England, the journey ahead. The rocking to and fro of the waves and the soft, sonorous sounds of the sailor's voices lulled me to sleep.
IX
On board the Neptune, Atlantic Ocean
January, 1716
When I awoke, it was dark and utterly silent. I must have been in the cargo hold of the ship. I was still rocking to and fro, though the motion was much less, confirming my suspicions that I was indeed aboard the ship. I wondered if we were at anchor still or if we had departed Nassau Harbor. I felt around beside me and located my haversack. I pulled out a roll and carefully broke it into quarters. Three of the pieces I put back; the other I nibbled at. I would have to strictly ration my food and figure out some way to get water without the sailors discovering me. Stowaways were treated as criminals; some were pressed into service, some were clad in irons, still others were thrown overboard. Since I was a girl, I wondered which of these fates would await me if I were found.
After I ate my meager meal, I pushed up on the crate's lid, moving slowly lest it squeak as the nails came loose. It opened quietly and I climbed out and squinted into the darkness. I could just barely make out the shapes of other crates, barrels, boxes and sacks, stacked neatly side by side and one atop another. Definitely the cargo hold, then.
I made my way over to a barrel and pressed my ear against it as I tried to discern its contents. It didn't slosh around so I guessed something solid, refined sugar or salted meat, perhaps. I went through four other barrels before I found something that sounded liquidy. I pried up the lid and was rewarded with the sweet scent of wine. I used my hand to sip directly from the barrel, making sure not to drink enough that I would be drunk. When my thirst was slaked, I fitted the lid once more and moved the barrel closer to my crate, dragging it inch by inch across the hold. Carefully rationed, my food and the wine should last for most of the journey home.
Home. I grinned into the darkness, my excitement about finally seeing England again filling me with hope. I could smell the sooty air of London, feel the grass of Kensington Gardens beneath my bare feet. I could see Uncle Frederick's face when we were reunited; his smile would light up the city and his embrace would crush my ribs. I fell asleep that first night aboard with a sense of peace, something I hadn't felt for six months.
It was impossible to tell how long I was hidden away in the hold. I ate—sparingly—when I was hungry, drank deeply from the wine barrel only twice a day, used a far corner for as a chamberpot, and slept whenever I was tired. There was no way for me to discern night from day, nor how much time actually passed. It could have been as few as two or three days or as much as a fortnight or perhaps even a month.
I probably would have made it all the way to London undetected, if not for a storm. It scared me, made me think of the storm that had sunk the Resolution , and I screamed and sobbed, shaking like a leaf in my terror every time the ship listed too far to one side. The cargo hadn't been stowed away properly and the crates burst free from their flimsy ropes to roll all over the hold, smashing into each other and breaking open, spilling their contents across the deck. My own crate was pinned against the stairs, held there by a pileup of the rest of the cargo. I could hear water slowly seeping in through cracks in the hull and soon, it invaded my crate.
Finally, the storm blew itself out and I was able to relax and get control of myself again. There was some three inches of water in the bottom of my crate and I suspected there was even more outside. The ship settled into gentle waves, rising and falling with a soothing rhythm. I couldn't get out of my prison, and I suspected that my wine barrel had been smashed. Unable to do much of anything else, I merely settled down to sleep after eating a bit of biscuit and salt pork.
Voices woke me.
IX
On board the Neptune, Atlantic Ocean
January, 1716
When I awoke, it was dark and utterly silent. I must have been in the cargo hold of the ship. I was still rocking to and fro, though the motion was much less, confirming my suspicions that I was indeed aboard the ship. I wondered if we were at anchor still or if we had departed Nassau Harbor. I felt around beside me and located my haversack. I pulled out a roll and carefully broke it into quarters. Three of the pieces I put back; the other I nibbled at. I would have to strictly ration my food and figure out some way to get water without the sailors discovering me. Stowaways were treated as criminals; some were pressed into service, some were clad in irons, still others were thrown overboard. Since I was a girl, I wondered which of these fates would await me if I were found.
After I ate my meager meal, I pushed up on the crate's lid, moving slowly lest it squeak as the nails came loose. It opened quietly and I climbed out and squinted into the darkness. I could just barely make out the shapes of other crates, barrels, boxes and sacks, stacked neatly side by side and one atop another. Definitely the cargo hold, then.
I made my way over to a barrel and pressed my ear against it as I tried to discern its contents. It didn't slosh around so I guessed something solid, refined sugar or salted meat, perhaps. I went through four other barrels before I found something that sounded liquidy. I pried up the lid and was rewarded with the sweet scent of wine. I used my hand to sip directly from the barrel, making sure not to drink enough that I would be drunk. When my thirst was slaked, I fitted the lid once more and moved the barrel closer to my crate, dragging it inch by inch across the hold. Carefully rationed, my food and the wine should last for most of the journey home.
Home. I grinned into the darkness, my excitement about finally seeing England again filling me with hope. I could smell the sooty air of London, feel the grass of Kensington Gardens beneath my bare feet. I could see Uncle Frederick's face when we were reunited; his smile would light up the city and his embrace would crush my ribs. I fell asleep that first night aboard with a sense of peace, something I hadn't felt for six months.
It was impossible to tell how long I was hidden away in the hold. I ate—sparingly—when I was hungry, drank deeply from the wine barrel only twice a day, used a far corner for as a chamberpot, and slept whenever I was tired. There was no way for me to discern night from day, nor how much time actually passed. It could have been as few as two or three days or as much as a fortnight or perhaps even a month.
I probably would have made it all the way to London undetected, if not for a storm. It scared me, made me think of the storm that had sunk the Resolution , and I screamed and sobbed, shaking like a leaf in my terror every time the ship listed too far to one side. The cargo hadn't been stowed away properly and the crates burst free from their flimsy ropes to roll all over the hold, smashing into each other and breaking open, spilling their contents across the deck. My own crate was pinned against the stairs, held there by a pileup of the rest of the cargo. I could hear water slowly seeping in through cracks in the hull and soon, it invaded my crate.
Finally, the storm blew itself out and I was able to relax and get control of myself again. There was some three inches of water in the bottom of my crate and I suspected there was even more outside. The ship settled into gentle waves, rising and falling with a soothing rhythm. I couldn't get out of my prison, and I suspected that my wine barrel had been smashed. Unable to do much of anything else, I merely settled down to sleep after eating a bit of biscuit and salt pork.
Voices woke me.
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