🌷 "We're Greek, Percy. We're all born with tragedy in our blood."
The only thing Daphne could ever be sure of was that she was not meant to be alive. Whatever you wanted to call it - a gut feeling or just some serious anxiety, she couldn't shake th...
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chapter XI
🌷 "You are in so much trouble," Clarisse said simply.
Daphne knew she had to agree. She hadn't given much thought about what the repercussions would be for leaving camp, but well... it definitely wasn't going to be good.
They'd just finished a ship tour that they told Clarisse they didn't want, squishing through dark rooms overcrowded with dead sailors. Daphne had seen the coal bunker, the boilers and engine, which huffed and groaned like it would explode any minute, and tried not to jump at the creaks. They'd seen the pilothouse and the powder magazine and gunnery deck (Clarisse's favorite) with two Dahlgren smoothbore cannons on the port and starboard sides and a Brooke nine-inch rifled gun fore and aft-all specially refitted to fire celestial bronze cannon balls.
(When Clarisse had announced the names for all the mechanical contraptions, Daphne zoned out. She truly didn't understand any of them.)
It would've been okay to deal with. But everywhere they turned, dead Confederate sailors stared at them, their ghostly bearded faces shimmering over their skulls. They approved of Annabeth because she told them she was from Virginia. They were interested in Percy too because his name was Jackson like the Southern general, but then he ruined it by telling them he was from New York. They all hissed and muttered curses about Yankees. (Daphne didn't mention she was from Brooklyn.)
Tyson was terrified of them. All through the tour, he insisted Annabeth hold his hand, which she didn't look too thrilled about. It took all of Daphnes strength not to ask Percy to hold hers, since the boat was really starting to creep her out. And those dead soldiers? Sheesh. Talk about rubbing salt in the wound. In another universe, she would be just like them. Pale and ghostly. She tried not to shiver when they stared at her.
Finally, they were escorted to dinner. The CSS Birmingham captain's quarters were about the size of a walk-in closet, but still much bigger than any other room on board. The table was set with white linen and china. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, potato chips, and Dr Peppers were served by skeletal crewmen. Daphne didn't want to eat anything served by ghosts, but her hunger overruled her fear. The small packets of granola were enough to live on when she was ten, but at her ripe age of 13, Daphne was starving.
