Sybrina

by Amy Rachiele

and enjoy the good of all their toil—

  this is a gift of God.

  When I end my reading, the men hoist the body over the balustrade and today I hear a deep splash. A few heads turn to me, waiting for me to begin the Our Father, but I don’t have it in me to do so.

  I find a kindly face in the crowd. The nice man who had inquired if I was injured last evening, Mr. Overton, nods at me, and with a knowing expression starts the procession back into the hull of the ship.

  Below, I rest against my pillar, exhausted and sickened. On the cusp of being violated, I attempt to sort out my vicissitudes. The thick, ugly knowledge of its presence, and the catastrophic loss of my family and life as I knew it, is almost all I can bear. All is lost. My fate is sealed and I will wait patiently right here for my demise. It will come for me, of that I am sure. I close my eyes out of pity for myself and retreat to the corners of my mind lost in misery.

  *****

  People are restless. My eyes snap open as the ship’s movement sharpens and pitches. A storm must be brewing. Tempests are frightful on a ship. The sides can dip into the sea profoundly and toss its inhabitants mercilessly. Falling overboard is a common fate. Water floods and soaks everything and it takes days for it to dry, leaving behind mold and acrid smells.

  Shouting is beginning above and it echoes below. The deckhands rush frantically across the wooden boards, making them squeak, and fine bits of splinters fall down upon our heads. The distinct sound of the masts, ropes, and sails as they are pulled and run through the iron turbines.

  I wrap my hands around my column as the first signs of a plunging dip of the ship hits us. People, bedding, clothing, and other personal items jettison across the floor. Rain showers down through the door in the top deck and with a sudden knock of it, it slams, dimming the light to a weak blackness, causing my eyes to adjust to my surroundings once more. Someone must have gone by to lock us in.

  High-pitched cries of children douse the sour air as water begins to flow through a crack in the keel. Whole families attach themselves like I am to any support pillar they can reach. A small child flails past me, and I stretch to grab her. Tears streak her face as I yank her to me. I pull her in front of me, and yell into her ear to hold on. She wraps her tiny arms around the thick pillar the best she can.

  The rocking changes direction and everything slides the other way. I send up a prayer for it to end soon. My arms are sore and achy from holding on so tightly. I crush my body into the little girl trying to keep her in place. My feet are soaked with cold seawater.

  An older man loses his grip and stumbles fruitlessly, thrashing his arms attempting to gain purchase. He flips over a wayward trunk and lands hard. I am too far away to aid him and would risk the child before me. This frustrates me fiercely.

  Time passes too slowly. It is in a stagnant freeze. An eternity of fighting to stay upended finally ends. The ship uprights itself. Some of the water drains away as the floor evens out and soggy possessions slip back across the dark room.

  Hordes of people rush around gathering their things or helping up the elderly. The mother of the child I have wedged between me and the column comes over in hysterics. She thanks me over and over again in an Irish accent. Her gratitude pours into me through her embrace. The child swivels in place to hug me. Her grip is tight. Her mother pulls her away to check for injuries.

  I see a young man against the wall favoring his left arm. From this distance, I can see the pain on his face and can deduce that it is broken. I stride over to him, my medical training kicking in.

  “Let me look at it,” I tell him. He nods with an agonizing strain on his face and turns away as I examine his arm. I am as gentle as I possibly can be. It is a clean break, but it must be set. The hurt will be unbearable without anesthetic or even a bottle of rum or whiskey to ease it. Everything is wet, so I have nothing to tie it with. I glance around. Many people are injured.

  “I’ll be back. Try not to move it,” I instruct. He nods in understanding with clenched teeth.

  A woman pats a sea-soaked cloth on a man’s head. He has a deep gash running along his forehead that is oozing blood. I intervene. “Like this,” I say, showing the woman how to apply pressure to stop the wound from bleeding. “You must stay like this until it stops.”

  “Thank you,” she says and gives her attention back to her duty.

  “Paul? Are you hurt?” a voice calls from behind me. It is my only friend down here, come to check on me.

  “No. But we need alcohol and dry bandages,” I say matter-of-factly. He agrees.

  I walk over to the ladder and climb. The trap door is still shut. No one has come by to open it.

  “What are you doing?” he asks in an exasperated tone.

  “Getting what we need,” I say, resolved.

  “You don’t want to get thrown in the brig!” He’s worried. “Captain Stokes is a remorseless, harsh man. He is as mean as the sea.”

  I scoff at the warning. My mind is made up; waiting for my expiration or not, I can at least help these people. I raise my hand above my head and pound my fist on the trapdoor. Nothing happens. I do it again. No one comes. Alarmed, I think that maybe all of the crew was lost in the storm when a click of the lock makes me look up. The door is thrown open and crashes against the deck. A surly-faced deckhand stares down at me, livid.

  “You know Cap’n’s rules! You stay down there!” He reaches to slam the door again, and I reach my hand out to stop it. It bends my wrist back painfully.

  “We need clean bandages and some kind of alcohol for wounds and anesthetic.”

  He gives me a gruff, perplexed twist of lips. “Anesthetic?” he questions.

  I suck in a breath to accompany my explanation. “Yes, it’s when you give someone something to make them unconscious or deaden their sensitivity.” The dullness of the crew frightens me.

  He stares at me like I am a character in a Dickens novel, possibly the ghost of Christmas past. I race around in my mind searching for how I can convince this poor ignorant soul to help me. Our one-sided conversation is interrupted by Tinker, who crouches and sticks his head down to my level.

  “Paul?” he questions.

  “Hello, Mr. Tinker.” I suck in a breath and voice my requests. “We need bandages and alcohol. Can you get it for me, or allow me to speak with someone who can?”

  “I will see what I can do,” he rushes out genially.

  Mr. Tinker closes the lid on our tomb, and I scurry back down the steps of the ancient ladder. The din is filled with concerned chatter and moans of uncertainty. The floor sloshes with residual water from the ferocious storm.

  I assess the controlled chaos. The best way is to start right where I stand and work my way around to everyone. I get to work, remembering esteemed colleagues and friends back in England and wishing silently that I could call upon their expertise. Joshua would be beneficial right now for help and guidance.

  I move methodically and professionally, checking each person, looking at bruises and cuts. A few odd stares come my way. Only one older man questions my credibility.

  “Ye can’t be more than fifteen! What you know about mendin’, boy?”

  I respectfully respond, “Only what the good Lord put in me, sir.”

  That spiritually acceptable response wins me a wrinkled smile and admittance to his person to check for wounds. The man lies down for me, and I raise his lower leg.

  “Ouch!” he cries.

  My eyes shoot to his face in surprise.

  “It’s the gout, boy. Ain’t nothin’ to do for the gout,” he comments straightforwardly. “Them there feet are old.” He points for good measure.

  I scan the room and see a trunk. It is just the right height. I reach for it, and pull the heavy wooden piece with all my might; it drags loudly and scratches the damp floor.

  “What, boy? What you gonna do wit’ that?”

  “Lift your leg, sir,” I direct. He does it with effort, and I help him. I grasp underneath his calf. He lets out
a groan of discomfort, and I gently place it on top of the chest. “This isn’t a cure but should help with the discomfort. Anytime you get a bout, raise your feet up.” I shift his leg to a more comfortable raised position and add, “You may also have a touch of arthritis.”

  The old man laughs at what he thinks is absurdity, but complies. I drop my vocational demeanor for just a moment to smile back at him and continue with my self-appointed work.

  The people on this side seem to be less afflicted. My thoughts drift to concern for the man with the broken arm and the desperate need of dry bandages for the open wounds. I have almost made my way around to the other side where those items are desperately needed.

  I shoot my eyes to him. He is watching me intently, cradling his broken arm.

  Where is Mr. Tinker?

  As if my thoughts called to him and he answered, the trap door opens and gray light pours in. A cagey, wiry man, dressed in burlap pants and a shirt that was definitely made for another much larger man, descends into our cell. He is carrying two glass bottles and cloth.

  My friend’s eyes find mine and his register disbelief that my request was granted. The sailor looks around dartingly and calls out, “Paul!”

  I step quickly toward him and Mr. Overton joins me from his position across the way. The sailor thrusts the contents of his hands at me.

  “These are from Tinker.”

  “Thank you.”

  I take them gladly, unaffected by the lack of propriety of the giver. I fully expect the sailor to traverse up the ladder into the daylight since his task is complete. Instead, he just looks at me oddly as if my presence may somehow offend him.

  I don’t have time to explore the mystery of this man’s expression. So I hand the bottles to my friend and carry the cloth to the woman who is still beating back the flowing blood of her husband.

  “Rip these into strips,” I order her. She begins the task quickly.

  I peer over at the wound; it has slowed down considerably. I examine it gently. I reach my hand back in a gesture for a bottle of the whiskey we just received, and my hand meets the rough edges of burlap.

  It startles me. This man is so close and hovering over me. I jump up, the events of last evening plaguing me.

  “I was told to help too,” he grinds out in a low, rough tone. Standing behind him is Mr. Overton. I reach around to take a bottle.

  “Oh,” I say, not sure what this is about. I take a strip of cloth and soak some whiskey into it. “Here take this and hold it on the lesion.” He blinks in confusion at me.

  Oh Lord, do they throw people overboard when they get a splinter?

  “Here.” I point to the oozing gash. “Hold this right here.” It’s like talking to an infant.

  “The man over there has a broken arm,” I say to my friend, Mr. Overton.

  “Please give him that bottle of whiskey. He must take four good swigs before I can set the bone.”

  My friend, Mr. Overton, needs no additional instruction.

  The woman continues methodically to rip up the cloth. I grab some additional strips and carry them with me as I make my rounds. I drop them where needed.

  It is time to set the broken arm. Mr. Overton waits by the side of the patient.

  “Can I help you, Paul?”

  “I’m supposed to help!” travels loudly through the underbelly of the ship. Oddly, the deckhand comes over. “The wife has the lee-chun,” he says, pronouncing the word “lesion” as if it is a word of foreign origin. His behavior is most peculiar.

  “Thank you,” I return cordially.

  The man’s arm is resting across his middle. I reach down to examine it, so I know exactly where I need to set it. The young man flinches.

  “Do you know how to do this?” he questions, worry lining his brow.

  “Yes.” He nods and stiffens with a wince. “I must shift it to set it.”

  The young man seems to summon all his energy and courage. I gently inspect the break. A splint would be most beneficial with the bandages. I scan the area.

  “What do you need, Paul?” Mr. Overton notices that I am searching for something.

  “A piece of wood, flat, like a small board.” I gesture with my hands.

  “I can get one of those,” my helper responds eagerly.

  “You can? What is your name, sir?” Mr. Overton asks.

  “They call me Mouse,” he says proudly like a small child.

  “It would be most helpful if you could do so, Mr. Mouse,” I add.

  The deckhand sent to help me, Mouse, scurries like one, up the ladder and topside.

  “A few more moments, and I can take care of this,” I assure him.

  “I’m Michael,” the injured man says. His voice is deep but carries a bit of youth to it. His hulking frame must make him appear older than he is.

  “Hello, Michael. I’m... Paul.” I nearly needed to catch myself from spewing my true name. “This is Mr. Overton.” I introduce us.

  Michael winces in pain as the ship rocks. His eyes meet mine as he peers at me intently. I kneel beside him to hold his arm steady. He is very brave; the break must be agony. I glance up at Mr. Overton, who looks sincerely troubled to see this man suffer. I can’t help but wonder what has brought each person to this voyage.

  I hear someone on the ladder and just as I suspected Mouse is lithely descending. He rushes over to us.

  “Here. Will this do?”

  “It’s perfect.” I smile at him. “Take those bandages. Pick out the longest ones.” I decide to try and distract Michael’s thoughts as I set the bone.

  “Is this your first time on a ship?”

  He shakes his head, grimacing. “No,” he grits through his teeth. I shift his arm, quickly setting it.

  “Hand me the plank.” Mouse hands it to me and I position it under the break. “Now the bandages.” I begin wrapping it.

  “I am heading home to England.” His breathing is labored from the sharp pains. Each time he looks at me, it is queerly. Michael’s gaze is admiration and confusion.

  “Is there any more whiskey?” Mr. Overton places the bottle to Michael’s lips. He takes a long pull. I finish wrapping up his arm. “Keep this as steady as possible so it will heal correctly.” He nods in understanding. “Try to rest now,” I order.

  I straighten to a standing position and scan the room, fairly satisfied that everyone has been tended to. I look back at Michael and he is staring at me.

  “Your help, Mr. Mouse, has been most invaluable. Thank you.” I attempt to redirect the attention from myself.

  Mouse puffs out his chest with pride. “Anything else I can help ye wit’?”

  “I think we are all fine for now.”

  Mouse gets close to me and sniffs. I am terribly uncomfortable with him being so close. I casually step away, hoping that he will take the hint. He slips close to me again and whispers, “Tinker thinks you’re a girl.”

  My eyes go wide at his proclamation. I don’t dwell on it because I have to make my rounds again; throwing myself into my work I recheck the passengers.

  *****

  My feet dangle from the large crate I use as a seat, and I fit the great tome in my lap. Oh, how I miss my books. The medical journals, textbooks, even my own notes. I painstakingly drafted renderings, findings, annotations, and detailed records. Everything I saw and heard in lectures and laboratory experiments found their way to paper.

  The crew positions themselves in repose, relaxing. Some are perched on the massive machinery used to ascend the ship’s sails and some lie across the sodden floor. They settle in to hear me recount the Melville tale of the great whale. I insert my index finger between the untouched pages and find page one, chapter one. I suck in a breath to carry my voice and catch the intensity of the eyes of the sailors. I begin.

  Call me Ishmael.

  Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my purse...

  A ship-hand snorts at the prose and I continue.

 
; …and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.

  As most young candidates for the pains and penalties of whaling stop at this same New Bedford, thence to embark on their voyage, it may as well be related that I, for one, had no idea of so doing. For my mind was made up to sail in no other than a Nantucket craft, because there was a fine, boisterous something about everything connected with that famous old island, which amazingly pleased me. Besides though New Bedford has of late been gradually monopolizing the business of whaling, and though in this matter poor old Nantucket is now much behind her, yet Nantucket was her great original—the Tyre of this Carthage—the place where the first dead American whale was stranded. Where else but from Nantucket did those aboriginal whalemen, the Red-Men, first sally out in canoes to give chase to the Leviathan? And where but from Nantucket, too, did that first adventurous little sloop put forth, partly laden with imported cobblestones—so goes the story—to throw at the whales, in order to discover when they were nigh enough to risk a harpoon from the bowsprit?”

  I read on and on. Taking in the emotions and responses of the crew that is clearly starved for words. Their unwavering attention clearly exudes their needs unmet by the sour captain.

  ...that I plainly saw they could not be sticking-plasters at all, those black squares on his cheeks. They were stains of some sort or other. At first I knew not what to make of this; but soon an inkling of the truth occurred to me. I remembered a story of a white man—a whaleman too—who, falling among the cannibals, had been tattooed by them. I concluded that this harpooneer, in the course of his distant voyages, must have met with a similar adventure. And what is it, thought I, after all! It’s only his outside; a man can be honest in any sort of skin. But then, what to make of his unearthly complexion, that part of it, I mean, lying round about, and completely independent of the squares of tattooing. To be sure, it might be nothing but a good coat of tropical tanning; but I never heard of a hot sun’s tanning a white man into a purplish yellow one. However, I had never been in the South Seas; and perhaps the sun there produced these extraordinary effects upon the skin. Now, while all these ideas were passing through me like lightning, this harpooneer never noticed me at all.