“Take this,” the captain said. He held up long prongs for me to take, which were covered in dark blood. I took them mechanically. At the sight of my white hand, the captain finally looked up.
“No, no, NO!” His voice became progressively louder as he shouted. Fire burned in his eyes.
“Stop! Please!” I cried above the screams of the first mate. “No arguments now. Help him! I beg of you!” The sweet old man twisting in such terrible pain afflicted my feelings greatly. Tears of frustration coursed down my cheeks.
He flexed his jaw and glared at me. After a pregnant moment, he returned to his work.
“Whiskey,” he said gruffly. I glanced around the room in a daze. My mind had become stupefied from the sight of so much blood. The room tilted on its side and would not right itself. I stamped my foot in frustration. At last, I could see a tall bottle of the stuff on his desk. I dashed for it and held Anderson’s head up only slightly, giving him several small gulps. After I finished, the captain spoke.
“In the wound as well.”
I glanced up at him, afraid. He did not return my gaze. I swallowed thickly. Before this, I had not seen blood, save my own, and I had never seen innards. I did not know if I had the strength to see the effects of the whiskey on Anderson’s already suffering midsection. I felt so very sick from the sight and smell, but at the same time, I saw I was needed. I tipped the bottle and closed my eyes for a moment as Anderson’s cries were seared into my memory. I then used the awful stuff to wash the captain’s hands. Anderson continued screaming wretchedly.
Finally, the captain saw what he had been searching for. It was a large splint of wood, perhaps the width of his hand. He retrieved the long prongs from me and pulled the wood out. Once it was free from Anderson’s gut, he moved to a reading table where the majority of the beam sat. He moved delicately as he placed the missing piece into the beam. It was a perfect fit. No other shards were missing. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, then returned to Anderson and me.
“I’m going to put him back together,” he said. “You are going to have to watch and use the whiskey to clean.”
I nodded emphatically. There could be no mistakes. He gestured to his desk.
“Get the needle and thread.”
I went to retrieve the items. When I saw them, I had to breathe calmly several times before I could function again. Several hooks, needles, and other metal contraptions were laid out on a leather patch. So many odd shaped metals used for medical practices I knew nothing about. The needle and thread alone looked as if they were used for horses and cattle, they were so frighteningly thick. I returned with the items.
“You’ll hold his sides together,” he commanded. “Squeeze his middle tightly so I can have both hands free.”
A sob escaped me. I dreaded the thought of coming into such close contact with Anderson’s mutilated insides. The captain’s head spun around to survey me with distaste.
“Anyone within the sound of my voice come to me now!” he boomed. But no one was close. All were busy with the mending of the ship, and quite possibly could not hear him over the cries of Anderson. After a few moments of silent sobs and wretches into my arm, I was somewhat calm again. Anderson’s cries pushed me forward. I reached across the table to place one hand on the other side of him. I used my other arm and the rest of my body to hold the other half of the man as the captain began stitching. The old man’s skin was terribly cold and clammy. However, compared to the captain digging through his middle, the stitching must not have been as painful. First Mate Anderson finally quieted, as the whiskey took its affect.
I was close to the Captain as he took small and deliberate stitches into Anderson’s skin. To avoid looking down into Anderson’s belly, I focused on the captain’s face. Why did he need to know what I’d suffered? He knew my mother, couldn’t he perceive what an evil disposition she could have? Why could no one see it and understand? Did he truly fall victim to her falsehoods? How could he? He seemed capable and intelligent, yet he fell to her guile as swiftly as the rest. He must be a fool just like the rest of them.
Several times, he stopped sewing, closed his eyes, and took a long and deep breath in, and then slowly out again. Then he would continue stitching. I did not feel any amount of breathing would calm me. I was still panicked and angry, but I tried to keep from shaking.
I knew he was doing what was necessary for Anderson. I knew he did not mean to torture him or make him uncomfortable. This was his only chance of survival. Still I wondered if he cared as much for Anderson as I did, and if he didn’t want my help because I was a woman or because it was me.
The last stitch was administered, another dose of whiskey given to Anderson, and clean linens wrapped around his middle. I finally sat next to the shocked lieutenant on the sofa, craning my head as far away from the captain, and the smell, as I could manage. I closed my eyes as long minutes ticked by on the captain’s clock. Hate, fear, and sickness consumed me.
Father loosened the bandage on my upper arm and inspected the burns. There were several small ones, all circled around one that was very large. I craned my neck to look away. In truth, the burns didn’t hurt any longer. I simply could not look on the physical evidence that my mother did not love me, that she never had loved me. She was as happy to be rid of me as she would be a parasite. She would rather I be consumed in an awful fire than to burn one of her purchases. I could not keep the tears from my eyes.
Father thought I was crying in pain. “It is all right,” he soothed. “They are even better now than they were yesterday. There may be a small scar, but you need not worry.”
I turned to face him in anguish.
“Why does she hate me, Father? Why does she hurt me?” I sobbed uncontrollably. The motions shook my weak frame.
I remember Father’s face clearly: helplessness, hurt, and rage.
If wooden splints were lodged inside of me, would she have worked at all to retrieve them? Would she have cared if the wood moved slowly along my veins and finally reached my heart? Perhaps she cared naught for small burns, but what if I had been in real danger? Would she have rushed to save me? I had asked questions like these thousands of times, although I knew the answer.
No. She would not move to save me, even if my life were in danger.
I opened my eyes to escape my mind. The tears ran, liberated, down my cheeks.
My gaze wandered listless around the room and almost subconsciously locked with the captain’s across the room. He held a much different expression.
Pity.
Chapter 6
Days began to blend together as we were all lost in hard work. The sailmaker and crewmen hardly slept as they repaired the sails and mast. Slowly, the flooring of the Madras became dry again and signs of the storm began to pass.
Mary continued to improve. There were two more nights of terrible illness and delirium, but soon she was herself again. The reunion of the children with their true mother pulled at my heart. Mary thanked me for my help. She said although it was a terrible ordeal, she felt stronger and more lively for it. As for myself, despite being part of a traumatic surgery, on a battered ship in the middle of an ocean, I confess I had never been so happy.
First Mate Anderson spent long days recovering and leaving the captain bereft of his fine whiskey. From time to time, I would seek him out in the comfort of his cabin. He was so still, I wondered if I would find him dead on one of my visits. The risk of infection still threatened, a tall, dark figure in the corner that could steal him away.
Once, I pushed the door open to peek inside and saw the captain sitting on a small chair in a corner, his head in his hands. My mind imagined the worst. He may still have been upset with me for helping when he had wanted someone with experience. I may not have done the job well enough, and Anderson may be suffering because of it. Anderson made a movement and the captain jumped from his seat to administer to him. I quietly exited. I would never have imagined the captain in a sick room.
In the midst of all of this, the Madras was not moving in the slightest. Lieutenant Warley reassured us by saying it was natural to be motionless after a storm. Still, it was an unsettling feeling being on a ship that did not rock or pull with the waves. We hardly spoke. We hardly moved. We prayed for change.
A quiet panic had settled on the citizens of our small island, and my mind began to wander. What would happen to a ship without wind nor waves? What if we had discovered some section of sea that never moved, never progressed? Soon we would be out of food, and starvation and sickness would begin. Would the crew find someone to blame? I suppose if I thought one person were responsible for hurting Mary and her family, I might be tempted to throw them overboard, no matter their history or innocence.
Three full days passed. The crew busied themselves with scrubbing the deck again and again. Mary toted a metal wash basin to the deck and filled it with water, allowing it to be warmed by the sun. Robert and Agnes splashed in the small space until they were perfectly clean and giggling. It was wonderful to watch. Mary and I also took turns with the basin in the cabins, using the tub to wash our scalps and faces.
That evening, Mary and I sat on the deck, all cleaned and dry, supervising as the children played at hide-and-seek. The crew did not approve, but did not interfere with our fun. Mary and I sat in easy conversation while I darned my worn dress and she knitted a proper shirt for Agnes.
Suddenly Robert came up to the deck in a panic.
“Momma! Momma! Help Agnes! She’s stuck!” he yelled, breathless. Mary dropped her knitting and ran to the place Robert directed. I followed close behind. Robert huddled by the closed door of a storage closet with tears in his eyes. On the other side of the door I could hear Agnes pounding and scratching on the wooden panels of the door. Apparently, Agnes had hidden in the closet and had pulled down the wooden latch to lock the door, but now the latch would not let up and she could not escape the darkness.
The flooding from the storm must have warped the door, or damaged the latch. Mary instructed Robert to find a crewmember, and as Robert went away, Mary attempted to soothe Agnes from the other side of the door with no success. The little girl was frantic and likely filled with slivers and splinters from pounding the door.
My mind flashed to a childhood memory without my consent.
I was locked in my bedroom, unable to escape. Somewhere outside, people I loved were being hurt. I screamed again and again, but no amount of cries would reach my mother’s stone-cold ears. She had abandoned me, and no one in the world could come to my aid.
Dark terror filled my heart as I remembered the solitude. Within this mortal frame, being locked in a room was the most helpless I had ever felt.
I refused to believe that there was no one to rescue Agnes. Her cries echoed my own. Every abuse, every unkindness, and every piece of neglect came at me all at once. There was no room that could contain my anger, no walls, doors, or any barrier that could control the hostility that filled me.
I found my voice and rushed to the rough wood of the door.
“Get back! Move away!” I screamed. My voice was warning Agnes. My heart was threatening my mother.
I rushed at the door, breaking the warped latch with my shoulder. I stood in the small closet, breathing heavily for a moment before I rushed to Agnes and savagely held her in my arms as she wept on my shoulder. Luckily, she had heeded my warning and had moved out of the way. We sobbed together, and Mary looked at me with new understanding on her face.
After what seemed a long, healing eternity, we broke apart and Agnes went to her mother. I still felt the pulsing strength rejuvenating every muscle in me. I felt as if I could move a mountain by sheer force, or dig at the wood under my feet and reach the ocean. The fervor in my muscles could pull this ship through hurricanes.
Only then did I look down the hall. I saw some of the ship’s management and a handful of crew members looking on with somber faces. They had seen me crash through the door and sob with Agnes. I must have looked savage. The captain stood at the front of the group, staring.
The men gave me a wide berth as I entered my cabin and closed the door. I wanted to scream. But I knew the entire crew was standing just outside. I bit a quilt in my agitation and attempted to stay quiet as I bitterly sobbed away my childhood. The event that I had worked hardest to suppress clawed its way to the surface …
Father and I walked in the forest until we came upon a small, decrepit cottage on our estate. A man who had once worked as Father’s steward had recently passed away, and Father had gone to visit his widow. Mother had tried to keep it from Father, but a footman had betrayed her trust and slipped him a note. Now, walking into the woods, it was as if I were stepping into another reality. I had not known there was anyone living in this part of the estate. Father knocked, and when there was no reply, he let himself in.
The space inside was no bigger than my bed. That was one thing Mother had always given me, a nice bedroom. She did not want there to be any solid evidence that she treated me badly in case anyone were to suspect her. Now I would gladly drag my bed and all my possessions to this small dwelling with nothing but my shaky hands.
This woman had nothing. Literally nothing.
In a corner of the room a rough hole had been drilled out of the dirt to make a small fire pit, which had obviously not seen fire for weeks, despite the freezing cold. Another corner had been dug out to be used as a latrine. The smell frightened me in a way I didn’t think I could ever be frightened. I didn’t know people lived this way.
As we stepped into the dwelling, she lifted her eyes from her lap and into my father’s face and smiled weakly. “Praise be to God, who is truly merciful,” she whispered.
I saw then that she did indeed have something to call her own.
A child.
The baby girl cooed and smiled at us from the crook of her mother’s arm. Father began to inquire in hushed tones if she had any family or friends who could take her in. I only heard bits of their conversation. My eyes were fixed on the little girl. How could someone so small be surviving on the living her mother was making? How had they survived? Later, it was discovered Mother had taken their possessions as soon as the steward had passed. The young mother resembled a bare skeleton a tutor had shown me once in a book. There was no flesh left to rest on her weary bones. The baby was not starving, but looked like she soon might be.
Instinctively, I reached my hands out to hold the girl.
“May I hold her?” I asked.
The mother consented and handed me the precious bundle. Father instructed me to play with the little girl in the other corner while he saw to the mother. While the baby girl and I played and bounced, Father set up a situation for the mother and child in a cottage closer to the main house, one he knew was well insulated for the coming winter. He would supply food and water there until he could find her a more stable situation.
“Thank you, dear Duke,” she murmured humbly.
Father picked up her frail form and carried her to the cottage while I carried the little girl.
The baby’s name was Anna.
I knew the ending to this story. My mind had betrayed me and let the flood gates open. Was it my anger that had broken the dam? I was too tired to speculate. There was still nothing I could do but curl up as tightly as my limbs would allow me and cry till my body was bereft of moisture.
After many hours, I peeked timidly out the door of my cabin. It was morning again. I was uncertain how to approach everyone after such an emotional scene. The captain was waiting for me on the deck.
“Good morning, Miss Kensington,” he greeted me.
“Good morning, sir,” I responded as cordially as I could. I was amazed at my weariness. I was too tired to be angry or confused with him.
“I hope, Miss Kensington, that you did not sustain any injury,” he said.
I was taken aback.
“What?” I asked plainly, dazed into a slight trance. Had his eyes always been that blue?
> He stared at me confused, then stammered.
“The door.” He gestured automatically toward the general direction of the closet door Agnes had been trapped in not hours ago. Apparently not knowing what else to say to jog my memory.
“Oh,” I recollected. “No, I am not injured.”
“That is good news,” he said hesitantly.
I turned my attention to the ocean. I couldn’t think of anything to say.
“She was not in any real danger, you know,” the captain said suddenly. “Only afraid of a closed space.”
“I am well aware,” I said, looking away.
“And still you felt the need to rescue her?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Why?”
I stared into his blue eyes. What had made him so sincere? Perhaps he could only respect women with fierce brute strength. I smiled weakly at the thought. His eyes questioned my smile and then I remembered his inquiry.
“Because … no one was there to save me,” I said. I was too tired to realize I was now confessing.
“But her mother was there,” the captain said, persisting. “And I was on my way. Why did you rush?”
I considered his question for a moment.
“I suppose because of my own memories,” I said. “I hardly remember actually breaking the door, I just remember the need to save her.” I paused and looked up at him. He looked slightly angry all of a sudden.
A realization hit me. “Oh!” I spluttered quickly. “Oh, I am sorry, Captain, I just now realize I quite possibly broke the door beyond repair. Oh, I—I do apologize,” I stammered, embarrassed. “I will have it replaced, I promise you.”
“No,” he scoffed as I looked up, “that is not why I am angry.”
I felt as if I were missing some large part of our conversation, and I looked at him, perplexed. He shook himself physically before he continued.
“Miss Kensington, I must apologize for our conversation before the storm,” he paused. “If you are in need of some kind of explanation, and if a confession would encourage your forgiveness, then I would say that, I too, was pushed forward by my memories.”
In Spite of Lions Page 6
