by Jane Jackson
‘It’s all right, Susanna,’ Lucy said quietly. ‘You go along now.’
Ashamed of her relief, and of her inability to help, she returned to the day cabin. Too restless to go to bed she tried to ignore the worsening weather by reading her medical books.
Items on the shelf bumped against the guard as the increasing pitch and roll of the ship sent them slithering into an untidy heap. Concentration became impossible. Susanna glanced up at the swinging oil lamp wishing she had someone to talk to, anything to take her mind off the violence raging outside. She watched helplessly as one after another her books and the charts slid off the table.
The wind roared and howled. The coal bucket skidded sideways then tipped over, spilling its load onto the boards. A prolonged creaking was followed by a crash that made the cabin shake. Heart thumping, she looked up in fear at the deckhead and tried to wedge herself in the corner, aching all over from the ship’s violent contortions. A falling spar crashing through the skylight would probably kill her. But she still preferred the padded seat to the suffocating darkness of the sleeping cabin.
The wind rose to a scream heralding yet another squall. Torrential rain hammered the deck and she cringed at the sound of another crash. How much of this could the ship take? She wiped her eyes with a shaking hand.
The schooner reared, climbing a wave. It reached the crest, hesitated, then plunged into the trough with a sickening corkscrew motion. She heard a high-pitched scream, shouts, and the sound of running feet above her head. What was happening?
The companionway doors slammed back. Thuds, scuffling, and voices raised in argument were barely audible above the shrieking wind. A series of thumps told her someone was coming down. Beating back churning fear she hauled herself out of her corner, thrown to her knees as the ship canted again.
Gathering up the books she dropped them inside the padded seat on top of the spare blankets. She was trying to roll up the charts when the door burst open and John-Henry lurched in supporting a swaying semi-conscious figure.
Her throat tightened choking off a cry as she recognised Lowell. He was soaked, his shirt and trousers clinging to him like a second skin. Blood from a ragged wound high on one side of his forehead trickled in rivulets down his face. It dripped off his chin and ran down his throat, seeping into his wet shirt. The spreading scarlet patch already covered half his chest. He made a soft wordless sound then his eyes rolled up and his knees buckled. Staggering under the weight John-Henry lowered him to the floor.
Crawling across to the other seat locker Susanna pulled out several clean towels. Kneeling beside him she quickly folded one and pressed it against the gash. After a brief hesitation, shy of touching him, she began gently to wipe away the blood. He reminded her of a felled tree.
‘Scally went overboard. Cap’n went in after him.’ Still trying to catch his breath John-Henry pulled the grubby kerchief from his neck and mopped his own face. ‘Got the little bugger too.’
Susanna was almost afraid to ask. ‘How is he?’
John-Henry snorted. ‘Not a mark on him. Once he’s puked up all the seawater he swallowed he’ll be right as a trivet. But the cap’n got smashed against the side.’
Susanna lifted the wadded towel to take another look at the cut. Immediately blood welled out of it again.
‘That needs stitching,’ John-Henry stated.
Susanna replaced the pad. ‘You’d better fetch Mr Binney.’
‘Can’t do that. They need him topside. He’s in command till the captain’s right again. You’ll have to do it.’
‘M – me?’
‘Who else? You know about these things. You fixed Cecil’s ulcer good and proper. And Joey’s bronchitis. And Mr Lockhead’s arm.’
Susanna’s thoughts spun as the ship lifted and plunged beneath her. She had never stitched a wound. Dry-mouthed she peered under the pad, willing the blood to have stopped flowing. It hadn’t, and the wound gaped, jagged and ugly. Without stitches healing would be slow, the scar prominent and disfiguring.
She wrapped a second towel around Lowell’s head to hold the pad in place. How ironic that having derided her treatments and forbidden her to continue, he should need her help now. She had no choice. ‘Can you fetch me some fresh water? I don’t suppose you’ve got any that’s been boiled?’
John-Henry skittered crabwise towards the door. ‘Sorry. I had to dowse the galley fire for safety.’
‘And two clean bowls,’ she called after him. From her bag of medical supplies she took out a bottle of carbolic acid. She dare not use chloroform or ether. If Lowell was sick he might choke. But if not those, then what? She picked up comfrey powder, lint and bandages, her hand trembling as she reached for the small flat packet of waxed paper containing silk-threaded needles. Why him?
Dropping the curtain behind her she saw John-Henry had returned and was rummaging in the cupboard below the guarded shelf.
‘Here ’tis.’ Grinning in triumph he held up a bottle of brandy. Below his soggy woollen hat his greasy hair hung in dripping rat’s tails. ‘Mr Binney said you might need this.’
Susanna knelt beside Lowell setting everything on the floor within easy reach. Crouching opposite her John-Henry pulled the cork from the bottle and thrust it at her. ‘Here, have a swig.’
She shook her head automatically. ‘I can’t. I’m forbidden to –’
‘Go on,’ he insisted. ‘God helps them that help themselves. ‘Sides, you’ll do better with a steady hand.’
How could she argue? Tilting the bottle to her lips Susanna took a small mouthful, swallowed, and coughed. The aromatic spirit burned her throat and stomach, and her eyes streamed as she fought for breath. But within moments a warm glow radiated along her limbs infusing her with new strength.
‘One more,’ John-Henry urged.
Susanna obeyed, shuddered, and passed the bottle back. ‘Will you hold his head?’
Taking a quick gulp himself John-Henry re-corked the bottle and crawled forward. After preparing two bowls of antiseptic solution Susanna used one to wash her hands then, dipping a wad of lint in the other, she lifted the pad from Lowell’s forehead and started bathing the wound. He stirred, winced, and tried to ward her off. Then he opened his eyes.
‘Please lie still.’ She did her best to sound confident. ‘You have a deep cut on your forehead. I’m going to stitch it.’
He stiffened, his eyes widening. ‘You?’
‘I’ll ask someone else if you prefer.’
His gaze flicked to John-Henry and back. ‘No,’ his voice was hoarse. ‘No. You do it.’ He reached for the bottle. ‘Be quick.’ He swallowed several times baring his teeth. ‘I’d like it finished before this wears off.’
‘So would I,’ she muttered fervently and looked up at John-Henry. ‘Will you hold the captain’s head, please?’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ Lowell mumbled.
‘Oh for goodness’ sake!’ Her nervousness spilled over. ‘This’ll be difficult enough as it is. If you move it will take twice as long. Neither of us wants that.’
A spasm crossed his face. Laughter? ‘You’re right.’ He held his hand out for the bottle. John-Henry passed it over and after another deep swallow Lowell lay back and closed his eyes.
It probably took no more than fifteen minutes. But when she straightened up, rubbing her forehead with the back of her hand it came away wet with perspiration. Her chest hurt and it took a moment for her to realise why. She had been so intensely focused on what she was doing – the only way she could blank out who she was doing it to, and the pain she was causing – she had hardly breathed at all.
She inhaled deeply, startled to realise that while stitching the wound she had been totally unaware of the lurching deck and the terrifying noise of the storm. Was it worse? Or had it started to ease? She sat back on her heels, one hand on the floor to steady herself.
‘Bloody ’ell, that’s a tidy little job, Miss.’ John-Henry was almost as pale the man on the floor.
Lowell opened his eyes. ‘Have you finished?’
‘Almost. I just have to put a bandage –’
He started to sit up. ‘No need for that.’
She caught his shoulder, felt warm skin and hard muscle beneath the wet cotton and snatched her hand away, trying to disguise the movement by tucking an untidy curl into the loosening knot at the back of her head. Embarrassment gave her voice an edge.
‘Captain, the wound will heal more quickly and with less risk of infection if it is covered.’
‘How long?’
‘A few days only.’
‘Oh, all right. Get on with it then.’
His sharpness rankled but she didn’t respond. A few moments later the bandage was secured. His eyes were closed, his features tight.
‘Captain?’
He looked up at her, his mouth twisting in wry self-mockery. ‘What have you got for a headache?’
6th April. Through the Sunda Strait into the Java Sea, catching our first glimpse of land for many weeks. And such strange land it is. Steep mountains, covered in forest, that rise straight out of the sea …
Sitting on the hatch cover Lucy stared into the distance, fretting with her handkerchief. ‘I shouldn’t have brought her.’
‘You couldn’t have stopped her. She wanted it so much. Besides, it was her idea –’
‘No.’ Turning to Susanna Lucy shook her head. ‘No, it wasn’t. Not in the beginning. It was mine. I prayed for guidance for a long time before saying anything. When I did finally tell her God wanted me in China she was very quiet for a few days. Then she said it was what she had been waiting for. For so long her life had lacked direction. But now the light of God’s purpose, shining through me, had illuminated the path she was to follow. We would go to China together.’ She stared out to sea again. ‘Meredith isn’t strong. I’m not talking about her indispositions. She may appear confident and full of resolve but …’ Lucy pressed the handkerchief to her lips. ‘Have I done a terrible thing?’
‘No, of course not. Lucy, you didn’t force her, Meredith wanted to come. Just as she wanted everyone to believe that the mission was her idea. You couldn’t have known she would be such a poor traveller.’ Susanna had tried hard to push her own apprehension out of her mind. Lucy’s anguish stirred it up again like thick silt.
‘Perhaps you’re right,’ Lucy murmured. ‘Maybe once we reach Shanghai …’ But her eyes glistened with unshed tears.
Approaching the knot of men in the bow Susanna was horrified to see Tom Binney supervising the fitting of a machine gun with a cluster of barrels to a mounting on the deck. A few feet away Oliver Lockhead distributed small arms and rifles to the crew. Running back to the companionway she sped down the stairs into the day cabin.
‘What are they doing?’ she demanded breathlessly.
Leaning on his hands Lowell was studying a chart. ‘What are who doing?’ The wound on his forehead had healed cleanly, leaving a thin scar that showed livid against his tanned skin.
‘Mr Binney …’ she tried to catch her breath. ‘And Mr Lockhead is giving the crew guns.’
‘That’s right.’
‘No. It’s all wrong.’ Her reaction was partly conditioning – Quakers were adamantly opposed to war – but it was partly fear. What she had learned about him for herself was so different from the rumours. But he was jeopardising this new image. ‘You can’t. You have no right to take the life of another human being.’
Impatience flickered across his face. ‘In these waters the choice is simple – to kill or be killed. English laws do not apply here. I’m not looking for a fight. But I have a moral duty to protect my ship and my crew, even –’ one corner of his mouth rose, ‘– my passengers.’
‘Yes, but –’
‘No.’ His smile vanished and his voice cracked like a whip. ‘No buts. Pirates don’t capture. They kill. Do you understand? No prisoners. With one exception …’ his tone sent a chill feathering down her spine. ‘… pretty young women.’ The bleakness of his features reminded her of Cornish granite. ‘I’ve seen passenger ships after a pirate raid. I’d kill you myself sooner than let you to fall into their hands.’
Susanna flinched back, hands flying to her mouth. His gaze held hers. His eyes, blue-grey and flinty, filled her vision, her mind, her world. She was drawn like a breath past the icy barrier into black velvet depths that weren’t cold at all. The heat bathed her. It permeated her body like a golden flame, filling her with sensations so exquisitely sweet, she shimmered and ached and burned.
‘Susanna?’ His voice, ragged and harsh, jerked her back to reality. Blinking as if she had woken suddenly from a deep sleep she clasped her arms around her body, trying to stop the trembling.
I’d kill you myself sooner than … The moment the words were out, he was forced to recognise what had driven him to say them. He had never met anyone like her. He had known many women who lived independent lives. Married women who did so on their husband’s money. She was different. A little muddled perhaps, and naive, but clearly intelligent. She certainly had spirit. And courage. Not once had she complained. She made him laugh. It was a long time since he’d done that. What was he doing? There was no place for her in his life.
Looking into her eyes he recognised the hunger he knew she didn’t yet understand, and felt the answering tug inside himself. She was his for the taking. Cursing the fates for bringing them together, and himself for a fool, he deliberately turned his back on her.
‘If there’s nothing else?’ He bent over the charts again, his tone defying her to linger. Her soft gasp pierced him like a blade. He waited, leaning on stiffened arms, his nails digging into underside of the wooden table. He heard the whisper of her dress as she left the cabin, heard her footsteps stumble on the brass stairs. Only then did he close his eyes and allow his head to drop.
Chapter Twenty-five
10th April. To celebrate ‘crossing the line’ we were invited to the court of ‘King Neptune’ – actually one of the older seamen dressed up. (Meredith remained in the cabin) In strange ceremonies newer members of the crew were coated with flour and soap suds. I have seen little of the captain.
The air was stifling. A hot wind had driven the schooner past steep-sided islands where mist rose like steam from the lush vegetation. Now it had dropped humidity enfolded the ship in a suffocating embrace. The crew were edgy and lookouts had been doubled.
Sitting in her favourite spot on the hatch cover Susanna looked up. A black velvet sky sprinkled with diamond stars looked close enough to touch. The night was heavy with the scent of exotic flowers and the sweet stench of decaying vegetation. Howls and roars from the dense tropical forest carried clearly across the water. An unearthly scream made her start and gooseflesh erupted on her clammy skin.
Lowell emerged from the companionway. She watched in silent yearning as he stretched, flexing his shoulders. Now they were in the South China Sea he remained on deck from dawn to dusk, and during the hours of darkness never slept longer than one watch.
Night after night, though he took care to move quietly, the soft noises he made leaving or entering the cabin woke her. Lying in the hot darkness she would listen to the creaking deck and the slap of waves against the hull then drift back into shallow restless sleep.
Each morning as soon as the anchor was raised soundings were called every few minutes. Tom Binney and Oliver Lockhead took turns marking the chart while Lowell gave course corrections to the helmsman and kept one eye on wind and sails as the schooner crept forward through the narrow channel between sand bars that would hold her fast and rocks that would rip out her keel.
‘Why so often?’ she had whispered to John-Henry, indicating the sailor swinging the lead weight out over the bow. ‘Is the chart not reliable?’
‘Shouldn’t think so.’ Juggling pans on the stove he hadn’t even looked up. ‘I daresay this passage isn’t marked at all. Cap’n likes to find shorter routes. Cuts down the time, see? And time is money.’
But wh
ile she recognised the demands, understood the responsibility he carried, and saw how hard he was driving himself, none of it explained why for days he had scarcely spoken to her. Though she filled the long hours studying, writing her journal, and doing the necessary personal chores for herself and her cousins, she missed their talks. She even missed his teasing.
Was it something she’d said, or done? Or was it simply her? As far back as she could remember she had been wrong; in the way she looked, her behaviour, her ideas, and her ambitions. Only William had accepted her just as she was. And William was dead. Even Edward, despite admiring her intelligence, had rejected her.
She had never minded solitude. But this past forty-eight hours she had felt so lonely. Though rarely more than thirty feet away, Lowell Hawke was as remote from her as Cornwall.
She watched him glance upwards even though all the canvas on the towering masts was furled for the night. He seemed to possess a sixth sense, knowing instantly when something wasn’t right. He had told her the schooner sang to him. And a fraying rope or a sail on the verge of splitting sounded a false note. She still wasn’t sure if he’d been teasing.
She had learned from her visits to the infirmary how physically hard and emotionally demanding a life the men led, parted from their families for months at a time. But this voyage had shown her another side to life at sea – the close comradeship of men working together in extremes of climate, horrendous weather and almost constant danger. Their singing and banter made her sense of isolation even more painful.
She hoped desperately that Lowell might pause for a few moments and talk. But she didn’t approach him. The tattered remnants of her self-esteem forbade it. He turned towards her and she held her breath.
‘When you retire tonight,’ his voice held no emotion of any kind. ‘I suggest you leave the curtain fastened back. Foul air combined with this humidity is certain to give you a headache. However the decision is yours.’
‘Th – thank you,’ she stammered. After a brief hesitation he started to walk on. ‘Captain?’ She hadn’t meant to say anything at all. She certainly couldn’t ask why he’d changed for that would show him how much it mattered. She gestured helplessly. ‘Forgive me. I – I’m sure you’re busy. Please don’t let me detain you.’
