refused to look in Rose’s direction, though Jack himself had vouched for her. Had they looked at Rose, they’d have seen Rugby perched on her shoulder, looking very calm.
Jack shook Pim’s hand, clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Good luck to you, and your wife-to-be. I’ll miss you.”
Pim said, “And you as well. Godspeed!”
Jack hugged Johanna, thanked George, kept his distance from Rose, and waved to Hester. Then he and Abby Winter climbed into one of the boats and they all headed out to sea. After twenty minutes of rowing, Jack instructed them to sing pirate songs so the skeleton crew would know to come fetch them.
Within moments of boarding, Abby started in.
“What manner of conditions are these?” she said. “You men live like pigs! I’ve never smelled anything like it! Have you no pride?”
She approached Cook, who was busy working at his enormous pot. Scattered around him on the deck floor were dead pigeons, turtles, fish, palm hearts, pickled eggs, onions, cabbage, wine, and some ingredients she had never seen before, nor cared to see again.
“What is that dreadful stench?” she said.
“Salamagundi, miss,” said Cook.
“What’s that?”
“Dinner.”
“Why, it smells like the bowels of a goat. Like the very breath of death!”
“Well, the smell’s the best part.”
“God help us all.”
Cook looked at Jack. “Shall I toss her overboard for you?” he said.
“She’s new. I’ll get her belowdecks, get her settled in,” Jack said.
Abby attempted to follow Jack down the steps into the hold, but began retching. She grabbed her mouth and reversed course and puked on the deck, five feet from Cook’s pot.
“Is that your contribution to the pot, miss?” Cook said.
“Oh, you wretched, wretched beasts!” she cried.
Halfway down the steps, Jack sighed. This was why they normally didn’t allow women on board ship. He climbed back up the stairs and joined her. “You feel better now?”
“What’s going on here?” Abby said. “You can’t tell me you live like this!”
“I can and we do.”
“But you can’t! I mean, you don’t actually
“Aye, miss, we do. As you will, and gladly, when a big enough storm’s afoot.”
“What has happened down there to make such a vile odor?”
“Happened?”
“I mean, it’s an unnatural smell.”
“That’s what you said about the soup.”
“Nay, I was wrong. Whatever happened belowdecks is far worse than the soup. I’d rather be reamed by Philip Winter’s pink pizzle than step foot down there again.”
“Truly?”
“I mean, explain it to me, Jack. Surely there’s a better solution to be had.”
“Well, it’s hot and humid, and the ship is old, and made of wood. That smell you’re referring to is a mixture.”
“A mixture of what?”
“It’s no secret to any seafaring man. It’s bilge water that’s gone bad over the course of time, mixed with the smell of unbathed bodies, rotten fish and meat, and livestock excrement.”
“What do you mean, livestock?”
“Well, of course we keep pigs and chickens and goats and other animals alive down there.”
“Alive?”
“Sometimes we’re at sea for months. You can salt your meat, but it goes rotten after a few weeks, so we keep the livestock to be butchered when needed.”
“And you and your men sleep among the pigs, do you?”
“Oh, no miss. They’re on the orlop, the lowest level. We sleep just above them. But their waste goes through the boards and down into the bottom to mix with the bilge water, so it don’t often smell so sweet. As to the livestock, believe me, after a couple weeks at sea, when the biscuits are hard and full of black-headed weevil maggots, you’ll be thankful for fresh meat.”
“Where do you keep your water?”
“In them barrels over there.”
