Chapter Text
PROLOGUE
you’re on your own, kid
Andalusia, Spain
The gravel crunched under Wilson’s feet, dirt kicking up behind him.
His legs had already begun to ache, his chest tight and heavy, his haversack slamming into his side with every step.
It was so close. If he squinted, he could see the ship, could see people cleaning and boarding and yelling.
It was so close.
But he was so tired.
But Wilson kept running.
He couldn’t stop now, he was nearly out, nearly free.
And the police were, once again, on his trail.
So no, he couldn’t stop now.
“Oi! Watch where you’re going, boy!” A man yelled after him, rubbing the spot where Wilson had rammed into his shoulder accidentally in a rush.
Wilson turned around for a split second, not bothering to slow down. “Sorry!” He pressed the tips of his fingers to the corner of his forehead before pulling them away just as quickly, saluting the man, watching the way his face twisted into something foul, and continued running down the path.
A carriage blocked his path, and he had to divert around it, nearly slamming into a mother and her children but dodging them just in time with a quick “‘scuse me”.
“Stop! Wilson!” He heard Michael, his ex-best-friend and the newest policeman in-training, yelled from behind him.
This was the fun part.
He and Michael used to nick certain things together- sometimes food to feed their families, although Wilson no longer had anyone in relation to him to feed, sometimes little knickknacks for keeping or to give to people Michael liked as a gift.
They used to escape together, splitting up, creating a diversion, laughing, never getting caught.
And now Wilson was the one escaping.
Once again, being chased by Michael.
But Wilson was laughing, loud and free and bright as his feet slammed into the dirt and he nearly tripped over a crack in the gravel.
But he heard the thud of Michael falling, heard the dust spewing everywhere, heard his grunt of pain.
And it gave Wilson a second.
He slowed for a moment at a market stall, flashing the seller a charming smile before, quick and experienced, grabbing a roll of bread from the basket, and taking off again.
“Thank you!” He yelled back, shoving the bread into his haversack.
The seller ran out from behind his stall, one roll of bread in hand, waving it aggressively, shouting something unintelligible from so far away.
And then Michael was stopped, by the seller, yelling at him, pointing the direction that Wilson had gone, refusing to let him leave until he had told him the full story.
Ha!, Wilson thought.
There, the dock was right there, so, so close.
Wilson picked up speed, running and running and running some more until gravel gave way for rotting wood and Wilson was mere metres away from the ship.
The S.Y. Wishbone. Leaving at midday.
And it was right there.
A lady, she couldn’t have been much older than Wilson, stepped off of the ship deck then, as Wilson approached, saying something to the crew behind her about “checking the prep”.
And Wilson saw his chance.
“Umm, excuse me.” He started, his hands gripping the strap of his haversack a little tighter than before as he approached.
The lady raised an eyebrow at him expectantly, as she crouched down to begin untying the rope from around the the dock lines.
“Yeah um, do you have any space? On board?” He paused as she looked up at him, opening her mouth to speak but Wilson cut her off. “I can- I can work, like, on the deck, or…” He trailed off, eyes darting around nervously, suddenly realising that he wasn’t going to get out, was he?
The lady stood up, brushing invisible particles of dirt from her trousers, and looked him up and down. “Uh, how old are ya?”
Wilson coughed. “Tw- twenty. Well, nineteen but twenty in a few weeks.”
She nodded. “Any experience sailing?”
There was noise from above, something falling over. “Captain! We gotta go!” Someone called from the ship.
“I’m coming!” The lady yelled back.
Captain, Wilson was speaking to the captain.
“Well?” She pushed.
Wilson shook his head. “Well, um, no- but I have cleaned floors almost all of my life, so I am good at that.” He chuckled, trying to break the tension.
The lady, the captain, opened her mouth to respond when-
“Wilson!”
Michael.
Fucking Michael.
Wilson looked over his shoulder, bouncing on his feet nervously.
The lady must have seen the desperation in his eyes, the signs that told her this was his only chance at escape, because she opened the gate to the ship.
“Get on. Quick. I’ll deal with the cop. Go.”
Wilson mumbled a thank you and ran up the stairs, ducking his head to avoid the looks of other workers on the ship.
He heard the sound of the lady and Michael having a conversation down below, but he didn’t want to hear.
Wilson went and sat down on one of the benches lining the side of the ship, willing his heart beat to slow down.
Ten minutes later the captain came up and onto the ship, and the ship started making a growling noise, shuddering slightly.
“We’re leaving. McCoy, take the wheel!” She called to the crewmembers, who all instantly knew what to do and where to go, where to be. And Wilson stood out from the crowd, once again.
The captain came up to him, taking a seat in the space beside him and handed him a bottle of water. “You look like you could use a good drink.”
Wilson sighed. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“So, wha’s ya name kid?” She leaned back slightly, arms on the railings.
Wilson blinked. “Um, Wilson.”
She chuckled slightly. “Oh, you sure about that?”
Wilson felt his face go slightly warm. “Yeah, it’s um, it’s Wilson.
“Well, nice to meet you Wilson. I’m Gemma. Gemma Buckley. I’m the captain ‘round here. And these-” She gestured to the crewmembers surrounding them, hard at work. “These are what we call, the Wishbone Sailing Club.”
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