When he turned back to Kate, the dark-skinned woman was standing nearby. His officers were staring at her; she was quite a striking woman. He cleared his throat loudly and ordered them to get on with their business. Kate was shivering, though it wasn’t cold here.
“I seem to have forgotten my dress,” she said. “But it’s so hard to know what to wear to these things.”
Then she collapsed to the deck, and Sir Edward saw the blood streak down her side. The dark woman knelt down, checked the damaged, and then looked up.
“Leave her to me,” she commanded.
Sir Edward motioned nearby Marines to help.
Kate grabbed at his sleeve and whispered, “Evelyn?”
The dark woman took her hand. “She fell, I will find her. Such a fuss is unseemly.”
Kate’s mouth turned up at the corner in a crooked little smile, then she passed out.
“Mr. Tyler,” Sir Edward called over.
The first mate was on the red corsair and seeing to the rescue of the sailors in the sea. He ran closer to the rail to reply to his captain. “Aye, sir,” he called over; not giving full attention as there was too much action nearby.
“See to that action on the Frenchman, Mr. Tyler. And make sure that Mr. Murray doesn’t go down with the ship.”
The mate grinned, saluted, and headed over.
When Mr. Murray and Mr. Tyler returned, they had a woman in tow. Her shoulder looked out of kilter, and she held her arm quite close to her body. Even from there, they could tell that her hands had been badly rope-burned. She was the third woman in the rigging, and Sir Edward motioned them all down below.
The well-trained British Marines made quick work of the French pirates. Though some fought to the death, some jumped to the water in a manner of surrender. Many went down with their ship, which tilted violently before it went under. Whether they had planned their demise this way or not, they sang their Republican song of freedom as they went down.
Their vessel sucked down a few other pirates already in the water as it slurped and bubbled to its own salty death. The pirates remaining on the red corsair were quickly put in irons. Any still left in the water were pulled up and sent there as well.
Once the red corsair was searched, and the other women attended, Sir Edward went down to check on Kate. He stopped at the door and took a deep breath. Then he knocked and entered without being called.
She was sitting up in bed, sipping tea from a cup and saucer that rested on her bent-up knees. The two other women were sitting nearby.
The third woman, he assumed it was Evelyn, now had her arm bound tightly against her body. The side of her face was purple from bruising, and she looked to be in some pain. She had been crying too, but otherwise seemed as well as could be expected.
Mr. Murray excused himself as Dr. Llewellyn then appeared at the door.
“I’m all right,” said Kate, “just a splinter the size of a sardine, which you know can sting, but is hardly fatal. The wound seems worse for the cure.”
“Then my work is done,” the dark woman said. She turned to Dr. Llewellyn. “You are the surgeon.”
He looked taken aback, as it wasn’t a question. Then he introduced himself.
“We shall see to your wounded as well,” Fiya commanded, then motioned for Evelyn to follow. Mr. Tyler followed her, and when Evelyn faltered, he was there to help her along. The women had slipped past the doctor. He looked after them a moment, then started as if he had been snoozing and someone had given him a poke.
“Right, yes. Well, right,” he mumbled and left with due haste.
They were alone, and Kate set her teacup aside.
“I sent you a note. Ambrose kept it. There’s a long story to tell.”
He was watching her too closely, and Kate fought the urge to squirm.
She added, “It seems you saved my skin once again.”
He sat down, took her cup of tea and smelled. It held Fiya’s rendition of medicinal revenge. The smell was aseptic, and he flinched as his nose got too near the brew.
As he set it aside, Kate whispered, “Say something.”
He swallowed to clear his throat, but nothing came out, he only looked at her.
Her face was tan. There were freckles on the bridge of her nose and the tops of her cheeks. Her arms were bare and tan as well—hardly surprising for a woman who swung around in the rigging in her petticoat . . . and hardly what a fashionable woman would approve of, but it looked well enough on her.
Her hair was still loose, and looked lighter than before, perhaps bleached out by the sun. It curled just a little on its own, and the wind had made it quite wild. He reached out to push back a stray strand.
To Kate’s obvious horror, she started to cry. He pulled her to his lap and held her close until Mr. Murray tapped on the door.
“What is it,” he called, but not to come in.
“Some of the prisoners are asking to see you, sir,” he said through the door. “It seems they may want to trade some information for leniency.”
Sir Edward rubbed his chin; he pinched the bridge of his nose as he thought for a long moment. “Yes, I will be right there,” he said, as if suddenly remembering his midshipman was waiting.
Kate got up from his lap, but he pushed her back down to the bunk. “Rest.” Then he wiped off her face with the sheet.
She pushed his hand away. “Don’t fuss.”
“If I leave you here, will you stay out of trouble?”
She laughed, and the Irish lass in her said, “Off with you now, I’ll not be making any promises.”
He kissed her forehead. When he turned back to say goodbye at the door, she had already fallen asleep.
* * * * *
CHAPTER 37 - Revelation
Kate told the story of Standish and the slaver as they ate their mid-day meal. But she could understand how they might not believe her. It was a fantastic tale, and their luck had been extreme.
Mr. Tyler came back from his thorough search of the corsair. He found all the women, but none of the crew. He found ship’s food stores and some barrels of water, but none of the cargo. He had taken the initiative to speak to the prisoners, but none of them would own up to being from the red corsair.
“But where are the crew and the cargo?” he asked.
“The crew is gone,” Kate said, “and I believe that we were the cargo.”
“Gone?” Dr. Llewellyn said.
Mr. Tyler sat next to Evelyn, and she blushed as he asked how she fared.
“You say you were the cargo,” Sir Edward said. “They did not, I mean to say—“
Fiya said it for him, “They meant to sell us. The price is higher for undamaged goods, it is said.”
“Only a few were molested that I know of,” Kate said.
"You say that rather callously,” Sir Edward said.
"The cruelty of man does not surprise me so much anymore.”
"A lady would have—"
"There were plenty of fine ladies aboard, sir,” she snapped. “Those same fine ladies would be servicing their new masters now in the most horrible ways had we not acted. Perhaps you think that is acceptable given the options at hand. I did not."
He stiffened, but did not reply.
Dr. Llewellyn said quickly, "Surely we have call for celebration here."
"Indeed," she said, but she glared at Edward Lindsay, and he glared at her.
It was back to their fighting corners, it seemed. Kate fought the urge to sigh, for she had hoped that the truce would have lasted longer.
"Come, let us be friends," Dr. Llewellyn added.
Sir Edward nodded slightly. "Go on with your story.”
It was Evelyn who continued the tale. “We drifted for a several days, I lost track of how many. Most of the ladies were useless, crying all the time, or complaining constantly. I knew it was only a matter of time before we sank or starved or something just as bad, caught. I began to pray that it would come sooner so that I wouldn’t have call to kill on
e of them instead.”
“It must have been terrifying for you.” Mr. Tyler said.
She blushed. “Not as bad as before we drifted free, I assure you. Once we had a chance to reflect on the difference, that is, the options as Kate put it. There is something comforting in having a hand in your own fate.”
“But you said you were drifting,” Dr. Llewellyn said.
“Comfort is a poor substitute for freedom,” Fiya said.
Evelyn agreed with a weak nod.
“You said the crew is gone,” Sir Edward said. “How did that come about?”
“At the time, I thought we had set anchor at an island port,” Kate said. “I thought it might have been the Canaries, but perhaps it was some place in Morocco instead. Now I realize that I have no idea at all. A tolerant place, though, wherever it was, for the crew went ashore to celebrate their impending wealth. There were only three left on board.”
"Then where are they now? Did they die in the fight? Do you have them locked down below, Mr. Tyler?" Dr. Llewellyn said.
“I did not find them,” Mr. Tyler said. “Perhaps they escaped in the battle. Of course, they are dead or in irons now, and we can sort them all out a bit later.”
"They were gone and forgotten long before now," Fiya said.
“What do you mean by gone?” Sir Edward said.
“They were going to sell us to some Caliph or Suliman khan if we were lucky,” Kate said, “or to some opium den or brothel if we were not. They are gone; we dispatched them. We sent them back to Allah, and I am not sorry for it.”
Dr. Llewellyn said, "How did you—"
Kate slipped her hand to her neck and pulled out the knife from the sheath between her shoulder blades. She set the knife on the table. The blade had an inscription. Fiya translated. The British officers stared at it there on the table.
“It’s made of Damascus steel, with no other equal in the world, I’m told,” Kate said. “The weapons that fought the Crusaders, legends have it.”
“I know what it is,” Sir Edward said, with more than enough terseness for Kate to notice and flinch.
She swallowed, but added, "The crew of Fiya’s vessel were well equipped with these. The pirates left them behind should they be robbed on shore when their attention was turned to other things, like drinking and whoring and God only—“
"Are you saying that you killed them with this, with your bare hands?" Mr. Tyler said.
Kate picked up an apple from the table, then nodded to Fiya. Kate tossed the apple, and quick as a cat, Fiya snatched the knife and flipped it after. The knife caught the apple in mid-air, splitting it in two with no effort at all. The knife tip embedded in the cabin wall. The apple fell into halves onto the captain’s table beneath.
Then Fiya left.
Kate got up and leaned toward Sir Edward. "I’m so sorry about the hole in your wall. Take the knife as a gift, I have others."
She left too, but she was eating half of the apple on her way. She hoped it would at last serve as a reminder.
Behind her somebody said, “Bloody hell."
Sir Edward stared at the knife for a moment, then pulled it from his wall. Then he reached for the other half of the apple.
* * * * *
Soon, the Stalwart met up with two English merchantmen that were on their way to England. The ships had room for most of the women, but not all. Kate stayed on the board the Stalwart. Fiya and Evelyn stayed with Kate.
The red corsair was too damaged to sail as it was, so the crew of the Stalwart were affecting such repairs as they could. Then one of the officers would take her to port. Kate assumed that the women would be forced to leave then too.
This was a sore point between Kate and Sir Edward. She still considered the corvette their own, and not his at all. She was grateful for the repairs, and she told him so, but that hardly made it his ship. His prize was the Frenchman that sank in the fray.
Kate found the best way to avoid an argument was to avoid the captain at present. It was not an easy task on his ship, but life goes on, she thought, and I have my own things to do. Today it was mending her dresses, the ones in her trunk that Ambrose Standish had left behind, but ripped before he went.
She was caught in the act.
Sir Edward stepped into his cabin, but didn’t look around. He just took off his uniform jacket, brushed back his hair, and made to sit down. Then he stopped when he saw her sitting there in the patch of sunlight.
“Excuse me, I didn't expect you'd be coming back so soon,” she said.
“What are you doing in here?”
He didn’t mean to sound so surly, but she didn’t seem to notice.
“The light is good, and the wind is not. I mean, there is no wind in here.”
True, the light was good, for he had more windows than any other cabin. The whole aft wall of the captain’s great cabin was made up of windows, as well as both sides. It was sunny and the wind was picking up outside. It was not comfortable outside today for a woman’s finer skin, he assumed.
She started to gather her things. “My apologies, it really is most rude of me to presume on your—“
"No," he said, waving her back down. "Stay, I want to chat."
Kate looked at a loss. "Chat?" she said meekly.
She hadn’t liked any of their chats in the past, he knew. Still, it had to be done. "Ambrose Standish said that your family trades in bullets and gun powder. You must have done well in your war."
He meant it as conversation. It was the best he could do for small talk. How could he know it was something she found instantly annoying? But he could tell by the way her eyebrow went up and the flush came to her cheeks.
She spoke very low, and she didn’t look up as she said, "I’ve been working hard to stop our trading in the wages of war and to start trading in something besides death and destruction."
Then she ignored him, concentrating as she tried repeatedly to thread her needle. Eventually, with her bottom lip held tight in her teeth for concentration, she succeeded. Kate seemed overly pleased with herself at the feat. Then she stabbed her finger with the needle. She didn't swear though. He decided that it must have been a common enough occurrence to make it not such a great upset.
He coughed to hide his laughter as she sucked at the wound.
She said, "I have cherry bark if you’re having trouble with that cough.”
He turned away and shook his head no. Around the cabin, he noticed that his piles of books here and there were now in much different piles. He knew that his servant hadn’t moved them, for they had come to that understanding long ago: If the servant didn’t move the piles, the captain wouldn’t have the servant thrown overboard.
Then he saw three other books stacked by her side.
She shrugged and said, “Then cough all you like. My mother said that a man will admit to any ill if it will gain him sympathy or brandy, but he will suffer in silence if the cure is not sweet."
"You remember much of your mother for being so young when she died."
Her eyes didn't hide the pained look, and he instantly regretted saying it.
"It was in her journals," she said quietly, glancing over to the books.
He licked his lips nervously, not sure what to do next to amend the situation. Finally, he said, "You read a great deal."
"I enjoy books, I always know what to expect, and not just because I read the end first."
"Life is not a book," he said.
"Books are drawn from real life," she said, then leaned over and spoke with low conspiracy. "Or do you think they just make those things up?"
He caught the gold twinkle in her eye and laughed.
She relaxed and again bent over the sewing in her lap.
"You are not very good at that," he said.
She scratched at her ear. "No, the womanly arts escape me. Perhaps it's a sign of bloodlines after all."
"How so?"
"My ancestors didn't seem to do anything for themselves, and I am useless as
well."
"That is not a complimentary way of putting it, and not at all true. Your friends seem to think the world of you."
She tried to hide her smile by looking down. It didn’t work.
He added, "If nothing else, we can use you as shark bait."
He laughed at her expression, for Mr. Murray had told him word for word of their exchange when she was out standing on San Miguel’s Pike: toss her overboard, push her head underwater, or use her for shark bait.
"When you rip your dress, you'll be singing a different tune,” she said. “And besides, there are no sharks around here . . . Are there?"
She gathered up her things and left, ignoring the strange looks from the sailors as his laughter followed her down the hatchway. But she left behind her books. He pushed them around to face him right side up. Journals of some sort, he figured—a diary, perhaps?
Personal? Were these a record of her doings with Ambrose Standish? Could they be evidence? Was she a collaborator after all?
“She is right in one thing. If she is a spy, she is not a very good one.”
He flipped through the books. They were almost full, with only a few empty pages here and there. The entries did not look personal, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He would have read them anyway, but now he didn’t feel like such a scoundrel.
In the journal with medical intent, the first several pages were written in a neat hand with small lettering. Leaves, plants, trees, seeds, and berries were illustrated with corresponding rhymes on occasion. The words and drawings were fading.
Most of the later pages were written in another hand.
He checked the other journals. A social commentary and a family history, he thought. The social commentary was much like the medicinal book: half in one hand and half in the other. But the family history was written in the same small hand, then the second hand, and then a third.
It was the third hand he found the most interesting, for it showed a French inflection. He could tell by the spelling and the sentence structure. And there was Latin included where there was none in the first two hands.
Who wrote these things?
The Wilde Flower Saga: A Contrary Wind (Historical Adventure Series) Page 38
