Patriot's Pride

by Penelope Marzec

  He shook his head to clear it. The hostility he harbored toward her attacker had him grinding his teeth together. “She must rouse soon.”

  The captain spoke up. “Some men forget their own names after such a blow.”

  “Yes, during the war I treated many like that.” If he had received a head injury, perhaps he would have forgotten about Julian. He sighed. Did he really want to forget the good years? No, he wanted to erase the nightmares, the horror, and the hopelessness.

  In truth, he wished he could turn back the clock.

  “Wake up,” he muttered under his breath to her. Engrossed in his task, he almost forgot the captain stood beside him.

  “I’ll call the men. If you convince them to work, the journey continues. Otherwise, we head back,” the captain said.

  “We are going to England,” Derrick stated. Nothing would stop him.

  * * *

  “There, there, dearie. Open your eyes again,” Mrs. Ulery’s voice cooed.

  Margaret made a supreme effort, but the brightness caused a piercing ache to shoot through her head. She struggled to talk though her mouth was dry as dust. “What…?”

  “Yer good and safe, for now. The British are gone. Praise the Lord. Absconded with many of the ship’s sailors though.”

  “British…sailors?” Had Mrs. Ulery been nipping at the doctor’s whiskey again?

  “Seems they believe they still own our country and everyone in it.” Mrs. Ulery gave a disdainful snort.

  Margaret did not want to move. Each of her limbs weighed as much as lead, but she must give the jar of salve to Derrick. He needed it for the wound on his hand.

  “They’ve left us in a pickle, as they’ve taken too many sailors, and the captain is hard pressed. He might turn back,” Mrs. Ulery stated.

  “No.” Margaret’s nerves tensed. “I must get to England...to hear the will...” She forced her eyes open, squinting at the only light in the room, which came from a lantern swinging back and forth on the ceiling. Panic swirled in her heart as she realized she lay on the table in the infirmary.

  “There, that’s a good girl.” Mrs. Ulery patted her shoulder.

  “Why am I here? I left…with the jar of salve. Where is it?”

  “The doctor and the captain carried you from the gun deck so’s you could get patched up.”

  Margaret lifted her hand and touched the bandage on her head. “What happened?”

  “Don’t you remember?”

  “I needed another jar—” She closed her eyes. She had followed him. He walked fast and she’d found it difficult to keep up with him. She had reached the infirmary. He’d opened a trunk…

  “The stitches he gave you are fine enough for quilting. He showed them to me,” Mrs. Ulery boasted. The odor of strong spirits repulsed Margaret. “Afterward, he had no time for pleasantries, for the captain ordered all able-bodied men up on deck. A decision must be made about whether to continue the journey.”

  Margaret opened her eyes and blinked. Her head hurt—in fact, her entire body ached, and her mouth felt as if she had been chewing on dry leaves. “I must get to Broadcraft Hall.”

  “The captain says we don’t have enough men to hoist the sails, tar the lines, holystone the deck, and something about spars, too.” Mrs. Ulery hiccupped. “Spars…tars…” She hiccupped again. “Even turning around to get back to where we started would be a bit of a…a…feat.”

  Margaret forced herself to sit up and winced as a knife-like pain pierced her head. “What British sailors?”

  “Oh my, my. Don’t you remember?”

  “Where is my jar of salve? Did I drop it?” Margaret looked down at the floor, but the room started spinning around when she did.

  “You should not be getting up yet.” Mrs. Ulery frowned. “Doctor Fortune says you’re to rest.”

  “I know what’s best for me.” Dizziness nearly overwhelmed her, but she did not intend to lie about all day.

  “Doctor Fortune said you might not recall anything.” Mrs. Ulery peered at her as if she had turned into a most curious oddity. “Even her name, he says. Or your name, he says. Do you know who you are?”

  “I remember…being here…and…seeing…”

  I am going to blast a hole in your head.

  Margaret’s heart quailed. Had Derrick spoken those words? Had she dreamed that?

  “You may take a bit of whiskey. Doctor Fortune said I was not to drink it all, for you might need some.” Mrs. Ulery heaved a deep sigh and looked longingly at the bottle as she held it out to Margaret.

  “A hot cup of tea would be more to my liking.” Margaret clenched her jaw and got to her feet. Pain knifed through her skull, but she held onto the table for a moment until her lightheadedness passed. “I must speak to the captain. It is imperative for me to reach England.”

  Mrs. Ulery looked relieved as she clasped the bottle close to her chest. “Doctor Fortune says I’m to keep an eye on things here. He’s a good man, he is.”

  Margaret doubted whether any whiskey would remain in the bottle much longer. The woman’s broken arm surely ached and needed tending. Who was keeping watch on Louisa? First she had to discover what was happening on deck.

  When she stepped onto the gun deck, she saw the jar of salve next to a cannon’s truck. Holding onto the cannon to steady herself, she reached down. A large dark stain marred the holystoned wood. Her stomach sloshed about uneasily as she frowned at it. Blood? She reached up to touch the bandage on her head. Her hands turned to ice and trembled.

  I am going to blast a hole in your head.

  Whose head?

  Though shivering, weak, and lightheaded, she continued up the staircase. Her family was counting upon her. She envisioned the disappointment on their faces when she returned home sooner than expected with nothing, not even a simple trinket.

  She spotted Derrick Fortune standing on the poop deck with the crowd gathered below him. His voice, full and rich, carried over the sound of the wind and the waves. His rousing rhetoric impressed her. Perhaps he’d learned to speak in such a manner, for he hailed from Philadelphia, a bustling place where the inhabitants had the opportunity to view renowned thespians on stage.

  Sometimes a small troupe of performers arrived in Shrewsbury Towne, which was next to Leedsville. However, she was far too busy with her baking to take the time to watch people act out a play.

  Though dizzy and nauseous, she sat on a low wooden chest and listened to the speech.

  Derrick’s eyes rested on her at one point and his brows rose slightly. An odd stirring swirled about her heart as she returned his gaze. His words faltered for a moment, and the crowd of passengers turned to look at her. At once, heat blazed in her cheeks with the unwanted attention. She pulled her shawl tight about her shoulders and lowered her gaze to study her shoes.

  The doctor became ever more impassioned until he reached a crescendo. “…we must step up and pull together—for otherwise, our enemy will succeed in making us prisoners—yes, prisoners of our own shores.”

  Margaret refrained from clapping at the end of his eloquent discourse, though he would not have been able to hear her at any rate. Shouts came from those in agreement and violent oaths issued from the mouths of the men who disagreed.

  “We cannot do the work of sailors.”

  “It is foolish to put our women and children in danger.”

  “Only lunatics would risk it.”

  Margaret bit her lip as her hopes crumbled into a sad heap of broken dreams. She closed her eyes and recalled the image of Broadcraft Hall engraved into the small, delicate cameo her sister always wore on her bosom. Though she had not wanted to leave home and family, she was intrigued with the thought of visiting the ancestral hall where her mother had grown up.

  Sighing, she opened her eyes. Nothing she said would change anyone’s mind. Men made momentous decisions. Women had no choices.

  The captain moved to the railing beside the doctor. “We shall put this to a vote. Those men willing to de
fend their right to freedom of the seas, raise your hands.”

  From her seated position, Margaret was unable to see who raised their hands. She offered a petition to the Lord. Perhaps this trip was ill-favored, and if that was the case, she must accept it.

  The first mate tallied the number of willing participants.

  “Now, those who wish to make a cowardly retreat,” the captain bellowed while maintaining a stern countenance.

  Margaret held her breath as they counted the responses.

  The first mate shouted the number and a sense of relief flowed through her. The count was fourteen in favor and twelve opposed.

  Still, mumblings of discontent ran among the assembled crowd. Some protested, claiming an error in the counting. The captain ordered the two groups to separate, one to the starboard side of the ship and one to the larboard. Again, they conducted a tally of those in favor and those against.

  The count went from fourteen in favor to fifteen. Those who wished to return went from twelve to eleven.

  “You fools!” Anthony screamed. “We know nothing of sailing.”

  “You don’t want to dirty your fancy clothes.” Another man sneered at him.

  The captain announced the decision to continue the journey. He reminded everyone that the voting had been fair. All able-bodied men would assist in the operations of the ship. The quartermaster would devise a schedule dividing the men into watches.

  Derrick stepped down from the poop deck and strode to Margaret’s side. “You should be resting.”

  “Mrs. Ulery told me we might be forced to turn back. She said British sailors robbed us of our men.”

  “Hmm.” He murmured as his gaze bore down upon her with relentless scrutiny. Was he able to see through to her soul? A quiver surged through her veins.

  “Why did I need stitches?” she asked.

  “You had a deep gash.”

  “There’s blood on the floor near the first cannon on the gun deck.”

  “Yes. It’s yours.”

  “D-did I fall?” she stuttered. Her mind clouded. She didn’t remember falling.

  “You were pushed.”

  “By whom?” Hysteria threatened, but she clenched her hands. She must know.

  He took in a great breath and stared up at the sky. “Do you know your name?”

  “Of course I do. What a ridiculous question.” She wavered but pressed on. “I asked you who knocked me down.”

  “What town do you come from?”

  His odd enquiry sent a chill up her spine. He knew the name of her little town. “Tell me why I woke up in the infirmary with a bad headache and a huge bandage when I went to give you some of the salve from my jar.”

  “Ah. You remember something.” He glanced at her again as a sudden smile wreathed his face.

  She bit her lip and lifted the jar from her lap. “I can put some of this into another jar for you to use on your wound.”

  He held out his hand. “Come, we’ll get a jar.”

  She refused to take his hand. “First, tell me who hurt me.”

  I am going to blast a hole in your head. The words echoed in her mind. She shuddered and wondered about him. What dark secret lay inside him? Why did he present such a gaunt appearance? Did he suffer from consumption? Again, the image of her poor Frances grieved her, but she swallowed her sorrow.

  Derrick’s hand came down to rest on her shoulder. “Yes, I will tell you the tale as we make our way to the infirmary. It is fortunate you were not badly injured by those….” He did not finish. She suspected he held back a curse due to her presence. His face reddened and a fearsome glint sparked in his eyes.

  The change troubled her. Beneath the solicitous and gentle side of him, another man lurked, one capable of thunderous oratory and angry passion. Someone willing to kill.

  Yet all men defended themselves, she reasoned. The doctor was no different than anyone else. Her uncle had been in many battles—though he never talked of them, and neither had Frances.

  She rose, unsteadily, but Derrick reached out to assist her. The warmth of being at his side lent her comfort, which she tried to deny. She must not rely on him. When they landed in England, they would part ways, for she and Mrs. Ulery must travel to Sudbury.

  “I fear you are suffering the effects of the blow to your head,” he warned as she stumbled.

  “It is only the motion of the ship causing me to trip.” The pain in her skull debilitated her. She longed to lie down, but instead she chose to sound flippant. “Mrs. Ulery told me how greatly she admired your neat stitches.”

  “I did my best with a small needle, keeping the stitches close together,” he explained. “You did such a fine job on my hand, I wanted to be as meticulous as possible on your injury, but I fear a scar is inevitable. Still, it should fade in time.”

  Her lips quivered. A scar. It was nothing, but forgetting a momentous incident disturbed her. “I shall use my salve, which is very effective. As far as this unfortunate event, perhaps it is a blessing I cannot remember it. If I knew what had happened and wrote about it to my family, they would worry.” She saw them in her mind, sitting beside the hearth in the evening, and a sharp pang of homesickness swept through her. Her heart ached far worse than her head. “I will write to them instead of all the places I visit. My letters will lift their spirits.”

  “Perhaps you can begin by telling them of the moods of the sea,” he suggested.

  “The sea…” She glanced at the rolling waves and twisted one corner of her mouth upward. “…is not smooth.”

  “No, in general, it is not, but the colors change. It is sometimes gray, often blue, and on occasions even violet. It turns black as well.”

  His voice dropped and she shuddered as if a dark shadow crossed her heart.

  “Certainly, it only turns black at night.” She forced a cheerful tone hoping to dispel all her fears.

  “No, sometimes a squall will come up, without warning.” He stared out over the water. “The sky and the water will darken…” He stopped and seemed lost in his thoughts.

  His dismal musing fueled her morose reflections. The weight of it all threatened to take her under. Using a reserve of strength she did not think she had, she drew her mouth into a wide smile, which hurt, but she refused to wallow in misery. She wanted to break away from his gloomy spell. Once this journey ended, she would be back in little Leedsville where everything was safe and familiar.

  Yet staying at Broadcraft Hall was something she looked forward to, and perhaps there would be a portrait of her mother. The mother she had never known.

  “I will not write of the sea’s moods,” she declared. “My family shall learn of Anthony and his frothy lace cuffs, Mrs. Ulery’s fondness for whiskey, and Miss Cavendish’s sweet singing. I will set down every detail, and if I am clever enough, perhaps they shall see them in their mind. If I am very adept with my words, they shall laugh.” She might include a brief depiction of Derrick, too, though she would not tell of his haunting eyes or his tender hands. A small shiver of excitement went through her, but she did her best to ignore it. “When my letter arrives, I expect them all to rejoice. Edwin will read it with great emotion—and Agnes will weep. However, the twins shall pick up sticks and duel with each other while Uncle Fitz laughs and Aunt Sally scolds. Little Harriet will pour tea for her doll and pretend it is me. My desire is for them to view this adventure through my own eyes. I believe I shall sense when they read it, for my heart will feel seven times lighter.”

  As she spoke, mist gathered in her eyes, for she loved them all so much and she would not see any of them for such a long time.

  “Do you miss them already?” One dark brow quirked upward.

  “Yes, I do.” Her voice trembled. His steady scrutiny unnerved her. Lowering her gaze, she toyed with the end of her shawl. “They are counting on me. I am glad the journey will continue.”

  “Many are not happy about the circumstances and are convinced this is a reckless idea.”

  “Anth
ony has rather smooth, pale skin in addition to his spotless and elegant clothing. I doubt he ever lifted the handle of an ax or held a scythe.”

  “Enduring a few blisters might improve his attitude.” Derrick’s tone of voice seemed to hint at his pleasure in making sure Anthony’s hands became callused.

  “I can help, too.” She needed to stay busy—even if she felt ill at the moment, but surely, her malaise would pass after an hour or two.

  “You and the other women must watch Miss Boulton,” he reminded. “In addition, I beg you to keep an eye on Mrs. Ulery for me. I fear my fine whiskey will soon be gone. Her fondness for it goes beyond the use of alleviating her pain and calming her nerves.”

  “I am negligent in elevating her arm and applying cool cloths to reduce the swelling.”

  “You need to rest.” His tone hardened.

  “If I don’t take care of Mrs. Ulery in the proper manner, you are likely to set leeches on her,” she charged.

  The grim line of his mouth warned her of his displeasure. “If we expect to reach England with a crew of men who know nothing of sailing at the moment, my time for doctoring shall be curtailed.”

  “I can take on your responsibilities,” she challenged. Inside, she quailed for she had not the strength to set bones and saw off limbs.

  “No.” He glowered with as fierce an expression as a wild animal ready to attack. “You are fortunate you retained most of your memory, but since you do not remember the incident, it is likely you’ve suffered a concussion.”

  “I will lie down for a while.” She flashed a smile at him and was quite pleased when his stern visage softened.

  “Good.” The haunted look remained in his eyes.

  Her uncle wore a similar countenance at times—not often, and only when he did not believe anyone else was nearby. He never spoke of the capture of her father, his brother, but it seemed clear the memory tormented him. What tortured Derrick? Would she find out or must his past remain a mystery to her?

  When they reached the door to the infirmary, he gave her hand a slight squeeze before letting her go.

  He rummaged around in a cabinet. “I have a spare jar or two here. Where did you learn how to make this salve of yours?”