日记

April 16th, 1920

The inkwell on my desk has long since dried, but I’m scribbling this by lantern light anyway, the quill scratching unevenly across the page. My hands won’t stop shaking. It’s not just the cold—though the wind off the sea is sharp enough to bite through my coat—but something deeper, a tremor that starts in the pit of my stomach and climbs up into my fingers. I’ve never been at sea before this voyage. I’m a secretary, for God’s sake. I file reports. I draft letters. I make sure上校’s (Colonel’s) tea is hot when he wants it. Now I’m counting cannonballs and listening for the rattle of cutlasses in the dark.

They came at noon, just as I was finishing the inventory of medical supplies bound for Paramaribo. Colonel Jakob called me up to the deck, his voice tight, and when I saw the horizon, I thought my knees would give out. Five ships. Not fishing boats, not merchant vessels—pirates. Their sails were tattered, but the flags were clear enough: a grinning monkey’s skull over crossed bones, fluttering from the tallest mast. “The Good Monkey Fleet,” the Colonel said, his jaw set. I’d read about them in old newspapers, tucked away in the archives back in London—raiders who didn’t just steal cargo, but left no witnesses. Or so the stories went.

By three o’clock, we were surrounded.

The Perseverance isn’t built for this. She’s a slow, sturdy freighter, designed to plod across calm seas, not outrun brigantines. The crew’s been running around like ants, hauling crates to block the hatches, oiling the rusted cannons that haven’t fired in a decade. I tried to help, but my hands fumbled with the rope, and old Mr. Grimes, the bosun, clucked and shooed me away. “Best stay out of the way, lad,” he said, his eyes darting to the pirates’ ships. “They’ll be wantin’ to see the Colonel first. Not his clerk.”

That’s the worst of it, isn’t it? The waiting.

At sunset, I stood beside the Colonel on the quarterdeck, watching the pirates’ lanterns flicker to life. They’re close enough that if I squint, I can make out shapes moving on their decks—silhouettes leaning over rails, smoking pipes, maybe laughing. Do they know we’re here, sweating through our shirts, counting the seconds? Do they care? The sea’s gone quiet, too. No waves crashing, no seagulls crying. Just this thick, heavy silence that presses down on you, like a blanket soaked in fear.

I heard a whisper belowdecks—someone praying. Spanish, I think. Maybe one of the cargo handlers from Trinidad. I don’t pray, not usually, but tonight I found myself muttering, “Please. Please.” To who? God? The pirates? I don’t know.

Colonel Jakob hasn’t sat down once. He paces, hands clasped behind his back, boots thudding so hard I’m surprised the wood doesn’t split. Every now and then he stops, stares at the Good Monkey, and mutters something under his breath. I caught “fools” once, and “waiting game” another time. He’s trying to stay calm, for the crew’s sake, but I see the way his knuckles go white when he grips the rail. He’s scared, too. We all are.

An hour ago, young Tommy—he’s only 17, first voyage—tried to climb into a lifeboat. The bosun tackled him before he could undo the ropes. Tommy screamed, “They’ll kill us! They’ll skin us alive!” until the Colonel grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him. “If you run, they’ll fire,” he said, quiet but fierce. “Stay. Fight. Or at least die like a man.” Tommy cried then, big, hiccuping sobs, and I looked away. I wanted to cry, too.

The fog rolled in at eight. It’s so thick now, I can barely see the bow of our own ship, let alone the pirates’. But I know they’re there. I can hear their rigging creaking, faint but clear, like a clock ticking down. Any second, that fog could swallow a cannonball. Any second, we could be drowning in it.

Colonel Jakob just handed me a revolver. “In case,” he said, not meeting my eyes. It’s heavier than my ledger, colder than the ink I use. I’ve never held a gun before. My fingers slip on the grip.

A sailor just shouted something. I ran to the rail. Through the fog, a lantern on the Good Monkey flickered twice. Once, twice. A signal? My throat goes dry.

It’s midnight now. Still no attack.

But the waiting is a kind of torture, isn’t it? It makes you imagine things. The sound of splintering wood. Screams. The cold bite of salt water when the ship goes down. I keep replaying my last letter home, wondering if it will be the last thing my mother reads. I should have told her I loved her more.

The lantern sputters. I need to save the oil.

I’ll write more if I can. If we live till morning.

God help us. All of us.