Dickie grinned shyly. “I said I was happy to see you, sir.”
Matt caught a shallow breath and held it while his hands lifted from the boy’s shoulders to cradle either side of his head. His soft hazel eyes were swimming as he carefully asked the question. “Dickie, can you hear me?”
“Yes, sir. Not very well, not very clearly, but yes, sir. I can hear you.”
Matt looked up at Angus MacDonald, then Adrian. “I do not know how...or why. The explosions, perhaps.”
Dickie had been content to beam up at the doctor, but a slight movement off to the side made him glance at a slim, huddled figure.
“You stayed, Miss! You stayed with us!”
Courtney made no comment, no move to welcome the boy into her arms.
“Miss?” The boy looked bewildered, and a little angry as he glared accusingly at Matthew and Adrian. “Have you hurt her? You have no reason to treat her like an enemy. She was very brave. She saved my life.”
“Saved your life?” Adrian’s voice was low, his eyes locked on Courtney’s. Dickie misread his expression as doubt, and he reached out a hand and touched the lieutenant’s arm imploringly.
“Yes, sir, she saved my life. She shot one of the pirates. He was chasing me through the trees, and she shouted at him to stop. When he would not let me go, she picked up a gun and shot him clean through the head. And then she made me hide in the bushes. She told me to run but I just hid until the corporal found me.”
Rowntree, MacDonald, and Rutger were staring at Courtney but she refused to acknowledge any of them. She dug her nails into the palms of her hands and used the pain to help her control the waves of emotion building within her. She did not want their gratitude, she did not want their admiration or respect—or their pity. Most of all she did not want to have to look into Ballantine's cool gray eyes and see the cocky triumph there. He had taken what he wanted from her, used her to excellent advantage and was once again in command, in control.
It was Rowntree who eventually broke the strained silence. “We should be moving, sirs. The dawn...”
“Aye,” Adrian agreed, stirred into taking a few stumbling steps to test his leg. “See to the others, then. We will be along directly.”
“Can you manage?”
“Of course I can manage,” he grunted and pushed away from the support of the tree. His leg trembled under him and if not for Rowntree’s quick hands, he would have pitched forward onto the ground.
“Thank you, Sergeant,” he gasped. “I just need another minute and I will be fine.”
“The hell ye will, sar,” Angus growled and moved into lend a hand. Adrian’s cursed insistence that he could walk on his own caused the Scot to glare a muttered apology at the lieutenant before hauling back and punching him solidly on the jaw. Adrian slewed sideways over MacDonald’s arm, and with a deft manoeuvre Angus had him up and slung over his shoulder without a hint of further protest.
“I ken he'll travel easier this way,” Angus snorted and started walking up the slope, leaving the doctor and the sergeant staring after him in stunned silence. After a moment, Matt and Rowntree exchanged a glance, then a shrug, and the sergeant headed up the slope behind MacDonald.
“Come along then,” Matt said to Dickie and Courtney. “We have a way to go before sunrise.”
Courtney looked past him across the cove, to the dark line of trees on the far shore.
Matt read her thoughts and sighed wearily. “You can go if you want. I will not try to stop you.”
Courtney’s deep green eyes turned to his, her face once again blank and unreadable in the moving shadows.
Matt put an arm around Dickie’s shoulders. “I can understand your reluctance to come with us, Court. And your reluctance to trust us, or to believe in Adrian. But he is a good man. A good friend. If he lives through the next few days, it is my guess he would put himself and his reputation on the line for you. And since he and I are the only ones who know who you really are...” he shrugged again and left the sentence unfinished.
“What do you mean," she asked quietly, "if he lives?”
Matt exhaled slowly. “Despite his bravado, his wounds are pretty bad. He has lost a lot of blood. If the shock does not kill him, the heat and flies and God knows what else just might. You obviously know a little doctoring. I was hoping you might know of some plants or herbs that grow in this area. Anything that might help...?”
She looked up the slope, just able to see the outline of Angus MacDonald disappearing into the trees with the unconscious lieutenant slung over his shoulder.
“It seems I have little choice but to come with you,” she murmured softly. “I will even help you if I can. But the first reasonable chance I get, I will take it and go my own way.”
“If that is what you want.”
“That is what I want,” she said firmly.
“Then when the time comes, I will do everything I can to help you. You have my word on it.”
Courtney uncurled her fingers, releasing the pressure of her nails from her palms. Cool, slender fingers slipped tentatively into her hand, and she felt a reassuring squeeze from Dickie Little. She looked down and responded faintly to his smile, then followed Matthew Rutger along the open beach and into the trees.
Chapter Twenty-Three
By noon of the following day, the air was sweltering. The sun had climbed steadily in a cloudless blue sky and offered no relief from the flies and sweat and the dry breeze that carried sand and dust into mouths and eyes. The coast was alternately rugged, with jagged rocks and short, stubby scrub trees, then barren, with stretches of hot white sand that burned underfoot and attracted the scorching rays of the sun. Often the straggling party of a hundred-odd men were forced to slow to a snail’s pace, and frequent stops were called when they could seek relief in the shallow surf. Two ships had been sighted, both bearing the square-rigged sails of the Moroccan Xebecs. Rowntree had commanded the men to remain low and out of sight until they passed, knowing the crews would be less sympathetic than the pirates they had just escaped from.
When Rowntree estimated they were ten miles west of the cove, he ordered the men to scout ahead for a place to set up a temporary camp. The wounded men, carried laboriously on makeshift litters, could travel no farther without rest, food, and fresh water. A location was found at the base of a steep wall of rocks. Lookouts situated on top could see miles of beach in either direction and detect any approaching threat from land or sea. Armed parties were dispatched to forage for food. Others were sent to scout the shore for driftwood and brush. Fires for warmth would be essential for the cold night ahead, and to signal if an American patrol ship was spotted.
While the watches and the foraging parties went about their duties, the remaining third of the men, on Rowntree’s orders, curled up beneath the shade of the rocks and tried to steal a few hours of badly needed sleep.
“Ye should take yer own advice, laddie,” MacDonald growled. “Ye’re about to drop in yer shadow.”
“Look who is telling who to rest,” Andrew rejoined wryly. “You have carried the lieutenant on your back nearly every step of the way down this miserable beach.”
“Aye, an’ I would do it again, if need be. He is nay lookin’ good. I could feel the fever risin’ in him even afore we stopped.”
The two marines looked silently to where the doctor was kneeling over Adrian Ballantine. Courtney was beside him, her hands outstretched to accept the bloodied, makeshift bandages as they were carefully peeled away.
“You will have to wash them, I am afraid,” Matt said, his voice raspy from exhaustion. “We have none to spare. Damn, if I only had a few of my instruments. A needle and thread. Anything to close these wounds.”
“Can you not seal them any other way?”
“You mean cauterize them? Yes, I could. But if this fever is from shock, I would not want to risk the strain on his heart.”
“And if it is from infection?” she asked softly.
“If it is from infection, I
would need a saw, not a hot iron.” Matt leaned back and dragged a hand wearily across his brow. He saw Courtney’s expression and attempted a reassuring smile. “He had a good dunking in the water, and the wounds bled freely enough. The chance of infection is slim. As for some of the other men—”
Matt’s smile faded as his eyes scanned the other litters. There were at least a score who were wounded too badly to walk on their own. He had thought the conditions on the deck of the Falconer were hell on earth; he was at a loss for words to describe what he thought of this sandy, dusty, fly-infested environment.
Courtney had no idea how to respond to the anguish she saw on Matt’s face. She reluctantly discovered she could not hate him or treat him with cold disdain as she had resolved to do, nor did she trust her emotions with Ballantine so helpless, so obviously in pain. His complexion had taken on a yellowish, waxy cast; his face and torso were bathed in sweat. He was failing so rapidly it frightened her, and she knew she could not bear to watch and do nothing.
Courtney took the soiled cotton strips to the knee-deep surf to scour them in the fine sand. Some of the men had waded into the shallows to keep cool and as she knelt on the beach, they stopped what they were doing to stare.
The water was cool and refreshing. There was still mud caked in her hair and in her clothes, chafing against her skin. She longed to wade in up to her shoulders and scrub herself clean, but she was wary of all those staring eyes.
They knew she was a woman; there was no hiding the truth since she had to tie her shirt in front to compensate for the lost buttons. Her slender waist drew speculative gazes, as did the vee of flesh that showed at her plunging neckline. So far no one had ventured to speak to her, much less touch her, and she could only assume it was because of Ballantine’s protection. How long that immunity would last if he died, she dared not even guess.
After spreading the torn strips of shirting on a rock to dry, she walked back to where Matthew was fussing over another wounded marine.
“I saw some plants back along the shore,” she said. “I think they were the kind the Arabs use in poultices.”
“Fine. Fine. I will use them gladly if you think they might help.”
“I will go along with you,” Rowntree said, rising from his seat by the base of the rocks, and Courtney’s eyes flashed her contempt.
“Are you afraid I might run away?”
Rowntree flushed. “No, miss. You could have done it ten times over by now if you had wanted to. I just thought you might need help.”
“I am quite capable of carrying a few leaves and berries.”
Andrew stared after the retreating figure and, with a grim frown, followed her anyway at a wary distance. Courtney detected the shuffle of footsteps in the sand behind her and whirled around, her fist raised defensively, the dirk she clutched winking ominously in the sunlight.
Rowntree halted at once, his gaze meeting the challenge in her eyes. “I was only wanting to make up for last night,” he said tautly. “I had no idea you were a...a girl. I would not have fought so roughly if I had known.”
“Well, I would have killed you, Yankee,” she replied calmly, “had it been the other way around.”
Rowntree’s eyes flicked to the knife, then back to her face. “Yes, miss. I believe you would have. But the way I see it now, we are both sort of after the same thing. On the same side, so to speak. I mean, after what you did for the boy, and what you are doing for the lieutenant, and all.”
“I am not doing anything I would not do for a wounded dog,” she said flatly.
The crimson stain rose in the young sergeant’s face again. “Yes, miss. But if it is all the same to you, I would like to help if I can.”
Some of the tension went out of Courtney’s stance and with a disgusted curse, she tucked the dirk back into the wrist strap. “Suit yourself, Yankee.”
Rowntree was eyeing the blade as it vanished beneath her sleeve. “I see what the doc meant about the knives. I could have sworn that was the one I knocked off you last night when you were about to stab the lieutenant.”
“I was not going to stab him,” she countered evenly. “I was going to cut away the end of my shirt where he was holding it.”
With that she turned and strode down the beach. Rowntree followed resolutely, his eyes burning into the back of the narrow shoulders. During one of the few lucid moments the lieutenant had had during the arduous walk, he had ordered Rowntree to guard her with his life, and by God she was going to be guarded whether she liked it or not.
Courtney veered off the coarse sand and wandered along the bordering brush, bending now and then as a plant caught her attention. She found a patch of coriander and another of marigolds, the seeds and flowers of which could be brewed into tea to reduce fevers. She found the thick, rubbery leaves she had seen the women on Snake Island use to tie on wounds to draw out the poisons, as well as parsley and fig leaves to crush for soothing burns.
When the small pouch formed by her shirt tails was filled, she turned and found Rowntree standing wordlessly behind her, stripped to the waist, his shirt held out to take the overflow.
“Where are you from, Yankee?” she asked with narrowed eyes.
“Virginia, miss.”
She grimaced and continued walking. “Good God, does no one live anywhere else?”
They stuffed his shirt with edibles that she found—dates, figs, wild onions, and carrots—then started back toward the beach. They passed a small stream on the way, and Courtney knelt beside it, luxuriating in the taste of the cool, clean water, and the feel of it splashed on her steamy skin. She could not resist pouring handfuls of it over her head to rinse out the mud and sweat.
“Miss?” Rowntree was positively glowing red. “If you would like, I could go over yonder behind those rocks and you could...well, you could bathe proper. I will see no one comes close or disturbs you.”
Courtney’s first impulse was to refuse, but before she could speak Rowntree threw her a quick smile and trotted off behind the barrier of rocks.
The bath was indeed refreshing. Courtney washed out the shirt and breeches, knowing they would dry rapidly in the hot sunlight. With the grime and mud and salt crust scrubbed from her face and hair, she gathered up her tiny hoard of herbs and continued along the path. The look on Rowntree’s face when she emerged from around the rocks, set her temper on edge all over again, and she did not speak another word to him on the trek back.
Rutger hurried over to meet her and rummaged hopefully through the herbs. Some were met by a quick grunt, others a smile, still others a frown of curiosity. But for the most part he was pleased and said so.
“It is hardly a surgeon’s dream, but it will help. Perhaps we could even risk a small fire and brew up a broth of sorts.”
Courtney was staring past the doctor’s shoulder to where Ballantine was stretched out on the sand, shivering. “How is he?”
“The same,” Matt sighed. “Worse, perhaps.”
Courtney looked closely at Matthew. His exhaustion was growing more pronounced by the minute. The lines around his mouth seemed to be carved deeper; his eyes were bloodshot, the lids puffed and almost purple from fatigue. He could not have had more than a handful of hours of sleep since the Eagle was first attacked, and he was obviously on the verge of collapsing.
“Why don’t you rest?” she suggested quietly. “I will look after things here.”
“I am fine.”
“Your hands are shaking; you can hardly see straight. You need to rest or you will be no good to anyone from a grave.”
Matt opened his mouth to deny it, but he closed it again, knowing she spoke the truth. He licked his dry lips; the words had difficulty forming. “Maybe...for an hour or so. No more. Yes, I will rest for an hour and then I will be fine.”
Adrian groaned in his fitful sleep, and Matt’s hazel eyes went immediately to him, as they did to every other man who flinched at the flies or turned or took a sudden deep breath.
Courtney glanced at
Rowntree. “Sergeant, will you escort the doctor back to the stream. Make him bathe and sleep, even if you have to knock him flat to do it.”
“See here,” Matt protested. “There is no need to go to such lengths. I will sleep perfectly well right...right there,” he said, pointing to a small square of shade in the lee of the rocks.
“If you do not do as I say,” Courtney said to Rowntree with a shrug, “you will be burying the doctor alongside the other men he kills.”
“Doc?”
Matt backed up a step. “I need to be here. If Adrian wakens—"
“I will look after him," Courtney insisted gently. “And if I need you, for any reason, I will send someone to fetch you. I swear I will."
“She is right, doc,” Rowntree agreed. “You look like you are about to fall over and I would hate to see you make any mistakes you would not normally make.”
Matthew stumbled back, his face showing his anger and confusion. He heard a drawn-out sigh behind him and half-turned, just as Angus MacDonald’s fist dealt out a stiff right uppercut to his jaw.
“This is beginnin’ to wear on ma nerves,” the Scot grumbled. “Two officers in two days: it's nay a healthy habit to be formin'."
Courtney touched her own tender jaw. “It seems to be the only thing you Yankees are good at.”
The Scot grinned sheepishly and took up the limp burden on his shoulder. “I ken where the stream is, lassie. An’ if ye need me afore the watch tonight, Andrew, ye’ll find me layin’ down beside the doc, takin’ a wee snork masel’.”
Rowntree shook his head as he watched MacDonald trudge off along the beach. “I do not know how he does it.”
“He reminds me a great deal of—” Courtney stopped herself just as Seagram’s name was about to come to her lips. The sergeant was watching her, surprised at the tenderness in her tone. She stiffened and hardened her gaze. “If you could find some coconuts and split them, it would be a useful task for you to be about, Yankee.”
Wind and the Sea Page 38
