The Peacock Throne

by Lisa Karon Richardson

“Everything all right, old man?” Danbury, coming along the deck, cocked an eyebrow.

  “Fine.” Marcus stalked away towards his cabin.

  Lydia sat with the diary in hand, but she wasn’t reading. She gazed into the middle distance, seeing nothing.

  Lord Danbury entered the greater cabin. “Do you know what’s wrong with Harting? He nearly took my head off just now.”

  “Oh?” With an effort she turned her attention to his Lordship.

  “I suppose life aboard ship is hard for some.” He extended a sheaf of smudged notepapers. “I’m writing up a record of our adventures. I thought that I might forget something that might prove later to be of importance, so I wanted to capture it all while things are fresh.”

  Lydia accepted the offering. Smiling, she shook her head. “Your penmanship is disgraceful, you know. Nearly as bad as my cousin’s.”

  “I received the worst wallopings of my life over penmanship,” he sighed.

  “Would you like me to transcribe these into something more legible?”

  “Would you?”

  Over the weeks they had developed a sort of partnership. Her knack for organization, and lack of occupation, had prompted her to offer Lord Danbury clerical assistance. He had accepted her help with an air of relief.

  “Certainly.” More fodder for Harting. She suppressed the sigh that threatened to overwhelm her. She had never come up with anything remotely incriminating, but he always demanded more.

  “It looks like the weather is changing. We might be in for a rough patch.” Lord Danbury sank into a nearby chair and crossed his long legs in front of him.

  “Captain Campbell warned me that a storm was brewing.”

  “That must have been why Harting was in such a foul temper,” Lord Danbury mused. “Did you know these are the very waters where Sir Francis Drake had many of his triumphs?”

  “Oh yes?”

  “He made a name for himself here before heading off to the West Indies.”

  Lydia made a sound expressing suitable interest.

  Lord Danbury continued. “Some of the seamen are almost entirely uneducated, but they have an amazing knowledge of maritime lore.”

  “They’re good storytellers too.” Lydia stripped all wryness from her tone.

  Lord Danbury caught her inflection anyway and chuckled. “That they are, though you have to watch out for what is true and what is story. I’m afraid there is a great deal more of the latter in most of their tales.”

  Lydia fetched the portable writing desk, and set about the task of deciphering Danbury’s chicken scratches into English. He, meanwhile, continued his pleasant, inconsequential talk. They passed the afternoon in comfortable companionship, while the menacing cloudbank gained on Legacy as if she stood still.

  CHAPTER 17

  Harting rejoined them during the supper hour. Lydia tried to catch his eye, but he avoided looking in her direction. Captain Campbell appeared only briefly at the meal. Something must have changed his opinion of the coming storm. Despite his efforts at equanimity, tension communicated itself in the hunched line of his back as he bent over his plate and ate without even seeming to chew the food. He excused himself as soon as he had finished his meal.

  Lydia put down her soup spoon. She stared into the bowl. Its contents sloshed about with the rhythm of the ship. The movement was pronouncedly more violent than she’d ever noticed before. The soup would spill at any minute. She glanced up to find Lord Danbury’s gaze upon her. Neither he nor Harting made any move to eat more. Somehow, up until this moment, she had convinced herself that she wasn’t adrift on the sea—merely on a very tiny island.

  Her stomach seemed suddenly to be filled with lead, as if she had taken on ballast. Saliva filled her mouth as if she were going to be ill. She swallowed it back. She could not—would not—give way to fear before these gentlemen.

  Harting stood. “Perhaps we ought to get a breath of fresh air while we still can. If it’s a large storm, we might be stuck indoors for several days.”

  Relieved, she stood and allowed herself to be led from the table.

  Lydia could scarcely believe how quickly the wind had picked up. The fierce clouds were nearly upon them now. Legacy ploughed her way through the sea, flinging up spray, which was snatched by the gale and spit back at them in gusts. The waves were building, and the deck beneath their feet heaved with strain.

  The crew had double reefed the topsails. Several men remained in the tops, their glasses trained on the cloud bank that bristled with lightning and thunder. Their actions held an element of haste that had not been there earlier in the day. A few paused in their work to cast anxious glances at the lowering green-black clouds. Jolly banter had been replaced by an eerie hush, punctuated only occasionally by an order or a curse.

  A large wave seemed almost to pick up the ship and drop it. A heavy weight crashed into the small of Lydia’s back. She staggered forward, her head colliding with Harting’s solid form, bowling him over as if he were a cricket stump. The planks of the deck bit her palms.

  “I’m so sorry. Are you all right? Lost my balance.” Lord Danbury bent to help Lydia to her feet. He had to yell to be heard.

  “Perhaps we ought to admit defeat.” Harting clutched at his hat as it attempted to take flight.

  The rain hit in full force, drenching the ship within seconds. They scrambled for shelter in the greater cabin, nearly tumbling down the ladderway as they made their way below decks. Due to the risk of fire, the lanterns had been doused, leaving the passengers in almost total darkness. The violence of the ship’s pitch and roll increased. Lydia was soon disorientated. She groped for a chair and collapsed into it on the roll.

  Along with the howl of the wind, she could hear objects sliding about. Dread trickled in with the rain and sea, turning Lydia’s feet and hands icy.

  Something slammed into her leg, wrenching a squeak of pain from her. Another piece of debris collided with her chair. With the gloom so complete, she could not see to avoid the blows. She drew her legs up onto her seat, flinching as other unidentifiable objects skittered by.

  The storm grew more vicious. A particularly violent wave seemed to drop the ship off a cliff. Lydia’s chair toppled over with her still in it. She let out a yelp. Scrambling for purchase, she tried to stand, but couldn’t find her feet on the plunging deck. Lord Danbury and Mr Harting both called to her. She could hear them fumbling in the dark, and then, beneath the howling of the wind, two thuds in quick succession.

  “Oof.” One of them sounded as if the breath had been knocked from him.

  The other swore.

  The furniture continued to skate and tumble about them. It was too absurd—the sort of comedy London’s burlettas turned prodigious profit from each year. If she hadn’t been so terrified she would have laughed.

  Legacy slid down into the trough of another enormous wave and Lydia’s breath seemed to hover in her throat, unsure whether it was coming or going. She hiccoughed. How could the ship possibly survive such a beating? Sudden tears forged hot trails down her cheeks. Not drowning. Please God. I couldn’t face drowning.

  Grateful that darkness masked her features, Lydia abandoned, for the moment, her attempt to stand upright.

  “We should go to our cabins,” Lord Danbury yelled, abandoning decorum to be heard above the crash of sea and sky and ship.

  She righted herself against the bulkhead. Stumbling and staggering, she made her way to the aft cabin. Not bothering to search out a nightdress, Lydia wrapped herself in a cocoon of blankets and all but fell into the hammock. It was a long time before her teeth stopped chattering and she could feel her fingers.

  She lay listening to the ocean and the wind fighting to claim the ship. Her heart thudded in an uneven staccato. Her stomach surged and plunged with the heaving of the ship and the swaying of the hammock. Any moment she would be ill.

  A lump lodged firmly in her chest and clammy perspiration coated her body.

  If only she could have a
little light. It would make all the difference. It was so disorientating in the darkness that she didn’t know which way was up. It could hardly be described as a fixed point. She retched; dizziness swamped her senses.

  What had she been thinking to believe that she could do this? The first challenge and she was a whimpering, snivelling mess. Teeth clenched, she sucked in a breath. She refused to be a mewling coward.

  She began to fight her way from the hammock, making it swing even more erratically. She could not afford to be ruled by fear.

  At last she managed to extricate herself from the hammock’s embrace. Even if they died during this storm, at least she would know that she had pursued what she thought was right. There were worse ways to die.

  Grimly, Lydia groped for the hatch and made her way out into the storm to be sick.

  By morning, the storm had mostly blown itself out. Wind and rain still lashed petulantly at the ship, but the maniacal power had waned.

  Eyes gritted with sleep, Lydia crawled from her hammock. Her legs felt as wobbly as a newborn lamb’s. But despite this, she was almost jubilant. They had survived. Shivering, she pulled on a dry gown and pinned up her hair.

  The greater cabin looked like a doll’s house upended by a naughty child. Every stick of furniture was overturned—even the large sideboard. Lydia picked her way through the soggy mess. Standing in the middle, hands on her hips, she shook her head at the destruction. Then she reached for the nearest chair and righted it. She might at least make herself useful in some small way. Her appearance on the deck the evening before had prompted consternation and she had been sent back to her cabin with a bucket. Unable to face the hammock, she had wedged herself into the seat below the window, hugging that wretched bucket as she stared out of the windows. The roiling, ever changing wall of water at times hurried the ship along, and at other times seemed to try to snatch them back. All the time she’d had the sense that the waves were designed to draw them into some giant maw—that they were a quick snack before the sea found heartier fare elsewhere.

  The gusting rain slowed to a sullen drizzle before Lord Danbury and Mr Harting appeared. Lydia had restored most of the furniture to its proper place, sorting out what could not be salvaged from what merely needed repair. She had mopped up the water and picked up the odds and ends scattered about. When they arrived, Captain Campbell hard on their heels, she was busily sorting out the sideboard.

  “Why, Miss,” the captain said in astonishment, “you didn’t do all this yourself, did you? I was going to send in a couple of the lads.”

  “It’s no trouble. Your men have quite enough on their hands with the rest of the ship to look after.”

  “Well, it don’t seem right somehow, but I’m grateful for the hand and no mistake.” He turned his attention to the gentlemen. “I don’t think we were blown too much off course. Won’t be able to tell for certain until the clouds clear a bit more and we can get a proper reading.”

  Lord Danbury had been lamenting the delay this storm would cause. At the news, his dour expression lightened and he straightened. “If that’s true, it’s a credit to your skill. I’m obliged to you, sir, for coming to tell me.”

  Campbell nodded. “Best be getting back to the quarterdeck. These seas are still a mite rougher than I’d like, and I don’t want to be away too long.”

  “It’s amazing we’ve survived—a downright miracle if we have not been blown weeks off course,” Danbury said.

  “A miracle?” Harting countered with an ironic smile. “You are attributing our survival to the work of a deity, Danbury?”

  “Perhaps I am.”

  Harting raised his eyebrows.

  Lydia looked up from her task. “Do you believe in God, then, Lord Danbury? A God who works miracles?”

  Lord Danbury opened another cabinet. “My father did.”

  “Perhaps, then, if God’s gracing us with the miraculous,” Harting tossed a waterlogged book at Danbury and grinned wickedly, “we should be asking the Almighty for another miracle—that we might find the murderer.”

  Lydia glanced at him, but she wasn’t sure from his even tone whether he was speaking in jest. Thoughtful, she resumed her work.

  Lord Danbury steadied Lydia as they emerged from the greater cabin and made their way up on deck for a breath of air. Sails hung in limp, disheartened shreds and the rigging had been snarled into hopeless confusion. Most of the crew was aloft, attempting repairs. Everything on deck and much of the below decks was a sodden, splintered mess. As she viewed the chaos, Lydia decided that his Lordship was correct. It was a miracle they had survived. She said nothing until they had completed the circuit. “Surely God spared us.” Awe thinned her voice.

  “Nonsense, my dear.” Dr Marshall’s hearty hail as he joined them made Lydia start. “What saved us last night was solid heart of oak, masterful engineering, and judicious seamanship. God sent the storm, not the salvation.”

  Danbury took advantage of his grip on her arm to steer her down the ladderway and into the greater cabin. He most certainly did not wish her to challenge the doctor.

  The scent of a warm meal nearly tempted her into silence, but she refused to be put off so easily. As the doctor settled in across from her she spoke. “You have an unusual view of God, sir.”

  “A more realistic view I am afraid, my dear.”

  “Reminiscent of the ancient Romans whose gods toyed with mankind and were motivated by greed and spite.” Lydia forced a smile as she placed a napkin in her lap and changed the subject. “I’m pleased to see you are well, Doctor.”

  “Yes, perfectly, thank you.”

  The conversation drifted to the effects of the storm on the ship as the captain claimed his seat.

  Just twelve hours before, she had been convinced of her imminent demise, and now she was chatting about the events over a pleasant meal. Although, perhaps not everyone on the ship had been so lucky? She set aside her fork.

  “Did the storm cause any casualties, Doctor?”

  “A handful—the bruises and broken limbs usual in such an event.”

  “I should have thought sooner, and come to assist you. Perhaps I can help after lunch?”

  “I will count on it. Your assistance will be most welcome. My loblolly boy was one of those injured. A trifling matter of a broken arm and wrenched shoulder, but it does make him abominably slow.”

  “I didn’t realize you had much experience at sea,” Lord Danbury said.

  “I was pressed as a surgeon’s mate many years ago when I was quite young. My mother paid the price for my release, so it did not last long.”

  “Then you are well acquainted with seafaring life.”

  “Well enough. It at least provides opportunities for an enterprising botanist. There are always exotic locales to be explored.” The doctor accepted another portion of plum duff from the captain.

  After dinner the doctor accordingly offered his elbow and Lydia took it. “Excuse us, gentlemen.” She nodded to the others at the table.

  The dank orlop deck was fetid and dark. Below the water line, the only light came from smoky lanterns. As ever when she came to this part of the ship, Lydia breathed shallowly, forcing herself not to cover her mouth and nose with a handkerchief. If mere night air was dangerous, how did any patient survive this atmosphere?

  His medical equipment encompassed a handful of hammocks, an apothecary chest and a mixing table. The surgeon’s cockpit was to the fore. She had glanced at the tools it held only once and had no desire to do so again.

  “Where ought I to start?”

  “A drop, please?” A young seaman held up a horny palm.

  Marshall moved forward. “Normally a job for my loblolly boy.” He gestured at a figure in the last hammock. “He came to us the day before the storm. One of the most typical wounds you’ll see on board ship. An arm broken when it was caught in a block and tackle.”

  Lydia reached out a staying hand. “I can do it.”

  She worked throughout the afternoo
n wiping brows, dispensing gruel into hungry mouths, and offering reassurances.

  For the hundredth time a voice croaked for her attention, requesting water. Lydia lowered the dipper into the hogshead and, careful not to spill, approached the sailor. His lips were cracked. Perspiration stood out on a brow that looked pallid beneath a heavy tan. With obvious effort he raised himself on one elbow. His other arm had been broken and was bound tightly to his chest.

  Lydia lifted the dipper to his mouth and he drank deeply.

  “Thank you kindly.” He fell back with a grunt of pain.

  “Certainly.” He looked younger than she. Unable to resist the impulse, Lydia smoothed the damp hair back from his forehead. She yanked her hand back. He was burning up with fever.

  Biting her lip, she carefully unwrapped his bandages to reveal his injured arm. A foul odour soured the air and made Lydia gasp. The wound was livid, and swollen to bursting with infection.

  “Doctor.”

  “Yes, Miss Garrett?” He did not look up from the powder he was mixing.

  “I believe this young man needs your assistance.” Lydia fought to keep the welling panic from her voice. He was seriously ill, or she was Josephine Bonaparte. “Right now.”

  At that, the doctor did raise his head. “What can I do for you, Larsen?”

  “I’m all right, sir. No need for a fuss.”

  Marshall raised his glance to Lydia’s. She nodded minutely.

  “He feels quite warm to me. Perhaps you could re-evaluate his arm?”

  Dr Marshall placed a hand on the man’s brow. Frowning, he pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket, and grasped the man’s wrist. Then he lifted the dressing and scowled. “Ah, I see. A preparation of febrifuge would answer, to begin with.” His voice was low, a conversation with himself rather than his breathless audience. Marshall drifted away. Lydia glanced from the retreating form to the sailor and pulled a stool closer to the sailor’s hammock.

  A thin white line ringed the sailor’s mouth where he had compressed his lips tightly together. “Am I going to die, Miss?”