by Beverly Adam
The lieutenant cleared his throat and added, “It was also the first time I took over full command for Captain Jackson. Aye, between fighting the gale and putting out the fire, it was pure bedlam. Among the idlers were the chief cook and his crew, as well as the captain’s steward. It was in the middle of the gale that the mizzenmast went up in flames. My men reported it had been struck by lightning. At the same time, unbeknownst to anyone, Captain Jackson’s steward, John Stafford, was swept away into the sea.” He paused in his telling, visibly upset. “The man’s disappearance went unnoticed till the next day.”
“A tragedy to be sure,” Sarah murmured. She could tell the event greatly troubled him. His brow was furrowed as he revealed the events of the storm.
Her gut instinct told her something was not right.
“How had it come to be the mizzenmast caught aflame so quickly?” she asked in concern. “Surely, your hands were well trained, so why had it not been put out before going up completely in flames?”
She saw his eyes narrow as he assessed what she had just asked him. She opened her mouth to apologize, but he spoke first.
“You’re right, of course,” he acknowledged, a gleam of respect in his eyes at her quick assessment of the situation. “There had been no noticeable lightning strikes near the ship. They had all occurred about a league off in the distance. Yet the officer in charge informed me that one of the crew had reported sighting strikes close by shortly before the mizzen caught fire. Everyone had been so occupied with saving the ship that no one noticed when the captain’s servant fell overboard.”
A tinge of regret entered his voice. “A rescue might have been attempted. Stafford was known to be one of the few hands who knew how to swim.”
To himself, he wondered why no one had seen him. He could have been rescued. If only someone had noticed.
More disturbing to his thoughts were the unanswered questions about the steward’s actions. Why had the servant not gone below deck as ordered and manned the bilge pumps? And was it truly a coincidence that the steward was washed away into the sea at the same time the mizzen caught fire?
These two disturbing events left him with an uneasy feeling. Someone aboard The Brunswick, he sensed, was not telling the truth . . . but why?
He swiftly concluded his narrative. “It was discovered Stafford was missing when he did not appear at morning mess. One of the noncommissioned crew replaced him at the captain’s table. Do not ask me who it was. I cannot now recall.”
“Captain Jackson has he, uh . . .” She hesitated, wondering how she was going to put forth this next question.
It was a private matter. One a lady was not supposed to speak about with a gentleman. But she had no choice. She had to ask.
For sure now, she thought gathering her courage, how true was the saying, which said that there are three diseases without shame—love, itch, and thirst. The one she wanted to ask about was none of these. For where did lust belong on the list?
Boldly, she decided to plunge ahead with her questioning. If it offended the gentleman, so be it. She needed to know. She could not be timid about seeking out the cause of the illness. If she waited any longer, he might take a sudden turn for the worse.
“Has Captain Jackson suffered recently from any sexual contagion? Has he been treating himself for any syphilitic complaints?”
The lieutenant looked up, startled by the question.
She met his gaze with a steady one of her own. She did not flinch. This was not some blithe question she asked. She needed to know.
As a wise woman, she had never been cloistered from learning about sexual contagions. She was familiar with the ways in which sailors slacked their penned up desires. She had at one time or another tried to treat them, often to no avail.
His dark eyebrows lifted briefly. He was surprised.
Quickly, he recovered. Nodding, he thought it over. He understood why she asked such an intimate question. It might indeed explain why Captain Jackson was in this sickly state. It was well-known that dangerous substances were recommended by naval surgeons and wise women to cure illnesses and ease pain.
Poisonous night shades, arsenic, belladonna and opium were some of the deadly plants recommended for such use. The toxins were at times effective in fighting sexual contagions. But they had to be used carefully. Improperly taken and they could quickly kill the patient.
“Nay, not to my knowledge,” he answered honestly. “He is a man dedicated to the sea. He’s had these past few months little time for female companionship. The captain knows his duty to the Admiralty, his ship, and to those serving beneath him. He’s never been one to idly fritter away his time with loose women.”
What he did not add was that Captain Jackson kept a mistress. Her name was Fiona Foxworthy, a pert, young theatrical performer barely out of her teens. She lived in a townhouse Captain Jackson rented in Portsmouth. She was the only woman in the commander’s life.
Those who did know the light-skirt in question did not ask if she had other lovers. It was well known that the talented Fiona happily amused herself with several men. These gentlemen were her security. They stood in the captain’s shadow. They were ready to take his place lest he should unexpectedly pass away at sea. That was a likelihood that could occur to any seaman, no matter how experienced. And Fiona, the daughter of a naval gunner, knew it better than most.
When Robert asked how he felt about the dancer’s fickle ways, the older officer shrugged off his young mistress’s other admirers with an insightful remark.
“Fiona needs other men to amuse her. Aye, she’s a vain little puss. I cannot reprimand her. ’Tis her way of keeping herself happy whilst I am away . . . I’ll not deny her the small group of admirers she has. Aye, when I am back on land, ’tis only then I demand she become mine alone.”
Robert put thoughts of Captain Jackson’s young mistress aside. She couldn’t be the cause of the illness. It wasn’t possible. He turned his attention back to the wise woman.
“It has been more than six months since our last visit to Portsmouth. Thus most unlikely Captain Jackson caught any contagion of that kind,” he explained. “He simply has not had an opportunity to be intimate with any woman. We’ve been out on the open sea these past several months as part of a blockade run. When we did take leave, he showed no interest in visiting the harbor trollops.”
“I see,” she said thoughtfully.
She ceased her questioning about Captain Jackson’s love life. Whatever had brought about the present illness must have happened aboard The Brunswick.
“Is he well liked by the crew?” She glanced down at the ill officer who now slept fitfully by the hearth.
It was difficult to imagine anyone wanting to harm their commanding officer. Unless someone had an evil grudge against him, there would be no reason to wish him ill. Sailors usually respected their commanders. They were like demi-gods on the high seas.
“As much as any man in his position . . . he’s a superb navigator. Controlled when under fire, a fair judge, he treats the men better than most captains. He is by all accounts a most excellent commanding officer to work under.”
“’Tis good to hear,” she said, shaking her head remorsefully.
“Why? Is he going to die?”
“Nay, I think not . . . but someone does want your commander dead.”
“What! What do you mean?” he asked, shocked at her comment.
She tried to calm him. Her mother was resting in the other room. She was recovering from lung fever. The last thing she wanted was to disturb her.
“For sure now, there is no way of my putting it more delicately. But I must tell you although it may be painful to hear . . . someone is trying to kill him. This villain may very well have started after your last victory.”
“Are you certain?”
She nodded in affirmation. Unable to look him directly in the eye, she fingered her woolen skirt.
“It was undoubtedly done by one of the ship’s hands. Only someon
e aboard could have done this shameful act. It could not have been done any other way. One of The Brunswick’s hands is a villain, sir,” she said calmly.
“And this person has taken the opportunity and added poison to Captain Jackson’s food. I could not believe it at first myself, until I looked at his tongue. Even then I had to consult with my mother to be sure. The swollen tongue, the stomach cramps, the loss of sensation in the limps, as well as the fact that no one but himself is ill. Aye, they are all signs pointing to one disturbing truth . . . your captain is slowly being poisoned to death, Lieutenant.”
She glanced over at the slumbering man. He looked fragile and pale in the glow of the hearth fire. Sadly, she shook her head.
Why would anyone wish to do him harm? she wondered. What had brought about this hateful act? Who could want to purposefully hurt the commander?
“Any other gentleman with less than the strong constitution your captain here enjoys . . .” She left the rest unsaid, shrugging her slender shoulders.
What more could she add? It was evident what would have happened.
“He would have been dead by now,” he concluded. A burning anger raged inside his calm exterior. One of The Brunswick’s crew had done this. It was an act of mutiny.
He bit out, “What you’re saying is this was no random act. It was selective, meant to bring about his sudden demise.”
She silently nodded in agreement.
He fisted his hands in pent-up frustration, ready to fight. His mouth was set in a firm line of grim determination. He had a duty to Captain Jackson. At that moment he silently vowed to discover who’d poisoned one of the most able commanders and strategists in his majesty’s service. He would personally see to it that the assassin was drawn, quartered, and finally hanged from the highest yardarm for his crime.
“No one treats a commanding officer in his Majesty’s Royal Navy this way,” he declared. “And no one lays a finger against my commander without receiving retribution. Not while I live and breathe! This treasonous act will not go unpunished. I will ferret out the villainous snake and make him pay dearly for his treachery!”
Chapter 2
Sarah sat down beside the commander, clasping and unclasping her hands. She looked over at the deathly ill sea captain. This healing was going to be more difficult than lancing a boil. All her expertise and skill with the sick and dying was about to be put to practice on the captain. She seldom gave much hope for the recovery of such a gravely ill man.
Aye, it’s going to take a miracle. And will this English officer trust me enough to let me try and heal his commander?
“He’s very ill, Lieutenant Smythe,” she said plainly. “I’m going to need your help if we are to save his life. He is in very grave danger.”
“I’ll do anything you ask, if you think you can save him.”
“Good.” She nodded approvingly. “Some of the requests I may ask of you will—well, they’ll be a wee bit unconventional for an Englishman.”
She looked him over carefully, trying to discern his thoughts about what she’d just said. He didn’t respond. His face remained emotionless, indecipherable.
“They may, however, save your commander’s life,” she added.
“Then I will follow your instructions to the letter, ma’am.”
He bowed in respect.
“Unquestioningly, Lieutenant?” she prodded. She wanted to make certain he would help her. She didn’t need some high-handed English officer getting in her way.
Even if he does have, she had to silently admit to herself, a form that the legendary Irish giant Finn Mac Cool himself would have appreciated. Aye, the first mate standing before her was easy on the eye, with well-defined muscles and manly grace. He had an undercurrent of focused energy. It silently bespoke of his ease in giving commands and having them obeyed without question. He was clearly a very dangerous man. This was not someone who would tolerate being crossed.
She had to be cautious. For who knew what harm he might choose to do if his captain should suddenly die? Perhaps he would take all his frustrations out on her?
Warily, she eyed the muscles bulging up from his arms—aye, the outward form of a man never revealed the heart inside. He may be pleasing to the eye, but what of his character?
“I will do whatever you ask,” he said, as if reading her thoughts.
His tone of voice told her he would not accept any refusal on her part. He was determined. She would be the one to heal his comrade.
“As if they were orders given directly by him . . .” With a nod, he indicated the sleeping form of his superior officer.
“Then let us begin . . . I will have to leave ye and go to the teach an alais.”
He gave her a puzzled look.
She smiled and explained, “It is the sweat hut where we’ll try to remove the poison harming your captain. But first, I must fetch water and peat. We’ll take him when the gale has abated. In an hour’s time, it should be ready.”
He nodded, not looking at her.
She could tell he did not fully comprehend the enterprise they were about to undertake. She hoped he was a man of his word and would do what she asked. This was going to be complicated. The patient was already in a fragile state.
Aye, this English officer has no choice but to obey me—that is if he truly wishes to save his commander’s life.
* * *
The harsh rain had diminished to a hazy mist. Cold mud seeped unpleasantly up through her wooden clogs. The wind had eased enough to let her walk unimpeded to the well. There she drew fresh water into a bucket.
She carried it into a small beehive-shaped stone building. It was built from island rock as the cottage was. The sweat hut was about seven feet high in a circular corbel shape with a small chimney hole in the top of the stone-slated roof.
She lit a fire in the center using dried peat. It would take a few hours to heat the hut sufficiently for its purpose. It would be used to sweat the poison out of the ailing seaman.
These stone huts were called cathair or caiseal. They’d been built by the corbelling process. It required placing one stone on top of another, bringing them closer and closer to one another as they were stacked. The huts were finished when they were finally roofed with long slabs of stone, filling in the remaining gaps on the curved top.
Spaces had been purposefully left between the stones for air ventilation. The hut was heated by the open turf fire located in the middle. No mortar or mud swaddle was used. The stones were placed in an outward manner to cause the rain to smoothly run down the structure. Despite its small size, it was a solid dwelling.
Three hours later, she gently woke the first mate. He was dozing by the hearth fire by his captain’s side. His dark head lay against his arm. She suspected that he was used to grabbing sleep whenever he could.
She shook his shoulder.
He sleepily opened his eyes, re-orienting himself to his surroundings. The wise woman stood next to him. The peat fire in the hearth, he noted, was now a pile of low burning embers.
“’Tis time,” she said. “You must undress yourself and Captain Jackson. Clothe him in this nightshirt. The hut will be very hot, much like a steaming lobster pot. You need not be afraid of catching lung fever.”
She went ahead of him and removed the burnt out peat from the sweat hut with a small shovel. She laid down sweet smelling dried rushes and placed them on the dirt floor to protect their feet. Refilling the bucket of water, she placed it by the open fire. All was now ready for the ailing sea captain.
Dressed only in his white naval breeches, Lieutenant Smythe hoisted Captain Jackson up to a standing position. He half-carried the ill man to the sweat hut. The captain had lost a great deal of weight since his sickness began.
The entryway to the building was small and tight. Robert had to crawl in on his hands and knees to enter. Muscles straining, he pulled the captain in after him.
It was tight and cramped inside. This was the first time he’d been in one of the cai
seal. He eyed the walls in admiration at the symmetrical way the stones closely fit together. Carefully, he sat Captain Jackson on a low wood bench.
Sarah joined them. She wore a thin cotton camisole. A black wool shawl known as a comfy was wrapped protectively about her. She took the long garment off and seated herself.
He was about to question her attire, she could tell, but tactfully refrained.
The lieutenant kept to his promise not to question her peculiar decisions. She could not look at him directly in the eye. She lowered her eyelashes demurely, aware of his half-unclad state.
The intimacy of the situation was not one she was used to. Usually, she treated elderly patients, sick children, ailing mothers, and the occasional diseased seaman. Having a handsome, half-clad English officer seated next to her was not customary.
She’d been brought up in a household comprising only of women. She was keenly aware of his masculine presence. He was different, foreign to her senses. Like a male version of a siren, he was beautiful and completely enticing.
Although she was considered to be a bit of a flirt back in her home village, enjoying exchanges of friendly banter with the opposite sex, she nonetheless respected polite society’s strict conventions. She never did anything that would set the gossipmongers’ tongues clacking. She respected herself and her work as a wise woman too much to risk any negative talk.
Experience taught her that the villagers were suspicious of her, an outsider. She had to be above reproach around her patients’ watchful families. She never gave them any reason to doubt her motives, but she was also dedicated to saving lives and sometimes that meant overcoming any feelings of modesty on her part. She knew that allowing Lieutenant Smythe to see her barely clad figure in the thin cotton chemise was unusual and brazen. But she quickly shrugged off any thoughts of wrongdoing. This is not the time to be timidly prudish or troubled by the conventional rules of polite society. Hadn’t he asked for her help? Now she was going to provide it.
