Chapter Nine
Harlan shut his eyes as the colossal wave smashed into the Lyrical with a gigantic roar and greedily gobbled up parts of the ship. Though he held on with every ounce of his strength, he knew the sea wanted him. The great monster of the deep craved the prize of human flesh and if its demands were not met, it rose up and devoured its fill.
The dead from battle did not satisfy the avarice of the ocean for it fed on energy and corpses had none left to give. It wanted life. It wanted him.
The great weight of the water tore at his shirt. Wooden rails, belaying pins, ropes, and barrels battered him. The liquid tyrant sought to swallow him whole, but he refused to give in to it. Holding his breath, he clung to the post and fought to protect Lesley from the power pulling at them. He struggled to hold his breath and prayed she had drawn in enough air to sustain her.
There had been little time to respond to the danger. The helmsman had managed to turn the ship into the wave, but they could still drown and for the first time in years he cared about living—and not only to win back the legacy his brother had squandered away. Harlan longed to solve the mystery of Lesley and her connection to Elsbeth. Lesley intrigued him. He pressed against her softness and relished the heat radiating from her satin skin. He longed to taste the sweetness on her lips, even if her body cleverly disguised the devil incarnate.
When his lungs were about to burst for lack of breath, the water fell away. Gratefully, he gasped in the blessed air. Slowly, and indeed miraculously, the Lyrical rose above the water.
His limbs trembled. Reluctant to leave the warmth of Lesley’s body, he eased slowly away from her.
“Did you take in any water?” he asked. She did not move but continued to hold fast to the post.
She shook her head.
“It is over. We are fortunate. The Lyrical still floats.” He reached out to smooth back the hair from her forehead.
“Guess there won’t be any chicken dinners this week.”
He glanced toward the space where the chickens and their coops had been, but they had vanished. The bell, too, had been taken, but he hardly cared. He was alive. Lesley was alive.
“I do not care about the chickens.” The rough edge in his voice hurt his throat. Anger—even hatred and blind fury—were far better than this feebleness. It sapped his strength and left him shaken, though perhaps his weakness came from fighting against the force of the wave—fighting to live.
“Well, there are plenty of fish in the sea. We can eat those, but damn the eggs were good.” Her hand reached out and touched his cheek.
He took her hand in his and kissed it. Then he closed his eyes and buried his lips in her wet hair. It smelled of the sea. His tongue curled around the whorl of her ear, craving the salt flavor there. He sought her mouth and the deep warmth within.
She turned away from him. “They’ll see you and think you are a ... a bugger.”
Her words, though soft, brought him back to reality.
“I thought you would die,” he whispered. Why did that matter to him? It shouldn’t. He had seen good men die. He had lost everything he loved.
“I ... I ... I know I could not have held on without your help.” The warmth of her tender skin against his lips made him long to taste more of her, but danger lay in wait and the risk for him continued. Watchful eyes were upon him and unholy alliances could end his life in an instant.
He backed away and looked out at the deck. Sections of the railing had been ripped away as well as ratlines and ropes. One of the boats in the waist had vanished. The bowsprint had disappeared. Without a doubt, men had been lost, too. The once proud and beautiful ship had suffered a devastating blow.
Men emerged from the hold. Moody came on deck. The bosun’s whistle blew. Harlan glanced upward. The shredded ruins of the sails fluttered in the light breeze. The top of the foremast and the top of the main mast were missing.
“There is work to be done.” He barely whispered the words. He had survived. If she, as a witch, had endured the wall of water, was he a devil because the sea had not managed to loosen his grip on life? Could sheer luck and strength have been all that was needed?
Or did destiny play a part in their survival?
He closed his eyes and struggled to erase the horror. In battle, he raged against his enemies without fear, but no human enemy could match the ocean in its fury. He quailed inside at the thought of how close he had come to losing this woman. Though her origin remained a mystery to him, he could not bear the thought of being left alone without her, which made no sense. He had vowed never to marry again.
“You must stay in my cabin. Do not leave it this time. I cannot vouch for anyone’s loyalty. You must do as I say or peril awaits.”
“Um--there’s one small detail. My ankle hurts and I can’t put any weight on it.”
He glanced down and noticed the blood on her trousers. The spirit within him sank lower.
He lifted her and carried her across the deck. The men stared at him.
“You sure you know what you’re doing?” she whispered. “I could hop if you gave me something to use for a crutch.”
He ignored her plea. He did not care what anyone thought. He strode across the deck and glared at them. They moved away. Nobody came close. He went into his cabin and settled her on the bunk.
“I will send Gilly to tend to your leg.”
Her eyes grew round and her skin paled. “Make sure he doesn’t bring his saw along.”
“If it does not turn gangrenous, he will not amputate.”
She clutched his forearm and he realized she had tears welling in her eyes. “Tell him to bring plenty of vinegar and soap. I want to kill as many germs as possible.”
Her pain and fear sent a sick swirl to the pit of his stomach. He clenched his jaw. He must not allow this frailty to destroy him but in the face of her fear, he stood powerless.
“I will tell him to bring all his vinegar.” Against all common sense, he bent to kiss her forehead and then her cheek and at last he found the warmth of her lips. There he lingered for a moment until frantic shouts from above distracted him. “I must go.”
She nodded.
With his resolve flagging, he left. As he stepped out onto the quarterdeck, Gilroy appeared.
The old man carried a jug of vinegar and his ancient bag of physician’s implements. “Do not worry, cap’n. Lesley lives. Many did not hold on long enough.”
Harlan could not respond for the tightness in his throat. The physician quickly disappeared leaving Harlan to stare upward at the ruined sails. He silently cursed his life as the tattered sails fluttered uselessly in the wind. In truth, after his son’s death, whatever bright expectations he had held for the future departed. Becoming a pirate had not seemed a loathsome thing, for he had not cared a whit for his own life.
Yet, now he did. Now he wanted to believe there could be more happiness for him and not the kind of happiness that came from wealth and privilege. He longed for something simpler--ordinary.
But as a pirate, he could be hung.
He shoved that disturbing thought to the back of his mind and dashed up to the poop deck where Moody strutted back and forth calling out orders.
“Did the wave knock you senseless?” Moody’s full jowls quivered with wrath and his eyes narrowed.
“A long draught of rum has revived me.” How easy he found lying. He had once been his parents’ pride—the good son who excelled in learning. His face grew hot with shame.
“Why were you carrying the lad? We are pirates. There is no mollycoddling here. Send him back to his mother if he is a milksop.”
“His blows felled you.” Harlan muttered so only Moody could hear.
The first mate almost choked as his face bloomed into a livid purple. After a few minutes, he recovered his composure and went on to give an accounting of how many men had been washed overboard by the freak sea. Then he continued with the damage the ship had suffered. “There is not enough spare canvas for all the sai
ls.”
“We must sail with whatever we have.” He fingered Moody’s fine jacket. “We could piece together a quilted sail using this exquisite cloth and some of your other fine jackets.”
Moody yanked the cloth out of his hands. “We will do without the topgallants, the spanker, and one of the jibs.”
Harlan laughed. “Do we have a choice, Mr. Moody?”
“If we find a ship to plunder, we can take their sails.”
“It will be impossible to maneuver without enough sail and we have lost many of our best fighting men.”
“Yes,” the first mate admitted. “Due to our current circumstances we must engage an easier target.”
“On the sea, who will we find far weaker than we are at the moment?” Harlan asked. “Any Spaniards will attack us on sight.”
“We need not strike our colors.”
“Excellent, Mr. Moody, then we will be as neutral as possible and limp into port.” Harlan took out his glass and surveyed the horizon. He did not see another freak wave, or anything else out of the ordinary. “We must get to New Providence, as quickly as possible.”
“We cannot race without more sails.”
“I have already offered you a suggestion to alleviate the problem.”
“You are being facetious.”
“Am I?” Harlan smiled broadly. “You are quite large, Mr. Moody. I daresay there’s enough fabric in a dozen of your jackets to piece together a mighty fine jib.”
* * * *
Lesley bit down on the leather wad Dr. Gilroy gave her. It did not surprise her that the old physician knew a bit about anatomy. After all, he had sliced off plenty of body parts.
In his calm way, he assured her she had a bad sprain, not a fracture. Some sharp object had slammed into her and caused the cut on her skin. He stitched the wound together and wrapped her ankle in a cloth to keep it stable. While her knowledge of biology far exceeded his, the reassurance he offered meant a lot to her. She had automatically assumed the worst when she saw the blood.
“You must keep it elevated until the swelling goes down,” he said.
“When can I put weight on it?”
“That may take some time.”
“Can I use crutches?”
“I’ve some in orlop deck as might be the right size.”
“If you acquire more spoons in New Providence, can you send me home?”
“I have been giving the matter some thought, child, but for now, you cannot travel far. You must rest and heal.”
After he left, her lower lip quivered and tears welled in her eyes, but she refused to give in to a bout of self-pity. She lay on the damp blanket with its musty wool smell and distracted herself by envisioning the softness of the fine percale sheets and fluffy comforter on her bed at home. She visualized herself eating from her fine china plates, and sipping coffee from her favorite mug. She closed her eyes and tried to remember all the delightful flavors of her favorite foods—and even the simple ones like fresh oranges. However, dreaming of all the wonderful things she no longer had could not take her mind off her pain and her miserable circumstances.
She opened her eyes and tried to pound out the lumps in the straw-filled mattress. Shifting around, her arm bumped into something warm and her fingers closed upon the small wooden horse. Comfort settled upon her heart.
“I wondered what had happened to you.” She brought the toy up to her chest. “I’m glad you’re still here. I saw my whole life flash before my eyes—and you were a part of it. I wonder why. You’ve come a long way with me, my little friend.”
The horse stayed warm, which helped her to ignore the pain in her leg. She did not imagine the heat, it was real and she decided to ignore the fact that such a phenomena would normally be impossible. The toy remained the one peculiar and surreal detail in her very gritty experience on the Lyrical.
She thought of all the stories she had read and movies she had seen about time travel. People seemed intrigued with the idea of going either backward or forward in time, but logically it could not happen.
A trip to the moon involved an enormous amount of expense plus years of planning and training. Sometimes, the astronauts died when the mission failed. Though the rockets reached incredible speeds, they did not travel into another time. Man-made rockets could never reach the speed of light, somewhere around 186,000 miles per second.
Why did she recall that fact but not get a stellar grade on the MCATs?
“Time moves slower in outer space,” she whispered to the toy. “But I didn’t leave the earth. In fact, as far as I know I stayed in the very same spot—relatively speaking.”
She continued musing to herself. There were three dimensions, height, width, and depth. Wasn’t time the fourth dimension? Weren’t there wrinkles in time? Or was that just another story she had read?
How could anyone go back in time and survive? She stared at her sprained ankle. The human body had many limitations. Why had the wooden toy had come through time with her when nothing else had--not her clothes, her car, or even her earrings—just this horse—a toy carved by the captain for his son? Coincidence? It did not seem likely.
The migraines, which had sapped her strength and taken all the joy out of life, had started after she had bought the cradle at that antique store. The saleswoman seemed so anxious to make the sale. Would she have charged more if she had known about the horse? Lesley had not known about the horse until she had gotten back home and taken the quilt out of the cradle to have it professionally cleaned. The horse had lain beneath the quilt.
Could the horse be a figment of her imagination? Could she have acquired a sort of madness in which the horse became the actual manifestation of her illness?
She had taken two psychology courses and she had hated them. Now when she could use some help in figuring out her own psyche, psychology did not exist. Freud had not been born. She couldn’t type in her problem on a search engine and look it up.
“Alright, if mental illness hasn’t been invented yet, I’m really okay.” She whispered. That thought gave her downcast spirit a slight boost. She had grown cynical as a pharmaceutical rep after her migraines continued despite all the pills she took. She had wondered if some of the new diseases were given labels merely so that the pharmaceutical companies could sell pills for the newly labeled illness. What if those medicines consisted of nothing more than some inert ingredients—a sugar pill?
Didn’t the placebo effect work in something like thirty-two percent of all cases?
Why did she remember that now? How come she didn’t do better on the MCATs? Today, lying on a horribly uncomfortable mattress with a fat, painful ankle, she had all sorts of useless information swirling around in her head. Maybe she could become a doctor in this century. It should be a lot easier.
Unfortunately, women didn’t get to do anything in 1711 except have babies, sew, cook, do laundry, and die. They had sex, too—and got married but that’s when all their trials started. The lucky ones didn’t die after the first baby. They had no means to limit their pregnancies other than trying several disgusting methods. She had read an article about the use of dates, honey, lemon, vinegar, and even animal dung. Eew.
If she could continue to act the part of a lad she might be able to become a doctor. It was a long shot, but worth a try. She would ask Dr. Gilroy how to go about it.
Nevertheless, the cannon the captain had in his britches still intrigued her. Sex with him could not fail to be a mind-boggling event. Her hormones acted up the moment he got close to her. She wanted to glue her body to his. Having him pressed against her was delightful for all of a second until the gigantic wave ruined the experience. She would like to try it again without the water.
The little wooden horse in her hands grew warmer.
As if on cue, the captain entered the cabin and the heat in her body zoomed upward. The flush on her cheeks was bad enough, but the unsatisfied longing at her core proved far more disturbing.
She needed a very cold shower.
“Gilly gave me these.” The captain held out three rudimentary crutches. “One should be the proper size for you.”
She took a deep breath and tried to calm herself. It didn’t work. Her pulse raced and dampness spread between her legs. She decided to put on her perky cheerleader persona. “Yep, I’m out of commission for a while—at least when it comes to climbing the rigging. Not that I mind being excused from that job.”
He gave her a melting look with those liquid blue eyes of his. “I am sorry.”
The eyes got to her. She wanted to drown in them. She sat up. Her leg hurt like hell, but she moved to ease it off the bunk and down to the floor. “Okay.” She winced. “Hand me a crutch.”
The moment her foot touched the floor, she found herself biting back a cry of pain. The heat of a moment ago vanished and a cold sweat broke out on her brow. All her blood seemed to take a fast elevator ride downward and her head spun dizzily.
She held onto the edge of the bunk and managed not to pass out.
He stood the crutches up beside her and measured them against her side. “This one will do.” He handed it to her.
She put the support under her arm. It was a miserable excuse for a mobility aid. For one thing, it had no padding. Still, she would be able to hobble along with it, if the pain and swelling in her ankle ever went away.
“Would you help me into the bunk?” she asked in a breathy tone.
He obliged by lifting her and placing her gently on the lumpy, scratchy mattress. The ease with which he did it impressed her—as if she weighed as much as a pound of spaghetti. Once she lay in a horizontal position, the blood moved back to her brain and her lightheadedness passed, though her ankle continued to ache.
“Do you have anything for pain?” she asked through clenched teeth. “I’ll take a hit on the solar plexus, at this point. Go ahead, knock me out.”
He went to a small cabinet, took out a jug, and poured amber liquid into a mug. He handed it to her. “Whiskey. Drink it all.”
She took the mug and sniffed. “Damn. This is potent. I could get blasted from inhaling it.”
“It’s good, from a farmer back home.”
Pirate's Wraith, The Page 10
