Sailing the Seas of Death

   
     As I am writing this, huddled in a tight space between swinging hammocks and uncomfortable straw mattresses barely filled with enough straw to serve as a meal for a half-grown horse, I yearn for the beautiful countryside with its rolling hills and endless sapphire-blue skies. I yearn for the soft sound of the leaves and dried grass crunching underfoot and the constant rushing of the river, of water over stone, and of spinning droplets plunging back into the moving sheet of water that had yielded them. I yearn for the leaves that would change color from emerald green to vibrant hues ranging from scarlet to the brilliant yellow of the sun at its zenith. By now, the ground would have been blanketed with hues of the setting sun, until the whole world seems to be spun from gold.
     But here, in the dim, musty 'tween deck of the ship, only the now-familiar creaking of the floorboards—which have replaced the lilting birdsong of the countryside—, skittering of rodents, and cries full of longing and heartbreak fill my ears. The wind that had so often whispered to me, telling of far-off lands yet to be discovered, has fallen silent, as if its voice has been lost—just as we are. I have been aboard the Blessing three months now. For three whole months, I have lived in a cramped space filled with sixty other passengers, with a building odor and no fresh air—the rays of the sun have not warmed my face in what seems like an eternity—and my nights spent tossing and turning, for the noise on the 'tween deck is too great for the wings of sleep to envelop me in their embrace. For three whole months, I have lived off of moldy biscuits too hard to bite, meat swarming with maggots, and tainted water that has caused so many to fall ill. For three whole months, I have not seen a single speck of land.
     I no longer believe the captain knows what he is doing. We were meant to sail south to the Canary Islands and then cross the Atlantic Ocean to the Caribbean. We would then set sail for north, yet I doubt we will make it, for our food provisions are running dangerously low and sooner or later we will starve—before we reach the new land, before we begin our new lives. I wish I could go up to the upper deck, if only to think and clear this mind of the dread and doubt building within it, but it is prohibited. If only I could see the sparkling seas stretching into the distance and the sun a glowing disk of fire above me, its rays of sunlight the messengers bringing word that dawn has come... Life has been harsh in the past few months, for I have been cooped up too long, and I hope you are well. I know you have been contemplating the option of leaving England, and I hope you will consider this wisely. Others on this ship have caught diseases due to lack of vitamins—the doctor said—and many other causes. Many have perished under the iron fist of Scurvy.
     So, please, tell me: Is the prospect of a new life worth sailing the seas of death?