Fights Like The Devil, Dressed As A Man

When Edward awoke, he was on the floor of what looked like the lower deck of a galleon. A large galleon, it was, the kind that looked like it was used to transport... people. His legs were gripped by iron bilboes — big, immovable manacles that were scattered all around the deck, some empty, some not.

Not far away he could make out more bodies in the gloom of the deck. More men back there, at a guess maybe a dozen or so, shackled just as he was, but in what sort of shape it was difficult to tell from the low groans and mumblings that reached his ears. At the other end of the deck was piled the captives’ possessions — clothes, boots, hats, leather belts, packs and chests.

This lower deck had a smell all its own. The smell of misery. The smell of fear.

A voice said, “Eat it fast,” and a wooden bowl landed with a dull thump by Edward's bare feet before the black-leather boots of a guard retreated. He saw sunlight from a hatch and heard the clip-clop of a ladder being climbed.

Inside the bowl sat a dry flour biscuit and a splodge of oatmeal. Not far away sat a black man, and, like Edward, he was eyeing the food dubiously.

( You hungry? Edward asked. )

[[ nfb, nfi, some violence and casual white boy racism under the cut. taken and adapted from the novelization (which deftly dances around the latter) and the game (which does not). ]]