The Stowaway

V

"Go to the edge of the cliff and jump off. Build your wings on the way down." T.K Thorne

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V.

Eliza knew that the sensible thing to do would be to beg for her passage, and to apologise for the horrendous stench that she had created with her seasickness.

But she could not bring herself to even move. She thought for sure that if she made any move to stand up then she would heave again. She was done for. That was certain. She had not even made it twenty-four hours before she had ruined it for herself.

She heard the sounds of gruff voices drawing near, and she resisted lifting her head. It was safely positioned between her knees, preventing her from vomiting.

"She's here, Captain!" cried the man who had discovered her, the one who wore the dirty apron.

Eliza heard the squeak of the door and the stomp of most seriously displeased footsteps. He was not alone.

"Merde!" she heard another voice cry, one that she had not heard before. He was French, it seemed. Eliza understood him, or at least all she had bothered to learn was the inappropriate language that vexed her mother.

That same voice began to chant the Lord's Prayer in Latin, and she heard him fumbling about with something small. Possibly a rosary. She was bad luck, Eliza deduced. He was praying for salvation.

"What the hell have you been doing in here?" the Captain asked in disgust. "Are you drunk?" he spat. "Is that what you thought you would do? Sneak onto my ship, drink my ale and spit it up everywhere?" There was venom in his voice, so much so that Eliza felt herself trembling. She was not afraid, but perhaps that was a lie. "Get up!" he commanded.

"I would, sir, but I am afraid I will be sick again if I move," murmured Eliza.

She heard the captain suck in an inpatient breath, to which Eliza suddenly found herself being lifted rather abruptly to her feet. Her head immediately started spinning, but she thankfully did not throw up again. It took her a minute to balance before she was finally able to meet the eye of the captain.

If looks could kill.

His black eyes were cutting her down where she stood. There was no softness, no tenderness or sympathy. Only anger, rage, and intolerance. Black eyes and a black heart. A true pirate.

"I am not drunk!" she insisted. "Only seasick. I am terribly sorry for the mess that I have made. I have never been on a ship before."

The Frenchman had been holding a rosary. He was holding it up to Eliza, as though it was protecting him, while he avidly crossed his chest with his right hand.

"If you were a man, I would have you thrown overboard for stowing away on my ship," the captain said icily.

Eliza could see it in his eyes. He meant it. It sent a shiver down her spine. "Please," she begged. "I am sorry for any inconvenience. I wish to go to Jamaica. I can pay you."

His eyes narrowed. "I do not take passengers. Especiallywomen." His eyes flicked over to the Frenchman who was still praying. "For God's sake, Jackie, she's been on the ship since yesterday evening and there has not been a hurricane or a tidal wave."

"Yet!" hissed Jackie. "She's bad luck, Captain!"

"I can see that," replied the captain. "She's made my cargo hold smell like a tavern on a Sunday morning." He turned his nose up. "Jackie, where is the nearest port? I want to dump her backside on the first ship back to England."