Her moodiness increased as rain kept them trapped, ciphering and learning sums down in the hold for days on end. Brief forays on deck, though cold and repetitive, kept her from going crazy. Watching Coombs and Edwards and the other sailors gave her something to do. She wondered how they could stand the monotonous work in the numbing cold, wet weather. Even Reverend Brantford’s rants lacked fervour. His words had become meaningless to Jennie, and she ignored him. As well, memories of her family and worry about them faded as she went through the motions of existing day after day. Jennie sometimes slipped down to the jail cells to check on Lizzie. The warders gave Jennie passage to go most anywhere, respecting her ability to help the surgeon. Moreover, she’d sewn up some of them. Scarface had caught his hand in a winch, almost ripping a finger off, and Red Bull had slashed Walt’s neck with a knife in a drunken brawl. Jennie had tentatively tended to the warders, leery of their hot breaths and lewd remarks, as she’d worked on their wounds.
