CHAPTER SIX
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Although we live by strife,
We’re always sorry to begin it. . . .
—Ibid, Act I
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The next two days were hell. If I thought I’d gone through bad patches in my life before, I was mistaken—nothing could compare to the nightmare I found myself in.
“This be a yar ship,” Pangloss, Bart’s first mate, told me as he emerged from a tiny captain’s quarters in the aft—back—part of the ship. “She’ll do well in beatin’ to windward and close-hauled sailin’.”
“Well, of course she will,” I said, wondering whether I could possibly pull off pretending I knew what the hell he was talking about.
“I’ve always had an eye for a good ship design, and this one be the best,” Pangloss told me. “She’s got a bluff bow and a fine run aft, and the mast is set forward in the hull. See
