Caution to the Wind (American Heroes)

by Mary Jean Adams

  Another good sign, Will concluded. He had seen men have an arm blown off and still want to fight. This man had heart. Will hoped the sailor’s wounds weren’t serious, and he would be able to rejoin them in the next fight. However, for now, he was in the way.

  “Take him below!” he ordered.

  ****

  Amanda stared at the jagged wood protruding from the sailor’s thigh. A red stain seeped through his canvas trousers.

  With the captain’s order given, Bates, the sailor who had been holding the man down, grabbed him under the arms and motioned with a sharp nod for Amanda to take his feet. With a grunt and an effort not to stare at the red ooze seeping around the wood, she grabbed both legs and struggled to carry the wounded man toward the steps. A couple of times, she had to readjust her grasp, and the sailor groaned in pain.

  Going first down the ladder, Amanda bore the brunt of the man’s weight. Her legs burned and her back ached. His blood, hot and sticky, trickled down his leg and seeped into her sleeve. When she somehow managed to descend the few steps and gain a solid footing on the planks below, she offered a quick but silent prayer of thanks.

  “First patient, Doctor!” Bates called.

  They carried the man into the erstwhile dining hall.

  “Set him there,” the doctor said, looking up from a tray of instruments.

  The sailor grunted when they laid him on the nearest table. His lips paled when Bates and the doctor adjusted his position, and Amanda winced along with him.

  “You’re going to be just fine,” she whispered in his ear, setting her hand on his shoulder to calm him.

  The man looked at her with some surprise before saying, “Thank ye, kindly.” He sighed and his shoulder relaxed beneath her fingers.

  Bates gave her a nod of thanks and retreated to the main deck. Amanda watched him go, her hand still resting on the wounded man. Perhaps she would stay just a few minutes to comfort him while the doctor saw to his wounds. Then she would return to her station no matter how much she dreaded it.

  She searched for something soothing to say. “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Simon, m…” He mumbled the rest of his answer, but at least she caught his first name.

  “Well, Simon,” she said, trying to sound cheerful, “it doesn’t look too bad. I am sure the doctor will have you fixed up in no time.”

  Simon gave her a week smile. In truth, his leg looked awful, and she had no idea how the doctor would go about removing the large piece of wood and repairing such a ghastly wound.

  Setting aside her doubts, Amanda continued to whisper words of encouragement to her shipmate, and Simon closed his eyes. After awhile, she stopped paying attention to what she said because it didn’t really seem to matter. So long as she kept speaking, Simon kept his eyes closed and continued to breathe in a slow, even pattern.

  “Well, let’s see what we have here.” Doctor Miller laid his instruments on a side table.

  With a pair of scissors, he cut open the man’s canvas trousers, revealing his large thigh, the dark, curly hairs matted in blood. Poking around the splinter, he examined the damage.

  “Are you well?” He peered at Amanda over the top of the round spectacles perched on the end of his nose.

  “Yes,” Amanda replied. Remembering her duty, she added, “but I really should return to my station.”

  The doctor ignored her comment and returned to prodding his patient. “First time in battle?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Amanda caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror over the washbasin in the corner of the room. She looked as white as a sheet, the paleness of her face accentuated by the soot smudges across her forehead and chin and the blood staining her filthy shirt.

  She looked terrified. The captain had noticed it too. The look of disappointment he gave her just before turning away had torn at her insides as surely as if she had been struck by the grape shot whistling past her ear.

  “Well, you have a good bedside manner. The damage here isn’t too great. No major arteries hit, just ripped the flesh a bit.” The doctor stood and met Amanda’s gaze. “Still it’s going to sting a bit when I take this out and clean him up. Mind staying down here awhile longer?”

  “No, sir,” Amanda replied.

  Not at all!

  The battle raged on deck. Even in the cool, shadowed darkness, the acrid odor of cannon fire hung in the air and mingled with the metallic smell of fresh blood. She gave Simon a reassuring smile. Gratitude shone in his bloodshot eyes when he tried, without much success, to return her smile. If she could do anything to ease this man’s pain, maybe it would be best to stay awhile.

  The doctor removed the splinter and cleaned the wound with a dark liquid that made the sailor suck air through his teeth.

  “Hold this against his leg, will you?”

  He handed Amanda a patch of folded gauze, already stained crimson from the man’s blood. More blood seeped through the thin fabric, wetting the tips of her fingers when she held it against his wound. Amanda wondered at the absurdity of calling the offending matter a “splinter.” To her, the jagged piece of wood lying in the refuse basket at the end of the table looked more like a garden stake.

  She held the gauze with a firm but gentle hand and watched the doctor thread a needle thinner and sharper looking than her sewing needles at home. This one also had a slight curve to it.

  A boom shook the timbers, and Amanda instinctively leaned over her patient to protect his open wound from the flecks of oakum and dust falling from the beams overhead.

  “There now, that looks good,” the doctor said, peeling Amanda’s hand and the gauze away from the man’s leg. “Looks like the bleeding stopped, but we’re going to have to sew this up before we get any more patients.”

  The doctor made the first stitch, dabbing at a rivulet of blood with the edge of a fresh piece of folded gauze. Despite the difference in the needle, his motions looked much like sewing, and Amanda wondered why there were not more female doctors if the skills were so similar.

  Roger came down the stairs, his beefy arms supporting two sailors about the waist. “Doc, that ship’s givin’ us more trouble than we bargained for.”

  The two men were bleeding, but both moved under their own power, although with considerable assistance from their uninjured shipmate. Roger deposited them against the wall, and the doctor glanced over his spectacles, assessing their condition. One man’s arm hung limply at his side. It looked broken. The other had a trickle of blood running down his temple.

  “Can you hold the gauze against the wound again while I make sure those two aren’t in immediate danger?” the doctor asked.

  Amanda nodded and pressed her hand against the rough fabric. The needle and thread, still connected to the skin where the doctor had made the first several stitches, dangled freely.

  “Does it pain you much?” she asked Simon.

  He raised himself on his elbows with a small groan. “No, but I would like to get it over with.” His voice held a hint of a suggestion.

  Amanda chewed her lower lip and considered the needle dangling from the end of the thread, recalling the doctor’s tiny, even stitching. It was slightly different from that which one would use to sew cloth, as was the needle, but she could perform just about every type of stitch imaginable. She could reproduce his technique.

  “Doctor, is it all right if I finish up here?”

  Doctor Miller stopped his examination of the man with the broken arm. “You can sew?” Despite the question, he didn’t seem surprised.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well,” the doctor agreed. “But sewing a man isn’t quite the same as sewing a shirt. If you think you’re in over your head, let me know right away.”

  Amanda glanced at Simon. Even though he had given her the idea, his knitted brows resembled a wooly caterpillar.

  “It’s all right. I’ve done this before,” Amanda assured him, wondering how soon she would be called to account for all the
little white lies she had told in the past two weeks.

  Simon lay back on the table and released a long-held breath. Amanda peeled back the gauze, careful not to reopen the wound. Picking up the needle, she glanced at Simon to be sure he hadn’t changed his mind. Then she attempted the first stitch.

  Keeping a firm hand on Simon’s lower thigh, she pushed the needle into his warm flesh. She felt the resistance of his skin and then a sudden release as her needle penetrated the tough outer layers. The sensation wasn’t all that different from sewing through leather, although a bit easier in living tissue.

  Except with Simon, she couldn’t help but be aware of the pain she caused with every stitch. She spoke softly to him while she worked and kept her efforts slow and steady. The muscles of his thigh relaxed under her hand, and she glanced up to be sure he hadn’t passed out. To her amazement, he gave a weak smile, then closed his eyes and lay back on the table.

  A small bead of sweat ran down Amanda’s forehead and caught on her eyebrow. She wiped it away with her sleeve, feeling the scrape of soot and dried blood.

  She would be gentle but quick, and only when she had finished would she stop to assess the damage. If the splinter hadn’t killed him, she could be reasonably certain her ineptness with the needle wouldn’t either. After a half dozen or so neat stitches, she tied off the thread, cut it, and set the needle on the tray. She glanced up at Simon, relieved to find him smiling at her. She smiled back.

  “Battle seems to be over,” Simon said in a voice tinged with regret.

  Focused on her work, she had stopped listening to the din of the battle. Cheers of a victory celebration shook the timbers. She had made it through!

  “Where the hell is he?” The voice rose above the din and echoed into the hold.

  Amanda’s smile faded. She had no doubt whom the captain sought, and he sounded none too pleased.

  Reaching the doctor’s makeshift operating room, the captain grabbed Amanda by the front of her shirt. Luckily, Neil had helped her find a solitary corner that morning in which to rebind herself or the captain might have grabbed more than he bargained for. Amanda almost giggled at the thought, but the hard look in his eyes stopped her.

  “Do you know what the penalty is for abandoning your post?” he roared, his face just inches from hers.

  Anger radiated from him like waves of heat from the galley stove. Even though he had pulled her up so that the tips of her toes scarcely brushed his leather boots, she still had to peer up at him to meet his gaze. She wanted to look away but, like looking into the eyes of a wild animal, it seemed more dangerous to take her eyes off him than to meet his golden glare.

  A thin layer of soot covered the angles of his face, and his hair, damp with sweat, curled about his ears. He had discarded both neck stock and coat during the battle, and his shirt lay open to the middle of his breastbone revealing the thick mat of dark hair that covered more hard angles.

  He smelled wonderful, Amanda thought, surprising herself with the inappropriate reflection. She had been around enough sweat-soaked farm hands to know that men didn’t always smell great after working hard, but his scent held an intoxicating mix of spice and sea air. She inhaled deeply, letting his essence sink into her.

  When she tried to refocus her attention, a dark slash of soot over the planes of one cheek captured her attention. She reached up to wipe the smudge away with her thumb.

  The captain jerked his head away when the soft pad of her thumb made the briefest of contact with the day’s worth of stubble on his cheek. Amanda yanked her hand back, knowing in an instant that she had given herself away. Her eyes shut and fingers curled into a ball against her chest, she waited for him to condemn her actions.

  Several long, silent moments passed.

  Amanda cracked open one eye, then the other. Something in the captain had changed. His brows were still dark slashes, but the rest of his face had softened into something that more closely resembled confusion. He no longer stared at her eyes, but at her lips.

  Was something amiss with her lips? Amanda licked the dry chapped skin. The captain’s gold eyes followed the sweep of her tongue, and he pulled her closer, as though to inspect her thoroughness.

  “Captain, please don’t be angry.” Simon’s voice was a jolting reminder that they had an audience, and both Amanda and the captain swung their heads to look at him.

  “Please don’t be angry,” Simon said again, casting a quick glance at Amanda, “at the boy. He was fixing me up while the Doc was helpin’ them fellas who was hurt worse than me.”

  “Fixing you up?” The captain eyed Simon, but didn’t release Amanda.

  After a quick scan of the sailor’s stitched wound, he set her feet back on the floor. Amanda wobbled, thankful he still held her in his grip. It would be a moment before her knees would support her.

  “Yes, sir. After Doc removed the splinter and cleaned me up, the boy did the stitchin’. I have to say, I’ve gotten stitches from near on a dozen doctors. They all hurt worse than this. He was real…delicate.”

  Delicate? Amanda cringed at the feminine description of her work that she would have taken to be a compliment only a few weeks ago. The captain released her, and she tugged her shirt back in place. No boy should ever be called delicate.

  The doctor and the captain leaned over the man’s leg. The doctor peered through his spectacles, and the captain glared at the stitches as though he could unravel them with his gaze and prove their unworthiness.

  Finally, the doctor straightened up and gave her a thoughtful appraisal. “You learned to sew from your mother?”

  “Yes, sir. She wanted a girl and…”

  The captain raised one dark eyebrow, ending her story. Amanda had the distinct impression he did not care to hear the details.

  “He did a good job, didn’t he, Doc?” Simon suggested.

  “Yes, he did, Simon,” Doctor Miller agreed. “I doubt you’ll even have a scar.”

  Doctor Miller turned to Amanda. “How would you like to be my assistant?”

  Amanda opened her mouth to respond, but didn’t know what to say. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed the captain leaning against the wall, his arms crossed. He, too, waited for her response.

  Did she even have the option to accept the doctor’s proposal? She didn’t think so. That decision belonged to the captain. Didn’t it?

  Besides, he had just assigned her to a new role serving as his personal cook. She couldn’t do both, could she?

  “I don’t think I can, sir. I’m already Cookie’s assistant, and I have my regular duties to attend to.” Her face heated at the reference to the duties she had so recently neglected.

  “Cookie doesn’t cook anything when there’s a battle going on.” The captain pushed away from the wall. “If you think you are up for it, you can be Doctor Miller’s assistant. Bull will just have to do without you during battle.”

  Amanda thought she detected a hint of sarcasm in the last, but before she could be sure, the captain was gone.

  The doctor gave Amanda’s shoulder a squeeze. “Well, I guess we won that battle, didn’t we?” he said, a touch of wry humor in his voice.

  Amanda stared at the doorway through which the captain had departed. “I don’t suppose the war is over, is it?”

  The doctor laughed. Shaking his head, he returned to his patients. “No, I don’t suppose it is.”

  Chapter Five

  “Doctor, do you have a moment?” Will hesitated at the door to the doctor’s quarters, not certain whether he wanted his surgeon to invite him in or send him away.

  The doctor looked up from his papers. “Certainly, Captain. Please come in.” He stood and offered his chair to Will with a wave of his hand. “Would you like a seat?”

  “No. No, thank you, I’ll be fine standing,” Will said. He mustn’t get too comfortable. He might stay too long, reveal too much.

  Will leaned against the wall. Then again, what did it matter if he availed himself of the doctor’s
counsel? He had nothing to hide. Besides, Doctor Miller’s professional ethics would not allow him to disclose the details of their conversation to anyone. If there was anything he could be certain of in this world, it was the doctor’s capacity to guard matters of a personal nature.

  Doctor Miller regarded Will with a quizzical look. “I hope you don’t mind my saying so, Captain, but you seem troubled. Are you ill?”

  “Oh, no.” Will gave a choked laugh. “Nothing like that.”

  “Then what did you wish to speak to me about?”

  Will shifted his stance. He really had no idea where to begin. Perhaps a direct tack. He cleared his throat, “I wanted to thank you for the books.”

  So much for being direct, but his thanks had been overdue. At the beginning of the voyage, Doctor Miller had given him several small crates of pamphlets and treatises written by great men like Franklin, Paine, and Dickinson. That he hadn’t found time to read them was no excuse for being lax in his manners.

  “Oh, I’m glad you’re enjoying them.” Doctor Miller searched Will’s face. “But that’s not why you came to see me, is it?”

  “Well, no,” Will folded his arms across his chest. His ship’s surgeon was a most perceptive man. Leave it to him to see through any pretense. “I thought I might get your opinion on some of the crew.”

  “Anyone in particular?”

  “No, no one in particular.” Will’s forced the words, scratchy and uncertain, through his dry throat.

  What was wrong with him? It’s not like he had never asked the doctor to offer his opinion on a man’s fitness for duty before. Why should this time be so different?

  He licked his lips and began again. “Let’s start with the new recruits. What do you think of Adam, for example?” His words sounded casual, perhaps too casual.

  “Are you asking for my professional opinion?”

  “Yes.” He did need a professional opinion, but was this something in which surgeons received training? Somehow he doubted it.

  The doctor sucked in a breath, then let the air rush from his lungs. “Well, since he’s never come to me with any sort of ailment, I can only surmise he’s in good health. Although he doesn’t appear to be as strong as his shipmates, he’s a tireless worker and has an excellent bedside manner. To me, he’s—“