Chapter 213: Oakum

Finn was led to a shed sectioned off in the rockier parts of the shore, a short trek away from the Tidebreaker. The path took them away from the main dock activity, past stacks of cargo and coiled ropes, until they reached an area that seemed deliberately isolated from the rest of the harbor operations.

The young man pushed open the shed door, and immediately a thick, sulfuric smell hit Finn like a physical wall.

Inside, massive coils of black, tar-hardened ropes practically filled the whole room, stacked against the walls and piled in corners. The air was dense and almost suffocating with the acrid stench of old tar mixed with salt and decay. That smell combined terribly with the stench of sweaty bodies of workers hunched over their stations, hands fully blackened as they scraped away at the hardened coating, trying to reach the soft hemp buried underneath.

Are you serious… Finn thought, internally mollified. This is where I’m gonna be working? It’s practically slave labor!

But on the outside, his expression remained casual and unbothered. The carefree persona he was embodying wouldn’t be fazed by something like this.

The young man leading him called out toward the back of the shed. “Old Dog Mendoza! You’ve got a new worker from Slick Jones! Assigned by the boss’s daughter too!”

From behind a stack of coiled black cords, a figure emerged. A buff man of average height with a nasty scar running across his right eye that pulled at his eyelid in a permanent squint. He walked with a terrible limp, his left leg dragging slightly with each step, suggesting a severe past injury that had never properly healed.

…An injury that relegated him to working at a place like this? Finn wondered. Because besides that limp, everything else about the man clearly suggested a veteran. Someone who was used to fighting, who’d seen and experienced many things. The way he carried himself despite the injury, the wary assessment in his one good eye, the scars on his hands that spoke of rope burn and blade work.

The man limped forward, his single functional eye studying Finn with the kind of scrutiny that came from years of judging men’s capabilities at a glance.

The young worker gestured at Finn. “This is…” he paused, staring at Finn expectantly.

“Arros.” Finn supplied quickly, and the young worker continued.

“…Slick Jones sent him here on Miss Vara’s orders.”

The scarred man nodded once, saying nothing.

The young worker immediately took that as his cue to leave, practically fleeing back toward the main docks without another word, eager to escape the nauseating smell of the oakum shed.

The scarred man stared at Finn for a long moment, then spoke in a gravelly voice that suggested years of shouting orders over ocean winds. “Name’s Mendoza. People call me Old Dog Mendoza. I run the oakum operations here.” He gestured broadly at the shed and the workers hunched over their stations.

“Your work is simple. You’ll be given a fid—” he held up a pointed metal tool that looked like a mix between a spike and a small chisel, “—which you’ll use to scrape the hardened tar off these old ropes.”

He picked up a section of blackened rope to demonstrate. “It’s hard work. Your hands will turn black, likely permanently.” He held up his own hands, which were indeed stained a deep, unremovable black that seemed to have seeped into the very grain of his skin. “You may even bleed too, though the fid should prevent that if you’re careful.”

Old Dog Mendoza set the rope down. “After you’ve scraped off the tar, you’ll untangle the hemp fibers underneath and separate them into individual strands. Then you pile them into sacks.” He pointed to several burlap sacks stacked near the entrance. “Another team comes at the end of the day to carry them out.”

He started to turn away, clearly considering the explanation sufficient.

But Finn stopped him with a calm yet unhesitant voice. “The important thing hasn’t been discussed yet.”

Old Dog Mendoza paused, glancing back with a frown. “What?”

“Money,” Finn said, rubbing his fingers. “How much am I being paid for this work?”

Mendoza’s frown deepened. “Hasn’t someone told you already?”

Finn simply shook his head and shrugged, looking at him with that same casual expression.

Old Dog Mendoza sighed. “It’s by the number of sacks filled. Thirty bronze per sack. The carriers who come at the end of the day to carry them out count everyone’s output then.”

He was still speaking, but Finn’s eyebrows had shot up. He let out a genuine chuckle. “The pay is actually somewhat decent. Why don’t more workers simply come here?”

Immediately, the sounds of scraping and pulling throughout the shed paused for a second before resuming. Workers glanced at Finn, and snorts and chuckles echoed through the cramped space.

“Tch! These damn sissy boys…”

“Look at them hands. Soft as a baby’s ass…”

“Looks like he’s never worked a day in his life…”

“How’d he even get up to here anyway…”

The mutters droned on until Old Dog Mendoza raised his voice. “Get back to work, all of you!”

The shed immediately settled back into its rhythm of scraping and pulling, though Finn could still feel eyes on him.

Old Dog Mendoza turned back to Finn and looked at him strangely, his scarred face pulling into an expression somewhere between confusion and concern. “I don’t know where you’re from or why you were even able to get work here, but I’d advise you to simply leave and go elsewhere if you’re this happy-go-lucky about it.”

He gestured at Finn’s hands, which were indeed notably unmarked by labor. “Those soft hands of yours won’t last a day in here.” He raised up his own tar-blackened hands again, spreading his fingers. “This is how your hands will look when you start working here. Permanently stained. No amount of washing will get it out.”

His voice took on a harder edge. “This place is for those who’ve lived the life of the sea and fit nowhere else. Men who’ve been injured too badly to work the ships anymore. Men who’ve got no other skills or options. Not a place for soft boys like you.”

Essentially, Finn realized, the man looked like someone who didn’t like stress. He was trying to dissuade Finn from joining to prevent the future headaches someone with his personality would inevitably bring.

But Finn remained unconvinced. He smiled, his tone light and amused. “Why is everyone so fixated on my soft hands? Do you all have hand fetishes or something?”

A few barks of laughter came from the workers nearest them.

“I’ll do what I want to do,” Finn continued. “You’ve clarified the pay, which is what I asked about. So where can I start working?”

Old Dog Mendoza’s frown deepened. Finn could practically see him thinking, calculating. The man glanced around the shed at his workers, several of whom had stopped pretending to work and were now openly watching the exchange. Their expressions ranged from curious to hostile, and Finn could sense the tension rising. They couldn’t wait to see this pretty boy fail and gloat about it afterward.

In what seemed like a last-ditch effort, Old Dog Mendoza made an offer. “Tell you what. If you can fill a single sack before the end of the work day — that’s six o’clock sharp by the way — I’ll give you double your pay for it.”

He paused, letting that sink in, then added the catch. “But if you don’t fill even one sack before six, you quit. No arguments, no second chances. You walk away and don’t come back.”

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