him save for your duties, so it’s hard to get a sense of him outside of that, though the crew appear to respect him a great deal—particularly his sailing prowess. He doesn’t say anything particularly positive or negative about your performance, which you take as a sign that it is at least adequate.

Ghost is another matter altogether. He refused to let you into his room for the first fortnight. You were happy to oblige—it meant less work, and he seemed content to manage on his own—but the captain eventually ordered him to let you perform your duties because his time was better spent elsewhere. Since then, you’ve had something of a tenuous truce. He pretends you don’t exist, and that’s perfectly fine by you.

A month in, the biggest grievance you have isn’t one you ever would’ve predicted: the food. At first, the prospect of having three square meals was more than enough. That was in the beginning, when there were carrots and onions and potatoes—fresh vegetables to add some variety and flavor. It’s been weeks now of oatmeal, salted meat, stewed peas, and ship’s biscuits three times a day, every day, and you feel like you might go insane. Rudy does his best to keep things interesting—adding a few raisins or some butter and hard cheese here and there—but you can only do so much with the same ingredients, and, he informs you regretfully, the Cutty won’t be victualing until Cape Colony.

Under normal circumstances, a week of fair winds would see you there. Unfortunately, there’s not a breeze in sight.

The doldrums set in with heavy rain, testing the patience of the crew, and the food has taken the brunt of everyone’s frustration. You’re not the only one complaining. Everyone is on edge, the captain included. On one of his frequent visits to the deck, you hear him raging through your cabin door, “Calm! Calm! Calm! Sea’s like a bloody mirror!”

“She’s only run 435 miles this week,” someone adds dejectedly. An apprentice, you think.

Even the turn to clear skies does nothing to lighten the mood, the glassy waters putting a damper on any attempts at merriment. Adrift with nothing to do, your stores of food and water steadily dwindling, it’s no wonder tempers are short.

“Let me guess what’s for dinner: stewed peas, salt beef, and biscuits?”

“A fortune teller? I should give you a prize.” You give Lars a wry smile, handing over the serving for his mess.

“If the prize is more stewed peas, I will pass.”

You laugh in earnest this time, and so do the others waiting in line. Leave it to Lars to lighten the mood.

Rudy ladles out another serving of stew and you ready it for the next person, only to hear him sneer:

“Nobody cook proper food in your shite country?”

You frown. It’s meant as a joke…you think. He’s probably hoping to get a laugh like Lars did, but there’s just something about Thomas Nichols that rankles. You’re clearly not the only one who thinks so, since nobody so much as smiles. If his guffaws are any indication, however, the silence doesn’t seem to dissuade him.

“Cockless prick,” you mutter under your breath when he turns away. Rudy snorts. It’s your favorite among the insults you’ve learned from the men.

“Somethin’ to say?” Thomas whips back around. When you don’t take the bait, he sniffs, “‘S what I thought. Got no bollocks so you bitch behind my back like a woman.”

His words turns your blood cold, then hot. It’s not like he knows your secret. It’s just a meaningless jab, but still. You can’t let it stand, lest any whispers—even teasing—take hold. You fire back.

“As if any woman would get this close to you—not of her own free will anyway.”

Howls of laughter fill the galley, and suddenly the air whooshes back into your lungs. Thomas is left red-faced and sputtering as he beats a quick retreat to his mess-mates.

You get some jovial slaps on the back throughout the rest of the day as one seaman relays the story to another, gossip spreading like wildfire on the confines of the ship. It buoys you briefly, but leaves a lurking sense of unease. You and Thomas have never been friends per se, but you’ve also not been enemies, and you get the distinct feeling that he’s not going to take this lying down. If there’s one thing you know about people like Thomas, it’s that you should never turn your back on them.

Your suspicions are confirmed the next night.

You’re helping in the galley once again when Rudy’s expression twists from cheery to alarmed an instant before you’re scruffed by a huge fist.

“The ‘ell is this?” Ghost gnashes, shoving a hand under your nose. You go cross-eyed trying to figure out what he’s holding.

“I can’t tell, sir.”

He yanks you back by the collar, cutting your airflow enough to make you wheeze.

“How ‘bout now?”

You refocus your eyes, the image becoming clear: little wrinkled specks rolling around in his chapped palms. You blink up at him in confusion. Surely this doesn’t warrant such uproar.

“They’re…raisins, sir?” 

“That’s right, Harris. Raisins,” he mocks, as if praising a particularly stupid child. “Now, tell me- How come I found these in your cabin? And you better think long and ‘ard about your answer.”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“You don’t know?”

Captain Price enters at that moment, eyes sweeping the scene.

“There a problem here?”

“Found these in ‘is cabin, Captain.” Ghost holds out the evidence. “Says he ‘as no idea ‘ow they got there.”

“I really don’t, sir,” this time directing your protestation at the captain. Even with a pretty good idea who planted the raisins, without any proof, you doubt he’ll take your word.

Dread slithers down your spine when he marches closer. 

“That right? They walk to your cabin on their own, did they?”

“No, Captain, but I-”

“Enough.”

He doesn’t have to raise his voice, yet your teeth still clack with how quickly your mouth snaps shut.

“If there’s one thing I won’t stand for, it’s a thief. Especially a ration thief. We are a team on this ship. I expect you to act like it.” He straightens, arms crossed reprovingly over his chest. “Effective immediately, you will scrub the decks and take watches on top of your regular duties. Otherwise, you will remain in your cabin. That means no more working in the galley.” The captain looks pointedly at Rudy before continuing, “Gaz or Soap will supervise you at all times.”

“Yes, sir,” you respond meekly.

“And lastly,” he adds, gaze turning flinty, “ten lashes.”

You gape, dumbstruck. Ten? Ten? That can’t be right. You’ve seen men being flogged outside the gaol on occasion. You always tried to walk past as quickly as you could, averting your eyes from the field of livid, bleeding gashes covering their backs. You couldn’t close your ears to the sounds, though.

“Captain, eso lo matará. He’s young.” Rudy jumps in, attempting to talk him down.

“All the more reason to make sure it sticks.”

“The other punishments are more than enough, no?”

Captain Price glowers, though his shoulders slacken a touch. “Five lashes, then. And half rations for a fortnight. Report to the quarterdeck at forenoon watch tomorrow. Understood?”

You should be grateful to Rudy—and you are—but... But something even more distressing suddenly overshadows it: the prisoners you saw before were all shirtless.

Panic wells up in your chest. If your shirt has to be removed, then the chest binding certainly will too, and then…there will be no way to hide anymore…

“The captain asked you a question,” Ghost barks, jolting you out of your frantic spiral.

“Sorry, sir. Understood, sir.”

“Good. Now get out of here.”

You flee, ducking your head to hide the angry tears that threaten to spill.

Weeks of suffering. Months of planning. Come tomorrow, it will all have been for nothing.

Historical notes:

Before anyone comes at me for place names or people’s attitudes, etc. etc., I would like to direct your attention to the tag “set in late 1800’s British Empire.” This will be even more relevant in future chapters. I do deviate from historical accuracy sometimes because I feel like it. THAT SAID, I’m sure there are many unintentional deviations, and if you find things that are inaccurate for the time period, please feel free to leave a comment here or send an ask on tumblr! A source would be appreciated too. I’m never mad at a respectful comment! Doing research and learning about new things is half the fun of this fic for me tbh lol

Speaking of which, learning about how people used the bathroom on ships before flush toilets was…interesting? Disgusting, but interesting.

Bicolotyne is a Victorian-era concoction for treating sea-sickness that originated in Scotland. Its ingredients are different depending on who’s making it, and like most medicines of that era, it’s questionably useful (or safe). Medical history is fascinating.

Food on board ships during this period was a bad time, y’all. Ship’s biscuits are basically hardtack. I cannot imagine having to eat that at every meal.