VI. Ducked
Morgan had never seen someone so sick as when she stepped out on deck the next morning to find Johnny slumped over the railing, his face the colour of spoilt milk.
"Oh my," she said, kneeling beside him and placing a hand gingerly on his back. "How you holding up there, Johnny?"
Johnny rolled his head towards her and then wretched over the side.
"Please just tell me the captain hasn't seen me yet," he muttered, his cheek pressed against the wood.
"Come on," she said, looping his arm over her shoulder and pulling him to his feet. "Let's get you to your cabin before the whole crew loses respect for you."
"Please don't take me back into that wretched hellhole," he moaned. "I might just die in there if you do."
"And here I thought you were a trained medical professional," she chuckled, hauling him towards the captain's cabin.
"Where are you taking me?"
"To get you some fresh air amidships, sitting by that rail where the ship is rocking the most is doing you no good."
"But Smollett - Morg', he can't see me like this!" He said, gripping her collar.
"Too late," came a voice from the quarterdeck. Smollet leaned over the rail, not bothering to conceal the smugness in his smile as he took in Johnny's pallid features. "Miss Hawkins, please escort the doctor to my cabin, then see if Silver can manage a pot of ginger tea."
"Aye, sir," she said.
She positioned Johnny by the windows, opening the glass pane to let in a breath of salt air.
"Try not to fall out, you hear?" She said, propping pillows against his back. "I'll do you one better than ginger tea, be back in a moment."
She dashed back to her cabin and pulled out a jar of candied ginger from her chest. Will's warnings about the quality of food had not fallen on deaf ears - she had spent several days in Johnny's kitchen driving his cook mad with her pickling and jamming and candying until she had several jars worth of personal preserves to help them through leaner times on the voyage. Will, for his part, had made sure there were a few bottles of fine Jamaican rum stashed in his trunk.
She left Johnny chewing on the pieces of sugared ginger and made her way below to get started on the morning meal of gruel and ship's biscuit. It was simple food but Morgan had a lifetime of tricks up her sleeve for making the most out of very little. A dash of cinnamon here, squeeze of lime, sprinkle of nutmeg. Not much, mind; Just enough to fool the nose.
"Ho now, I thought the menu was porridge and hardtack," Silver said as he entered the galley.
"The better something smells, the better it tastes," Morgan said. "Cooking is all a bunch of trickery."
"I'm going to get an education on this voyage," he said, leaning over the pot and taking a deep breath. "What did you put in here?"
"Can an old sea dog learn new tricks?"
"I'm not that old!"
As she laughed she remembered the stories Will had told her - '
the devil's own ilk
'. But it was hard to reconcile the easy-going man at her side with the vicious cutthroat Will had described. He always seemed to have a joke or anecdote at the ready, quick to laugh and keen to listen, in turn.
When they picked up their own plates and joined the crew to eat, even Will seemed at ease with him, in spite of all he had said.
She watched him laugh at one of Silver's tales, his amber eyes sparkling in the dim light. It was hard to guard against the old pirate's charms. She wondered if her mother had had trouble reconciling this man - the one gently ruffling his parrot's feathers - with the one they called 'Barbecue'. On the other hand, the same duality had dwelled within her mother. Perhaps it lived inside her own heart, too. But, no, she was not a pirate. Everything she had done had been in defense of Will's life or her own.
Will brushed his shoulder against hers: "Quiet this morning."
"Just thinking."
"About me?"
"Is it that obvious?"
"Transparently so."
"Well when your watch is over you'll have to help me turn some of these daydreams into reality."
"At your service," he said, offering her a mock salute.
Silver sucked his teeth: "The pair of you! Now I know how the rest of the bloody crew felt with me and Amara. I'm tempted to dump a bucket of water over the two of you, maybe that will cool you off. But, nay - I know a better way of dealing with you. Come on, on your feet! There's work to be done!"
Morgan chuckled as the cook rushed the crew out of the galley like a bunch of schoolchildren tardy for their lessons. She helped gather up the tin plates and started washing them, humming the pirate's song as she did.
Silver joined in for a verse or two - his baritone voice echoing through the lower decks - and then meandered off to inspect the stores or some such chore. In reality, she suspected he was taking stock of the ship, but whether it was out of his own interest or because he was plotting something more sinister, she could not yet say.
Her hummed tune shifted from the pirate's shanty to a sweeter song, another one she remembered from her childhood. Something about beautiful Spanish ladies and the sailors who loved them.
She was still humming when she heard footsteps behind her. Two. Not Silver.
She glanced over her shoulder to find Arrow leaning in the doorframe.
"Hello darlin'," he murmured.
Morgan lifted a brow to herself as she turned back to the dishes: "Arrow."
"So you're Bones' wench, huh?"
"If you know that I'm not sure why you're calling me
darlin'
," she replied.
Arrow chuckled. She heard his boots advance and saw out of the corner of her eye as he propped himself against the counter. He was a powerfully built man, one clearly used to the threat of his strength being enough to get what he wanted.
"Silver's daughter too."
He smelled of bitter rum and musky sweat. His piercing eyes seemed smug at first glance but, swimming below the surface of those icy pools, was dark and desperate hunger.
"So it seems," she replied.
"Guess that means a common jack tar like me wouldn't stand a chance?"
She shot him a glance: "Far as I know the two men you just listed are common jack tars."
"So then there is a chance?"
"A chance of what, exactly?"
Arrow leaned forward, his shadow pooling over her.
"Me getting to see you out of that skirt."
"Not one in hell."
He reached out a broad hand towards her and she steeled herself, gripping the knife she was washing tightly. He pressed his thumb below her ear and his fingers curled around the back of her neck, pulling her head back slightly.
"Get your hands off me," she hissed.
