“I learned about herbs from Colleen, the Irish woman who raised my sister and I after our mother died. Once the ache in my head ceases, I’ll take over your burden in caring for those who are ailing,” she plunged on with defiance.
“You are not a doctor.”
“Neither are you,” she countered. “You told me you were a surgeon.”
“My apprenticeship was on the battlefield. It was necessary for me to treat men with a variety of illnesses. My knowledge of the human body greatly exceeds yours.”
She nearly laughed, but it would cause the pain in her head to escalate. She assumed he intended to make her blush. However, she had grown up on a farm. “I am thoroughly acquainted with the ills of all sorts of bodies, human and animal.”
“I attended lectures given by learned men. You know nothing of science.”
Fire sparked inside her as her temper soared, which sent a shooting agony right through her skull. “If science demands you drain the life blood from those who are suffering, it is of no use.”
“It holds the key to salvation,” he growled.
She blinked in utter astonishment. “Only the Lord can grant salvation.”
With his jaw clamped together tightly, he turned and stamped away.
CHAPTER SIX
One week later, Derrick stood on the poop deck and fought to keep his eyes open during the darkest watch of the night. He wanted nothing more than to crawl into his hammock. His father’s claim concerning the healing properties of a long voyage at sea proved valid. The physical toil of this journey allowed him to sleep without dreaming. He also ate, though he barely tasted the food. He shoveled it into his mouth and hoped to snatch another serving before someone else grabbed it.
He spent countless hours training the men in their shipboard duties. They proved capable of handling the jobs tolerably well. Some remained sullen, particularly Anthony, but the work got done and the ship sailed eastward.
The damp chill of the North Atlantic cut into his bones as the night wore on, and he shivered. The wind had died down early in the evening, and heavy fog surrounded the Prosperity. The quartermaster set every man on watch. With all the lanterns lit, their vessel moved slowly through the darkness. The waves barely rippled the surface of the water. The sails caught the drifting mist along with the slight breeze, lending an eerie touch to the scene.
Derrick remembered the same sense of nervous anticipation coursing through him on the night before the horrendous battle which changed his life. He sensed doom looming in the black water, somewhere barely out of sight.
Instructed to stay alert, the men’s faces reflected the tense mood on deck.
“The glow of the lamps shines in the ice. Watch for it.” The quartermaster explained. “Sometimes, you can hear it. Listen for the sound of ice, men.”
Derrick’s father had told him many tales of ships and icebergs.
“After the terrible winter we had, there are likely to be more of them this spring. You must be alert. Sailing through them is like threading the eye of a needle,” his father warned.
Derrick chanced a glance at the sky above. If he still believed, he would say a prayer and trust in God’s mercy, but he knew nothing would keep the ship safe excerpt for watchful eyes and quick action.
Forcing himself to stay awake and vigilant, he recited the verses of the poem by John Donne quietly.
Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,
For, those, whom thou think’st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell’st thou then?
One short sleepe past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
He stared out at drifting fog. Once, the poem had meant much to him and comforted him. He had often recited it to his mother. At first, they both held onto hope, believing Julian had gone to a better place of continual light where God’s face shone upon him.
As time wore on, doubt swallowed all his faith. His brother had suffered terribly in his last few days, and he had watched him die. Helpless and riddled with guilt, he had prayed—on his knees—for hours until death ended the agony. He had thought of ending Julian’s life himself, but the resolve needed to complete the terrible deed failed him.
His brother died for the cause of freedom. The New Republic was bought with a horrible price. Years of suffering, along with the high toll of the maimed and dead, rid the country of royal domination.
They were free now. Or were they? The English kidnapped their men but refused to trade with them.
His thoughts drifted to Margaret. Was she the granddaughter of an earl? Would she renounce her citizenship in America and take her place among the elite who lauded their birthright over everyone else?
She spoke without reservation, as if she was his equal. Was her humble appearance a disguise?
What did she care about all who had suffered in the war? Did she understand why the war had been fought? Bitterness gnawed at him.
A heavy hand came down on his shoulder and startled him.
“Hard thing to lose a brother, my boy, but life goes on,” the captain whispered.
Derrick nodded and the two of them stood at the rail, peering into the swirling fog and listening.
He did not doubt the older man’s sincerity. The captain’s brother had had a ship, which ran aground in a winter storm. The three survivors of the tragedy had praise for the heroism of the man at the helm.
Had Julian been a hero? Perhaps. He had been fearless. But I am a coward.
“In the end, there are wonders such as we’ve never imagined,” Captain Long whispered. His mustache and full beard did not hide his peaceful visage in the rays of light coming from the nearest lamp.
Derrick doubted the glorious promise of those words. After leaving the battlefield with his brother’s body, he did not return to the army. A friend and fellow physician diagnosed him with melancholia.
“You made these passengers into sailors.” The captain nodded. “Even those who wanted to turn around are pulling their weight.”
“Most of them spent their lives working with their mouths and not their muscles.” Though his family possessed a measure of wealth, he and Julian did chores. Derrick did not appreciate it at the time, but in swinging an axe, he’d developed strength. In surgery, speed was of the essence. His powerful sinews gave him the ability to saw through bones quickly.
Save me, Derrick.
He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping to make the memory vanish—but it did not. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. He needed to watch for icebergs.
“Aye, one trained sailor does more work than two of these passengers,” the captain mused. “Still, they are pulling as much weight as they can.”
Again, silence fell between them. With sounds muffled in the dense atmosphere, the ship glided onward and the fog gathered even more closely. Prickles of fear rose up on Derrick’s neck.
“Are you not worried?” he asked.
The captain ignored his question. “How is Miss McGowan doing?”
“I have seen little of her.”
“Ah. I thought so, for she scurries away like a frightened mouse when she spies your tall form.”
Derrick clenched his jaw. “Mrs. Ulery comes to visit me often for a hearty glass of whiskey and reports Miss McGowan suffers with headaches, though that is not surprising considering the blow she endured.” Why wouldn’
t she listen to him and rest?
“I would curse those English dogs if my own soul did not hang in the balance,” the captain growled.
Derrick no longer troubled himself over his immortal essence. “I sorely wished I had been able to end that sailor’s wickedness.”
“The life of everyone on board would be forfeit if you had.”
“Only the cold muzzle of the gun pressed against his forehead made him pause in his deed.”
“It is tempting to repay evil with evil,” the captain acknowledged. “Though I have had enough of war, if the British persist in pressing our men into service, we will be called to remind them we are no longer subjects of their king.”
The thought of going to war again sickened Derrick. The toll for him had been too great.
The sound of something…something like singing…but without a melody drifted on the cold, damp air in the foggy night.
He glanced at the captain who nodded back at him.
Shouts came from a cluster of men at the bow.
“A glow!”
“Dead ahead!”
A collective gasp went up from all on deck.
Terror slid down Derrick’s spine. He ran to the bow with the captain behind him. The men directed the lanterns at a mountain of ice looming before them. The wisps of fog floated away to reveal the frozen wall.
“What a monster.” The captain muttered.
“There’s not enough wind to turn.” Derrick barely ground out the words as panic gripped him.
“An old trick might help.” The captain hurried off, and in a moment, he shouted orders and bells rang. While some of the men went aloft to the sails, other took their stations at the cannons on the larboard side.
Derrick ran below to the gun deck and stood at the same spot where Margaret had fallen but a week ago. The men had learned their lessons well. With concentrated precision, they readied the cannons to fire. Suddenly, the Prosperity made a sickening lurch. The sound of splintering wood came to everyone’s ears along with the order to fire.
The big guns thundered. With each successive blast, the ship rocked.
Derrick’s ears rang for several moments afterward, but it did not matter, for he and the other men prepared to fire again. However, orders came to cease.
The smoke cleared. He glanced around as the ringing in his ears diminished.
“The truck rolled over Anthony’s foot on the recoil!” one of the men shouted at him and yanked at his sleeve.
He stared down the length of the gun deck. Anthony lay moaning in pain on the deck.
While Derrick wished to know how badly damaged the ship was and whether it would sink, he hurried to the victim.
“No!” Anthony yelled when he saw him. “Don’t cut off my foot!”
Derrick steeled his heart against the bad memories. Most people thought of him as no more than a butcher.
“Do you want me to look at it?” he asked.
“All right, but don’t cut if off.” Anthony grimaced.
“I must slice open your boot.”
“These boots came from the finest cobbler in New York.”
“I’m sure London’s cobblers are as talented.”
Both men were startled as cheers broke out behind them.
“The ship ain’t gonna sink!”
“Only lost the bowsprit, the jibs, and the figurehead!”
“The captain says it can be repaired.”
“We moved away from the iceberg.”
“And broke it in two!”
A chill slid up Derrick’s spine. Two icebergs instead of one? Isn’t that worse?
He asked several men to take Anthony to the infirmary.
“Why must I go there?” Anthony questioned with fear in his eyes.
“I need a sharp knife.”
“Only for my boot!” Anthony pleaded as they carried him away.
Derrick bounded to the upper deck. The layer of fog had dissipated. Bright stars in the sky above shone down while the hint of dawn peeked out on the horizon.
The captain and Oliver stood at the bow, surveying the damage.
“Any casualties, doctor?” The captain was far more formal when others surrounded them.
“Yes, sir. Anthony’s foot went under the wheels of the cannon truck.”
“Good. Only one. I pray his injury will heal readily.” The captain took in a deep breath. “I took a risk, but the cannons did move us away from the iceberg.”
“Where did you get the idea?” Derrick asked.
“From your father.” The captain beamed. “When I was his first mate, we came upon similar circumstances. However, we got away without any damage. As it is, all our jibs are down, but Oliver thinks he can remedy the situation in a few days.”
“Perhaps...four…” The carpenter hedged.
“Three if you do not chat with the lovely Miss Cavendish,” the captain stated in jest.
The carpenter’s lowered his face in a sheepish manner.
Derrick excused himself to tend his patient. As he rushed down to the next deck, he happened upon a white strip of unraveled bandage trailing off along a corridor. Since several rolls of bandages were missing from his cabinet, a blaze of anger fired up in him. He pressed his lips together. Now, he would catch the thief.
He rushed forward and almost collided with Margaret, who was rolling up the bandage.
He glared at her. “You’re the one stealing my bandages!”
* * *
Margaret froze in the process of winding the strip of cloth into a neat roll. “It is not I but poor Miss Boulton. She believes she has a rash on her legs, though she will not allow me to look.”
“What about the other rolls?”
“There were more?”
“Ten.”
“Oh, dear.” Margaret bit her lip. “I did think Miss Boulton appeared somewhat plumped up and rather disheveled as of late—”
“I’ll settle this right now.” He strode off toward the cabin.
Margaret ran after him. “No! She’s terribly afraid of—of—everything.”
He swiveled and spoke as a muscle twitched angrily in his jaw. “I am a doctor. In cases like this, Dr. Rush said one must be firm. Look them right in the eye and make unequivocal statements.”
“The last time you used your method you wound up with a terrible injury,” Margaret recounted. “Miss Boulton is not aggressive, but she is fearful. She mutters strange things with no reason behind them, and she spends an inordinate amount of time in her bunk.” She had never witnessed anyone behave in such a manner.
He frowned. “Why didn’t you tell me about her rash sooner?”
“You would probably bleed her. Besides, you are thoroughly occupied with shipboard duties.”
“You avoid me.”
“I do not.” Her cheeks heated with the lie.
“Bring Miss Boulton to the infirmary. Don’t let her take any more of my bandages. I may be forced to amputate Anthony’s foot!”
Her soul chilled. “What happened to Anthony?” she asked in a near whisper.
“Hand me the roll!”
She gave him the bandages. “Do you need my assistance?”
“You?” He shook his head. “You hate the sight of blood.”
“I believe bloodletting is not an effective treatment for all illnesses.” She thought of Frances, pale and cold. Pain stabbed at her heart.
“Nothing is as effectual in dealing with dropsy,” he retorted.
“Perhaps, but one method cannot be used for every disorder.” She swallowed against the lump in her throat and forced strength into her words. “Bleeding is not helpful for consumption.”
Frances, with his fevered brow, cold hand, and sunken cheeks, suffered in terrible agony during his last days. Though pain squeezed her heart at the memory, she straightened her spine and glared at Derrick.
Suddenly, she realized the change in him. He was not as pale and gaunt as he had appeared at the beginning of the journey and his skin was bronzed.
He shot her a curious look, as if he noticed her studied scrutiny. His face hardened once more. “If I amputate, Anthony will lose a considerable amount of blood.”
“I am not the sort of woman who faints if that’s what you’re concerned about.” She gnawed at her lip. She had blacked out. She could not remember the sailor who injured her.
Derrick shifted his weight from one foot to the other as furrows deepened in his brow. “Mrs. Ulery tells me of your headaches.”
She thinned her lips with annoyance. The older widow enjoyed talking—almost as much as she relished whiskey.
“A bit of pain after such an injury is normal.” She had trouble sleeping and seemed extraordinarily lethargic as well, but she told herself those problems stemmed from this tiresome and stressful journey.
“You were insensible and failed to be able to recall the incident.” The lids lowered on his soulful eyes until she no longer saw her reflection in their depths. “You should be resting—not tending to others.”
“Idle hands are the devil’s tools,” she shot back.
In a surprise move, his hands wrapped around hers, swallowing them in warmth. His touch flowed into her like a liquid balm.
“Even your God commanded his people to rest.”
A strange tingle crept up her arms and along her spine as he held her palms in his long, tapered fingers, which were almost delicate except for the callouses and the black thread stitches at the edge where she had closed his jagged wound.
“Yes, but….”
“You avoided me this past week.” His expressive eyes gazed down at her and tugged at her sympathy.
She lowered her gaze and stared at the tips of her shoes. “I am kept quite active offering aid and compassion to my fellow passengers, as well as assisting in chores.”
A note of resignation came into his tone. “Your headaches would abate if you took some time to allow yourself to heal.”
“The wound has knitted together.”
“Inside the skull the brain tissue is soft. It was shaken when you fell, creating a commotion within—a disturbance which takes longer to mend than a break in the skin.” He spoke with calm authority and she did not doubt his knowledge of the soft tissue of human brains. Of course, she had seen the brains of animals—but she doubted those were quite as impressive.
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