After the fight, the men treated Arabella differently. Before, she’d felt tolerated—the weak, unskilled new hand—and had thought that good enough, for now. But after her defeat of Gowse she seemed accepted as truly part of the crew. When she had problems or questions, the other men provided answers and assistance without the air of annoyance or opprobrium they’d displayed before; she was now treated as merely inexperienced. It was as though, by showing skill with her fists, she’d demonstrated her potential to perform any other task.
As for Gowse himself, to Arabella’s great surprise his relations with Arabella grew highly cordial. She’d feared retaliation, expected incivility, and hoped for merely being left alone, but despite his two black eyes and visibly off-kilter nose—about which every one, including the officers, studiously avoided any comment—Gowse now treated Arabella as the greatest of friends.
Of course, she was still the most junior member of the crew, still given the filthiest and most tedious jobs. And if in gunnery drill she was slow in delivering a charge of powder, which did still occur from time to time, Gowse could be sharp with a rebuke. But the same was true of any other man whose performance displeased him, and during the few hours of each day when they were neither asleep nor employed in their duties he would often invite her to share a chew of tobacco (which she declined) or join in a game of cards.
Paradoxically, now that the men had accepted her as one of their own, Arabella worried more about keeping her sex hidden. Before, when no one had paid her the least mind, she’d been free to slink off to the head while the men were gaming or carousing together, when she was less likely to be caught with her pants down. Now that she was engaged in those games and carousals herself, her absence was more likely to be noticed.
But even at those times when she was not alone in the head, she still managed to keep her private parts private. The space was dark, close, and vile; visibility was poor, and no one wanted to do any thing other than to get in, do his business, and get out. Only during a few days of the month was there any need for Arabella to spend any more time in the head than that herself, and even then she could plead the flux or some other, more sordid, medical condition. These excuses were greeted by a sympathetic nod or knowing wink, and seemed to raise no suspicion. Certainly no airman would even consider consulting the ship’s surgeon for any condition less serious than a direct and immediate threat to life or limb.
Outside of the head there was rarely any threat of exposure. The men slept in their clothing, almost never washed—water was too closely rationed to do otherwise—and even when a man was injured or ill and had to visit the surgeon, clothing was removed only from the affected part. Some men would strip off their shirts during gunnery drill and when working the pedals, but not every one did, and no one ever questioned Arabella’s modesty. And as the ship drew farther and farther from the sun, the warmth of the air diminished and hardly any man went shirtless.
But there was one incident in the head that made Arabella’s heart pound.
*
The incident came in the middle of Arabella’s time off-watch, when a dire pressure in her gut roused her from her well-earned slumber. She rushed to the head, and was in the middle of doing her business when she realized she was not alone. Two other men were there with her.
This company was not unusual; the space could accommodate as many as five, in a pinch. Nor was it strange that, the head being so dark, she had no idea of their identities. What was unusual was that they were conversing in the head—unlike women, men generally did their business in silence—in voices so low they no doubt thought themselves inaudible. But, after many years of gunnery drill, many airmen were somewhat deaf, and often spoke more loudly than they knew.
“So,” rasped one, “are you with us?” His voice was low and grating, quite distinctive, but not one she recognized. Perhaps, she thought, he was deliberately disguising it.
“Maybe,” came the response. This voice was not familiar either. “All I know is, I’d rather see a white face on the quarterdeck.”
“John Company does love our Captain Singh,” the first man replied with hard irony. “He makes the owners a tidy profit, him and that witchy machine of his, so they put up with his heathen ways. But there’s plenty of good English airmen on this ship, and officers too, who agree with you.”
A pause. “I’m in.”
“Good man.” There was a rustle of cloth—the sound of a handshake? “We’ll contact you again when we’re just about ready to move. Until then, just do your duties, and don’t tell a soul. But be warned—there’s no changing your mind now. We’re watching you, we’re everywhere, and if you even try to tell an officer we’ll slit your throat in your hammock, and don’t think we won’t.”
“Mum’s the word.” The sound of a hand clapping another man’s shoulder, and then the door opened and closed as the two men slipped out. Try as she might, Arabella could still not discern who they were.
She floated, trembling, for a long time in the stinking darkness before she returned to her hammock. And then, despite her exhaustion, it was yet a longer time before she slept.
11