Kit by Marina Fiorato Read Free Book Online

cabbage, ship’s biscuits and beer from the quartermaster three times each day – the same victuals for each meal. When their first rations were handed out after three days of storm with no food or water, Kit was ravenous, and wondered why the other men were tapping their biscuits on the deck before tucking in. When she did likewise, her stomach growling, she saw a pair of weevils fall out upon the planks and calmly walk away. That first day she could have eaten them too.
    Once she was sated, she waited eagerly for instructions, but they were given neither orders nor information. She saw the wrong Mr Walsh again, but he seemed too busy with the officers to pass the time of day with his counterfeit kin. When land was called nameless coastlines sailed past – she had a vague notion that they were rounding Spain, but there was nothing to divert the eye in the miles of arid beaches beyond the odd windmill.
    And the calm brought the further problem of discovery. In the storm there was no risk of detection – the men were too concerned for their skins to notice her. But as soon as the storm had passed and Kit started to eat and drink again, a significant problem presented itself – one which she had never even considered when she’d blithely donned Richard’s clothes and gone to enlist.
    During the maelstrom sailors and soldiers had urinated where they stood, lashed to mast and bulwark; but now that normal sailing had resumed Kit wondered how she would be able to relieve herself in private. She was not in suspense for long, for their lieutenant, a cold fish by the name of Mr Gardiner, came down to quarters to enlighten them. ‘Sanitation,’ he declared, ‘is very important to the English Army. We are not savages. We had a bad start, but now that the waters are calm, there will be no more easing yourselves in the quarters or the hold. Typhoid and fever carry off as many men at sea as storms do, so you will clean these berths thoroughly, and henceforth use only the “heads”, which are the water closets at the beakhead of the ship. Anyone found guilty of unclean behaviour may expect a flogging. If any man is sick or has broken bones, he may request a covered bucket from the carpenter for his necessary occasions.’ He left as if there was a bad smell under his nose, which, of course, there was.
    Kit investigated the heads right away. She saw two round holes, surrounded by simple wooden seats on either side of the bowsprit right at the head of the ship. Peering though one of the holes, she looked down a vertiginous drop right into the pewter sea. Waste would land directly on the lion’s head, a carved wooden visage of a lion, but the creature was cleaned at every moment as the waves, rising to the bowsprit as the vessel cut a course, naturally carried away the mess and waste. As she peered down, a biting wind and a shock of salty water dashed through the hold with each break of a wave. This necessary house would not be comfortable, but at least it would be private; only one seaman could use each room at once, for the timbers narrowed to a pair of tiny triangular chambers. She sat down, alone, with considerable relief.
    Still, Kit did not feel entirely safe. Now that the seas were calm and there was nothing to occupy the men, her brothers in arms had the leisure to comment that she was young for a soldier as her cheek had not seen a razor, that she was skinny, that she was quiet – was she a Hottentot, could she not talk the Queen’s English? Kit was, by nature, a sociable animal, and had taken to alehouse life readily after her years with a sullen mother who only spoke to her to bark peremptory orders in French. She was a chatterer, and according to Aunt Maura the gravedigger’s donkey only had three legs because Kit had talked one of them off. She loved to talk and to laugh, but on shipboard she was afraid to do either, lest she give herself away. Instead she became a listener. She used the time to educate herself –