Mini Brain Dumps

Trigger Warning: This novel contains references to sexual assault and mental health disorders. Reader discretion is advised.

If you’re new to the story or need a refresher, you can catch up on the beginning of the novel here: Beginning of the Story

Missed Chapter 9/10? No problem! You can read it here: Previous Chapter

Chapter 11:

Despite his surroundings being a lot comfier than the cargo hold, sleep still evaded Quentin as he thought about his first day as a true sailor. He swayed back and forth in his hammock as he stared at the ceiling, which did little to help his nausea. At one point during the night, he almost crawled out of his bed to throw up from the relentless swaying, but he swallowed the bile rising in his throat, and closed his eyes, focusing on how he was going to impress the others in the morning. Starting up by throwing up in front of them was not an option.

Despite being on a boat before, it was different when you were on a ship. One a small boat you could see the waves coming, but on the Sovereign, he couldn’t. The porthole to their room did little to provide insight into the outside world.

When dawn broke, he tried to get out of his bed, only to end eating the wooden planks of the crew cabin. He picked himself up, brushed the dirt from his clothes and headed out the door, trying to keep his head high despite the glares from the crew he had woken up. He closed the door behind him quietly and made his way down the twisting corridors. As he was making his way above deck, Cate bumped into him.

“Oh, hi,” she said.

Her hair was tied back in the usual bandana, and she wore her white lacy long sleeve top and black trousers. In her arms lay a bundle of clothing, neatly folded into a pile.

“Hey, how’s it going?” he asked, eyeing the garments in her arms.

“Good,” she answered. She held out her hands, “These are for you,” she said as she deposited the garments into his hands. He looked at the clothes nestled in his arms and ran a hand over the stiff salt-stained fabric. A plain white shirt, a light jack, trousers, a pair of black boots, and a hat. “I expect you to return the items you stole and to replace them with these. You’ll want to wear something light; the sun can be brutal when you’re on deck, and you’ll be working hard enough that you shouldn’t be getting cold anyways.”

“Thank you,” he said, trying to sound calmer than he felt. He looked up at Cate.

She stared back at him, raising her chin. “I’ll see you out there,” she said, turning on her heel and retreating up the stairs.

He turned back to the crew cabin and quickly changed into his new clothing. They were too big on him, but he didn’t mind, he was going to be a sailor today, and little was going to damper his mood. As he returned to the deck, he grabbed a nearby bit of rope to tie around his pants to keep them from falling, rolled his sleeves to keep them from getting in the way, and cuffed his trousers so he didn’t trip over the legs.

As the other crew members filed onto the deck, he shadowed the man he had seen before – the one who had caught him with the stolen clothes. He approached Cate, laughing as he ruffled her hair.

“How many times have I told you not to do that?” she huffed while straightening her hair.
“Oh Squirt, don’t ye worry yer pretty little head,” the crewmate laughed back.

Quentin watched curiously. Cate’s cold demeanor seemed to melt away in the presence of this stranger. And they obviously were close, at least to some degree, for him to be able to treat her like that without her punching him in the face.

She shooed the man away. He laughed as he made his way across the deck to some barrels and began to move them to the storage area. Quentin approached Cate the smile immediately melting from her face as she spotted him.

“Quentin Hayes, reporting for duty,” he said, saluting her.

She rolled her eyes. “No need for formalities,” she said. “I have assigned you to be the deckhand. You will clean and maintain the ship’s deck, hull, and other areas. You will help with any cargo that needs to be secured and work the rigging.”

“Aye, aye, Captain,” Quentin answered, dropping his hand to his side.

“I am not your captain,” she whispered harshly. “I am your first mate. He is your captain,” she said pointing towards a man at the helm of the ship.

He was a burly man, easily a foot taller than most of the men aboard the ship. His broad shoulders strained against the fabric o his canvas shirt. A salt and pepper beard and matching head of hair. His dark eyes were narrowed as he scanned the ship and the crew mulling about. He moved, with his hands behind his back, as he made his way across the deck, his heavy footsteps reverberating against the weathered planks.

“That’s Captain Reynold’s, and you would do well to show him respect,” she continued.

“Now, get to work.”

“Will do,” he said, turning on his heel, ready for his day to begin.

He approached the nearest crew member who looked at him like he had an arm growing out of his shoulder. Quentin extended his hand. “Hi, I’m Quentin.”

“A new boy, I see,” the crewmate responded, eyeing him suspiciously. “Heard they found ya hiding with the cargo,” the man said, leaning with one arm against the railing and picking something from his teeth. “So, ye planned on robbing us and pleaded with the soft-hearted girl to let ye stay?”

Quentin cast a glance towards Cate. Her? Softhearted? Doubtful. He turned back to the crewmate and raised an eyebrow at him. “I wanted to be a sailor, like my father,” he answered.

“Why not come aboard at the ports, rather than sneakin’ ‘bout like vermin?”
Quentin’s smile widened, “Where’s the fun in that?” he retorted.

The old man shot him a glare, “I don’t trust ya kid,” he said, bumping into Quentin’s shoulder so hard he nearly spun in a circle as the man sauntered past him.

“Not a fan of jokes, got it,” Quentin mumbled to himself as he rubbed his shoulder.
Quentin leaned heavily against the railing and looked out at the sea. The calmness of the water and the smell of salt that clung in the air did little to provide him comfort. His stomach still churned but from anxiety or seasickness, he couldn’t really tell. He heard the footsteps of someone as they approached him. He glanced over his shoulder and saw a figure standing there, observing the crew with quiet intensity as they leaned against the railing next to him.

“Mornin’,” the newcomer said.

Quentin nodded, “Good morning.”

The woman’s gaze lingered on the crewmate who had just departed, her expression unreadable. “Ol’ Sal giv’n you a hard time?” she asked.

Quentin shrugged his shoulders, the dull ache in his arm a reminder of his encounter with the stranger – Ol’ Sal. He glanced over at the man, now standing across the deck glowering at the others around him. “I don’t think he likes me very much.”

“He doesn’t like no one. Don’t take it personally,” she said.

“Good to know… My name’s Quentin,” he said offering his hand to the woman.

“Mel,” she answered, shaking his hand in return. Her grip was stronger than he had expected, her hands rough with years’ worth of callouses. “Ye better get to work or Cate’ll throttle yah. Grab a bucket, fill it with some soapy water and get to cleaning the deck,” Mel said, pointing towards the corridors that led below deck. “First door. You should find what ye need.”

“Thanks,” Quentin smiled, tapping the railing twice before heading in the direction Mel had pointed him.

Below deck he came across the door that Mel had told him about and opened it to find a small closet. As Mel had stated, there was a bucket of water, soap, and wash clothes. A tightness in his chest loosened at the sight. He grabbed what he needed and headed above deck before stationing himself in a corner far from the other crewmates and began scrubbing at the worn wooden planks of the main deck.

He scrubbed or hours. His muscles burned from the repetitive motions, his back aching from being crouched on his hands and knees, but despite the pain he pushed through. He emptied one bucket of dirty water, replaced it with a second, a third, and fourth. The sun beat down on his, warming his skin until he was uncomfortably hot. He welcomed the times when the wind blew through the ship, cooling his red and sweaty face. His hat offered coverage from the sun, but he still saw his skin turning pink. When he finally straightened, his back cracking as he did, he looked at the work he had accomplished.
He slumped his shoulders. The deck was still dirty, the spots he cleaned treaded over by his companions, leaving them just as dirty as when he had started. He chewed the inside of his cheek and stared down at his raw hands. This was not what he had signed up for.

As he got to his feet, he accidentally kicked over the bucket of muddy water, spilling the contents over the section of the deck he had just cleaned. A chorus of exasperated sighs echoed around him. He felt his cheeks heat as he quickly grabbed the bucket, righting it.

“Hayes, can’t you do anything right?” Cate scolded as she approached him.

Quentin’s cheeks flushed, “Sorry,” he mumbled.

Cate looked down her nose at him, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “Clean it up. Quickly,” she said coolly.

“On it, Miss Sinclair,” Quentin answered.

Her nostrils flared slightly. Quentin bit the inside of his cheek to try to hide his smile. He watched as Cate reached out her foot and rested it on top of his bucket before tipping it over.

“Oops,” she said mockingly as the bucket clattered across the deck.

Quentin glared up at her, watching as she returned to her duties. When she was a safe distance away, he got to his feet and retrieved his bucket before setting to work on cleaning again.

As the sun set, the crew was dismissed for supper. Quentin hesitated a moment at the entrance to the dining room, steeling himself to the inevitable scrutiny of his fellow crewmates. Jack went in ahead of him, offering him a smile as he pushed through the doors. Quentin took a deep breath and stepped inside.

Scanning the room, he spotted Captain Reynold’s seated at the head table. Even sitting, he was tall, his sturdy build taking up almost the entirety of his seat. His face bore the marks of countless voyages, with lines etched deeply around his eyes. Next to him sat Cate, her sleeves were rolled up. Her sharp eyes scanned the room, her gaze lingering on each member of the crew in turn.

When Mel waved him over to an empty seat, he felt a rush of relief. He hurriedly made his way to the table, the clatter of dishes and the hum of conversation drowning out his thought. He sat down beside her, forcing a smile to his face as he did.

Maria, the ship’s cook, came around the table with a steaming pot. She offered a warm smile as she ladled the stew into the waiting bowls of the crew. “You’ve earned it,” she said with a wink.

He didn’t believe her.

“Thanks,” he mumbled.

He looked down at his bowl and his stomach rumbled as he stared at the steaming pile of food in front of him. The smell of the meat and potatoes made his mouth water. He picked up his spoon and began to shovel the stew into his mouth. It tasted as good as it smelled. He dug in with a ferociousness that would’ve made his mother whack him over the head with her towel.

“Worked yourself up an appetite I see,” Maria laughed before giving him another spoonful and making her way to the next table.

“She’s right, you know,” the man next to him said, not looking at him as he shoveled heaping spoonsful into his mouth.

Quentin smiled at him. “Thanks.”

With a start, Quentin realized that the man sitting next to him was the same person who had ruffled Cate’s hair and called her Squirt – the man who had caught him with the stolen uniform. Quentin couldn’t help but notice the grizzled appearance of the man, his greying beard and strong jawline. His blue eyes seemed to stare right through him, analyzing every thought that ran through Quentin’s mind. Quentin turned his gaze downwards, staring into the bowl in front of him instead.

One of the crewmates across from him smiled. “First day and ye didn’t fall overboard. That’s always a good sign.” The others around him laughed, and Quentin felt his cheeks heating. The man raised his glass, “To not falling overboard.” The other’s raised their glasses halfheartedly before tipping their glasses back and drinking deeply from their cups.

Quentin reluctantly raised his glass and took a sip as well. He gagged at the bitter liquid that filled his mouth. His eyes began to water as he tried to choke it down the best he could.

“It’s not a Valesian wine, but we make do with what we got,” the man said, filling his tankard once again with the awful substance.

“And they say that sailors have bad taste,” Quentin choked out.
The other’s laughed and he couldn’t help but smile as well. He felt a small flutter in his chest.

“My name’s Geoff,” the man across from him said. “This is Jack,” Geoff said, gesturing to the man next to Quentin. “And this…” he started, clapping the man next to him on the shoulder. “Is Jim.”

Quentin offered a tight-lipped smile. “It’s nice to meet you all.”

As the other’s began to chat about their days Quentin dug into his second bowl of stew with the same zealous as before, finishing the bowl quickly, before wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. He half listened as the others shared their stories.

Quentin observed the others. Geoff, a burly sailor that seemed to fill the room, seemed to be the most talkative of the lot. He was younger than the other men, but his hands still bore the tell-tale signs of years at sea. But there was a warmth in his eyes that the others lacked.

Mel mostly stared at her plate, offering the occasional comment, but for the most part keeping to herself. She seemed to be a woman of few words. Despite her small stature, Quentin knew that she was stronger than most. Just that morning he had seen her toss a barrel around the main deck like it was nothing more than a sack of potatoes. But Quentin knew under her gruff exterior that she was a kind soul, or at least the kindest person he had met so far.

Yet, even as he halfheartedly laughed and joked with his newfound comrades, Quentin felt like an imposter. He glanced around the table at the weathered faces and calloused hands of his fellow sailors and couldn’t help but wonder if he would ever truly belong among them.

As supper ended and the crew began to disperse, Cate waved Quentin over. Quentin approached the head table, his heart pounding in his chest, his palms growing clammy with nervousness. Cate’s sharp gaze met his as he drew closer, her eyes seeming to dissect him with a single glance. He swallowed hard, feeling the weight of her scrutiny like a physical pressure against his skin.

Dragging himself to the crew cabin, Quentin was met with the suffocating aroma of sweat and unwashed bodies. He flopped down on his hammock and closed his eyes. Slowly, the rest of the crew settled into their beds and the lights were dimmed. But despite his weariness that had settled into his bones, he couldn’t sleep.

He tried to get out of is hammock and fumbled terrible, landing on the floor with a thump. The fall didn’t hurt anything but his pride as his crewmates shot daggers at him, a collective groan running through the cabin. He pushed himself to his feet and apologized before making his way out the door, and up the stairs to the main deck.

Leaning against the weathered railing, Quentin gazed out at the moonlit expanse of the ocean, its surface shimmering. His fingers ached from the rough hemp rope that he had been working with throughout the day. As he stared at his red hands he wondered if he truly capable of weathering the storms that lay ahead?

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