Each step inflicted pain. The irons around his ankles had caused lesions and swelling. They cut into his skin as he moved. Grasping the handrail, he gazed at the hatch, wishing someone would open it from above. He needed to smell the air, to feel a breeze on his face. He’d always taken these simple pleasures for granted. Never again, he vowed. Work offered a reprieve, so he hoped to be ordered to some kind of duty on deck. Even a bone-rattling saltwater dousing was worth time up top. Thoughts of the life he’d once known reeled through his mind. He could hear his father’s voice, see his steady hand at work. He’d stood by John patiently guiding and training him. I didn’t realize the beauty of those days. Memories of his mother pressed in. She’d always smelled of soap and of baking. She’d been a woman who stayed busy caring for her family and home. She took pleasure in needlework and could often be heard humming a hymn while she sewed. “Mum,” he said without realizing he’d spoken out loud.
