I knew he would be trouble the moment I laid eyes on him. He was a dashing rogue, with weatherworn skin and a smile that could charm his way out of any trouble.
I met him the day I first set foot on the Avocet, a beautiful schooner that was set to take us to our new lives in the Americas. I saw him as my father spoke to our captain. He was sat in the prow and mending a sail, needle moving in and out of the cloth in time to the sea shanty he was humming to himself. I must admit, I was taken aback by his attire and his appearance. He was so different from the boys in my hometown, with their tightly tailored garb, their smooth, oiled skin and pale faces. He was dressed in clothes I didn’t even have words for, and a rough-shaven beard that disguised what I later came to know as his smile.
I was drawn over to him by his gentle singing, that melodic voice enticing me closer and closer to the man. I turned away as I approached, realising where my feet were leading me, and instead leaned out over the wooden hull and took a deep breath of sea air. Seagulls wheeled around me, and the wind gently pulled at my hair and dress. I smiled. It felt like freedom.
Someone stood at my side. I turned.
Eye contact.
It was the man at the prow. His eyes were bright, and he looked out over the waves with an expression of purest joy.
“How do you like the sea?” he asked me.
I smiled politely and replied. “I think it’s very beautiful.”
“Wait until the sunset,” he said. “That’s the best time to see her. When the sky is awash with colours and the sea wears her finest clothes to match.”
What beautiful words this man had. We spoke for a while, exchanging pleasantries about the day.
“Forgive me,” the man said. “I do not know your name.”
I froze for a moment, wondering how to answer. My father had given me clear instructions not to give out my real name to anyone, under any circumstances. But I got the impression that would be a waste of time. He would see right through my pretence, and steal the truth from my lips anyway.
“Jemima Grainger,” I replied.
“It’s a pleasure, Miss Grainger.”
I giggled a little, delighted by his words. “And who might you be?”
The man gave me a deep bow, sweeping off his hat in respect. “Josiah Smith, milady. Quartermaster of this fine vessel. If you need anything, anything at all, just let me know.”
Josiah reached behind my ear and produced a single gold coin. A piece of eight. He dropped it into my hand, and closed my fingers around it.
“A token of good fortune, for a beautiful young lady,” he said as he kissed my hand.
Yes, Josiah Smith would be trouble indeed.
Creative Notes
Confession time: I watched the National Theatre's production of Treasure Island and now my brain is totally fixated on pirates.
I am forever grateful for the Carlisle Writers Group for continuing to soldier on virtually. You guys are absolutely wonderful!
~ Rachel
Words and image by Rachel Owen