I kicked down to three and then four.

Five…

Six…

And finally, finally, finally…

What had I done?

The light of dawn came through the Jersey’s barred portholes in a gauzy yellow haze.

I peered through my lashes, watching as men thin as skeletons woke and stretched and unfolded. Some began to form lines at the portholes. I didn’t understand at first—there was nowhere to go. Then I realized they were taking turns breathing the fresh air.

I could see the entire deck now. There were a few hammocks here and there, but most of the men had slept on the floor. Only a few were still slumbering. Some talked in groups. Some stared vacantly. A few wept. The Fire Man still rambled.

He was an ancient creature. He appeared to be made of dead wood. Ashen skin. Branches for arms and legs. Long twists of matted gray hair fell to his shoulders.

“Fire, over there,” he said as he paced and pointed. “You’ll get that, won’t you, Decker? And there’s some embers there, Alex. Best put them out quickly.”

There were men of every age, some barely old enough to grow whiskers. Most white, but some black. They wore tatty garments that hung on their bony figures. Their skin was covered with grime; their eyes were sunken and wrinkled with suffering—even the younger ones.

There wasn’t a single lady here—myself included. For as long as I could manage, I planned to stay a boy. It was time for my long-forgotten masculine ways to make a return.

“Boy.” The man near me nudged my shoulder. “Wake up, boy. You need a meff.”

“I need…what?” I squeaked.

Only a few teeth poked from the cave of his mouth and he’d fought a battle for every word.

“He means to say you need a mess,” said the man beside him—so filthy he looked like a shadow with eyes. “A mess is a group of six men. That’s how we eat, sleep, and suffer in here, and Barck’s right: best you hasten and find one.” All across the hold, I noticed, men were gathering in groups. “You miss out on day one and everyone’ll think you got no will to live. Then you’ll never find a mess, and that means a quick death—sorry to be blunt, but that is what it means. Go see Turtle over there with the humped back.” He pointed a long, bony finger. “He lost a messmate yesterday. And hurry.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said.

“No sir in here, Greenie. Not even with the officers. We’re all brothers.”

“Thank you,” I said again. Then I threaded my way toward the man named Turtle, deep in the back. Behind him, toward the stern, I saw what remained of a captain’s cabin. The opening for the door had been widened and the stern windows boarded up. There wasn’t a single piece of furniture inside. Only more men milling about.

“You can stop right there,” said Turtle when he saw me coming. “I already got a new sixth.”