The Pirate's Revenge

by Sarita Leone

  The news of what happened to Mary Sweet had come just as he and Smith were opening up shop. One of the brothers—Jeremiah, if the messenger had been correct—had ridden for the doctor near sunrise. He had ridden so hard and fast, his horse had thrown a shoe. So the horse, walked over by a neighbor, waited for them to open shop.

  Henry’s heart hurt. Instinct prodded him to run over to the Sweet home, but he could not abandon Smith that way.

  It had been Jeremiah’s mount’s shoe he had mishandled. But by the way the animal stood resting in the shaded area by the hitching post, the shoe had been straightened so it fit comfortably.

  “Add some heat to that fire, if you would. This one’s going to take some extra work to get it bent so it fits.” Smith used two pairs of tongs to hold and shape the large, heavy piece of iron on his anvil.

  It was part of a ship that had been anchored off their beach for two weeks last month, before Henry’s arrival in the village. The captain left the repair and would be back for it the next time they passed Lobster Cove. A whole portion of the back shed was filled with such items, each marked with the name of the ship and its captain.

  “That happen a lot?” He nodded to the piece as he passed.

  He poked the fire, making it roar to life. If a man was not careful, the fire would burn too hot. It took skill and experience to keep a constant burn, particularly in the morning after most of the coals were either gone cold or just plain gone.

  Every evening, one of them took two buckets of hot coals down the street to the bakery, where they were used in the ovens. Bread baked overnight, with a loaf or two waiting each morning at the forge for their trouble. Smith had a brick oven beside the furnace, where his wife roasted meat. Sometimes, if there was room in the oven, more than one local woman roasted her family’s meal there. On days like that, the smells were enough to make a man’s mouth water from morning to night.

  “Aye, it does.” Smith grunted, exerting force to turn the iron into an angle it resisted. “You see the mess in that shed. Why, I’ve got ships coming and going, all year long. Not even the winds of Old Man Winter keep them away.”

  Tossing buckets of coal into the fire kept Henry from speaking. When he had them heaped high—almost dangerously so—he turned to face the other man. Wiping an arm across his forehead and catching the stream of sweat against his shirtsleeve, he nodded.

  “I see that. Tell me, what kind of ships are they?”

  “Oh, all kinds. Mostly running cargo up and down the coast. Coffee beans and sugar, up from the sunny islands. Fish, bricks and wood, down to where they’re needed. Sometimes, people, moving from place to place. That is, if they can afford the passage.”

  “Get a lot of folks coming in? To the cove, that is?”

  The heat from the fire warmed his back, but he did not step away. The conversation interested him, and Smith’s piece of iron was large enough that it extended out from where he worked it for several feet in three directions. To move meant he would have to go around everything in his way, which at this moment was a great deal. Better to stand close and wait for the fire to reach its proper point.

  “Nah. Not many. Last one was you.” Smith looked up, flashed a smile and a wink. “And you’re one of the lucky ones.”

  “How’s that?”

  “We let you stay.”

  He chuckled as he turned back to the fire. It was so hot it nearly roared, so he gave it a few hard pokes. Embers flew, but most went up the chimney. One landed on his bare forearm, so he put it out with a slap from his other palm.

  “That’ll smart in a bit,” Smith said from behind him. “Every job has its perils.”

  He put the poker down and turned back to Smith. The fire was hot enough, and when it burned down a tad would be just right for the ship repair. As he turned, the other man adjusted the piece at his workplace, so Henry took a step back.

  Bad move. He heard the pop in the fire before he felt the flying ember hit his back. It was no small spit of flame, and when it landed on his shirt it immediately sizzled. He smelled the cotton burning. Then, the unpleasant odor of skin—and the accompanying pain. He lunged forward, knocking into the huge, heavy piece of ship’s hardware with his knees. Both man and steel went flying, sending the coal bucket, tools and anything else within range crashing to the redbrick floor.

  “Damn!” The expletive left his lips on a whoosh of air. When he hit the ground, he rolled, pressing his back against the blessedly cool bricks.

  Smith appeared with a bucket filled with water from the horse trough. He threw it, dousing Henry and thankfully quenching the flames licking along his shirt. They had come too close to his left ear for comfort.

  For a long moment neither man moved. They stared at each other, both too stunned to speak. The blacksmith dropped the empty pail and extended a hand. Pulling Henry to his feet, he said, “Damn, but that was bad—I haven’t seen a man set himself on fire like that in a long time!”

  He still felt as if he were burning. The putrid stench of scorched flesh filled the air. And the forge had risen to its full glory, with the fire burning hot enough to satisfy even the devil himself.

  Lily, Smith’s wife, appeared around the corner and stared, mouth hanging open, at the spectacle. Her gaze went from the men to the scattered tools at their feet, to the roaring fire, and then back to the men. She covered her mouth with a hand and clutched her midsection as she hurried in to the shop.

  “No, don’t,” Smith said, holding up a hand. “The floor is wet and slippery. You’ll fall.”

  She was a tiny thing, especially when surrounded by all the large items in the space. Her husband towered over her, even from across the room. But the woman was persistent. She had not yet done up her hair, so it hung in a thick, dark brown braid, so long, it nearly reached her waist. Now she threw it over her shoulder.

  Placing a hand on her slight hip and pointing one finger at the floor just beyond where she stood, she gave them an ultimatum. “Come out here this very minute, both of you, or I will come in there and get you myself. Good God, what all is happening down here?” She shook her head. “Crashing…banging…swearing! Good heavens, but the language—the whole village will have heard you two swearing a blue streak. Now, over here—or I’m coming in!”

  Smith was kind enough to keep his hands off the burnt back. Instead, he cleared a path, then allowed Henry to pass.

  Movement was painful, but not nearly as hard to swallow as the horrified expression on Lily Smith’s face when she looked around him to glimpse his back. There was no need to ask how it was. He saw the truth in her eyes.

  “Go fetch the doctor, honey. I’ll clean him up and get him ready, but this is something for Jameson to see.” Missus Smith put a gentle hand on his cheek, the way a mother would soothe a child. She gazed up into his face, and he saw unshed tears glisten in her wide, hazel eyes. Softly, she said, “Damn it all to hell, but you’ve burned your back pretty bad. I’m so sorry.”

  Smith had already dashed off, so he was not a witness when Henry was suddenly too choked up to respond to the woman before him. A lump in his throat threatened to choke him, so he nodded his thanks. And when she took his hand in her tiny one, he let her lead him away.

  The day was one of the foulest in his life, and it had just begun. How much worse could a man’s luck get?

  Chapter 12

  Doctor Jameson was an old man. Had he any hair on his head, it would certainly have been white, the same as his bushy moustache. When he spoke, the sound came from what appeared to be a snowy cave on the otherwise-ordinary looking face. Perched atop the cave, an eyepiece which may or may not have assisted him in his work. It was hard to tell, given that the doctor squinted when he spoke. Whether it was to keep that eyepiece in place or not was anyone’s guess. All Henry knew was that it was damn hard to pay attention to a squinting, speaking snow cave of a face stuck atop the body of a stooped, wizened man wearing breeches and broadcloth caked in mud.

  He doubted the doctor was
any better at his duty than Missus Smith was at shoeing a horse. He knew for sure she wasn’t able-bodied enough to take on a horse; he wondered if the muddy man was able-brained enough to care for his wounded back.

  “Nearly done. It is good that Lily cleaned this right away. If she hadn’t, I’d be pulling bits of your shirt out of your flesh.” A sharp pinch as his back was prodded with something that felt like a forge poker. “That about does it.”

  Jameson put his pinching tool—he had no idea what the torture device was called and did not care to know—on the kitchen table. They were in the Smith’s apartment, adjacent to the blacksmith shop. A thick brick wall kept the noise, smell, and heat to a minimum, and while it was tiny, it was a welcoming space. Two rooms, but plenty enough for two adults and a small boy.

  “Will he heal, then?” Missus Smith placed two cups of tea on the scarred, but polished, wooden kitchen table. “Lord but I nearly died when I first saw it. It still looks pretty bad.”

  Shooting an apologetic smile, she added, “But don’t worry yourself. All things heal, don’t they, doc?”

  Henry watched the other man wipe his hands on a muslin square. He’d brought a black leather bag with him. It sat on the floor near his boots—which were also muddied. Now, he dropped the cloth into the bag and pulled out a long strip of muslin. Also, he grabbed a pot of ointment, and a flat stick. After setting it all on the table, he sat back, looking between them.

  Missus Smith waited, hope in her eyes. It hit Henry then that she had lovely eyes, and was not at all a plain woman. Her hair had been pulled up beneath a cap, but a wisp escaped near her temple. She had been kind to him, taking him into her home, feeding him every night and even nursing his injury. He had been looking at her all these weeks, but only through a veil. She was another man’s wife, so he had not paid her much attention, other than to thank her for each nourishing meal.

  His life had been so desperate that he had never known true thoughtfulness like the people of Lobster Cover had shown him. Initially, he did not recognize it as a gift when it was bestowed. How can a man not realize the depth of human kindness? He’d assumed it was not real, because he’d never known real gentleness, but the look in the woman’s eyes when she met his gaze brought a lump to his throat. She cared. And, he understood in that instant that he was worthy of compassion.

  Thankfully, the doctor took that minute to speak. Had he not, Henry feared he may have embarrassed himself by crying like a child. Again, he was that close to bawling.

  “I cannot promise, because no, not everything heals.” He began to apply the ointment to Henry’s back. The first bit stung, as if he had a wasp on his skin, but after the first burst of discomfort it grew numb. “But this? I believe it will heal. Eventually. A man takes his own time in everything, healing included. Some of us are slower than others, in all things, and others just plod along. Now, Henry here, I believe he is the kind of fellow who will get down to doing what needs doing.”

  The doctor stopped, placed the ointment and stick on the table. He picked up his tea and nodded for his patient to do the same.

  The cups were heavy earthenware and looked to be hand-thrown. As he lifted it, Henry wondered if the Smiths didn’t perhaps have another business venture in mind. The cups were sturdy, easy to grip, and kept their contents steaming hot.

  He took a swallow of tea. It slid down in a soothing wave, steadying the nerves he hadn’t known were as wounded as his skin.

  Turning to the woman hovering on the other side of the table, he raised the cup in small salute. “Thank you, ma’am. It is quite good.”

  “Chamomile. It grows wild near the scrub pines beyond Quinn Beach. It is, I think, a remedy for almost anything.” She nodded at the brown teapot on the table. “It is full, almost, so drink up and I will pour you another.”

  “Thank you, but this is fine.” He took a second sip. He managed a small smile, which didn’t come as hard as it would have only a short while before. Whatever the good doctor had put on his back had quieted the pain. “Why, I already feel myself healing, I believe.”

  The doctor put his cup down, turned to her and said, “See? You didn’t need me at all. Some cleaning, bandaging and tea are all this man needs. You could have done that yourself.”

  She acknowledged his light teasing with a vigorous head shake. It sent the hair at her temple bouncing. “Oh, no, I could not. Not that. Simple things, certainly. All women can care for the ordinary misfortunes that befall a man, but that is not ordinary. No, that burn is best left to you, Doctor.”

  “You flatter me. I admit, it is a bad one.” The doctor began to dress the wound, first laying strips of fabric over the ointment, then wrapping long strips around Henry’s torso. “This will heal, in time. Unless it festers.” He tied a knot in the two ends of the strip he’d wound, then looked into Henry’s eyes. “If you feel hot in the head or notice a disagreeable odor around your body, summon me. We do not want to have this fester. That could be very unfortunate indeed.”

  “I understand.” His shirt had been ruined in the fire. Now, Missus Smith produced a clean one and handed it to him. He slipped his arms into the wash-worn fabric. “Thank you—both of you—for taking such good care of me. I…” Emotion washed over him once more as he buttoned the shirt, so he looked down for a moment. “I have never known such consideration…the way you treat me, a stranger, why…”

  He could not speak.

  Doctor Jameson put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Why, you are no stranger now, Henry. You’re one of us, living in the cove and all. And, we take care of our own. Don’t we, Missus Smith?”

  “That we do.” She refilled both mugs without asking if either man wanted more tea. “Drink up. It will do you both some good. Doctor, you look as if you’ve been rolling in mud. I hadn’t thought much of it before, being so scared for this good man here, but now I see—why, you’re a mess.”

  Jameson spread his hands wide, looked at the mud-crusted clothing he wore. With a shrug, he lifted his cup. He brought it close to the bushy white covering that hid his mouth, then paused. “I fell this morning. Slipped, actually. It was still dark, and I did not remember the rain yesterday evening muddied my yard. Just moving so fast, trying to get to the Sweet place when needed this morning. A damn shame, that…”

  “I know you don’t mean your clothes. Any of us will wash them for you.” Missus Smith pulled out a chair and sat at the table. She seemed more at ease now that Henry had dressed, and he realized she no longer averted her eyes when she spoke with him. “What is happening at the Sweet house? Not Leah? Oh, please, not Leah…I know she was devoted to Ned, and now that he’s gone…”

  Doctor Jameson shook his head. He drained the tea in a long swallow and set the cup on the table with a thump. He stood, lifting his bag and moving toward the door. “No, not Leah. That would be rough on the family, so soon after Ned’s passing, but it would be natural. Children bury their parents. Parents…ah, it breaks my heart every time I see a parent bury a child.”

  Henry’s blood felt frozen in his veins.

  The gentle woman placed a hand over her heart. “Oh, no! One of the Sweets? Good Lord in heaven, what happened? Who passed? And when?”

  The doctor held up his free hand, stemming the barrage of questions.

  “No one passed. Not yet, anyway. It is what I’m trying to prevent but it doesn’t look good. Mary, so sweet…she took it so hard when her father passed. Looked like she was finally coming around—then this. There’s only so much I can do…”

  He couldn’t bear to sit one second longer. He stood, crossing the room to stand beside the other man. “Will she make it?”

  Jameson met his gaze. Shrugged. “I cannot say. A cut on her toe—it festered. Now the poison is seeping up her leg, into her body. I’ve done all I can but unless it turns before it hits her heart…”

  Chapter 13

  Henry did not return to the blacksmith shop. He had tried, but its owner refused him entrance by blocking the doorwa
y with his body.

  “You heard Jameson. That wound needs to close, and it won’t do that if you’re swinging at steel or carrying coal.” Smith shifted from one foot to the other and he waved a hand behind him. The hulk of ship repair was back in place, ready for work to continue. “That will keep me busy the whole day, and I don’t have any other pressing jobs to be done. Take a break, man. A walk or get some sleep. You look done in.”

  He ran a hand through his hair, heaving a sigh. “I feel done in.”

  “Go on, then. And if you don’t feel up to sitting at the table for dinner, Lily will bring you something.”

  “I don’t want to be any trouble. You’ve both been so generous to me already…” His throat tightened, making it impossible to say one more word. Sometimes a man had to keep quiet in order not to make a fool of himself. This was one of those times.

  “We haven’t done anything anyone else wouldn’t do. We’re a tiny spot in a big world, and we need to help each other. You’ll see that, the longer you live here. We take care of our own.”

  Smith placed a hand on Henry’s shoulder. He waited a moment, as if considering his words.

  “You’ve been working hard since you arrived, and I appreciate that. But the accident…it could’ve killed you. I need you here not just in body, but in mind. Go clear your head, Henry. Rest your body. In a few days, if you’re up to it, you can work again. But now?” He shook his head. “You and I both know a man shouldn’t be in the smithy shop if his mind is somewhere else. I’m sorry, but it just isn’t safe—for either of us.”

  It was an unfortunate truth. A forge was only as safe as the men who worked it. If any man was off, the whole place was in danger. The morning’s incident was bad, but the potential for greater loss existed.

  He nodded. “I understand.”

  “Take some time. Clear your mind. Let the back mend.”