Below Decks

He explores the ship, discovering that its inhabitants are the dirtiest of all poverty stricken peoples: those poor, pathetic souls that sing folk song sea ballads. Against His will He is drawn into a duet, but it’s better than being drawn and quarteted.

“Below decks, the wetter weeds are swept
The deeper you get, overboard who’s next?
Below decks, the deeper you get
The wetter weeds are swept, overboard who’s next?
Below decks, the deeper you get
The wetter weeds are swept, overboard who’s next?
Below decks, the deeper you get
The wetter weeds are swept, overboard who’s next?”

I let myself sink, down, down, down, down
Into the bowls of the ship
Until I found, a place to rest and let my head
Sink amongst the men of sweat
Who laughed in the face of death
And sang, of tales of test
And sang, of tales and tests.

“We’re off to Samoa
By way of Genoa,
Roll on Shenandoah
And up with the line and away,
Up with the line and away.
We’re towing to Malta
The rock of Gibraltar
With only a halter
And Davy Jones lying below,
So pray to the devil below.
We’re off to Savannah,
O sing Polly Anna,
My lovely Susannah,
A bird flying high in the sky.
She’s only a bird in the sky.
Oh, Anna Susannah!
I’ll find you a bed by and by.
We’re off to Nantucket,
Kick over the bucket,
So muck it and chuck it
A dunducket look in the eye.
We’re riding the ocean,
A dippety motion,
O give me a potion,
No fish in the locker for me!
We’re off to Bermuda,
The Sultan of Judah
Can eat barracuda
Including the weevils and all.
We’re anchored of Scilly,
My aunt willy-nilly,
Was winking at billy,
She’ll cut up her billy for pie.”

“Uncle, I am Edweena,” a voice, taking me by the hand, and pulling at it. “We must speak.”
She led me from the crowd slowly, slipping away without being noticed; step by step as if we danced. I did not speak, and neither did she say anything more until finally we were finally free from the noise and the song and safe too; without others around us to listen and eavesdrop; they’d notice if we spoke. We spoke to each other; perhaps plotting...perhaps plotting. Perhaps plotting.
We were safe in her quarters; away, away from the sound of engines, but not the sea. It sang through the portholes like the performance that we had just escaped; this one we could not, and had to endure, though we were safe. It was dusty and old, and filled with boxes—safe—they seemed to hold secrets...quietly, not willing to give up what they knew. Perhaps spice; but the room smelt of oil and gunpowder; it was bitter and acidic and the dust would settle on one’s tongue and make it its home. We whispered over the sound:
“I am not uncle,” I said, but she did not mind.
“A mutiny,” she continued, sitting on the crusty sheets. “And what a plan at that. You sit back here with me where it’s safe; you’re the only one that doesn’t know: falling onto the ship as you are an angel. You could have been part of it, but I thought I would help you, for you are an angel, aren’t you?”
“Neither angel, nor uncle,” I said.
“Then how did you fall? It matters not. Sit with me, and listen. Listen to the musket fire, and in but a few hours we will be free.”
So I sat down on the sheets beside her, and we listened; the sounds of the sea fading, and being over taken by the groans of the ship and the sound of musket fire—but no screams. Death was almost silent—quiet, and came without warning, so we sat and listened, safe in her cabin with the sea making sure we did not escape or try to flee at all. We were safe. So we sang, as we waited together. We were safe.