Sara’s heart beat in her throat. “Oh no.” She ran to Father Kirke’s closet and banged on the portal. “Father Kirke, art thou well? Please open this door.” She rattled the latch and pushed against the panel but something heavy lay against it.
She pounded on the door with the heels of her hands. “Father Kirke, Father Kirke I pray thee come out.”
Only groans met her pleas.
Chapter Fourteen
Sara banged on the door and pushed against it. The panel opened slightly then popped shut again. “Father Kirke, please come hither.” His groans had stopped and she feared he was dead.
She ran downstairs to the kitchen, where Father’s clerks still chatted with the maids. They choked back their laughter when they saw her.
“Quickly, something has happened to Father Kirke.” Sara ran back upstairs. The clerks and servants thundered behind her. “Methinks he’s against the door. You must remove the leather hinges.” She grabbed the arm of Kirke’s manservant. “Fetch the physician. Do not delay.”
Whilst the servants stood by, their faces flat with dread, Father’s clerks removed the door. Women cried out as Father Kirke rolled onto his back, his eyes closed, his face pale.
Lord, please do not take him. Let his sons see him one last time, Sara prayed. She went to his bedchamber and threw back the counterpane, fluffed the pillows.
While Father’s clerks put him to bed, she waited at the front window for the physician. At the first opportunity, Sara resolved to write Madame Kirke and all the brothers to hasten home. They would be desolate if Father Kirke died and they were not at his bedside.
Soon, she saw Father’s man come toward the house. He walked with a white-haired, craggy fellow who limped down the lane. The valet pointed at the door and the physician climbed the front steps.
Not waiting for his knock, Sara opened the door. “Are you the physician?”
He did not respond but stood there, his breath loud, gasping snuffles. He held a pipe; cold tobacco ash dropped from the bowl onto the threshold. The straps of his medical box slipped from his shoulder.
Without removing his hat, he regarded her with stone, cold eyes. Instantly wary, Sara took a backward step.
He walked into the house. “I am Kirke’s physician, Mister Sturgeon. Where is he?”
She shook away her instant dislike of the man. “This way, sir. Father Kirke collapsed and hasn’t reawakened. Please put him back to rights.” She led him into the bedchamber.
Sturgeon set the box on a table and opened it, sending a waft of herbal and apothecary scents throughout the chamber. Tools fastened to the lid of the box looked as if they could do a great deal of damage. He removed a dull knife and stepped to the bed.
Sara sent her attention to the medical box. Little cubbies held an array of glass stoppered bottles. There was something that surrounded the stoppers and she touched one. Wax.
She would try to assist and turned to him. “What will you have me do, sir?”
Sturgeon pulled back the linens. “Hmm, he’s soaked through and his forehead drips.” He put his ear near Kirke’s nose and mouth. “Hmm, he’s still alive. He wheezes more than breathes.” With the blunt-edged knife, he forced open Father’s mouth and snapped his fingers. “Bring me a candle.”
Sara handed him a taper. He angled it and looked down Father’s gullet. Hot wax dripped onto the pillow barely missing Father’s ear. “Take the candle,” he ordered.
His arrogant tone vexed her. She pressed her lips together to keep from saying anything unseemly.
Sturgeon pressed his fingers into Father’s neck and underarms. “His tongue isn’t black, don’t feel any buboes, so no plague symptoms, yet.”
Sara frowned. Plague in this house would be very bad indeed.
He pressed his hand over Father’s heart. “Hmm, racing.”
From his medical box, he retrieved a small bowl and a tin box with a lid. He flipped open the lid where several leeches sat in something wet and foul. “We will bleed him.”
“What’s wrong with him?” Sara demanded.
“His heart and lungs are inflamed, brought to boil by filthy stuff within.”
“What?” Sara gasped.
He flicked a dirty finger toward Father. “As you can see, the disease produces heat and damp. As I said, pestilential filth resides within. We will administer a potion to purify the poisons that course through his blood tubes.”
Sara considered he spoke the word within overmuch.
Sturgeon placed the leeches onto Father Kirke’s inner arm, where they tucked right in. Soon, blood began to drip off Father Kirke onto the bed linens. Sara placed the bowl under the blood flow.
The physician returned to his medical box and twiddled his fingers amongst the vials. He selected a brown bottle and removed the stopper, little wax bits falling to the floor.
He sniffed the contents. “This potion from the herb of Grace is in the third degree of heat. If the medicine is too warm, it will burn. I have crushed the seed and mixed it with aqua vitae and sugar, an enemy to this inflammation that resides within.”
Sara frowned. That word again.
“Soon, the poison will be purged,” Sturgeon stated as if teaching in Chrirurgeon’s Hall. “When he awakens, take note if his piss turns green. That is the sign he is returning to health.” His face opened as if he remembered something. “Oh yes, watch for a rotten cough. If he develops one, send someone to fetch me.”
Sara found it hard to breathe.
Sturgeon thumped Father Kirke’s arm. “Blood is generally motionless and must be forced to circulate. If it stagnates or blocks a passage, the humours will become imbalanced.” He looked at her and sniffed. “I doubt you understand.”
She stared at the man who was a roguery coxcomb. “And the leeches move the blood through the tubes?”
He clicked his tongue. “Of course. Look how thick and red it is. Another hour and his blood would have stopped dead.” He waved the vial in front of her. “This medication will open his pores and keep the blood moving.”
Sturgeon used his jagged, black fingernail to push the leech suckers away from Father’s skin, then set them back into the tin. With a snap of the lid, he replaced it and his tools in the medicine box.
He handed her the brown glass vial. “Force his mouth open and allow one or two droplets onto his tongue every three hours. As he mends, have him smoke a pipe twice a day. Only use tobacco, for ‘tis the holy herb.” He raised a finger. “Make certain it comes from a Christian place, like Jamaica. He will heal better.” He set his hat more firmly on his head. “That will be two shillings.”
Sara’s eyes widened. “That’s quite a lot.”
“I’m the best, Mistress. Pay me now, or you will be the sorrier for it.”
She clenched her teeth and went to Father’s closet for his pin moneybox. The physician was a swine and she’d not allow him to return. She dug in the box for the proper amount and slapped it onto his outstretched palm. “I will show you out.”
* * *
A month later, Sara poured vile smelling syrup onto a spoon. “Please take this, Father Kirke. It is making you much better.”
Madame had sent a letter from Dieppe more than a fortnight ago, stating she would set sail within the week and should return home by month’s end. From the looks of it, the family could not arrive too soon. Father could no longer rise from his bed.
He grimaced. “’Tis horrid, that’s what it is. Methinks it is mostly sugar and gives me a gripping of the guts. Where is Sturgeon?”
Sara frowned. She would try to remain pleasant and refrain from saying anything negative. “I’ve dismissed him. He did not treat you kindly and his fingers were filthy.” Her tongue had a mind of its own, it seemed, and disobeyed her will. “Now, open up.”
A disturbance below rattled through the house and up the stairs. Sara paused in her administration of the medicine and regarded the open doorway.
A man smelling of horse and sweat entered, his hat
in his hands. He bowed. “Good eve to thee. I bring thee word of the fleet.”
Father paled. His hand clenched his breast.
Sara’s breath halted. In a rush, the messenger had not refreshed himself, which could only mean bad tidings. “Aye?”
“The fleet has successfully returned. In the king’s name we have taken Québec and have hostages who will bring bullion.” He grinned.
“Well done,” Father Kirke tried to exclaim but his voice was weak. “Minimal losses, I hope.” His breath rattled in his throat.
“Aye. Captain Lewis Kirke remained behind as governor of the fort. Captains David and Thomas are in Portsmouth where the French were freed to find their way back to France. Monsieur Champlain and another will be lodged in London at His Majesty’s command.” He stood tall as if proud to have imparted this momentous news.
Sara was exceedingly pleased David returned safely with so much success. He would be happy, in a jolly frame of mind. Whilst the banns of marriage were announced, they would verbally spar, then he’d take her to a bed where they’d bundle.
Father’s laugh was more a wheeze but today his colour seemed better which gave Sara hope he would live until Madame and David returned. Thomas did not interest her, but she would miss Lewis, who was a merry droll.
“We give thee thanks for these good tidings,” Sara said. “Go to the kitchen and refresh yourself. Tell cook you may have what your heart desires.”
After he left, Sara said, “Open wide.” When Father Kirke did, she spooned medicine in his mouth.
His face crinkled with distaste and he coughed. With a mighty gasp, he lay his head back. “You are an impertinent gel to do this to me, your dear father.”
Sara smiled. “Aye, horrid.” She tucked the woollen rugs about him and patted his shoulder. The new physician added to Sturgeon’s medicinal regimen but he was kinder and spoke gently to his patient. Sara liked Mister Cole much better than the older crag. “Soon, you’ll be up and around again, and back to work.”
Father’s eyes drifted closed. “I shall be quite vexed if I’m forced to stay here another day.” He snored.
Sara blew out the candle and tiptoed from the bedchamber. She would talk more with the fellow who came from the fleet and headed for the kitchen.
She sank onto the bench across from him. He had just dipped fresh bread in a bowl of soup and sucked from it. Juices dripped down his chin. As he chewed, his eyes watched her.
“I am Mistress Andrews, Captain David Kirke’s betrothed.”
He swallowed, then nodded. Sara was astonished at his little show of respect. Mayhap, he was foreign and did not like what David had done to Champlain. “And you are?”
After wiping his chin with the sleeve of his doublet, he said, “Ned Dunne.”
Not too foreign then. She’d try a different way.
Father Kirke’s clerk, Robert, suddenly cuffed Dunne across the head, sending his hat flying. “You will doff your bonnet, sirrah. Stand and bow to the lady. She is your captain’s betrothed, soon to be his lady-wife. Show due regard.”
Dunne scrambled to his feet, the dripping spoon still in hand. His neck and head turned beet red. He bowed. “Mistress.”
The scullery girl set his hat on the table then scurried away.
Sara nodded and motioned for him to return to his meal. She smiled her appreciation to Robert, who grumbled under his breath. “Don’t ever forget.” When the delivery bell clanged, he headed back to the office.
Poor Mister Dunne looked all done in. She reckoned his travels from Portsmouth to London had been difficult, then the grievous scolding. She gave him a gentle smile. “Would you care to tell me of your adventures? Were there many battles? Difficulties?”
He shrugged and set the spoon down, his gaze fixed on the bowl of soup where lard began to harden about the hare meat and vegetables.
She stood. “Do you like cognac?”
He shrugged. “Don’t know.”
“I shall get you a dish from our personal stock.”
When he took a sip, his eyes brightened. He smacked his lips and smiled. “Very nice, Mistress.” He took another sip, then another.
Mayhap, this would loosen his tongue a mite. “Go on, then. You must have seen something exciting.”
He nodded. “Aye. ‘Tis cold in that far off place. Great chunks of ice float in the sea, bigger than a house, taller than the tallest ship, making it a hazard to run full sail.”
She leaned forward. “I cannot think what ice so large floating in the seas might look like. Is it very dangerous?”
The skin of his forehead folded. “Oh aye, Mistress, very dangerous but your Captain Kirke guided us through the worst of it. In the night we hollered from our posts to make certain no ship got lost. He had us furl our sails and drag our anchors.” He took another sip then looked at his cup. “Lovely stuff this is. I’d wager ‘tis very dear.”
Sara nodded. “For your good words, I shall give thee more.”
He grinned. “When we arrived at this new place to provision I was honoured to sail the pinnace that took the captains ashore to a colony. They called it a plantation.” His face became very serious indeed and Sara considered something untoward must have happened.
“Aye?” she prompted.
“There aren’t any trees on that part of the land, Mistress. ‘Tis barren as a rock. Lots of grass though. ‘Tis owned by a king’s man.”
“What’s his name?”
He soaked more bread in the broth then took a bite. Sara chafed at the delay whilst he chewed, his eyes closed and a silly smile on his face.
“Methinks he called himself Lord Baltimore.” He sipped cognac. “All in the droops over winter’s past. Said it was miserable cold and his mansion was more a hospital than a house. He lost several souls.” He shovelled vegetables and pieces of cooked hare into his mouth.
“And,” Sara spurred. She poured him another dram. “Lord Baltimore, you said?” She heard of a fellow who had worked closely with the king but resigned due to his change of religion. He’d become papist and begged His Majesty for land in the New World, his intentions to build a sanctuary for Catholics where they could worship in peace.
Dunne nodded. He chewed the bread, his face blissful. “’Tis good, this bread. Never had anything like it.”
“’Tis called manchet, made from the finest milled flour.”
He gazed around, craning his neck as he took in the scented herbs hanging from the rafters, the boiling pots in the hearth, and the roasting meats on their jacks. “’Tis a noble house you have here.” His regard returned to the bread in his dirty hand. “Is it hard to find? I should like to buy some for me murther.”
“Manchet flour?” Sara asked, surprised. “You can find it, but ‘tis dear.” She placed a hand on his sleeve. “I shall instruct cook to give thee some for thy mother.”
His eyes brightened. “Thanks to thee.” He finished off the cognac in one gulp and Sara winced. The drink should not be so abused.
“From what you say, it seems Lord Baltimore might leave his settlement.”
“He called it the Province of Avalon.” Dunne nodded, his eyes glazed as if he remembered far back in that time, on that cold and forbidding land. “Methinks it would be a terrible, hard life there.”
He cleared his throat and gave her a strange regard.
Sara leaned forward. “Aye?”
“Afore we left that place, the high person bestowed upon your Captain Kirke his Province of Avalon to do with as he pleased.”
Chapter Fifteen
London November 29, 1629
Things are not good, David reflected as the Abigail fought sharp crosswinds and the heavy current sailing up the River Thames toward the Pool of London. After the expedition to Québec yielded so little wealth, what they had managed to stow away in their holds could be in jeopardy.
England and France were friends, again. The letter of marque that gave him carte blanche was all but illegal, yet if he received ransom for Champlai
n and a few others, mayhap he could recoup some of the money invested by his father and the Merchant Adventurers.
His brother, Lewis, had remained behind as Commander of Québec and the French settlements of Acadia and Canada. He had, at his disposal, the William, Lewis’ ship of sail, which left the fleet one short.
Whilst David had waited near Tadoussac for Thomas to bring Champlain to him, he was startled to hear cannon fire rumble over the still waters of the St. Lawrence. By the time he could get his men back aboard the Abigail and readied the ship for battle, Thomas’ vessel and another, a French barque captained by Monsieur Emery de Caen, its mast dragging in the water, listed into their inlet.
Chirurgeon Jenkins had his hands full, for Thomas lost three men, twenty more wounded. The Frenchman had lost more men but his vessel was salvageable. David took the advantage and seized the barque, relieving the fleet’s load. Farmers and their families, furniture and goods, the Jesuits and those strange Franciscans, Récollets, would travel on it. David sniffed. Having those papists out of his sight would be one less troublesome brew.
He took the opportunity to capture de Caen and made him prisoner along with Champlain. As he burned the remaining French ships, David’s heart sank. Seven thousand beaver pelts and the ransoms would never recoup the sixty-thousand pounds their expedition had cost.
His helmsman negotiated the turbulent waters of the Pool. Once proud privateers in the name of the king, now David and his men might be considered traitorous pirates. Soldiers could await him at the wharf, his small amount of booty seized, his family’s fortune imperilled.
David scowled. Even as he had treated his prisoners kindly, they complained. Champlain ate sparingly. The food was too rich, the portions too generous and he feared David would charge him for bed and board.
De Caen had cried, “Why do you not allow us visitors? We are unarmed, stripped of our dignity.” He thrust a sealed letter into David’s hand. “You will give this to the Judge of the High Court of Admiralty. I am an unlawful prisoner, monsieur. Our countries are not at war. You cannot seize our goods or demand ransoms.”
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