The cook laughed. “Get out of here.”

As I followed my messmates to a bare spot on the deck, my fist closed protectively around the nourishment I desperately needed, I glanced at Hackett.

“Something on my face?” he asked, without looking over.

What I wanted to see on it was trustworthiness. “No,” I said.

We sat in a half circle on filthy cracked planks, and Tim handed me the pail. “First day aboard, first one to eat.”

Relief hit me, and I sighed in spite of myself. I stared into the pail, too hungry to care what the gruel looked or smelled like anymore.

“No spoons, Salty,” Hackett said. “Use your bread.”

I did as he said, spooning out a lump of meat and then tearing into it with my teeth. Something plump shot onto my tongue and began to move. I couldn’t stop chewing in time. Whatever it was, I bit through it. A custardy liquid spilled out, hot and phlegmy. My stomach heaved, my throat closed. I doubled and spat, tears and snot pouring out of me.

“Oh, hell,” I sputtered. Pieces of maggot splattered onto the deck.

Mess three laughed and laughed, King George losing his wig as he folded over his long legs. Other men were laughing, too, even some of the marines from their lookouts.

I looked at Hackett and found him watching me, his mouth tugging up on one side. “Don’t worry, Little Salt. You’ll get used to it. Either that, or you’ll die.”

I was not going to die on the Jersey.

I was going to escape it.

Over the coming weeks, I didn’t get used to the gruel, but I did eat it. Every bit I could keep down. Bread filled with weevils. Meat from some unknown source, sometimes the texture of soap, slick and hard, other times like hemp, pulling apart in strings. No matter its appearance, it always tasted the same. Like corroded copper and sand, and so salty that a drink of seawater would’ve been refreshing in comparison.

I ate it anyway. I needed the strength to escape.

Still, I grew thin. Then thinner. Then, barely a month after arriving, I was a skeleton like all the rest. This had only one benefit to me: my breasts, small to begin with, disappeared. But I remained on constant watch, searching for signs someone suspected the truth about “Little Salt,” as I came to be known.

Days, we spent wandering the decks. Round and round in circles under the open sky, or down below when it was raining. I studied the Jersey’s creaks and cracks, learning every inch of the ship that a prisoner could know. I spotted the marines lazy in their sentry duties. Observed the tides, the bay, the shoreline. I saw no way out. The ship was well sealed, the bay too marshy and shallow to swim, the coastline patrolled regularly.

The descent into hell had been easy. But rising from it wouldn’t be.