There is a prologue if you haven't read it:
http://www.youngwriterssociety.com/viewtopic.php?t=17765
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Come to us, they sang. There is warmth here.
Isaac left the city on foot, heading toward the coast. The cobbled road was uneven, and he struggled to keep a steady pace. Turrets of the city castle were visible to his left, and he could see the remains of old lighthouses clinging to the rocks overhanging the water. The golden disc of the sun rested on the horizon.
Come to us, they hummed. The voices were sweet and warm, swelling and falling with the currents of the winds.
“I’m coming,” he murmured, approaching the edge of the bluffs. Here, the earth fell away, yielding to the high white cliffs immortalized in so many songs. He squinted into the distance: on a clear day, he could just see the coast of France, with tiny buildings dotting its banks. Today, a thick mist clouded the sky, scattering the fading sunlight across the dark waters.
He stepped closer to the edge and stared down into the deep blue far below his feet. Smooth, like glass, it reflected the white of clouds and cliff. It was so clear. So perfect.
Listen...
A warm feeling swelled in his chest. Seagulls wheeled below him, dipping into the water to harvest the silver fish that swam in the shallow waters. It was difficult to believe that there was civilization nearby - there was no semblance of city or harbor, no bells or shouts of sailors. He savored the feeling of the wind rushing through his hair, and listened as the waves lapped against the rocks.
Come now. We will catch you.
He took a deep breath, and the salty air filled his lungs. He shifted his weight forward, and felt the air whipping around him as he fell toward the water. The ecstasy of this kind of freedom…
A pungent smell flooded his nostrils. Isaac opened his eyes and sat up, his sudden movement causing the room to spin. He was breathing heavily, and his forehead was beaded with sweat. “Again.” He shifted his weight, adjusting quickly to the rocking of the boat. “Not again.”
“You all right, Ike?” a deep voice asked. Isaac stared into the eyes of the gruff gunner who knelt next to him. “Did you hit your head? That was a bit of a rough fall.” He was holding a tiny vial of deep brown liquid.
Isaac shrugged. “Where did you get that stuff?” he asked, dragging himself to a kneeling position. His back and forehead burned with pain, and he grimaced.
“Florence,” he said. “It‘s ‘thieves’ vinegar.’ that‘s what they called it, anyway” he said, stroking his beard. “Works better than those salts. Cost me a pretty penny, though. They told me a whiff of it could wake the dead, but I haven’t had a chance to try it yet.” He grinned.
You might soon, thought Isaac. The "fainting fits" had been going on for months now, and as of yet no doctor had been able to explain his condition. He peeled off his sticky jacket and folded it, staring at his distorted reflection in the brass buttons.
“The captain suggested that you retire to your hammock whenever you‘re… feeling ill,” the man said, standing and facing the direction of the captain’s quarters.
“You’re going to tell him? Don‘t tell him. He‘ll send the surgeon in.”
“He asked me to let him know, Isaac,”
“I don’t have cholera,” he spat, dragging himself to his feet.
“Didn’t say you did. The captain is just a bit concerned, you see.” He paused. “He's always liked you, you know. You're a good sailor.”
“If that‘s the case, why am I still a midshipman?” The words tumbled out, sounding far more indignant than he had intended. He sighed, smoothing out the wrinkles in his uniform. “I suppose I know why.” His eyes flicked to the small vial of pungent liquid.
“Whether you want to admit it or not, healthy young men don’t flop over like ladies with their dresses laced too tight, Ike,” he said.
Isaac raised an eyebrow. “And what would you know about ladies and their dresses, Whiskers?”
“You’d better watch your words, boy,” he said with a chuckle. “Get to sleep,” he said, handing him a lantern.
"But my watch..."
"You may work an extra shift tomorrow to compensate, if you wish. Also..."
“Yes?”
“Last time we were in port, I talked to a man who knew of your uncle - the blacksmith in Dover, yes?”
“Ah. What did he say? Is he well?”
“Yes, he's very well. But he apparently complains quite often of losing his best apprentice.”
Isaac bit his lip.
“It just made me wonder why you came to us instead.”
“I'm still not sure. I just... wanted to be near the sea.”
The hull of the boat creaked quietly, and the old man chuckled as he turned away.
Isaac quickly turned and headed toward his hammock. Sleep was no comfort - it only yielded the same strange dreams, which almost always ended in drowning himself in a loch or walking into the sea. He had seen the tiny wooded crosses that dotted the cliffs - mostly those of heartbroken lovers. But he often wondered if one or two, perhaps, were people who had slowly gone mad…
There was no one at this end of the ship this early. It was dark, and there were shadows in the walls that refused to succumb to the light of the lantern. He flopped into the hammock and unbuckled the belt that held his dirk. He pulled gently on the handle, allowing a couple of inches of the blade to show, and stared into the silver. His bright, honey-colored eyes stared back. He cringed.
We will see you soon, they sang.
He shoved the dagger back into its sheath and tucked it away with his belongings before extinguishing the lantern. He stared into the blackness, quietly praying that sleep would come before death.
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There are a couple of sentences in this that I really didn't like, but that I didn't know how to fix. Perhaps I'll see if you guys manage to fish them out. 
You. Guys. Are. Geniuses. 
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