by Jamie Carie
FOURTEEN WEEKS AND five days in the pit of a vermin-infested hold. Fourteen weeks of soul-robbing hope. Fourteen weeks of living minute by minute, and then—as a rainbow appearing—a shout was heard, echoing though the hold.
“Land!”
The word lifted them out of their desolate places.
“Land . . . ho!”
It awoke them from the depths of their despair. It was the sweetest word they had ever heard.
Drake opened his eyes, scarcely daring to believe. Land. Had they really reached it? Sitting up slowly to avoid the constant dizziness that tormented him, he listened, hoping to hear the word again—hoping he hadn’t dreamed it. Others around him roused, looking like walking, crawling corpses with fanatical excitement on their faces. It was true, they’d all heard it.
Staggering to the ladder he waited in the sudden line, men and women with crazed expressions and sudden energy pulsing through their gaunt frames. They climbed the ladder with legs that shook and then stumbled across the deck to the railing. Drake recoiled from the bright dawn, their new dawn, pain shooting through his head until he thought he might collapse, but his spirit rose within him, urging the frail flesh to the rail. Behind them, a glorious sunrise pinkened the sky, washing the deck of the ship in a rosy glow. But no one spared much energy to appreciate it. They focused, as one desperate being, toward the dark line of land on the western horizon. Drake tried to hold his emotions in check as his shipmates fell apart around him—women and men wept with relief, falling to their knees in raptures of joy, grasping at the rail, unwilling to tear their gaze from the land, thanking God in loud voices that belied their weakened state. They’d reached land. They’d reached their promised land.
Drake felt a tear trickle down his hollow cheek and blinked to rid the water from his eyes so he could focus on the dark blur approaching. He found his mind repeating a lunatics’ litany. Have we really made it? Have we really found it?
Suddenly he was kneeling. The sunlight sent bolts of pain through his eyes and into his head, but he squinted, staring at the dark coastland, willing it to arrive as nausea and excitement rolled deep in his belly. Not much sea left, his mind reminded him in a muddled fog. After so many weeks on water, land seemed a new anomaly. All he could remember now was the sea. Gray, deep, dark, unfathomable water.
He pulled himself up, clung to the rail and licked his dry, cracked lips. He watched the gentle, gray-green waves lap the ship’s hull. To drink full and deep of clean, cool water. What did that feel like? Thoughts of water tormented him, memories of crystal goblets brimming with it was a dreamy image in his head, not that he ever drank much water. But now, now that he couldn’t have any, he obsessed about it—its thirst-robbing authority, its crystal clarity. It even dogged his dreams. That it was all around him, and he couldn’t drink it had nearly driven him insane.
Daniel McLaughlin walked up and put a hand on his shoulder. “How you be feelin’ now, Drake? Fever gone yet?”
Drake squinted up from his hunched position at the only man on board he had really liked, the red-headed Scotsman, and the kind of man you would want covering your back in a fight. Drake was glad he had taken the risk and gotten to know the man.
“Not gone yet, Daniel,” he croaked out, “but as soon as I can get some water, I shall recover. That is all this body needs.” Drake’s fever had burned hot for the last three days.
Daniel grinned, showing white teeth against an auburn beard. “Some decent food wouldna hurt much either, would it now? With land in sight, I think we just might get off this floating hell and get a little of both.” He swept his hand toward the hazy coastland, his voice turning soft with conviction. “Freedom and a good life are just over those waves. Hold on for a few more hours, my friend.”
Drake struggled to stand upright, and Daniel helped him back to his cot. Another day, Daniel promised—just one more day.
Pray God he survived that long.
Chapter Five
PHILADELPHIA
Serena Winter stood at the bottom of the ladder in the dark hold, blinking, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dim light and for her sense of balance to return in accord with the rocking motion of the ship. Mary Ann, younger by two years, stood just behind her. “Are there many?”
“I do not know yet. I cannot see a thing.” Moving a couple of hesitant steps forward she shifted the heavy basket on her arm. “I will take this side and thee can go over there.”
“All right.” Mary Ann giggled. “Watch thy step, sister. Remember the last time we played nurse. Thy shoes were nearly ruined.”
Serena remembered. All too well. She grimaced and nodded at her sister. This was their sixth time playing nurse, as Mary Ann liked to call it. When a ship of indentured servants arrived in the Philadelphia harbor and there were known sick on board, the Society of Friends was quick to respond. The older girls of local families had all been trained in rudimentary nursing and they rotated shifts to help the needy. Sometimes they went to the poorhouse or homes of the elderly, but Serena had a special place in her heart for the indentured. There was a woeful faith about them that made her want to help them succeed. She knew they came out of desperation with the hope that after their term of indenture was over they would be able to make a good life for themselves in this wild, new world. But the journey and their treatment often left them too weak to even care that they had finally made it. As Serena nursed them back to health, she also cared for their dreams, praying for them, hoping for them, encouraging body and soul back to health.
Picking her way carefully between the bare cots, Serena looked for someone in need of care. Most of the indentured were up on deck waiting to be allowed to go ashore. Many had called out for water and food as she and Mary Ann passed by, but Serena ignored them. Those too sick to leave their cots down in the hold were most in need of the meager provisions she and Mary Ann had brought with them. It was hard to ignore anyone, especially the thin, filthy children, but worse was the knowledge that oftentimes these poor people had to wait days or even weeks until all the advertising and sales were completed and they could go to their new homes, unless the soul-drivers came—and God help them if that happened.
A groan drew her attention. Serena turned, and there, in a shaft of the dim light cast from a porthole, slept a man. Serena picked her way toward the cot and leaned over him.
Her breath caught in her chest. His longish, dark hair was lank, and a dark beard covered most of his face. Even so, he was striking—beautiful really—hollow cheeks and all. A sudden thought rose to her consciousness: God took special care when He fashioned this man. He was thin and weakened from his journey, sick and flushed with fever, but something about him radiated greatness and strength. A strange sensation overtook her, making her want to reach out to him. She watched, detached from conscious movement, as her hand, small and pale, did just that. Her palm gently cupped his cheek, stroking up to his forehead, and found it burning hot. With the backs of her fingers, she smoothed his hot temple and brushed back a lock of dark hair.
Suddenly fingers as strong and tight as a manacle grasped her wrist. She reared back, about to cry out, when he mumbled incoherent words and released her. Taking a shaky breath, Serena stared. Was he delirious with fever, then? She had heard of it happening but had not seen it. She reached into her basket and brought out a cool, damp cloth, which she laid on his forehead. Taking a water bottle, she uncorked it with a soft pop and poured cool water into a tin cup. Carefully, she lifted his head. “Please, sir, drink this.”
There was no response, so she tipped the cup, letting the tiniest trickle of clearness spill into his mouth. He swallowed. She smiled, caught by the moment, and tried again. He swallowed a little more, his throat moving under the growth of his beard. Again and again she fed him drop after drop of the water, exhilaration at each small success filling her, until the cup was nearly empty. Her arm ached so that she could no longer hold up his head, so she eased him back to the thin pillow and tried to make him more
comfortable. Taking another damp cloth she ran it down the column of his neck and into the opening of his shirt where dark hair curled on his chest. His skin was hot and dry, heating the cloth so quickly that she had to pour a little of her precious store of drinking water onto it before starting the process again at his forehead. He grew restless, mumbling sentences that made no sense and then suddenly. “Don’t call the doctor, Crudnell, he knows all. Cannot trust the man.”
She had no idea what that meant, could only stare at his chiseled face and wonder if the fever would break or take him further into unconsciousness. But, more than anything she could ever remember wanting, she wanted him to open his eyes and see her.
After doing all she could to cool him down, she tucked the thin blanket around his shoulders and scanned the area for others. Her eyes had now adjusted to the light and she could see three more men on her side of the hold. Moving quickly to them, she assessed their condition. One was dead, the hollowness of his body showing starvation to be the likely cause. Serena pulled the blanket over his head. She would tell the captain and make sure he arranged for a decent burial. If not, the Friends would come and take the body to ensure the man had a place of rest. It wouldn’t be the first time a ship’s captain had shifted the responsibility. The other two were sleeping and, when awakened, were very grateful to find freshly baked bread, thinly sliced but thick with butter and water—enough water to quench weeks’ worth of thirst. With healthy nourishment, Serena thought, they should be back on their feet in a few days.
Serena went over to Mary Ann’s side. “How many are there?”
“Five women, one about to give birth, I think, and another with a three-year-old who is very sick. Oh, Rena—” she looked down at the floor of the hold, trying not to cry—“’tis so hard to see the little ones suffer.”
Mary Ann was too softhearted to be an effective nurse, but she did her best, in between the sighs and the tears. “It is well that we are here to bring them comfort, then. Hast thou given them water?”
“Yes, and some food. They are all awake and very grateful.”
“Take me to the child.” Serena followed Mary Ann through the maze of cots and knelt down next to a woman and her child.
The mother lifted her head and offered a weak smile. Two of her teeth had rotted and her gums were bleeding. “Thank ye, dear ladies. I haven’t been much help to little Harry here, but ye are like angels come from above. I thank God for ye.”
Serena smiled at her, all the while assessing Harry. His fever was high, but he was awake and able to talk. There was no rash, which was excellent. Serena leaned toward Mary Ann. “Mostly I think they are all starved and thirsty.”
Serena focused again on the mother. “Has he had loose stools, ma’am?”
“Oh my, yes. Vomiting before and the loose bowel now. Poor little chap can’t keep nothin’ in his stomach.”
Serena reached into her basket for a jug of blackberry root tea. Dysentery was common and so she carried the tea with her on these trips. The little boy drank greedily of the sugared tea. “I will leave this here with thee,” she said to the mother, “but it is for him only. Give him a cupful every two hours. I will leave plenty of good water for you and the rest of the women.”
The woman smiled, nodding, and whispered her thanks as Serena moved on, Mary Ann following at her heels, to the pregnant woman.
“She says she is in her eighth month,” Mary Ann whispered at Serena’s back.
After assessing and talking with the woman, who was also feverish, Serena turned to Mary Ann. “She needs to be examined by Beatrice. She is such an excellent midwife. Would thee run and fetch her?”
Mary Ann nodded, relief in her eyes at the prospect of escape. “’Tis fortunate we brought Henry along as escort, else I would not be able to!”
Serena waved her away with a smile. “Yes, ’tis fortunate indeed. Let us hope our good fortune continues and Beatrice will be found at home and not out delivering a baby.”
As soon as Mary Ann left, Serena’s mind turned back to the man she first helped. Who was he? He seemed, somehow, so out of place here among the starving. There was an elusive beauty about him that made her imagine him in an elegant manor house, a crystal cup in his hand upraised in a toast, a troop of fawning, elegant people at his table. She had the sudden desire to paint such a scene. And him. She closed her eyes, envisioning him dressed in her watercolors. A sudden coughing made her eyes snap open. It was him. She found her feet turning, walking toward the shaft of light pooling around his bed. Mayhap he’d been caught in an earthbound spell that robbed him of his true identity.
She stared down at his face, studying it. Noting the delicate bone structure beneath the skin, she saw the deft strokes her brush would make as she painted his eyebrows, his eyelashes, his beard . . . the contrast dark and beautiful. Her gaze drifted, like a stroke of paint, down his jawline to his squared chin. A bit too thin for perfection but elegant, even delicate, with a cleft that only the careful observer would see perfectly centered under the dark growth of hair.
“How fearfully and wonderfully thou art made.” She breathed the thought aloud and then turned. Had anyone heard her? She exhaled a silly smile, laughing at herself. She’d never behaved so or thought thusly in all her life. What was wrong with her?
Using great care, so as not to wake him, she sank down on the narrow edge of the cot, reaching for his forehead. It was still burning hot, making the cloth warm and dry. Exchanging the cloth for a fresh one from the basket, she pressed it against his brow, allowing her fingers to brush his temple and then back into his hair, repeating the motion until it became a gentle massage. She leaned closer still, now willing him to wake up. A fanciful thought flitted through her mind that he had been waiting for her touch to bring him back to life, that she held some power over his recovery. She smiled at herself and him, but she believed it.
His hair was black as ink, blue-black almost, and fell long and straight away from his forehead. Her fingers slid into it seemingly of their own will. Silky and inky. She imagined him with a fuller face and shaven clean. He would most certainly be handsome, but more than that, he was . . . noble. “Who art thou?”
The soft question seemed to stir something in him, for he scowled at her and answered, most imperious: “Drake Weston, fifth Duke of Northumberland, of course.”
Serena gasped. “Thou art no duke!” Was he mad?
He seemed to have lost his momentary lucidity and didn’t respond. Serena shook her head, staring at him for a time, then exchanged the cloth, laying a fresh one on his forehead. As she leaned back toward him she whispered, “But thee can dream of such things for a while longer, and then thee must wake up and see me.”
Her husky voice sounded strange to her own ears. Her hand seemed to have a mind of its own as she touched his cheek, feeling the coarse whiskers under her thumb. It had been a long time since she had touched whiskers, and those only of her father’s as he tickled her with them when she was a little girl.
The man took a long, shaking breath and seemed to sink into a deeper sleep. Her hand trailed down his neck toward his chest—
She froze. What was she doing? She wanted to touch him, and the urge had no connection to nursing. What was wrong with her? She stood, but again his hand shot out and grasped her wrist.
“Stay with me.” The words croaked past dry lips.
Serena sat back down, easily conquered, reaching for the water jug for something to do. Pouring cool, clean water into the tin cup, she lifted his head to drink.
“Yes, I will stay by thy side if thou wilt drink.”
He drank more this time and then dropped back onto the pillow with a sigh. She sat beside him, hands clasped in her lap to keep them from touching his face and hair, allowing herself only to watch him sleep. Her gaze fell on his lips, and she remembered the ointment in her basket. She bit her lower lip. Dare she?
A small smile formed on the man’s mouth, and Serena reared back. Could he read her mind? Of c
ourse not, she chided herself. He was probably just feeling better—he’d certainly needed the water he had been able to ingest. Slowly, so as not to disturb his sleep, she leaned toward the basket on the floor and rummaged through it until her fingers wrapped around a little clay pot. It was in her lap and opened before she realized she had made her decision. She looked down at the ointment. Normally, she would have given it to the patient and allowed him to apply it himself, but this man clearly could not manage that. She dipped her finger into the pot before she could convince herself otherwise, the soothing smells of lemon and beeswax filling the space around them. Her hand stretched out toward his face, her heart pounding. What if he woke? How would she explain what she was doing?
She dabbed a bit on his lower lip and sat back to see what response he would have. Nothing. He slept on. She nodded. She was a nurse; she could do this. Leaning in again, she quickly spread the ointment across his bottom lip. He moved his head away, as if avoiding a fly, but didn’t wake. Determined to finish the job, she reached for the upper lip, which wasn’t quite as chapped. It was softer and curved, dark rose in color with an indention in the middle that must be sinful, it was so well shaped. Her heart pounded in her chest and her breath quickened as she spread the ointment across the top of his upper lip. She halted, realizing how close she had leaned in, how deep her breathing had become . . .
When had she closed her eyes? Heaven help her, she wanted to kiss him.
“You can, you know.”
At first she didn’t know if the deep voice had come from the man or some other being in the room, so deep and quiet and inside her head it was. Her eyelids shot open as she straightened. “Can what?”
“Kiss me.” He smiled, but didn’t open his eyes.
Serena gasped, “Thee has been awake this entire time, sir?”
