Brant left the cramped room and went to have his dinner in the dining room with the infuriating Catherine Marshall. If only she would just keep her snobbish little nose in her cabin and leave him alone for the next two months; then life would be good.
* * *
Catherine paced back and forth in her cabin. She hadn’t emerged from it since earlier that afternoon and she was still nursing a bruised ego. She contemplated skipping dinner and staying in her cabin but she was much too hungry not to eat and she wasn’t so confident Captain Foxton would send a tray to her room. So, she swallowed her pride and stepped out of her cabin and into the dining room next door. The cook was just setting out the food, similar to what they had the night before; fruit, salted meat and potatoes. Catherine was sick of this food already and desperately hoped that she wouldn’t have to live off of it for the entire voyage home—there was only so much salted pork one could eat.
The captain stood as she entered and once again pulled out her chair but this time he sat her further away, on the opposite side of the table from him next to a young named Casper, not that she really cared.
It was apparent that the captain didn't really wish to speak with her after their falling out that afternoon and she couldn’t help but feel a little thankful for that—she wasn't really in the right frame of mind to talk to him either. But, he was intriguing, she had to admit.
Karl was the one that carried the conversation that evening, attempting to draw both Catherine and Brant into discussion but both only answered briefly and tersely any questions or comments directed at them.
Catherine didn't much care for Karl. He was middle aged and quite obviously lower class but the captain seemed to look up to him and value his opinion. But why, she didn’t know. He was obviously an uneducated man. How much wisdom could he truly offer?
As soon as Catherine could politely excuse herself she did and returned to her cabin where she locked herself in and went to bed.
* * *
Brant was restless. There was nothing to do but sail, sail, and sail some more. No raids, little to no repairs, and calm waters. Brant was almost hoping for a storm to add some excitement and extra work into their lives—anything to chase the boredom away.
Catherine still rarely emerged from her cabin except for dinner—a torturous and unpleasant affair. They hadn't exchanged more than a dozen words since their original argument over a week earlier and Brant wasn't about to be the first person to apologize. He was giving the woman passage and if she wanted to make things right, she could. Otherwise, she was just a job for him.
James sat daily with Matthew, and Brant saw the boy continually improving. He was a fighter that was for certain. The wound had not yet fully closed and there was still a danger of infection, but that danger was becoming less and less likely with every passing day. Matthew seemed to be sleeping a lot less and was getting along well with James, who was teaching him how to read since Matthew only knew a few basic things that he was required to know to read a map. It was nice to see James with someone close to his own age, coming out of his shell. Brant was seeing a side of James he didn’t get to see often; how he interacted with peers.
“Brant!” James came running up from below deck to where Brant was sitting with Joseph repairing an old sail.
Brant dropped the sail and jumped up from where he had been sitting. “Something happen with Matthew?”
James nodded, eyes wide with fear. “Something is wrong. He was just sleeping and he started rolling around groaning and he is sweating and burning to touch.”
“Go get the doc. He's in the galley,” commanded Brant, already walking towards the doctor’s cabin that doubled as an infirmary. Bursting into the room he was greeted by the sight of Matthew drenched in sweat and pale as death. Brant drew back his blanket and gingerly began unwrapping the bandage. He winced at the pungent smell that rose from what looked to be a festering wound. Things had taken a turn for the worse quickly and with no warning.
The doctor burst into the room seconds later, red in the face from what must have been a sprint from the galley, and pushed Brant aside. Looking at the wound he shook his head. “It's not good, Captain. I can clean it but we have to let it drain and the infection has to heal before I can let the wound close.”
“He was doing so well.”
“Stomach wounds are incredibly volatile. I thought an infection would have set in long ago,” he paused, then frowned. “James, you need to leave.”
Brant turned to see James standing in the doorway looking at his friend in horror.
“Is he going to die?”
Brant looked at his brother in sorrow. He was only eleven. He shouldn't be considering the fact that a young man—no, boy—was going to die. “Not if the doctor can help it. Now go.”
James left the room and Brant turned back to the doctor. “What can I do?”
“Go boil me some water, quick. This wound needs to be reopened to properly drain.”
Brant rushed off to the galley and quickly set a pot of water over a blazing fire but every second waiting for the water to boil seemed like a second too long.
As the water began to boil Brant grabbed a rag and wrapped it around the piping hot handle and nearly ran with it back to the doctor.
“Put it over there.” He pointed absently as he set out his tools. He threw a couple scalpels in the water and with tongs pulled them out, wiped them off and then got a clean rag to clean the wound.
“Get me my leather stick.”
Brant looked through his cupboards and found it, handing it over. The doctor pried open Matthew’s jaw and placed it between his teeth. “This is going to hurt. I need you to hold him down.”
Brant nodded and put his hands on the boy’s shoulders. Doc lifted his scalpel and inserted it into the infected wound, slowly drawing it across the tender flesh, reopening it to the elements. Matthew’s eyes flew open and he ground his teeth into the leather while struggling to get free.
“Easy, Matthew. It has to be done or you’ll die.” That didn’t seem to settle the boy down and Brant held him down firmly while the doc grabbed some alcohol and poured it over the injury. As the liquid hit the tender, raw flesh, Matthew screamed and bucked against Brant's strong arms.
With the wound cleaned, the doctor redressed it and went to clean his tools. Matthew lay there sobbing in pain. Letting go, Brant gently patted his shoulder. “It’s over. It’s okay.”
“The wound will have to drain for the next couple of days but as soon as the infection looks like it has passed I’ll stitch him up.”
Brant nodded. “If you need any help James is at your disposal. And please, let me know of any changes.”
The doctor nodded and Brant took his leave, unable to handle the stench of rotting flesh mixed with sweat.
* * *
Brant didn’t attend dinner that evening—he had lost his appetite after the events with Matthew, and had no energy to deal with Lady Catherine Marshall. Instead he climbed up to the crow’s nest and sat there for most of the evening watching the small amount of activity below him as a card game went on in one corner and a couple men played various instruments near the mast. Catherine caught Brant’s attention as she practically floated over the deck towards the dining room but he had no wish to speak to her. He knew that at some point he would have to break their silence before the voyage was over, but for now it was just easier to avoid her. Right now his first concern was Matthew. The petty concerns of a spoiled rich girl were trivial and unimportant at the moment.
For five days he skipped dinner, taking a small amount of food from the kitchen and eating it alone up in the crow’s nest. Karl, for once, didn’t interfere with Brant’s self-imposed exile. Matthew’s infection raged on and he was becoming weaker and weaker with each passing day. Brant begged the doctor to do something, anything to get him better but he would only shake his head and say they were already doing everything they could. The alcohol was killing everything, bacteria good and bad, and ye
t the infection raged on. “What about heat?” Brant asked one day. “Could we not kill the infection off for good with heat? Cauterize the wound?”
The doctor nodded. “We could, but I’m worried the infection will get locked inside then. Cauterizing is best done before infection sets in.”
“So we have to continue to allow the wound to drain and hope that one day the infection will die?”
“It’s largely up to Matthew now. His body has to do most of the fighting. We’re keeping it as clean as we can.”
“He isn’t strong enough to do that anymore. He’s weaker every day.”
“I don’t think he’ll make it. I’m sorry, Captain.”
Brant shook his head. “He’ll make it. You are going to do everything you can. Try something new and get that infection killed. He’s going to make it.”
“It’ll be nothing short of a miracle if he survives this.”
“Miracles happen every day. Make me a miracle, Doctor.”
The doctor threw up his hands in frustration as Brant walked out. Never before had Brant asked the impossible of anyone in his crew. He always expected their best work but never the impossible but Brant couldn’t have the boy die on his ship. He couldn’t accept that there was nothing left, that someone so young would leave this world because of the cruelty of man.
* * *
Catherine knew little of what was occurring around the ship since her boredom had yet to force her out of her cabin at any time other than dinner. The captain's absence at dinner the past few days did not go unnoticed, and was a welcome relief from the usually tense meals they shared. But, after a week of obvious avoidance, Catherine was beginning to feel like his absence was a personal affront. And, as much as she hated to admit it, she was beginning to feel lonely. So, gathering her pride she left the safe confines of her cabin and found the quarter master, Karl.
“What is wrong with the captain?”
“What do you mean?”
“He hasn’t been to dinner in over a week. Have I done something to upset him?"
“Nay, tis nothing to do with you, ma'am. The captain be a bit on the low side because that boy they rescued off your ship be on death's doorstep. Doc says there ain’t nothin’ he can do anymore and that boy be too weak to fight off infection on his own.”
Catherine nodded soberly, but inside she was churning. She hadn't even afforded the boy a second thought since their rescue. Everything had been about her, about wearing stolen clothes, eating bad food, and eating dinner in the company of sailors. She hadn't once stopped to wonder about the welfare of the boy, and here he was dying while she complained of trivial things. “Can I see the boy?”
Karl nodded. “Not much can make things worse now. Come with me.”
Karl led Catherine to the small room where she stood looking at the boy. He was pale, sweaty and breathing heavily. A lump grew in her throat as she tried to swallow down the tears that welled up. He was too young to die. He had barely lived—had so many years ahead of him. “Please bring me some clean water and a cloth,” she instructed as she sat down on the small stool next to the boy. Karl nodded and left to get what she had requested.
Catherine reached out and gently brushed the boy’s hair away from his face. Drawing back the blanket she gingerly removed the bandage. The wound was inflamed and oozing and it smelled a bit of rotting flesh. Karl returned with the water and Catherine gently cleaned the boy’s face of sweat. “What is his name?”
“Matthew.”
“Can you get the doctor for me?”
Karl trotted off and came back moments later with the doctor.
“Can I help you?”
“What have you been cleaning the wound with?”
“Alcohol.”
“Let’s try salt water.”
“What?” The doctor looked thoroughly confused.
“When my father was in Spain one summer someone had tried to kill him. His wound became infected and the doctor there cleaned it with salt water.”
The doctor nodded thoughtfully. “Well it can’t cause any harm, I suppose. The boy is already going to die if something drastic doesn’t happen. I’ll go boil a pot.”
Catherine held the boy’s hand until the doctor came back. As they waited for the water to cool off a bit Catherine continued to clean off his face. “If this doesn’t work how long do you think he’ll have?”
“It’s hard to say. Maybe a day or two, maybe a week.”
The doctor handed Catherine a cup full of salt water and a rag and she took it nervously. She had never treated anyone with a wound before. She had only ever seen her father being taken care of and now she was to do the job of a common nurse. Taking the rag she dipped it in the water and gently dabbed it on the wound, cleaning away the oozing liquid. Matthew began to moan but he was too weak to fight.
“The doctor never dressed my father’s wounds. He said fresh air was the best thing for infection.”
“Very well. I’ll watch him to make sure he doesn’t touch anything then. We’ll try this treatment for a little while and see if it shows any improvement.”
Catherine nodded and exited the cabin. She needed to get out of the stuffy room and into fresh air. Taking deep breaths she looked up at the crow’s nest and wondered if the captain was up there. She couldn’t see anything from her location so she went back into her cabin and locked the door—once again successfully cutting herself off from a world that she wanted nothing to do with. Sitting down on a chair by the window that looked out the rear of the ship towards the open ocean Catherine pulled out a book and read until dinner time.
* * *
Brant went down to check on Matthew later that day and was surprised to see that there was no dressing on his wound. “Why did you do this?” he asked, pointing at the wound open to the air.
“Lady Marshall and I are trying a new approach.”
“Lady Marshall?”
“Yes. She came by today and suggested a treatment that she had seen used successfully in Spain.”
“I see. And is it working?”
“It’s too soon to say but we’ll give it a couple days to prove itself.”
“And then?”
“And if it’s not working the boy will die. He’s been largely unconscious or incoherent for over a week, Captain. He’s on his last legs.”
Brant nodded. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
Brant was there every day checking in on Matthew and watching him improve. The saltwater was making a difference, and although the doctor was happy with his improvements, still gave no promises that the boy would make it.
Brant avoided visiting at the same time as Catherine but he noticed her every day as she made the short walk to the doctor’s quarters below deck. Brant knew he should thank her for what she had done to help Matthew even after she had made it very clear she wanted nothing to do with anyone on the ship but his pride held him back. She had insulted him, his men, and his profession. She had shown him one side of her and he had readily accepted it as all there was to Catherine Marshall but now he was seeing something completely different. Who was she and was she the spoiled rich girl he’d first met, or this kind and caring woman nursing a boy back to health?
* * *
Catherine walked into the doctor’s quarters two weeks after the saltwater treatments had begun and greeted Matthew, who was now awake, sitting up, and more energetic than he had been since he had arrived on the ship.
“Good morning, Matthew. How’re you doing today?”
“Great. Look, it’s starting to close up!” Matthew lifted his shirt to show off the scabbing wound. It looked like a healthy, healing wound and it couldn’t have made Catherine happier.
“That’s wonderful! Before you know it you’ll be running around the deck causing all kinds of trouble.”
Matthew smiled and lowered his shirt again. “The doctor says I still have to take it easy even though I’m feeling great.”
“Doctor knows best.”
Matt
hew grumbled a little which brought a laugh out of Catherine. She spent the entire morning with him talking and reading to him. James came in the afternoon and they continued with their reading lessons that they had begun before the infection had set in. Brant had stopped visiting every day since it became apparent that Matthew would survive and he went back to going about his normal duties. He stopped hiding up in the crow’s nest and even ate dinner with Catherine on occasion but he was still refusing to talk to her and it was beginning to frustrate her.
When she left Matthew later that day she went in search of Brant and found him talking with Casper over a map.
“May I speak with you?” she asked.
Brant looked up, annoyance written all over his face. “Give me a moment. I’m busy.”
“Fine. I’ll wait.” Catherine walked over to the railing directly behind Brant and Casper and paced back and forth until Brant came over about twenty minutes later.
“What would you like, your highness?” he asked, mocking condescension dripping from his words.
“First of all, I would appreciate at least some semblance of respect. My name is Catherine Marshall. If you can’t say miss or lady then at least just call me Catherine.”
“Are you dropping decorum?”
“I’m afraid it’s nearly useless out here, Captain.”
“And what was it that you wanted, Catherine?” He spoke gentler this time.
“I want to break this silence of ours. We had an argument and it has made life on this ship very difficult and awkward. Can we at least try and get along for the remainder of the voyage?”
“Of course, but you have to be less demeaning to my men. On my ship there is no social class, just human beings.”
“I will do my best.”
“And you don’t wish us dead anymore?”
Owned by the Ocean Page 12