“In fact, this pirating business has got to stop,” she insisted. “A pardon is going to be offered in a few years to all pirates to make the seas safer. The Golden Age of Pirates is almost over. Quit while you’re ahead.”
“How do you know this?” The captain hissed.
“Um ... Jim told me.” Naturally Jim had the benefit of three hundred years of history behind the statement.
The captain narrowed his eyes and she winced. Most likely, he would call her a witch again.
“All right, cap’n, the men are trussed up good and tight. I’ll be needing to fix that stab wound.” The doctor wiped his hands on his breeches.
Bile rose in her throat as she envisioned all the germs crawling around on his skin. “Is there any soap on this boat?”
“Why would we need soap?” The captain grumbled in obvious pain and closed his eyes.
Fear twisted around her heart. What if he became delirious? What if he died? Her uncertain existence in this backward century could take a turn for the worse at any moment. She struggled to project an outward appearance of calm. “A doctor should wash his hands thoroughly with soap before treating a patient. It prevents infections.”
“I have a small bar of soap.” Dr. Gilroy admitted. “I use it to keep the vermin out of my clothing.”
She breathed a quick sigh of relief, delighted to discover soap existed in this primeval place. “There are very small bugs on your hands—so tiny you cannot see them, but they are there and if they get into your patient’s wound, the bugs can multiply inside the body and cause a grave infection. The patient’s skin needs to be cleaned, too, before any procedures are done because the patient has small bugs on his skin as well.”
“This is interesting.” The doctor nodded. “I will try it.”
“Get it done quickly, Gilly.” Though softer in tone, the captain’s voice retained the air of authority. “I must discover the others involved in this scheme.”
“Ah, my cap’n. This is a dangerous life as young Lesley has said. Better to stay on land and till the soil.”
“On land you must rely on God to send rain and when he doesn’t, you starve,” the captain whispered.
Would he need CPR? Lesley pressed harder on his wound and said a silent prayer.
The captain groaned. “We are a cursed lot. Our destiny is death.”
He passed out in Lesley’s arms. She closed her eyes to hold back the tears.
* * * *
Harlan’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He needed a drink. Lying on the bunk in his cabin, he watched Lesley at his desk. Her breath came soft, deep, and even. She had fallen into the land of dreams with her head upon her arms.
Pain gnawed at him and rest eluded him. Gilly had bound his arm tightly and warned him not to remove the strips of cloth for the wound would bleed again. At least it was his left arm. With his right he could still fight and keep records. Indeed, he must make a note in his log of the mutinous actions of Aloysius Meeker and Hooper. They had been banished to the hold for now, but their conspirators must be rooted out. Weariness washed over him. He did not want to think about what tomorrow would bring.
Suppressing a groan, he slid off the bunk. Though there seemed to be a fire in his arm, he could move it.
With infinite care, he lifted Lesley from the desk. Against her chest, she clutched the small pony as if it brought her comfort. Could he believe she had found it in some shop in the far distant future?
Had her brain been rattled by Moody’s blow?
Had she lied to him deliberately?
He placed her gently in the bunk. She stirred little—only to mumble something he could not understand and then to smile. Her grin leaned crookedly to one side due to her battered face. Again the sight of the disfigurement fired up his anger. The porcelain of her once flawless features lay horribly marred and the need for retribution filled him with wrath far more scorching than the ache searing his wound.
Covering her with the blanket, he went back to the desk to pick up the soft cloth filled with herbs which Gilly insisted would help ease the bruising. As he placed it against her swollen face, she stirred once more and a tear eked out of the corner of her eye. He wiped it away and it fell from his finger to the pony.
The wooden object began to glow. Icy horror gripped him. What black sorcery took hold of the toy?
Intent on tossing the wicked object into the sea, he moved to snatch it from her grip, but it burned his hand with heat.
Could Elsbeth’s magic be strong enough even in death to cause this? Or could did magic come from Lesley’s own spell? He glared at the pony but it turned dark once more.
Chapter Eight
Lesley woke with a start. How did she get into the bunk? She remembered yawning and laying her head on her arms on the desk. As she turned, the soft cloth packed with herbs and vinegar fell to the floor. She touched her swollen cheek but while it still hurt, she could see through her eye on that side so the swelling must have subsided.
The wooden horse nestled against her side. A well of emotion threatened as she clutched the small toy to her chest to try and stem the tide of loss. All she had left of her former life was this one pitiful object--a rudimentary plaything carved by a pirate. How had it passed through time with her? Could its association with the captain be responsible for bringing her to this particular place? Did that sound crazy?
Had she lost her mind? Was this hell or just a horrible dream? She held up her hand. It looked real and solid. She pinched herself. It hurt.
Bright sunlight filtered in through the stained glass in the stern windows. The Lyrical had been graced with a few lovely touches—and those windows with their fanciful flowers were worthy of the Smithsonian. Briefly, she wondered what had happened to them and if anyone in 2011 owned them. Or had they been blasted apart in some yet-to-be battle? A tingle of apprehension shimmered up her spine.
The captain swung in his hammock, the motion of the ship rocking him like a baby in a cradle. The little empty ache stabbed her in that soft spot of her heart. She would never go home, never have a baby or a normal life. She would die here in some horrible manner.
Maybe today.
She sighed. At least she didn’t have a headache. Modern medicine had not helped her at all, but a trip back in time had solved her problem. Maybe migraines hadn’t been invented yet.
She slid out of the bunk and tiptoed closer to the captain. The striking similarity between him and Jim mystified her. They could have been twins. However, the captain’s muscular sinews had the strength of steel bands. She had to be thankful Jim did not possess the same kind of power. Otherwise, he would have knocked her out.
Her gaze lowered to the bulge in the captain’s britches. Her cheeks flamed at the memory of it. Damn. Jim’s main asset did not come close.
Still, being a pirate did not make for a good resume and after last night’s mutiny, she feared he would not remain a captain for long. Her future in the past as a cabin boy became more precarious than ever.
That strange tingle accompanied by a vibrating hum grew inside her. She considered whether a force field created the sensation. Maybe this backward time thing affected her in an abnormal way. Of course, the entire episode didn’t adhere to any logical explanations. It could be a bad, drug-induced trip. She had heard stories about people’s experiences with crystal-meth and other hallucinogens. Yet, she seemed fully in control of herself and her actions. She wasn’t sick. She did not have a migraine. She felt healthy—except for the bruise on the side of her face, but it could not be compared in any way to the throbbing, stabbing agony she had suffered in her head for months. Maybe she should be grateful for being transported out of 2011. Maybe she had been blessed.
Her stomach growled loud enough to make her believe it would wake up the captain, but he remained sound asleep as the hammock went back and forth like the pendulum of an old clock. The slight tug of the ropes against the hook created a rhythmic squeak that added a harmonic counterpoint to th
e rumble of her hunger.
She had to have some food—real food, not that unappetizing hardtack. She went to the door and drew the bolt as quietly as possible. Peering out into the corridor, she did not see a soul but she still feared meeting up with the malevolent Christopher Moody. She tucked a pistol into her waistband. It wasn’t loaded but nobody had to know that. Heavy and awkward, the weapon could hurt someone if she threw it.
Glancing at the mirror, she studied her bruised and swollen face, her ragged clothes, and the pistol. If she donned a tricornered hat and put a patch over one eye she would be ready for a Halloween costume party.
She feared leaving the captain alone, but without some sustenance she would pass out. Tinkering with the simple latch on the door, she figured a way to pull down the latch from the outside by using a piece of string. She hurried toward the quarterdeck promising herself to be quick. The sound of men chanting a bawdy song indicated their involvement in some sort of chore. No digital tracks, but it got the work done.
When she opened the door to the deck, she found members of the crew crawling along on their knees in the process of holystoning. They looked up, gave her toothless grins, and kept right on singing.
Dental care in 1711 left a lot to be desired.
Stepping around the men, she searched for the galley while keeping a wary eye out for Mr. Moody. Above her in the rigging, sailors tarred the lines while the carpenter and his crew fixed the holes created by the cannonballs in the battle.
Helping with the chores on deck appealed to her. It would while away the time and keep her from thinking too much about her former life, but she needed to keep an eye on the captain. Obviously, she and the doctor were his only friends.
She located the galley where the stone-deaf cook stood over a huge vat of something gray. He did not notice her since she took care to stand behind him. He tossed a handful of salt into the vat and stirred the goo around. The sight and the smell of the unappetizing mixture made her gag.
She spied a basket with a few eggs in it and smiled. Reaching for a slotted spoon, she put two eggs into it and then lowered them into a vat of boiling tea. She moved as quietly as possible, keeping out of the cook’s vision. He seemed to enjoy stirring his pot of gruel.
The slimy coating of grease and soot that covered everything in the galley grossed her out. If the men on the ship didn’t die in a battle, they had a good chance of succumbing to food poisoning. So did she for that matter. She should cook her own meals on the ship—and those of the captain, too. For all she knew, someone could try to poison him.
The image of the captain in all his naked magnificence flooded her mind. She did not want anything to ruin his incredible physique.
She lifted the eggs out of the tea and put the slotted spoon back in its place. When she turned to leave, she saw the cook glaring at the two eggs in her hand.
“Um ... sorry. I was hungry.” Her pulse raced.
He lunged for her, but she sprang away and ran onto the deck. Moving forward, she tucked herself into a corner behind a barrel next to the chicken coop. The chickens narrowed their eyes and made angry clucking sounds.
“Sorry,” she whispered. She cracked the eggs open and savored each heavenly mouthful. Hardboiled eggs had never tasted so divine—maybe that’s because she had never been so hungry.
Yesterday had been horrible but today with the sun shining down on her and a substantial amount of protein in her stomach, she had hopes she would fare better. She tossed the eggshells overboard and crawled out of her hiding place. Then she saw the crew gathered around Mr. Moody. His stentorian voice carried across the deck despite a brisk wind.
“We have a thief on board! It’s worth five doubloons to the man who brings the thieving bastard to me. You know the lad. The captain’s cabin boy!”
Dammit. Her blood ran cold and she scurried back into her small corner. What could she do now? She should have kicked Moody’s balls even harder last night.
The crew dispersed. Some wholeheartedly threw themselves into the search. Some did not appear eager to join the hunt. A flicker of hope stirred in her breast. Maybe the captain had more supporters than she thought. Or maybe they knew Mr. Moody’s true temperament--a spiteful, bombastic, perverted bully. Then again, there could be a few who pitied her.
The eggs swirled uncomfortably in her gut.
She touched the side of her face. Still tender, it ached and she wished she had some ice to ease the swelling. She drew her hands into fists. Mr. Moody needed to learn a lesson. What could she do?
She peeked from behind the barrel. The men must have gone below to ferret through the bowels of the ship, though a few poked around in the boats apparently thinking she had climbed into one of those to hide.
Mr. Moody, confident and smug, stood on the poop deck and surveyed the scene. He paced back and forth with as much pride as a peacock spreading out his magnificent tail feathers. The long green jacket he wore today appeared iridescent in the bright morning light. She wanted to wipe the evil smile off his face.
She scooted behind the barrel again, next to the chicken coop, beside the ship’s bell and weighed her options. There weren’t many. If she got caught there would be no hope for her.
She hated Moody. If she knew how to load a gun she would put a hole in his head.
She stared out at the ocean off the starboard side. The bright blue sky had not a single cloud in it and reminded her of the captain’s eerie light eyes. The ocean beneath held the same deep blue as a sapphire. The breeze though brisk had a mild warmth to it. The weather seemed utterly perfect for sailing. Jim would be out sailing his boat on such a day. The ocean did not look any different in 1711 than it did in 2011. She wished a big, modern ocean liner would appear on the horizon and take her home.
Grief tore at her heart. She should have been more magnanimous to her niece and nephew on their birthdays. She should have given them huge gifts so they would never forget her.
Unexpectedly, that unusual hum fired up inside her. She peered out from behind the barrel once more to see the captain join Mr. Moody on the poop deck. The captain wore no jacket and no hat—and she smiled as she watched the sunshine glinting in his sun-bleached hair. The wind pressed his loose shirt against his firm muscles and she touched every one of them with her eyes.
Damn. He looked delicious. Keeping her hands off him would be a challenge.
The captain and Moody talked for a while, scowling at each other they but did not come to blows. Another cabin boy summoned the bosun who then blew his whistle. The crew assembled and the captain told everyone that his cabin boy had not stolen anything—that the incident had been a misunderstanding.
Everyone went back to their stations, many of them muttering oaths. After a few minutes, the captain turned, stood at the rail, and scanned the deck. When Moody turned his back, she crept out a little further and waved to the captain. His gaze fell upon her and the hum inside her grew into a vibration—like the purr of a cat. The laser-like beam of his eyes locked with hers. He nodded and she returned his acknowledgement while a blaze of heat suffused her body. She thought she would melt.
All at once the lookout high above in the crow’s nest called out frantically. She had no idea what he said, but the captain’s attention left her. With the connection between them severed, a sudden chill dampened the heat of only a moment ago.
The captain shouted orders, Moody shouted more orders, the bosun gave several shrill blasts on his whistle and men scrambled down from the ratlines with their buckets of tar as the ship heeled to larboard.
Then she turned her head and saw what caused all the commotion. A wall of water—a rogue wave, which looked like a cliff—plowed toward the Lyrical. Would the wave crush the ship into toothpicks? Inside, she went numb.
The deck tilted sharply as the helmsman brought the ship about to face the monstrous blue mountain head on. Up until now, she had never been seasick—not for a moment, but looking at that wave had those delicious eggs churning about une
asily at the pit of her stomach.
She looked around for the nearest sturdy object, which happened to be one of the posts that held up the ship’s bell. Wrapping her arms about it, she knew she did not stand a chance in the open sea. Nevertheless, if the ship broke apart, she might be able to float for a while on the post. She closed her eyes and remembered lines from The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.
Alone, alone, all, all alone,
Alone on a wide wide sea.
And never a saint took pity on
My soul in agony.
Why did she recall Coleridge’s ancient poem when she was about to drop in on Davy Jones locker?
The ship went down into the trough of the wave and she closed her eyes to whisper a prayer. In that instant, the captain’s sheltering arms surrounded her. He came from behind and covered her body with his. His strong arms pressed her even more tightly against the post. The electric hum inside her returned full force, but sheer terror soon drowned it out.
“Do not weaken, not for a moment!” he shouted as the wave struck.
Swallowed inside the churning, foaming torrent of seawater, she fought against her panic. Though the captain’s hard body gave her some protection, she did not know how long she could hold her breath. What if the Lyrical did not rise up again from the water?
Images from her brief life passed before her—everything from kindergarten graduation to her last fight with Jim to that magical encounter in the captain’s cabin.
Dammit. She wanted more of that.
A heavy object slammed against her ankle. She could not cry out though the sharp pain undermined what little strength she had left.
With her lungs ready to burst, she found herself growing lightheaded from a lack of oxygen. She could not die like this! She had to live.
Pirate's Wraith, The Page 9
