Edward only needed a few seconds to recall it. "'Try again when you grow a spine.'"
Herbert cocked his brow. His eyes and the crook of his neck as he stared at Edward was the look of a man who didn't want to say something out loud that should have been obvious at that point.
Edward sighed. "So, you're saying that my father planned all this from the beginning, and he wants me to kill him?"
Herbert's brow lowered, then he spread his hands as though he were unveiling a bountiful feast, a feast of evidence towards the conclusion Edward had spelled out.
Edward's earlier frustration and itch faded away and left a hole so deep it could take the very light of the sun with it. He fell to the box he had been sitting on before, sinking into it like the light into the emptiness inside him.
"My father wants me to kill him."
…
Edward and Herbert headed back to the deck above the hold where the crew's quarters were. All that separated the hold from the crew's quarters were the maze of barrels and boxes on one end of the ship, thinning out near the other, and a short ladder.
The narrow space between the cargo was barely enough for Edward to walk through, let alone Herbert in his wooden wheelchair, but he managed with only a few snags. Edward had his own issues with his height in the cramped part of the ship. He had to remain bent over as they walked through the hold towards the ladder.
Edward climbed up the ladder, one hand carrying Herbert's wheelchair and the other gripping the rungs. Each step was a labour in balance and delicacy, and Edward needed to take his time. After a few heaves, and a tenuous leverage over the lip of the other deck's edge, the wheelchair was up, and Edward himself wasn't far behind.
"Next time," Edward said to Herbert over the side to the hold through a few laboured breaths, "we leave the chair."
Herbert chuckled as he began his climb. "Aye, Ca… Aye, Ed," Herbert amended quickly. This was the Black Blood, and Edward was not his captain.
Herbert's journey up the ladder was nearly as laborious as Edward's, as Herbert could only rely on his hands for stability, leaving his legs dangling beneath him and swinging with each advance up the rungs. Once on the other deck, Edward held Herbert's chair steady for him as he climbed into in and got comfortable again, placing a small blanket over his emaciated limbs to hide them from sight.
Edward recalled that Herbert had once said the act was meant more for others than himself, as he had already come to terms with his circumstances. Hiding his legs did nothing for him—they were a part of him—but for others, it stopped the staring and the shrinking that came after they realized they were staring.
After Herbert settled, they went the short distance to the crew's quarters, now adjusted for dining. The hammocks, usually stacked three high in rows along the hull with a mere inch or two of clearance for each row's swinging arc, had been put away. The accessible area was now filled with crewmates in clusters sitting flush on the deck as they ate from large soup bowls.
This ship, unlike the Queen Anne's Revenge, had no designated dining area, no tables, no benches, no segregation between living and eating space. And no privacy. By the time each man had their bowls, Edward could tell that the dining space would be shoulder-to-shoulder with bodies. The thought of having to sit shoulder to bloody shoulder with these men in an already oppressively humid environment rankled Edward more than the rigorous work above deck had.
Close to the stern, near the cut-off to the hold but centred between port and starboard, was a large iron stove in the middle of a pit of sand held in by sturdy wooden planks covered in more iron. The stove was an older design than in Edward's ship and had far less utility. The meals it could supply were limited to the standard stews common on long voyages made in pots as big and broad as Edward was.
Near the stove, hanging from the rafters of the ship in twine, were a variety of dried spices swaying with the bobbing of the waves. From a distance Edward couldn't recognize many of the spices, save basil and parsley. They still looked fresh from what Edward could see; given that they were just in port they may have been bought the day before, or they could have been stolen from a merchant ship before that for all Edward knew.
Mixed in with the heavy and thick air of sweat, shit, and salt from the sea, Edward could smell the distinct aroma of boiling potatoes, but that was about it. None of the spices hanging in the air, nor those in the stew, made it to his nose. All else was lost in the pot, but Edward surmised it was some meat salted heavily enough to dry the throat, and some other vegetables that fared well over long voyages, hearty vegetables that on their own could be tasty and healthful, if only one joined it with complementary foods. The problem was that most complementary foods were impossible to keep aboard a ship.
And after months on board, that was when the scurvy came in. Edward was fortunate enough to never have been that far from shore when he was younger, and after Alexandre joined, he claimed to have knowledge of a concoction that helped in prevention over long voyages, though Edward wasn't privy to the ingredients. It helped his crew avoid the bleeding gums, the loss of teeth, and the bone weariness and pain that came before the fever, the tremors, and the death.
Thinking about the sickness, Edward thought back to the crewmates he'd had the displeasure of meeting over the day. Many had lost teeth, but not one man had the signs of
