This is the end. No more of this pandering to the vile hordes of
drunken sailors, nor coddling the immature fumblings of the youthful
gentlemen of Babbage. No more the dollymop, I.
Last night's haul was the last I hope, another drunken sot, who paid
more than he expected and will doubtless not even remember the reward
I gave him for his generosity. Like all those before him, I do not
pity his loss or care how he explains it in the morning, it was scum
like him, who sent me here.
I recall those first days after my discovery on the ship, those days
when I wished they'd simply killed me. The wounds across my back still
seeping beneath the slowly forming scabs, I would cower in the shadows
of the hold in the forlorn hope that the abuse would end, all the time
waiting for the next one to arrive and degrade me at his whim. No soap
and water, no fine words, nor fancy clothes can clean away those
feelings, any more than creams and poultices can address the visible
scars traced across my spine by the lashings of the cat.
No, I pity them not, and their sponsorship of this poor young girl
seeking only to better herself, will be put to the greatest use. I now
have my pot of gold, my deposit and soon I will have myself a
commission, a working load, and yes finally, a ship once more.
Hindenburg will rise and leave this dirty sordid life behind once and
for all, for tomorrow I go to the pilots' taverns, and therein find
myself a life.
