“Her cousin was unable to do so.”
“Miss Cavendish was not well herself after a bout with seasickness.”
He stood and drew out a small vial of smelling salts. “Perhaps we should tie her down first.”
“Attacking her frightened her,” Margaret reminded him. “Let’s try gentleness and compassion.”
“Those with manias can be surprisingly strong.”
“She didn’t get away from you. Did she?”
“No, but you’ll never be able to handle her.”
“I will not use force. I possess something far more powerful.”
“What?” His gaze narrowed with suspicion.
“Kindness and prayer.” She snatched the vial of smelling salts from him.
CHAPTER FOUR
The next morning, Derrick brooded as he stood on the poop deck. His hand ached, but his interactions with Margaret troubled him far more. For a few moments after she had tended his wound, he thought they came to a truce—of sorts. What a fool his was. She was bound and determined to do things her way.
She believed prayer capable of healing Louisa’s mania. He prayed for Julian. Julian died. Either God did not exist or He was not listening and did not care.
Every day, new discoveries about the natural world appeared. The mysteries of the earth might be unlocked and used for the good of all people. The difficulty lay in the human race. They tended to be a superstitious lot who were afraid of everything. They also believed in total nonsense. Many who read Gulliver’s Travels thought it was a true story.
They relied on pleas sent to heaven. He would never do so again. He now put his faith in science. Solutions to the world’s ills occurred through careful study and diligent research.
A large hand came down on his shoulder and startled him. “Mr. Spillane told me of your injury.”
“It’s nothing.” Derrick turned and faced the captain. “You look as if you haven’t slept a wink.”
“I nodded off a few times. I need little more. Miss McGowan informed me that she, Mrs. Rook, Mrs. Ulery, and Miss Cavendish would watch over Miss Boulton.”
“The women do not understand the risk they are taking.” Derrick ground his teeth together. “There’s no telling what delusions are in Miss Boulton’s mind. She can overpower any of them.”
“Trust them. They are sensible. If they run into trouble, they will call upon you. For now, we have bigger fish to fry.” The captain handed him the glass. “Look at the ship which followed us all night. We’re running as fast as we can, but she’s gaining on us.”
Derrick peered through the glass. The ship flew the British flag. A cold band of steel clamped around his heart. “Are they after us?”
“We altered our course several times during the night and they followed in a disturbingly precise manner. We’re in for trouble.”
“The British have banned cargo from our new republic.”
“They want our men.”
The muscles in Derrick’s forearm tensed as he gripped the railing. Until Julian’s death, he believed he led a blessed life. Cursed described his existence now. Would he never study under the esteemed John Hunter? Would his life end on the Prosperity?
He glanced at his bandages and thought of Margaret’s soft hands on his. She had soothed the sting of the needle and the pain by her tender ministrations. Her opinionated attitude angered him, but her touch had the healing properties of a medicinal balm.
“Should we inform the passengers?” he asked.
“They want sailors. Able-bodied men who know the ropes. They’ll be on us in a half-hour or less. What do you think, doctor? This is your father’s ship.”
“They have more guns.” He counted them. Undoubtedly, they had more skill in sending other ships to the bottom of the sea, too.
“We shall prepare to heave to if they shoot a signal, which I’ve no doubt they will. As you are a doctor, they might decide they need you as well.”
“I’ll not go.”
“They won’t give you any say in the matter.” The captain explained. “I strongly suggest you make yourself scarce.”
“I’m no coward.” Aye, but he was a quitter. He lost the will to fight after Julian’s death.
The captain’s stare drilled into him. “We need a doctor on this ship and your father would not be pleased with me if I lose you.”
Derrick averted his gaze to the holystoned deck. Julian had been the favorite, not him. Still, reaching England was his goal. Getting kidnapped would ruin his plans.
“I’ll be in the infirmary if you need me,” he stated.
“A poor place to hide for a doctor,” the captain mused. “For it is far too obvious.”
Derrick clamped his teeth together and fought to keep his anger inside.
Suddenly, the captain smiled. “Ah, here is the lovely Miss McGowan, and it appears as if she has a gift in her hands. I think you should go to her cabin and pretend to be a passenger.”
“I’ll get my pistol first,” Derrick growled.
“No need to arm yourself. It’s better if you appear as an unarmed passenger.” The captain put the glass to his eye again. “Hurry, it won’t be long.”
Margaret waved to him from the quarterdeck and Derrick hurried down the ladder. He was going to get his pistol, which was in the infirmary, whether the captain liked it or not.
“I’ve a special salve I brought along with me for the journey,” she held up an earthenware jar. “It is especially helpful for cuts such as yours. I’ve used it on the twins and they barely have any scars.”
“I must get something. Do you mind telling me about the mixture as we walk?” he asked.
“Of course not.” She hurried along beside him. “Do you have an empty jar? I will spoon some of this into it for you. You should apply it twice a day to the wound.”
“What are the ingredients?” He sought to shorten his steps as she became breathless trying to keep up with his long strides, but there was little time to spare.
“Lard, honey, lavender…”
He didn’t pay attention to anything she said. He must get his pistol.
“Why are you in such a hurry?” she exclaimed. “I can’t keep up.”
He ran into the infirmary and opened the trunk. He pulled out the weapon and began loading it.
Her startled gasp did not stop him.
“A British ship has followed us. They’ll press our sailors into service on their ship.”
“But—but we won the war.”
“They still consider us British citizens.”
“That’s outrageous.”
The sudden blast of a cannon sounded nearby and the ship shuddered. His mouth grew as dry as the dust on a battlefield.
“Will they sink us?” She whispered in a voice edged with terror.
“What you heard is the warning shot. The captain will heave-to.”
“Are you going to shoot them?” she asked in a choked voice.
“Not unless I am forced to protect myself.” Visions swam through his head of the battles he had fought in the war. The smoke, the blood, and Julian at his side. Why did he have to die? His throat ached.
“Go to your cabin with the other women and lock the door,” he ordered. “Do not make a sound.”
He expected her to scream hysterically and run from the room, but instead she drew herself up.
“I am able to load and shoot a fowling piece. I can kill ducks at one hundred yards. If we are under attack, I will not cower in my cabin.” Holding her jar of salve, she rushed out of the infirmary before he had time to finished ramming down the ball.
* * *
The ship’s bell tolled a frantic warning as Margaret dashed to the stairway and clambered upward to the gun deck. Her heart thundered, but she did not intend to hide. While no man would hand her a weapon, she knew how to assist in swabbing a cannon after firing. In his last days, Frances had explained the entire procedure to her. Neither of them had known when, or if, the war would end. He had wan
ted to make sure she could protect herself and her family.
He’d also enumerated the dangers. “’Tis better for a woman to seek a safe, sturdy place far from the range of musket balls and cannon shot.”
Other than joining the rats in the bilge, hiding could prove to be a fruitless endeavor. Better to stand and fight. It was preferable to drowning.
On the gun deck, a crowd of bewildered passengers huddled together.
“What is happening?” one woman called out.
“Pirates!” Someone shouted and the ruckus grew into a riot. More women screamed and some fainted as general chaos ensued. Many people decided hiding—both themselves and their valuables—would be the best course of action. They scattered in every direction.
Margaret’s heart quailed, but she shoved her way through the frantic crowd, intent on lending her assistance in any way necessary. When she reached the stairway leading to the upper deck, six men in British sailor’s uniforms confronted her.
“All sailors on deck!” The men called out. Fixed bayonets gleamed on the end of their muskets.
“What are you doing?” Margaret glared at the men as she stood at the foot of the stairway, blocking their path.
“Any sailor on this ship is a British subject and must serve in the Royal Navy.” The man at the head of the column announced.
An audible gasp arose from the passengers who had not yet fled.
“That is absurd.” Margaret’s anger sparked. “We won the war.”
“Step aside.” A sailor thrust her out of his way.
Caught off guard by the man’s strong arm, she lost her balance and toppled backward. She screamed in fright until her head collided with something sharp. She blacked out.
When she came to, she found herself staring into the hardened features of a leering British sailor. His rough, hot hand squeezed her chin. Panic shot through her.
“Ain’t you pretty. Right saucy wench, I’ll bet.” His sordid smirk had her stomach churning.
“Let ’er go, Will.” Another sailor tugged at his jacket. “They got all the sailors they want.”
“Won’t take a minute to kiss her.” He leaned closer.
Margaret gave him a resounding slap on the cheek.
For a moment, he appeared startled as he rubbed his jaw and stood up.
“The bell’s ringing, Will,” the other sailor whined. “The quartermaster’ll bloody our hides.”
Margaret tried to back away, but pain knifed through her skull. Dizzy and disoriented, she doubted her ability to stand.
Without any warning, Will grabbed her wrists, yanked her off the floor, and pinned her to the wall.
“No one slaps Will Fister and gets away with it.” His eyes blazed with hatred.
“I ain’t getting flogged.” His companion ran up the staircase.
Will gave a wicked laugh and pressed Margaret’s hands against the bulkhead with such force, she feared he would snap them in two. Her eyes refused to focus. The deck seemed to spin round and round. She barely clung to consciousness.
“What’s yer name?” he asked.
“Margaret…”
“I’m gonna teach ya a lesson.” His fetid breath nauseated her. “You’ll want to die when I’m through with you.”
“No…I must…Broadcraft Hall…the earl…” Ice ran in her veins while her head throbbed and her legs threatened to collapse beneath her. Unable to escape, she fought to keep from becoming insensible.
“The earl of Broadcraft Hall.” He laughed.
“M-my grandfather…” Slipping away by inches, she struggled to stay alert.
“Aha! I got me a real prize!” He crowed.
“Please…leave me be.” The door to her mind began to close.
“Don’t matter who your grandfather is. I’m going to punish you for slapping me.”
The blood pooled in her feet and everything faded away into grayness. The world about her vanished except for the sound of one voice.
“I am going to blast a hole through your head.”
She passed out and heard nothing more.
CHAPTER FIVE
Sweat poured from Derrick’s brow as he held his finger on the trigger. If he shot this wretched excuse for a man, a hangman’s noose waited for him. Though the idea of ridding himself of his nightmares forever had some merit, he knew shame would weigh heavily on his mother and father. He did not want to be the cause of more sorrow for them. His act might destroy the safety of everyone aboard the Prosperity as well. Aside from that, his vow to find a way to end the scourge of sepsis would be an empty promise. He must not allow that to happen.
He narrowed his eyes. He dare not show any weakness. He must not allow the consequences to influence his decision.
“You don’t deserve to live.” Derrick growled low while training the muzzle on the man’s head.
“Is she your wench?” The British sailor taunted.
“Put her down slow and easy.” Derrick spoke between clenched teeth. “Otherwise your brains will splatter all over the deck.”
The man obeyed, placing Margaret’s insensible form beside the cannon.
Rage held Derrick on the edge of madness. He mustered every ounce of his strength to prevent himself from following through on his threat. Still, his weapon pressed against the reprobate’s temple. “If she doesn’t wake up, I will hunt you down and make sure you never touch another woman with your scurvy hands.”
The man glared at him with hatred burning in his eyes, but he said nothing.
“Go.” Derrick ordered. “Do not turn around, for I will obliterate your worthless face if I chance to glance upon it again.”
The sailor fled up the stairway.
Derrick aimed the pistol at the stairway for half a minute until the bell tolled once more and the sound of a slow chantey indicated the British ship’s preparations to depart had begun.
He rushed to Margaret’s side and examined her. A large gash marred the scalp above her ear. Yet her skull did not yield to his probing fingers.
Captain Long came down the stairway and hurried to him. “What happened?”
“I caught a blasted sailor threatening her. She blacked out from a blow to the head.”
“Those men are the scum of the earth.” He swore.
“I wanted to blast his brains out.”
“The dogs would hang you on the yardarm.”
“I know.” Derrick began to gather Margaret in his arms.
“Let me help you.” The captain bent down. “She’s a slip of a thing. We best be gentle with her.”
“Thank you, sir.” His throat closed up as he stared into her soft face. What had she said about her grandfather? With his emotions in turmoil, her whispered words barely registered in his mind.
With care, he and the captain lifted her from the floor and carried her to the infirmary. A shaft of sorrow weighed on him. He realized how much Margaret’s quicksilver eyes and golden hair brightened his soul with a touch of radiance, lifting it from the depths of grief.
Placing her on the table in the infirmary, he set to work immediately, gathering all he needed. He must clean and stitch the wound before he bandaged it. He remembered how tenderly she had treated his injury. He would be as gentle as possible with hers.
The captain rocked back and forth on his heels. “I wanted to let you know we’ll be turning around, son.”
Derrick’s head shot up. “I cannot go back. I must study under John Hunter.”
“We’ve lost half of our crew. We’ve not enough men to hoist the sails.”
“I will help.” It was no idle boast. His father taught him sailing from an early age.
“You are one man.”
“I shall enlist the aid of the other male passengers.”
“They know nothing of ropes and spars.”
“They can learn.”
“It will take time.”
“We have plenty of that. Besides, as I recall, you are carrying cargo for my father as well.”
“Yes, but all of it is bound for France. The English refuse our goods.”
“Yet, they take our men.” Julian was a casualty of a British gun. The pain welled up from the depths of his soul. He wished he had pulled the trigger and sent the sailor to the Devil where he belonged.
His hands trembled with pent up fury. He grabbed the rail on the table and squeezed it until the spasmodic shaking ended.
“I need at least fifteen more men,” The captain stated.
Derrick bit back a curse. “They took that many?”
“Aye and the hardiest of the lot, too.”
“Gather the other passengers and explain the situation. We cannot return.” He must find a way to stop the infections—for Julian.
“Many of the men on this ship get off in London. How am I to transport the cargo to France?”
“I daresay hardy men are looking for work in England.”
“Aye, but I can know nothing of their character. Would you trust an Englishman?”
“I am sure, after all these years as a captain, you are able to size up a man with one glance.”
The captain sobered. “Aye, I had a knack for it once, but I’ve lost it. The war and this British harassment churns up my insides until I am nearly blind with fury.”
Derrick nodded. Hatred ate a man up from the inside, but so did grief, and there was no cure for either malady.
He parted the golden strands of Margaret’s hair and a sort of wonder took hold of him despite his agitation. How strange.
“Even if you convinced every man on this ship to lend a hand, few will dare climbing to the top of the mast.” The captain went on.
“They need a leader. That will be me.” He was fearless in battle. In the past. Until Julian’s death. Still, he would have killed that sailor today if he had harmed Margaret any further.
He poured vinegar onto her wound and cleaned it gently. His hands held steady. What might she look like in satin and lace? With jewels and ribbons?
As he worked, the words she spoke to the sailor suddenly rang clearly in his mind.
Broadcraft Hall...the earl...my grandfather...
Preposterous. How could she be the granddaughter of an aristocrat? He frowned. Was her dull, simple clothing a disguise?
Patriot's Pride Page 5
