Arabella of Mars(25)

Trembling, Arabella nodded fractionally.

“The correct response is ‘aye, aye, sir.’”

“Aye, aye, sir,” she barely squeaked out.

*

Just then an airman appeared, knuckling his brow to Kerrigan. “Ah, Faunt,” the officer said, all cool professionalism again. “This is Ashby. He’s just joined the crew as captain’s boy. He’ll be messing with the waisters; please be so good as to get him situated. Ashby, this is Faunt, the captain of the waist.” He paused, considering Arabella for a moment. “I wish you luck.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” It was the only thing she knew to say.

Mr. Faunt was an older fellow, weathered and gray-bearded, with a knitted watch-cap pulled low over his eyes. “Ashby, is it?” His hand, hard and brown and seamed from sun and wind, had a grip seemingly capable of crushing a pewter tankard into a wad of scrap.

“Aye, aye, sir,” she replied, wincing.

“None of that guff,” Faunt said, and set off down the length of the ship. “I work for a living.”

Arabella scrambled to follow. “How shall I address you, then, sir?”

“Faunt will do.” He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Awfully high-spoken for a ship’s boy, ain’t ye?”

She had no reply to that.

“Ye’d best watch yer mouth around the men,” the airman continued. “Most of ’em don’t take so kindly as I to one who puts on airs.”

“I shall do my best.” She swallowed the sir that tried to follow.

They had to pause while a gang of men ran past, bearing a large crate. “Ye’ve never served on an airship afore, have ye?”

“No, I have not. I mean, I haven’t.”

“That way’s fore,” he said, pointing to the front of the ship. “Aft. Starboard. Larboard. Aloft. Below.”

“Six directions,” she muttered.

“Eh?”

“Nothing.”

Faunt led her forward and down a narrow stairway—“This here’s the fo’c’sle, and we call this a ladder”—to a tiny cupboard where Mr. Quinn, the ship’s purser, had her sign the ship’s muster-book.

Most of the other crewmen had marked nothing more than an X. Mindful of Faunt’s advice not to put on airs, she simply printed the name “Arthur Ashby” in a plain, unadorned hand.

“Welcome aboard, Ashby,” the purser said. “Now, d’ye have a hammock?”

“No, sir.”

The purser tut-tutted and opened a cabinet. “Here’s a hammock for ye.” He tossed her a wadded ball of canvas and rope half the size of her torso. As she struggled to untangle the ungainly thing, he examined her coldly. “And those slops’ll never do.”

“Slops?”

“Clothes,” Faunt clarified.

“Here’s the scran-bag.” The purser handed her a heavy canvas bag, which stank of mildew and unwashed airmen. “Take what you need.”

With Faunt’s help, she found a pair of duck trousers, a shirt, a kersey jacket, and a knit cap that would fit her slightly better than the ones she’d stolen. “These’ll do ye as far as Mars,” Faunt said, “in this season. Ye’ll be wanting warmer later.”

“Thank you.”

The purser cleared his throat. “That’ll be one pound, eight shillings, and ten pence.”

Arabella goggled. Almost a pound and a half, for these malodorous rags? But before she could protest, Faunt poked her shoulder hard and gave her a warning look. She pushed down her indignation and instead confronted the simple reality of the price. “Um, I am terribly sorry, sir, but I haven’t that much.”

“No matter,” the purser said with a shrug. “We’ll take it out of your pay.”

“Which would be … how much?”

“How old are ye?”

“Seventeen.”

She should be getting used to that dubious look by now, but at least he did not question her statement. “Boy second class…” he muttered. He flipped through his muster-book and ran his finger down a column of figures. “Here we are. Eight pounds per annum.”

Arabella gulped. “I see.”

All she needed to do, she reminded herself, was to get to Mars before Simon.

*

Faunt led her from the purser’s cubby and down another ladder to the lower deck, a long dark space crowded with cargo in crates and barrels. He pointed out hooks in the ceiling beams—“the overhead”—where she could hang her hammock. “Can ye read?”

“I can,” she acknowledged. “And do my sums, and I’ve been tutored in French.”

“Hunh,” Faunt scoffed, giving her a sour eye. “Well, there’s a number by each hook, d’ye see? Ye’ll be number seventeen.” But as she began to unfold the hammock, he held up a finger. “Not now.”

Back up on deck, he showed her a long narrow shelf into which dozens of tidily rolled hammocks were crammed. “Stow it anywhere ye like. Just don’t forget where.”

She rolled up the hammock and shoved it in amongst the others. She would have to find some private place in which to change her clothing later. Which reminded her … “Where do we, um, do the necessary?”