Last night, weboarded a small vessel. It appeared to be a cargo ship transportingrice from the South. Maria had tied the crew up in gunny sacks andlined them on deck. I often watched her as she tossed menoverboard, listened to them scream for their lives as theyplummeted to a slow watery death. Sometimes she would use them astarget practice, she’s not the best shot, from what I can tell.
But last night, Devil Eyes and Maria forced me to do it. Todecide if they were to be tossed overboard, alive, or if they wereto be shot first. The shrivel of my past self-wanted them tohave a quick death, no suffering. But she did not like that. Shewanted me to suffer more than them. So, she made me do it. Mariaput the pistol in my hand and Devil Eyes pointed it for me. I knewI was a good shot, my father saw to that. I cried as my fingerpulled the trigger and a lead ball smacked one of the gunny sacks.A little cry rang out as the person inside squirmed and then,finally, stopped. As the bag toppled over, I realized it was nottied shut and the small, lifeless body of a child poked its headout.
That was thefinal straw for me. I cannot go on living like this if you call itliving at all. So, this, I swear, is my last entry as Henry WilliamWhite. Tonight, I will let Devil Eyed Barrett take my life and setme free from this Hell. He owes me as much.
I closed thejournal and just let the tears roll down my face. Poor Henry. Hewas just a child. Maria Cobham, my own flesh and blood… I found ithard to believe that such evil flowed through my veins. And at thatmoment, I hated myself. Even though it wasn’t me, and it happenedhundreds of years ago, I had no right to be there on this Earth.Henry did, though. It wasn’t fair that he had to die, that theDevil Eyed Barrett pirate could just take his life and Maria’slegacy got to live on even to today. In me.
I rested myhead against the side of the cell and closed my eyes, dreaming ofwhat Henry may have been like. He seemed to be noble, honest andloved his family dearly. Perhaps, if we had lived in the same time,we could have been friends. We’d play down by the water and he’dtake me on his tiny boat to catch squid and bathe in the sun as weheld hands. I wondered what he may have looked like and pictured apost-pubescent boy with golden hair, a sweet smile. Maybe somedimples. I tried to hold on to the thought, to honor his memory, asI quietly cried myself to sleep.
***
The sun setthree times before I saw any hope of getting out of the cell.Night after night, day after day, I laid there on the crate thatwas barely large enough to hold my body in a fetal position,watching the sunlight fade to darkness and the slight twinkle ofstars poking in through the narrow opening where the ladder waspositioned. I mostly laid there, listening to the sound of wavesswooshing below. When the inevitable time came for me to use thebathroom, I yelled for someone to help me as I banged the buckleson my jacket against the metals bars of the cage. Finally, my otherrescuer appeared, the shorter one with the dark hair and scowlingface. Gus.
“Whatthe Christ is all the racket?”
I backed upand stood tall. “I need to pee.”
“Andwhat, exactly, do you want me to do about that?”
I narrowed mygaze. “Bring me to a bathroom? Unless you want me to urinate allover the floor?”
The manrolled his eyes and turned to leave. I wanted to protest, to yellafter him, but before I could he returned with a wooden pail. “Step back,” he barked andfetched some keys from his belt. I watched as he unlocked the celland tossed the bucket at me. “There you go. Now shut your gob.” Thedoor slammed shut and he locked it once more before stompingoff.
I glanced downat the bucket in my hands and I would have vomited if I’d hadanything worth coming up. The wooden pail had clearly been used asa toilet before, and often, without proper cleaning. I tossed it tothe side, refusing to touch it. I put it off as long as I could,held it in, but I finally broke and squat over it one night whenthe coast was clear.
Thankfully,each morning, the cook would come and give me a dirty metal traywith some stale bread and something that resembled broth. I beggedhim for answers, to help me, but he ignored my pleas and went onhis way. On the fourth morning, though, he finally spoke.
“They’recoming for you today,” he whispered through the bars as he handedme my tray, casting shady glances over his shoulder.
“Whatdoes that mean? Are they going to kill me?”
“I don’tknow,” he replied. “I overheard some of the men speaking with thecaptain when I brought him breakfast. They were deciding what to dowith you, and the captain ordered to have you tied up and broughtto his quarters.”
My heartsqueezed with panic and my stomach rolled. Why did I have to betied up? It wasn’t like I could run anywhere. We were on a God damnship. Unless…
“W-whois your captain? What is… what would you think he’d do to a womanwho was tied up?”
The chef’sfaced drooped and I could see he felt bad for me, he knew myconcerns. “They call him Devil Eyed Barrett, one of the mostruthless men on the sea.”
Thatwretched anvil dropped in my stomach at the sound of his captain’sname. The same name I had found in Henry’s three-hundred-year-oldjournal. How could that be possible? Was I really in the past?Could that ship-in-a-bottle have been, I shuddered at the idea ofadmitting it to myself, enchanted?
“I’venever known him to harm a woman, but I’ve heard of the vile thingshe’s done before I was brought aboard.” He stopped to heave a sighand move in closer.
