by Jody Hedlund
Dozens upon dozens of people were crammed into every spare spot, along with their cooking pots, bundles of clothing and blankets, ragged shoes, wooden crates, and the rest of their earthly possessions. Except for the chickens and a small group of children slapping hands in play, there was very little movement. Most people were huddled in their beds or lying on the floor.
From the stench of the place, Mercy realized the passengers here were as ill as those above, if not more so. The hard knocking of the waves against the lower deck pounded louder, and the swaying was more dizzying.
She forced herself to breathe evenly so she wouldn’t be sick to her stomach. Turning toward the square opening from which she’d come, she felt a powerful need to scramble back up the ladder as fast as her feet could carry her. But as a woman sat up nearby and vomited into a basin, Mercy halted her retreat.
These were her people. This was where she belonged. In fact, if not for the Columbia Mission Society, she would have been living among these poor immigrants for the duration of the voyage. No, the truth was, she was lower than them. She wouldn’t have been able to afford to pay for steerage, not even if she lived two lifetimes. The least she could do was offer them comfort, the same she was offering to the women above.
Mercy stepped over the legs of a prostrate man, ducking her head so as not to bump it against the beams. With a sudden lurching of the ship, she grabbed on to a post to keep from falling and hurting herself, or worse, hurting someone else. The lantern swayed and cast its faint light upon a bent head and familiar profile.
Dr. Colville.
Mercy carefully picked her way across the floor until she reached the doctor, who was kneeling next to a man sprawled out on a lower wooden bunk. It was devoid of its straw-filled mattress, which lay on the floor nearby. Children were curled up together on the mattress, one of them in the process of heaving and the others crying.
Next to Dr. Colville, a woman was attempting to help the doctor, but then she paused, bent over, and threw up into a basin. Mercy touched the woman’s shoulder gently and drew her hair out of the way. When finished, the woman wiped her sleeve across her mouth. Fatigue lined her face.
“Rest with your children.” Mercy nodded toward the wee ones. “I’ll help the doctor.”
Dr. Colville glanced her way. His dark eyes were solemn, his hair mussed, and his jaw covered with thick stubble. With his coat discarded and his shirtsleeves rolled up, she was reminded of how he’d looked the first day she met him at the dispensary—tired and harried.
He returned his attention to the patient in front of him. In the dim, swaying light, she glimpsed the man’s arm, a mangle of flesh and bones, and understood why he lay there unconscious, and blessedly so. Nausea burned a path up her throat, and she looked again toward the ladder that would take her to the upper deck.
As tempting as it was to escape, she could no more walk away from the suffering around her than she could ignore it in the cabins above. Swallowing the sickness, she knelt next to the doctor. “How can I help you, Doctor?”
He nodded at the sheet next to the man. “Finish ripping that linen into strips. I’ll need it to bind his arm to the splint.”
Mercy quickly set to work. When Dr. Colville asked her to help hold the arm in place while he sutured and then wrapped it, her queasiness was soon replaced by her fascination and admiration of his deftness. His long fingers worked with a skill and precision that made her forget about everything else but assisting in whatever he needed.
When finally the arm was set, the flesh sewn together, and the wound wrapped, Dr. Colville wiped his bloody fingers on the remains of the sheet. “My deepest gratitude, Miss Wilkins. I wouldn’t have been able to set the break as cleanly if not for your assistance.”
“You deserve better help than me, sir.” She added a curtsy. He was, after all, a lord, a member of the highest level of society, one far above hers and even above Mrs. Robb’s. She’d never met a lord before, had only seen such fine gentlemen from a distance.
Even so, she suspected most weren’t like Dr. Colville. Very few of his class would take the time to speak with her, much less thank her. Even fewer would subject themselves to the lowly conditions of a place like steerage.
“Your assistance is more than sufficient, Miss Wilkins,” he said wearily. “Out here we are all subjects of the same taskmaster, the sea. He has a way of bringing us to our knees and making us equals, does he not?”
Mercy couldn’t understand the doctor’s poetic language. Instead, she nodded her acquiescence and kept her face hidden from him lest he see her admiration, which only seemed to grow with each encounter.
Joseph sagged into the armchair he’d dragged out of his cabin onto the deck. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Though the gray clouds were racing faster than the sun and hiding it from view, every now and then warm rays broke through and caressed his face.
They’d finally sailed out of the Channel, leaving the storms behind, and were now well on their way southward toward the Bay of Biscay and the Azores. The water was still choppy, but the wind was gentling, which meant the worst of the seasickness was over. Most of the passengers would be out of their beds by tonight, if not by the following morning.
“Doctor.”
At Mercy’s voice, he opened his eyes and sat forward.
She stood in front of him and held out a steaming mug of coffee. The aroma of the brew awakened his senses, and his stomach gurgled. He hadn’t eaten since the storm had started over twenty-four hours ago.
“I thought you could use a strong cup, to be sure.”
Rather than taking the tin mug, he stared up at her. Though her hair was damp and unkempt, face smudged and weary, her garments soggy and splattered with all manner of filth, for a reason he couldn’t explain, she had grown more beautiful and not less.
He couldn’t stop himself from studying her pale face, the cupid’s bow in her upper lip, the high cheekbones, the thinly sculpted brows. And her eyes . . .
Her lashes dropped before he could drown in the blue-green sea of her eyes. The mug in her hand shook just slightly. “If you’d rather have a meal, sir, I can go back to the galley—”
“No, Miss Wilkins,” he said rapidly and took the mug. “The coffee is perfect.”
She took a step back as though to leave.
“But only,” he continued, “if you’ll sit with me a moment and have some too.”
She’d worked tirelessly at his side since the early hours of the morning when she’d come down into steerage to find him. Thankfully, the broken arm had been the worst of the injuries there. He’d sutured several lacerations, removed a nail from a foot, and treated a concussion.
After they finished, they’d gone above and first tended Sarah and Mrs. Robb before moving on to help the rest of the sick passengers. They then returned to steerage to check on the patients, and all the while Mercy had soothed and loved everyone she came across.
He’d never met anyone like her. And now all he could think about was how much he wanted to sit with her, drink a cup of coffee, and find out more about her.
“Sir?” She lifted her gaze, giving him a glimpse of her confusion.
Poor young women didn’t sit and drink coffee and talk with wealthy lords. Especially the poor women on this bride ship who’d been forbidden to interact with the other passengers.
“Wait just a moment.” He stood and thrust the mug back into her hands. Then he strode two doors down to the passenger salon, retrieved another armchair, and dragged it outside.
Her eyes widened at the sight of the chair, particularly when he positioned it next to his. He took the coffee from her, lowered himself into his seat, and waved at the new chair. “Please, Miss Wilkins. You deserve a short rest.”
She glanced with longing at the chair but then peered over her shoulder in the direction of the bride cabins. The worry crinkling the corners of her eyes revealed her concern that her vigilant chaperones might come out of their cabins and observe her s
itting with him. Surely she knew she had nothing to worry about, at least for a few more hours. Mrs. Robb was still under the effects of the laudanum he’d administered to ease the pain of her head injury. And Mr. Scott and his family were miserably still abed.
“As the ship’s surgeon, no one can argue with my orders—expressly the order that you must take a moment to rest, otherwise you will find yourself just as ill as the others.”
At the mention of order, she took a step closer to the chair, and he immediately regretted his word choice. He didn’t want her to spend time with him because she felt coerced.
“I have no wish to force you to sit with me, Miss Wilkins,” he rushed to explain, not sure why he should care what this woman did or didn’t do. “If you have no desire for my company, I would not detain you.”
She dragged the chair away from his, putting a respectable distance between them, and lowered herself into it. For a long moment, she didn’t say anything and held herself stiffly, peering past the rail out at the endless expanse of whitecap waves.
Taking a sip of his coffee, he did likewise. At last, from the edge of his vision, he could see her shoulders relax and her body ease deeper into the chair.
He waited a few more moments, then extended the tin mug to her. He attempted nonchalance, keeping his sights half on the sea. She hesitated, but when he didn’t withdraw his offer, she accepted the coffee and took a drink. She closed her eyes, her expression radiating pleasure.
Warmth plumed in his chest like a breath of sweet tobacco smoke. “Tell me about yourself, Miss Wilkins.” He tried to keep his voice casual so he wouldn’t frighten her away. “What made you decide to join the bride ship and voyage to Vancouver Island?”
She turned and handed him the mug.
He shook his head and indicated she should have more.
She lifted the cup and sipped again. He couldn’t tear his sights from the touch of her mouth to the rim, the long curve of her throat as she swallowed, and the drop of coffee lingering on her bottom lip.
He’d almost given up hope she’d talk to him when she shifted slightly and spoke. “I wasn’t planning on leaving, didn’t really want to.”
“Then why did you?”
“When Twiggy lost her job picking rags, it was either me or Matthew who had to leave home.” She expelled a sigh. “I wouldn’t hear of Matthew a-going to the docks and scrapping for himself. So I offered to leave.”
“Who’s Twiggy?”
“My mother.”
“And Matthew’s your brother?”
She nodded. “He’s not a mite older than ten years.”
Joseph attempted to digest all the things she hadn’t revealed but implied: the inability to find new employment, the loss of income, the shortage of food for everyone, the direness of her situation. Mercy very well could have ended up on the streets.
His stomach roiled at the thought. A beautiful young woman like Mercy wouldn’t have lasted long, not before being snatched up and sorely used.
“Certainly you had a dozen offers of marriage?”
“A dozen?” Her lips curled into a wisp of a smile. “You flatter me, sir.”
“Not at all. You’re a fair young maiden. I have no doubt you could have had any number of fine men, rather than sailing to a new land and marrying a stranger.”
The trace of smile disappeared. She pressed her lips together and stared out at the sea again. Her fingers tightened around the mug.
He was being forward. “I have spoken too freely. I do apologize—”
“Shouldn’t you be married by now too, Doctor?” She turned her full gaze upon him. Her eyes churned with something he couldn’t quite identify. . . . Was it guilt?
Before he could probe, she spoke again. “A rich gent and fine-looking fellow like yourself could have any woman he wanted.”
He reclined further in his chair. “Fine-looking fellow, am I?”
She dropped her attention to the mug, stared at it a moment, and then lifted it and took a drink as though to hide behind it. “I’m only repeating what I heard them fancy ladies saying.”
“Then you don’t agree?”
The spot of color that rose into her cheeks gave her answer. So she thought he was handsome? He crossed his arms, allowing himself a smile.
“You’ll have to be right careful, sir,” she said. “If the fancy ladies have their way, you’ll end up wed to one of them before the voyage’s end.”
“You needn’t worry yourself over my welfare.” He’d rebuffed plenty of advances of well-meaning friends who’d attempted to negotiate marriage unions. He’d had enough practice in saying no to hold him in good stead. “If God so pleases, someday I shall have a wife and many children. But at the present, I am a free spirit and wish to travel the world.”
“I’ve never stepped a foot outside London in all my life,” she admitted.
He wasn’t sure why such a fact should surprise him, even more that it should dismay him. He wasn’t so oblivious to the plight of the poor not to know that most had no means to go beyond their neighborhoods. Even so, the thought that this angel of mercy had never experienced anything but the squalor of the London slums made his heart ache.
“The fancy ladies are sayin’ our new home’ll be real nice and pretty,” she rushed to say as if to cover the embarrassment of her previous statement. “Being close to Australia, I suppose it’ll be warm all the year long?”
He almost chuckled at her assumption. But when she turned her eyes upon him, the vulnerability, openness, and sweetness within them stopped him. He took for granted so much of his upbringing, education, the privileges of his status, the means and ability to go wherever he wanted. How could she be expected to know where Vancouver Island and British Columbia were when she’d likely never seen a map?
“Vancouver Island and British Columbia are an ocean away from Australia and quite a bit farther north.”
She shifted in her chair and stared at the mug, the fresh pink in her cheeks indicating her mortification at her mistake.
He held out his hand and used his finger to sketch an island. “Here’s Great Britain.” He drew a line to the opposite side. “Here are the continents of North and South America.”
Almost shyly, she shifted to watch his inkless drawing and followed as he traced their journey across the Atlantic, down the coast of South America, around the Falkland Islands at the tip, and then back up the other side until they reached the far reaches of the United States.
“Vancouver Island is just a short distance away from Washington Territory, so close, in fact, that you can see the Olympic Mountains. While Vancouver Island and British Columbia are separate English colonies, I’ve heard the two have much in common.”
Joseph lost track of the time as he explained everything he’d read and learned about the Pacific Northwest, including the mild weather that was similar to England, the recent discovery of gold in the mountains along the Fraser River, the rich history of the fur trade and the Hudson’s Bay Company’s influence, the conflict with the natives, and the abundance of natural resources.
“I’m told the beauty is unparalleled,” he said. “I hope to have time to explore the region before the Tynemouth sets sail again.”
“What’ll you see first?” She watched him eagerly, almost as if she were planning to explore alongside him.
Before he could respond, the gruff call of a sailor down the deck interrupted him. Gully was lumbering toward them, his weathered old face creased with worry. “Mr. Allen done hurt his arm again. And he’s howlin’ worse than a newborn babe.”
Joseph stood slowly, reluctant to end his time with Mercy. To his surprise, she was already moving toward Gully, her firm steps every indication she planned to help him again.
A part of him knew he should resist, at the very least encourage her to rest a little longer. But he ignored the warning and the dangerous fact that he liked having her at his side.
twelve
Mercy leaned her head against her ca
bin door.
“Captain Hellyer has moved Miss Lawrence to special quarters amidships to lessen the motion.” Dr. Colville’s voice on the opposite side was confident yet compassionate.
Mercy’s chest had begun a strange motion of rising and falling the moment she’d heard Dr. Colville on the deck. And the longer she listened to him, the more her insides dipped.
She hadn’t spoken to him for several days, not since the morning after the gale in the Channel. Yet she couldn’t stop thinking about the kindness he’d shown to the passengers in steerage. That he’d gone down there at all to aid their discomfort was out of the ordinary, to be sure. She suspected most doctors would’ve let the poor passengers tend to their own needs.
Aye, he’d been tender and efficient with the sick, but he’d done much more than care for their ailments. He’d allowed a mother with a sick babe an extra ration of milk, gave a handful of marbles to a group of children, and found a cane for a man who’d sprained his ankle. He never once spoke harshly but displayed great patience. In fact, he interacted almost as if he considered himself one of the steerage passengers, never putting on airs nor speaking with a condescending tone. As a result, she’d seen the respect and admiration on their faces. No doubt it mirrored her own.
As much as she was tempted to crack open her cabin door and peek at him, she let the weight of her body hold the door closed and prevent her from acting foolishly. He might have appreciated her help during the recent storm, and he might have taken a few moments on the deck to pull up a chair and talk with her when the others were too sick to keep him company, but that didn’t mean he wanted to make a regular practice of mingling with her.
“Our captain is indeed most gracious” came Mr. Scott’s voice. “We are beholden to him for his kindness. As we are to you too, Lord Colville.”
