She paused, uncertain, but eventually decided that it must be acceptable to answer a direct question. “S-seventeen, sir.”
“Old for a boy. I hope you’re up to it.” He crossed his arms on his chest, seeming to look down at her though they were nearly the same height. “You’ll be the most junior, lowest-ranked, lowest-paid member of the entire crew. Except and unless you are engaged in some specific task assigned to you by the captain—and there’ll be no shirking on that score—you’ll do whatever any one senior to you tells you to do. And that’s any one, even the cook. Especially the cook. You’ll clean, polish, mend, and paint. You’ll fetch and carry. You’ll kindle the fire and keep it going. You will do your turn at the pedals, oh yes you will. And if you are very, very fortunate, you may be allowed to haul on a line from time to time. D’ye understand?”
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.
*