by Rima Jean
That was it. That was how I would convince England to keep me around.
My grandfather had been a missionary doctor in Haiti, and had taught me a thing or two despite my unwillingness to learn. Hopefully some of it had stuck. In any case, I knew as much as any educated person of the twenty-first century – washing hands with soap and water, boiling the drinking water, using alcohol as an antiseptic and citrus fruit for scurvy… Those things alone should be enough for most of these guys to start worshipping me. Or, in the unfavorable alternative, to burn me at the stake.
I began to look around the house, near the hearth, where a big kettle hung. I found a tinder box easily enough, but was puzzled by its contents. A ring of steel, a piece of flint, and some pieces of charcloth for tinder. Jesus. When the hell were modern matches invented? Oh, what I would have put in my backpack on the fateful morning of that booze cruise, if I had only known…
England returned later that afternoon to find me sitting before the hearth, my head buried in my arms, my knees drawn to my chest. “Lass, what are ye about?” he asked, squatting down next to me.
I looked up at him, knowing I had dark circles around my eyes. “I’ve been trying to light a damn fire. I can’t do it.”
He wiped his brow and took the firesteel and flint from my hands. In under five minutes, he had a fire going under the kettle. He smiled at me. “Are ye cooking, then?”
I shook my head. “No. I’m boiling water.” I leveled a look at him. “We need to have a chat, Eddie.”
I tried, as best I could, to explain to him the broader points of microbiology. It reminded me of the time I had the talk with Sophie about hand-washing after the potty, except this time I was talking to a grown man wearing no fewer than three weapons on his person.
England scrubbed his face with his hands, trying to digest everything I was telling him. “Lass, I don’t know what to say. Ye’ve turned everything I know on its head.”
I sighed. “I know. But you have to believe me.” I stood up and started to pace. “The privies – they’re a major problem. You can’t let waste get into the drinking water. That causes cholera, dysentery, typhoid fever…”
“And boiling the water kills these invisible culprits, ye say?” he asked, looking up at me from where he was sitting at the table.
“Most of them. You need to start boiling the water you drink. And since I don’t know how to store disinfected water, you’ll have to do it often. You’ll need to take lots of fruit on your ship to prevent scurvy – lemons, limes, oranges, apples. And be sure to load lots of garlic and vinegar. Also, any soap that you’ve got. Your men need to start washing their hands before they eat and – ” I stopped, seeing the expression on England’s face. “What is it? You believe me, don’t you? You have to believe me!”
He was silent, staring pensively at nothing, and so I walked over and kneeled before him, taking his hand. He sat up, surprised, as I said, “Edward, listen to me. I know you don’t really believe that I’m from the future, but I swear to you, I am. And I swear that if you take me with you, I’ll try my best to keep you and your men healthy with what I know.”
England’s expression hardened, his red eyebrows coming together. “I can’t take ye with me, lass. There be no women aboard pirate ships. And ye’d not last a moment in that kind of life.”
“But then what will happen to me?” I cried, letting go of his hand.
“Nassau will become a proper Crown colony once the King’s governor arrives,” England said, trying to soothe me. “I’ll be sure to leave ye in the hands of a trustworthy man, a clean man, who’ll settle ye here in Nassau with a proper home – “
“No!” I yelled, standing up.
“Sabrina,” England said firmly, “I’m going to Africa, to cruise abroad. If ye come with me, ye’ll never get back to where ye came from. Ye’ll get sick, and ye’ll probably die, if not from some malady then by the hand of a brigand with no nation and, very likely, no soul.”
The panic threatened to choke me. “You’re the only hope I have in this place,” I said softly, my voice high with despair. “There’s nowhere for me to go, no way for me to get home. I can help you. Please, Edward!”
“No,” he replied calmly, but his blue eyes were bright with choler. He then stood and stormed out of the house, leaving me alone and on the brink of tears.
I sat and sobbed for several minutes, wallowing in my anguish. I could hear voices out in the street, the singing of tropical birds, the buzz of the crickets. The smell of rot floated in through the door, which England had left open. I lifted my skirt to my nose, breathing through my mouth. God, I hated this filthy, disease-ridden place. I just hated it…
I looked up, the aquamarine material, still fine and clean, falling from my hand.
I had a plan.
Chapter Nine
I heard Nan speaking in a low voice to England. “We thought she was done for, Eddie,” she was saying. “Poor Nel had the bloody flux, she did, couldn’t keep a thing down. And now! Just look at ‘er! Sitting up, talking, as right as a fiddle, she is!”
I smiled at Nel, a small woman in her early twenties. She smiled back, her eyes shining. I felt a lump in my throat. This little prostitute had indeed been on the brink of death when I’d arrived at the bawdy house, looking for Kat. My frigid reception was forgotten when I told her I could help Nel and the other women afflicted with the illness. I’d done nothing fancy: I’d boiled water and added a bit of salt and sugar to it. Then I made them drink it. And drink some more.
That was it.
In return, Nan, the “madam” of the place, took me to Ruth.
Her hut was on the fringe of Nassau, a decrepit place with a thatch roof. She was an escaped slave and the wife of a pirate. She was also, according to the women of the brothel, a witch doctor. Nonetheless, she’d taken care of their unwanted pregnancies, and thus they trusted her quite a bit. The aroma of herbs and burning incense filled the air of her dark, gloomy hut. She sat in a corner, drinking from a mug, not the least bit surprised to see us, a whore and a strange woman. A large scar seamed her face from hairline to chin, and she was missing an eye. No eye patch, no fake eye, nothing. Just an empty eye socket. A scarf was tied around her head and her threadbare skirts hung in tatters about her dark legs.
“Ruth,” Nan said, and I could tell she was fearful of the woman. “There’s a lady ‘ere wanted to see you.” She looked at me and nodded, then whispered, “I’ll wait for you outside.” Nan wanted to spend as little time in that hut as possible, and I couldn’t blame her. The heady odor compared favorably to the other scents of Nassau, but was still quite dizzying. The vertigo only increased as Ruth stood and squinted her one good eye, trying to peer at me through the dimness.
“What you have?” she asked in a gravelly voice. “No want baby, eh?” I stepped into a shaft of light that filtered in from a hole in the roof so that she could see my face. She gasped, swore, and the mug she was holding clattered to the floor. To my astonishment, she put a hand to her scarred cheek and uttered, “Sabrina!”
I nearly fell over backward trying to inch my way out of the hut. “Shit!” I hissed, steadying myself, breathing hard. How did she know my name?
Before I recovered from my shock, she said, “I know you come. I know it. I see you.”
My fear was overcome by my desperation. Her English was bad, but she was going to give me an explanation, dammit. I took two long strides to stand before her, then I grabbed her by the shoulders and said, “How do you know my name?” She shook her head, speaking in her native African tongue under her breath, a look of fear in her good eye. I gave her shoulders a firm shake. “How do I get back? How? Tell me!”
She shook her head, apparently more afraid of me than I was of her. “Not know! Know only to give you this.” She extricated herself from my grip, rushed into the darkness and emerged seconds later carrying a small tin box. I opened it to find several chunks of brown bark. She knew what I had come for before I’d even asked.<
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“Yes,” I said, and sighed. “This is what I came for.”
In the end, Ruth could tell me nothing, even though I grilled her for a good twenty minutes. Perhaps she knew something that she wouldn’t share, or she truly knew nothing. She said the words “not know” at least three hundred times. Eventually I gave up. Black magic, time warps… It was all so fantastic and beyond anything I could, or would, accept… I simply couldn’t dwell on it. I was going to put one foot in front of the other and focus on getting through the moment.
I had no choice but to go with the flow.
Now, as I sat before Nel, who was greedily slurping down the rehydration solution I’d made for her, I turned to look at England, my expression reserved. “This infection,” I said. “I hear that many of the residents are immune – I mean, invulnerable – to it. That most of the people afflicted are the newcomers. Is that true?”
England nodded, his eyes wary. He seemed to know where I was going with this line of questioning. “Aye, but what ails them is a fever, the sweats, and rigor, not intestine commotions.”
I nodded and stood. “Take me to them.”
Perhaps driven by curiosity, England took me to a sailcloth tent on the beach where two young sailors-turned-pirates lay, shivering and feverish. They were, by all accounts, new to the sweet trade, fresh off merchantmen from Europe. I had already prepared my decoction, pouring boiling water over ground pieces of the bark, and it was in the process of steeping when England arrived. I now poured the infusion into a pewter cup and, with shaking hands, ordered the seamen to drink.
I was taking a risk, I realized. I didn’t really know what I was doing. I’d watched my grandfather do this several times but never paid enough attention. I was fairly certain these men had malaria, and I knew that the bark of the Cinchona tree contained quinine. I also knew that by the late seventeenth century, it had been used as treatment for various ailments. I thought perhaps a native “medicine man” of the West Indies would have heard of it, if not used it himself.
But my knowledge ended there. I didn’t know how much, how often, or for how long. I knew too much quinine could be fatal. But I figured that since these guys were pretty much done for without treatment…
Why did I go to law school? A corporate attorney was entirely worthless in 1718. I should have followed in my grandfather’s footsteps and gone to medical school. Dammit.
England and I walked back to the house afterward, neither one of us speaking for a long while. Then I said, “You told me pirates were democratic, right? Equality and all that? And the crews vote on major decisions?”
England stared at the ground as we walked. “Aye.” He glanced quickly at me through the corner of his eye. “Ye’ll want the crew to vote for yer presence on board ship?”
“Yes,” I replied. “If these men get well… Let your crew take a vote. And if you don’t agree, I’ll go to them myself and plead my case.”
We arrived, and were standing at the door looking at each other. I smiled slightly, mischievously, and saw admiration flicker across his face. He quickly looked away and replied coldly, “It’s settled then.”
In under two days, the young pirates began to recover. I went to them several times a day, to ensure that they drank the quinine. One of them, a blond, baby-faced youth, called me his “sweet angel” and held my hand to his whiskered cheek with adoration.
Word spread quickly. I began treating the other afflicted individuals, and in the meantime approached Jameson with my plea. He was surprisingly receptive, gazing at me with nothing short of awe. Doctors were desperately needed aboard pirate ships, so much so that they were forced to serve in many instances. I may have been a woman, but I was clearly invaluable to a crew on its way to the disease-ridden shores of Africa.
The crew voted.
I was going to Africa.
Chapter Ten
In the two weeks that followed, I organized my “medicine chest,” which was merely a small box filled with tins of various herbs that I had either acquired from Ruth or found myself. I searched the overgrown fields and pristine jungles around Nassau and, with Ruth’s help, managed not to get myself killed.
I set aside my fine aquamarine gown and petticoats and went back to wearing the worn sailor’s clothes England had given me aboard his ship, shortly after finding me. The linen shirt and navy breeches were so much more practical, it amazed me that all the women in Nassau didn’t wear them. I suppose it was the same reason why Tanya wore stilettos to work – fashion and all that. I also managed to come by a pair of boots, which were a lifesaver while trudging through the underbrush, looking for my medicinal herbs. I wore a wide-brimmed hat and lopped three inches off of my long black hair, which I tied back in a queue with string.
I have always had a slight figure, thin and flat-chested, and the girls at Nan’s joked that I was a “good-looking lad,” one they’d happily fight over as a customer. I took to spending more time at Nan’s brothel, if only because I felt welcome there after saving Nel’s life – more welcome there than at England’s.
Edward England had quietly disapproved when his crew had voted to take me with them to cruise abroad. I couldn’t understand why he was so against it. Was he so averse to having a woman aboard that he’d risk the health of his crew? Or was there something I was missing? Since then, I spent more time at the bawdy house than at his house, and we only spoke in passing. He kept his eyes averted when we spoke, his tone cold and brisk. I was, needless to say, distraught by this development, but was not going to let the pirate leave Nassau without me. He’d come around.
The night Woodes Rogers arrived, I sat on a stool in Nel’s room, sorting my herbs, when I became aware of a cry in the streets. Nel hurried to her window and leaned out, her long dark hair swept over one shoulder. “You there! What’s doing?” she called down. She suddenly jerked erect, turning breathless toward me. “It’s Woodes Rogers, it is! Royal Navy sails been seen off Hog Island!”
I jumped up. This was it. Would there be a battle? Surely Charlie Vane wasn’t planning on fighting? Adrenaline pulsed through my veins as I gathered my belongings – my medicine chest, the items from my backpack (in a less conspicuous sack) – and rushed down the rickety stairs, out the door. I blew kisses up to Nan’s girls as I hurried down the street, tilting my head back to grin at the prostitutes as they leaned from the windows. I saw Kat wiggle her fingers in a reluctant wave as Nan called playfully, “Take care o’ yourself, lad!”
I was terrified. It had been getting easier, living in 1718 Nassau. In the couple weeks that had passed, I figured some things out, gotten into a groove, so to speak. And now, I was going to board a ship – me, seasickness-prone Sabrina, who hated boats – for a voyage to the shores of Africa. With pirates. In the world of bad ideas, this was probably one of the worst ever. But I simply couldn’t imagine what I would do if England left me here, to fend for myself. I couldn’t imagine having to start over.
Plus, I’d grown attached to the solemn, gallant pirate, despite the fact that he’d barely spoken to me in the past several days.
I found the pirates aboard Vane’s huge French galley-rigged ship, a 250-ton vessel with some thirty guns. England, Vane, Rackam and some others stood on the quarterdeck, looking across the harbor through spyglasses at something my naked eyes couldn’t see. I waited until England noticed me and came over.
The excitement of the royal governor’s arrival glowed in England’s face. He was wound tightly, every muscle in his body tensed, moving like a beast of prey on the hunt. Edward England was not a handsome man, but what he was – a pirate, a man of action, a courageous, enlightened hero – made him attractive. That much I had to admit to myself, and the suddenness of this realization made me feel awkward and embarrassed. I wondered how much of my soul I had bared to him, me and my twenty-first century sensibilities, and how much scorn or pity I elicited from him for having done so.
He pointed to one of the many sloops anchored around the ship. “Get on boar
d that one and don’t move,” he instructed. He looked over his shoulder at his peers. “I don’t know what the night may bring, lass, but I need ye to stay put, am I explicit?” I nodded as he rubbed his chin, considering something. “Also… Keep the lad’s clothes on, will ye? We’ll let people think yer a boy, and it’ll perhaps keep the crew from… succumbing to temptation.” He put his hand on my head as though I were, indeed, a lad, and smiled at me. The smile, however, left little doubt as to what he thought I was – and that most certainly wasn’t a lad. I was the one to blush this time, for a change.
I did as I was told, sitting on the deck of the small sloop with some others of England’s crew. I wouldn’t pop a nausea pill yet – I had ten of them, so I needed to use them wisely. So long as I could see land, I was good. I wrapped myself in a wool blanket, watching the sun set and the sails of the Royal Navy frigate shimmer against a pink sky.
“She’s turned into the wind and dropped anchor, just inside the harbor,” a voice said beside me. Tim was one of the young pirates I had saved with the quinine, and it was not an exaggeration to say that he worshipped me. He was lithe, tow-headed, and looked so much younger than his seventeen years. Whether he had been pressed into piracy or gone willingly, I didn’t know; he seemed so happy to be alive after suffering from “the ague” that little else mattered to him. Now, he sat cross-legged next to me, nursing a bottle of what smelled like rum. He offered some to me, and I shook my head.
“What is Vane planning?” I asked.
Tim shrugged and grinned. “To get piss drunk, for one,” he replied, taking a swig from his bottle. “And to welcome that whore-son Rogers proper.”
