French Navy Ship Fantasque

         I will my stomach to stop growling. I'm sure to be caught if it keeps on like this! Every footstep that I hear, every creaking of a board, even my heartbeat makes my mind race. Up, down, to and fro, the ship tosses about on the sea's merciless waves. I think I'm going to be sick. The stench of dead rats and the excrement of crew members and passengers is appalling. My knees rest uncomfortably underneath my chin and my arms wrap around my legs as I sit still in the empty crate. My fingers and toes ache from a loss of circulation, and through the dim light of my living arrangements, I can tell that my fingers are turning a greyish-blue color. My stomach growls once again.

Footsteps.

     I don't allow myself to breathe for fear that I will be found out.
Should I have stowed away on this ship? They'd kill me if they found out a Brit stowed away on a French ship!
But I'm only seven years old. Will they kill me? Father always said they would. My mind swarms through these questions as I hold my breath.
Creeeeeeeeaaaak.
The groaning of a nearby board makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand perfectly straight. It's like our armies back home standing at attention the moment the commander calls out. The noise of footsteps and creaking boards soon fades away. I release my breath.
It's too late to turn back now.
My legs have lost all feeling, and my mouth is crying out desperately for water. I decide to go to sleep and pass a few hours of this long journey. I attempt in vain to find a comfortable position to sleep in. How I wish to be able to stretch out my legs and arms. Hopefully, I can dream about such luxuries when I fall asleep. I close my eyes, even though I am reticent about letting my guard down in such a way. I will never forgive myself if I am caught. However, I have nothing better to do with my time, and it will be a good distraction. The last thing I remember before unconsciousness takes me prisoner is the rise and fall of the ship, and the groaning pleas of my stomach.

Darkness.

I clung to the loaf of bread with every ounce of strength that I had. Adrenaline pulsed through my veins and I didn't dare look back. I knew they were chasing me. I dashed through the alleys in the backstreets of London. The sun was just beginning to rise; I needed to move quickly. If I could just make it to the London Bridge and cross the River Thames, I could surely lose my pursuers.
Down Long Lane I ran, ignoring the yells and threats of Henry Baxter, the baker, and his son William. The roosters on nearby farms began to cocka-doodle-doo. As I passed the Southwark Cathedral, her bells began to sing their sweet music. Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang! It was six o'clock in the morning. Soon, the whole town would awake. I could make out the bridge from here! I rushed towards the bridge, although I was not sure of what I would do once I got across. I began the sprint across London Bridge. A knot formed in my stomach. There used to be beautiful homes and buildings on this bridge, but the city destroyed them. I didn't understand why! I would never forgive England for destroying the one thing my father left to me. As I ran past the rubble of my only home, rage built up inside of me. I ran faster than I had ever run before. I was determined to get away.
Once I reached the other side, I scrambled for a place to hide. Unfortunately, London was beginning to wipe the sleep from her eyes. The sun was up, and Londoners began to emerge from their stone homes. I dashed behind the St. Magnus Martyr Church, praying that no one had seen me hide. I smiled. The bread was still warm to the touch. I had gotten away with it. I broke off a piece of the sweet bread. As it entered my mouth, I was no longer in the cold, dingy town of London. I had entered a land of sweet, heavenly bliss. Too selfish at that moment to save any for later, I scarfed the bread down. After a few days of eating nothing but gruel and scraps of leather from the cobbler's shop, my growling stomach was finally satisfied.
Out of nowhere, two rough, burly hands grabbed the back of my tattered shirt.
"Where is that bread, you thief?!" Mr. Baxter screamed. "You'd be'er 'and it over ta me, boy. If you know what's best for ya!"
I was paralyzed with fear. I didn't have a plan. I just shrugged, not knowing what else to do. I couldn't tell him that I ate the whole thing. He wouldn't believe me. Before I knew what was going on, excruciating pain erupted from my face. Mr. Baxter had backhanded me.
I struggled to regain my balance when the baker's son boxed my ears. He was at least five years older than me. Maybe he was even fourteen years old, and he stood a good eight inches taller than me. As I fell to the cobblestone street, I could hear him laugh.
"That'll teach ya to think twice about taking my breakfast away from me, Dekker!" I noticed his fists balling up in fury, and I pleaded with him.
"Take this, but please don't hurt me. I'm sorry!" I produced a farthing from my pocket. It wasn't much, but it was all I had. William snatched it from my small, pudgy fingers. I wasn't prepared for the final punch that knocked me to the ground. Mr. Baxter told his son to leave me alone, and for that I was grateful. The two left me, sauntering off towards London Bridge. I tore off the sleeve of my shirt and held it up to my nose, which was now bleeding. I realized how lucky I was. I only had a few bruises and scratches. It could have been worse. Much worse. Brushing myself off, I knew I needed to leave this town. I hated London; I hated England. I hated all the memories I had of this place. I knew I would leave, and soon. But, how?

A loud "Vive le Capitaine! Vive le Fantasque! Vive la France!" erupts from overhead. I am rudely interrupted from my slumber, and all I can hear are the chants from the crew of this ship. I can't understand what they're saying, but it sounds like a cheer. All of a sudden, the deck above me shakes uncontrollably.
Are they dancing?
Laughter and singing come next, but all my cavernous stomach will allow me to think about is food and water.
Maybe they will all stay up on deck long enough for me to get some food.
I decide to risk it all and look for anything edible, preferably food. Slowly, I crawl through the opening of the back of my crate and stretch out my legs. I can barely contain my excitement to be free of that confining space! Quietly, I lurk out of this room full of crates and boxes and creep down a narrow hallway. I try to stay in the shadows. Like a punch in the face, the most beautiful aromas meet my nostrils.
Bread! Meat! Food! I'm closer!
I pass what appears to be the servants' quarters as the scent guides me through the ship. My eyes catch a glimpse of a set of dice and a silver coin on an old wooden table in the room. I snatch the treasures up in my hand and shove them deep into my pockets.
Now I really can't get caught.
    I am at the gates of heaven! The kitchen is straight ahead of me. I run for it. The kitchen is empty, just as I hoped. It doesn't matter to me that I can't tell what the food is, because my stomach is satisfied. I take a spoon and help myself. Soup, meat, and a loaf of bread go down with ease. A jug of water nearby steals my attention. I gulp the fresh water and my throat is thankful. The sound of footsteps pulls me back into reality. Looking around, I see a large keg of beer. I hide as quickly as my legs will allow me to.
    I hear footsteps enter the kitchen. Once again, I hold my breath and forbid myself from moving a muscle. Until I hiccup.
    "Allô? Qui est-ici?"
I don't understand what the voice is saying, and I don't dare to ask, much less respond. I remain quiet.
    "Je sais que j'ai entendu quelque chose. Qui est là?"
My mind is racing. I can hear the footsteps coming closer to me. I bolt.
    "Oh non vous ne le faites pas, vous revenez ici en ce moment!"
I can't understand a word of what this man is saying. I do know that he is angry, however, and I run as fast as I possibly can.
   But where do I run to?
The questions keep swirling in my mind and it distracts me. Before I can realize what is happening, I am back at the servants' quarters. He cornered me before I had the chance to escape.
    "Qui est-tu, et Que fais-tu ici?" These are more words that I can't understand. I decide to show my pursuer a brave face. I look up at him.
    To my surprise, he is not a man. He is a boy like me, only he stands at least seven to eight inches taller than I do. He reminds me of the baker's son, and terrible memories flood my mind. I try my best to compose myself. I don't want this older boy to think that he scares me. Then he chuckles. It is exactly how the baker's son laughed before he beat me. I cower slightly, waiting to find out what he will do.
"Who - who you are, and what do you do here?" English? I can't believe my ears. I look inquisitively at him, unsure if it was just my imagination.
"Who are you, and what...what you doing here?" It's not my imagination!
How does he know English? Should I respond to him?
"My name is Dekker, and I'm a stowaway. I'm from Britain." I can't believe it!
Why did I tell him the truth??
I stare intently at my feet, embarrassed and ashamed. I'm worried about what he will do next. There is an awkward silence, and I can't help but break it.
"What is your name?" I ask, still looking at my feet. They're still discolored from bad circulation.
"Je m'appelle est Pierre Noel," he replies. A confused look plasters over my face.
That isn't English, I think to myself, puzzled.
  "My name....Pierre," he stutters. I realize that he must be French, and maybe he just knows a little bit of English.
"You say...you are stowaway?" I meet his gaze only for a second, then quickly avert my gaze.
"Yessir." I finally tell the truth.
"You know what we do with stowaway?" He questions me with his broken English.
I quickly shake my head. I'm very afraid, but I'm still curious.
"We make them work. They help on ship. They not get food. Tu comprends?"
Will I finally get the chance to take revenge on England and fight on a French ship? I can see it now....
"Do you....understand?" My daydreaming is cut short by his question.
    "Yes," I whisper.
Like the brewing of a raging storm, his expression and demeanor quickly change from sympathetic to furious. In a flash, his hands wrap around my neck and my eyes are wide with terror. His eyes become narrowed and dark, and I notice a tear well up in his left eye. Before I can stop him, Pierre is dragging me by my arm through a corridor, up a set of stairs, and instantly I am blinded.
Sunlight, I realize.
Once my eyes have time to adjust, I can make out a group of hefty sailors. They are not singing or dancing anymore. And worst of all, they are all staring at me. A tall, husky man approaches me and my knees buckle instantly.
"Il est un britannique, monsieur. Je l'ai trouvé en train de voler de la nourriture dans la cuisine!" Pierre is talking with this man, who I assume to be the Captain, and even though I can't understand what he says, I know it can't be good. The Captain marches over to where Pierre is holding me and he stares into my eyes.
"Nous sommes proches du vieux Grimsby, jetez-le là-bas. Dépêchez-Vous maintenant! Nous n'avons pas beaucoup de temps!" he yells his command while spitting into my face. I try to remain calm. I wonder what he ordered the men to do. I can see an island in the near distance and I begin to realize what is happening.
They aren't killing me, they're just dumping me off on an old island.
The ship moves swiftly across the water and we arrive in a matter of minutes, about two hundred feet from the shore. The Captain grabs me by the scruff of my neck and mutters something.
"Bon débarras, sale garçon." Without warning, he throws me overboard and I hit the water before I can have the chance to process what is happening. I swallow water and it stings. The salt water stings my eyes, which I quickly close and I flail my arms and legs until I surface. I take a shaky breath. The Fantasque is already pulling ahead at full sail, full speed.
I don't know how to swim!
By some miracle, I am able to take hold of a nearby log, and that helps me make it to the shore. I have no idea where I am, how to get home, or if I will even survive. At that moment I vow to myself that France will pay for this. I wanted to give France my loyalty, but now I am here - wherever "here" was. They left me here to die.
Where should I place my loyalty now? I wonder. How am I going to survive this?
I collapse from exhaustion on the beach and take in a breath. I don't know what to do. I cover my face with my dirty, sand-caked hands and begin to cry.